Devlin's Luck

by Patricia Bray

  The bright afternoon sun beat down on Devlin, reflecting off the water until his eyes were dazzled. He put one hand to his brow and strained his gaze, but the surface of the lake was still. No sign of the creature.

  “Again?” asked Eynar, the grizzled old fisherman who had finally been chosen as Devlin’s rower.

  “Again,” Devlin said.

  Eynar lifted his left oar and used the right oar to turn the boat around, careful not to foul the lines that tethered them to the shore. Then he dipped both oars in the water and began to row.

  They had been on the lake for nearly three hours, rowing back and forth in an arc across one end while the villagers watched anxiously from the safety of the shore. Perched along the rocky sides were two dozen men and women equipped with a variety of small hunting bows and ancient longbows. Devlin’s own transverse bow, with its metal bolts, was in the hands of the minstrel Stephen.

  From the shore, the odor of frying fish wafted toward him. Devlin had ordered the villagers to dig into their precious stores and cook the fish, in the hope that the creature would be attracted by the smell.

  He bent to examine the folded net, which lay in the bottom of the boat, and the coiled ends of the two ropes that stretched toward shore. The ropes, which had looked so long on land, now seemed a pitifully short tether. Yet Eynar had assured him that the monster had been known to come nearly to the shore in search of prey.

  The minutes dragged on, and Devlin’s nerves stretched taut. He hated this inaction. Yet he knew he had done all he could. Now it was up to the creature to make an appearance.

  They reached the end of the circuit, and Eynar turned the boat around. Devlin glanced at the lake, then at the sun, which was swiftly approaching the horizon. It would be twilight soon, and the fading light would make it difficult for the archers.

  “Another time across,” Devlin said. “And then we will return to shore and try again on the morrow.”

  “Could have told you nothing would come of this,” Eynar muttered. But he bent his back into the oars with a will, speeding the boat across the surface of the water.

  What would he do if the monster failed to appear tomorrow? Should he try again at a different section of the lake? Devlin allowed his mind to drift as he considered the possibilities.

  Suddenly the boat rocked back and forth as a wave rippled through the water. Devlin grabbed the sides just as the skrimsal began to surface, not ten yards from the tiny boat. First to appear was a monstrous head, easily the size of a grown man, with two great horns, large yellow eyes, and teeth like ivory daggers. Lifting its head on its long snakelike neck, the body of the creature appeared on the surface of the water. The sunlight shone off the skrimsal’s glistening deep blue scales. It would have been a wondrous sight if not for the malice that lurked behind its gaze.

  Devlin froze as the creature raised its head to its full extent. Nothing the villagers had told him had prepared him for what he saw. The great head swiveled around, then fixed its attention squarely on the boat. With a gentle stroke of its flippers, the skrimsal began to glide toward them.

  They were doomed, a small voice in the back of his mind gibbered. No one could defeat such a creature. But the Geas held him firmly in place, patiently waiting until the creature was within range.

  Eynar gave a frightened cry, then jumped into the water and began furiously swimming toward shore. His panicked flight caught the attention of the creature, which swiveled its neck to pursue.

  Devlin saw his chance. He gathered the net in his hands and, just as the creature glided by, Devlin made his throw.

  The net sailed through the air, catching the creature squarely on the head, which had been lowered in its pursuit of the fisherman. The ropes caught over one of the great horns and around the neck ruff, the weighted rocks pulling the net down toward the water.

  The creature hissed with displeasure and raised its neck. Devlin grabbed his axe from the bottom of the boat and tore off the leather covering, ready to strike should the creature venture near.

  “Now!” he screamed, but the archers needed no signal, for the first arrow flew over his head and splashed harmlessly into the water near the skrimsal.

  A volley of half a dozen arrows followed, and then another. Most arrows fell into the water or bounced off the creature, but a few managed to penetrate its iridescent scales.

  He felt a fierce satisfaction as he realized his plan was working.

  The creature thrashed its head back and forth, trying to cast off the net. There was a loud crack as the first of the ropes holding it to shore parted. He watched in horror as the suddenly slack rope fell across the boat, the end disappearing into the lake.

  He realized it was only a matter of time before the other rope broke, and the creature broke free.

  “No!” This could not be. Not when he had come so close to success. If the creature escaped, it would be free to continue its deadly rampage. This might be their only chance, for both him and for the people of the lake. And he refused to acknowledge the possibility of defeat.

  Thrusting the axe through his belt, Devlin stood up and grabbed the dangling rope in both hands. The creature thrashed, and he was jerked off his feet, flung high in the air, then dunked into the water before rising once again. As the creature continued its struggles to break free, Devlin slowly began to climb the rope, which swayed and twisted like a wild thing, trying to throw him off.

  As he climbed, the skrimsal twisted its head to snap at him, but its own momentum swung the rope and carried Devlin out of harm’s way. A lucky arrow shot pierced the creature’s chin, and hung there like an absurd splinter. The skrimsal turned to locate this new threat, and Devlin resumed his ascent.

  He felt a burning pain in his left leg and looked down to see that an arrow had pierced him in the calf. Red blood streamed down his leg.

  His arms ached by the time he reached the first of the joined nets. Gratefully, he caught his feet in the lower netting and grasped hold of it with his hands. He clawed his way along the nets until he was perched on the back of the creature’s neck, just below the horny ridges of the neck ruff.

  The creature continued its struggles, but Devlin could see that the arrows were doing little damage. The villagers’ bows were meant for small forest game, and most bounced harmlessly off their target. If only he had brought trained archers with war-bows, or a squad of peacekeepers with their transverse bows, then they might have had a chance of felling the creature.

  He heard another loud crack, and realized that the second rope had broken. Any moment the creature would dive under and swim away.

  Holding tightly to the nets with his left hand, Devlin reached into his belt and withdrew the axe. Drawing back his right hand as far as he could, he swung the axe, and it embedded itself in the creature’s neck with a solid thunk.

  Dark purple blood oozed from the gash, but he knew it was no more than a flesh wound. It would take many more blows to kill the creature. Surely there must be a vulnerable spot. He tugged on the axe, preparing to make another try.

  The axe did not move. He tugged again, but still it would not come out.

  “By Egil’s forge,” he cursed. He needed that axe. Balancing himself on the precarious netting, he let go of the net and grabbed the axe with both hands.

  The creature swung its head, and Devlin felt himself losing his balance, but he refused to let go of the precious axe. His legs swung out from under him, then he felt the axe begin to move, carving a slice in the creature’s neck. The skrimsal shrieked and began to roll over as the axe, propelled by Devlin’s weight, continued to carve a bloody trail down the skrimsal’s neck.

  Hot blood gushed from the open wound, drenching his hands and forearms. The blood burned like acid, but despite the pain he grinned, for he knew that he had given the creature a death blow.

  As he continued sliding down the neck, Devlin also knew his own death was certain. The creature would crush him in its death throes, or he would drown in the lake. It d
id not matter how he died. What mattered was that he had completed his task. He had served as Chosen One with honor, and now he would receive the one boon that he truly craved.

  Cerrie, he thought, as his wife’s face swam before his eyes.

  With a final convulsion the creature thrashed from side to side, and Devlin was flung free. He felt himself sailing through the air, and then he knew no more.

  Thirteen

  “CHOSEN ONE?” STEPHEN CALLED AS HE ENTERED the room. “Devlin, they are all waiting for you.”

  Devlin looked up from the bed, where he sat propped up against the headboard. He still could not comprehend how he had survived. One moment he had been sure he was going to die, then he was lying on the sandy beach, retching as he vomited up the lake water he had swallowed.

  Too weak to move, he’d been unable to do more than utter a token protest as the villagers had carried him to the nearest cottage and installed him in the owner’s bed. Grumbling, he had permitted the village herbalist to dress the arrow wound on his leg. But the man’s obvious hero worship had disturbed him, and Devlin had ordered the herbalist to leave as soon as his task was done.

  Stephen had then arrived, eager to tell the tale of the monster’s death throes. In those last moments, the creature had thrown Devlin into the shallow waters near the village shore. Two foolhardy youths had ventured in to save him as the creature had flailed in its death agonies, its lifeblood pouring into the lake and turning it black.

  Stephen had wished to linger and recount the glorious struggle, but Devlin, once he was certain the creature was indeed dead, had no interest in hearing the minstrel’s tale. So Stephen had left, seeking a more appreciative audience.

  But now Stephen had returned.

  Devlin stroked his axe, which lay on the bed beside him. Even at the end he had not lost his grip, and the villagers had had to pry it out of his hands. Then they had lovingly cleaned it and coated the blade with oil, before restoring it to a place of honor by Devlin’s side. Somehow it seemed only fitting that as Devlin had survived, so too had the weapon that was bound up with his life.

  “They have a feast prepared,” Stephen said, breaking into his musings. “They want to show you their gratitude, and to celebrate the death of the monster.”

  Devlin shook his head. “No. I am in no mood for celebrations.”

  “But why not? You are a great hero. You saved these people. You saved their lives and their livelihoods, and now they want to thank you. What could be wrong with that?”

  He was not a hero. He had simply done what had to be done, spurred on by the Geas which could not fathom defeat. He had leapt not out of courage, but because he had no choice, comforted by the knowledge that he was going to his own death.

  But he knew he could not explain these things to the minstrel. Stephen’s eyes were shining with excitement, and a touch of the same hero worship that had infected the villagers. Devlin felt an enormous weight pressing down on him. He could not bear this. Not when he had yet to reconcile himself to the fact that he was still alive.

  “Tell the villagers that I am weary,” he said, and it was no more than the truth. “My wounds are paining me, and I must rest.”

  Stephen’s eyebrows drew together in a look of concern. “Is it your leg? I will run to fetch the herbalist.”

  It was not just the arrow in his leg. There was a litany of injuries that he’d refused to share with the herbalist. His right side ached, and it hurt to breathe. He’d probably cracked a rib or two. His arms and hands were sore, and there was a soft spot on his skull where a bruise was forming. But all told he’d come through the ordeal far better than he’d had any right to expect. Many would call him lucky to be alive.

  “No,” Devlin said. “I do not need a healer. I just need rest. But you go and join the fisherfolk at their feast. They need to celebrate, to remember that they are alive, and to convince themselves that the monster is truly gone. And for that they deserve the talents of the finest minstrel in Kingsholm.”

  “If you are certain,” Stephen said, preening under the flattery.

  “Go,” Devlin ordered.

  After Stephen left, Devlin allowed himself to sag back against the bed. Even that tiny movement caused pain to shoot through him, and he swore softly under his breath. Still, he had endured worse before and lived. In time the wounds would heal and the pain fade away to a memory.

  Once again the Gods had spared him. He cursed them, even as he wondered what they intended for him next.

  The celebration lasted far into the night. From his cottage Devlin could hear the sounds of the revelers. But he did not envy them, for a thoughtful soul had supplied a tray of the finest food the village could offer and a clay jug filled with a clear liquid called kelje. The seven different forms of fish that were offered reminded him unpleasantly of the skrimsal’s flesh, and he had pushed the tray aside without eating. But the kelje had proven a welcome surprise. Clear like water, it burned his throat like fire and settled into his stomach with a comforting warmth.

  The next morning he was paying for his indulgence. His head was heavy, his eyes sore, and he could barely manage to stand and dress himself. But he would not stay another day in the village, and had sent the woman of the cottage in search of Stephen, to tell him to make preparations to depart.

  As he stepped outside, the sunlight made his eyes water, and he lifted his hand to shade them.

  “Hail to the victor of the lake,” a voice shouted, and then a multitude of voices echoed, “Hail!”

  Devlin flinched. It seemed the entire village had assembled to see them off.

  Some of them looked a little worse for wear, as if they, too, had overindulged in spirits last night. But most faces wore the same expression of awe and fear that he had seen on the face of the herbalist the day before. His skin crawled as he realized that, though they looked at him, they did not see the man. Instead they saw a legend brought to life. No mortal man could live up to the image they had created.

  The village speaker advanced from the crowd, then bowed low, as if to the King. “Chosen One, the Gods sent you to aid us in our time of great peril. We will be forever in your debt, and we will sing your praises to the Gods each feast day, from now until the end of time.”

  Devlin felt nauseous. “I am but a man,” he protested. “Any could have done what I did.”

  The speaker shook his head. “You are modest but we all bore witness to your great deeds. Only a man with the heart of a wolf, the courage of a she-lion, and the strength of a river could have done as you did. Truly you are blessed by the Gods.”

  The heart of a wolf? The courage of a she-lion? Those phrases had the ring of minstrelsy. Of bad minstrelsy. Devlin’s eyes searched the crowd, and found Stephen standing at the edge, holding their two horses. He caught the minstrel’s gaze, with a look that promised later retribution.

  “I thank you for the gift of your hospitality,” he said to the speaker. “But we must travel onward now. Troubles wait for no man.”

  The villagers beamed at this fatuous bit of wisdom.

  Devlin beckoned Stephen, who led over the horses. His packs had already been loaded. Impatient to be gone, for once Devlin did not check the harness. Instead, he placed his left hand on the pommel, gritted his teeth, and with his right hand pulled himself into the saddle.

  Air hissed between his teeth as his ribs complained of the maneuver, but he forced himself to sit upright as if nothing was wrong. A woman handed him his axe, which he fastened to the saddle. Stephen mounted his own horse, and after another exchange of flowery compliments they were finally allowed to depart.

  They set off at a brisk trot, which made his head twinge with every stride. A band of young children ran after them for a short distance, but after a while even the hardiest of them turned back. When he was finally certain they were no longer being observed, Devlin eased his horse into an ambling walk and allowed himself to slump in the saddle.

  “Chosen One?” Stephen asked.

>   “My name is Devlin,” he said, unwilling to put up with this nonsense. “Use it, or call me not at all.”

  “Devlin, then. You look ill. Are you sure we should leave today? Perhaps we had better return and rest until you are well.”

  “I am not ill. I have drink taken.”

  “You have what?”

  “Last night. That kelje. I must have had the whole jug before I fell asleep.”

  “You were drunk,” Stephen accused.

  “Yes. And now I must pay the price for my misdeeds. So please, speak softly. And no singing. No playing your lute. Just … quiet.”

  They rode in silence for the rest of the morning, pausing only at noon to rest their horses and to eat the fish pastries the villagers had prepared. Devlin found the food dry and tasteless, and consumed no more than a few bites. Remounting his horse was harder than it had been that morning, but he managed it without letting Stephen see how much the effort cost.

  By now his head was throbbing, and there was a mist across his vision. Where the creature’s blood had splashed him, his skin was turning red and peeling as if sunburned, and it itched ferociously. He wound his hands tightly in the reins, trying to resist the urge to tear at his flesh.

  This was no simple hangover. And he was getting worse, not better. He opened his mouth to call out to Stephen, who had ridden ahead, then closed it. What would he say? If he confessed his weakness, the minstrel would insist that they return to Greenhalt. And he would not do that. He refused to return to that place, which insisted on treating him as both less and more than a mortal man.

  Devlin would take his chances on the road. Either the fever would pass, or it would not. Perhaps the monster had killed him after all. It was just taking Devlin’s body time to realize it had received its death blow.

  It was the third day since they had left Greenhalt, and by now Stephen had realized that something was dreadfully wrong with his companion. Devlin’s excuse of a hangover had seemed reasonable on the first day, and his fatigue that night explainable as a result of his ordeal.