“Send a runner to Captain Jhamil with my compliments. Tell him that I have full confidence in his judgement and that I concur with his decision.”
Cragson nodded.
“What news of Third and Tenth?” he said looking that way.
The road was empty now, nothing visible but corpses. Thankfully, most were Camorin, but he could see a few forlorn looking legionnaires lying where they had fallen. There wasn’t time to look after them properly. After the city was won, they would be buried with honour.
“Still fighting hard, Sir. These people don’t know when they’re beaten. They won’t surrender, and they won’t run.”
That mirrored Navarien’s observations. When this campaign ended, would there be any of the clans still in existence? Cantibria was a city of old folk now, and Jhamil had reported refugees leaving by the southern gate of this one. It looked as if they were heading for the plain to join the clans as the ones from Cantibria had probably done, but where would they go when the legions pursued them even there? He shook himself. His job was to take three coastal cities, not think about policy. The cities would soon be bustling again as good Hasian families saw an opportunity to better themselves at the Protectorate’s newest frontier.
“Any trouble on your side?”
“None, Sir. Fourth and Fifth Battalions are guarding that approach, but it’s the artisan quarter and has been entirely peaceful. It’s the same as Cantibria. Only the young are willing to fight,” Cragson said frowning toward the two battalions in question.
“That’s good. Later we’ll have to reorganise the legion. Corbin and I just managed to lose more than half of Seventh Battalion.”
How he hated to lose his men, but it was the price of doing business in the legions. Cragson didn’t seem surprised or dismayed, but he’d seen what was left of Seventh when they returned.
“For now,” Navarien went on, “have Corbin station his able bodied men at this gate. I want you to take Sixth and reinforce Third and Tenth. That area seems to be the last one still fighting. Push your men down a side road and try to flank them. Tikva should be able to suggest a likely prospect.”
That received a reaction. Cragson’s eyes lit up at the thought of flanking the enemy. He obviously felt a little left out of the fighting, and besides that, he always did like sneaky tactics. Cragson ran off, and a short time later, Sixth Battalion marched toward the fighting.
Navarien studied the remainder of his forces. Corbin had stationed his half battalion just outside the gate to keep an eye on things. There were wounded men streaming back from all over the city and heading back to camp. Most were walking wounded, others needed help from their comrades. They tried to salute him as they past, and he returned their effort, but he thought it better to remove himself. They had enough to do caring for their friends. They shouldn’t have to worry about him too.
He made his way up to the wall and along to where Tikva was standing. The captain had stationed his men along the parapet on the inside of the wall. Clever fellow. Tikva was using his men as a kind of scout. They were watching the city from the walls, and then bringing him the information, which he was writing down. The captains all carried a small diary to note down certain important points of a plan, but this was the first time he had seen one used during a battle.
“Report!” Tikva said but didn’t look up as Navarien approached. He was writing in his diary.
Navarien grinned and complied. “I think everything is under control don’t you?”
Tikva gasped and shot to his feet. Blushing red, he stammered an apology.
“Don’t worry about it. What are you doing by the way?” he said leaning against a merlon.
“I’m trying to understand the way the clans fight, Sir,” Tikva said.
That was unexpected. He glanced at the pages of notes and saw that, not only was Tikva noting down the information gained from his men’s observations, he was also trying to relate it to a pattern. That was the sort of thing Cragson or he would do. Tikva had a good future in the legions. If he survived, he might be a General himself one day.
“I can’t understand why they won’t surrender,” Navarien said with a frown. “They’re obviously beaten. As for the way the clans fight, you won’t find out by observing the ones in the cities. The real clans are on the plain.”
“Agreed, but these people have the clans in their ancestry. It’s obvious they still train with weapons, but it seems to me they don’t have generals or captains. They’re like a legion without officers. Everyone knows what to do, and does it without orders. The problem is, there’s no co-ordination that way.”
Hmmm, that was interesting. On the plain, they would have chiefs to give them co-ordination, but would they fight together like a legion, or would each tribe fight separately? If they were to fight as a unit like the legions, they would need someone to hold them together. The clans were rivals and regularly fought with each other. Who was strong enough to subjugate all the chiefs?
“I think the reason they don’t surrender is part of that, Sir,” Tikva went on. “I wouldn’t surrender unless you ordered me to, and my men wouldn’t, unless I ordered them to, but these people don’t have anyone to order them to surrender. Each one carries on fighting because his comrades are still fighting!”
No, that didn’t ring true somehow, Navarien thought. Tikva was right about them having no one to lead them in a coordinated attack, but surely some of them would have surrendered. It might simply be a tradition among the clans. If that were so, they would have to be completely broken instead of subjugated. He liked that not at all. He was a soldier, and soldiers fought others like themselves not women, children, and old folk. If they would not surrender, he would have no choice but to break them.
He turned to stare out over his city, and in its place he saw a slaughter never before seen in the history of the world. It appalled him and excited him at the same time. A civilised man should feel sickened, surely? Such a man would never be a part of it. Certainly a man with honour should not.
He stared silently. What was he really? A bloodthirsty maniac who happened to be a General, or a civilised man who happened to be one? The thing of it was, he wasn’t sure himself.
* * *
11 ~ The Book
Shelim frowned at the book Kerrion held. “What is it, Mentor?”
He knew how to read, but the only books he’d ever seen had come from the Devan traders. He had read his father’s two books many times, but this one looked nothing like those.
“I told you to call me Kerrion, Shelim.”
“No one can hear us, Ment… Kerrion.”
“You do not know that. There is no way to stop a seeing of us in the mirror.”
“Who would do that?” he asked, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.
“The same people who made this book, I shouldn’t wonder. I found it in Duren’s tent during your challenge. I think he was an outclanner.”
Shelim remembered Darnath’s words concerning his old mentor. He said that Duren needed a beaded tunic, a mirror, and an apprentice to look like a shaman, but he didn’t act like one. He had tried to think why the man should give that impression, but he hadn’t been able to think of one. If Kerrion was right, it hadn’t been just an impression but had instead been reality.
“But it’s just a book. It’s different than the ones I’ve seen, but it’s still just a book.”
“Yes, just a book, but look with your other sight, and it’s much more.”
Shelim did as he was bid. The first surprise was that the book was even visible here… sort of. It looked like a glowing bundle of light made of thin strands woven together in a complicated pattern. The second surprise was a strand vanishing into the distance connecting the bundle to something far away. There was no sense of direction in this place, but he guessed it went southwest toward Protectorate.
He released his magic and nodded at Kerrion’s raised eyebrow. “It’s a magic book, but what did he use it for?”
&nbs
p; “For writing in. Here, you read it.”
Shelim turned the pages reading a few lines then moving on. The words were very small to save space, but he could read them well enough. It was a story like his father’s books, but instead of being about such fanciful creatures as dragons, this one was about life in the clan. It was interesting, but he noted some strange parts. Duren had been careful to note down the exact number of people in each tribe, and especially the numbers of shamen.
“He was trying to learn our strength. What does wizard mean?”
“It’s what the Hasians call a shaman who is very strong, but not as strong as a sorcerer.”
“It says Larn is a wizard, and we are both masters, but I know we aren’t the same strength.”
Kerri smirked. “The sorcerers believe there are seven strengths, but that is pure foolishness. If a shaman lives long enough, there is no end to how strong he may become. They believe the strengths go by colours. The colours go white, brown, green, yellow, blue, red, and finally black. Black is the highest. According to them, we are both blue. I prefer the different coloured beads we wear instead… don’t you?”
He nodded. “I wouldn’t like wearing blue all the time. I wonder what colour Darnath is… I suppose he’s in here somewhere. So, Duren wasn’t a shaman, but a Hasian pretending to be one?”
Kerrion made a face then shrugged. “Perhaps that is so, but what concerns me is that there may be more of our brothers writing in these books. You saw the string of light?”
“It goes into Protectorate does it not?”
“I believe a shaman in Protectorate can read whatever is written in this book using the string. If that is so, then our enemies know how many warriors and shamen we have. They know our strength,” Kerrion said grimly.
“That is bad news, Mentor. Attacking by stealth is what the warriors do best. The Hasians will know this. They will not be surprised—we must warn the chiefs.”
“We cannot do that. If they learn that some of our brothers are their enemies, they may count us all as enemies. We must find who among our brothers are writing in these books and stop them ourselves.”
“More challenges,” Shelim said unhappily remembering his near escape.
“Yes,” Kerrion said sadly. “The prophecy speaks of it, as it did of your battle, though I did not understand. We cannot allow the Hasians among us to tell their friends about the Lost Ones. Our numbers will increase by many thousands of warriors very soon, and perhaps they will still be surprised.”
The next Gathering was more than three seasons away and that was far too long to wait, he decided. He needed to find the Hasian shamen among his brothers quickly.
“You met the strongest of our brothers at your ceremony, Shelim. You should go to Larn first. Tell him what we know of Duren, and show him this book. Larn can pass the word while you find Dragon Clan.”
Shelim nodded. Dragon Clan, being the largest, had the greatest number of shamen. “I’ll take Darnath with me. He knew Duren better than anyone and he is my apprentice now.”
“I wish I could come with you, my boy, but I can’t leave the clan without a shaman.”
“I understand.”
Shelim left a little later with the book in hand. He had a lot to do before he left in the morning. Firstly, he said good-bye to his mother and father. When his father asked where he was going, he guiltily told him that he had messages to deliver for Kerrion. He didn’t think Tomik believed him, and was relieved when his father didn’t question him further. Secondly, he found Darnath and told him they were going on a little trip, and that he should get his supplies in order. Lastly, he gathered his own things ready for the morning.
The next day dawned dull and overcast with the prospect of rain. It seemed a fitting day to be leaving friends and family. Shelim pulled his tent down with Tomik’s help. He didn’t want to be slowed by a cart, so he helped his father stow it with Kerrion’s tent.
They were ready to ride before most of the clan had stirred, but there were a few of the people walking about. Shelim noticed Betsia walking by wearing the tunic and leggings of a clan warrior. She looked very good to his eyes. She had settled in and seemed to like the traditional life. He was surprised after the fuss she had made, but not as surprised as she herself was.
When Betsia saw him watching, she raised her hand in greeting and wandered over. “Where are you two off to?”
“Kerrion has some messages he wants delivered. I probably won’t be back for a season or more. Will you miss me?” he said and grinned.
Darnath laughed.
Betsia scowled and drew her blade. “No I will not! Come down from that horse and try to take my sword from me this time,” she said waving it about.
Shelim laughed at her antics. He did like her, even if she played the clown sometimes. Challenging a shaman was without honour, but she was only playing… he thought she was anyway.
“I can’t put off Kerrion’s messages because you want to play, Betsia. Some other time perhaps,” he said and rode away laughing.
“I’ll show you how to play!” Betsia shouted at his back.
That might be fun.
Horse Clan’s range was far to the north. Shelim knew he would encounter other tribes on his way to Larn and would use the opportunity to kill two bison with one spear so to speak. A tribe would be unlucky indeed not to have a Shaman among them, so he planned to ask for word of Horse Clan at his first opportunity, and at the same time pass Kerrion’s message to his brothers.
“I was right about Duren?” Darnath said as they rode side by side.
“Hmmm. It’s strange to think that some of our brothers are outclanners, but he seems to have been just that. I wonder how he did it. Surely someone would have noticed something.”
“We didn’t. So why expect a warrior to notice?”
“Good point,” he said with a nod.
He was worried about what he would have to do if he found an outclanner shaman. He had his shield spell now, but luck had played a much larger role in his victory that he cared to think about. He couldn’t afford to rely upon luck in the future. Kerrion had been fascinated with the idea of a magical shield, and said that no other shaman he knew could make one. He had only reluctantly shown Kerrion how he made the spell because of how dangerous it was. He remembered his desperation at losing control of it too well to be easy about using it again, even as a demonstration, but to his vast relief nothing had gone wrong. Holding it was easy. It only became difficult when the shield absorbed too much magic.
Just as he had tried to copy Duren’s shield, Kerrion had tried to copy his. The result had been the same. Instead of a shield, the old man had received the mother of all headaches. Shelim had feared for his mentor’s life when Kerrion collapsed, but he woke as good as new after a healing. Neither of them knew why copying the spell didn’t work, but Kerrion said that he would practise over the seasons ahead.
Many days went by with Shelim spending his time in the saddle teaching Darnath the uses of magic. The apprentice alternated his time between listening to his mentor’s words, and putting his lessons into practise. As there was no one to see, he made Darnath light and extinguish the campfire with magic. It was good practise, without which Duren might have defeated him. Shelim was well aware that they might be fighting with magic before this journey was done, so it became Darnath’s chore each night to build the campfire with magic, and each morning to put it out. He even scattered the ashes with blasts of magic-conjured air that could easily be used to knock an enemy from his feet.
Most evenings, they spent on their backs watching the stars and talking about their families. Shelim spoke of his parents, and how it was that his father had seen the white bison. Darnath told the story of his great grandfather’s journey to Pura—the great stone city in the east—and how he came to be the first warrior ever to see a smoking mountain.
“There is a smoking mountain there?” he asked doubtfully. “Truly?”
“Not there. There are isla
nds, far across the Sea of Despair, called the Socotra Isles. My great grandfather’s ship was attacked by raiders from there and was captured. He slew many, and would have dived overboard to drown rather than be taken prisoner, but the chief of the raiders was impressed with his skill. They say he offered my grandfather his freedom, if he would stay with the chief for two summers and teach him The Way.”
“And he agreed?”
“It was better than drowning,” Darnath said a little defensively. “Anyway, he agreed to teach the chief. He saw many strange things in that land. There are smoking mountains, and rivers of hot water. There are places where the ground is yellow like the sun.”
“Sounds like a fever dream to me,” he snorted.
“It’s true, I swear it.”
“I would like to see that, but if it means going on a boat—”
“Ship, big boats are called ships.”
“—I would rather stay here.”
Shelim used his mirror every morning as Kerrion had taught him to do. While Darnath put out the campfire and packed away their supplies, he would sit cross-legged with his mirror in his lap looking for danger ahead. The first indication that they were no longer alone occurred during one such session. He recognised the scouts for what they were—warriors of Jaralk, but decided not to announce his knowledge just yet. Jaralk was a tribe owing its descent to Eagle Clan, and Eagle Clan was friendly with most others. He was unconcerned by their presence and expected them to fade away sometime later in the day.
But they didn’t.
Finally, out of patience and trying to sound like Kerrion, Shelim shouted, “I think that’s enough practise for today, don’t you?” A moment after his shout died away, four warriors stood and encircled them.
“I am Anwa of the Jaralk,” the strongest of the four said.
“Greetings Anwa of the Jaralk. I am Shelim, shaman of the Night Wind, and this is my apprentice, Darnath.”
Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3 Page 77