Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3

by Mark E. Cooper

  Anwa blinked in surprise. Shelim didn’t look old enough to have an apprentice. “Greetings shaman. Where do you ride?”

  “To Larn of Horse Clan. Have you knowledge of where they may be found?”

  “Many days north, Shelim. As always, Horse Clan is closer to the Lost than any other.”

  That could be taken two ways. As far as he knew, Eagle and Horse Clans were friendly, but news travelled slowly. If there was a feud, he would not normally hear of it until the Gathering. Anwa might just be commenting on Horse Clan’s choice of range. The cities of the Lost were far to the northwest and not directly north from here.

  “So then, I must journey on. Tell me Anwa, has the Jaralk a shaman?”

  “Yes, we are fortunate. The Jaralk has two of them and an apprentice.”

  Jaralk was fortunate indeed, though Anwa didn’t sound like he thought so. Shelim tried not to smile but it was hard. Not long ago, he might have thought the same as Anwa. No warrior thought highly of a shaman, not until they needed healing at least.

  “You are fortunate indeed, Anwa. It must be comforting to know that when you are hurt, or when your wife is heavy with child, there are three shamen ready to help.”

  Anwa flushed, and his comrades laughed at his embarrassment.

  “He has you Anwa!” one of his comrades called out.

  Anwa laughed with the others and agreed. “You are right honoured, Shelim. My wife is with child, and it is comforting to know that a shaman is near.”

  He was surprised at the apology so easily obtained, but he quickly realised that Anwa was concerned for his wife. It was likely that she was pregnant with her first child then, and Anwa was worried for her safety.

  “We will escort you to the tribe,” Anwa said.

  “Thank you.”

  It was mid-day when they joined Anwa’s tribe. After caring for their horses, they followed him to the chief’s tent.

  “Petya, we have guests,” Anwa announced. “This is Shelim and his apprentice Darnath.”

  Petya was an ageing man, but he seemed hale and hearty. He was sitting on his rugs drinking tea. They had interrupted his meal.

  “A shaman and his apprentice, you say?” Petya said looking sceptical. “You have done well. I’ll take care of our guests.”

  Anwa left the tent and Petya studied his guests. Petya’s surprise was understandable. Shelim wished he looked older, it would make certain things easier. Every time someone heard that Darnath was his apprentice, he would come across this reaction.

  “I have heard it said that a shaman named Shelim challenged his mentor and killed him. Would you be that one, Shelim? Before you answer, know this: we have no room for such as would kill his own teacher.”

  He gaped. That the news had travelled was inevitable, but that the retelling had changed to make him the killer of his own mentor was unbelievable. Before he had a chance to correct Petya’s impression of him, Darnath jumped in with both feet.

  “That’s a lie!” Darnath choked out. “Shelim challenged Duren because—”

  “Be silent!” Shelim broke in.

  “But Mentor this—”

  “No, Darnath. I will correct this error not you.”

  “Yes Mentor,” Darnath said still glaring at an amused Petya.

  Petya chuckled. “Be seated Shelim… both of you. Tell me the story of Shelim and Duren.”

  Shelim sat and retold the story, but he made no mention of the magical book or of his suspicions about Duren’s origins.

  “That was well done,” Petya said nodding in approval. “Anyone who would push one of the people into joining the Lost deserves death. It is still amazing to me that the stories of magic are true. All know shamen can heal—that’s not magic, it happens all the time. But fire appearing from thin air! That is truly magic,” Petya said, sounding awed.

  Shelim listened with amusement. Fire was just that… fire. There was nothing magical about it. What was magical to him was that which Petya found the least awe inspiring—saving a life with his healing magic. Petya’s reaction brought home the changes within him as nothing else could. As a warrior, he had been taught to hunt and kill his enemy, and that had been his role in the clan. Now he was so much more. His main concern these days was preventing pain and death, not causing it.

  “We are here to ask for the whereabouts of Horse Clan. I would speak with your shamen also.”

  “You must stay a few days. Everyone will want to hear your news. As far as I know, Horse Clan is to the north perhaps as many as forty days ride.”

  “I cannot delay. I must deliver Kerrion’s messages quickly, but I thank you for your hospitality.”

  Petya wouldn’t take no for an answer. “At least stay with us today. You can leave first thing tomorrow.”

  Shelim hesitated for a moment but then he nodded. “I accept, Petya. Now I really must speak with your shamen.”

  “Good! You and your apprentice will eat with my wife and I. Galatyn is the shaman you will wish to speak with. I’m sure he already knows you’re here. He always seems to know what’s going on without being told.” Petya frowned in puzzlement.

  Shelim was sure he did. Galatyn would have seen him approaching in his mirror. That kind of advanced knowledge always made shamen appear strange to a warrior’s eyes. “Until later, then.”

  Petya nodded. “Later.”

  Once outside, he had a chance to speak privately with Darnath, “While Galatyn and I are together, I want you to get to know his apprentice. Find out how he is being taught—understood?”

  Darnath nodded knowingly. “I understand, Mentor.”

  He nodded back and continued toward Galatyn’s tent. Darnath was uniquely qualified in sniffing out an outclanner shaman. He had lived with one—Duren—and had experience with his so-called teaching.

  As he made his way through camp, Shelim was greeted with smiles and surprised looks when they realised that he was a very young shaman. The news of his arrival had spread very quickly, and he knew that he had Anwa to thank. He fixed a smile upon his face and put up with it the best he could. He absently wondered if a beard might make him look older. He snorted, by the time he had managed to grow a beard, he would be old enough not to need one!

  Outside Galatyn’s tent, he composed himself before scratching the flap. Moments later, a dark haired shaman put his head out to see who had come visiting. Shelim thought this was most likely Galatyn’s apprentice.

  “Welcome Shelim, my mentor is waiting to see you,” the apprentice said.

  “I’m sorry, I remember seeing you from somewhere… the Gathering perhaps, but I don’t remember your name,” he replied wracking his memory trying to remember.

  The apprentice laughed. “We were a little busy that day, Shelim. I am Benok, we had the same ceremony.”

  Now he remembered. There were five new shamen that year, and they had indeed been busy. They were given Tancred as part of the ceremony and he had a strong reaction to it. He remembered falling into a fit, but far from a bad experience, he looked back on it fondly. His dreaming had been strong, and he remembered flying over the plains with pleasure.

  “It is good to see you again, may I come in?”

  “Of course! Sorry, I was remembering the ceremony.”

  “I too,” Shelim said with a smile.

  They entered the tent to see an older man sitting alone making tea. The image of Kerrion doing the same thing flickered before Shelim’s eyes and he smiled. He recognised Galatyn as the one who had given him a small mixing bowl during his ceremony. The very same bowl resided in his medicine pouch even now. He never went anywhere without it.

  “Welcome, Shelim. What brings you here so far from your mentor?” Galatyn said.

  Shelim sat and settled himself to give him time to think. That Galatyn had heard the rumours about him he had no doubt, but by mentioning his mentor, Galatyn was questioning his right to call himself a shaman rather than an apprentice. That couldn’t be allowed to stand unchallenged, not if he was to be
taken seriously.

  “I am no longer an apprentice, Galatyn. Kerrion is my best friend and I honour him above all except perhaps my parents.”

  “By what right do you cast apprenticeship aside like a broken arrow?” Galatyn snapped angrily.

  “I am a shaman by Kerrion’s word,” he said keeping cool to offset Galatyn’s hot reaction. “He is eldest… do you dispute his judgement?”

  “Not I,” Galatyn said shocked at the thought. “Questions will still be asked in council over this.”

  He nodded, he already knew the next gathering would be a trying time for him, but that time was a long way off. “I will be there to answer them, but my news cannot wait another three seasons.”

  “Speak your news then,” Galatyn said obviously intrigued.

  He glanced meaningfully at Darnath, who bowed and left the tent, and then back at Galatyn in silence.

  The now irritated shaman gestured at Benok to leave. “What have you to say that our brothers may not hear?”

  In answer, Shelim retrieved the book from his medicine pouch. “I challenged Duren over his foul treatment of Darnath, but while I fought him, Kerrion was searching for a reason behind his actions. He found this.”

  Galatyn frowned as he flicked through the pages. He stopped to read a page then moved on. Suddenly he looked up. “He was writing about the clans and tribes as if scouting before an attack. Why?”

  “If you look at the book with your other sight, you will see part of the answer.”

  While Galatyn did that, Shelim took the chance to glance around. He couldn’t see any books in here, but that didn’t mean there weren’t a couple hidden under the clutter. He had an idea suddenly and before Galatyn finished, he used his other sight to look around. Galatyn blazed with health to his eyes, but apart from the book in his hands, there was nothing else in evidence. He would wait until he had spoken with Darnath before he decided for certain, but the lack of a magical book in his tent made it unlikely that Galatyn was an outclanner.

  “Did you see the string of light?”

  Galatyn nodded. “Does Kerrion have an explanation for this?”

  “We believe that Duren was an outclanner shaman—a Hasian. The string does go west. We believe that when something is written in this book, it can be read by others in Protectorate.”

  “It’s unbelievable! One of our brothers a scout for outclanners. There could be more!”

  “Exactly. That is what we fear. I do not know the name of the other shaman here, but do you think it possible that he…?”

  “No!” Galatyn snapped then lowered his voice. “No… Tendell was my apprentice before Benok. I know his parents well. He is clan, no question there.”

  “That is good,” Shelim said in relief. “One of you must ride to spread the word to the rest of your clan and nearby tribes. I will do the same on my way to Larn. If one of these books is found, the outclanner must be stopped—permanently.”

  Galatyn nodded sadly. “More challenges among brothers. Kerrion was right, the end times are here.”

  There wasn’t anything more to be said. If the end times were truly here then the clans would be broken and scattered, if not, they would survive. Either way, they must fight, and fight they would. The outclanners had never seen a fight like the one the clans would give them—they couldn’t have—shamen had never fought in war. United, they could not fail, but uniting was not certain. One thing was certain however, once united, their old way of life would be over—perhaps forever.

  * * *

  12 ~ Militia

  Sergeant Turner eyed the position of the block critically before signalling to the crane crew. “Lower away!”

  The block of limestone must have weighed as much if not more than a horse, but Turner’s crane lifted it over the hold of the waiting ship with ease. Navarien held his breath as it was carefully lowered by four sweating legionnaires on the handles of the crank. If a stone was dropped from that height, it would go straight through the hull to the bottom of the harbour.

  “Easy, easy you blasted fools! I swear I’ll make you swim down and get it if you drop it!” Turner shouted as the winch men allowed the stone to drop slightly. It was tiring working those handles.

  “Cragson!”

  “Sir!” Cragson said from the gangplank.

  “Send someone to collect sergeant Meran and his men. I think this will go a lot faster with shifts at the winch.

  “Yes, Sir!”

  While Cragson was doing that, Navarien ascended the plank to watch Turner snug the block into the hold. There were twenty blocks already loaded, with another twelve waiting near the crane. He would liked to take more, but the ship wasn’t big enough. Besides that, if he sent more he would have to demolish something. The stones were leftover from the fort’s construction.

  He turned to watch as Colonel Volker led a detachment of militia along the quayside. They were pretty troops, he thought. It was a shame they couldn’t fight worth a damn. When the militia sailed into the harbour a few days ago, he had welcomed the chance to hand over the fort and march on Calvados, but then he realised what a marvellous opportunity the militia’s transports gave him. Rather than march immediately, he chose to vacate the fort in favour of a camp outside the city walls, and commandeered the largest of Volker’s ships. Turner should have more than enough stone to prove that his siege engine design was workable.

  “Hello Colonel, what can I do for you this fine afternoon?” he said cheerily as Volker ascended the ramp.

  “You can leave my city for a start! Your men are making it impossible for me to rule effectively.”

  Rule?

  “Volker… you don’t mind me calling you Volker do you?” he said in a deceptively mild voice, but Volker obviously did mind. “My dear Volker, it was my impression that governor Langdon ruled here. Not that he does rule of course, but my lord Mortain—may he live forever—chose Langdon to represent him here in Durena, not you. You aren’t trying to usurp Langdon’s authority…” Navarien made his voice cold. “Are you?”

  Before Volker could answer, sergeant Meran and his maniple marched onto the quayside.

  “Excuse me a moment won’t you?” he said not waiting to see if Volker would or not. He descended the plank and met Meran. Volker fumed for a moment, then stomped off toward his detachment.

  “Meran!”

  “Sir?”

  “Assign four men to the winch in shifts—one shift per stone. The rest of your maniple can snug the stones into the hold under sergeant Turner’s direction.”

  “Understood, Sir!” Meran called.

  Volker was standing on the quay waiting for him, but he ignored the man and ascended the plank again. Lewin attached ropes to a stone and gave the signal to lift. It all happened so fast that Navarien didn’t have time to shout a warning. He wouldn’t have let it happen, even to Volker, but afterwards he couldn’t bring himself to discipline the walking disaster area called Lewin. Volker moved between the stones to intercept him as he climbed the ramp. Lewin’s stone lifted high into the air swinging and swaying, and slipped out of its sling.

  “Arghhh!” the men on the winch yelled at the sudden loss of tension and sprawled away from the winch handles.

  Volker barely had time to look up and see his fate before the stone crashed down onto one of its brethren. It seemed unbelievable to Navarien, but the stone actually bounced and then came down again pinning Volker against the piled stones.

  “AEiiiiiiiiii!” Volker screamed without a breath.

  The scream was terrible, like a woman seeing her child trampled. Navarien ran down to see what could be done. His men were attaching ropes to the stone and others were hurriedly rewinding the rope onto the winch from where it had uncoiled. Volker’s men were idly watching, but they couldn’t help in any case. What could be done was being done.

  “Volker… Volker!” Navarien shouted over the screams. “I’m sorry man, but your legs… they’re off at the knees.”

  Volker’s eyes wer
e wild and his face was distended with pain, but he focused on him and clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Petras…” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “My Captain… to… take command,” he said.

  “I’ll see to it,” he said, but Volker was gone. He was surprised at the intensity of his regret. “No rush, Lewin. He’s dead.”

  “Yes sir, sorry sir. I tied it tight. I swear I did, Sir!”

  Navarien examined the sling. The knots were still intact, but one strap was broken. He checked the ends and with relief found they weren’t cut cleanly as with a knife. They were frayed. The stones must simply have worn through the strap as they swayed in the air. It was no one’s fault. He stepped well clear as the stone was lifted, and Lewin pulled Volker away. Meran’s men raised the now gory block and lowered into the hold of the ship. The militia were still standing around and hadn’t attempted to claim their commander.

  “Which of you is, Petras?”

  “He’s on patrol, Sir. He’s always doing something, like a bee that one is,” the sergeant said.

  That said well of Petras to his way of thinking. “Send one of your men to fetch him immediately, and another to get a stretcher for your colonel.”

  “Yes, Sir!”

  Two of the militia ran off, and the sergeant claimed Volker.

  “Don’t forget those,” he said pointing to Volker’s legs.

  The blocks were all loaded by the time Petras arrived. He was a tall man with red hair and light beard. He reported to Navarien like one of his own captains would. Navarien liked him immediately and wondered why he hadn’t joined the legions instead of the despised militia.

  “I prefer to help people rather than kill them, Sir,” Petras said with complete candour.

  Navarien raised an eyebrow at that. “I see. I’m promoting you to Colonel of Militia. First, take care of Volker—give him a honourable burial. Second, report to Langdon and execute his orders.”

  Petras nodded. “I would have anyway, Sir, but thank you for the promotion. Langdon will have to verify it of course, but I don’t think he will overrule you.”

  “He’d better not!” he said annoyed at the very idea. “Volker told me you were to command just before he died.”