Devlin raised his head as Lieutenant Didrik entered the clerk’s office, which Devlin had commandeered as his own.
“I have the roster of names. All are volunteers. Most of them you will know, though there are three green recruits who joined up only this past month.”
Devlin scanned the list, nodding as he saw familiar names. As he had requested, the guards selected were of the junior rank, having served less than five years. He smiled as he saw Behra’s name on the list. So Behra had finally been released from duty at the gaol, his punishment for letting Devlin slip away that midwinter night.
“Sergeant Henrik is to lead? A good choice,” Devlin commented. Henrik was a twenty-year veteran, and his experience would prove a steadying influence on the young guards.
Lieutenant Didrik cleared his throat. “Actually I am to lead.”
Devlin leaned back in his chair. “No. Captain Drakken needs your experience here. Why else do you think I asked for the novices, those whose skills will be missed the least?”
Lieutenant Didrik drew himself erect and thumped his right fist on his chest in the Guard’s salute. “I serve as my Captain commands. It would dishonor the Guard to send you forth with only a sergeant, when the Royal Army will surely send an officer with their men.”
Devlin snorted. “What you meant to say is that Captain Drakken fears that without an officer to lead them, the guards will find themselves under the command of the Royal Army.”
“It is not my place to speculate on the reasons behind her orders.”
It was a reasonable concern. When he had first conceived this journey, Devlin had had no intention of inviting the Royal Army along. He knew well the rivalry between the army and the Guard, and that to mix the two would be awkward and potentially dangerous. Then in the council chamber, Devlin had realized there was no other way to gain Duke Gerhard’s approval of the plan. And so he had made the offer, and the Duke had accepted. Now it was up to Devlin to make this work.
Perhaps it would be best to have Lieutenant Didrik along. Should something happen to Devlin, the guards would need a strong leader who could assume command.
“You may tell Captain Drakken I am grateful for her assistance,” Devlin said.
“It is an honor to serve the Chosen One,” Lieutenant Didrik replied. It was impossible to tell if he was serious or mocking.
Devlin glanced down at the paper-strewn desk, and began leafing through the parchments till he found the list from the quartermaster. “Here is your first assignment,” he said, handing the list over to the lieutenant. “Make sure each guard has drawn supplies from the quartermaster, according to this list. Each horse is to be newly shod, and I want you personally to inspect their harness and tack. Then go to the guards and inspect their weapons. Any that are unprepared should have their names struck from the list, and substitute another. Understood?”
“Yes, my lord Chosen One.”
“And if you call me my lord Chosen One again, I will take it upon myself to teach you better manners,” Devlin growled.
“The lieutenant wishes to remind the Chosen One that he is still your master at the sword,” Lieutenant Didrik said.
There was a knock at the door, then it swung open, revealing an Ensign in the blue-and-scarlet uniform of the Royal Army.
For a moment Devlin felt unease, as he recognized the hated uniform of his conquerors. For the Ensign wore not the dress uniform of the court, but the field uniforms that were worn by those who had conquered Duncaer, and who now maintained control through their garrisons and fortresses.
“Ensign Greger Mikkelson,” he said, entering the room, and saluting in the manner of the Royal Army, placing his hand on his heart and inclining his head. He was in his midtwenties—old still to be only an Ensign in the Royal Army, with its many officer ranks.
Ensign Mikkelson held the pose for a long moment, then straightened as he realized that Devlin had no intention of returning the salute.
“You are late,” Devlin said. “I had expected you at first light.”
Ensign Mikkelson blinked. “I came as soon as I had my orders, and I made all haste in doing so.”
Didrik and Devlin exchanged glances. “So they could not decide who would be their sacrifice. Tell me, Ensign, what mistake have you committed? Whom did you offend to be named to this assignment?”
“I do not understand your question,” Ensign Mikkelson said, drawing himself even more stiffly erect, if that were possible.
Devlin shook his head. “You will need to be a better liar if you are ever to advance beyond your present station. Didrik, show the Ensign how it is done.”
Didrik’s eyes danced with laughter. “It is an honor to serve the Chosen One,” he said straight-faced.
“See? That is how to lie properly,” Devlin said.
The Ensign said nothing, but confusion was written plainly on his face. There was no sense in tormenting him any longer, so Devlin began to give his orders.
“We will leave at noon tomorrow. If you and your troops are not here by then, we will leave without you.”
“But—”
“Do not interrupt me,” Devlin said. “Here is a list of supplies that each soldier will require. You will personally ensure that all is in readiness. Any soldier who lacks proper equipment or supplies will be left behind. I want fourteen soldiers and one officer, no more. Two packhorses will carry supplies, but that is all. There are to be no servants, no luxuries. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Ensign Mikkelson said stiffly.
He knew he had offended the Ensign, and it was a poor way to begin this journey. But neither did he have time for soothing ruffled sensibilities or coddling those who had not the wits to cooperate on their own.
Devlin rose from his seat and unbuttoned the collar on his tunic. “Do you see this?” he asked, the fingers of his right hand tracing the faint scar left behind by the garrote.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. My orders may seem strict, but I want you to understand that this journey is no lark. I fully expect that all of us will see fighting before we are done.”
“You mean we will be attacked?”
“Of a surety. I am the Chosen One, and I cannot even go to a tavern without risking my life. This scar on my neck is a reminder of just how much my enemies wish to get rid of me. If you journey with me, you will become targets as well. And if we do not encounter assassins, then there are always outlaws, border raiders, pirates, and hellborn creatures waiting for us.”
“But Korinth is a peaceful province,” Ensign Mikkelson protested.
Ah. Devlin had been wondering just how much the treacherous Erling had revealed of their plans.
“Korinth is but one of the provinces I wish to inspect,” Devlin replied. This was the story he had agreed on with the others. Only a handful knew the truth. And should his instincts be proven false, after journeying to Korinth there were other provinces to the south and east that could use the help of the Chosen One.
Devlin unrolled the map. “Come, see,” he said. “We will begin our journey here, and then travel till we reach the coastal provinces. From there we will journey through Arkilde, Rosmaar, and then into Korinth,” he said, his finger tracing the border of the Kingdom. “Beyond Korinth we will continue along the borderlands until we reach Myrka. And if any of us are still alive by that time, we will turn west toward Denvir and Tamarack.”
Ensign Mikkelson swallowed hard. “This is no easy journey you propose.”
“The Kingdom is crumbling around us,” Lieutenant Didrik said. “We have no time for pleasure jaunts. And should the task prove beyond your abilities, no matter. We of the Guard know the meaning of service.”
“Even the least of my soldiers is more than a match for any of yours,” Ensign Mikkelson said hotly.
“Enough,” Devlin said. “You do not have time to quarrel. It is past noon, and you and your soldiers have less than a day to prepare for the journey. If I were you, I would take this list of s
upplies and leave at once.”
Ensign Mikkelson gave one hard look at Didrik and turned back to face Devlin. “As you command, Chosen One,” he said.
After he left, Lieutenant Didrik shook his head slowly. “I do not trust him. There is going to be trouble.”
A part of Devlin agreed, but as the leader of the expedition he knew it was up to him to set the tone. “It takes two to quarrel. If there is trouble, I will punish both guards and soldiers alike. There are to be no training accidents, no so-called jokes gone awry. You will give Ensign Mikkelson and his soldiers the respect they deserve, or I will send the lot of you back to Kingsholm and continue alone.”
“We will not start trouble,” Lieutenant Didrik said. “But—”
“There are no buts,” Devlin said. “Think with your head, not your pride. If it comes to open warfare, Jorsk will need all of her warriors, both guards and soldiers, to work together. How can you expect to save the Kingdom if you cannot manage to journey in peace with a mere Ensign and a squad of soldiers?”
Lieutenant Didrik’s face colored with embarrassment. “I understand. But will he?”
“I do not know. But we will give him the benefit of the doubt. For now.”
Stephen watched as Devlin and Captain Drakken moved among the guards, ensuring that all was in readiness. He could not hear what they were saying, but from time to time Devlin nodded, as if he were receiving last-minute words of advice. Once he glanced toward the sun, but if he was concerned that the Royal Army troops had not yet appeared, he made no sign.
From the palace tower the noon bell began to ring, and was then echoed by the bells in the city below. Devlin walked over to the groom that held his horse. “Mount up,” he ordered.
Stephen mounted his horse, while the guards, after pausing to exchange final embraces with lovers and friends, did the same. Then Devlin led the procession from the courtyard. Stephen guided his own horse just behind Devlin’s, and Lieutenant Didrik drew alongside him, followed by the fourteen guards.
Devlin’s expression was unreadable, but Stephen knew him well enough to know that underneath that impassive façade he was furious that the soldiers of the Royal Army had failed to make their appearance by the appointed hour.
They wound their way through the city until they reached the great market square, with its milling throngs of vendors and city folk. Stephen let his gaze wander over the crowds, knowing it would be a long time before he saw the place again. There was movement at the far edge of the square, and Stephen caught a glimpse of a blue-and-red pennant fluttering in the breeze.
Lieutenant Didrik had seen it as well. “Chosen One, look. There to the left.”
Devlin turned his head. “I see them,” he said. “Ride on.”
They continued across the market square, reaching the eastern gate of the city before the Royal Army troops caught up with them.
An army Ensign followed by a Sergeant carrying the army pennant rode up alongside Devlin. “My lord Chosen One, we tried—” he began.
Devlin held up his left hand to cut off the flow of words. “When I give an order, I expect it to be obeyed. This time I will let it pass, but fail me again and I will not be so lenient. Tell your soldiers to fall in behind the Guard.”
“But—”
“Have them fall in behind the Guard, then return to ride with me to make your report.”
“Yes, my lord,” the Ensign said.
As they passed out of the city through the eastern gate, the guardsmen on duty drew stiffly to attention and saluted, which Devlin acknowledged with a nod of his head. Once outside the city, the guards aligned themselves into columns of two and the soldiers formed up behind them. A few minutes later, the Ensign returned.
Stephen, curious to hear what would be said, drew his horse up closely behind the pair, and Lieutenant Didrik did the same.
Devlin began by gesturing behind him. “You have already met Lieutenant Didrik, who commands the guards. Beside him is Stephen of Esker, who has consented to join us. This is Ensign Mikkelson, of the Royal Army.”
“It is an honor to make your acquaintance,” Stephen said, with his best seated bow, but the Ensign’s eyes swept over him without acknowledging his presence. Then he turned back to face Devlin.
“What is the meaning of this? You said there were to be no luxuries, and yet you bring your own minstrel to record the glory of your deeds?”
Stephen cringed, waiting for the explosion.
“You should not be so quick to pass judgment on others,” Devlin said in icy tones. “Stephen of Esker has proven his courage and his friendship. Twice now he has faced death by my side, against horrors that you can barely imagine. I am honored that he chooses to join us and risk his life again. Tell me, Ensign, when was the last time you drew your sword against an enemy?”
Lieutenant Didrik snickered. Stephen felt his face grow hot at Devlin’s words of praise, but he knew his discomfort was nothing compared to what the Ensign must be experiencing.
“I have not had the honor of serving in combat,” Ensign Mikkelson admitted in a low voice. “I apologize if I have given offense.”
“It is Stephen’s pardon that you must beg,” Devlin said.
The Ensign turned around awkwardly in the saddle. “I crave your pardon.”
“The words are already forgotten,” Stephen replied, wishing to spare the Ensign farther embarrassment.
“Now, Ensign, tell me of the soldiers you have brought. What are their skills and their experiences? Have any journeyed to the borderlands before? Tell us what you know, and we will decide how best we can use them.”
Devlin waved his hand, and Lieutenant Didrik drew his horse along his right side. The discussion turned to matters of military strategy, and Stephen was content to let his horse fall behind, for he had no interest in such details.
That night they camped in a fallow field, lent to them by a farmer. The guards and the soldiers set up separate camps, with their own cookfires. After they ate, Devlin called everyone together.
They gathered in a loose circle around him, the guards to his right, the soldiers to his left, each group leaving a careful space between itself and the other.
“Sit,” he ordered.
He scanned their faces. The guards seemed relaxed and curious as to what he had to say. Most of them he knew, either from lessons with the throwing knives or because, like Behra, they had been assigned to shadow him.
Then he looked to his left, where the soldiers sat sullenly. He could feel the waves of resentment rising from them. Most refused to meet his eyes. All afternoon he had felt their gazes boring into his back. If looks could slay, Devlin would have died a dozen times over.
He could endure their resentment, and even their hatred. He cared little for what they thought of him. But he had to have their obedience.
Devlin turned to his right. “Guards, I thank you for presence. You have volunteered for this mission, which speaks well of your courage, if not your common sense.” At this some of the guards chuckled.
Then he turned to face the soldiers of the Royal Army. “Like Ensign Mikkelson, you were ordered to take this duty. I neither know nor care the reasons why you were selected, but those who journey with me will need to understand why we go forth.”
He paused, wondering how to phase his message, and decided plain speaking was best. “Who can tell me what the Chosen One is?”
“A damn fool,” one of the soldiers said.
Ensign Mikkelson half rose, his head turning as he sought to identify the culprit. “Who said that?” he asked.
“Rest easy, Ensign,” Devlin ordered. “I will not punish someone for speaking their mind. It is true that many would call me a fool. But that is the least part of being Chosen One. My rank makes me an easy target for all those who would strike at Jorsk, and yet at the same time it demands that I defend the Kingdom to the utmost limits of my strength and abilities. And I expect the same from each one of you, soldier and guard alike. If I give an order,
I expect it to be obeyed. Failure is not acceptable, for the price of failure is death.”
His eyes swept over the soldiers, trying to see if his words were sinking in. A few looked thoughtful, but most had the sullen look of men and women who had already made up their minds. “Remember that I am the Chosen One. I am your commander, and you will look to me for orders. Lieutenant Didrik and Ensign Mikkelson will serve me, but it is my orders they will pass on.”
“We serve our General, Duke Gerhard,” a woman objected.
Devlin nailed her with his eyes. “You serve at my command, or not at all. This is no pleasure jaunt. As the Chosen One, I invoke my power as war leader. Anyone who disobeys one of my commands will face summary justice. Do you understand?”
The woman swallowed hard. “I understand,” she said, as the soldiers exchanged glances among themselves.
As Chosen One, Devlin had the power to execute both high and low justice. He could pass sentence as a magistrate, as he had done with the inn-wife. Or he could execute military justice. And execute was indeed the right word, for the penalty for disobeying orders during war-time was death.
“As I have told your leaders,” he said, turning slowly in a circle, “I fully expect that we will see combat on this trip. You will be asked to risk your lives at my command. And if the recent history of the Chosen Ones is any guide, it is likely that many of us will perish. If any man or woman here is unwilling to journey with us, they have but to speak, and you may return to your comrades.”
“They will hang us as deserters,” a man objected.
Devlin shook his head. “There will be no punishment. Anyone who chooses to leave will be given written orders and a token, proving that I commanded you to return.”
“Chosen One, you cannot do this,” Ensign Mikkelson said, rising to his feet. “These are my soldiers, under my command.”
“No. These soldiers are under my command now. As are you. And the offer applies to you as well. If you cannot carry out my orders, then now is the time for you to leave.”
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