Devlin's Luck

by Patricia Bray

  “Lord Egeslic,” Devlin whispered.

  The Baron drew nearer until he stood within an arm’s length of the litter. “What is this message?”

  “Now!” Devlin yelled, rolling off the litter and springing to his feet. Before the Baron could do more than blink, Devlin’s axe was pressing against his neck.

  Around them, Devlin’s troops had seized their own weapons from the litters and formed a loose circle, facing outward. The Baron’s armsmen took a step forward, only to be halted by the swords of Mikkelson and Didrik.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Lord Egeslic demanded.

  “I have come to serve justice,” Devlin said. “Now tell your armsmen to drop their weapons.”

  “No.”

  He had known it would not be this easy. He raised his free arm above his head, so that his hand was clearly visible. “I am the Chosen One, and what I do here I do in the name of justice, in service to King Olafur and the people of Jorsk. I call upon the Seven Gods to witness the truth of this oath.”

  The ring on his finger glowed with bright ruby light.

  “A pretty trick,” the Baron scoffed, but his face was pale and beaded with sweat.

  “Hear me!” Devlin called. “You will lay down your arms, and surrender yourselves to the King’s justice. Or you will be declared traitors, and your lord will suffer the consequences.”

  The senior officer looked at Devlin, and then at his lord.

  “You would not harm him,” the officer said.

  “I will what I must, to fulfill my oath. Lay down your weapons,” Devlin replied, letting the grim anger he carried within rise to the surface. He met the officer’s stare with his own determined glare, and it was the officer who glanced away first.

  “My lord, we must do as he says,” the officer said. Then he unbuckled his sword belt and laid it on the ground.

  The other armsmen swiftly followed his lead. But these were only a handful, and there were sure to be more in their barracks, or scattered around the keep.

  One of the soldiers cut loose Stephen’s bonds, and he chafed his wrists.

  “Mikkelson! Secure these prisoners, then take the rest of the armsmen into custody,” Devlin ordered.

  He turned his attention back to the Baron. “Lord Egeslic, I accuse you of failing in your sworn duty to your King and your subjects. This land was given to you in trust, in return for your fealty. Yet you have failed to defend the King’s realm and his people. For this, you will pay.”

  “You fool. You have no idea who I am, or what you have done,” Lord Egeslic sneered. “I will see you destroyed for this.”

  “I fear no petty lordling. Save your concern for yourself. If you are lucky, you will only lose your rank.”

  For if he were proven traitor, the Baron would lose his life.

  Securing the keep proved nearly impossible. There were too many folk, scattered in too many places. And this was their home. They knew all the passages, and the escape routes. Mikkelson managed to surprise about forty armsmen in their barracks and took them into custody. But an equal number were still missing, having either fled the keep or doffed their uniforms, blending in among the members of the Baron’s household.

  Some of the servants had fled as well. Devlin had watched from the walls of the keep as they scattered in a dozen different directions, frustrated because he lacked the troops to pursue them. He knew some were honestly frightened, afraid they would suffer for the Baron’s crimes. But at least some of those who fled were fleeing with a purpose, no doubt to alert the Baron’s allies.

  He had very little time. He could not hold the keep against a besieging force. Not when he had but a dozen guards and ten soldiers, plus himself and the minstrel Stephen. Nor could he count on the loyalty of the armsmen who had surrendered. They, and the majority of the servants, had been imprisoned in the keep’s storerooms. It was a makeshift solution at best.

  His forces were stretched thin, between guarding the prisoners and maintaining at least a skeleton watch. That left Mikkelson and Didrik to question the prisoners, while Stephen searched the Baron’s rooms for incriminating documents.

  Questioning the Baron was a task Devlin had taken on himself, but as the hours turned into days he grew increasingly frustrated. The Baron’s arrogance was amazing. He refused to answer questions, and gave every appearance that he regarded Devlin as simply a minor inconvenience who would be swiftly dealt with by the Baron’s allies. But who these allies were, he would not reveal.

  And even if Devlin had had the stomach for stronger methods of questioning, the Geas would not permit it. Not when all that could be proven against the Baron was incompetence.

  It was the evening of the third day since they had taken the keep. His last session with the Baron had degenerated into an angry tirade. Slowly Devlin had realized that the Baron was deliberately provoking him. He stopped in midtirade and left without explanation. Let the Baron stew on that while Devlin took a few hours’ rest. It was nearly three days since he had slept. He needed at least some rest, so his wits would be sharp.

  Devlin made his way through the unfamiliar corridors of the keep. There was a guard at the bottom of the main stairs who directed him to the chambers that had been assigned to the Chosen One and his officers.

  Devlin turned down the corridor and saw a figure approach. As she drew near, he recognized Freyja, one of the soldiers. When she was a regulation two paces away, she drew to a halt and saluted stiffly.

  “All quiet?” he asked.

  “Yes, my lord Chosen. This wing is secure.” Her voice was calm and professional.

  “Good. I am going to indulge in a few hours’ sleep. Leave word with the watch leader that I am to be awakened in six hours if all is quiet. If aught is amiss, wake me at once,” Devlin said, repeating the orders he had given the guard below. Better that he repeat himself than risk the message going astray.

  “Of course, my lord.”

  She held her pose, and belatedly he remembered to return her salute. Freyja was one of those who clung firmly to the formal disciplines of the army, but she seemed competent enough.

  She lowered her arm and stepped aside for him to pass.

  He began to walk on.

  “My lord! Behind you!” a voice shouted.

  It took Devlin a moment to realize that the voice was speaking to him. That moment almost cost him his life. As he began to turn toward his left, he felt the sharp edge of a blade graze his right side. He threw himself to his left, landing on the floor, then rolling over to face his enemy, flexing his arms so the throwing knives were already in his hands.

  Freyja stood there, a bloody sword in her hand. Her eyes were vacant, and her features held a look of sheer astonishment. The point of a sword protruded from her midsection, and blood was rapidly staining her uniform.

  “Damn you,” she said, though he could not tell to whom she spoke. Then she fell to her knees, her sword clattering to the floor beside her.

  Ensign Mikkelson withdrew his sword, and she collapsed in a lifeless heap. A pool of blood spread out over the dark wood floor. Devlin knelt beside the body, but even as he searched for a pulse, he knew there would be none.

  Devlin rose to his feet.

  “Why did you kill her?”

  “I had no choice. She was about to strike again. I could not risk your life,” Ensign Mikkelson said.

  It was a fair enough explanation. Now was not the time to point out the obvious, that Freyja’s death was also convenient to whoever had given her the orders to kill the Chosen One.

  “I owe you my life,” Devlin said.

  “It is my duty,” Ensign Mikkelson replied. He looked down at the corpse and shook his head. “Freyja. I had suspected others, but never her.”

  “She took us both by surprise,” Devlin said. It had been a very narrow escape. If Mikkelson had not been there to warn him. If Devlin had turned to his right, instead of to his left. If—

  He shook his head, banishing that futile speculation
. It was enough that the Gods had chosen to spare his life, so he could fulfill his promises.

  He had been expecting some kind of attack for so long that this came almost as a relief. He wondered if Freyja had been behind the earlier attack in Rosmaar. Or did she have accomplices? There could still be others in his company who wished him ill.

  Devlin glanced sideways at Ensign Mikkelson. Even he was not free of suspicion. Had Mikkelson saved his life because it was his duty? Or was he hoping that through this service he would gain Devlin’s confidence? For all he knew, Mikkelson might have been in league with Freyja, encouraging her to attack Devlin, then killing her so as to cast himself in the light of a hero.

  “If I had not come looking for you,” Ensign Mikkelson mused.

  “Why did you seek me out?”

  The Ensign tore his gaze from the corpse. “One of the Baron’s clerks has decided to cooperate and I knew you would want to be informed at once.”

  “Take me to him,” Devlin said, banishing thoughts of conspiracies to the back of his mind. Time alone would prove whom he could trust.

  He took a step, then sucked in air with a hiss as his wound chose to make its presence felt. He pressed his hand to his right side, and when he withdrew it, his hand was bloody.

  “You are wounded,” Ensign Mikkelson said, stating the obvious.

  “It is a scratch. Nothing more,” Devlin said, replacing his hand over the wound. A deeper cut would have bled more, or struck his ribs. He had been lucky indeed.

  “Any wound can turn deadly. You must see a healer.”

  His insistence was proper. Devlin would have ordered the same, if any of his troops had been injured. And yet he did not have time for such things.

  “Take me to the others, then you may summon the healer. There is no reason why we cannot talk while the healer binds this up.”

  Stephen watched with horrified fascination as the guard Heimdall used strips of linen to bind up the wound in Devlin’s side. It was not the wound itself that horrified him, but rather the knowledge that someone Stephen had known and trusted had tried to kill Devlin. Since the day she had come to his aid and helped him repair his saddle, he had thought of Freyja as a friend. He had spent many evenings with her, sitting around the fire, as he shared his music and listened to the soldiers’ stories. He felt sickened as he realized that the friendship was but a ploy on her part. He had thought her a friend, but she had only been using him, to try and win Devlin’s confidence.

  What a fool he had been. In hindsight it was obvious. No doubt she had deliberately tampered with his girth, then waited nearby so she could come to his aid, and win his trust. How she must have laughed at his gullibility.

  It was small comfort to know that others shared his anger and sense of betrayal.

  Lieutenant Didrik had reacted furiously to the news that one of the soldiers had attempted to take Devlin’s life. He and Ensign Mikkelson began wrangling over how the attack could have been foreseen and prevented.

  Devlin was the calmest of them all. Perhaps he had faced death so often that he no longer feared it, even when it came in the guise of a friend. Or perhaps he was simply too weary to feel anything at all—for as always Devlin had driven himself harder than anyone else, until he stood on the ragged edge of exhaustion.

  Stephen suddenly realized that he had never seen Devlin truly angry. He had seen Devlin when he was frustrated, short-tempered, and merely impatient. Yet even now, when faced with betrayal by one of his own, if Devlin felt anger he did not let it show. He wondered what it would take to rouse Devlin’s wrath.

  Heimdall tucked in the ends of the bandage, then stepped back to admire his work. “That should serve, my lord. If you put no strain on the wound for at least a fortnight.”

  “Thank you,” Devlin said gravely. He pulled the remnants of his bloody shirt back on and watched as Heimdall left the room.

  “Enough bickering,” Devlin said, as the door shut behind Heimdall. “Tell me what you found.”

  Devlin listened as Lieutenant Didrik recounted how they had discovered that one of the prisoners was Sigfus, the Baron’s clerk. Sigfus had served the former Baron of Korinth but apparently held little loyalty for the new Baron, who had inherited five years before, upon the death of his uncle. It had taken little prompting to get Sigfus to tell what he knew.

  The tale he told was fantastic, almost unbelievable. But then Sigfus had led them to a cache of documents that confirmed all he said and more.

  “I have not had time to read them all, but what we have read is damning,” Lieutenant Didrik said, finishing his recital.

  Devlin rubbed his face with his hands, as if he were trying to wipe away the weariness. “What do we know? First, the Baron was levying taxes without permission and failing to pay the King’s share to the royal treasury.”

  Stephen nodded. This had been the clerk’s chief complaint. He had shown little dismay over the Baron’s treachery, but had seethed with anger as he told how the Baron had ordered him to falsify the province’s accounts.

  “Next, it seems that Lord Egeslic has been in correspondence with foreign allies, and with someone in the capital. They are plotting something, and you are convinced it is an invasion. Why?” Devlin asked.

  “Because of the references to Queen Reginleifar,” Ensign Mikkelson explained. “Twice her name is mentioned in the scrolls we have examined so far. And in the last scroll it says ‘By summer’s end, the time of Queen Reginleifar will have come again.’ ”

  “Who is this Reginleifar?” Devlin asked. The name sounded vaguely familiar.

  “Reginleifar was Queen two hundred years ago, when Korinth was invaded by troops from Selvarat. She led the bloody war against the invaders and after three years finally succeeded in expelling them,” Ensign Mikkelson said.

  “It is one of the most famous stories from our history,” Stephen added. Over a dozen ballads in his repertoire dated from that heroic era.

  “Your history. Not mine,” Devlin corrected. “So you think the threat is from Selvarat?”

  Stephen shook his head. “No, Selvarat is among our strongest allies now, and has been for generations. Many of the noble families have intermarried,” Stephen said. “Even now, my mother and sister are there, to set the seal on an alliance.”

  “The raiders from Nerikaat have long troubled the western borders but have not succeeded in gaining a foothold. Yet should they send their armies by sea, they could easily overwhelm a weakened Korinth,” Ensign Mikkelson said.

  “Or the attackers could be from the Green Isles, where the raiders are thought to be based,” Lieutenant Didrik countered.

  “Enough,” Devlin said. “It does not matter where they are from. What matters is when they are planning to strike and what we can do to defend this province.”

  “It is six weeks until Midsummer’s Day,” Lieutenant Didrik said. “So we have time to prepare.”

  Devlin frowned. “I think not. Did not Sigfus also say that Lord Egeslic was expecting foreign guests to arrive any day? Could these guests not be members of an advance party, preparing for the invasion? No doubt this explains the Baron’s confidence and lack of cooperation.”

  “Then we must send for reinforcements. At once,” Ensign Mikkelson said.

  “I agree,” Lieutenant Didrik added.

  “From where?” Devlin countered. “Rosmaar has its own troubles. The nearest sizable force is the Royal Army garrison in Kallarne. And Duke Gerhard is hardly likely to release them, no matter what message I send.”

  His words held the ring of bitter truth. The Duke’s animosity toward the Chosen One was well-known. Any message coming from Devlin would be ignored.

  Devlin rose to his feet and began to pace in the small chamber. “We must find a way to convince the King of the need to send troops. And we must make sure his allies have no chance to liberate the Baron. So we will send the Baron to the capital, under guard. They can question him, and see the proofs of his treachery themselves.”


  “We are to leave then?” Lieutenant Didrik asked. “What of Korinth and of these folk?”

  “We are not leaving. You are,” Devlin said. “You, the Baron, and the three most reliable guards you can find.”

  “If you stay, you will need every hand that can hold a sword,” Lieutenant Didrik protested. “I cannot leave, nor can I take those you need.”

  “You can and you must,” Devlin said. “Four swords more or less will not ensure success. Only the arrival of the Royal Army can do so.”

  “But why me? Why not him?” Didrik asked.

  Ensign Mikkelson stiffened. “I would be glad of this honor,” he said.

  “No. I need you here,” Devlin said. “You and your soldiers are trained as archers. They will be of more use to me here in the keep than on the road guarding the Baron.”

  Devlin’s words made sense, and Lieutenant Didrik eventually agreed. But Stephen could not help recalling the words Ensign Mikkelson had spoken back in the village. That Devlin kept the Ensign close because he did not trust him. Today Ensign Mikkelson had saved Devlin’s life, and yet even now he must wonder how far Devlin trusted his loyalties.

  Devlin heard the sound of running feet, then the guard Behra burst into the Baron’s chambers.

  “It worked,” Behra said, holding one hand to his side as he bent forward, gasping for breath. “Ensign Mikkelson is bringing their leader here.”

  “Good,” Devlin said. “Now catch hold of yourself or get out of sight. We must show no signs of haste or panic.”

  “Yes, sir,” Behra said. Then, with a nod, he ran off to take up his post.

  Devlin, who had been pacing, now took his seat behind the massive desk that had once resided in the castellan’s quarters. Stay calm, he reminded himself. We must convince these envoys that Korinth is securely within our control.

  The news that Baron Egeslic had been sent to the capital to be tried for treason had worked wonders on the spirits of those left in the keep. Servants, officials, and even a few armsmen came forward to offer their services to the Chosen One and to prove their loyalty to the King.

  With their numbers swelled by these new followers, Devlin and Mikkelson had conceived a plan that was one part daring and three parts desperation. The Baron’s keep was to give every impression of normalcy. To that end, soldiers wearing the Baron’s colors patrolled the parapets, while two others guarded the main gate.