Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3

by Mark E. Cooper

  It was night outside. Somewhere out there the Lady sat crying upon the riverbank. Renard had been brutal with his visions. He knew what had happened to her since Keverin fell. The temptation to go to her almost overpowered him, but Renard’s warnings were as strong. He whispered an apology that she would never hear and turned away to find a horse.

  He avoided the guards and stole a fine horse and saddle. They probably belonged to one of the chiefs—Kadar most likely. The swirling pattern of the Night Wind clan was prominent on the saddle. He led his mount away into the darkness.

  He did not mount until he was well away from the camp.

  * * *

  2 ~ Survivors

  Lorcan stumbled and cursed his luck. The plain might look flat, but it wasn’t. The long grass hid all manner of holes and depressions seemingly designed to turn the unwary ankle.

  “Are you all right?” Keverin said.

  “I’m all… Lord! Are you well?” he said and scrambled to his feet in excitement, but the moment he saw Keverin’s eyes, he knew that he had not yet recovered his wits.

  “Where is Julia? She was here but a moment ago,” Keverin said blinking around in confusion.

  “She’s all right, m’lord. Come with me. We can’t stop yet.”

  “But where is she?”

  He sighed. He was tired of answering the same questions day after day, but it was not Keverin’s fault. He had been kicked in the head by a warhorse when he fell in battle and had yet to regain his sense of things.

  “She is waiting for us, m’lord. Come, we must go to her.”

  Keverin nodded eagerly and followed a pace behind.

  They had been travelling east for many days. Lorcan had not realised it would take them so long to reach Elvissa, but he should have. They had to stay close to a source of water. The river they were following meandered its way from the eastern mountains to the North Sea—it was very far from a straight course. Realising that backtracking the river’s twists and turns southward would double or even triple the length of their journey, he had decided not to follow it too closely. Instead, he had set a straight course that only vaguely followed the river while keeping it within reach.

  Lorcan licked dry and cracked lips. He tasted salty blood. He was desperate for another sip of water, but when he weighed his only waterbag, he reluctantly left the plug alone. A candlemark, in another candlemark they would drink and not before. They were between bends in the river; he dare not use all their water before closing upon its bank again. He stumbled, but this time he did not waste energy in cursing. He was too tired to do anything but plant one foot in front of the other.

  His life certainly had changed. Who would have thought that a year on from starving on the streets in Devarr, he would be crossing the Camorin plain leading a one armed lord to his salvation. He could hardly credit it himself, and he had lived it! Things certainly had changed.

  His stomach rumbled loudly.

  Some things remained the same.

  He had been dying by inches in Devarr. Everyone had. He had gone from day to day living off what he could steal or kill for, until the Lady came to set Gylaren on the throne. Now here he was, starving again!

  He stumbled on his weary way, barely aware of anything but putting one foot in front of the other. The sun shone down baking his head and making him squint tired eyes. He saw nothing but tinder dry grass and earth parched of moisture. Spring had yet to give way to summer, but it had a good head start on the plain. By the God it was hot!

  He staggered to a swaying halt and pulled the plug from his waterbag. He had to drink. He just had to, but first the lord. “Dri...” he coughed and tried again. “Drink... this... lord,” he croaked. His tongue felt swollen.

  Keverin seized the water bag and drank eagerly. Lorcan watched the lord’s throat working and took the bag back after three swallows. He allowed himself only a single mouthful of the precious liquid and held it in his mouth until he had to swallow. It felt as if he tongue had soaked up the water. There didn’t seem to be much left to swallow. Keverin’s eyes followed his movements as he securely plugged the bag once again. He shook it, trying to guess how long he had before it ran dry.

  “Later, m’lord. You can drink again later.”

  They walked on and didn’t stop until well after dark. The evening was cooler than the day; he reasoned it made sense to keep going. Keverin made no complaint, even his ramblings about Julia and how his hand hurt quieted. Neither of them had the energy to do more than put one foot in front of the other. Lorcan judged midnight had come when he could go no further. He stopped following the star he had picked and swayed to a halt. Here was a good a place as any.

  He collapsed, asleep before he hit the ground.

  The next day dawned, and Lorcan found it almost impossible to find the energy to rise. His body was a mass of aches and pains, but finally he managed to stagger erect and weave his way toward the rising sun. He did not remember much of that day except that the waterbag ran dry. The day fled by in the flicker of an eye, and suddenly he was lying down again. It was dark with the sky ablaze with stars.

  He wished he had asked Mathius how to make it rain.

  * * *

  Keverin, Lord of Athione and Lord Protector of the west, was lost. He was lost in dream and memory. His only reference in a world where he fought old battles anew was the form of a young boy wearily slogging through long grass ahead of him. He was sure he should know the lad, sure he would remember why he should know him, but the reason and the boy’s name continued to elude him.

  It did not matter.

  Only one name was important to him, though again he could not seem to recall why. A beautiful face drifted before his eyes, one he very much wanted to see again, but like smoke it drifted beyond his reach and was gone. Only the stumbling boy remained.

  “Julia?” Keverin croaked. “What’s happening?”

  “It’s all right, lord,” the boy croaked through cracked and bleeding lips. “She will be all right.”

  “Julia?” Keverin said again.

  The face rose before him again, but this time she was different. Her eyes flashed in anger and harsh words poured from her rosebud lips. She was angry with him, but her words were lost with his wits—a memory, or perhaps even a fantasy. He hoped so, he didn’t want her angry with him. He stumbled and went down but immediately climbed to his feet. He couldn’t seem to find his balance. The boy doubled then tripled in his sight. He made to rub his eyes but ended the movement staring at an ugly stump where his hand had been. He hissed at the memory of pain and remembered where it had happened. He had been attacking... someone. An armoured figure snarling in hate rose up in his memory; he stumbled back in shock, the memory felt so real. The man had been Hasian! Yes, that’s right. He had fought the Hasians and fell from his horse... was that right?

  “Lord, we can’t stop here,” the boy said.

  Yes, he fell from his horse when... Keverin shook his head, trying to remember. He had parried the blow, but the legionnaire had been a wily fighter and had pulled his strike at the last moment, striking at a different angle. He remembered his sword spinning away with his right hand still gripping the hilt—

  “Come, lord. We have to find water,” the boy croaked and took his hand to lead him on.

  —to fall, lost amidst the chaos of battle. The pain had been slow to come, but when it did, he had shrieked his throat roar. Another blow landed—on his helm this time—and he fell from the saddle. The last thing he remembered was rolling away from the stamping hooves of battling warhorses, desperately trying to stop the blood pumping from his severed wrist. Yes! That was the way it had happened. He remembered now. It was coming back to him. Slowly perhaps, but it was coming back.

  The boy led him on through that day and into the next. Flashes of memory came upon him more as time went on and he forget less each time. Still the name Julia haunted him; beautiful and smiling one moment, beautiful and angry the next, but always beautiful... except on one oc
casion when he remembered her lying close to death on a blackened hill. He tried to blot out that memory, but it was a strong image. It would not go.

  He followed the boy that he had no name for and thirsted. He could not remember when he last drank something, but then he could not remember much of anything—not reliably anyway. He didn’t worry about it. He staggered along, sometimes seeing long grass under his feet, other times seeing a mountain pass with a huge fortress brooding over it. None of it was real, at least, he thought not.

  They travelled through each day and rested at night. That was the way of it for many days and Keverin did not question their course. He travelled with the sun in his face. It made his headaches worse, but there didn’t seem any way to avoid it. The boy gave him dry biscuits to chew and sometimes a piece of cheese with a sip of precious water when they had some. The cheese came rarely until one day there was none left. That was when he realised the boy was not eating and had not for more than a few days. It seemed wrong of him, and he tried to tell the boy, but he would not listen. A day came when the boy failed to rise. Keverin spent that day watching and waiting for him to wake. He waited a long time, but the lad did not stir. He dozed for a time and awoke to the sound of moaning—the boy burned with fever.

  Keverin reached for the waterbag at the boy’s side, but it was empty. “Lorcan...” he croaked and blinked in surprise. The boy’s name was Lorcan! Just like that the boy’s face had clicked in his memory. He was determined not to forget again. “Lorcan, be easy, boy. I’ll get us water.”

  He gathered up the waterbag and looked around for a likely looking direction. He realised that finding water might not be as easy as he first thought. What direction had they been travelling? He turned away from the sun and nodded at what he found. Their back trail was easy to make out. A trail of bent and broken stalks of grass led north and west.

  “Camorin... I’m on the plain.”

  So much was now obvious to him. Knowing he was on the plain and heading roughly eastward gave him something of his situation but not enough. Would Lorcan be travelling east to reach Julia? No, that did not seem right. The Hasians were north, so that meant Julia was…

  “South,” he said to himself and frowned that way.

  Lorcan had been leading him this way for days. Did that mean anything? Did the boy know something of Julia and her whereabouts that he, in his daze, had missed? His memory of events felt vague, his grip on events tenuous, but Lorcan must have had a reason for heading this way.

  He shielded his eyes against the sun trying to find something worth noting, but he saw nothing. Turning to look south, he found…

  “Clouds?”

  No, not clouds. Hills! Seeing them so close, he suddenly knew where Lorcan had been going, and he thanked the God for him. He knew these hills. He knew where he was!

  He checked the boy once more before stumbling toward those inviting hills. Lorcan needed water and food, but water first. A friend of his, a shaman named Shelim, had once told him that the plains had many rivers. He didn’t know about that. He had seen precious little water on his journey—unless he had and did not recall. He frowned and probed his hair for an injury but he couldn’t find anything. Except for his hand, he was uninjured. The stump had healed, and by the look of the scars, healed with magic.

  “Julia…” he stumbled to a swaying halt as her name came unbidden to his lips.

  Was she all right? He groaned as he realised she must think him dead. He turned to the west, aching to go that way, but Lorcan needed him. Julia would be all right. She was strong.

  “Water. We need water,” he said firmly and half-trotted half-staggered toward the hills.

  A rumbling sound made him pause, looking everywhere for the source of the noise. He frowned when the sound died away. He was about to move on when he heard it again. This time he found the source, and what a sight it was! A herd of bison was on the move. There must have been hundreds of the huge beasts rumbling toward him—no, not toward him, toward a river! That must be it. They were heading for water; he could feel it. Without hesitation, he turned to follow. The herd seemed huge to him, but he felt sure Shelim would scoff at the notion. Bison were a common sight to the clans; they could not live without them, and now neither could he. If he’d had the means, he would have killed one and butchered it for a meal. It would have been the first meal he’d had in… he did not know how long, but it felt like a long time.

  The herd soon outdistanced him, but he had the direction now. He moved roughly southwest. How far was the river? He didn’t want to leave Lorcan longer than need be, but he could not return empty handed. He continued on his weary way and fretted about the time it took.

  The river wasn’t much as rivers go; narrow and gentle. In Deva he would have called it a stream. He could swim across with ease. With a glad cry, he threw himself down and drank his fill of the dirty brown water. It was wonderful. With Lorcan constantly on his mind, he filled the water bag and retraced his path.

  Lorcan was burning with fever when he reached the boy. “Here you go, lad, drink this.” He poured a little water into the boy’s mouth. Lorcan swallowed greedily and sank back in a doze.

  Keverin ripped the sleeve off his shirt and soaked the rag to wash the boy’s face. Lorcan’s skin felt hot and dry, his lips cracked and bleeding. He winced as he dabbed some of the precious liquid over the boy’s forehead and nose. He was badly sunburned and his skin had peeled leaving the flesh raw. No doubt he looked little better than Lorcan did, but with luck and the God’s blessing they would make it. Lorcan had done the hard part by freeing him from the Hasians. Now it was his turn to get them the rest of the way home.

  Lorcan’s fever ran its course, and a few days later he awoke tired but chatty. He insisted he could travel, but Keverin thought him overly optimistic. He did not say that of course; the boy’s pride would be hurt. Instead, he made an excuse.

  “Forgive me, but I’m not strong enough yet. We’ll turn south at first light tomorrow.”

  “Yes, m’lord.” Lorcan relaxed, obviously trying to hide his relief. “Do you think the others are all right?”

  Keverin silently considered the question. His time in captivity was hazy to say the least, and his memory seemed unlikely to improve any time soon. He had a vague recollection of a sorcerer healing him and of seeing Lorcan in legion armour sneaking into a tent, but other than that he could not have said who or how many were captive with him.

  “Who led the others?”

  “Burke, m’lord.”

  “Burke you say? He’s a good man. Tell me again what you saw at the camp.”

  “I had to sneak in during the night, m’lord. The guards walked the rampart, but when they came close to the jakes they turned back.”

  He shook his head. “Fools.”

  “Yes, m’lord.” Lorcan grinned. “I was real thankful! I made it over the wall and into the jakes, but found someone inside. I killed him and stuffed him into the pits. His friend outside joined him, but then I was stuck. I didn’t know how to cross the camp without being seen, m’lord!”

  “The armour?”

  The boy grinned again. “That’s it, m’lord, but it took me a bit of worrying to figure it out. Anyways, I put the smallest set on over my clothes and took a chance. That’s when I saw the General. He was talking with a sorcerer about prisoners. I didn’t know there were prisoners! I came to kill Demophon for what he did to the Lady and you.”

  “I thank you for that my friend, my very good friend, but I’m happy enough that you freed me. Demophon will get his later.”

  Lorcan beamed happily, proud to be called his lord’s friend. Apart from Darnath and Adrik, the boy had none at all as far as Keverin knew. He had no living family. He would have died alone and mourned by none on the streets of Devarr if not for Julia’s intervention in his life. Keverin was glad to call him his man, more, he was proud to call him friend.

  “Demophon is dead, m’lord!” Lorcan said. “I killed him for you!”

>   Keverin gaped; not because of the ease Lorcan had for killing—he knew the boy had killed to survive many times. No, it was that he had killed Demophon himself. Demophon was, or had been, a sorcerer. Killing one of them was very hard to do—very!

  “How by the God did you manage that?”

  “I did have a little help, m’lord. I pretended to be a legionnaire taking you and the prisoners to the jakes, but Demophon stopped us. I was certain we were done for, but then there came this big fire in the sky. I think one of the sorcerers made it. It distracted him from what I was doing. I killed him with this, m’lord.” Lorcan made a dagger appear and disappear as if by magic. “I killed him for you.”

  Keverin nodded, feeling somewhat disappointed. “I had hoped to kill him myself for what he put Julia through.”

  Lorcan’s face fell. “Yes, m’lord, sorry m’lord.”

  “Don’t apologise, lad. By killing him when I was unable to, you performed a very great service for me. I owe you a great debt; I’ll not forget.”

  “It was nothing really…”

  “No false modesty now. What would Gideon say?”

  “False modesty is for fools?”

  “Pride filled fools,” Keverin agreed. “There are no fools here, pride filled or otherwise. Am I right?”

  “Yes, m’lord!”

  “So, Demophon is dead. That is one less thing to worry over. You freed me and the others, but then you split up?”

  “Yes, m’lord. Burke led the others across the river that same night. I only had the one horse you see.”

  “I understand. So they’re on this side then?”

  “Unless they swam back.”

  “No reason they should.”

  “They might have tried to reach the Lady.” Lorcan frowned as something occurred to him. “I should tell you about the Lady, m’lord. She thinks you’re dead—we all thought it. Our magic failed to find you—”

  Keverin frowned at that. Lorcan was too new in the mysteries of magic to be able to scry, but that did not apply to Lucius, Mathius, and Julia. If they had looked for him in their mirrors and failed, and by Lorcan’s account they had indeed searched for him, then it was a sorcerer’s doing. Keverin did not know how they had blocked his friend’s efforts to find him—he was not a mage—but he didn’t doubt they had done something.