Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3

by Mark E. Cooper

  “Don’t start that! Cragson being away doesn’t mean I can’t knock you on your arse!”

  Bannan laughed as if he were jesting. That was all right, let him think that, but he wasn’t jesting. He was beginning to think using Cragson as a go-between had been the wrong course to take. It was convenient to be sure, but he had found himself divorced from all the details that ran the legion. Details, though small in themselves, were important to the smooth running of any army. He had forgotten what being an under-captain was like; but it wasn’t too late to address his error.

  “You can tell the others that whether Cragson is with us or not, they can come to me with ideas and need not fear my censure. I was a captain myself once, so I know what it’s like to have a general who won’t listen.”

  “Yes sir,” Bannan said deadpan.

  Navarien sighed. Bannan would learn in time. “What were you going to say?”

  “Well sir, that’s a mighty fine horse to be running lose don’t you think?”

  It was that. Lewin was trotting back with… him her? It was a mare! The clans only sold geldings to outclanners. They might appear backward from the outside, but they knew what they were doing where horses were concerned. Allowing breeding stock to fall into outclanner hands was something they were never guilty of, but they were now. If he could somehow find a stallion for her, he would have the beginnings of a herd that could match the clan mounts. It would be a crime to breed her to the Protectorate’s lesser breeds, one he was determined not to commit. He would find her a stallion next year he was sure.

  “I’m thinking that Corbin and Duer might have found some more horses for you… with clansmen on top,” Bannan finished dryly.

  Idiot! Of course a mare like her wouldn’t be out alone. He had been so caught up with his plans that he had forgotten his current situation!

  “Lewin!” he called. “Mount up and ride ahead until you sight the van. Then ride back and report.”

  Lewin saluted his General and mounted. Resting his javelin beside his boot in the stirrup, he galloped ahead.

  Navarien picked up the pace, but not too much. There was no point in running into an ambush. He strained his eyes looking to see Lewin coming back, but it was another half candlemark before he saw him. Lewin was clutching his arm, and his javelin was missing. Navarien tensed, but the grin on Lewin’s face helped.

  “Captain Corbin says a party of two or three hundred clansmen attacked from ambush. Our men ran them off without losses—on our side that is, Sir. Captain Corbin has mounted a maniple on captured horses and split them into two scouting parties.”

  “No losses? Then where did you come by that dirty great arrow in your arm?” he said pointing to the offending shaft. Lewin made no mention of it, but the thing must hurt like a sorcerer’s flames.

  “I got one of them clanners on the way back, but the bastard shot me afore I could do him in. Corbin has maybe four score wounded, Sir. He said to tell you that he’s moving on, and could you pick them up?”

  Navarien blinked at that. Could he pick them up? Corbin sounded confident, too cursed confident for his peace of mind, but mounted scouts should locate any ambushes ahead of time. It was by no means certain however. By all accounts, clansmen could hide under a blade of grass!

  “Get that arm seen to, Lewin, and pass your horse onto one of the others. I want whoever it is to tell Corbin to slow the pace a little, the baggage is slowing us more than I like.”

  Lewin made to salute and paled as he jarred his wounded arm. “She’s a beauty ain’t she, Sir? Rides like a dream—nary a bump, Sir.”

  Navarien winced in sympathy, but he didn’t say anything about the stupidity of trying to salute with a war arrow in his arm. What would be the point? Lewin was Lewin after all.

  “Yes she is, now carry out your orders.”

  “Yes, Sir!” Lewin said not saluting this time. He did learn after all.

  Lewin rode back along the column. Navarien shook his head. Lewin was the biggest pain in the legion according to Meran, but when it came to the job, he was someone you wanted at your back ready to defend you. He remembered the fight on the walls of Durena when he had relied on Lewin to do just that. He hoped the wound wouldn’t turn bad; they had no healers out here to provide a poultice against infection.

  Navarien found it hard to bemoan his lack of sorcerers even for Lewin’s sake, besides, men treated with magic had just as much chance of dying when all was said—they did in the Protectorate anyway. Rumours had circulated about how the bitch sorceress could heal death itself, and how none died from her healing. He didn’t believe a word of it, but if true, it would be a wondrous thing not to fear death from a wound even as slight as that caused by an arrow in the arm.

  He watched one of his men ride ahead to give Corbin his orders, and… yes, the wounded men were coming into sight now. There were a lot more than four score by his estimate, but before he had a chance to frown he realised why that was. Corbin hadn’t lost his head completely it seemed, two maniples had been detailed to guard the injured from further attacks. The wounded were quickly lifted into the carts with much joking at their expense. How nice it must be, they said, to be hit by a little stick and then have to ride in a wagon all the way to Calvados.

  That night, he ordered tripled sentries again and hoped it was enough. Another five days to Calvados, he thought, could be made to seem an eternity if the clans had a mind to do so. Did they suspect he would be subduing them next year? Of course they did, they weren’t stupid. That reminded him…

  “Corbin!” he roared across the camp.

  Many faces turned toward him in the light of the fires and one or two of the men pointed to the south wall. He walked that way then yelled again. This time an answer came to him.

  “Sir?” Corbin said and scrambled down from the earthworks.

  “You had better watch that,” he said, nodding to the wall.

  “Sir?”

  He sighed at the man’s obtuseness. “The firelight will reveal you in silhouette to bowmen for a league at least. We can’t see more than a hundred yards or so, there could be an entire clan out there and we wouldn’t know it.”

  “I hadn’t thought,” Corbin said looking into the dark uneasily. “I’ll have the sentries lie down to watch.”

  “Don’t bother, they have more sense,” he said nodding to the sentries nearby already lying prone with only their eyes above the wall.

  Corbin flushed at the rebuke. Navarien admitted that he was feeling a little testy, and tried to soften his next words. “Your little fight—was it our friends from Horse Clan again?”

  “Horse Clan on their own again, yes Sir,” Corbin said relieved at the subject change. “This area might be their range… maybe we’re trespassing.”

  Corbin obviously didn’t care which clan he fought, but Navarien most definitely did care. He had less than seven thousand men. If Horse Clan could somehow persuade the others to join them, he would be out-numbered by twenty to one. He didn’t know the exact numbers, but he wouldn’t be surprised if the odds were closer to a hundred to one. Everything else had conspired to cause him difficulties, why not this aspect as well?

  “I’m giving Tikva the lead with Duer tomorrow,” he said and a scowl appeared upon Corbin’s face. “I can’t let you and your men have all the fun can I?”

  Corbin grinned at that. “I understand, Sir!”

  He doubted it, but he nodded and walked away. He had no qualms about Corbin as a captain, but as anything greater… well, it just wouldn’t happen. Corbin was a fighter, a brawler really. He inspired confidence in his men, but he did it by being in the thick of the action, rather than viewing things from a slight remove as Cragson and he had learned to do. Tikva seemed to have the idea as well, although in Tikva’s case he had somehow managed to do both, which was an achievement few achieved. That man could be wielding a sword one moment then ordering a maniple to reinforce his left wing without looking the next! It was uncanny, but he seemed to sense wha
t was needed instinctively, and then gave orders that saw it done.

  Navarien wished it were that simple for him. He had to puzzle out every contingency he could think of before hand, thus ensuring that at least the Fifth Legion’s General wouldn’t be surprised when the enemy did something to mess up a well laid plan. He knew he was far from the best with a sword; though he was always quite pleased with the results he achieved with the javelin, but he was the best at strategy… at least he thought so.

  As he walked through the camp, he noted the diminished number of battalion and maniple standards. When he rearranged his men into seven full battalions after the battle in Durena, there had been some friction. The men were proud of their formations, and they didn’t want to see their standards packed away among the baggage. They had subsided, all be it reluctantly, when he assured them it wasn’t forever. He hoped he wasn’t lying; he had every confidence in the mirrors of sorcerers like that of Lucius and the traitor Belgard. He was confident that Mortain—may he live forever—knew of his situation, but he wasn’t so confident about his ability to take the necessary steps to remedy it.

  He was just passing a campfire, when he bumped into one of his men with a tin plate in hand.

  “Sorry, Sir!” the man said managing to keep his plate, but he had dropped his hunk of bread.

  “Don’t worry about it, my fault,” he said and bent to pick up the elusive piece of bread.

  Thunk!

  “Ughh!”

  Navarien dove behind the fire as shouts of alarm arose. He peered around the flames to see the legionnaire looking at him with eyes glazed in death. His plate was still in hand; he hadn’t spilled a drop.

  “You all right sir?” Sergeant Meran said looking down at him.

  He scrambled to his feet. “Fine sergeant, are we under general attack, or was that a warning do you think?”

  “Neither. It was an assassination attempt.”

  He nodded noting his men were ready at their posts. The next days looked to be long ones indeed. Not many would sleep now, not while worrying about sneak attacks that everyone knew the clans were good at. Maybe he could lessen the effect though, and reassure the men at the same time.

  “Corbin!”

  “Sir!”

  “Inform the others that I want a third of the legion at battle readiness to stand watch,” he said staring into the night. “Three shifts through the night, two full battalions each time. The rest of the men are to stand down and sleep as soon as they have eaten.”

  “I’ll see to it, Sir.”

  Corbin trotted off. Meran shrugged when his men were stood down for the first third of the night. He left to join them.

  Navarien watched the man who had died in his place being carried away and shook his head at the waste of it. That was all it took, an arrow from the darkness, a quick flash of pain, and then off to the God’s judgement. He made a note not to take off his armour from now on, even in bed.

  Uncomfortable was better than dead any day.

  “The scouts are coming back in, Sir,” Corbin said pointing to the riders cantering toward them.

  Navarien had chosen to lead First Battalion with Corbin commanding his Seventh Battalion in the van this morning. Tikva had protested sounding remarkably like Cragson in full spate. What was it about his captains that they thought him not capable of leading a mere battalion? It wasn’t shear bloody mindedness, no matter what his captains thought of their general in the van with only two battalions between him and the clan’s spears. No, it was purely his frustration at not being able to do anything about all the hit and run raids they had been suffering!

  “It’s about time they showed up,” he said testily watching his only mounted contingent ride in.

  Cavalry, what wouldn’t he give for more horses right now? Two mounted battalions would sort out these flaming raids in a hurry! Since the night of the assassination attempt, his men had been plagued with hit and run raids, every single day. At night, he had to keep half the men awake, and as a result they were all tired and not at all looking forward to the next day’s march. He was losing men and he couldn’t do a thing to stop it! As soon as the clansmen released their shafts, they galloped away and he couldn’t catch them. They didn’t even wait to see if their arrows struck their targets, as if the very idea of missing never occurred to them! Discipline in the ranks was getting worse. More refereed fights were taking place each night, and more injuries were being inflicted. It was as if being unable to hit the clansmen was transferring the men’s rage to their own numbers.

  “Report,” he said to the sergeant in charge of the scouts and Corbin halted the column for a short rest.

  “—half a league ahead, Sir. I can’t be sure, but I think they’re setting another ambush for us.”

  Bastards! Navarien saw red at the news. “How many would you estimate?”

  “Don’t need to guess, General. I counted them! That’s why we were late back.”

  “How many, sergeant?”

  The sergeant flushed. “Sorry, Sir, it’s a big one. I think they’re after doing us in this time. I counted nearly fifteen hundred. Took a while it did—kept getting lost…” the sergeant flushed again. “Sorry, Sir.”

  “Did they see you?” he asked intently. If the clansmen knew what he was planning, they would be gone in a flash.

  “I think not, Sir. I can’t be certain like, but I snuck up on me belly—alone this time, Sir.”

  “Good man!” he crowed in delight. He would show these clansmen what happened when they baited him and a legion of frustrated men. “Detail one of your men to bring up Tikva and the others. Tell him to leave the baggage with a strong guard and double time to us here.”

  “Yes, Sir!” the sergeant said with a salute. He turned and ordered a man, “Feagan, you heard the General. We’re going to make these bastards pay!”

  “On me way, Sarge!” Feagan said, and galloped to the rear.

  Navarien smiled grimly. The clansmen were going to pay all right, and with luck, he would have his horses. It wasn’t long before he and Corbin resumed their march, but at a much reduced pace this time. The men were excited and looking forward to paying back their tormentors, so much so, that he had to hold them back. Walking into a trap like this was not something he was eager to do, but the men didn’t seem to mind at all.

  “Are you sure about this, General? I don’t like giving up our javelins,” Corbin said marching backward to watch his men’s spacing.

  This was what came of letting his captains speak their minds, he thought ruefully. He still thought it was a good idea, but some of the disadvantages were now making themselves plain.

  “We have the easy part. We won’t need the javelins, but the others will.”

  Corbin shrugged, “I suppose—”

  “I know it’s hard, but we aren’t going to win this fight. Tikva and the others will do that for us. All we have to do is fix the clansmen in place.”

  “I understand that, General, but I didn’t join the legions not to fight!”

  “Oh?” he said coldly. “I joined the legions because I like the life, and I like to win!”

  Mumble, mumble, mutter, mumble!

  He shook his head as Corbin grumbled. The legion was a single force and not ten separate groups, as Corbin seemed to imagine. Pride in their battalions was good for the men, even for the captains it was good, but only as long as they remembered who the enemy was! Rivalry between maniples and between battalions was common, but when the fighting started, such childish concerns were to be forgotten until after the battle was won.

  Navarien was tense as he marched into what should be the ambush site. He couldn’t see any clansmen and was wondering if he had mistaken the distance they had travelled. He turned to look back and was about to ask Corbin’s opinion, when all along the column men fell transfixed by arrows. In some cases, they were struck by two or even three arrows a piece! His shock wasn’t tempered by his advance knowledge of the ambush. The situation threatened to tur
n into a disaster as his men tried to duck under shields.

  The surprise was complete.

  He was surrounded and losing men fast. He was shouting orders, but many of the sergeants were down. The clansmen had chosen their targets well, but Corbin wasn’t hit, and he soon began making sense of the chaos. Meanwhile, Navarien gave up shouting and started kicking the men into the beginnings of a square. With this example, discipline returned and two squares formed twenty-five men wide and twenty ranks deep—or they would have if not for the losses to First Battalion. Navarien’s square was three ranks short already and more men were falling.

  “Lock shields!” he screamed as loud as he could, hoping Corbin would hear and comply.

  A shell of legion shields appeared over the two battalions and no more men fell. The clansmen were evidently not impressed as they continued loosing their shafts. Arrows continued to rain down, but all they did now was make clattering noises as they struck the overhead shields. One or two arrows did find targets in shoulders or feet, but none of the men died from such strays. Navarien was panting in fright, and so were many of his men. He had nearly lost two battalions without reply.

  By the God, I nearly lost two out of seven…

  He took a deep breath and calmed his racing heart, he hadn’t died, and neither had most of his men. He would never, never again walk into a trap set by clansmen. If he did, he had no doubt that he would die. Clansmen were better than any bowman he had ever come across. It took moments only to organise a shell-covered phalanx, but he had lost upwards of two hundred men before it was fully formed.

  He had never been in a situation like this. The phalanx wasn’t just the best tactic, it was the only tactic. From his place in the first rank, he saw the sky darken with flights of arrows. They rained down on his position without let up. He ducked down behind his shield as another arrow came in low and struck the top of it. He looked up again to see the arrowhead had punched right through. Clan bows had a heavy pull, and would go clean through his armour. Luckily, legion shields weren’t as flexible as armour, they were able, barely, to hold against the arrows.