“A shame it is, a real shame I say,” Olaf said, seemingly out of nowhere.
“What is a shame?” Devlin asked.
“The disappearance of the Assessor Brunin. That is why you are here then, isn’t it?”
“Who is this assessor?” Ensign Mikkelson asked.
Olaf rocked back on his heels. “Oh my, and you don’t know? Munin was the Baron’s assessor. He disappeared while collecting taxes, and the Baron’s men spent most of last month combing the roads for him.”
“I don’t understand. He disappeared last fall and they are only now beginning the search?” Ensign Mikkelson asked, in a tone that conveyed his scorn for the efforts of provincial armsmen.
“Oh no, no, not at all. The assessor made his rounds last fall with no sign of trouble. And no wonder, for who would be foolish enough to interfere with one of Baron Egeslic’s officials? No, the assessor set off on his rounds this spring, and never returned. We fear the worst has happened.” He leaned forward, and whispered. “And do you know what I think? I think slavers got him. Raiders from the sea came and took him away. That’s what I think.”
“Slavers?” Lieutenant Didrik asked. “It seems more likely a tax collector would find enemies closer to home.”
Olaf blanched. “No, not one of us. No one in Korinth would dream of such a thing,” he said, his face beginning to sweat. His eyes darted around, as if realizing for the first time that there were other patrons in the common room.
“I know some say that the spring tax is a hardship,” Olaf said, raising his voice slightly. “But those are just fools talking. Times are hard and the Baron protects us all. We pay our coins and the Baron gives us peace. Anyone can see that.”
What Devlin could see was that the tavern keeper was afraid. Afraid that his words would be reported to Lord Egeslic. His fear made no sense. Everyone grumbled about taxes, particularly when they gathered together in a tavern with strong drink. It was as constant a refrain as the weather, or speculations on the amorous adventures of those not present. And yet Olaf was clearly afraid to be heard criticizing the Baron and his taxes in public.
As if fearing contamination from their presence, Olaf began to back away, bowing nervously.
“Wait,” Devlin said. “Maybe we can be of service to your Baron. Where was the assessor when he disappeared?”
“On the coast road,” Olaf said, and then with a final bow he fled to the back room.
They watched him retreat.
“I take it we are to journey along the coast road?” Lieutenant Didrik asked.
“Indeed,” Devlin said shortly. “I doubt we will find what the Baron’s armsmen have missed, but it will do us no harm to have made the search.”
“Did you see—” Ensign Mikkelson began.
“Enough discussion for one night,” Devlin interrupted, jerking his head in the direction of the crowded common room. If there were informants hidden in the crowd, there was no sense in giving them any more knowledge than they already had.
Ensign Mikkelson nodded, to show that he had understood the message. “Of course, my lord Chosen One,” he said. “We can make our plans tomorrow, once we have had a night of rest.”
And once there was no danger of hidden listeners repeating their every word.
As they traveled toward the coast, the terrain gradually changed. The muddy roads under their horses’ hooves turned to sandy dirt, and the forest had given way to grassy hills dotted with scrubby bushes.
That morning he noticed a tang in the air, a strange metallic taste. When he remarked upon it, Stephen nodded knowledgeably and said they were drawing near to the sea. Then, as they crested a hill, Devlin looked and saw the sea spread out before him, in all its immense glory.
He rode down to the water’s edge, marveling in what he beheld. The sea was vast. Endless. Dark blue waters stretched to the limits of the horizon, with rolling white-capped waves that crashed on the sandy shore, then retreated, hissing. Dismounting, he walked into the surf and tasted the salty water, heedless of how foolish he must look.
Standing in the surf, there was nothing to meet his eyes but the vast expanse of the sea, and he felt humbled into insignificance. A mere man was nothing compared to this grandeur.
He wished fiercely that he was still an artist, that he had some way to capture and share the beauty of what he saw. But even he knew that was a foolish thought. How could anyone express eternity and limitless imagination? No metal was pure enough, no gem deep enough to reflect what he beheld. And yet he knew he had seen but a portion of its majesty. The aspect it wore on the fair spring day was but just one of the sea’s many faces.
He had known that the sea existed. Had seen it portrayed on maps, and had heard accounts of travelers who had journeyed along its watery ways. His imagination had conjured up images of a large lake, one whose edges could not be seen. The reality was so much more than he could ever have dreamed.
He stood there lost in wonder, until Lieutenant Didrik’s subtle coughing eventually caught his attention and recalled him to the present. Reluctantly, he turned his face from the sea and toward his duty.
The road continued along the coast, then rose along a cliff, where it wound in and out of pine forests and grassy fields. From time to time they caught glimpses of the shore, and the oceans, until gradually the woods grew thicker and they could no longer taste the tang of salt in the air. On the second day, they passed a few scattered dwellings, then a ramshackle village, which seemed strangely lacking in people. And those folk they did see eyed Devlin and his troops with suspicion and fear. Questioning of the villagers revealed that the missing assessor had passed through here two months earlier, and that the Baron’s men had come this way looking for him a month later.
On the next two days they passed through villages that looked much like the first. The inhabitants they saw were impoverished and terrified. Devlin could not understand it. The land here was good, the weather had been fair. There was no reason why the farmers could not make a living from their crops. And yet, though they appeared on the edge of starvation, there was not one word of criticism of their Baron.
The premonition that had led Devlin to Korinth province grew stronger with every league they traveled. There was something very strange happening here. And yet he had no answers, only more questions.
It was past time for politeness and discretion. At the next village he would not let the villagers evade him with half-truths and lies. This time he would persist, till he had the answers he sought.
But his plan went awry almost from the first. Someone sighted them as they approached, and Devlin saw a dozen or so people fleeing from the village to disappear into the pine woods.
“Shall we give chase?” Ensign Mikkelson asked.
“No,” Devlin said. “We will wait, and speak with the cooler heads who remained behind.”
He wondered what had inspired their panic. Had they been attacked by mounted riders in the past, or the slavers that the tavern keeper had mentioned? Did that explain their fears? Or was it the Baron’s armsmen that they dreaded?
The village was eerily quiet as they approached. Neither barking dogs nor cackling chickens greeted their arrival. And there was not a soul to be seen.
The first cottage they came to had neither door nor shutters, and was clearly abandoned. The second was a burned-out shell. There were a dozen cottages still standing, each showing various signs of damage and of half-hearted attempts at repairs.
“This place was attacked,” Ensign Mikkelson said, as his eyes swept over the damage. “Last summer or perhaps the fall.”
“So it seems,” Devlin said. He, too, had seen the telltale signs of damage. No storm had torn open that door, nor had rot caused that wall to fall. Those were the marks of an axe.
“I would know what has happened here,” he said, dismounting from his horse. “Lieutenant. Ensign. Send out your troops and find me someone to speak with.”
Mikkelson took his soldiers to search the woods f
or those who had fled, while Didrik and the guards began going from cottage to cottage, searching for any who had been left behind.
Stephen came over to where Devlin was standing. “I do not like this. If there have been sea raiders, then why hasn’t Lord Egeslic reported this to the King?”
“A very good question,” Devlin said.
From the other end of the village he heard a commotion, and a voice shouted, “We’ve found one!”
Devlin turned and began making his way toward the shouts. As he approached he saw Freyja and Signy emerge from a cottage, half-carrying, half-dragging an old woman.
“Put me down! Put me down!” the woman shrieked, batting ineffectually with her hands.
“Put the good woman down,” Devlin said as he came near.
Freyja and Signy exchanged glances, then set the old woman on her feet. Freyja had the beginnings of a black eye, and Signy’s face bore scratches. Devlin repressed a smile.
“Good woman, I would have speech with you,” he said.
Feeble and stooped with age, the woman came barely up to his waist, but she drew herself up to her full height as if she were a Duchess in silks and not a cottager in a ragged wool kirtle.
“I have naught to say to you,” the woman declared.
“What is your name?” Devlin asked, kneeling so he could look her in the eye.
“Nanna. Nanna Odin’s-wife, though Odin has been dead these past twelve summers, the Gods preserve his soul,” she said. Her voice shook, but she met his gaze without flinching.
He could see that she was afraid, but that she was too strong to give in to her fears. Her fierceness awoke a sense of kinship in him. “Nanna, I am Devlin of Duncaer, son of Kameron and Talaith,” he said, introducing himself as if she were one of the Caerfolk. “And I am here because I am the Chosen One, sent by the Gods to defend the people and the Kingdom of Jorsk.”
Nanna blinked and rubbed her eyes. “How can I trust you?”
He held out his left hand so the ring was in plain view. “I swear by my name and by all I hold dear that my words are true. I am the Chosen One,” he declared, and the stone in the ring began glowing with ruby light until it was too bright to look at.
Nanna gasped, as did some of those who stood behind him, who had never before seen him call upon the ring’s power. Satisfied that he had made an impression, Devlin closed his hand in a fist, turning the ring around so the glowing stone was held within his fist. And still the glow shone through his flesh, illuminating his very bones.
“You are here to serve the Baron?” Nanna asked, hope warring with fear in her face.
“No.” Devlin shook his head. “I am here to serve the Kingdom. Now tell me, goodwife, why are the people so afraid? What has happened here that has brought such hardship on you and your neighbors?”
Nanna reached forward and clasped his right hand between hers with a grip that was surprisingly strong for one her age.
“The folk ran because they thought you were the Baron’s men. There are few enough of us left here. Those who can have already left, gone to seek shelter with kin inland, or to find work in the city. There is nothing here for us. The sea raiders come as they please and take what they will. And the little they leave us, the Baron’s men take for their own. A tax he calls it, to pay for our protection.” Her voice quavered with indignation.
Her words did much to explain what they had seen. Caught between sea raiders and the Baron’s special taxes, it was no wonder that the villages they had seen were so impoverished. And yet this was only one part of the puzzle. For what motive could Lord Egeslic have for his actions? Even a fool knew that taxes could only be pushed so far. Already the people were deserting the coastal villages. Soon they would begin to leave the Baron’s lands altogether, and then who would be left to pay the taxes?
“The Assessor Brunin was here, was he not?” He had to ask, though he dreaded what he would hear.
She nodded. “Brunin was here, but we had nothing to pay him with. He swore he would send the Baron’s men to turn us out of our homes. That is why the folk were so afraid when they saw you.”
“Afraid enough to kill the assessor? To keep word from reaching the Baron?”
“No! No, we would not dream of such an evil thing,” Nanna insisted.
Devlin wanted to believe her. And yet her own words had given ample reason to suspect that the villagers had been behind the assessor’s disappearance. If not in this village, then in one of the others along his route.
“I thank you for the courtesy of your speech,” Devlin said, freeing his hand and rising to his feet.
He gave her a formal bow, and watched as Behra and Signy gingerly escorted her back to her home. Then he turned to Lieutenant Didrik. “Find Ensign Mikkelson. Tell him to keep the villagers he finds apart from one another, until we can question them. See if her story matches theirs. And have the guards continue searching the cottages. There may be another here that we have missed.”
“Understood,” Didrik said with a salute.
In the end, they found a dozen more folk, all that was left from a village that had once boasted over a hundred souls. Those left were either the very old, or those so sunken into despair that they could not think of anywhere else to go. All those questioned confirmed Nanna’s story. The assessor had been there, and he had made his threats. But he had been whole and well when he left, and after seeing the villagers, Devlin did not see any that looked as if they would have had the courage to murder a man.
Before leaving, Devlin gave Nanna a generous handful of the King’s coin, enough to pay the taxes that were owed. He wished he could do more, but he knew the answers did not lie here. The solution to these villagers’ problems lay with Lord Egeslic, and Devlin intended to demand a full accounting from the Baron of Korinth.
The road took them through the pine woods on the next day, and it was near sunset when they emerged into an open field. A league down the road they could see the outlines of a village.
“Shall we press on?” Lieutenant Didrik asked.
“No,” Devlin said, mindful of how the folk in Nanna’s village had reacted to their arrival. There was no sense in making the same mistake twice. In the darkness Devlin and his troops could easily be mistaken for the Baron’s men, or for raiders.
“There is no need to panic the folk. We will camp here tonight, and tomorrow, when the sun is risen, we will make our entrance.”
His company began to set up camp with the ease of long-established routine. Since the skirmish in Rosmaar they had taken to working together, and Lieutenant Didrik and Ensign Mikkelson had worked out a shared schedule of duties. Tonight it was the soldiers’ turn to prepare the meal, while the guards had the less desirable chore of digging the latrine trench.
Devlin sat on the ground and leaned back on his elbows, as he watched the activity around him. He was still troubled by what he had witnessed the day before, and bothered that he could not understand the Baron’s strange behavior. Why hadn’t the Baron revealed the presence of sea raiders along his coast? Why had he imposed onerous taxes upon his folk? If he needed the coin, why hadn’t he petitioned the King for aid, as had the other border nobles?
He shook his head in frustration, for he felt that the answer lay just beyond his grasp. There was something he was missing. An ingredient that would make the rest take shape and make sense.
He heard a startled exclamation. Then after a moment he heard Didrik exclaim, “May the Gods preserve us.”
Devlin was already on his feet when the lieutenant called his name. Lieutenant Didrik was standing next to two guards with shovels. A small crowd was forming around them.
Devlin pushed his way through the crowd. “What is it?” he asked.
The smell hit him first, a stench of rot and mold, and unclean things brought into the light. And then he looked into the half-dug latrine pit, where he saw the bloated and swollen features of a decomposing corpse, dressed in robes of silk.
“The Assessor Brunin,
I presume,” Devlin said.
Twenty-three
DEVLIN GAVE ORDERS THAT THE COMPANY WAS TO retreat back into the forest, while two of their number finished unearthing the body of the assessor. He steeled himself to examine the gruesome corpse, seeking clues as to how the assessor had died. Then he joined his troops in the forest. They spent a cold night, for to light fires might reveal their presence to the village.
In the predawn light the company crept through the woods to surround the village. When Devlin and his officers approached on horseback, some of the villagers began to flee, only to stop short as they caught sight of the guards and soldiers.
Magnus, the elderly village speaker, then emerged from his cottage on the arm of his daughter. His voice was steady as he bade the Chosen One welcome, but his shoulders slumped, and he had the air of a man who has seen the arrival of the troubles he has long feared.
Up until that moment Devlin had nursed a secret hope that the villagers might somehow, improbably, be innocent of the assessor’s death. But Magnus’s attitude proclaimed their guilt far louder than any mere words could.
Devlin, Ensign Mikkelson, and Lieutenant Didrik followed Magnus inside his home, in order to question him in private. But so far the speaker was not cooperating.
“Now I ask again. Who killed the Assessor Brunin, and why did they do this deed?”
Devlin’s words were addressed to the elderly Magnus, but it was his daughter Magnilda who answered.
“I tell you we know nothing of his death. The assessor must have been killed by sea raiders or outlaws,” she said defiantly. A plain woman in her middle years, her stocky frame and muscled arms spoke of one who had spent her life in hard toil. And she had a strength of character to match. For while Magnus had blanched upon learning that Devlin was the Chosen One, Magnilda had taken his appearance in stride.
“I may be a foreigner, but I am not a fool,” Devlin said. “Outlaws or raiders carry weapons. A sword, a dagger, a bow, or even a spear. And they would not have bothered to hide their kill. The Assessor Brunin was strangled, and his body buried not a league from here.”
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