Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3

by Mark E. Cooper

  “What’s happening?” Keverin said blinking and squinting at his surroundings.

  “Shush!”

  “Julia? What’s happening?”

  He ignored Keverin’s ravings and went back to his debate. If the Hasians were a gang he would have left Devarr, but to where? In this case his options were limited. South to Malcor was out; that left east or west. There was nothing west but mountains, but if he went that way he would eventually have to turn south and follow them to Athione. That was possible, but with the lord the way he was, it would take two or even three tendays—maybe more. East then, but that meant the cursed river!

  Elvissa was that way, and it was closer, but the river—Lorcan scowled eastward as he thought about the danger. He could swim of course. Living all his life on the shores of a lake it would have been strange if he couldn’t, but Keverin was big and heavy. What if he dropped him? He would have to take the chance and use his magic to help. If the sorcerers did detect it, he should be long gone by the time they arrived.

  “What’s happening?”

  “We are going for a swim m’lord,” he said pulling the man swaying to his feet.

  Keverin raised his stump to his head as if to rub his eyes. He blinked dazedly at where his hand should be. “Still hurts,” he whispered. “But I can wiggle my fingers—see?” He offered the stump to Lorcan.

  “Yes lord, I see it.”

  Lorcan led the horse by the reins and his lord by the hand toward the river. The horse was happy enough to stand on the bank and have a drink while he unsaddled her. He could not take both the lord and the horse across. It would be a long walk to Elvissa, but it could be done. It would be he vowed.

  “Let me get you out of this armour m’lord,” Lorcan said fumbling at the buckles.

  Keverin kept trying to help and was making things harder, but Lorcan did not chastise him. This man was his lord, the greatest lord in Deva! When Keverin was well he would be great again, and at his right hand would stand a peasant mage named Lorcan. He snorted at the image he conjured. It was far more likely they would both drown in a moment.

  Finally the armour was discarded and the useless scabbard with it. He had dropped his legion armour days ago when the cursed thing began rubbing in places he did not like thinking about. The only weapons he had were his daggers, the legion sword hanging from his saddle, and his magic, but if it came to a point where fighting was the only option he didn’t think much of their chances. He left the sword where it was and tied his pack around his waist. Wet food was better than no food. A truth he knew well from living in Devarr during The Hungry.

  “I want you to sit in the water m’lord,” Lorcan said tugging Keverin’s hand.

  Keverin did as he was bid. “Cold…” he mumbled.

  “I know, but it’s only for a little while.”

  “Cold…”

  Lorcan stepped gasping into the frigid water and pulled the lord into the current. Keverin thrashed around trying to swim but lay back when a half drowned Lorcan snarled a curse at him. The first part of the swim was easy. That is, it was until he realised they were moving down stream faster than they were going across. The current was fierce and he had little energy left to fight it. In desperation, he grasped his magic and threw a loop out toward the west bank.

  “Thank the God!” he spluttered as they halted in midstream.

  Lorcan thanked the sorcerer who had bound his lord for his new magic trick, and pulled himself to shore with the aid of his invisible rope. He staggered erect shivering and coughing with Keverin stumbling next to him.

  He released his magic and began the long walk to Elvissa shivering and dripping.

  “What’s happening?” Keverin said.

  * * *

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  Dragon Dawn: Devan Chronicles 4

  (Out now in print and digital editions)

  1 ~ Dream World

  Renard watched Julia attack the embattled Hasian battalion, he watched as she drew on her magic so hard it killed her. In frustration, he angrily gestured at the air and another future presented itself to him for inspection. He watched as she attacked the Tamorshin host, he watched as she drew on her magic so hard it killed her. He swore a vile oath and gestured again. Yet another future presented itself for his inspection.

  “Why do you push so?” Rhadamanthus rumbled at his back.

  Renard reluctantly turned his attention away from Julia’s battle. The huge black dragon regarded him solemnly with his head propped comfortably on the stump of an oak tree. Standing next to him and caressing his muzzle absently, was his mate, Sihrell. She was watching Julia with interest. Renard frowned as the question of Sihrell’s humanity once again intruded upon his thoughts. She was the Lady of Dragons—a human. How could she be mated to a dragon? Even dead, as they all surely were, it still seemed strange to him, but anything was possible here in the realms. He turned his thoughts back to Rhadamanthus’ question.

  “It’s necessary,” he concluded finally.

  “Perhaps, perhaps not.”

  “She is the one, ’Manthus. I know it!”

  The great dragon blinked, his inner eyelids sliding over the jewel-like orbs of his eyes and then back. “That has yet to be proven. If she fulfils the prophecy then she is. If she fails, then she is not.”

  Renard rejected that. “She has already fulfilled many of the provisions.”

  “But not all,” Sihrell warned. “It doesn’t matter, Ren. The one prophesied will come in her own time. Julia had the potential, but now...” she waved a hand and Julia’s battle was replaced with another scene. “This is the present as she experiences time.”

  Renard turned and regarded the crying woman with pity. All the fire that had been Julia just a few short years ago was absent. The tears she shed over Keverin had extinguished it. She sat alone with her grief beside a river a short distance from a clan encampment. Poor Julia, it was her destiny to suffer. She was maddened by Keverin’s loss, but it was a focused madness.

  “She doesn’t yet know,” Rhadamanthus said.

  “I could tell her,” Renard said.

  “No!”

  Renard winced at the dragon’s roar. “But I could—”

  “It is forbidden,” Sihrell warned. “You know that.”

  He did know it, but he had only recently come here. He still felt the old loyalties keenly. Lord Keverin was his lord. The lord would order him to tell Julia if he could. Renard knew the reasoning behind the prohibition, but this was a special case—surely? Julia was the one. He was sure of it.

  “What do the others think of her?” Renard said.

  Sihrell shrugged. “They say one thing but believe another. They say she is the one, but then they say she might not fulfil the prophecy. If she is the one long awaited, she will survive this and meet her fate.”

  “You mean her destiny of saving her people from the ancient enemy?”

  “I mean her fate.”

  To Renard they were one and the same. He believed in Julia. He believed she would win through and be ready when the time came—he hoped she would be ready.

  “You will meet with the others?” Rhadamanthus asked.

  “I’ll be there of course. Am I not always there?”

  “You have always come,” the dragon agreed.

  The way ’Manthus said that left doubt hanging in the air. Why would he not attend? He always attended.

  “We shall leave you to your vigil,” Rhadamanthus said and Sihrell climbed onto his back. “Until then,” he said and abruptly disappeared.

  Renard frowned at the empty space that moments befor
e had been occupied by his friends. Julia was going to die, that was certain, but first she had much to do. He needed to tell her certain things, not least that Keverin was alive, but he had been warned before about revealing too much. He did not dare speak with her now that Rhadamanthus had warned him not to, but perhaps another would suffice? As quick as thought, Renard imposed his will upon the realms and a bemused looking man in the armour of Athione appeared before him.

  “Brian?”

  “Renard!” Brian gasped. “I’m dead then. I thought it must be so, but where are the others? I would love to see my grandfather again.”

  “You’re not dead, Brian,” Renard said kindly. “Not yet.”

  “I’m not?”

  “No. This place is not the Other World. It is one of many realms that exist outside time. You have heard Julia speak of her realm of healing?”

  Brian nodded.

  “This place is similar. You were injured, rather seriously I’m afraid. Julia healed your body but you are… stuck. Yes that’s it, you’re stuck between worlds.”

  “Stuck? How do I get back?”

  He smiled. “Don’t worry about that. I will send you, but first we need to talk. I have things to show you, things that will distress you to see, but you must see them.”

  Brian braced up. “Lead on then.”

  Renard smiled and laid a hand on Brian’s shoulder. “Do not be alarmed,” he said and forced the realm to change.

  * * *

  Julia sat on the riverbank alone with her thoughts while clansmen slept dreaming of past victories. One supposed they had the right, one supposed a warrior lived for war... at least for victory. What warrior truly thought he could be defeated? Certainly not those with her. Even though they had seen friends die by the hundreds, they were certain of their ultimate victory. Shamen and chiefs knew better of course, but the average warrior did not concern himself with anything other than his next battle. She supposed it wasn’t a bad way to live.

  The warriors had made camp in high good humour—a surfeit of which had driven her here away from the bustle and noise. Laughter and converse were things she could not contend with any longer, and the constant irritation of the ward was a distraction that made her short tempered with all who dared approach her. Its magic was beating at her senses even at this distance. She was so tired; if only she could rest...

  War. Everything came down to the war. Until this war was won she could do nothing but what she was doing. If she survived she would take Cavell and ride away; just ride forever without people who looked at her with pitying eyes, or worse, looked to her for another miracle. When the war is won...

  She stared unblinking at the distorted reflection of the moon in the river; it was nearly full with the sky clear and ablaze with stars. All was quiet and peaceful, mocking the events of the day. The stars looked down at her in their myriad patterns long since become familiar after almost three years upon this world. To the east, the Great Dragon flew high above the horizon at this time of year. The constellation always made her shiver with... what? She would have said excitement once, no more than three seasons ago that was. As little as two seasons back that had changed to dread, having awoken amongst the clans knowing what dragons portended. Death. Death for an entire continent if the dragons had their way.

  She back lay upon the grass and closed her eyes remembering a happier time. She stood atop the highest tower of Athione with the huge banners just above her head snapping and cracking in the wind. Arms encircled her from behind and she leaned back revelling in his strength…

  “Do you see it my love?” Keverin said.

  “Hmmm.”

  The feel of his muscled arms holding her safe was all her world. His deep voice rumbling at her back and passing through her body making her shiver with a strange delight.

  “The archer that one is called.”

  “What about that one?” she said pointing.

  Keverin crouched and sighted along her arm. “The Great Dragon. See the tail?”

  “A dragon? It looks more like a horse to me!” she said and laughed.

  “No, no!” he cried and laughed along with her. “A strange horse that would be. Dragons have wings, not horses.”

  She turned within the circle of his arms and held him tight. Looking up at his shadowed face and on toward the crescent moon banner, she saw another pattern.

  “What of that one?”

  Keverin looked up. “Some say that one should be two separate patterns, the King and the Queen, but I like the old name for them.”

  “Tell me,” she whispered into the wind.

  Keverin looked down into her eyes. “The Eternal Lovers.”

  Julia woke from her dream with tears scolding her eyes. She sat up and looked around but none could see her. She wiped the tears away as she looked up at the stars high overhead. She was glad they were called the eternal lovers, glad that he had told her. In her dreams she could pretend that when she died they would be together again. Dared she hope… eternally?

  The lovers were just a pattern in the sky, she thought sadly. Everything in the world had a unique pattern that made it different from every other thing. She knew that for absolute truth. She grasped her magic and invoked her mage sight to reveal what was true. The random energy roaring around her seemed to change and coalesce into new patterns that were far from random. Each intricate matrix of energy was a particular thing in the so-called real world. Sometimes she thought the realms were the true world, and the place where people thought they lived was only an illusion pulled over their eyes. The river flowed gently where she sat, but in this realm, it raged at its confinement between earthen banks. The power contained was incredible, yet it was just a river, not even a particularly violent one. What must the sea be like in this place, or a storm?

  Blades and stalks of grass were tiny miracles all around her; every one similar but subtly different as snowflakes were, yet still recognisably the same. Each had its own pattern; one among an infinite number of patterns that God had decreed was grass. She looked deeper and found rock through soil, which was so complicated that it dizzied her. It was amazing how complicated a simple thing like soil was. So many different patterns linked together—apart they might be recognisable—but together they linked like a group of shamen into a greater pattern that in this case was soil.

  Patterns. The pattern dictated the thing. Change the pattern and… what? Change the thing perhaps, though she had never heard it said that was even remotely possible. Patterns simply were. They were what dictated the nature of the thing. Change the pattern held within a blade of grass to that of a stone, and a blade of grass made of stone should result—at least that seemed the logical result of her conjecture. But if that were true a mage could do anything, and make anything she wished. It could not be that easy surely? If it were, mages would already be doing it. Maybe changing a pattern was not sufficient. Perhaps there was more to it—understanding how a thing worked for instance. Understanding was important when contemplating a new spell or when making something. That was true whether it be mundane or magical in nature. If a mage with no understanding of masonry tried to build something like Athione with its vaulted halls, the ceilings would likely come crashing down. Without the knowledge that only masons had, the weight of stone ceilings and floors could not be supported.

  Magic could do amazing things, but a fortress built and supported by magic would quickly fall to magical attack. Any mage worth the name would seek out those supporting spells and destroy them and thus the fortress. Understanding how things worked was important in creating anything, but what about destruction? Did she need to know what she was doing for that? Could she not use these patterns in some way, patterns that only she seemed to be interested in, to kill Navarien?

  Julia stared into the distance thinking about all that she had lost. Keverin was gone, and Brian still had not awoken. He might never wake. So many of those she loved were dead, with many more to follow if General Navarien had his way.
>
  She sat quietly contemplating her death. Would it be so terrible? Would it be so bad if the Hasians ruled Deva? Keverin had always thought so. His opinion would guide her. She studied the patterns all around her and imagined a special pattern all of her own. Built with all her spite and hatred, she would craft a spell to end this war. It must be strong, it must leave nothing to chance—it must be one that when unleashed upon the world, nothing and no one would stand before it. She imagined the plain engulfed in flame with Navarien writhing at its centre. Above it all, she watched a column of smoke and debris climbing higher and higher until it almost seemed to touch the stars.

  She smiled.

  * * *

  Brian opened his eyes and stared at the roof of his tent. What he had seen, what he had been shown, was a heavy burden. Renard had warned him that he would walk a perilous road. For the sake of the world it was one he must walk, but only now was the enormity of his peril dawning on him. If he failed, more than his lord and lady would die. Entire kingdoms would die and ultimately entire worlds.

  He sat up quickly, finding himself whole. He hungered, but he had everything the God gave him still attached and working. He had seen men wither away to nothing after a blow like the one he had taken, but he was whole. He thanked the God and the Lady for it. The image of a one handed man wandering the plain in a daze went through his mind and his throat clogged with grief for his lord. He wanted to rush to Keverin’s aid, but that would spell disaster. He pushed himself angrily to his feet determined to do what must be done.

  He scouted around the tent and found his clothes and armour. He dressed quickly and felt much better for the familiar weight. His sword had rusted. He sheathed it as it was. There was no time to lose. He had to be inside Athione’s walls on a certain date or all was lost.