Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3 (105 page)

“Where did you find that one?” Tikva said as he trotted back with a report.

“I woke up with him trying to do me in, but as you see,” he gestured at the corpse. “I was faster… barely.”

“So I see. I have the numbers you asked for. We have eighteen dead on the wall, and
thirty-four
within the camp.”

He winced. So much for Corbin’s estimate. Eighteen was the exact number of sentries on the south wall. Interesting. They really should have attacked from all sides at once. He would have in their place. He shrugged; no one was perfect. Maybe their chief had a bad day.

“And the wounded?”

“None, Sir. They infiltrated the camp and attacked from behind using daggers. When you gave the alarm, they faded away and that’s when they lost some of their own. I’ve counted the dead and including this one, we have twenty three clan corpses.”

That was bad. The clansmen had killed two of his men for every one of their own that fell. He hoped surprise was the only reason for such losses. He could ensure they weren’t surprised again, but if the reason was the clansmen’s fighting ability, he might find next year’s campaign somewhat… tricky? Flaming impossible?

The next day, Captains Corbin and Duer led their men out as the vanguard, and Navarien followed with the remaining four battalions. The baggage train was held in the centre of the main body of his men. Marching at the head of the column with his captains, he couldn’t see the vanguard, but he knew they weren’t far ahead. He had left camp perhaps a candlemark after they did, certainly no more than that. It was a surprise then, when he had his attention drawn to a riderless horse trotting toward him. It was a beauty as most Camorin beasts were, but the animal was exceptional even so. Tall and fast looking as usual, but what wasn’t, was its colouring. The horse was pristine white from nose to tail; not one patch of colour to mar its lovely hide could he see.

What a beautiful creature you are.

“I want that lovely creature captured. Send some men and tell them not to lose it,” he said thinking of herds just like this one.

“I’ll send Lewin. I’m already half sure he was a horse thief in a previous life,” Tikva said grinning.

“Good idea, see it done, Tikva.”

Tikva trotted off and Navarien watched as Lewin ran to intercept the horse alone. He gaped when the beautiful creature slowed and nuzzled Lewin’s outstretched hand without protest.

“Would you look at that,” he breathed.

Bannan was too preoccupied to care much about a horse. “Sir, I know it’s not my place—”

“Don’t start that! Cragson being away doesn’t mean I can’t knock you on your arse!”

Bannan laughed as if he were jesting. That was all right, let him think that, but he wasn’t jesting. He was beginning to think using Cragson as a go-between had been the wrong course to take. It was convenient to be sure, but he had found himself divorced from all the details that ran the legion. Details, though small in themselves, were important to the smooth running of any army. He had forgotten what being an under-captain was like; but it wasn’t too late to address his error.

“You can tell the others that whether Cragson is with us or not, they can come to me with ideas and need not fear my censure. I was a captain myself once, so I know what it’s like to have a general who won’t listen.”

“Yes sir,” Bannan said deadpan.

Navarien sighed. Bannan would learn in time. “What were you going to say?”

“Well sir, that’s a mighty fine horse to be running lose don’t you think?”

It was that. Lewin was trotting back with… him her? It was a mare! The clans only sold geldings to outclanners. They might appear backward from the outside, but they knew what they were doing where horses were concerned. Allowing breeding stock to fall into outclanner hands was something they were never guilty of, but they were now. If he could somehow find a stallion for her, he would have the beginnings of a herd that could match the clan mounts. It would be a crime to breed her to the Protectorate’s lesser breeds, one he was determined not to commit. He would find her a stallion next year he was sure.

“I’m thinking that Corbin and Duer might have found some more horses for you… with clansmen on top,” Bannan finished dryly.

Idiot! Of course a mare like her wouldn’t be out alone. He had been so caught up with his plans that he had forgotten his current situation!

“Lewin!” he called. “Mount up and ride ahead until you sight the van. Then ride back and report.”

Lewin saluted his General and mounted. Resting his javelin beside his boot in the stirrup, he galloped ahead.

Navarien picked up the pace, but not too much. There was no point in running into an ambush. He strained his eyes looking to see Lewin coming back, but it was another half candlemark before he saw him. Lewin was clutching his arm, and his javelin was missing. Navarien tensed, but the grin on Lewin’s face helped.

“Captain Corbin says a party of two or three hundred clansmen attacked from ambush. Our men ran them off without losses—on our side that is, Sir. Captain Corbin has mounted a maniple on captured horses and split them into two scouting parties.”

“No losses? Then where did you come by that dirty great arrow in your arm?” he said pointing to the offending shaft. Lewin made no mention of it, but the thing must hurt like a sorcerer’s flames.

“I got one of them clanners on the way back, but the bastard shot me afore I could do him in. Corbin has maybe four score wounded, Sir. He said to tell you that he’s moving on, and could you pick them up?”

Navarien blinked at that. Could he pick them up? Corbin sounded confident, too cursed confident for his peace of mind, but mounted scouts
should
locate any ambushes ahead of time. It was by no means certain however. By all accounts, clansmen could hide under a blade of grass!

“Get that arm seen to, Lewin, and pass your horse onto one of the others. I want whoever it is to tell Corbin to slow the pace a little, the baggage is slowing us more than I like.”

Lewin made to salute and paled as he jarred his wounded arm. “She’s a beauty ain’t she, Sir? Rides like a dream—nary a bump, Sir.”

Navarien winced in sympathy, but he didn’t say anything about the stupidity of trying to salute with a war arrow in his arm. What would be the point? Lewin was Lewin after all.

“Yes she is, now carry out your orders.”

“Yes, Sir!” Lewin said not saluting this time. He did learn after all.

Lewin rode back along the column. Navarien shook his head. Lewin was the biggest pain in the legion according to Meran, but when it came to the job, he was someone you wanted at your back ready to defend you. He remembered the fight on the walls of Durena when he had relied on Lewin to do just that. He hoped the wound wouldn’t turn bad; they had no healers out here to provide a poultice against infection.

Navarien found it hard to bemoan his lack of sorcerers even for Lewin’s sake, besides, men treated with magic had just as much chance of dying when all was said—they did in the Protectorate anyway. Rumours had circulated about how the bitch sorceress could heal death itself, and how none died from her healing. He didn’t believe a word of it, but if true, it would be a wondrous thing not to fear death from a wound even as slight as that caused by an arrow in the arm.

He watched one of his men ride ahead to give Corbin his orders, and… yes, the wounded men were coming into sight now. There were a lot more than four score by his estimate, but before he had a chance to frown he realised why that was. Corbin hadn’t lost his head completely it seemed, two maniples had been detailed to guard the injured from further attacks. The wounded were quickly lifted into the carts with much joking at their expense. How nice it must be, they said, to be hit by a little stick and then have to ride in a wagon all the way to Calvados.

That night, he ordered tripled sentries again and hoped it was enough. Another five days to Calvados, he thought, could be made to seem an eternity if the clans had a mind to do so. Did they suspect he would be subduing them next year? Of course they did, they weren’t stupid. That reminded him…

“Corbin!” he roared across the camp.

Many faces turned toward him in the light of the fires and one or two of the men pointed to the south wall. He walked that way then yelled again. This time an answer came to him.

“Sir?” Corbin said and scrambled down from the earthworks.

“You had better watch that,” he said, nodding to the wall.

“Sir?”

He sighed at the man’s obtuseness. “The firelight will reveal you in silhouette to bowmen for a league at least. We can’t see more than a hundred yards or so, there could be an entire clan out there and we wouldn’t know it.”

“I hadn’t thought,” Corbin said looking into the dark uneasily. “I’ll have the sentries lie down to watch.”

“Don’t bother, they have more sense,” he said nodding to the sentries nearby already lying prone with only their eyes above the wall.

Corbin flushed at the rebuke. Navarien admitted that he was feeling a little testy, and tried to soften his next words. “Your little fight—was it our friends from Horse Clan again?”

“Horse Clan on their own again, yes Sir,” Corbin said relieved at the subject change. “This area might be their range… maybe we’re trespassing.”

Corbin obviously didn’t care which clan he fought, but Navarien most definitely did care. He had less than seven thousand men. If Horse Clan could somehow persuade the others to join them, he would be out-numbered by twenty to one. He didn’t know the exact numbers, but he wouldn’t be surprised if the odds were closer to a hundred to one. Everything else had conspired to cause him difficulties, why not this aspect as well?

“I’m giving Tikva the lead with Duer tomorrow,” he said and a scowl appeared upon Corbin’s face. “I can’t let you and your men have all the fun can I?”

Corbin grinned at that. “I understand, Sir!”

He doubted it, but he nodded and walked away. He had no qualms about Corbin as a captain, but as anything greater… well, it just wouldn’t happen. Corbin was a fighter, a brawler really. He inspired confidence in his men, but he did it by being in the thick of the action, rather than viewing things from a slight remove as Cragson and he had learned to do. Tikva seemed to have the idea as well, although in Tikva’s case he had somehow managed to do both, which was an achievement few achieved. That man could be wielding a sword one moment then ordering a maniple to reinforce his left wing without looking the next! It was uncanny, but he seemed to sense what was needed instinctively, and then gave orders that saw it done.

Navarien wished it were that simple for him. He had to puzzle out every contingency he could think of before hand, thus ensuring that at least the Fifth Legion’s General wouldn’t be surprised when the enemy did something to mess up a well laid plan. He knew he was far from the best with a sword; though he was always quite pleased with the results he achieved with the javelin, but he
was
the best at strategy… at least he thought so.

As he walked through the camp, he noted the diminished number of battalion and maniple standards. When he rearranged his men into seven full battalions after the battle in Durena, there had been some friction. The men were proud of their formations, and they didn’t want to see their standards packed away among the baggage. They had subsided, all be it reluctantly, when he assured them it wasn’t forever. He hoped he wasn’t lying; he had every confidence in the mirrors of sorcerers like that of Lucius and the traitor Belgard. He was confident that Mortain—may he live forever—knew of his situation, but he wasn’t so confident about his ability to take the necessary steps to remedy it.

He was just passing a campfire, when he bumped into one of his men with a tin plate in hand.

“Sorry, Sir!” the man said managing to keep his plate, but he had dropped his hunk of bread.

“Don’t worry about it, my fault,” he said and bent to pick up the elusive piece of bread.

Thunk!

“
Ughh!
”

Navarien dove behind the fire as shouts of alarm arose. He peered around the flames to see the legionnaire looking at him with eyes glazed in death. His plate was still in hand; he hadn’t spilled a drop.

“You all right sir?” Sergeant Meran said looking down at him.

He scrambled to his feet. “Fine sergeant, are we under general attack, or was that a warning do you think?”

“Neither. It was an assassination attempt.”

He nodded noting his men were ready at their posts. The next days looked to be long ones indeed. Not many would sleep now, not while worrying about sneak attacks that everyone knew the clans were good at. Maybe he could lessen the effect though, and reassure the men at the same time.

“Corbin!”

“Sir!”

“Inform the others that I want a third of the legion at battle readiness to stand watch,” he said staring into the night. “Three shifts through the night, two full battalions each time. The rest of the men are to stand down and sleep as soon as they have eaten.”

“I’ll see to it, Sir.”

Corbin trotted off. Meran shrugged when his men were stood down for the first third of the night. He left to join them.

Navarien watched the man who had died in his place being carried away and shook his head at the waste of it. That was all it took, an arrow from the darkness, a quick flash of pain, and then off to the God’s judgement. He made a note not to take off his armour from now on, even in bed.

Uncomfortable was better than dead any day.

“The scouts are coming back in, Sir,” Corbin said pointing to the riders cantering toward them.

Navarien had chosen to lead First Battalion with Corbin commanding his Seventh Battalion in the van this morning. Tikva had protested sounding remarkably like Cragson in full spate. What was it about his captains that they thought him not capable of leading a mere battalion? It wasn’t shear bloody mindedness, no matter what his captains thought of their general in the van with only two battalions between him and the clan’s spears. No, it was purely his frustration at not being able to do anything about all the hit and run raids they had been suffering!