Devlin's Luck

by Patricia Bray

  “Why are you telling me this?” he asked.

  “The troops must see that we stand united, or else they will lose faith and it will weaken their morale. You are his friend. Your words carry weight, as does your example. If you condemn him, the Chosen One may begin to doubt himself just when we need him to be a strong leader.”

  “You are an officer, while I am a mere minstrel. Surely your words would carry more weight. I have seen the respect he gives you.”

  Ensign Mikkelson gave a bitter laugh. “Respect? Say rather the Chosen One values my knowledge. And he chooses to keep me close so he can keep his eye on me as he tries to decide whether I am in league with his enemies.”

  “You must be mistaken.”

  “He is right to suspect me. At least one of my soldiers is not to be trusted. Who else do you think shot the arrow that barely missed the Chosen One during the skirmish in Rosmaar?”

  Devlin had made no mention of a stray shot. And yet what reason would Ensign Mikkelson have to lie to him? Stephen wondered just what else had occurred that he had failed to notice.

  “You have given me much to think about,” Stephen said.

  “Good,” Ensign Mikkelson replied. He began to walk away, then stopped after a few paces and returned. “Devlin is a man in ten thousand. An officer such as we in the Royal Army have not seen in a generation. The Gods have sent him to us for a reason. I fear that we will need his greatness in the coming troubles. It is up to us to protect him. Even from himself.”

  Stephen had not realized the Ensign was capable of such unbridled emotion. He stared after Mikkelson as the Ensign walked into the camp and began talking to his soldiers.

  Stephen returned to the elm tree, where he found Devlin sitting alone.

  “I must apologize for my hasty words,” Stephen said.

  Devlin shook his head. “Say no more. On this day I hate myself.”

  Devlin refused to accept Stephen’s apology, for in truth there was nothing to forgive. Devlin understood the minstrel’s anger, for the same rage simmered deep inside of him. Devlin the man pitied these poor villagers. Left to himself, he would have pardoned the speaker and sentenced the hot-tempered daughter to no more than exile. After lecturing her on the folly of burying a body so close to the village, in so shallow a grave.

  The Chosen One had no room for such sympathies. The Geas bound him to uphold the law and administer justice. No matter that the justice was overly harsh. It was the law. By the standards of Jorsk, Devlin was being merciful indeed in allowing a man near the end of his days to give his life so that his daughter might live. But such mercy left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  He could not help thinking that a greater man would have found a way to serve justice and yet spare Magnus’s life. One of the true Chosen Ones, who featured so prominently in Stephen’s songs and stories. It was the ill luck of these folk that it was he who must pronounce justice. And it was he who would bear the guilt of Magnus’s death.

  Not that the guilt was his alone. The death of the speaker was but one of the crimes that Devlin intended to hold the Baron of Korinth accountable for. At the very least, the Baron was guilty of negligence, and of failing in his duty to his people. At the worst, he was a traitor.

  But justice for the Baron would take time. And until the Baron could be brought to see the error of his ways, these folk would be on their own, with no one to save them should the raiders return. That, too, was an injustice, but one he could correct.

  The rain stopped just before dawn, and as the sky lightened, Devlin and his officers made their way to the speaker’s house.

  The guard on duty came to attention and saluted. “All is quiet,” she said.

  Devlin nodded. With the dawn a terrible calm had descended upon him, blotting out all traces of feeling. Nothing ruled him now save an implacable sense of duty, and his oath as the Chosen One.

  Ensign Mikkelson knocked on the door. “It is time,” he called.

  The door swung open, to reveal Magnilda, still wearing the same tunic and trousers she had worn the day before. Her eyes were swollen, but there was no trace of tears.

  “You are too late,” she said. “My father has escaped your justice, for he is already dead.”

  What trick was this?

  “Take me to him,” Devlin ordered.

  Magnilda led him inside, and up the stairs to a small bedroom. A coarse woolen blanket had been drawn over a lifeless form. Devlin turned back the blanket, to find the pale and waxy features of the speaker. He pressed his hand to Magnus’s throat, but there was no pulse in that chill flesh.

  He pulled the blanket off and knelt by the bed, bending his head down to listen, but there was no sound of breath. Rising, his eyes swept over the body, but there was no sign of violence or self-inflicted injury. Instead Magnus’s features were tranquil. Peaceful.

  Devlin pulled the blanket over the speaker’s corpse. “Was it poison?” he asked.

  “I do not know,” Magnilda answered. “Perhaps. Or perhaps the Gods chose to grant him mercy, since you would give him none.”

  Mercy indeed if the speaker had met his death peacefully, in his sleep. And mercy for Devlin, who had been spared the task of ending the man’s life.

  “Who is to be speaker now?” he asked.

  “I am,” Magnilda replied, her body stiffening as if she expected him to challenge her right to the position.

  “A good choice,” Devlin said. From her expression, he could see he had surprised her, though he had spoken only the truth. Magnilda’s fierce temper would be an asset for what he planned. “Gather the villagers together within the hour so I may speak with them.”

  “Will you not grant us time to bury my father?”

  “Later. Now is the time for the living. Gather everyone from the eldest to the babes. What I have to say is for all.”

  “Yes, my lord Chosen,” Magnilda said, her eyes bright with anger.

  The villagers gathered in a loose semicircle near the elm tree, where Magnus was to have been hung. There were over a hundred of all ages, from gray-haired elders to babes in arms, strong folk in their prime and youth on the verge of adulthood. At the edges of the crowd were his troops. The soldiers looked nervous. The guards’ faces gave nothing away, but their eyes constantly swept the crowd, looking for threats.

  The crowd parted as Devlin approached, and he made his way through to the front.

  Magnilda was standing there, wearing the silver chain of her office around her neck.

  “You promised my father that the punishments would end with his death. Will you now go back on your word?”

  “I said naught about punishments,” Devlin answered. His eyes swept over the crowd. The folk looked sullen. Defeated. Only Magnilda had the courage to show her anger.

  “Is everyone here?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Good. Now hear me,” he said, pitching his voice to carry to those assembled. “I come to speak to you about the sea raiders. I have reason to believe that they will return, and that you will have to defend yourselves. Now tell me, who among you can use a bow?”

  No one spoke.

  “A spear?”

  Silence met this query too. It was as if he was speaking in a foreign tongue. The villagers simply stared vacantly ahead, refusing to meet his eyes.

  “Does any one among you have skills at knife fighting? At wrestling?” This was foolishness. “Can any man or woman here throw a rock in defense of their own lives?”

  “Why should we answer you?” Magnilda said. “So you can accuse one of us of another crime? We will not fall for your tricks.”

  His anger boiled over, and he turned to her, turning his back on the crowd. “I have no patience for your ignorance and your foolishness. You are their leader now. So lead. Answer my question.”

  “I know no weapons,” she said. “I have but my own hands to defend myself.”

  “That will serve,” he said. “Now for the rest. Who has learned aught of weapons cra
ft?”

  A half dozen of the villagers raised their hands. It was fewer than he had hoped for, but it was a beginning. Devlin nodded.

  “Good. Now from this day forward, all will learn weapons craft, so that you may defend yourselves. The spear to start, for it is simplest to make and to learn.”

  “Wherefore?” a young woman asked. “We cannot stand against the raiders.”

  Other heads nodded in agreement. Devlin reined in his anger. It was not their fault that these foolish folk had been bred to be sheep. But he would be damned if he left them helpless.

  “You will learn because I command it. Because you wish to save your own lives, and the lives of your kin and neighbors. Because you will not willingly give up all you own. In the end you will learn because you have no choice.”

  “But surely I am too old,” an elderly man said.

  “If you cannot fight, you can keep watch. Or you will fashion weapons for those who can. Or you will care for the babes so their mothers can join in the training.”

  Several present shook their heads. “But surely you do not mean me,” said the young woman who had objected before. She raised the baby as if the child were some magical shield.

  “Everyone,” Devlin growled. “You will train for an hour every day until you are proficient. Thereafter, the first day after the new moon will be set aside to practice. My own wife trained the day before she delivered our child, and she resumed training at the next new moon.”

  He had not meant to mention Cerrie. He ran his fingers through his hair as he tried to think of what to say next. The villagers were silent, perhaps contemplating his words. Or perhaps they were having trouble picturing the Chosen One as someone who had once had a wife.

  “You will learn to fight because you love your families,” he said. “Trouble is coming. If you do not defend yourselves, there are none who will save you. You will fight because you have no other choice. Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” Magnilda said. “But do you think we truly have a chance to defend ourselves?”

  He would not lie to her. “A chance. Perhaps. If you have the element of surprise. But even the smallest of chance is better than none at all.”

  He motioned, and Sergeant Henrik and Oluva stepped forward. “These are Sergeant Henrik and Oluva of the Guard. They will remain with you, to teach you what they know. And when they are finished here, they will journey on to the next village. And the next.”

  Lieutenant Didrik had argued fiercely against this decision, saying that Devlin would need all of his company when he finally confronted the Baron. But Devlin had overruled him. Two guards would make little difference if the Baron should see through their ruse and order his armsmen to attack Devlin’s party. The villagers had far more need of their skills. He only wished he could spare more, so that the other villages could begin their training without delay.

  Twenty-four

  “I WILL GIVE EVERYTHING I OWN IF SOMEONE WOULD scratch my nose,” Stephen declared.

  Around him the soldiers and guards chuckled.

  “Silence!” Devlin ordered. “You are supposed to be miserable. Try and look the part. And Stephen, enough complaining. Try to appear frightened.”

  Stephen shrugged, a difficult gesture since his hands were bound behind his back. “I am frightened. I keep thinking of how many things can go wrong.”

  Devlin raised his head and glared at the minstrel, then, nauseated by the swaying motion of the litter, lowered his head again. I will not vomit, he told himself for the hundredth time, as one of the bearers stumbled and the litter lurched suddenly to the left and then to the right again. He did not blame them, for he knew he made a heavy load to bear. Yet no one else could play his part.

  Though he could not see the column, he knew they made a pathetic sight. Those seemingly well enough to ride wore torn and dirty uniforms, and their heads hung low, as if disheartened. Many sported signs of recent injuries, and chickens’ blood had been dabbed liberally on their bandages to make their wounds seem more convincing. To all they met on the road, they gave the same story. They had found the man who had killed the assessor and had been bringing him to the Baron when they were attacked by sea raiders. Though they had managed to defend themselves, it was at grievous cost.

  Anyone seeing them would conclude that they posed little threat. Or at least, that was Devlin’s plan. He called it hiding in plain sight. Ensign Mikkelson called it the stupidest idea he had ever heard of. Lieutenant Didrik’s opinion was less kind, although more colorfully expressed.

  Yet what other choice did they have? If the Baron chose to shut the gates of his keep, Devlin lacked the troops to force him to surrender. And the Baron’s keep was on a windswept grassy plain, which ruled out a stealthy approach.

  As they approached the entrance to the keep, Devlin felt his stomach clench. This was the moment. By now the Baron’s spies would have informed him of the approaching party. Would he give orders to admit them? Or would his armsmen bar the gate and fire on them from the safety of the ramparts?

  “Tell the men to remember the plan. Do nothing until my signal,” Devlin whispered to Ensign Mikkelson. The Ensign nodded, then rode down the line, repeating the message in tones too low for Devlin to hear.

  Devlin risked lifting his head the barest fraction till he could see the gate. It was open, flanked by a pair of armsmen on either side. The cadence of the bearers changed, and he heard the clatter of booted feet on a wooden bridge.

  “Halt!” a voice called.

  Two of the bearers halted at once while two did not, and their combined efforts made the litter sway. Devlin’s nausea rose, and this time he could not contain it. He leaned over the side of the litter and retched.

  “Goat turds,” a woman cursed. She came over and peered at Devlin, who did his best to look pathetic.

  “We come bearing the Chosen One, who seeks an audience with the Baron of Korinth, Lord Egeslic,” Lieutenant Didrik said, coming up alongside the litter. His left arm was in a sling, and a bandage daubed with chicken blood was wrapped around his head.

  “The Baron welcomes you to his keep,” said an older male voice. This was a voice of authority, for the arms-woman saluted, and the procession was allowed to pass through the gate into the open courtyard beyond.

  The litter was placed on the ground, and the riders dismounted. Ensign Mikkelson and Lieutenant Didrik moved among the troops, seemingly checking on their health, but actually surveying the courtyard and surrounding walls to make sure this was not a trap.

  “Bring the Chosen One inside, and our healer will see to his injuries,” said the one in command.

  “No,” Devlin rasped, raising himself up on one elbow with a show of great difficulty. “I must fulfill my duty. I must see the Baron, so that the guilty may be brought to justice.”

  The muscles in his elbow quivered, and he shook as if he were at the end of his strength.

  “It is his last wish,” Ensign Mikkelson whispered, just loud enough for Devlin to overhear. “The Geas drives him to seek justice.”

  “We are sworn to uphold his orders. But if the Baron would grant us his presence, the Chosen One would be satisfied and then we could take our ease,” Lieutenant Didrik said, in the tones of one who has long suffered from the whims of his commander.

  The senior armsmen chewed his lip thoughtfully, then nodded. “I will go speak with the Baron and find out his will.”

  Devlin’s elbow fell, and he sank back on the litter.

  The guard Olga knelt down by his side. “Can I serve you?” she asked, her eyes bright with mischief. She tugged at the blanket that covered his torso, pulling it straight, then ran her hands along the sides of the litter to ensure that the weapons hidden beneath were in easy reach.

  “Your concern warms my heart,” Devlin said.

  A few moments later, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

  “Help me sit up,” Devlin said.

  Olga placed her arms behind his shoulder and
tugged him into a sitting position. He grasped the axe in his right hand.

  It was easy to spot Lord Egeslic. The young noble sported the golden circlet on his brow that was reserved for nobles of the first rank, of which he was not. He wore a purple silk tunic over green leggings, and his soft slippers made no sound on the stone courtyard. Accompanying him was the officer Devlin had seen earlier, and two ceremonial guards trailed behind.

  The Baron smiled as he caught sight of Stephen, held between two of the guards. Stephen’s head hung low; he made an abject sight.

  “So this is the criminal? I have a very special punishment planned for him,” he said, with a cruel smile.

  This was it. There would be no second chance.

  “Message,” Devlin croaked. “Must tell Baron. Only Baron.”

  He tossed his head wildly from side to side, as if in the grip of delirium.

  “I fear he is failing fast,” Olga announced.

  But the Baron’s attention was for Stephen. He came up to the minstrel and grabbed his chin with one hand, forcing Stephen’s head up until he could look into his eyes. “A very special punishment indeed,” he drawled.

  Devlin’s heart froze. How long could Stephen maintain his deception before the Baron realized the truth?

  “Please no! Mercy, my lord, mercy, great Baron,” Stephen sobbed, his legs collapsing from under him as the guards struggled to hold him upright.

  The Baron laughed.

  “Message,” Devlin said, this time more loudly.

  “My lord,” Ensign Mikkelson said, approaching with a low bow. “The Chosen One has a message that he can reveal only to you. And I fear there is very little time… .” His voice trailed off.

  The Baron turned from his prey, slowly, reluctantly. As he drew near the litter, his face wrinkled with distaste. “Hardly an impressive sight. He looks more like a peasant than the Chosen One.”