Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3

by Mark E. Cooper

  “I do not accuse them of dishonour,” Mazel said. “Never would I, but especially not when through their actions alone we are still breathing. I say they did what was needful. Honour is to be found between two men at challenge, or between two clans raiding for horses. There is no honour to be found in war, and war is what we now have.” He turned his attention back to the shamen. “What I would know is this: how will the clans win against fire from the sky?”

  He looked at Larn who shrugged. Shelim wondered what Kerrion would want him to say at this point. Should he say that shamen would protect the warriors and thereby shame them, or should he say what he was coming to believe would happen? Did his words even matter? Although he was young for a shaman, he thought they did.

  “I don’t know if we can win this war,” he began. “The Protectorate, from whence Navarien comes, is huge. They have many warriors, and many shamen. They fight as one and care not for honour. Winning or losing this war is all they care about, and I’m very afraid it will be win.”

  Angry shouts and name calling erupted, but Shelim was not angry. This sort of thing proved his words. Navarien had complete obedience, which in a war would win battles. The clans could not live that way—rather they would not. Navarien would win, because he didn’t care how many died to achieve his aims. Would it be better to become like him and win the war, only to lose what made the clans what they were? Shelim was almost certain it would be better for the people to vanish from the memory of the land rather than have that happen—almost. He looked into Emma and Amara’s eyes and could not make himself say it would be better to die.

  “Silence!” Mazel shouted, but if anything the noise increased. “The God curse you all, I said silence!”

  The noise abated as if cut with a knife. If anyone else had said that, there would be a challenge. As it was, one or two warriors looked ready to do just that.

  Fools, Shelim thought sadly.

  “Shelim has spoken what we all fear and you know it! How many of you did not fear they would die when they saw fire falling upon them? If any of you say you weren’t afraid, then I call you a liar and we fight in challenge!” Mazel said catching and holding as many eyes as he could. None could hold his for long before turning away. “No one? That is good. I do not wish to kill my own warriors when I need every one I have!” Mazel turned back to Shelim. “You have spoken our fears aloud, Shelim, but now I would hear how those fears can be made small.”

  “The only way I see is for the clans to become as one, but that will not happen. Dragon cannot abide Horse; Horse cannot abide Dragon. Night Wind feuds with Horse, and Snake feuds with everyone, and on and on and on. How can we defeat Navarien when we are too busy defeating ourselves?”

  “This is why you came to us to begin with.”

  “Kerrion saw this time in his visions,” he agreed. “He tried to make the chiefs listen in council at Denpasser two summers ago, but they would not hear him. He sent me to persuade the tribes to head for Denpasser early, but it wasn’t until the Lost flooded the plain that the chiefs began to listen, and then there was the destruction of the Panawyr and panic set in. Now all but Dragon and Horse Clans are at Denpasser, but all they do is argue.”

  “You know this?”

  “I have seen it in visions and more recently in the mirror. Nothing has been decided—nothing at all!”

  The warriors looked at each other uneasily and argued among themselves about what was best to do. Most seemed to be of the opinion they should ride and attack Navarien now, a few said they should seek Dragon Clan, but one, the most important one here, had made a decision.

  Mazel raised his hands for silence. “We ride home to the clan, and from there we take all the tribes to Denpasser. I will put a stop to this arguing and in spring we will kill every outclanner on the plain!”

  The roar from the warriors was deafening, but Larn was asking about Dragon Clan.

  “They will have to come on their own!” Shelim shouted, but he knew they wouldn’t. Their arrogance would blind them to the need.

  Larn shook his head, but he was defeated. Dragon Clan would fight alone until the spring; Mazel had decided it.

  * * *

  8 ~ New Orders

  Despite Demophon’s earlier stupidity, Navarien thought his winter campaign had gone surprisingly well. The non-combatant losses on the second attack were to be regretted, but wouldn’t be repeated. He had admonished Demophon not to repeat his over eager use of fire, and although it was obvious the man did not like it, so far he had followed orders.

  The destruction of Corbin’s eighth maniple by magical bombardment had been shocking in its suddenness, but Demophon had done an outstanding job in preventing further loss of life. His ward had been a lovely piece of work. Built to move with the legion as it galloped to relieve the now destroyed eighth maniple, it had performed flawlessly. The sorcerer hadn’t needed to do more than kill an over eager shaman now and then since that attack, which satisfied both of them. Demophon wasn’t such a bad sort once you got to know him. Navarien supposed a sorcerer’s training might have something to do with the abrasiveness the average sorcerer showed the world.

  Navarien remembered his long ago conversations with Lucius. Everyone called his friend the traitor now, but never him. He and he alone, knew what went on during those terrible days below Athione’s walls. Lucius had told him once that sorcerers were recruited when they were children and how they were tortured and abused to keep them in line. Navarien had already known about them being recruited young of course, but he hadn’t known the rest of it. After the retreat from Athione back to Athinia, he had made it his business to learn more of what Lucius had told him and had sought out a man willing to confirm Lucius’ story. Lucius hadn’t told him half of what went on under Castle Black. Beatings and torture were just two of the things used to train a sorcerer. No, he was not surprised they acted as they did. Belgard, the foul bastard, was to blame for all that went wrong during those days, not poor Lucius.

  “Did you say something, Sir?” Corbin whispered.

  “Hmmm?” he said looking across his saddle at Corbin. He had five hundred men dismounted waiting for the others to get in position. “Oh, nothing important, I was just thinking Demophon has done us proud.”

  Corbin nodded. “Glad he was there when that fire or whatever it was hit us! I nearly fell off my horse when I saw it roaring toward me, but he just put up his hand and splat! The stuff hit the ward, and all the while he was grinning like a loon. He was enjoying himself, I swear!”

  Navarien chuckled imagining the scene, but then he remembered the sorcerer blasting all those people in the middle of the camp in retribution for one man’s stupid act of rebellion. The arrow had no chance of hitting him in any case; it had turned to ash the moment it struck his ward.

  “How long has it been, Corbin?”

  “About a candlemark, Sir,” Corbin said looking at the sun as it made its way toward sunset.

  That was about right. “I think we should get the men mounted ready to go.”

  “Right Sir!” Corbin said with excitement.

  Navarien mounted his horse ready to charge the camp. He had already decided this would be the last one of these raids. They had so many horses now that he hardly had enough men to herd them north. He hadn’t counted them, but he must have three for each of his men by now. Eight thousand or more horses should be enough, but he only had a single battalion here to care for them. What if they were attacked on the way? No, this was the last one—for now.

  “There Sir, the signal!” Corbin pointed at a tiny ball of light shooting skyward.

  “At the gallop, forward!” he roared and spurred his horse at the gallop.

  His men thundered after him into the camp. Fires were starting on the other side, which had become the standard attack pattern on these raids. It was probably time to change it again. If they didn’t, they might find the warriors ready and waiting next time. There was nothing like fire near flammable tents to bring everyone
running. The camp had been quiet until now, but it didn’t take the warriors long to get themselves organised. Arrows started flying and striking shields as the men rode the warriors down.

  Navarien blinked in surprise at the arrow standing out of his armour, but it hadn’t penetrated and he swung his sword to decapitate the bowman. Just moments seemed to pass and he was galloping out the other end of the camp.

  “Corbin!”

  “Sir!”

  “Rally the men for the next pass. You know what to do,” he yelled panting and trembling in excitement.

  “Yes Sir, same as usual,” Corbin grinned and turned his horse to collect his sergeants.

  Navarien watched as Demophon’s fire reached out to the tents encircling the camp. “At the gallop!” he screamed over the roar of the flames.

  The clansmen were ready this time, but as usual, they concentrated in the centre of the camp away from the fires. There were more warriors in this camp than in the other six they had hit, but it didn’t surprise him. They had run out of small tribes just the other day.

  Demophon rode to Navarien’s side and raised a hand in greeting. “Same as all the others!”

  He nodded. “You know, I’m surprised?”

  “How so?”

  “The warriors in the cities are degenerate clansmen, but they were still excellent warriors. I assumed the real clans would be better—their reputation points to it, but look at them.”

  They turned to watch as the scene played itself out as it had every time. The warriors were protecting their families in the centre while Corbin’s men kept them pinned. The warriors were firing their bows and then dying nailed by thrown javelins. It didn’t take them long to realise they were defeated. They lowered their weapons but did not surrender them. Navarien had given orders that no one was to attempt disarming them after the first time they tried, and so far the order had paid off. They clansmen would fight to the death rather than surrender arms, but give them a chance to stand down and they would see reason most of the time.

  Demophon stared at the scene trying to see what was wrong with it. “I don’t understand. Doesn’t it make sense for them to give up when they’re beaten?”

  “That’s what I mean. It does make sense to us, but it didn’t to the warriors in the city. I’m disappointed I suppose,” he said and grinned.

  “Disappointed!” Demophon said in amazement, “Why disappointed?”

  “I expected better from them. We have nine hundred; they have two thousand, yet we took them easy. It doesn’t make sense! Where are the clans that can hide behind a blade of grass and kill a bison with their bare hands?”

  “Perhaps their reputation is overblown.”

  “If these are anything to go by then it is, but I’m not going to bet on it. The camps are all small; I want more men before going up against a larger one. We’re heading back to Calvados. I have a feeling I’m not going to be disappointed the next time we meet a clan.”

  “Far be it from me to speak against strong feelings. Besides, this is the last smallish one I could find.

  “That’s the other reason I want more men.”

  Demophon laughed and they rode out of the camp together. The tents were all blazing now. Navarien tried to ignore the wails of the women and children as they found their menfolk dead. He blocked it out and looked steadfastly ahead.

  Nightfall found them riding north with most of the men herding the horses before them. They were perhaps a day out from Calvados now, but he decided to ride through the night in hopes of reaching the city by dawn. It was overly optimistic of him, but not by much. The sun had been shining wanly down on his column for two candlemarks when the city was sighted. The men were in good spirits, and didn’t complain about the lack of food and sleep.

  “Here we are Sir, home again. Well, home for this season at least,” Corbin said cheerfully.

  “Humph!” Navarien said standing in his stirrups to ease his numb backside. “I hate horses!”

  Corbin laughed. “Just last season you hated marching!”

  “Well… that was then,” he said with a grin. In truth, they all preferred riding, but they had been absent from the saddle for roughly a year before the taking of Calvados. Why did it have to be so cursed painful?

  “We’ll herd the horses inside the walls for now, Corbin. I don’t want someone to steal them. Not after all the work put into this. Cragson can sort them out while we sleep for a few days.”

  “Right you are!” Corbin said looking forward to his bed.

  The gates of Calvados rumbled open well before they arrived. The horses were driven inside and away to whatever destination Cragson had deemed appropriate. Navarien had no concerns where Cragson was concerned.

  He was suddenly weary beyond measure, but he sat straight in his saddle to one side of the gate to see all his men safely inside. The men were drooping now, as he was, but the salutes were crisp as they entered the gate. The difference from the last time they had ridden into Calvados was striking. They had been beaten then, it mattered not that they had taken the city. More than six in ten had died on that campaign; a campaign that culminated in three new cities under Mortain’s sway, and only three thousand men from the Fifth Legion still breathing.

  Sergeant Davin was the last man through the gate. “That’s all the lads, General. Orders?”

  “To bed for two days, Davin, and then light duties under Captain Turner until further notice.”

  “Thank you, General!” Davin said with a salute and a wide grin. He rode on.

  “They’re good men,” Corbin said.

  “They are,” Navarien agreed, but he couldn’t help thinking of Lewin—Sergeant Lewin now, as he screamed into his general’s face that they had all been the best until led to die at Calvados.

  “General?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Might as well head in Sir,” Corbin said nodding at the empty gate.

  He nodded, but looked around for Demophon.

  “He went on ahead Sir,” Corbin offered, somehow divining whom he was searching for.

  “Fine, lead the way Corbin.”

  Corbin nodded and turned his horse through the gate.

  Navarien followed slowly and stopped just inside. Corbin continued unaware that he had halted.

  “Lock her up tight, Rahil,” Navarien called to the legionnaire closest him.

  “Yes Sir, if you get out of my way like,” Rahil said nodding at the space cleared of snow needed to close it.

  He smiled and moved his horse forward to exit the cleared area. Snow was deep on the road, but it seemed Cragson had been keeping the main street clear. The rest of the city was buried in the stuff up to his horse’s barrel. With no one living along those thoroughfares, there was no point in clearing them. One road from the gate to the central square was enough for their purposes. Calvados fairly screamed of emptiness as the huge gates boomed shut. He winced at the reminder; he couldn’t help thinking of the children in the wagons as they left the city in a blizzard. He watched the bar crunch down and nodded his approval. His men were safe again—for now. He was about to move on when Rahil hailed him.

  Navarien looked down in surprise. “What is it?”

  Rahil was a little red, perhaps embarrassed to be talking to the general, or perhaps it was just the bite in the wind. “It’s not my place to say, Sir, but I think you should sneak in and talk to the Over Captain afore bed.”

  His eyebrows went up at that. “Why is that?”

  “Well Sir, it’s the fleet you see and—”

  “All right, Rahil, a full report if you please,” Navarien ordered.

  Rahil braced to attention and began his report in the legion fashion. He was evidently relieved to be able to leave small talk and conversation behind.

  “Yes Sir! The fleet was sighted three days ago. There were hundreds of ships! I didn’t know we had so many,” Rahil said in awe.

  “Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “Finish the report man.”

  Rah
il blushed redder still. “Sorry Sir. Like I said, there are hundreds of ships, and they’re much bigger than those bastid boats—sorry Sir. They’re much bigger than them as brought us north last year. There was food, and swords, and shields, and javelins, and… and everything you could name, all pouring off them boats. So much, we had trouble moving it all! Then there are the new lads. I swear there are three legions of them, and every one green as summer grass! You wouldn’t believe the state some of them were in—”

  Oh yes he would, he thought with a grin. He hated boats. He’d been sick as a dog every day of the trip to Camorin.

  “—seen so many of them black robed buggers!”

  “Sorcerers were with the men?”

  “Yes Sir. There are hundreds!”

  Navarien’s heart sank. Hundreds of sorcerers to deal with, but perhaps Rahil was exaggerating. Yes, the more he thought about it the more he believed he had to be exaggerating. Why, hundreds of boats would have to be the entire Protectorate fleet! Three legions… thirty thousand men? No, he had to be mistaken; he had to be.

  “Is that all?”

  Rahil gaped, and then snapped his mouth shut. “All Sir? It’s enough I’m thinking, but it ain’t all, no Sir. The Lord Sorcerer made all them black robes help Captain Turner with the fort. You should have heard the fuss they made!”

  Now he knew Rahil had to be wrong. Sorcerers working alongside legionnaires; it was cursed unlikely! But… but what if? Better see Cragson and see what was really going on.

  He returned Rahil’s salute and rode to the square. He hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary until then, but he gaped at what he saw upon entering the square. Turner’s building site had been transformed.

  When he had led Seventh Battalion out on the raids, Captain Turner had been struggling to build a fort with too few men. Now the site was a hive of activity. Thousands of men scrambled over walls that rose before his eyes. He blinked in dumbfounded amazement when he noticed Turner’s cranes standing abandoned and stones weighing as much as his horse rising into the air unassisted. That was when he realised his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. Black robed forms stood in what looked like groups of twenty apparently doing nothing, but where they stood, stones were rising on their own. Magic was lifting them, it had to be that, but who could possibly force this many sorcerers to work like this?