Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3

by Mark E. Cooper

  Six hundred and thirty paces… Lord Atherton—allied to Keverin.

  Lorcan glanced aside at the tense guardsmen, but he did not slow his pace. He smiled when he saw the white knuckled grip they had upon their swords. They knew him… well, they knew of him really. Everyone had heard of the attack upon The Lady and his part in her defence. They assumed, wrongly it turned out, that he had killed the brigands with his magic. They didn’t know that he was infinitely more deadly with a dagger in his hand than he ever had been with magic. Everyone knew what the robe he wore meant—he was a mage—therefore he had used magic. He certainly had no intention of telling them otherwise. Their mistake was protection of a sort.

  Turn left, fifty paces… and right… Lord Chaidren—Unaligned Julia says.

  Lorcan didn’t look, but he could feel the suspicious eyes of the Chaidren guardsmen burning into his shoulder blades as he left them behind. Lord Garth hadn’t chosen sides yet. There were quite a few lords that were holding back. Keverin called them the Undecideds, and spent a great deal of his time in meetings with them. Lord Gylaren shared his time between the Undecideds and the more easily influenced of Ascol’s allies. The Lady had confided to him that she didn’t agree with Gylaren on this. She said a lord that was easily swayed to Gylaren’s side, could just as easily be swayed back again by Ascol. Of course, he always agreed with whatever Julia thought best, and knew that about himself, but that didn’t make her less right. He knew that Julia could never replace his mother, no one could, but she was the next best thing—even when she insisted he learn his letters!

  Straight ahead for three hundred paces…

  He prowled by another row of guarded doors mentally inventorying those within. Gylaren was still ahead in the voting, but he wasn’t winning. Ascol owned too many of the more influential lords leaving the weaker ones to fend for themselves or for Gylaren to pick up. Julia was working hard to break Ascol’s allies away from him, but she had to do it quietly. Lorcan had caught her sneaking out of the women’s quarter just the other night and knew Gylaren had her to thank for Lord Reid’s change of allegiance. He didn’t know what was said, but Reid had announced his change of heart at this morning’s council meeting. More than that, he had moved into the suite next to Purcell where their combined guardsmen could guard both lords.

  Lorcan made his way through the palace, ignoring several branching corridors, and suddenly side-stepped into an alcove. He squirmed into the tight space behind the statue and waited to see who was following him. The footsteps approaching faltered for a moment, but then hurried forward. He watched as two guardsmen trotted by. They wore the silver fish emblem upon their armour—Ascol’s men. Lorcan waited until the footfalls faded before emerging. He checked both ways to see if he was being observed, he wasn’t, and quickly entered the room opposite before someone else came along. He would wait here for a while before moving on, he decided.

  He glanced around. The room hadn’t been used in years. It was in the newer section of the palace, but it adjoined the older corridors, which was one reason he had decided to see if it was occupied. Scouting was something he always did, and always would. He was determined never to become overconfident like some he had known on the streets. They were dead and he wasn’t because of that determination. Now was no time to change old habits.

  He looked around the room but there was nothing of interest. An old and dusty bed, a chest of draws with a mirror above it, and some faded tapestries on the walls. None of these things held his interest. He turned to leave but hesitated. He looked around the room again. Something wasn’t right here, but what was it?

  Dusty bed, dusty and faded tapestries, dusty chest of… the mirror was clean! Someone had been in here recently and used the mirror. He walked closer and studied his reflection. He saw a young lord in white robe staring back at him. He smiled, if only his mother could see him now. He had chosen not to change into dark clothes while wandering the corridors for a reason. People who dressed suspiciously would obviously draw suspicion down onto themselves. By wearing his robe, he looked like what he was—a nosy novice mage. If they could see what he’d done to his robe though, they would have been more than a little surprised. That, after all, was the idea.

  He had spent more than one sleepless night sewing pockets inside his robes. Some of them held his daggers, and he was pleased to find they were even easier to reach than before. Other pockets held his mother’s ring, some sausages wrapped in parchment, a fire striker stolen from an empty room, a tinderbox, and some thin wire bent to fit his lock. Mathius had given him a key to his room his first day in the palace, but he had kept in practise since then by locking and unlocking it with his pick. The locks in the palace were shockingly easy to open. It was as if the King hadn’t cared about thievery. He had probably thought himself safe from such, what with having hundreds of guardsmen on his walls. Still, you couldn’t be too careful these days.

  There were a lot of criminals about.

  Lorcan grinned, but the expression slipped when he noticed the door handle move in the mirror’s reflection. He silently slipped behind the door to wait, praying all the while that there was only one of them. The door opened and a small figure crept silently in. Lorcan breathed a silent thank you to the God when his visitor backhanded the door closed. In one movement, Lorcan drew his longest dagger and grabbed the man from behind. The figure tried to throw him off, but he froze when the wickedly sharp edge of touched his throat.

  “Don’t move,” Lorcan hissed.

  “Who… who are you?”

  “Never you mind who I am. Your name, now.”

  “Adrik. You had better release me, peasant, before my father has you executed for attacking his heir!”

  Lorcan grunted. So, he was a lord’s son was he? Keverin wouldn’t like it if he killed an ally. “Which lord?”

  “Ascol curse you!” Adrik said trying to suppress the tremor in his voice.

  Lorcan chuckled. It wasn’t funny, but he couldn’t help it. Of all the lord’s sons he could have disposed of, he had to end up with Ascol’s son! He didn’t dare kill him—Ascol would be forewarned and might double or even triple his guards.

  “You’re not going to kill me for nothing… are you?”

  “Why shouldn’t I kill you?” he said stalling for time. He had to get out of the room without Adrik calling the guards.

  “I… I’ll show you something if you let me go… I won’t say anything. I swear on my honour as an Ascol.”

  That was interesting. Adrik sounded sincere, but did Ascol’s son have honour?

  “If you cross me, you are dead,” he said. He released Adrik and pushed him further into the room.

  Adrik stumbled forward. He regained his balance and pulled his dagger. Lorcan watched him closely waiting to see if his word meant anything to him. The lordling held his dagger low with his knees bent ready to defend or attack.

  “Well? Does your honour mean anything to you, Adrik?”

  Adrik’s face reddened. “What does a peasant know of honour?”

  “It sounds to me like you need more of Lord Jihan’s lessons.”

  At Jihan’s name Adrik scowled. He turned toward the faded tapestry and pulled it to one side. A panelled wall like any other was revealed, but Adrik did something and a panel popped open to reveal a portal.

  “There, peasant, as I promised.”

  Lorcan gaped. Why hadn’t he thought to check for secret passages? The stories always had at least one secret passage in the enemy keep. That was why he hadn’t checked, he realised. Stories weren’t real, so how could the secret passage be real? Mathius told him that some of the stories about mages were true, but he hadn’t thought to apply that to his father’s tales. Were dragons real too? He made his dagger disappear and Adrik blinked in astonishment. Lorcan grinned. It had taken a lot of practise to learn.

  “You kept your word,” he said moving to investigate.

  Adrik stepped aside. The passage beyond the wall was just wide enough for a
single person. Dust lay heavy on the flags. Lorcan could see by the footprints left behind that Adrik had used it before.

  “Where does it lead?”

  “Along the east wing,” Adrik said. “It’s not a secret passage, just bad craftsmanship.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Adrik glanced around the dusty room. “When they made these rooms, they sectioned the old palace’s halls using wood rather than stone. The passage is the gap between the original stone wall and the new wooden ones.”

  Lorcan nodded. He didn’t want to enter the passage with Adrik at his back. The lordling seemed willing to let things lie, but there were limits to his trust.

  “After you lord Adrik,” he said with a grin.

  Adrik frowned, but he bent his head to scramble inside.

  Lorcan waited a moment for Adrik to move along before following. Lorcan hadn’t thought to bring a lamp, but Adrik had foreseen the problem. Sparks flashed in the darkness, and he held up a burning torch. Lorcan could see the remains of other torches discarded on previous trips leaning against the wall.

  “This way… what is your name?”

  “I am Lorcan, novice mage of Athione,” he said with pride.

  Adrik stiffened. “You are a mage?”

  “Will be—I will be a mage,” he said shaking his head. Talk about walking around with your eyes shut. He shook his robe at Adrik and grinned. “I can’t do much yet.”

  Adrik relaxed. Might it be that he feared mages? That must be it. The Hasians were evil, everyone knew it. Julia said they had given magic a bad reputation. Lord Keverin was going to find more people with the talent and make them mages. Mathius said the lords didn’t like the idea. They thought Athione was already too powerful.

  “Are we standing here for a reason?”

  Adrik scowled. “This way.”

  Lorcan followed. The trip was quite long, longer than he had expected. The obvious destination was Lord Ascol’s suite, but he estimated they had left it behind long since. He didn’t ask the lordling, he didn’t want to appear scared. He wasn’t scared, but it was best the lordling not think it and try something foolish. Adrik doused the torch and plunged them into darkness. Lorcan stepped back and tensed, but a crack of light appeared to reveal Adrik crouching close to the floor.

  “What you doing?”

  “Shush! He will hear!” Adrik said almost in panic.

  Lorcan crouched down. “Who?”

  “Demophon.”

  Who was Demophon? He shrugged and wriggled down next to Adrik. His robe would get filthy, but it was in a good cause. He stilled as he heard voices.

  “Mortain, may he live forever, would kill us if we failed our mission, but how I wish that man dead!”

  “Calmly, my friend, calmly. He would be of no use to us as a corpse. Ascol is a fool, a mad fool, but that makes him easy to manipulate. Wave the kingship under his nose and we can lead him by it.”

  Adrik stiffened in anger, but a warning pat on the shoulder from Lorcan calmed him. He subsided to listen.

  “It was a good try I admit, but he failed to kill the bitch, and now matters are worse! Why didn’t he talk to us about it ahead of time? I could have taken her—”

  “Hah, ha!” the second voice laughed. “Don’t be a fool. I would hate to lose you this late in the game. Julia hasn’t changed her habits in the slightest. She still sneaks out without her guards. She still works her magic in her hospital, what has changed?”

  A deep and heartfelt sigh sounded within the room. “You’re right. We can still do what needs to be done, but I swear, the moment Ascol is no longer needed he's dead!”

  “I’ll help.”

  Lorcan and Adrik stared at each other in the gloom as their mutual enemies laughed together.

  * * *

  10 ~ Towering Inferno

  Navarien marched through the long grass at the head of his men well on his way to Durena. He had handed over responsibility for Cantibria on a warm day with the sun beaming down on his wonderful fort. The navy was late—no surprise—but the militia had finally arrived and that was all that really mattered. The shock on the militia colonel’s face when he saw the fort for the first time had been something to savour. He was so pleased with it he said, he planned to mention it in his next report! Of course, the colonel didn’t need to know that Turner’s new crafter maniple had rebuilt much of the original one.

  The sealed orders that Colonel Gabor handed him upon his arrival were little different from his original orders. The loss of the Victory, and thus his entire contingent of sorcerers, had been acknowledged, but he was to continue the campaign as planned with one revision. A ship would be especially outfitted to brave the winter storms to bring him a new contingent of sorcerers, but they wouldn’t arrive at Calvados until after the city had fallen. The ship would bring new orders for him concerning the next stage of the Camorin conquest, and the sorcerers would help in that endeavour when the campaigning began again in the spring. That time was still a long way off, summer had barely begun, and he had both Durena and Calvados to take.

  Navarien took a deep breath and scanned the horizon. It was good to be on the road again, even if the so-called road was more like a trail. Sitting on his backside all day had made him soft, but he would soon toughen up again. He hadn’t ridden a horse since embarking the ships to come north, nor had his men for that matter, but where was he going to find ten thousand horses just wandering loose? So they marched, the legions were good at marching. He liked marching. Unfortunately his feet didn’t like it. They were killing him!

  Despite the loss of the sorcerers, he was only a few tendays or so behind schedule. That was miraculous good luck, but he didn’t expect it to continue. One solid and insurmountable part of the plan did exist though, and that was the coming of winter. He not only had to take both cities, he had to be snuggled into a fort in Calvados before it gained a strong grip on the north. Winters in Camorin were harsh. The north winds blew incessantly bringing the touch of death for anyone caught outside for too long. The clans almost seemed to hibernate like bears at that time of the year. If they could survive it, then so could the legion. That didn’t mean he wanted to put it to the test.

  All in all, there was a lot to said for cities in wintertime.

  The day wore on until the legion stopped to make camp. The baggage had already been unloaded by the time he staggered into camp. He was almost asleep on his feet and had to force himself awake to watch the men of First Battalion erect his tent. Being a General did have its privileges he supposed, but to his way of thinking, they were far outweighed by the responsibilities. Still, he much preferred giving orders than taking them all things considered. The tent was soon up, and he ducked inside. Cragson would be busy setting the captains various tasks to help them settle in. He would come by for a short visit later. Until then, he had time on his hands. Despite his tiredness, he pulled out his maps and studied them. Whenever possible, it was his policy to use a hill or other high place for a campsite. It was standard procedure within the legions, but here in Camorin everything looked the same. There were some exceptions to be seen—the odd small clump of trees, a hill or two seemingly thrust up at random, but none were close to his line of march. He had no reason to expect an attack, but the ditches surrounding the camp would offer some protection if it proved needful. He didn’t have any stakes for a proper defence against cavalry, but the ditches should help. The earth piled along the inside perimeter would further deter an attack. His men would make good use of those earthen walls as a rampart.

  The terrain hereabouts was typical of northern Camorin. It was mainly a plain of course grass with the land sloping gently and without hills to the sea. If he wanted different terrain, he would have to march south-east for eight or nine days, but he had no interest in prolonging the campaign simply to verify the correctness of his map. He had no pressing need for trees at present. Durena was the target this time, and it wouldn’t be as easy as Cantibria had been. The city was of good si
ze, not as big as Cantibria maybe, but unlike his previous conquest, it was walled on all sides. There was no doubt in his mind that some of the missing families from Cantibria had fled to Durena. To his mind that meant they would be ready for him.

  The walls would be a problem, but not an insurmountable one. His men had techniques for scaling walls, and Turner’s men were on hand to provide the necessary tools. The defences could easily have been blasted by a sorcerer, but he had none on hand and was grateful for the fact. They were an argumentative lot and totally without military discipline. He liked discipline. He liked the orderly chain of command that the legion provided, where every man knew his place and could take over a task if his superior was killed. What sense did it make for a sorcerer to lead them into war? The lowliest legionnaire knew more about battle than the strongest sorcerer. It was simply the nature of the beast. Knowing how to apply the necessary force and no more, was the reason there were Generals in the first place. The sergeants were undeniably more proficient with their swords, but they were much less able at devising strategy.

  In just a few short days, he would use his nine thousand plus men to take a city of sixty thousand, thereby proving his legion’s mastery of the battlefield with not a single sorcerer in attendance. The thought was particularly pleasing, he mused, considering the reason for his defeat at Athione last year.

  Days later, Navarien’s confidence was taking a severe beating as he stared up at the walls of Durena—the very thick, the very tall walls of Durena. How was he going to get over those massive walls? They towered high into the air, and although he had seen larger—there was Athione after all—these seemed monstrously tall from way down here.