Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3 (136 page)

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.

“I can’t see any dead outclanners, can you?” Mazel said looking close.

Shelim moved the image in closer. “A few are wounded but that’s all.”

He couldn’t believe how sloppy the Dragon warriors had been to allow this to happen. It was as if they believed numbers made up for their lack of skill. They were as children to these outclanners; the attack had been
easy!
He watched the Hasians rounding up the horses and strike north with them.

“Horses? They did this to steal the horses!”

“Calm down! You’re losing the image,” Larn said.

Shelim breathed deep and pressed his lips tightly together. As he did, the image steadied and sharpened. The outclanners were herding every horse away to the north leaving the tents burning and the women keening over their dead. The tribe was shattered. Only one in three warriors had survived, and that included the young ones who had foolishly taken up their weapons and died with the adults. Those left alive with families intact were rushing to put out the fires with snow, but he could see they would save little. If they saved enough, they
might
survive long enough to reach another tribe—if the weather held good.

Shelim let the image go. “Well that’s it. What do we do?”

“Do? What can we do? The fight is over,” Larn said.

Mazel shook his head pityingly. “The Hasians want our horses, Larn. That’s important to know. Do you really think a thousand will satisfy them? They stole a thousand from the Panawyr before the snows, and now they’ve raided this tribe for another thousand or so. It’s obvious why they need them; Navarien wants all his warriors on the best mounts he can find. What chief doesn’t want that before battle?”