Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3 (126 page)

Days of inaction chafed upon Keverin so much he felt he must surely go insane with worry. Yet again he considered breaking camp and moving north in pursuit of Julia, but Lucius’ assurances came back to him and staid his hand. Lucius had used his mirror to assure him that Julia was well. If it hadn’t been so tiring for the wizard, he would have watched her all day and night. Julia was sick, but in no danger from the clans. That might change if he ordered his men north. No, he must wait for Anwa’s chief to come.

Keverin watched Adrik’s sword practice as the snow came down. The young Lord of Ascol badly needed Jihan’s instruction. Luckily, Jihan was a patient teacher and was carefully working to improve the boy’s speed with repetition of the sword forms he knew so well. The boy’s accuracy was fine—though he had no chance of striking Jihan of course, but his endurance was non-existent, which had the effect of slowing him too quickly. Jihan was a true master of the sword and was fighting at a snail’s pace on his own scale, yet Adrik’s breath smoked white as he panted into the cold winter air. The snow had started just a few days ago and had settled, but there was little wind to whip it up into a blizzard thank the God.

Anwa’s men remained separate but observant. The ones Keverin could see were watching Adrik’s lesson with interest. Lucius had used his mirror to locate the hidden watchers, but apart from noting the numbers and location of each clansman, they had decided not to acknowledge them. Secrecy was best. It seemed likely they would move if they knew of their discovery.

“No, no,
no!
” Jihan said and called a halt to the fight. “You are fixating on my blade, Adrik. You have to ignore such things as the distractions they are. Try to take in all of me; don’t fix on any one thing.”

“That’s easy for you to say Lor… Jihan,” Adrik said panting and stumbling over the fact that he was now a lord himself.

Well, he was in name at least. Jihan was a blade-master and a Lord Protector. He denied the title of blade-master simply calling himself a swordsman. Denying it didn’t make it less true though. Everyone knew he was unsurpassed with a sword—with any weapon really. Ignoring mages for the moment, Jihan was the most deadly fighter in the land. Lucky for Deva he was scrupulously honourable in all things. His father had been a traitor, and because of that, Jihan was the most trustworthy lord you could ever hope to meet. He shied away from anything that even remotely reminded him of his father’s behaviour and dishonour.

“I mean you no insult, chief of Deva, but your son would be better suited to the weavers life—almost any other life than that of a warrior,” Anwa said from behind him.

Keverin hadn’t heard him approach, but he didn’t betray his surprise. “He’s not my son. I have no sons.”

“I feel for you, but daughters bring their own joy—” Anwa broke off as Keverin shook his head.

“I have no children. My title will pass to another line after me, and my ancestors will be forgotten,” he said truly believing for the first time it would happen.

He had often contemplated adopting an heir, but circumstances had always seemed to intervene. Jihan’s consort was pregnant with their first babe and it brought home to him his own lack. Julia was young yet, but he was forty-two and had never sired a child. Perhaps he couldn’t.

“That is sad. The boy is a friend then?”

“He is Lord Adrik of Ascol, and recently become a friend. The other is Lord Jihan of Malcor and Lord Protector of the north—a very good friend.”

Anwa’s eyebrows lifted at all the titles. Although the clans didn’t have nobles, he understood the meaning of the word. To him a lord was a chief, so he found himself confronted with not one chief as he had assumed, but three. The clans had no use for titles, except perhaps the title of chief and shaman. Everyone else used their given name and thought of themselves as Horse Clan, or Night Wind, or any of the other clans and tribes.

“That he is a chief and still so abysmal with the long knife is shocking, but outclanner ways have ever been a puzzle. Why so many chiefs?”

Keverin ignored the insult given to Adrik, the charge was after all true, but he was always happy to talk about Julia. “My Lady is greatly loved and very special to all of us. She is a sorceress, the only one ever born that we know of. She saved our land from the Hasians last year, and helped save it again this last season. Many love her.”

“She is fortunate indeed,” Anwa said watching the sword practice resume.

“How fortunate is it to be kidnapped, drugged insensible, half drowned, and then finally taken north away from those she loves?” Keverin said as his anger kindled.

“Save your anger for those deserving of it,” Anwa said coldly.

“Oh? And are you not deserving of it? Are you not one of the men holding me on the border away from my Lady?”

Anwa ignored him as his interest was drawn to the north. Keverin turned to find a party of clansmen riding slowly toward him. Anwa trotted off toward his own people without another word.

“Brian!”

“Lord?”

“Assemble the men. I don’t think we’ll be fighting, but I want everyone ready.”

“At once, my lord!”

Keverin nodded as Brian trotted away, and the men struck the camp. By the time the clansmen arrived, the men were mounted and ready for what might come. Keverin had Cavell near at hand, but remained afoot with Jihan and Adrik.

“What do you think?” he said.

“I think they will refuse us,” Jihan replied. “If they do, we can beat them best with an immediate charge. That should surprise them and give us time to chop them up.”

Adrik nodded but he had a suggestion. “Don’t let them say no to you. We have Lucius and Mathius to even the odds.”

Keverin nodded, he hadn’t forgotten the mages. Both men nodded at him as he looked their way. They were more than ready. There were perhaps five hundred warriors in the approaching party. That was many more than was needed to escort a single chief to the border. It was likely they were here to run him off. If that was so, they were in for the fight of their lives—the last fight of their lives.

Anwa was talking with an older man that Keverin assumed was the chief of his tribe. Petya was the name of the chief, and Jaralk was the name of an offshoot tribe of Eagle Clan. Keverin knew the names of the clans well enough, but what they meant in strength and numbers of warriors was a mystery to him. Jihan was Lord Protector of this border. If any Devan knew, it would be he.

“What do you know of the Jaralk? Anything that might help?”

“Just what everyone knows about the clans—ten nomadic clans but hundreds of tribes. Fierce warriors that can hide under a blade of grass. The clans always meet at a place called Denpasser in the spring where they trade with each other and us when we want their horses. Honourable men I’ve always thought, but they don’t like intruders. To them there are two kinds of people: clan and outclan.”

Keverin grunted. Such was common knowledge. He would like to know why the clans had intervened and saved Julia. If they wanted to help her, and they obviously did, why bar his way?

He waited impatiently as one of the newcomers dismounted and together with Anwa approached him. The rest of the clansmen stayed mounted and moved into a line that could charge with little fuss or warning. Keverin raised an arm and swept it to either side. Instantly Brian reformed his men into an opposing line. Neither Petya nor Anwa took any notice—none of the clansmen did.

“Arrogant,” Adrik mused.

“Not at all,” Jihan corrected. “They are simply confident—foolishly so in my opinion. We know the clans are good fighters, but they do not know us. If I led them, I would be cautious until I had the chance to take our measure.”

Keverin agreed. In this situation, caution cost nothing.

“I am Petya, chief of the Jaralk.”

“I am Keverin, Lord Protector of the west. My friend to my left is Jihan, Lord Protector of the north. My friend to the right is Adrik, Lord of Ascol.”

Petya wasn’t surprised to be addressing three chiefs. Anwa had obviously reported his findings. “Why are you here?”

Keverin gritted his teeth. The man knew why! “We both know the answer to that, Petya. My lady is currently residing in your land and I mean to bring her out. With your help or without it, that
will
happen.”

“You listen to me outclanner—” Anwa began angrily, but Keverin cut him off.

“
No you listen!
” he roared. “I’ve been kept waiting here for days while my lady journeys further away each candlemark. I’ve been patient up until now, but no more. Either you escort us to Julia or we ride north to find her.”

Petya was amused. He glanced at Anwa then raised a hand in a complicated gesture. Keverin wasn’t surprised or particularly worried when more clansmen galloped to join those already at Petya’s back. Lucius had been thorough with his mirror. He still had a slight advantage in numbers. He had Brian and a thousand Athione guardsmen, Adrik with a hundred from Ascol, and Jihan with two hundred from Malcor. Petya had a thousand, maybe a little less.

“What say you now, little outclanner?” Petya spat, obviously trying to provoke him into risking action.

“You are a fool, Petya. Your men will die for nothing. My friends in the colourful robes behind me are mages. You have heard of magic, I trust? I see that you have. If you want to die, fight me alone. There’s no reason to kill hundreds with your stupidity!”

“We are not afraid to die!” Anwa spat angrily.

“Where is the honour in dying for nothing though?” Petya mused, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

“But—” Anwa began, but he was silenced by a look from Petya.

“What are you proposing?” Petya asked.

“I propose that we two fight. If I win, you allow us to journey north to find Julia. If I lose… If I lose, I submit to you and hope you have honour enough to bring my lady to me.”

“Kev, are you sure?” Jihan said. “We can take this many, I’m certain of it.”

“I’m sure. If we do it your way, hundreds on our side will die.”

“Hundreds!” Petya spat in outrage. “All of you will die!”

Jihan smirked and enraged Petya even more—as intended.

“I agree, but
we
will not fight,” the chief said.

“Who then?” Keverin growled, annoyed at being deprived.

“My son against this smirking simpleton!”

“No!” Anwa cried in horror.

Keverin grinned; Anwa knew how good Jihan was.

“I have said it!” Petya shouted truly angry now.

“But you—” Anwa began, but he was silenced by a chopping gesture from his chief. Anwa scowled and stomped away in silence.

Petya gestured and a tall man dismounted to join them. “This is my son, Jolon.”

Keverin introduced himself and the others then waited for Petya to explain to Jolon the bargain. He was grinning at the end of the explanation, full of confidence.

Keverin followed Jihan into some space. “Finish this as quickly as you can, Jihan, and please don’t play with him. Would you do that for me?”

“If you wish it, but Petya needs a lesson in humility.”

Keverin tried not to laugh in Jihan’s face; it would have been rude. His friend wasn’t exactly a model of humility himself. His pride in his skills was thoroughly deserved however.

Jihan removed his cloak and handed it to Adrik. He gestured at Jolon’s lack of armour. “I do not wish to see you permanently injured. Do you wish to borrow armour?”

All the clansmen laughed including Jolon, but Keverin noticed that Anwa wasn’t. The warrior was scowling fiercely at what he saw as mockery.

“True warriors do not need armour, but I thank you for the thought. Perhaps you would care to borrow a shield as I see that you have none.”

“I thank you, Jolon. My training negates the use of a shield. I have found them to be an encumbrance against anything but arrows.”

“I see,” Jolon said slowly with a raised brow.

Keverin was impatient for the fight to begin, but he refrained from saying anything that might distract Jihan. The two were sparring with words, which he assumed would eventually lead to the challenge. He was right.

“So, if you’re ready then?” Jihan asked.

“Let us begin,” Jolon said with a nod.

Keverin blinked and nearly missed it.

Jihan pulled his sword and struck in one motion. Jolon raised his shield barely in time and deflected the blow. Jihan was obviously surprised at his opponent’s speed; Keverin could see it in his friend’s sudden wariness. Jolon in the meantime had counter-attacked, but Jihan easily parried each time. With a sigh of relief, he realised that Jihan was indeed the better man. He scowled knowing he had doubted for a moment.

Jihan moved with the total assurance of a master performing his art, but although it seemed obvious that Jolon was not his equal, he was also no slouch. The clansman was dangerous. Jihan knew it of course; he had known it the instant his first attack failed. He glided forward, his sword in the classic two-handed grip, and Jolon backed, circling to the left. Jihan suddenly changed to a single hand—his left, and attempted to bypass Jolon’s shield to land a blow. Jolon cursed in surprise and cast it at Jihan. It had suddenly become an encumbrance.

Jihan aborted his attack and ducked. He barely escaped Jolon’s follow up slice, and changed back to his right hand. The clansman desperately parried the new attack, but he was feeling the loss of his shield acutely. Jihan danced in the snow. All eyes were on him and Jolon seemed a nonentity in comparison, but gracefulness didn’t win battles. Jihan’s skill was beyond compare, however. Jolon was good, none could ever deny it, but Jihan was simply better.

Keverin was fuming. Jihan hadn’t kept his promise. He was playing.

Jihan thrust, but his sword was pushed to the side. Jolon tried to make use of the opening so foolishly handed to him, but then he felt a slap high on his right side. He looked down in amazement to find Jihan’s sword hard against his body with its wickedly sharp edge turned safely away.

“Hit!” Jolon called feeling sick. In a real fight, he would have been dead.

Jihan straightened from his awkward lunge and saluted his opponent with a graceful yet complex flourish of his sword then continued the movement to sheath his blade with a quiet snick.