Devlin's Luck

by Patricia Bray

  The King gestured, a languid wave of one hand, and Devlin took this as a sign that he was to take a seat. He did so, with a slight nod of his head.

  From the sour expression on Countess Ingeleth’s face, he knew he had broken at least one of the rules of propriety. So be it. They had not sought him out for his advice on manners.

  “Your Majesty summoned me?” he prompted.

  King Olafur sighed, and rubbed his chin in thought.

  “There is no need for this,” an elderly councilor muttered.

  Countess Ingeleth glared at the councilor, then turned her attention to Devlin.

  “The King has received a petition from Greenhalt on Long Lake. Greenhalt is one of several small villages along the lake that make their living from fishing. It seems that something or someone is attacking the fisherfolk and devouring the fish in the lake. The villagers sent to Lord Brynjolf, the Baron of Esker, but he was unable to aid them, and so they have petitioned the King.” Her tone was even, as if she were describing a minor nuisance.

  “I tell you, it is all a ploy by that crafty Brynjolf. He’s already behind in his taxes, and is hoping to use this as an excuse to avoid paying this year’s harvest tax,” the Royal Steward said. “This is a fool’s errand. There is no creature. There is nothing wrong except lazy villagers and a feckless lord.”

  Well at least his opinion on the matter was clear.

  “I don’t understand why Lord Brynjolf doesn’t send his own armsmen to take care of this, rather than come begging to the King,” Lord Baldur said. “Surely even a petty lord can dispose of such a trifling disturbance.”

  The Guard lieutenant cleared his throat. “May I remind the councilor that Lord Brynjolf has already sent over half his armsmen to Ringstad, to help them patrol the border? The armsmen he has left are scarce enough to secure his own Barony.”

  “Indeed,” Duke Gerhard said, with a touch of condescension, “there has been much restlessness along the borders. It is why I fear committing my own troops. Although, of course, should the King wish it, I would obey your royal command.”

  “No, no,” the King said swiftly. “We need the Royal Army in garrison, ready for when our true foe shows his face. We cannot have them haring off all over the country. This creature could be an attempt to dilute our forces and distract us from the real danger.”

  Devlin leaned back in his chair, getting a grim pleasure as he observed the interplay of the court. He was learning more about allegiances in a few minutes than he had in the past fortnight. The councilors seemed stubbornly prepared to argue their positions, never mind that all present, including himself, knew what the answer would be.

  “The Guard stands at your service,” the lieutenant said. “I know Captain Drakken would approve of a plan to send a small party to investigate the problem, and to report their findings to the council.”

  Devlin did not like the sound of that. He did not want an escort. He did not want companionship of any sort. The guards would slow him down, and worse yet, their help might improve the chances of his survival.

  “So now we have guards to spare? Only the other day, your Captain Drakken was in here arguing that we needed to fund more guards to keep the city secure. She will not thank you for making her look foolish,” the Royal Steward said.

  The lieutenant flushed.

  “There is only the one monster in that one lake?” asked the woman on his left. “And no one has reported that it flies or hops on land?”

  “It seems confined to the lake. So far,” Countess Ingeleth said cautiously.

  “Well then it is simple,” the woman declared. “Instruct Lord Brynjolf to find other lands for his people, and if the creature wants that lake, leave him to it.”

  Devlin turned to stare at the woman. How could she be so callous? Didn’t she realize what it would mean to these simple folk to give up their lands and their livelihoods? To lose the place where they had been born, where generations before them had lived and died? They would lose everything and be forced to become beggars, dependent on the charity of their lord and their countrymen. And from what he had seen, the charity of Jorskians would make cold comfort indeed.

  “Enough,” he said, rising to his feet. “There is no need to wrap it up in fine linen. We all know why I am here, and why the good steward there parted with ten golden disks in the King’s name. If there is an evil creature in that lake, then it is the task of the Chosen One to destroy it.”

  As he said the words, he could feel the faint tickle of the Geas as its power stirred within his soul. He had committed himself to this quest, and unless a greater danger arose, nothing, save his own death, could stop him from seeking out the mystery of the lake creature.

  “I am not certain this is wise—” the King began.

  “I am.” Devlin said shortly, ignoring the gasps that arose at his impertinence in interrupting the King.

  His eyes swept the room, memorizing their expressions. Lady Ingeleth was calm, Lord Baldur appeared amused, and Duke Gerhard’s face wore a subtle sneer. Only the face of the Guard lieutenant held any trace of sympathy—or understanding of what Devlin had committed himself to do.

  “King Olafur. Gentle nobles. Is there anything more you can tell me about this creature?”

  “I will send the reports to your chambers,” Lady Ingeleth said.

  “I thank you for your courtesy,” he said. “And now I will away, to begin preparations. By your leave, Your Majesty.”

  He left the room without waiting for the King’s response. He knew if he stayed he would be unable to hold his tongue, and would give vent to the contempt he felt for councilors who cared so little about the people they served. With the luck of the Gods this errand would be his last, and he would be free of these councilors and their ilk forever.

  Lady Ingeleth had been as good as her word. She had sent along copies of the politely worded request from Lord Brynjolf, the Baron of Esker, and the less polished but more heartfelt pleas of the fisherfolk. The fisherfolk described the creature as a giant skrimsal, which seemed to be their name for a water serpent. Along with the petitions was a map of Esker, showing the location of Long Lake, with a circle marking the location of Greenhalt.

  Devlin studied the documents with care, but learned little more than he had from the council session. The villagers were afraid. Their lord was concerned, but unable to help them.

  The map proved more helpful. It showed that Esker lay to the northwest. He would have to travel along the Kalla River, through the province of Kalveland, and then cross another river before he reached Esker. His finger traced the route. Kingsholm was as far north as he had ever ventured, but the route did not look too hard. The country he would travel through was hilly, but that would be no challenge to one raised in the mountains of Duncaer.

  Opening the cedar chest, he withdrew the saddlebags he had acquired on his last journey and placed them on the bed. Swiftly he began to pack. A spare uniform, two shirts, a set of smallclothes and several pairs of socks went into one saddlebag. In there, too, went spare bolts for the transverse bow, and a purse filled with the King’s coins.

  Into the other saddlebag went his cooking pot, utensils, and a firestone. He would draw upon supplies from the Guard’s stores before he left.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “Enter,” he called.

  The door opened, revealing the minstrel Stephen.

  “Chosen One, I—” he began.

  “I have no time for idle chatter,” Devlin said. “You had best be on your way.”

  The minstrel flushed, but he raised his chin and came into the room. “I heard that you are leaving for Esker.”

  “You hear well.”

  “Then you will need a guide and companion. I am here to offer my services.”

  “I need no companion,” Devlin said firmly. He did not need this young man, with his constant questions and absurd belief that the Chosen One was a mythic being. Especially when Devlin considered that anything he said o
r did was likely to prove fodder for the minstrel’s songs. “If I need a guide, I will hire one when I reach Esker.”

  “But there is no need for that. I am of Esker. I know the roads and I know the people. With me as your guide, your journey will be faster.”

  The minstrel’s words held a certain logic, but Devlin was not convinced. The advantages of the minstrel’s presence were outweighed by the fear of having another person close to him for any length of time. Devlin had too many secrets to keep. He could not afford to get close to anyone, or to let anyone get close to him.

  He opened his mouth to refuse, but instead heard himself say, “I accept your offer.”

  He closed his mouth with a snap. He could feel the Geas, asleep no longer. Its power had stirred to life once he had committed himself to this quest, and now it would not let him act to serve his own comfort and peace of mind. The Geas recognized only one priority, and that was the welfare of the Kingdom.

  “You will not regret this,” Stephen said, taking Devlin’s hand and wringing it enthusiastically.

  He was regretting it already. But he refused to explain to the minstrel that the Geas had been the one to accept him, not Devlin the man. There was no reason to reveal the extent of his weakness to another.

  “You will need a horse,” he said, instead.

  Stephen nodded. “I had thought of that. I purchased a mount this afternoon, with what was left of Master Dreng’s silver.”

  Had it ever occurred to the minstrel that Devlin might refuse? What had he been planning on doing then? Attempting to follow Devlin on his own? Skulking along the trail like a gangly wraith, waiting till Devlin changed his mind?

  Had Devlin ever been that young or that hopeful? He tried, but could not remember such a time. There were less than ten years in age between himself and young Stephen, but that was as the suns counted. In terms of experience, Devlin was a thousand years older than the minstrel was, or ever would be.

  “I will leave at first light. Meet me in the courtyard then, or I will set off on my own.”

  “I will be there,” Stephen said, as he began backing out of the room. “And I thank you.”

  “You will not thank me when this is over,” Devlin warned, but the minstrel had already disappeared.

  Eleven

  THE CHOSEN ONE ARRIVED AT THE ROYAL STABLES as the pale light of near dawn began to brighten the skies. If he was surprised to find that Stephen had preceded him, he made no sign. He waited calmly as the groom brought out his horse, then he inspected the horse from bridle to tail, lifting each hoof to check the fastening of the iron shoe. Tugging on the saddle to ensure it was tightly girthed, he then fastened two saddlebags to the front of the saddle and lashed on a sack of provisions and skins of water behind. Lastly a rolled blanket and cloak were tied to the back.

  Stephen had already secured his own gear, but Devlin chose to inspect his mount as well, checking each strap and buckle. Stephen opened his mouth to protest, then shut it with a snap. There was no point in antagonizing the Chosen One. Not while he could still change his mind about allowing Stephen to accompany him.

  They rode out of the palace and down to the docks, where they boarded a flat-bottomed river barge. Though the barge was only half-filled, a few words from Devlin in his role as Chosen One were sufficient to inspire the barge owner to begin the trip, though he cursed mightily under his breath.

  They traveled downriver with the current for over a week. The passengers and crew ignored the Chosen One, a favor he returned. He also ignored Stephen’s few attempts at conversation or comradeship, eating alone and spending most of his time checking and rechecking his weapons, or working on small scraps of leather that he was fashioning into a kind of harness. But when asked what the harness was for, he only grunted.

  It was an inauspicious beginning for a glorious quest, and Stephen began to question the wisdom of his decision. Like most of the other residents of Kingsholm, Stephen had been astonished when the Chosen One had returned from his first errand still living, with barely a scratch to show for his adventures. Neither of the past two Chosen had lived through their first tasks. Though once the grim details began to emerge, Devlin’s survival seemed less a matter of skill and more one of luck. And his feat could hardly compare to the glorious deeds of the past Chosen. Bringing cowardly murderers to justice was necessary, but not even the finest of minstrels could compose a glorious song about such a squalid affair.

  On the other hand, the quest to defeat the creature of the lake had the hallmarks of a fine adventure. Whether Devlin defeated the creature or was killed in the attempt, it would make a glorious song—one which would win Stephen fame and the recognition he craved. For Stephen had found these months in the capital to be difficult. His talents for playing and singing, so highly praised in the province of Esker, seemed merely ordinary when compared to the skilled musicians of the capital. He needed something more to make him stand out.

  He needed a song. A great song that other minstrels would play, spreading Stephen’s name far and wide. And how better to write that song than to accompany the Chosen One on his journey and learn all about him? It was a good plan, but so far the Chosen One had refused to cooperate. Stephen could only hope that once free from the distractions of the river journey, Devlin would become more approachable.

  After eight days, they disembarked at a small village. The rest of the passengers remained on the barge for the trip to the seaport of Bezek.

  As they rode through Kalveland, Devlin did his best to ignore Stephen, speaking to him only when absolutely required. When afternoon wore into twilight, they found a small clearing and set up a camp for the night.

  Devlin saw to their mounts, while Stephen, who had appointed himself as cook, prepared the evening meal, boiling preserved meat in water to soften it, then frying it with cut-up tubers. Devlin accepted his plate with barely a grunt of acknowledgment, and ate it with solemn concentration.

  After the meal, Stephen took his lute from its case and began to tune it. Devlin frowned, but said nothing.

  Devlin withdrew a piece of folded leather from one saddlebag and unfolded it to reveal a half dozen thin blades nestled within. Gathering the blades in one hand, he rose, then walked over to a young pine and scratched an X at eye level. He turned and walked away, stopping when he had reached fourteen paces. Then he turned back to face the tree.

  Taking one knife in his right hand, he brought his hand up until it was next to his shoulder and let fly. The knife came to rest in the tree, about four feet from the ground. An inch to the left and it would have missed the tree entirely.

  Stephen watched, fascinated, his lute forgotten in his lap. He had never seen anything like it before. The second knife flashed through the air, turning end over end until the blade struck home. This shot was closer to the center, and slightly higher than the first. Four more knives flew through the air, the last one nearly on center.

  “Well done!” Stephen said.

  Devlin shook his head, as he walked over to retrieve the knives. “Too low. And off the mark by a handbreadth or more.”

  This time he held the knives in his right hand and prepared to throw with his left. The first shot went wild, missing the tree entirely. “Blast,” Devlin muttered.

  He gritted his teeth and tried again. This time he struck the tree, but with the haft of the knife, not the blade. The knife slid to the ground.

  The third throw went better, and actually stuck in the tree. After he had thrown all six knives, Devlin retrieved them and began again. He practiced until the twilight faded and he could no longer see the target.

  Returning to sit by the fire, Devlin began rubbing the first of the knives with a cloth, to remove the tree sap.

  “May I see one?” Stephen asked.

  Devlin flicked his hand, and the knife he had been cleaning embedded itself point first in the dirt next to Stephen’s foot.

  Stephen pulled the knife out and turned it over in his hands, marveling at its construct
ion. In length it was similar to a dagger, but the blade was far narrower. And unlike a dagger, the blade had no hilt. Instead it was a seamless piece of metal, requiring Devlin to grip it between his fingers as he threw.

  Stephen held it, as he had seen Devlin do, and aimed the knife at a nearby tree. He let it fly. The knife tumbled in the air and landed just a few feet from where he sat. Embarrassed, he rose to retrieve it, grateful that Devlin did not see fit to comment.

  “I have heard of throwing knives, but never have I seen them used. You must be quite skillful.”

  Devlin shook his head. “Hardly. I barely managed to find the tree with my knives, and when I hit the mark it was luck not skill. And this is only a tree. A target that moves is quite a different thing. But with practice I can regain my old skills.”

  Those were more words than Devlin had said all day.

  “You have used these before then?”

  “A long time ago,” Devlin said. “In Alvaren there are peacekeepers…I suppose you would call them guards. They practice with these, and when I was young and foolish I took a fancy to them as well. Ten years ago I could have hit that mark every time, with my eyes closed.”

  So Devlin had lived in Alvaren, the capital of Duncaer. And he had been friendly with the guards of that city. Perhaps that was why he was so comfortable around Sergeant Lukas and Captain Drakken. Certainly he had shown Captain Drakken more respect than he had shown anyone else.

  “But what need is there for such a weapon? Wouldn’t a bolt from the transverse bow serve equally well?”

  “Neither bow nor axe can be used well in a narrow space, or in a crowded dwelling, as I found to my cost. A skilled knifeman can strike the enemy before he can draw a breath.”

  “Why don’t you carry a sword?” Stephen asked. He himself was wearing a sword for the trip, a gift from his father.

  When he had imagined Devlin as a farmer, or an apprentice metalsmith, then it had seemed fitting that he carried a bow and a war-axe, as did most peasants. But the more he knew of Devlin, the more he realized that this man was no simple farmer. And a man who had trained with guards would have learned to use a sword.