Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3 (138 page)

He shrugged. If the truth were told, all shamen needed one. He wondered if Kerrion had succeeded in making his yet. At least this time the shield hadn’t reached the point where it threatened to escape his grasp, but it was still uncomfortable. He hesitated, but…

“Why not?” he mused.

“What?” Larn said but his mouth snapped shut as Shelim allowed the shield to discharge.

Instead of wasting the magic by aiming it into the sky like last time, he aimed it back at the outclanners. He had no thoughts of actually hitting them, he had left his range far behind, but he thought the gesture a good one. A solid bar of magic roared back toward the outclanners and almost instantly smashed into the shield covering them. It felt as if he was trying to push Nyx forward as the magic howled and rushed back. The thunderous roar drowned out Larn’s gasp of shock. Shelim could hear the teeth grinding in his head as he struggled to prevent the bar from swinging sideways and killing his friends. The shield was trying to spin like a wheel on its axle. He envisioned himself as the axle and tried to clamp the cursed thing solid.

That he’d hit the outclanners at such a distance testified to the amount of magic the shield had absorbed, but although the outclanner’s shield was flaring and crackling in distress, the cursed thing was
still
holding! Whoever the outclan shaman was, he was cursed powerful! Finally, after what seemed an eternity but was actually moments only, the bar of magic stuttered then strengthened for a moment before winking out altogether. Shelim’s jaw was aching and he was sweating in the cold air as he let his now quietly humming shield go. It disappeared with a sizzle and snap like a log on the campfire.

Larn blinked and snapped his mouth shut with an audible click.

Mazel was waiting for them a few leagues ahead. His outriders gave up their positions as they saw their shamen riding in, and fell back covering their flanks until they were all again concentrated waiting for their chief to speak.

“How can a warrior fight such a horror as fire falling from the sky?” Mazel said.

The warriors nodded and wondered aloud where the honour was to be found in such a fight. Shelim opened his mouth to speak angrily, but Mazel silenced him and the warriors with an upraised hand.

“I do not accuse them of dishonour,” Mazel said. “Never would I, but especially not when through their actions alone we are still breathing. I say they did what was needful. Honour is to be found between two men at challenge, or between two clans raiding for horses. There is no honour to be found in war, and war is what we now have.” He turned his attention back to the shamen. “What I would know is this: how will the clans win against fire from the sky?”

He looked at Larn who shrugged. Shelim wondered what Kerrion would want him to say at this point. Should he say that shamen would protect the warriors and thereby shame them, or should he say what he was coming to believe would happen? Did his words even matter? Although he was young for a shaman, he thought they did.

“I don’t know if we
can
win this war,” he began. “The Protectorate, from whence Navarien comes, is huge. They have many warriors, and many shamen. They fight as one and care not for honour. Winning or losing this war is all they care about, and I’m very afraid it will be win.”

Angry shouts and name calling erupted, but Shelim was not angry. This sort of thing proved his words. Navarien had complete obedience, which in a war would win battles. The clans could not live that way—rather they would not. Navarien would win, because he didn’t care how many died to achieve his aims. Would it be better to become like him and win the war, only to lose what made the clans what they were? Shelim was almost certain it would be better for the people to vanish from the memory of the land rather than have that happen—almost. He looked into Emma and Amara’s eyes and could not make himself say it would be better to die.

“Silence!” Mazel shouted, but if anything the noise increased. “The God curse you all, I said silence!”

The noise abated as if cut with a knife. If anyone else had said that, there would be a challenge. As it was, one or two warriors looked ready to do just that.

Fools, Shelim thought sadly.

“Shelim has spoken what we all fear and you know it! How many of you did not fear they would die when they saw fire falling upon them? If any of you say you weren’t afraid, then I call you a liar and we fight in challenge!” Mazel said catching and holding as many eyes as he could. None could hold his for long before turning away. “No one? That is good. I do not wish to kill my own warriors when I need every one I have!” Mazel turned back to Shelim. “You have spoken our fears aloud, Shelim, but now I would hear how those fears can be made small.”

“The only way I see is for the clans to become as one, but that will not happen. Dragon cannot abide Horse; Horse cannot abide Dragon. Night Wind feuds with Horse, and Snake feuds with everyone, and on and on and on. How can we defeat Navarien when we are too busy defeating ourselves?”

“This is why you came to us to begin with.”

“Kerrion saw this time in his visions,” he agreed. “He tried to make the chiefs listen in council at Denpasser two summers ago, but they would not hear him. He sent me to persuade the tribes to head for Denpasser early, but it wasn’t until the Lost flooded the plain that the chiefs began to listen, and then there was the destruction of the Panawyr and panic set in. Now all but Dragon and Horse Clans are at Denpasser, but all they do is argue.”

“You know this?”

“I have seen it in visions and more recently in the mirror. Nothing has been decided—nothing at all!”

The warriors looked at each other uneasily and argued among themselves about what was best to do. Most seemed to be of the opinion they should ride and attack Navarien now, a few said they should seek Dragon Clan, but one, the most important one here, had made a decision.

Mazel raised his hands for silence. “We ride home to the clan, and from there we take all the tribes to Denpasser. I will put a stop to this arguing and in spring we will kill every outclanner on the plain!”

The roar from the warriors was deafening, but Larn was asking about Dragon Clan.

“They will have to come on their own!” Shelim shouted, but he knew they wouldn’t. Their arrogance would blind them to the need.

Larn shook his head, but he was defeated. Dragon Clan would fight alone until the spring; Mazel had decided it.

* * *

8 ~ New Orders

Despite Demophon’s earlier stupidity, Navarien thought his winter campaign had gone surprisingly well. The non-combatant losses on the second attack were to be regretted, but wouldn’t be repeated. He had admonished Demophon not to repeat his over eager use of fire, and although it was obvious the man did not like it, so far he had followed orders.

The destruction of Corbin’s eighth maniple by magical bombardment had been shocking in its suddenness, but Demophon had done an outstanding job in preventing further loss of life. His ward had been a lovely piece of work. Built to move with the legion as it galloped to relieve the now destroyed eighth maniple, it had performed flawlessly. The sorcerer hadn’t needed to do more than kill an over eager shaman now and then since that attack, which satisfied both of them. Demophon wasn’t such a bad sort once you got to know him. Navarien supposed a sorcerer’s training might have something to do with the abrasiveness the average sorcerer showed the world.

Navarien remembered his long ago conversations with Lucius. Everyone called his friend the
traitor
now, but never him. He and he alone, knew what went on during those terrible days below Athione’s walls. Lucius had told him once that sorcerers were recruited when they were children and how they were tortured and abused to keep them in line. Navarien had already known about them being recruited young of course, but he hadn’t known the rest of it. After the retreat from Athione back to Athinia, he had made it his business to learn more of what Lucius had told him and had sought out a man willing to confirm Lucius’ story. Lucius hadn’t told him half of what went on under Castle Black. Beatings and torture were just two of the things used to
train
a sorcerer. No, he was not surprised they acted as they did. Belgard, the foul bastard, was to blame for all that went wrong during those days, not poor Lucius.

“Did you say something, Sir?” Corbin whispered.

“Hmmm?” he said looking across his saddle at Corbin. He had five hundred men dismounted waiting for the others to get in position. “Oh, nothing important, I was just thinking Demophon has done us proud.”

Corbin nodded. “Glad he was there when that fire or whatever it was hit us! I nearly fell off my horse when I saw it roaring toward me, but he just put up his hand and splat! The stuff hit the ward, and all the while he was grinning like a loon. He was enjoying himself, I swear!”

Navarien chuckled imagining the scene, but then he remembered the sorcerer blasting all those people in the middle of the camp in retribution for one man’s stupid act of rebellion. The arrow had no chance of hitting him in any case; it had turned to ash the moment it struck his ward.

“How long has it been, Corbin?”

“About a candlemark, Sir,” Corbin said looking at the sun as it made its way toward sunset.

That was about right. “I think we should get the men mounted ready to go.”

“Right Sir!” Corbin said with excitement.

Navarien mounted his horse ready to charge the camp. He had already decided this would be the last one of these raids. They had so many horses now that he hardly had enough men to herd them north. He hadn’t counted them, but he must have three for each of his men by now. Eight thousand or more horses should be enough, but he only had a single battalion here to care for them. What if they were attacked on the way? No, this was the last one—for now.

“There Sir, the signal!” Corbin pointed at a tiny ball of light shooting skyward.

“At the gallop, forward!” he roared and spurred his horse at the gallop.

His men thundered after him into the camp. Fires were starting on the other side, which had become the standard attack pattern on these raids. It was probably time to change it again. If they didn’t, they might find the warriors ready and waiting next time. There was nothing like fire near flammable tents to bring everyone running. The camp had been quiet until now, but it didn’t take the warriors long to get themselves organised. Arrows started flying and striking shields as the men rode the warriors down.

Navarien blinked in surprise at the arrow standing out of his armour, but it hadn’t penetrated and he swung his sword to decapitate the bowman. Just moments seemed to pass and he was galloping out the other end of the camp.

“Corbin!”

“Sir!”

“Rally the men for the next pass. You know what to do,” he yelled panting and trembling in excitement.

“Yes Sir, same as usual,” Corbin grinned and turned his horse to collect his sergeants.

Navarien watched as Demophon’s fire reached out to the tents encircling the camp. “At the gallop!” he screamed over the roar of the flames.

The clansmen were ready this time, but as usual, they concentrated in the centre of the camp away from the fires. There were more warriors in this camp than in the other six they had hit, but it didn’t surprise him. They had run out of small tribes just the other day.

Demophon rode to Navarien’s side and raised a hand in greeting. “Same as all the others!”

He nodded. “You know, I’m surprised?”

“How so?”

“The warriors in the cities are degenerate clansmen, but they were still excellent warriors. I assumed the real clans would be better—their reputation points to it, but look at them.”

They turned to watch as the scene played itself out as it had every time. The warriors were protecting their families in the centre while Corbin’s men kept them pinned. The warriors were firing their bows and then dying nailed by thrown javelins. It didn’t take them long to realise they were defeated. They lowered their weapons but did not surrender them. Navarien had given orders that no one was to attempt disarming them after the first time they tried, and so far the order had paid off. They clansmen would fight to the death rather than surrender arms, but give them a chance to stand down and they would see reason most of the time.

Demophon stared at the scene trying to see what was wrong with it. “I don’t understand. Doesn’t it make sense for them to give up when they’re beaten?”

“That’s what I mean. It does make sense to us, but it didn’t to the warriors in the city. I’m disappointed I suppose,” he said and grinned.

“Disappointed!” Demophon said in amazement, “Why disappointed?”

“I expected better from them. We have nine hundred; they have
two thousand
, yet we took them easy. It doesn’t make sense! Where are the clans that can hide behind a blade of grass and kill a bison with their bare hands?”

“Perhaps their reputation is overblown.”

“If these are anything to go by then it is, but I’m not going to bet on it. The camps are all small; I want more men before going up against a larger one. We’re heading back to Calvados. I have a feeling I’m not going to be disappointed the next time we meet a clan.”

“Far be it from me to speak against strong feelings. Besides, this is the last smallish one I could find.

“That’s the other reason I want more men.”

Demophon laughed and they rode out of the camp together. The tents were all blazing now. Navarien tried to ignore the wails of the women and children as they found their menfolk dead. He blocked it out and looked steadfastly ahead.

Nightfall found them riding north with most of the men herding the horses before them. They were perhaps a day out from Calvados now, but he decided to ride through the night in hopes of reaching the city by dawn. It was overly optimistic of him, but not by much. The sun had been shining wanly down on his column for two candlemarks when the city was sighted. The men were in good spirits, and didn’t complain about the lack of food and sleep.