Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3

by Mark E. Cooper

  “You would be surprised at what a man can endure, m’lord bishop,” a voice said out of the shadows.

  Jymis gasped. He hadn’t realised that his muttering would carry so far. He peered into the shadows trying to make out the man.

  “Kell… is it you?”

  “No names,” the voice growled. “What is the word?”

  “Demophon, the word is Demophon.”

  Kell stepped out of the shadows. “You don’t need that.”

  Jymis looked down at what Kell was looking at. He was still clutching his dagger in a white knuckled grip. The way Kell was eyeing the jewelled hilt made him nervous and he quickly tucked it away out of sight.

  “Follow,” Kell said and led the way.

  * * *

  Interlude IV

  Mortain, voice of the God, first lord sorcerer, head and absolute ruler of the Protectorate was insane.

  “He’s completely, totally, out of his head insane if he thinks I’ll let my son die on this… this whim!” Godwinson snarled. He ignored the murmurs of agreement his accusation elicited from the others.

  Godwinson re-read the message, but it was no different the third time. That Mortain was paranoid was beyond doubt, and with good reason. More than one had been blasted out of Castle Black since its founding. The current Mortain always killed rivals to his power as soon as he became aware of them, and in so doing, he had held his place longer than any before him. One of the goals that all Mortains purportedly strove for was the strengthening of their kind, but in reality they didn’t want stronger sorcerers born. Why would they when any one of them might turn out to be a successor?

  Godwinson smiled grimly. His goal was different in that he truly did want stronger sorcerers—the more the better. He wanted to recruit men strong in their magic and sense of duty. Men with his vision that would do anything, anything, to see it achieved. He needed such men, but more importantly, the Protectorate needed such men if she was to survive the coming cataclysm.

  Godwinson resolutely turned his thoughts away from the grim vision that had set him upon his current path, and gazed out the window of his Banswara residence at a breathtaking scene. In the harbour below were ships. And what ships! The entire western fleet lay at anchor taking on stores and men on a scale never before attempted, and all of it on his orders alone. Those huge transports could hold almost thirty thousand legionnaires, almost three legions tasked to fight the greatest campaign the Protectorate had ever undertaken. It was an all or nothing venture that made him swell with pride, and at the same time made him sick with dread. The risk was extreme to say the least. If those ships were lost as the Victory was lost earlier in the year… no, it was unthinkable.

  Godwinson glanced down at the message again and it burst into flame. He hastily dropped it mumbling a curse and sucking his burnt fingers. He ignored Felda’s hiss of amusement, and pretended that the others hadn’t seen his fit of temper. One of these days his temper would break loose where someone outside of his personal circle of confidants could see it. That would be bad for more than his image. He must always project an air of calm confidence and dignity to outsiders lest they see weakness where there was none. He could not afford a challenge to his position as Mortain’s heir, least of all now. He could only truly be himself when with Felda and the others. They were his to their very souls—he had cast the spell himself. All others were suspect and not to be wholly trusted. Even he, Mortain’s heir, did not know how many guardians had been set to watch him. Although Beltran seemed very competent at sniffing them out, he would be a fool to let his guard down.

  “Do you ever wish you had refused the Bond?”

  “Sometimes,” Felda said with a grin.

  That wasn’t the expected response and Felda knew it. They had been a team from the very beginning. Long before his circle had come together in common cause, they had been working toward combating the threat of his visions. They were more than friends and allies, they were brothers in all but blood. One by one, they had approached the others until the circle was formed. It consisted of six of the strongest mages—eight if he included his son and Felda—Bonded closer than blood kin to see the cataclysm averted, and there wasn’t much time left. The one he had feared would come into the world had indeed come, though via a different agency than his vision had promised.

  Both woman and shaman the one shall be…

  His vision had been flawed—he could almost feel the cataclysm growing closer with that realisation. Lady Julia had not been born to the clans as he had prophesied, and because she had not, his plans had gone far awry. For a score of years his watchers had remained hidden among the clans waiting and watching for the one of his vision to be born so that she might be spirited away and raised among sorcerers. Julia was to have been his secret weapon, but the years had rolled on by with no word of her. He had thought that no news was good news. It meant he had more time in which to prepare. How wrong he was, how foolish, how arrogant he was to think he might circumvent the God’s plan for Julia and the world.

  His prophecy had been wrong, but did that mean he was doomed to failure? He had foreseen many things that had come to pass—Queen Alyssa’s death, King Pergann’s decline, his own promotion to Godwinson, Felda’s bonding, and many other things. And then there were those yet to occur—war across the land, the fall of Japura, the destruction of Tanjor, Emperor Vexin dead by the roadside and his son hanging from a tree, huge unfathomable shapes in the sky fighting, strange boxes upon the ground that roared like dragons and spit fire, clanking rumbling things that threw thunder and shattered walls, and… and… and…

  Godwinson squeezed his eyes shut and clutched his head. He groaned as the impossible shapes and images flickered before his eyes one after another in an unending nightmare of destruction. He saw…

  “Are you well?” Felda said in concern. “Should I fetch—”

  He saw…

  “Father? I will get your medicine!”

  He saw again the great cities of Japura, Tanjung, Deva, Bandar, Hasa, and yes, even Castle Black herself sacked and reduced by fire. He saw a column of flame climbing higher and higher into the sky, its mushroom shape blotting out the stars, and within it the sorceress screaming in madness as she throttled someone in the uniform of the legions. He saw people chained neck to neck, boarding great ships, bigger by far than those in the harbour below. He saw people living hand to mouth in the great forests and mountains and knew, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that these pathetic remnants were all that was left of the once proud lands of Waipara. The cities were silent, empty, abandoned.

  “…silent, empty, abandoned,” he mumbled.

  “Godwinson!” Felda yelled and struck him a sharp blow upon one cheek.

  The world rushed back into his head and with it the stinging pain of Felda’s slap upon his face. The hand came around again, but he caught it before it could land.

  “I’m back,” he gasped in wonder. “I’m here. It hasn’t happened, won’t happen, might happen, mustn’t happen…”

  “Father, drink this quickly!”

  Godwinson clutched the goblet his son thrust at him and downed the evil tasting brew. Almost at once he felt his head clear from the last lingering traces of his vision. He turned and found his brothers watching him with worry and fear upon their faces. It won’t happen, he said to himself one final time.

  Not with these stalwarts by my side.

  “Was it…?” his son asked.

  Godwinson nodded shakily. “The same.”

  The visions always came with little warning and when they left he felt wrung out like a dirty wash cloth. He raised his trembling hands before his eyes and clenched them into fists. Taking a deep breath, he willed his legs to support him and the trembling throughout his body to stillness. He unclenched his fists and stared at his hands. They were rock steady.

  “It was the same,” he said again.

  Eban shook his head. “Not the same, I think. When was the last time a vision came upon yo
u in broad daylight like this?”

  “A year, was it not?” Felda answered for him.

  He nodded and drank the rest of his medicine. The trail of fire left by the brew ignited into a comforting warmth in his belly, which spread slowly to his extremities. He felt strength returning.

  “A little more, I believe,” Eban said. “It was just after the destruction of the Fifth Legion at Athione by the sorceress.”

  Godwinson massaged his temples trying to smooth away the beginnings of a headache. He remembered the time well. He had been walking in the gardens when he fell into a fit. The vision had been short but shocking and it had hit him hard.

  “You think it means something… what?”

  “I don’t think it means something, I speculate that it might mean something. Are the visions random?” Eban asked and immediately answered his own question. “No, they follow logical patterns. Are they triggered by outside stimuli? Possibly, probably they are. What is the connection between each vision? The cataclysm. What—”

  “For the God’s sake get to the point!” Felda snarled.

  “The point is that when you invoke your gift—”

  Wotan snorted. “Gift, a curse more like!”

  “—you are in control of what it shows you. By that I mean you see answers—or possible answers—to questions you pose to yourself, but when—as just now and a year ago—you have a vision with no warning, the fit lasts only long enough to pass on some scrap of information. True?”

  He nodded. “There was one thing that I don’t remember seeing before.”

  “And that was?”

  “I saw fire.”

  “You have seen that many times.”

  “Not like this. I saw a fire so huge that it touched the heavens, and within it the sorceress screaming in madness with her hands locked around the throat of…” he frowned. “Of… someone in legion uniform.”

  “Someone?”

  “I didn’t see his face, but I know him—I think I know him. I’m not sure now.”

  Eban was quiet for some time, but then, “Might it have been General Navarien?”

  “It might have been, why?”

  “Simply because it was either Julia or Navarien that triggered your vision of last year.”

  “That doesn’t follow,” Felda said with an exasperated sigh. “Anyone at that battle could have been responsible, or none! We don’t know that the visions are triggered by others. They might just happen!”

  “Nothing just happens, man!” Eban said in annoyance. He hated it when people denied logic. “There is always an explanation.”

  Felda grinned. “Why do you have green eyes?”

  Eban opened his mouth, and paused nonplussed. “I don’t know, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t an explanation.”

  “Ha!” Felda said satisfied.

  Godwinson smiled wearily. Sometimes he wished he didn’t know what was coming. It would be so much easier living his life in blissful ignorance of the future. But he did know, and because of that, every waking moment of his life was dedicated to preventing his vision from coming to pass. He shouldn’t feel sorry for himself. He had friends and allies to support him. There was his son for one.

  Wotan had only recently finished his so-called schooling. It had been hard for both of them. He knew what his son would go through and had prepared him as thoroughly as he knew how, but as usual, children disbelieved what their parents told them. Thank the God Wotan was intelligent, and had seen for himself the sense in his advice when he saw what went on under Castle Black. From all reports, Wotan had managed to come through without too many scars. Obedience above all was necessary to come through the halls alive, even if obedience meant killing another, which it very often did.

  Molan stood by the door, always first with information, always touchy when the information was questioned. Storms always came to mind when Molan entered a room, it was something he could live up to—there was none better at handling weather.

  Eban was the only one sitting. Rocks came to mind when looking at him, very big rocks! Eban stood far above him in height, but for all of that he was a quiet sort. He never became angry; he never did anything emotional at all. Calm thought was his watchword, and debates were his joy. He often talked to Eban just to hear his outlandish ideas.

  Kontar stood near Felda a step or two away. A ferrety man, Kontar was the sort you would generally avoid in the common room of an inn. He always looked sour, but that was deceiving. Kontar was second only in strength to Felda. He was good at finding what people wanted the most and supplying it; when the circle needed something from someone without removing that someone, Kontar was the one chosen to do it.

  Magar stood next to Wotan. He was a little older than Wotan, but acted younger. They were good friends, and worked well together. Wotan was weak as yet—compared to these men, everyone was weak, but he would gain strength with experience. Until then, Magar was Wotan’s shadow. Wotan supplied something Magar desperately needed—someone to look up to—in exchange, Magar supplied the strength in magic that Wotan would need for the foreseeable future.

  Apart from Wotan, Pendaran was the weakest among the circle, but there was nothing wrong with his skills. He could build anything if he studied the problem for long enough. He and Eban were the best of friends; he would often make things Eban thought up.

  Finally, there was their newest recruit—Beltran. He was a killer, with or without magic, but never without orders. He neither liked nor disliked killing, to him it was a job that needed doing. He was about equal in strength to Magar, and still seemed a little dazed—the bond did take getting used to. Feeling what everyone in the circle felt could be confusing at first, but given time he would learn the trick of separating himself from the others.

  Felda and Eban were still arguing. Godwinson broke in, “So you think that perhaps Julia or Navarien has done something to merit a vision?”

  “I do, yes,” Eban said and Felda shook his head.

  “You don’t agree?” he said turning to his friend.

  “It’s Eban’s assumptions I disagree with. It’s always dangerous to assume you know more than you do.”

  “Enough!” Godwinson said before Eban could retort. “I have a headache and you two aren’t making it any better. I have no intention of assuming anything about Lady Julia, especially as it appears that my visions are unreliable where she is concerned. If she can’t be recruited—and I believe we are all in agreement that she cannot—then she must be eliminated. As for General Navarien, he has my every confidence. I didn’t save him from Mortain because I liked him—not only that. My vision was most specific regarding him, and you all know that.”

  Felda nodded. “I will check with Demophon to ascertain the situation regarding Julia.”

  Godwinson smiled. “Do that, and keep me informed. Now then, about our gracious lord’s… whim. I see no alternative. You’ll have to go, Wotan. We’re not ready to challenge him just yet, and we may not have to if things go well.”

  “Tutt-tut-tut,” Eban chided. “You know we will. Nothing goes exactly to plan. If you plan for the worst all your surprises will be good ones.”

  “I can hope at least,” he said with a sour smile on his face. “Mortain has specifically ordered Wotan to lead the mages to Calvados, yet he knows that he is weaker than many already chosen to go. What does that say to you?”

  “He wants your son dead,” Beltran rumbled without inflection.

  Godwinson nodded. “Exactly. Wotan isn’t strong enough to warrant it, and he’s too young to have made enemies that might prevail upon Mortain to order it, so why?”

  “Why does that maniac do anything?” Eban laughed sarcastically. “He wants to hurt you, I should think. If he knew about us it would be you he would be removing and not your son.”

  Godwinson left his place at the window and moved to seat himself next to Eban. Once seated, the others found places to be more comfortable. Wotan moved to take his place at the window and stare at his future
in the harbour below. Magar shadowed Wotan of course; where else would he be?

  Godwinson studied his son. He couldn’t help thinking that Mortain was doing this for more than spitefulness, but Eban was right, if he knew about the circle and its purpose, he wouldn’t settle for Wotan alone.

  “I’m looking forward to meeting the general, father,” Wotan said absently as he watched the ships that would take him to Calvados.

  “You’ll like him, I think. Navarien isn’t too fond of our kind, but I don’t believe it’s entirely personal with him. He saw many of his men die against Bandar and Athione. Our orders to him cost nearly six thousand men, men he had lived with and commanded for over two years. His loss has made him wary of trusting us, but if you show a willingness to work with him, I think he’ll come around.”

  “Are you still set on sending so many? Mortain will hardly approve your actions,” Felda said.

  That was an understatement. The Protectorate lost almost two full legions to Julia, and now here he was sending the replacements for those legions to Calvados! Those men were badly needed elsewhere. Being conquered did not sit well with the Bandarian people and they had made their displeasure felt just a short while ago. General Menelaus was even now teaching those rebellious lords the error of their ways. First Legion was an effective tool for the giving of such lessons, but Mortain wouldn’t care about that. He would only see the Protectorate’s resources stretched and all its forces committed with none to spare. As his heir, he was well aware of the man’s likes and dislikes, but as far as he was concerned, the decision to send the reinforcements was final.

  “I think I can make him understand the necessity,” Godwinson went on. “Expecting Navarien to be victorious against the clans with so few men is unrealistic. Mortain’s no fool, he wants success as we do.”