“People like you are dangerous,” Devlin said to both Nathaniel and Marum. “Ya’ll know where Droman, your brother, is. You were working for him. And you refused to give him up to us.”
“Would you give up your kin for execution?” Marum asked. “Would it matter what they had done?”
Devlin turned away. “Ya’ll are just going to leave me out here like this? Tied to a tree? I’ll be eaten alive.”
“You’ll be fine,” Nate said. “Just start rubbing the leather against the tree and eventually you’ll break away from it. It ain’t too far of a walk from here to Tel Haven. And you’ve got your saber to fight off anything as you walk.”
Devlin nodded, grateful that the two hadn’t killed him. Nate had never met a man who seemed more out of place.
Marum got on the horse first, claiming she could steer it without the reins. Nate got on behind. He handed her Devlin’s pistol. In the side of Devlin’s saddle was a rifle, and Nate pulled it out and studied it. It was nicer than his own. Probably the nicest-looking rifle he’d ever seen.
As they rode onward, Nate looked back only once to see the man rubbing the reins against the tree vigorously. It would be a long night for him, but he would be fine.
Nate, however, wasn’t so sure about himself. They would reach Marum’s friend’s homestead in a couple of hours and he wondered if it would be far enough away from the men who pursued them.
Devlin
Autumn, 903 A.O.M.
Ranger Devlin Mannix was a coward, he knew. He hadn’t put up enough of a fight against Marum and her riding companion. For the life of him, Devlin couldn’t manage to understand why the others had left him alone on the road. He thought the Rangers should have remained in groups of twos or threes. That way they could avoid predicaments such as this.
He looked down at his wrists, then at the knot where the outlaw man had tied the other end of the reins to the tree. The knot was crude and his wrists could wiggle just enough that he would be out of the hold within a few minutes if he wanted. The reins weren’t long enough for Devlin to reach down to his boot and pull out his knife that he had hidden there. That and the saber on the ground were the only weapons he had left thanks to that outlaw and the gray elf.
As he stared at the knot, he thought about how any normal man, particularly a Ranger, would have been working frantically to break free and get after the criminals, or at least try to get back to the other Rangers and let them know what had happened so they could be hot on their trail. But Devlin was in no hurry.
It wasn’t that he was a patient man by any means, or that he was brimming with confidence so strong that he didn’t fear losing the fugitives. To put it bluntly in his own mind, he was terrified. On one hand, if Devlin managed to pick up their trail and kept after them (a pointless pursuit now that his horse had been taken), the two would surely kill him, being unwilling to simply tie him to a tree this time. He was surprised that they had done this at all. Most criminals would have put a bullet through Devlin’s brain rather than face the prospect of him coming after them.
On the other hand, Devlin didn’t want to go back to the other Rangers and report his failure. There wasn’t a bruise or a mark on his body that indicated he’d been in a struggle, yet his rifle and saber were gone. Worse than that, his horse had been taken from him. A Ranger without his horse was useless indeed—though, the others already thought Devlin was useless. He had not been trained properly as the others had been. He hadn’t yet been under the tutelage of a more senior Ranger as was the protocol for the profession. Devlin figured it was because he was older and nearing fifty years. Most Rangers were young and ready to learn. Maybe the others thought it strange to have a fifty year old man in training.
It also could have been that Devlin hadn’t exactly earned his way to being one of the Rangers. It was the most exclusive and sought after position within the Crimson Guard, a spot picked only by the president himself. There were ten in all, including Devlin, and the others had all been chosen based on merit and great works done within the Crimson Army. Devlin had never been a soldier and had never taken the notion to become one.
By trade, Devlin had been a hunter and tracker, but of large bucks and bears and other giant beasts that provided wild tender meat and warm pelts. Devlin had been hunting and tracking since he was a small child, so he was very good at it. There was much to be said about how good of a shot he was, particularly with a rifle. And he was unmatched in tracking down game. In truth, the Rangers could really use him to go after these misfits. It wouldn’t be too hard to track them for a while. They would undoubtedly try to stay off the road a bit which would leave clues along their way. These clues would stand out to Devlin better than they would just about any other man. He could spot a track, tell you what it was from, and how long it had been there before another man might know there was a track at all. It was as if they just stood out to Devlin; his eyes were trained to see them clear as day.
One might think this was why he had been chosen as a Ranger, but this wasn’t the truth at all. Devlin was a Ranger for the simple fact that he had unwittingly saved President Jacob DalGaard’s life.
Each year, the office of the president organized the Annual Hunt where soldiers and well-to-do men went out in parties in search for game. There were prizes and contests—winners for heaviest deer, a kill with the most points on a rack, most unique beast. As a friendly gesture and as a way for President DalGaard to show that he was a man of the people, he was inclined to participate in the hunt.
Devlin had his own opinions about the hunt, particularly about the president’s partaking in the event. For instance, there was no possible way the president was such a good hunter that he marched back into Tel Haven with the grandest of beasts year after year. No hunter was that good. It was obvious to Devlin (who knew these woods far better than DalGaard) that the president simply took whatever beast was the best from the hunter who had killed it, and showcased it as his own. This would make his supporters swell with pride and his opponents bicker with envy. More of the seasoned hunters knew better, but they held their tongues just as Devlin always had. Hunters had spent years learning how to stay silent in the forest for long stretches, days even, and that behavior generally stayed with them wherever they went. Conversations usually played out in their minds without ever reaching their tongues. Devlin figured this was probably best.
Last year, Devlin hadn’t even been aware that it was time for the Annual Hunt, and he wouldn’t have been out hunting had he remembered the time, but as it turned out, he was in the middle of it. He had spent the last few days tracking a grizzly, and was getting close. This same bear had evaded him the year before, but this year was supposed to be different.
However, it came as a surprise when he heard howling and barking in the distance. He knew the sound well—wolves. But he hadn’t seen any sign of them in the last few days. He wondered if they had been tracking him and had come upon his scent.
Devlin knew in times like these it was probably best to try and mask his scent and be on his way, but this sounded like a group of wolves that had found something. Curiosity got the best of him. When he neared the spot, he realized that he was near a wolf’s den, and the wolves were out, encircling their prey. Their prey just so happened to be President Jacob DalGaard.
To this day, Devlin still didn’t know how or why the president had gotten away from his guards or why he was near a wolf’s den without a weapon, but Devlin had been quick to take out the beasts, saving the president from a most gruesome fate.
Others who had been searching for the president quickly found out about what Devlin had done. Then word spread throughout all of Galamore. Devlin had been happy just to leave his good deed at that, but the people wanted him to be rewarded for his act. So, one day the Rangers tracked him down and offered (more so demanded) for him to join their ranks.
So, here he was, untrained and tied to a tree. Thankfully not dead. Devlin earning his way into the Rangers had been for the
president’s publicity more than anything and, the other Rangers knew it. However, it wasn’t like they could just get rid of him. He was there until he dropped dead or was too old and feeble to be of any use. It simply was not an option to be given the honor of Ranger and then step down because he wasn’t any good at it. First, it would be an insult to the Rangers. Second, it would be an embarrassment if they had recruited someone who wasn’t cut out for the job.
Devlin was tough. He was skilled. But he wasn’t a Ranger. Rangers mostly dealt with people. They were battle worn and weren’t afraid to jump into a firefight. But that had never been Devlin’s way. He liked to hunt, because he was going after something that couldn’t shoot back. Animals were often smart, but they were never as smart as a man unless, of course, it was a bright animal, but those were illegal to kill anyway.
There were two kinds of animals in Galamore. Bright animals and dull animals. Bright ones could think for themselves and acted on logical thought rather than purely on instinct. They could also talk and communicate with people just as Devlin might. He wasn’t entirely sure on the history of bright animals, but he thought it had something to do with a spell cast by some Sentinel hundreds of years ago. But he knew that all brights were descendants of those caught up in that spell.
Now, there were far more dull or regular-minded animals than there were bright ones. It was actually quite a treasure to find a bright animal, though they could be just as dangerous as any other animal if they had a mind to be so.
Devlin was reminded of the time he had been tracking a stag through the woods just north of Fasvosus. He had come up on it from behind and had the perfect shot. His only error was failing to make sure it was a dull animal. His bullet had sailed true and through the breast of the great stag. He walked up to it, admiring its magnificent rack of antlers as he neared. He held his skinning knife in his hand, ready to cut its throat, knowing that the struggling animal wasn’t dead yet. That was when their eyes met. The stag stared at Devlin, eyes wide with blue irises. This was the mark of a bright animal. All of the brights had blue eyes, the color of a clear sky. His heart started to beat faster and he looked all around him to see if anyone had seen what he had done. The stag had said its final words of accusation, calling Devlin a murderer. Devlin quickly silenced it with his knife.
He was sure that if the president had heard about this act, Devlin would never have been offered a spot among the Rangers of Tel Haven. Killing a bright animal was just as illegal as killing a person unless it was in self defense.
Devlin had known his error and he honored the stag as best he could. He did not eat the meat. He did not scorch the body. Instead, he gave the bright animal a proper burial. It had all been so quick and he was finished within a few hours. But he thought about this secret almost every day. He knew that he was a murderer.
Sometimes the stag would haunt his dreams. He could see the pool of blood all around it, the bullet hole spouting blood from its chest. Sometimes the stag would be cursing Devlin, shouting that he was a murderer, demanding that the hunter be brought to justice.
Justice for Devlin would be grim indeed. But as far as he knew, he was the only one in all of Galamore who knew it had happened.
This all came as a great shame to him as a hunter. It was an unwritten creed that hunters didn’t go after brights. To do so made a man a rogue hunter, and rogue hunters were always strung up if caught. There had been plenty of accidents throughout the years by other hunters. Devlin never really knew what became of those accidents, but he imagined it wasn’t good.
Devlin’s current predicament wasn’t the worst situation he’d ever been in by a long shot. He wasn’t particularly upset but for the fact that the outlaw had taken his rifle. What that man didn’t know was that he’d stolen one of the nicest rifles ever made. This was Devlin’s opinion, of course, but his opinion mattered in this case. If there was a man who knew rifles, it was Devlin.
The one the outlaw now carried had been made of the finest materials, and was calibrated perfectly. It had been made by Devlin’s grandfather, and time had only made the rifle better. Devlin cared for that thing like it was his child. He couldn’t count the number of bears and elk he had taken down with that rifle, and from distances that Devlin kept to himself for fear of being labeled a fibber. It was all right to him that he knew the truth. Devlin was a good shot, but he wouldn’t have made those shots with a lesser gun.
If there was anything motivating him to go after the outlaw, it was getting that weapon back. Even still, Devlin figured it was as good as gone now. He may have loved the rifle, but he supposed it wasn’t worth dying over. Few things were.
Eventually, he tugged and pulled at the reins, and worked the knot until he was free of his bonds, then tossed the reins under a nearby bush. He reached down and picked up his saber, sheathed it, and started his walk to the road and toward Tel Haven. He stopped suddenly when he realized how all this would look. He was clean as a whistle, but he had no horse, and no gun. It was as if he’d just given his stuff away to the enemies without a fight—which was what happened, he guessed.
There needed to be sign of a struggle. He needed to look like he had fought vigorously and had barely come away with his life. Devlin didn’t fear pain, but that didn’t mean he wished it upon himself. He took a deep breath as he looked at the ground, spotting a fist-sized rock near a creek bank. He walked to it and took note of its jagged edges that would do exactly as he needed.
His heart pounded as he readied himself. He sat his bottom on the ground and rested his back against the trunk of a large tree. He didn’t know why, but he figured that sitting would make this whole process easier. He stared at the rock in his right hand as if it was his enemy. It was an object that wished him harm. Devlin’s breathing became more rapid as he tried to steady himself for the blow to come. He then gritted his teeth and gripped the rock even tighter, and finally, he held his hand up in the air and brought the rock down on his cheek.
The hit stunned him for a moment, but he knew it wasn’t enough. It had to look like a real fight. He reached for his cheek and cursed when he realized the stone hadn’t even broken his skin. There was something about doing this to himself that made it difficult. He felt like he could take the pain if it had been dealt by someone else, but for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
He shook his head. There was no one else. It wasn’t like he could go to Marum or her friend and ask them to beat him to a bloody pulp. Besides, they were too far away now.
Devlin stood to his feet, knowing that sitting only made him too comfortable. He stood in a crouching position, staring at the rock in his right hand.
“I can do this…I can do this…” He chanted this to himself over and over until he slammed the rock into the side of his cheek, this time with a much harder force. Devlin fell to his knees, stunned by the blow. He yelled, letting his chest fall to the ground. He smacked his palm against the dirt, feeling like he was unable to continue. But a Ranger would have to be more severely beaten to make the scenario believable. He sat himself back onto his knees and he swung the rock into his nose. A loud crack reverberated through the trees and Devlin could taste blood pouring into his mouth.
He fell to the ground again, only this time he rolled onto his back. All Devlin could feel was a numb pain and the wetness of blood covering him. For a moment, even he might have truly believed that the fugitives were on top of him, beating him mercilessly, but in his heart, he knew this wasn’t enough. He grabbed his knife from his boot, and pressed the sharp tip against the wool at his shoulder. He sucked in as much air into his lungs as possible and let it out slowly.
I can do this…I can do this…, he thought to himself over and over.
With a forceful push, the blade slipped cleanly past his skin and through his shoulder, the tip protruding through his back.
Devlin’s eyes went wide and his mouth formed into a grimace as the pain seared through him. He let out a loud gasp that transformed into a
scream that echoed through the entire forest. He jerked the knife out quickly and raised himself up to all fours, staring into the dirt as the blood trickled from his wounds, pooling in front of his eyes. The pain in his own shoulder and back were almost unbearable. Why had he gone so far? The beating might have been enough, but now he looked like the criminals had barely let him escape with his life.
Somehow, Devlin was able to manage a slight grin at the thought. Maybe it was the crazy coming through, his maniacal thoughts clouding his mind. That’s what he wanted the others to think. They would quickly look past the escape if the gray elf had barely left Devlin alive. They would be more worried about his health, wouldn’t they?
After a few agonizing moments, Devlin stood to his feet and began making his way down the road toward Tel Haven. He managed to tie some fabric around his shoulder, though the location of the wound made it very difficult to stop the bleeding. His head felt like it was going to burst. The cold air bit at his cuts and he could barely walk in a straight line. He couldn’t help but think about the creatures in the woods that might be drawn to the smell of his blood. A new fear gripped him that he had not anticipated before trying this tactic.
As he wandered down the road, he thought that he probably should have tried to fight Marum and her helper. Only a coward would have let her go like he had. But Devlin was no Ranger and he knew it. He had been forced into the position. He had never asked for it. He never wanted it. Being a Ranger meant fighting a battle eventually. Battle was the last thing Devlin wanted or even understood. He couldn’t figure why people wanted to kill each other. The only thing Devlin understood was surviving in the forests and tracking game. It was what he used to live for. But knowledge of the hunt made him acutely aware of the beasts that might be tracking him now.
Keeper of the Books (Keeper of the Books, Book 1) Page 9