Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3 (139 page)

“Here we are Sir, home again. Well, home for this season at least,” Corbin said cheerfully.

“Humph!” Navarien said standing in his stirrups to ease his numb backside. “I hate horses!”

Corbin laughed. “Just last season you hated marching!”

“Well… that was then,” he said with a grin. In truth, they all preferred riding, but they had been absent from the saddle for roughly a year before the taking of Calvados. Why did it have to be so cursed painful?

“We’ll herd the horses inside the walls for now, Corbin. I don’t want someone to steal them. Not after all the work put into this. Cragson can sort them out while we sleep for a few days.”

“Right you are!” Corbin said looking forward to his bed.

The gates of Calvados rumbled open well before they arrived. The horses were driven inside and away to whatever destination Cragson had deemed appropriate. Navarien had no concerns where Cragson was concerned.

He was suddenly weary beyond measure, but he sat straight in his saddle to one side of the gate to see all his men safely inside. The men were drooping now, as he was, but the salutes were crisp as they entered the gate. The difference from the last time they had ridden into Calvados was striking. They had been beaten then, it mattered not that they had taken the city. More than six in ten had died on that campaign; a campaign that culminated in three new cities under Mortain’s sway, and only three thousand men from the Fifth Legion still breathing.

Sergeant Davin was the last man through the gate. “That’s all the lads, General. Orders?”

“To bed for two days, Davin, and then light duties under Captain Turner until further notice.”

“Thank you, General!” Davin said with a salute and a wide grin. He rode on.

“They’re good men,” Corbin said.

“They are,” Navarien agreed, but he couldn’t help thinking of Lewin—Sergeant Lewin now, as he screamed into his general’s face that they had all been the best until led to die at Calvados.

“General?”

“Hmmm?”

“Might as well head in Sir,” Corbin said nodding at the empty gate.

He nodded, but looked around for Demophon.

“He went on ahead Sir,” Corbin offered, somehow divining whom he was searching for.

“Fine, lead the way Corbin.”

Corbin nodded and turned his horse through the gate.

Navarien followed slowly and stopped just inside. Corbin continued unaware that he had halted.

“Lock her up tight, Rahil,” Navarien called to the legionnaire closest him.

“Yes Sir, if you get out of my way like,” Rahil said nodding at the space cleared of snow needed to close it.

He smiled and moved his horse forward to exit the cleared area. Snow was deep on the road, but it seemed Cragson had been keeping the main street clear. The rest of the city was buried in the stuff up to his horse’s barrel. With no one living along those thoroughfares, there was no point in clearing them. One road from the gate to the central square was enough for their purposes. Calvados fairly screamed of emptiness as the huge gates boomed shut. He winced at the reminder; he couldn’t help thinking of the children in the wagons as they left the city in a blizzard. He watched the bar crunch down and nodded his approval. His men were safe again—for now. He was about to move on when Rahil hailed him.

Navarien looked down in surprise. “What is it?”

Rahil was a little red, perhaps embarrassed to be talking to the general, or perhaps it was just the bite in the wind. “It’s not my place to say, Sir, but I think you should sneak in and talk to the Over Captain afore bed.”

His eyebrows went up at that. “Why is that?”

“Well Sir, it’s the fleet you see and—”

“All right, Rahil, a full report if you please,” Navarien ordered.

Rahil braced to attention and began his report in the legion fashion. He was evidently relieved to be able to leave small talk and conversation behind.

“Yes Sir! The fleet was sighted three days ago. There were hundreds of ships! I didn’t know we had so many,” Rahil said in awe.

“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “Finish the report man.”

Rahil blushed redder still. “Sorry Sir. Like I said, there are hundreds of ships, and they’re much bigger than those bastid boats—sorry Sir. They’re much bigger than them as brought us north last year. There was food, and swords, and shields, and javelins, and… and
everything
you could name, all pouring off them boats. So much, we had trouble moving it all! Then there are the new lads. I swear there are three legions of them, and every one green as summer grass! You wouldn’t believe the state some of them were in—”

Oh yes he would, he thought with a grin. He hated boats. He’d been sick as a dog every day of the trip to Camorin.

“—seen so many of them black robed buggers!”

“Sorcerers were with the men?”

“Yes Sir. There are hundreds!”

Navarien’s heart sank. Hundreds of sorcerers to deal with, but perhaps Rahil was exaggerating. Yes, the more he thought about it the more he believed he had to be exaggerating. Why, hundreds of boats would have to be the entire Protectorate fleet! Three legions… thirty thousand men? No, he had to be mistaken; he had to be.

“Is that all?”

Rahil gaped, and then snapped his mouth shut. “All Sir? It’s enough I’m thinking, but it ain’t all, no Sir. The Lord Sorcerer made all them black robes help Captain Turner with the fort. You should have heard the fuss they made!”

Now he knew Rahil had to be wrong. Sorcerers working alongside legionnaires; it was cursed unlikely! But… but what if? Better see Cragson and see what was really going on.

He returned Rahil’s salute and rode to the square. He hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary until then, but he gaped at what he saw upon entering the square. Turner’s building site had been transformed.

When he had led Seventh Battalion out on the raids, Captain Turner had been struggling to build a fort with too few men. Now the site was a hive of activity. Thousands of men scrambled over walls that rose before his eyes. He blinked in dumbfounded amazement when he noticed Turner’s cranes standing abandoned and stones weighing as much as his horse rising into the air unassisted. That was when he realised his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. Black robed forms stood in what looked like groups of twenty apparently doing nothing, but where they stood, stones were rising on their own. Magic was lifting them, it had to be that, but who could possibly force this many sorcerers to work like this?

“I’ll have to apologise to Rahil,” he murmured. He automatically calmed his horse when a stone was pounded to dust nearby with no one but him near it.

Navarien watched as legionnaires—Turner’s crafter maniple, raced in to scoop up the dust. “Mortar, they’re making mortar with the dust,” he said to himself and was pleased he was able to understand this one thing.

The fortress walls were climbing as he watched. Small figures were running along the top of the walls, unmindful of the huge stones hovering over their heads. Buckets of mortar were poured before they signalled the sorcerers to lower the stones one after another. The wall climbed by another tier as quick as that.

The men rushed to abandon their places on the wall as a shrilling whistle blared. Cragson was blowing a tiny flute over and over.

“What by the God for—” he began as the noise irritated his tired brain, but the explanation soon became apparent.

The sorcerers played their fire over the walls as soon as the men were clear.

He had never seen magic so gently and creatively used. It was exciting to watch. This must be what the God intended magic to be used for, not killing and destruction, but building—making the world better.

Think what could be done with this, he thought as the fire winked out and an icy wind blew against the shimmering stones to cool them.

Cragson blew his flute after conferring with a young man in black robe, and the men scrambled up their ladders to pour fresh mortar. Stones again rose into the air and the entire procedure played itself out again before Navarien’s eyes. He was entranced, but he snapped awake when someone called to him.

“You want to climb down, Sir?” Captain Meran shouted over the explosion of noise as more stones were pounded to dust.

Navarien winced as the cursed whistle blew again, and climbed down. Meran bellowed to a man and the horse was taken away from the square for a rub down and some food.

“Amazing ain’t it?”

“By the God yes!”

Meran laughed. “You should have seen it the first day—chaos, Sir! Cragson said this, Turner said that, and the Lord Sorcerer insisted on the other thing. Sorted it out in the end, but it was touch and go for a while. There’s one sorcerer, Odelyn is his name—never seen a bigger pain in the arse, begging your pardon, Sir. He’s worse than a hundred Lewins!”

“A hundred! That bad eh? I hope I don’t meet him then.”

“No chance you could be that lucky, Sir. He’ll seek you out, you can count on that!”

No doubt, he thought tiredly. The flames were again playing over the walls drying the mortar gently. The heat radiating from the stone had melted the snow all round, and even the roofs nearby were clear. Someone had anticipated even that. Buckets and barrels of water ringed the square, and had men dipping some out for a drink now and then. They were there to supply the mortar crews, who were dumping buckets full into large vats with stone dust and other things following. Even here, a sorcerer was using magic to stir the mixture.

“It’s incredible. Whoever the Lord Sorcerer is, he must be a terror to make them work like this.”

“He’s a gentle sort if you ask me. Wotan is his name. That’s him there, see?” Meran pointed to the sorcerer next to Cragson.

“I’ll have a chat with him shortly, but I need a report from you so I don’t make an arse of myself. Rahil told me some, but I must admit I didn’t believe it. Hundreds of ships, and thousands of men…” he shook his head in disbelief. “Report Meran, but be gentle with me, I don’t think I can stand another shock,” he said with a tired grin.

Meran chortled. “The fleet arrived with almost two hundred ships of all shapes and sizes. Some had the sorcerers on them—we have nigh on two hundred of them. Then there are the new lads—twenty five
thousand
of them, about half fully trained, the others are green as grass. Not to worry though, we have Captains Tikva, Bannan, and Duer training the worst half. They’re over to the north, just outside the walls.

“Turner is running things here with my boys chipping in, and Cragson’s overseeing the lot. Captain Calva was delighted to have a battalion to run again Sir; he’s getting to know his sergeants and men on the wharf. They’re finishing the unloading. The Lord Sorcerer says the ships will be returning to Banswara straight away, but they’ll be back in late spring with people who want to live here. It won’t be long before this place is alive again.

“Captain Turner did take one liberty, Sir. He redoubled the size of the fort when he saw how many will be living in it. Lucky the east and north foundations weren’t set.”

Navarien smiled in relief. That was one less problem to worry about. “Turner has my complete confidence. If he thinks double is what is needed, then it’s double—besides, it’s hard work arguing with him!”

Meran grinned. “That’s about it, Sir.”

“Not quite,” he said. “You haven’t mentioned the generals of the other two legions. We have, what, twenty seven thousand men?”

Meran nodded. “Ermmm, it’s about twenty eight with the sorcerers and the odds and sods, Sir.”

Navarien nodded. “Twenty eight battalions. That’s three legions near enough.”

Meran blinked and grinned as he realised something. “That would be you, Sir. Everyone here is Fifth Legion—every soul.”

Navarien snapped his mouth shut. By the God! What couldn’t he do with twenty eight battalions and two hundred sorcerers? He could take Camorin
and
Deva with that many. He frowned. That had to be the plan he realised. What other reason could there be for trebling his strength?

“Right then. I have a lot of planning to do, Meran. You go back to whatever you were doing. Mortar was it?”

“Yes Sir,” Meran saluted and off he went.

Navarien’s thoughts were whirling. He could give half to Cragson, but they would be out of contact that way. Twenty eight battalions—would it be better to keep them like that? No, he would have so many captains to deal with he would be talking forever. Halve them? Hmmm, two thousand per battalion… he would still need four new captains.

He pursed his lips in thought. How about twenty eight maniples per battalion? That would work very well. Corbin would be ecstatic commanding almost a third of a standard legion. It would be good for him to learn how much harder it was to keep control of so many men. It would also be easier to plan his campaign using his accustomed ten battalions, he admitted to himself.

He walked slowly into the chaos thinking hard. He didn’t try to dodge the rushing men, he was more likely to cause an accident rather than avoid one that way. Instead, he kept a straight cause toward Cragson and allowed the men to dodge him. Was he being lazy? Would twenty eight battalions work better against the clans? He shook his head, no that didn’t feel right. Ten strong battalions were better than twenty eight weaker ones any day.

Navarien stood behind Cragson unnoticed, but not by the sorcerer standing next to Wotan. Bodyguard, Navarien thought with a frown. The man was older than Wotan but not by very much—ten years perhaps. Wotan was young for this much responsibility, but he must be powerful or he wouldn’t be lead mage.

What need for a bodyguard then?

It was strange seeing a sorcerer acting as a bodyguard, especially when his patron was a sorcerer as well. Navarien mentally shrugged the thought aside; whatever the reason, he would no doubt find out in due time. He waited until Cragson had blown his cursed flute again, and the men were climbing the scaffolding to reach the ever taller walls before speaking.

“Won’t you introduce me, Cragson?”

Cragson stiffened and turned. When he saw his general had returned, he braced to attention and saluted.