Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3

by Mark E. Cooper

  “…fought to the last man and—” Demophon was saying, well babbling might be a better description.

  “Silence!” Mortain ordered. “Your lies do not interest me. Only results interest me. Ascol has been executed for regicide, and six of our brothers died at the hands of amateurs—two against six! You were not attacked by a full clan, nor even a half. You were attacked by a small raiding band and a few shamen!”

  Demophon was stricken dumb with fear.

  Navarien took a deep breath. “My lord, if I might have a moment of your time?”

  Mortain nodded. “I am very pleased with you, General, very pleased indeed. Your stone throwing contraption was amazingly effective, and the towers worked very well. Well done.”

  “I thank you my lord, but I could never have won through without good officers and men. The Fifth has the best.”

  “I agree, but don’t tell General Menelaus I said that.”

  He laughed as was expected of him. Menelaus was General of First Legion. “I’ll be sure not to gloat too much, my lord. The reason I wished to speak with you, Sir, is that I need a clarification of my orders.”

  “A clarification?” Mortain frowned. He glanced at Demophon and his features lightened. “Ah I see! A clarification. Well, that’s easy enough. Your orders are to hold Calvados, build a fort, and await reinforcement to continue the pacification of the clans in the spring. Is all clear now?”

  “That much is clear, my lord, but could you clarify one thing further?”

  “Go on,” Mortain said with a small smile.

  “Demophon is of the opinion that he should lead the Fifth on a new mission of some kind.”

  “What mission?”

  “I do not have that information, my lord.”

  Mortain turned his attention to Demophon. “Well?”

  Demophon glared hard at Navarien promising retribution for this humiliation. “As the only sorcerer here, it seemed reasonable I should be lead mage. As such, I wanted to give orders that would see next year’s campaign completed the quicker.”

  “That sounds reasonable so far. What did you have in mind?”

  Navarien clenched a fist. This was turning bad. If Mortain gave permission to proceed, he might find himself under Demophon’s orders after all.

  “The Fifth is in dire straights I’m afraid, only one battalion is mounted out of a possible three that are battle ready. It seemed to me a sensible idea to redress the situation by procuring mounts from the natives. The local tribes are small and shouldn’t present the general with any difficulty.”

  “Hmmm, he has a point, General. It’s the first thing you need to do next spring in any case. Any reason not to start early?”

  “Two, my lord. I have barely enough men to hold Calvados. If I were to lose another battalion on this raid, I can foresee a time when I will not be able to hold the city. Secondly, there is the matter of the fort. Construction is behind schedule due to my lack of men. That will only become worse if I lead a battalion on this raid.”

  “What do you say to that, Demophon?”

  “Navarien is the best general, and the Fifth is the best legion we have. I have every confidence in him and his men. I believe there will be no difficulty, but I will understand if you’re unwilling to risk it, my lord.”

  Navarien groaned silently.

  Mortain’s eyes glittered as Demophon’s words went home. “Wotan will be lead mage, General. When he arrives, he will assume the traditional duties of his position. Until then, Demophon will give you all assistance, but you are not to take his orders. You will plan and execute these raids to supply your men with mounts, but under no circumstances are you to lose Calvados. If that means curtailing the raiding early, so be it.”

  Navarien saluted.

  Mortain looked at Demophon and smiled an evil smile. “I’ll be watching you… very carefully. You will assist the general in the furtherance of his mission and not hinder him in any way. Fail me again, and I will see you dead, ten times over!” he roared and his image faded until the mirror was simply a mirror again.

  Days later, Navarien was cursing the day he ever met Demophon. If it wasn’t for him, he wouldn’t be freezing and fuming in the middle of the plains in winter, when anyone with sense was snuggled down inside where it was warm. He stalked away shaking his head. The clansmen were unbelievably stubborn. Demophon was sitting astride his horse smirking as usual, but he couldn’t blame the man for that this time.

  They had ridden out of Calvados with Corbin’s battalion hoping to buy the horses he needed with gold looted from the city, but he had met nothing but hostility. That wasn’t surprising. The clans were always hostile to outclanners, but he had hoped they might see sense. They hadn’t. At least the tribes hadn’t offered violence—not yet.

  “How many times are you going to allow these people to humiliate the Legion?” Demophon said with a pleasant smile.

  Navarien wished he could wipe it off for him. Corbin’s men rumbled agreement with the sorcerer, and that made him angrier still. The sorcerer had healed the injured as promised, and by doing so had earned their friendship. The way things were going, the men would start taking Demophon’s orders instead of his!

  “Lord Mortain, may he live forever, ordered you to begin raiding not trading. He said it very clearly. I’m sure it was raiding,” Demophon said over chuckles and laughter from the men.

  “Silence in the ranks!” Captain Corbin snarled angrily. “Sorry Sir,” he said to Navarien’s scowl.

  He mounted his horse. It was a beautiful animal, captured last year by Lewin. Its coat was pristine white like the snow under its hooves without a blemish of colour to be seen.

  “I heard his orders, my lord sorcerer. It was just before he said he would see you dead ten times over for… incompetence wasn’t it?”

  More laughter from the men, but this time Corbin allowed it to continue for a short while.

  “Silence!” Corbin ordered finally.

  Demophon glared daggers at him, but said and did nothing else. He nodded acceptance of the victory. “As to your question, my lord sorcerer, the answer is simple. The Fifth Legion has not, nor will it ever be, humiliated. I don’t see humiliation in trying to buy what we need with gold that we have plenty of, rather than buying it with my men’s lives. Even one life is too great a price.”

  Corbin’s men liked that, which was good because he meant every word. Unfortunately, it was now clear the clans wouldn’t sell him the horses he needed; he would have to fight for them. The entire situation was Demophon’s fault. If they had waited until spring as planned, his reinforcements would have given him more options. He had planned to intimidate the tribes with his increased numbers and then take the horses he needed, but now he would have to fight it out… he looked around the camp noting all the hostile faces watching them. But not here.

  “We’re leaving,” he said to Corbin.

  “But—”

  “Just do it,” he snarled, fast losing patience.

  Corbin turned and ordered the column to move out, but Demophon had to add his own two coppers worth.

  “So General, your reputation is overblown after all. I can’t say I’m surprised.”

  He ignored the sniping. “At the trot, forward!” he ordered and kicked his horse into a trot. His men were well trained and followed his order without fuss, but Corbin was not happy and Navarien was getting a little tired of his attitude.

  “Do you like being an under captain?”

  “Sir?” Corbin said loudly over the jingle of harness. “Er, yes I do. I would like promotion some day, Sir.”

  “You won’t get promotion unless you learn to look beneath the surface,” Navarien said looking around. He decided two leagues was far enough from the camp. “Haaalt! Disssss-mount!”

  “—we doing now?”

  “How should I know yer dick head?”

  Navarien ignored the complaints from the men as he dismounted. Demophon was playing hard to get by staying mounted while
everyone else was now afoot.

  “If you would step down, my lord sorcerer, I need for you to use your mirror to view that camp.”

  Demophon was scowling by the time he had his mirror out.

  “Summon the sergeants,” Navarien said.

  “Yes Sir!” Corbin went off to do that.

  Demophon watched Corbin moving away. “What are you doing, General?”

  Navarien debated with himself for a moment, but decided there was nothing to be gained by antagonising the man further. “I’m about to demonstrate why I’m a general and you are not, Sir.”

  The sorcerer raised an eyebrow at that but didn’t seem angry, intrigued was more like it. “I see. Am I to call the entire camp or just a certain part of it?”

  “The whole thing at first if you would. After I have explained a few things, I’ll ask you to close in on one or two areas.”

  Demophon nodded and set about calling the image as Corbin returned with his anxious sergeants in tow.

  “None of you are in trouble,” Navarien began. “I want you to witness a scrying of the camp we just visited. How many warriors would you say there were in that camp, Corbin?”

  “Three hundred, Sir,” Corbin said without hesitation.

  He nodded at the expected wrong answer. “I assume you counted?”

  “Yes Sir, first thing I did, Sir.”

  It was also the first thing Navarien had done upon entering the camp—after checking for ambush of course.

  “I have your camp for you, General,” Demophon said.

  “Thank you, my lord sorcerer,” he said keeping things scrupulously polite and turned to the sergeants. “Your name is Milos is it not?”

  “Yes Sir,” sergeant Milos said with a gulp at being addressed by the general directly.

  “Count the tents.”

  “Sir?”

  “In the mirror,” he said with a sigh.

  Milos reddened as his comrades shoved him forward with chuckles and good natured insults. Milos bent to his task, but took far longer than Navarien felt proper. He was about to ask what the problem was when Milos straightened with a puzzled look on his face.

  “Well?”

  “Sorry Sir, but I counted twice and there are nearly seven hundred not three hundred.”

  Navarien smiled and clapped Milos on the shoulder. “Good man. That’s what I wanted you to see. Now how many warriors are there likely to be in a camp with seven hundred tents?”

  “I don’t know, but at least twice the number of tents I’m thinking. It was a trap, weren’t it, General?”

  “Precisely Milos,” he said beaming at the man. “It was a trap meant to take us in. Three hundred warriors on show, and the God only knows how many hidden in the tents. Milos here says double seven hundred, but who is to say it’s not treble?”

  Corbin looked sick, as well he might. Demophon was quiet and thoughtful, but made no comment when Navarien asked him to close in on the horses.

  “There are about four thousand of them General,” Milos said estimating the total.

  Navarien looked over the man’s shoulder and agreed. “Four thousand horses does not mean four thousand warriors, but it does mean no more than four thousand. Personally, I think there are likely two thousand warriors, which gives each man two mounts but I could be wrong.”

  “How did he know?” one man whispered.

  “How should I know, yer dick-head? He’s the General. That’s what generals do!” another sergeant answered.

  Exactly so; He was a general and that’s what generals do.

  “What’s the plan?” Corbin said full of admiration.

  “We look for tribes with five hundred tents or less, count the horses to make sure and attack at night. If all goes well, we should wipe out the smaller tribes and have all our battalions mounted before going against the larger ones.”

  “Why bother? Once we’re mounted, there’s no need,” Milos said.

  “I want all the horses I can get, Milos. We need mounts for our men and for the reinforcements that Mortain—may he live forever—is sending us, but we also need spare horses for the baggage. I’m not happy with those carts we used last time; they look shit and slow us down too much.”

  “He’s right there, they do look shit!”

  “Yup!”

  He glanced at Demophon who inclined his head in congratulations.

  “Have you a preferred direction for the first raid?” Demophon asked.

  “Yes,” Navarien said pointing south.

  “Why south?”

  “I don’t want to waste time riding over the same ground twice, so I want a continuous drive toward Calvados. We’ll ride south a ways then turn back north to start our raids taking on each tribe in turn. We’ll collect up the horses as we go and then push on toward Calvados.”

  Demophon bent to the task of searching out likely looking targets. Navarien took a sip of water and gave some to his horse while he waited. Corbin idly watched the images in the mirror over Demophon’s shoulder. If the sorcerer resented the intrusion, he made no mention.

  The sergeants returned to their maniples and told their men to ready themselves for a fight and Navarien was pleased to hear the earlier events discussed; it would help things along if the men thought he had a sixth sense where traps were concerned. He didn’t of course, he was just very careful to analyse all the possibilities.

  Tikva really did seem to have a sixth sense, which he used to good effect during a fight. Cragson needed the best to hold the city, so he was back in Calvados. It was unfortunate that Corbin wasn’t more like him, and that he failed to look at all the angles as Navarien always tried to do in these situations. It was a shame such an able officer would never realise his dream of promotion, but though an excellent fighter, Corbin would be an utter disaster as a general. He didn’t look deep enough into a problem to see what was hidden, and as a result was unable to originate worthwhile plans. He was still the perfect cavalry captain, and could take already laid plans successfully to completion often in a dashing manner, but he just didn’t have that little something extra that Tikva had. Navarien knew his strengths as he knew his own. The greatest was his ability to lead a battalion, preferably mounted, against overwhelming odds and survive with most of his men intact. He had seen Corbin do precisely that at the battle for Calvados.

  “Found one!” Corbin said waving at the mirror.

  He went over for a look. “How many horses?”

  “I make it just under a thousand, General,” Corbin said pointing to an area of the mirror. “It was the tents that made us sit up straight. There are roughly three hundred tents. Even if our ratio of horse to warrior is off, there still can’t be enough warriors to worry us.”

  He wouldn’t go that far. He hadn’t forgotten how much trouble the clans had given him on the march from Durena, but he was willing to risk attacking when there were only three hundred tents in evidence.

  “How far?”

  Demophon shrugged. “A day riding hard, two at an easy pace.”

  Navarien nodded. “Two it is.”

  Demophon grimaced but stood to pack his mirror away.

  “You’re right, Sir, two is better. We might need the horses. There’s no point in winding them.”

  He glared at Corbin. “I didn’t ask,” he said and mounted his horse. “At the walk, forward!”

  * * *

  7 ~ Decision Time

  Shelim and Larn studied the image in the mirror trying to think what to do. They were too far away to warn the tribe, and it was too far to use magic to attack the outclanners. Nothing, there was nothing they could do.

  “Is it the Hasian outclanners?” Mazel said watching as the attack began.

  Shelim nodded absently noting the formation they were using. The clans called it the horns of the bison for the pattern it made in the grass. Two groups representing the horns would sweep round to strike the wings and flanks of the enemy, while a third and usually larger force advanced in the centre representing
the head of the bison. In a fight, the head would crush the tribe as the horns pulled in driving the warriors toward it.

  “I don’t know the name of this tribe,” Larn said. “But it has to be one of the smallest Dragon tribes. They barely have two hundred warriors.”

  The horns were pulling in now. The warriors were dismounted having been caught by surprise in their tents. He shook his head at that; it was very sloppy. Whoever was chief should be taken to task for not ensuring his tribe had proper outriders guarding the camp. He frowned at the uncharitable thought—the chief would likely be dead soon.

  “They’re sweeping up everyone, not just warriors!” Mazel said, shocked at the sight.

  Larn smiled sadly. “Why are you surprised, Mazel? You’ve heard the tales, why do you think their leader is often called a monster? It is for this radon. What he makes his warriors do is monstrous.”

  “Hearing it is different to seeing it. Your mirror is a wonder, but I wish it showed happier things.”

  “It can show whatever we wish to see, but only what is real—”

  Shelim ignored Larn’s explanation to Mazel. Someone should witness the slaughter. Many of the warriors were dead now, and more were falling as he watched. The manoeuvre was all but complete. The women and children were in the centre of the camp, surrounded by warriors bristling with long knives. The tents were flaring up as fires were set for no reason that he could see. Warriors were dying to thrown spears and the occasional horse charge, but he couldn’t tell why the outclanners didn’t finish the warriors off. It was obvious they could do so at any time, but something was holding them back, or was it someone? The Dragon warriors fired their arrows, but then were instantly killed by a hail of spears.

  “Do you see what I see?” he pointed.

  Mazel nodded. “But why?”

  “It seems they want them alive for some reason.”

  Mazel nodded, but didn’t offer an explanation. He didn’t have one and neither did Shelim.

  The outclanners had herded the people together, but they were only killing those who fought back. The women saw this first and began pulling on the arms of the warriors begging their husbands and sons to stop shooting. Gradually the killing stopped, but easily a third of the warriors were already dead.