Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3

by Mark E. Cooper

  He slumped into his chair and thumbed through his orders. He found the relevant passage and read it again.

  We are aware of your current situation and acknowledge the loss of the Victory with all hands. However, we require you to press on with the campaign. A ship carrying fifty legion mages will be dispatched to reach you at Calvados in late fall. Until then, you will take all necessary actions to secure your objectives as previously ordered…

  Navarien dropped his orders back to the table and rubbed tired eyes. A ship with fifty mages to be dispatched to reach him in late fall. He glanced out the window and snorted. It was winter and no ship had been sighted. The North Sea in winter was no laughing matter. No ship’s master worth the name would dream of sailing this far north in wintertime, and besides, how much good could fifty sorcerers possibly be against the entire Camorin nation?

  He pushed himself tiredly to his feet and fetched his cloak. It was time he made his rounds again. He clumped down the wooden stairs and into the common room of the inn. He glanced at the tables where they were pushed together for his maps, but he made no move in that direction. He had nothing with which to plan a campaign. His legion was down to three able bodied battalions and the odds ‘n’ sods. Out of those three thousand odd men, he could count on perhaps half being fit for a real battle. No, the Fifth was going nowhere for a while, so why plan?

  “You warm enough, Aden?” he asked the guard on his door.

  “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir. Can’t say as I like the north much, Sir. Snow… who needs so much snow?”

  He grunted looking up at the clouds overhead. He blinked as the flakes fell upon his face and eyes. His breath puffed steam into the air and hung round him. Everything was totally still, not a breath of wind.

  “Ever been to Bantay in winter?”

  “Can’t say I have, Sir. I joined up straight from the farm like. The only places I been is with the Legion, Sir.”

  “Hmmm. Take my advice, don’t ever go to Bantay, but especially not in winter.”

  “Bad Sir?”

  “Not as bad as this, but Bantay is always windy for some reason. Only Mortain—may he live forever—knows why.”

  “I’ll remember that, Sir,” Aden said.

  “If it gets worse, you have my permission to step inside. You can guard from in there as well as you can out here.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  Navarien stepped carefully into the square and made for the barracks. He called them the barracks, but they were really shops and houses converted to that use. Sergeant… Captain Turner now, had made a start on clearing the site for the fort, but apart from a little demolition work, nothing had been done. They just didn’t have the men or the energy to do more.

  He glanced at the piles of snow-covered rubble and found a few hardy souls picking at the mounds. Turner had them sorting through the heaps for building materials, which they stacked neatly to one side when they found a worthy stone or joist. It was back breaking work, but it had to be done. Looking at their progress, it would take all winter to see it even partway finished. He could hardly make himself care. It wasn’t as if his men didn’t have shelter.

  Inside the first shop turned infirmary, he made his rounds. He chatted with those awake to hear him, and asked about those that were not. He was glad to hear no more had died since yesterday… in this one at least. Cragson said they had lost more men; they must have come from a different shop.

  “How has he been?”

  “Not too good last night, Sir, but he seems better today.”

  “That’s good,” Navarien said checking for a clean bandage. “Look after him, and don’t forget to boil the old bandages.”

  “We do ‘em all at the end of the day, Sir.”

  “Good,” he said with a nod. He always reminded them of the same things, and they always responded the same way. “Good.”

  He stepped out into the snow and crossed the square to the next infirmary. The shops were too small to house all the wounded and he would not hear of moving them further away. The square was convenient for everyone and it was easy to defend at need. Besides, the men were happiest all together. It was comforting having your mates close by at times like these.

  Navarien worked his way through each of the shops noting the empty beds and missing faces. He could name every one of his men that should have been smiling at him but now was gone. So many he had lost on both this campaign and the last. So many…

  “Meran?” he said crouching beside the next to last bed on his rounds. “Meran, can you hear me?” he whispered close to the Captain’s ear. “I want you to listen to my voice, Meran. Listen and follow it back. I need you… do you hear me? I need you, and your men need you. Lewin will have to take your place if you don’t come back. You don’t want that, do you? The worst legionnaire in the legions, you said. You don’t want him taking charge… Meran? Can you hear me… Meran?”

  There was no response, there never was. He stood and stumbled slightly to lean against the wall. He watched bright colours bursting before his eyes and waited for his sight to clear.

  “Are you all right, Sir?”

  “Fine, I’m fine. Just rose too fast,” he said wiping his suddenly sweating face with a shaking hand. “A bit tired maybe. How’s the leg now, Lenn?”

  “Fine Sir. No gangrene or nothing,” he said cheerfully. “I reckon I could stand watch with the others if you want.”

  “No need for that just yet. I’ll let you know when I want you,” he said pushing himself upright. “I want you to keep forcing Meran to drink, he needs it. Get some soup into him if you can.”

  “I’ll try, Sir,” Lenn said doubtfully. “I be scared of drowning him.”

  “A risk we have to take. The sorcerers will be here any day now. Any day, I’m sure. We have to keep him alive long enough for them to heal him.”

  “Right you are, Sir.”

  Navarien forced himself to walk normally until he was outside. He leaned against the wall where none could see and breathed deeply of the cold air. It refreshed him somewhat, but still he was sweating. He pulled open his cloak to let in the cold and suddenly he was shivering.

  “Curse it! Not now, please not now,” he whispered as he quickly covered up again.

  He crossed the square back to the inn, his headquarters, and pulled himself up the stairs. He had to rest. Sleep was what he needed, he was sure that was all it was. He rubbed irritably at his shoulder as he climbed. The wound was paining him again. He had checked for infection this morning… no, it had to have been yesterday. He frowned as he opened the door to his room. He couldn’t remember the last time he took off his armour. Was it yesterday when he checked it? Thoughts of the wound fled as he entered the room to find Cragson waiting for him with a woman in tow. What was this about? He closed the door and removed his cloak forcing his hands not to shake.

  “And who is this?” he said. He tossed the cloak over the back of a chair.

  “You asked me for a woman, Sir. She was available.”

  “I did? A whore is she?”

  “Oy! I’m not a—”

  “No, Sir,” Cragson said obviously embarrassed. “A seamstress, Sir.”

  “Are you?” Navarien said to her.

  “Yes.”

  “Then why come here?” he asked seating himself behind his desk.

  “He asked me,” she said looking meaningfully at Cragson.

  “I see. Take a seat, you too Cragson.”

  Cragson was surprised but did as ordered. The woman trusted him, so much was obvious. She made certain to seat herself as close as she could to Cragson.

  “Your name?”

  “Mathild.”

  Navarien cocked his head at the accent. “You aren’t from around here.”

  “No.”

  “Socotra?”

  “How did you—”

  “How did I know? Your accent told me. I know what you think I want from you, but you’re wrong. I want to know where all the people went.”
r />   “The clans of course!”

  “That’s what I assumed. How many have left, Cragson?”

  “Maybe half the city, Sir.”

  Mathild shook her head. “You really don’t know anything, do you? Have you looked out your windows lately?”

  “Why?” Navarien said.

  “Seen any people? They’re still leaving and have been since the battle. They won’t stay here now.”

  “Is she right, Cragson?”

  “You gave me no orders to stop them, Sir,” Cragson said uncomfortably. “There are always a few ready to leave when we open the gates each morning. Not many, but a few.”

  “A few can’t hurt.”

  “It’s not a just a few,” Mathild said scornfully. “Hundreds each day are leaving.”

  “I’ll order the gates barred, Sir.”

  He rubbed his blurring eyes. “No, there’s no point in that. If they want to go, let them—”

  Thrap!

  “Come!”

  “We have a problem, Sir,” Tikva said as he entered.

  Another one? “What kind of a problem?”

  “There’s a line of wagons heading for the west gate, Sir, and they’re taking everything not nailed down with them.”

  “Told you so,” Mathild said smugly. “I bet half the wagons are carrying food.”

  Tikva eyed Mathild obviously wondering who she was. “She’s right, Sir. They must be planning a long journey.”

  “To the clans,” Navarien said wearily.

  “Yes Sir. That would be my guess. Orders?”

  Navarien tried to think. “I’ll come have a look. Get my horse ready.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Tikva said and left on his errand.

  He stood and reached for his cloak. “Let us go see this exodus.”

  They found the wagons long before reaching the gate. Cragson rode by his side on the right, and Tikva did the same on the left. The main route to the gate was filled with wagons rolling west.

  “This is too organised,” he mused. “Someone is leading them out.”

  Tikva nodded. “At least they’re not fighting us; that could be messy.”

  Navarien snorted. Messy did not begin to describe what would happen if this many people attacked them. There was no way he could defend against so many.

  “You think they’re after joining their menfolk?” Tikva said eyeing the wagon loads of women and children as they rode by them.

  “That’s exactly what I think,” Navarien said angrily. “Are they mad? Why leave in the middle of a flaming blizzard?”

  There was no answer to that and they trotted in silence to the gate.

  When he reached the walls, he dismounted and climbed the steps up to the battlement for a better look. Looking over the city, he could see streets that were packed with people heading toward the gates. Never had he seen so many people so solidly behind such a stupid idea. The snow was falling thickly now. It had fallen steadily almost from the time he dragged what was left of his legion through the gates.

  He stood above the open gate and watched people pulling handcarts with a few meagre possessions out and into a blizzard. Wagons rolled west carrying food and water barrels, it was as organised as anyone could want—almost legion like in its planning. He watched handcarts trickle out the gate filled to the brim with the owner’s possessions piled next to their children who thought they were off on a grand adventure. He couldn’t believe people living in the north would be so unheeding of the weather.

  “I have to stop them.”

  “Don’t, Sir!” Tikva cried in alarm and took his arm. “We can’t fight them, not this many!”

  He knew Tikva was right, but… “The children—they’ll die!”

  He spun on his heel and stomped down the stairway. His victory, if one could call it that, was becoming a hollow one indeed. More than two thirds of the population was now gone, and the exodus was not stopping this time. In Cantibria and Durena, the young warriors had left with their families, but a goodly amount of people had stayed. Those remaining were older folk mostly, but he had been pleased to note that all the crafters and artisans had stayed. Not so with Calvados it seemed. Every living soul was leaving, and they didn’t seem to care that leaving meant death.

  He reached the ground and hurried to stop any more from leaving. “Wait!” he called. “You don’t have to leave, the fighting is finished now.”

  The people ignored him and continued out the gate and away, disappearing into the white out conditions. Angrily Navarien thought to bar the gates after all, but what point? They weren’t slaves. The Protectorate frowned on slavery, and the owning of slaves was illegal in its territory except convict labour. Using convicts to repair roads and such was not slavery in any sense of the word; they were released when their sentence was complete. Slavery was from birth until death.

  “Please,” he said stopping a family with an upraised hand.

  The young man made to push by, but then he stopped and glared. “You are the monster Navarien?”

  “General. The title is General Navarien.”

  “We know what you did, we know. None will live where you and your men are. Go away. Go back where you came from and the people will return.”

  “I can’t do that—” he grabbed the man’s arm as he moved away, but his grip was shaken off. “You fool! Think of the children!” he shouted as the man and his family disappeared into the whiteness.

  The snow was falling so heavily now that he could hardly see the gate and walls of the city. A vague darkness on his left was the only bearing he had in a world of white.

  “We are doing this for the children,” another man said.

  “I don’t understand you,” he yelled at the man’s back, but there was no reply. He shook his head free of snow. He was cold and getting colder, but he tried again. “They’ll die for the God’s sake!”

  An old man stopped and glared at him. If looks could kill, he would be kneeling before the God already. “Don’t pretend to care for the little ones. We know what you did!”

  “But I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “Remember Cantibria!”

  Navarien was stunned. Cantibria? He remembered a whimpering girl and a glaring Bandarian, then the same Bandarian screaming as he died in agony impaled by his order—punishment for rape.

  “Oh God no. They think—”

  He watched them leave and knew nothing he said would make them believe him, not when they thought he would give their children to his men. He was sick at heart seeing those smiling faces going into the snow. Perhaps if the God was kind they would survive. No, he didn’t believe it.

  “Don’t go to the clans!” he shouted, knowing beyond question that they would. “I’m heading that way soon—very soon! Go to Durena instead!”

  Days later, Calvados was empty and the city gates were barred. The men were quiet and subdued, still not believing it. Navarien knew they thought him to blame for the legion’s current state, and they were right. As their general, it was his place to see them safely home, but he had failed for all too many of them.

  The city was utterly silent.

  The houses were left as they were; he would see no looting done. Instead, he sent Cragson and Turner’s maniple—the only one at full strength—to make inventory. Any coin would likely be with its owners, but there were too many other goods in the city for the refugees to carry away. Navarien vowed the families of his slain men would not be in want. As soon as the trading ships arrived in the spring, he would order certain of the things sold to provide his men’s widows with a quarterly stipend. Mortain wouldn’t like it, but damn him if he thought the man responsible for their deaths would tolerate allowing their families to starve.

  Navarien looked into the night sky wishing he could live this last year over again. He had learned so many things on this campaign, things he would do differently had he the chance. A certain Bandarian would have disappeared overboard had he known back then what he would do in Cant
ibria.

  No sense in wishing for impossible things.

  He made his way to the infirmary. He had his rounds to do. He wished he could go back, wished he might change the past. Only the God could turn back time and it was certain he would not. All he could do was learn from his mistakes in the hope not to repeat them.

  He entered the infirmary and bent to speak with the first man, but as he did, he found himself unable to stop the motion. Everything went dark as he collapsed.

  “Sir?”

  “Sir!”

  Navarien did not feel the cold stone floor as his head slammed down upon it.

  * * *

  4 ~ Storm

  The wind howled over the plain and brought the snow with driving force. It was a killer, that wind, but the warriors were prepared and dealt with it without complaint. Complaining was pointless. The task before them was necessary.

  Shelim shielded his eyes and pulled his mask up over his face a little more. He staggered forward having to lean into the wind to stay on his feet. The wind was incredible. This must be the worst winter of his life. It howled over the plain and blasted everything with its fury. He was covered in frozen slush, but his concerns were all for the others. Just a few yards ahead, the warriors struggled with the frozen bodies. There were hundreds of dead families here. All were Lost Ones. He had no idea why they had come, or why they had chosen this time, but whatever the reason it was a stupid thing to do. None outside the clans could survive the plains in these conditions, a fact these people should have known. Why hadn’t the fools left in the spring? Maybe it was so bad in their cities that they preferred death. He could understand that up to a point, but surely Navarien could only be in one city at a time. Why hadn’t they made their way to one of the others?

  He shielded his eyes and watched the indistinct forms of Mazel and his warriors prying stiff bodies apart. The huddled forms had tried to protect their loved ones from the blizzard, and now the chief was having trouble separating them. Although Larn had told him none lived here, Mazel could not accept it. He had ordered his warriors to check each one while he did the same. Shelim’s other sight showed him nothing when he turned it upon the Lost Ones. They were dead and had been for days. The children—the children had died last. The small forms were packed together in the centre shielded from the blizzard by their parent’s bodies.