Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3

by Mark E. Cooper

  Gydrid stepped forward and took hold of Dylan’s bridle. “Stop teasing him, Dylan. You know how we all feel about this. Father is wrong!”

  “Father is King, that’s what he is!” Dylan said glaring at his brothers equally. “Right or wrong, we obey him as our father and doubly so now that he is our king.”

  “But three thousand leaves me only one!” Niklaus wailed. “A thousand can barely man the walls of Meilan, what about patrols?”

  Dylan surveyed the fortress as if memorising it. “You are lord here now, Niky. It’s up to you to arrange matters from now on. If I were you, I would collect as many likely lads as you can and train them. Japura is quiet, but the sorcerers will be back. They’ll be needed.”

  Julia nodded. Gylaren was King in this reality. That was good to know. If she stayed with this one she might learn why everything always ended in destruction.

  She walked away ignoring the commotion as Dylan led his men out of the gate. She wasn’t watching where she was going and walked straight through the curtain wall. She shuddered as the cold stone slid through her, or she slid through it… whatever. The first time it happened she had freaked out. Weird or not, it was very convenient for entering locked rooms. If she decided a wall was solid, then it was solid. If she decided it wasn’t or she was distracted, then she could walk through it without ill effect except a slight shudder as her body tried to reject what was happening to it.

  She walked a short distance from Meilan and looked around. This was as good a place as any. She concentrated on Athione, but kept her sense of time fixed on this day—she didn’t want to stray into another of the myriad realities. She wanted to follow this one. The world blinked and she was standing in Athione’s library. Sadly there were no hushed voices to greet her, no whispered prophecy counselling her as she had come to expect when entering the library.

  She concentrated on being solidly here—here in the library and nowhere else. The books on their shelves were all in place as they should be, but when she pulled one down to read, it vanished only to reappear back in its slot. She sighed; it was too much to expect to find answers in the books.

  “Damn,” she said looking hungrily at the Histories and imagining that one of them contained all she needed. Surely someone had divined Deva’s future as she was doing—they would surely have left some warning. She heaved a sigh in frustration. “The past won’t help me.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Julia.”

  She spun and yelled in fear. She backed hard from the apparition standing in the shadows. She concentrated with all her might and tried to make him disappear.

  “That won’t work you know. I’m as real as you are.”

  “Who… what are you?” she said staring at the luminous blue eyes.

  The apparition was cloaked in shadow and Julia was unable to see the rest of him, but his voice was vaguely familiar. She remembered her stupidity in Deva, and a voice in her head saying to take his hand. The voice was the same. She wracked her memory trying to remember where else she had heard it, but it kept slipping away from her.

  The Tancred must be turning my brain to mush.

  The figure stepped forward into the light and she paled. “Renard,” she whispered. “I’m dead then.”

  Renard smiled. “Not yet,” he said and cocked his head as if listening to music that only he could hear. “Perhaps not for a very long time. It depends.”

  “Depends?”

  Renard nodded. “Depends on many things.”

  “Like what for instance?” she said and moved to sit at one of the tables. She remembered to make the chair solid just in time, and flopped down.

  Renard strolled along the aisles and pulled down a book from the shelf. Julia gaped at this fresh evidence of Renard’s change, the book stayed in his hands! He leafed through the tome and began to read.

  “Renard?” she said and jumped when those glowing eyes turned to regard her. That was very… off-putting.

  “Hmmm?” Renard said vaguely.

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, many things. Whether Keverin does this thing or that, whether Brian does also. There are a great many men who love you, Julia. You are very lucky in this life. It makes up for your last one I suppose… hmmm, I hadn’t considered that, I wonder…”

  My last one?

  She was fast losing her fear of this new Renard. He was muttering away to himself as if talking to a group of friends she couldn’t see, and he didn’t explain anything!

  “Renard, I’m sorry… I mean I… killed you,” she whispered remembering how she had tried and failed to give him his magic back.

  “You didn’t kill me, Julia,” Renard said smiling kindly. “Well perhaps you did in a way, but I don’t mind.” He put the book back on the shelf and joined her. He leaned forward across the table and clasped her hands in his. “My life is more wondrous and strange than you can possibly imagine. I can be anywhere I wish, see anything I wish. You changed me, Julia, and I am grateful.”

  “Grateful for death?” she whispered numbly. Burnout was indeed terrible, just as she had thought. Then she realised what he had said. “How grateful would that be?”

  Renard boomed a laugh. “Trust you to be always thinking. I am very grateful. Grateful enough to help you while you are here, but I can’t help you to return to what you think of as the real world, or do anything while you’re there. It’s forbidden…” Renard frowned as he listened to the silence.

  Julia could hear a buzzing noise, or thought that she could, but as she concentrated, the noise diminished and was gone before she could grasp it.

  “It’s time to go,” Renard said standing up and drawing her to her feet.

  Renard held her hand in his very real and solid feeling right hand, but she thought it couldn’t be real. She was sure it wasn’t… was it?

  The world blinked and they were standing on a cliff overlooking a sea. Down below—a dizzyingly long way down—she could see the surf pounding against the cliffs. Empty sea met her eyes for as far as she could see. She turned to look at the land behind her and was disappointed to see a normal seeming landscape. Grass, a few scattered trees, and mist in the distance that might be spray from a waterfall, or it might simply be mist. Who knew?

  “Where are we, Renard?”

  “You should say when are we, but this is Fisher Isle before it came to be called Black Isle.”

  Julia glanced nervously at the trees. She hadn’t come here before now out of fear. She knew so little of her new world, what if Mortain could sense her somehow.

  “Where’s the castle?”

  Renard laughed. “As I said, this is Fisher Isle. The year is three BF. Three years from today, this island will be called the Black Isle and Castle Black’s foundations will be set in that valley.” Renard pointed inland toward the mist.

  “Valley?”

  Renard heard her puzzlement and glared in the direction he was pointing. The mist gave way to reveal a lush valley. Julia glanced at him nervously. He was very different from the man she used to know. She could make things soft here to allow her to pass, but she couldn’t make them change in any other way. Renard had just frowned at the mist and it had disappeared! Had it really gone, or was it still there but invisible to her eyes? She shook her head.

  What difference does it make?

  “Why are we here?”

  “If you would know the future, the most likely future,” Renard stared hard at her with his glowing eyes. At her nervous acknowledgement of his qualification he continued. “Then you must know the past. Old grudges come back to haunt us. Some are more dangerous than others.”

  Renard pointed toward the clearing that adjoined the cliff top.

  Julia watched as a gate opened in the air. She hadn’t seen the gate that had brought her to Waipara and she was fascinated. She tried to see the way it was constructed, but her mage sight wouldn’t resolve anything.

  “Don’t try, Julia. You’re dreaming remember?”

  Damn! Sh
e’d forgotten about that.

  Crackling streams of blue lightning streaked across the sky and the ground both. In the centre of what looked like a whirlpool made of light, a hole opened in the air and then widened to swallow the swirling energy. The lightning cut off instantly as the gate snapped into stability. Moments after it stabilised, a man in a black robe jumped out of the gate and ran to one side. Others piled out one after the other, some appearing injured.

  The sorcerers stood in a semicircle watching the gate intently. They made no move to help the people that streamed out of the gate. There were mages amongst them, but most of the refugees were women and children… thousands of them. The sorcerers were shouting urgently, and the people were scurrying away into the mist. Finally, a man dragging another by his arms came into view. Before he could get out of the gate, a fireball streaked through and struck him. The mage became a screaming torch, and still the sorcerers did nothing. They waited and waited then suddenly attacked. Dozens of fireballs and bolts of lightning entered the gate to strike at their unseen enemy. Julia couldn’t believe how strong these men were. Only she herself had ever been able to keep up this kind of barrage.

  “They are the Founders, Julia. Every one of them is a true sorcerer,” Renard said somehow reading her. He was watching her more than the battle.

  Fireballs were coming from the gate and striking the sorcerer’s shields. Some were deflected away toward the sea, others simply winked out as a sorcerer drained the heat away. They were throwing dozens of their own, yet Julia felt they weren’t really trying to win. None of the men seemed tired or desperate, not since the women and children had left the area safely. They were determined, she could see it on their faces, but not desperate.

  The reason became apparent when she looked into the gate. On the other side—a place that looked as if it were only yards away—she could see masses of soldiers readying themselves to come through the gate. At their head was another contingent of mages wearing black robes. They started forward throwing fire ahead of them and using wards to cover not only themselves but also the soldiers behind. Julia was impressed with their courage. Many of the shields flared and shrieked in complaint as they rubbed against each other or the edges of the gate. Crackles of energy bled away, but the strength of the wards was instantly bolstered as the mages fed more magic into the matrices.

  She watched in fascination as the enemy seemed to walk in place. They didn’t appear to be moving forward. The distance they covered should have been enough for them to walk out and across the clearing.

  The leader of the Founders shouted, “Now!”

  The Founders left off their attack and instead began to close the gate with the men still inside. No, they weren’t just closing, they were twisting the gate matrix. She watched in horror, as the men inside seemed to deform before her eyes. The effort of twisting the gate was taking its toll on the founders. More than one collapsed unable to continue, but the others kept working their magic.

  Renard was suddenly by her side again. “Their enemy is fighting back. They’re still moving forward, do you see?”

  “But look at them, they’re all twisted,” she said sickly.

  “Not really. The gate is twisting as the Founders try to reset the terminus. If they succeed, their enemies will be unable to find this world again.”

  “So they won’t die from the twisting?”

  Renard hesitated then reluctantly said, “They will die—not from the twisting, but the Founders did succeed in resetting the terminus to a world without air to breath.”

  “That’s terrible!”

  “Ermmm… it’s not so terrible actually,” Renard said and winced at the look she gave him. “The Founders were persecuted on their own world. They were forced to fight their people’s wars for them and were treated little better than slaves at other times.”

  Julia sighed when the gate finally winked out. The Founders staggered away carrying their unconscious comrades. “Are there no worlds in all the heavens where people live in peace?”

  “Only in the Other World where the God dwells will you find that, Julia. People are made to struggle toward perfection. The struggle leads often to violence and war, but just as often you will see mercy and love.”

  Standing at the edge of the cliff again, she stared out to sea. “What has the Founding to do with Deva’s future?”

  “As I said before, you must know the past to know the most likely future. If you’re ready?”

  She gave her hand to Renard. The world blinked and she screamed.

  * * *

  Tomik rode back toward camp well pleased with his scouting. The old man was truly a wonder just as Shelim had said. Tomik always followed the traditions as best he might, but in recent years they seemed to have faded in his people’s minds. To most, Kerrion was nothing more than an old man whose only usefulness was that of a healer, but Kerrion was much more than that. The stories didn’t tell a half of what a shaman could do, and Kerrion by all accounts led his shaman as a chief leads his warriors—even across clan boundaries—a power no clan chief had ever wielded.

  Shelim had spoken of his training only briefly, but he had said enough for Tomik to learn what the others could only guess at. Things such as how a shaman always knew who had come calling at his tent before the tent flap was even lifted, and why it was that a shaman knew without being told that he was needed—even if that happened to be on the far side of the camp. And then there was Shelim’s battle to consider. Fire, and crushing, and floating above the ground, and calling wind, and… so many things. There were some things that even Shelim was unwilling to speak of—something to do with dreams and the future.

  He chuckled as he remembered the near tantrum Shelim had exhibited when he learned beyond doubt that he was destined to be a shaman. Things had certainly changed since then. Not only did his boy like being a shaman, he was already changing the warrior’s minds concerning them. Shelim’s battle had shown the warriors why challenging a shaman was not only without honour but foolhardy as well. He had thought his heart would burst with pride when the pillar of fire struck the heavens announcing Shelim’s victory over Duren. The shock and respect he saw upon his friends’ faces only emphasised his pride in his son.

  He reached the camp and Torin rose from his concealment to meet him as he dismounted. After settling his horse, they made their way back to the others where they sat around a small fire.

  “Were they there?” Torin asked impatiently.

  The boy hadn’t yet learned the patience of a seasoned warrior. That would only come with time and experience. Tomik sat with his son next to Kerrion who was silently staring into the flames as if mesmerised. Around the fire, dozens of shamen watched him with firelight reflecting from their beads. The telltale rattling told him that there were more further out from the camp watching the night. He winced at the thought of these men trying to sneak like warriors with their tunics announcing to the entire world where they were.

  “Don’t worry, Tomik,” Kerrion said smiling mischievously. “We were all warriors once. We have magic to silence ourselves.”

  “Can you read minds as well, Kerrion?” Tomik grinned and Torin gulped.

  Kerrion and his brothers chuckled. “I wish we could sometimes. It would make certain things easier—such as finding the Hasians among us.”

  There was an uneasy rumble from shaman and warrior alike. Kerrion had told him about the Hasian scouts just days ago…

  Kerrion had come to see him with Shelim’s apprentice in tow. Tomik’s breath had frozen thinking Shelim to be dead, but that wasn’t the reason for the visit.

  “I want you to choose three dozen warriors to come with me on a raid,” Kerrion said.

  “A raid?”

  “A raid,” Kerrion agreed. “I’ve had a vision, Tomik. We have something far more deadly than a renegade to deal with. The Hasians have stolen the one from her people and are heading north on the river.”

  He didn’t know who Kerrion meant, but if t
he shaman thought it was important enough to ask for his help, he was willing to go along. “That will be no problem—”

  “Kadar doesn’t know of this,” Kerrion warned. “And he mustn’t hear of it before the task is done. I’m not sure if he would allow it if he knew. I want you to choose the warriors yourself and swear them to secrecy. I don’t know how else to make you believe the importance of this raid, Tomik, but perhaps knowing I have summoned two dozen shamen will give you some idea. We will be coming with you.”

  Tomik shook off his preoccupation. His reaction upon hearing that Kerrion would be leading shamen on the raid hadn’t been what the old shaman was expecting. On the day of Shelim’s challenge, his son had told him about the war to come, and that warriors and shamen would fight side by side. It seemed he had been right, but Tomik would wager a fine dagger that his boy hadn’t realised the war would start so soon, or without him.

  “Are you satisfied?” Kerrion said.

  “I never doubted you, Kerrion, it’s just that I prefer to scout for myself.”

  Kerrion nodded grudgingly. Any warrior would say the same. “We strike at midnight. There will be cloud to mask the moon, but no rain.”

  Two shaman opposite nodded as if receiving orders.

  Tomik glanced at the cloudless sky, “If you say it,” he said doubtfully.

  “We must be swift, else they will use their magic upon us—the warriors are the lesser danger in this. The One must be saved,” Kerrion said firmly, and then whispered, “At all costs… any at all.”

  “You deal with their magic,” he said. “Their warriors are my problem.”

  At midnight, Tomik and his hand-picked warriors were in place watching the boat moving slowly toward their ambush. The sky had clouded up unnaturally fast, but it was the two shamen staring at the sky in silence that made his short hairs lift. They were somehow responsible—he just knew it. Torin and the others didn’t realise it, he was certain. They called it good fortune, and were buoyed by the knowledge that the God was smiling on them. He wouldn’t challenge their certainty, it was good fortune and the God did choose who would become a shaman, just as he chose who would be a warrior or a weaver. It was the way of things.