Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3 (130 page)

The chiefs conferred for a moment. “Ingharr would win but he’s not here,” Kadar said thoughtfully. “Tobiah might, but I think it more likely Cadell would win.”

“Cadell!” Kerrion said in shock.

The chiefs nodded grinning.

“What’s the problem?” Jihan said.

Kerrion sighed. “Cadell is Clan Chief of Cricket Clan. They’re the smallest of all.”

“So? Will the chiefs follow if he wins?”

“They might, it’s traditional for warriors to challenge for leadership if they feel a grievance. The chief is always the best man for the position partly because of that.”

“Well, if you three can persuade the others to accept the idea of a tournament, your problems should be over,” Julia said.

Keverin shook his head slightly. “They still have Navarien to deal with, my love, but at least this one area will be dealt with.”

Julia smiled at his casual admittance of his love for her. It said more to her than a deliberate declaration.

“It’s a shame Jolon is not a Clan Chief,” Petya said. “I’ve never seen him fight better than when he took you on, Jihan.”

“He is good,” Jihan grinned. “But is he the best you have?”

Petya nodded. “I’m biased as he’s my son, but I truly think he is.”

Jihan nodded in satisfaction and Keverin laughed.

“What?” Jihan said indignantly.

“You’re licking your whiskers as a cat does after a good meal. Your vanity is showing Jihan!”

“Well, I did beat him, and he is their best—so what if I’m vain about it?”

Keverin laughed again, and lightly punched his friend’s shoulder. “Nothing Jihan. We like you just as you are—right Julia?”

“That’s right!”

“Are we agreed to try this?” Kadar asked.

“Can’t say that I’m looking forward to being beaten to a pulp by Cadell, but I can see no other way,” Allard said.

Petya clapped the young Clan Chief on the shoulder. “I know what you mean. I feel like that every time Jolon does it to me!”

Keverin laughed along with the others, but he was wondering how he and Julia could be alone in his tent with Kerrion holding her hand all the cursed time!

* * *

3 ~ Exodus

“How bad is it?” Navarien said watching the snow falling outside through the window of his headquarters. The weather was transforming Calvados into an artist’s dream right before his eyes.

The towers and slate tiled roofs of the city were heavy with the snow that had fallen, and was continuing to fall, without cease since they had taken possession. Many of the streets were becoming impassable, and all of them were treacherous underfoot. He had too few men to do anything about it. Those few legionnaires not tasked with patrols or guard duty had their hands full with the wounded.

“More die by the candlemark, Sir. We can’t stop it,” Cragson said from where he stood by the fire drying his cloak. “Exhaustion and bad food has sapped their will to go on. There’s nothing to be done.”

“And Meran?”

“Barely holding on, Sir. Maybe he will rally,” Cragson said with doubt heavy in his voice.

“I want Lewin to take Meran’s place.”

“Lewin?”

He nodded and watched the snow cover his city. “You will inform him of the promotion when he comes back in. It’s time he put up or shut up. I’m tired of his bitching.”

Cragson coughed. “Yes Sir, but…
Lewin?
”

“He’s capable, never doubt it. I remember Durena…”

“Who doesn’t?”

Navarien smiled sadly and refocused his eyes upon his own reflection in the window glass. He looked ghastly. His haunted eyes, sunk into dark pits, peered out at the world above cheeks gone gaunt from bad food and little sleep. Under the stubble he had yet to clean away, muscles bunched as he clenched his teeth. By the God, he was tired. It had been a long year, and the next one promised to be longer yet. His hand wandered to his shoulder and he rubbed gently wincing at the pain. He had taken an arrow there late in the battle for Calvados, but it was nothing compared to others who even now lay dying. Meran was such a one.

“He was beside me all the way in Durena,” he said meaning Lewin. “He’s capable of being more, much more.”

“He shirks responsibility—”

“That will stop. That will stop or he’s out of my legion… what’s left of it.”

Cragson stood in disapproving silence.

The fire popped and Navarien jumped as a spark leapt into the room. Cragson took one step forward and crushed it beneath a boot heel before it could do more than char his ratty carpet.

“I’ll inform him.”

He nodded and watched a weary group of men stumble into Market Square. If he was not mistaken, they belonged to Corbin’s second maniple. He counted the men as Sergeant Milos led them to barracks.

…forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty. Half a maniple to patrol an entire city quarter.

Navarien stared at his empty city and shook his head. “Where are all the people?”

“Sir?” Cragson said stepping up beside him. “Did you say something?”

“How is the grain situation?”

“Fine, Sir. The granaries are full and the city’s reserves of meat and other provisions will see us through more than one winter if need be. The men, those uninjured at least, are greatly cheered.”

“Good, good. The horses?”

“Corbin has seen to them, Sir.”

“He does love them so,” he said with a twisted smile for some of the jokes he had heard the men tell. “The best man on four legs I’ve ever seen.”

“That he is, Sir. He inspires his men—all of them are excellent horsemen.”

“I hear a but coming, Cragson. Spit it out man.”

“Cavalry are good to have, but when a man forgets how to be an infantryman, then we had better watch out. You can’t guarantee he will stay mounted in the heat of battle, Sir.”

“And you think Seventh Battalion needs reminding?”

“I do, Sir.”

“See to it.”

“Yes, Sir!” Cragson saluted hearing the order in Navarien’s voice. He turned to leave.

“And Cragson,” he said without turning.

“Sir?”

“Find me a woman.” He turned to see Cragson standing with the door open and his mouth agape. “A mature woman—one with children preferably.”

Cragson snapped his mouth shut. “Yes, Sir, but…” he braced up. “Yes Sir!” he saluted and left.

Navarien turned back to the view.

Milos was gone, but another patrol was just now leaving, this time toward the south. He had ordered patrols maintained outside the walls. It was a gesture only. He simply didn’t have the men to do it properly, but at least they would provide a warning of impending attack. Horses stamped hooves nervously and shook snow from their coats where already a thin layer was settling. Clan horses these, every one of them pure blood. Never had a legion been equipped with such fine beasts, but he would trade them all for another battalion of men. It was not to be. The closest reinforcements lay south and west over the Athinian Mountains. There lay the Protectorate in all her glory oblivious to his need.

He shook his head and turned away from the window. On his desk lay a well read sheaf of paper. He knew what it said, knew every word, but still he picked it up and thumbed through it.

To: General Navarien, commanding officer Fifth Legion.

From: Godwinson.

General, know that both Mortain and I are grateful for your sacrifice for the greater glory of the Protectorate. Your actions on our behalf in the North bring your name great renown and glory…

He snorted. Glory was something he used to want, something any officer in the Protectorate wanted, but he had seen things since taking command of the Fifth that had soured him on glory. These days he found himself wishing for his men’s survival more than anything else. He was a general, a legionnaire… a soldier at bottom. His duty was what he lived for, but glory? No. It had no real worth, no real meaning to him any longer. Seeing his legion decimated, not once but twice in as many years, had cured him of any belief in such things.

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.