Devlin's Luck

by Patricia Bray

  A year ago, Stephen would have looked at Duke Gerhard and seen an honorable man, one outraged at the idea of a false Chosen One and the stain upon the Kingdom’s honor. But Stephen was older now. Wiser. Now he looked at the Duke and saw a power-hungry noble who would brook no competition. Devlin’s crime was not that of being unfit for his post. It was of challenging the Duke’s authority, and this was the sin that would cost him his life.

  “Life is seldom like the pretty ballads you love,” Solveig said. “Court politics is about power, and the pursuit of justice is often compromised in the battle.”

  “I know that now,” he said. In the year since he had first met the Chosen One, Stephen had learned that life could be far more terrible and wonderful than any ballad he knew. And that the true worth of a man could not be set down in song, but rather was measured both in how he acted when put to the test, and how he behaved when all was peaceful.

  Devlin had taught him much. And now Stephen would learn what it was to watch a friend die. Solveig gathered him in her arms, as he closed his eyes and wept.

  Twenty-six

  THERE WOULD BE NO DEATH SHROUD FOR HIM. NO one to perform the ceremonies that would see him safely to the Dread Lord’s realm. No one to speak his name on the night of the dead, or to greet him kindly in his wanderings. No children would be called Devlin in his honor, to keep his memory alive.

  Yet he felt no bitterness. He had come to this place to die. Instead briefly, improbably, he had found friendship. Respect from those he admired for their own courage and loyalty. And a measure of atonement for his sins as he had sought to help those who could not defend themselves.

  Devlin was resigned to his death, but still there was one more service that he could perform. He had learned well the lesson of his fight with the banecats. There was much a man could do, once he had accepted the inevitability of his own death. Devlin’s life would end on the morrow, but if the Gods were kind, he would not die until he had dealt the Duke a mortal blow in return.

  Devlin retired to his room and sent the nervous chambermen to fetch hot water for bathing. He washed away the dirt of travel and shaved off several days’ growth of dark beard. The face that stared back at him from the mirror was eerily calm. Donning a peasant shirt and his old frayed trousers, he took the sword from its scabbard and examined the blade carefully. He found just what he had expected. The blade was sound, free of nicks. And like all his weapons, the edge was as sharp as his skills could make it. There was no point in further honing the blade, just as there was no point in Devlin trying to learn new tactics at this last hour. Both he and the sword were as ready as they would ever be.

  When Stephen came, Devlin listened attentively to the arrangements for the duel, but he brushed aside Stephen’s request to talk. He could see his friend was distressed, yet there was no comfort Devlin could offer him. His friends were angry over this turn of fate, and grieved over the surety of his death. Devlin himself did not share their grief. He had sought death for so long that to him this seemed but the final step of a long journey whose destination had long been known.

  But he could not allow their grief to weaken him, to distract him from what he must do. He would need to bring all his focus, indeed his entire will, to bear if he was to succeed in taking Duke Gerhard with him to the grave.

  Devlin woke from a dreamless sleep in the quiet hour before dawn. He dressed himself with great care, in a linen shirt and gray trousers, over which he fastened the gray silk tunic that was the uniform of the Chosen One. He hesitated for a moment, then slipped the ring of his office on his left hand. Wearing jewelry in a duel was folly, but it would make little difference when the outcome was fore-ordained. And it would be good to remind the Duke and the courtiers just who and what Devlin was.

  He stood in the center of the room and turned around slowly, making sure that everything was in order. His transverse bow and quiver hung from pegs on the wall. Next to them hung the great axe, and on the table below were his throwing knives and the twin wrist sheaths. Inside the closed doors of the wardrobe were his neatly folded clothes, while the chest held the few personal possessions he owned. A few metalworking tools, a sharpening stone, a fire starter, and a half dozen maps from his journeys. Little enough to show for his year of service.

  Devlin’s eyes lingered on the axe thoughtfully. He had no care what happened to the rest of his belongings, but the axe was a different matter.

  A knock sounded.

  “Enter,” Devlin called.

  The door swung open, and he saw Stephen standing in the hall.

  “It is time,” Stephen said. His face was haggard and his eyes red-rimmed as if he had spent a sleepless night.

  Devlin nodded. He picked up the sword belt and buckled it around his waist.

  “There is one service you can do for me afterward,” Devlin said.

  “Name it and it is yours,” Stephen said.

  “When I am dead, destroy the axe. Take it to Master Timo the smith and have him melt the steel in his forge until it is naught but a lump of metal.”

  “But why?”

  “The axe is cursed.” Once the axe had represented all of his skill, all of his pride in his craft. Yet even at the moment of forging, the axe and Devlin were already cursed, their destiny foretold. Was Devlin cursed because he owned the axe? Or was the axe cursed because he had forged it? Either way, it did not matter. The axe would be destroyed, lest he pass his unholy burden on to another.

  Stephen’s eyes widened. “Then why do you keep it?”

  “Because it is mine,” Devlin said simply. “Now come. They are waiting for us.”

  As they walked through the corridors of the palace toward the arms salon, Devlin noticed that there were far more servants about than was usual for that hour. They clustered at every junction of corridors and at the foot of the staircases. They did not speak, but instead watched him pass in eerie silence.

  They had come to witness his death, he realized. Such lowly ones would not be privileged to witness the duel, so they had come to see him in his last minutes. He wondered where their sympathies lay. Did they see him as a common man like themselves, one who strove to uphold justice for all? Or did they believe Duke Gerhard’s lies and come to witness the execution of a kinslayer?

  Devlin and Stephen turned down the final corridor, and the minstrel walked past the door that led to the arms salon. Devlin halted, and after a few steps Stephen stopped when he realized Devlin was no longer following.

  “Come. There is a room adjacent, where the fighters can wait in private until it is time for their match.”

  “No,” said Devlin. He would not spend his last moments hiding. “Let us show them that I have no fear.”

  He led the way into the arms salon, and reluctantly Stephen followed.

  Devlin blinked as he saw that the salon was filled with richly dressed courtiers, many of whom looked to be still wearing their finery from the evening before. Scanning the crowd he saw that three sides of the square were packed with spectators, but the western side held only a few folk. Among them he recognized Captain Drakken, Lieutenant Didrik, Solveig, Lord Dalkassar, Lord Rikard, and a handful of others whom he had come to know in his months in Kingsholm. Duke Gerhard was nowhere to be seen.

  The crowd parted as Devlin made his way through the gallery, toward the western end. Only one man had the courage to meet his gaze.

  “Chosen One, I wish you much luck,” Master Dreng said.

  “Good luck? Or ill?”

  Master Dreng smiled. “The best of luck, of course. I have wagered on your victory.”

  Devlin smiled in return. “I fear I will make you a loser once again.”

  “You should not jest,” Stephen said. “Not at a time like this.”

  “On the contrary, this is the best time of all. I will not have it said that the Chosen One met his death like a mewling child, afraid of the dark. Let them see the courage that comes from the service of the truth.”

  As they drew
near their friends, Stephen touched his arm, as if for luck. “You will be remembered. Though you may fall, others will take up the challenge.”

  Stephen’s eyes were moist and his voice hoarse, and Devlin had a sudden terrible suspicion. “You will not seek to serve as Chosen One in my place,” Devlin said firmly.

  Solveig gasped, and the others stared at Stephen.

  “You think I am too young, too weak,” Stephen said.

  “No. I think you are too good. Too kindhearted for such a foul task,” Devlin said. What could have put such a mad notion in Stephen’s head? The minstrel would not last a month in this twisted court.

  Devlin put both of his arms on Stephen’s shoulders, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Your heart is good, but if you wish to honor me, do not do this thing. The path of the Chosen One is not for you. If you need to keep my memory alive then make a song of me, a dozen songs if you must, but do not throw your life away for no reason.”

  Stephen blinked rapidly and swallowed hard. Devlin held his gaze until Stephen nodded, and only then did Devlin release him.

  “Chosen One,” Captain Drakken said, extending her hand in the clasp of friendship.

  He squeezed her hand in return. “Captain Drakken.” There was nothing more he could say.

  “My guards send their respect and wishes for your victory,” she said, her mouth twisting slightly on the word victory. “Many wished to join me here, to show you their support, but I feared that too large a gathering might provoke an incident.”

  Captain Drakken was wise. The guards were well disciplined, but it would not be easy for them to watch a friend die. He knew how they felt. If it had been Didrik or Stephen or even Captain Drakken on that dueling floor, Devlin did not know if he could have forced himself to watch and do nothing.

  Devlin clasped hands with Didrik and Mikkelson, and exchanged a few words with those nobles who dared risk the Duke’s wrath by showing their support for the Chosen One.

  A silver bell sounded.

  “The King is here,” Solveig announced.

  Devlin nodded and unbuckled his sword belt, handing it to Stephen. He then stripped off his tunic, revealing the loose linen shirt underneath. Pulling the sword out of the sheath, he held the blade casually in his right hand, point down toward the floor.

  He watched as King Olafur entered and took his seat, flanked by the members of the council. Next to appear were a pair of heralds, sounding a brassy challenge. Devlin gave a snort of disgust. Such foolishness. This was no pretty pageant for the amusement of the court, but rather a serious matter of life and death.

  Stephen nudged him as Duke Gerhard and his second entered the room, accompanied by the Royal Armsmaster and a brown-robed priest. A page unlinked the silver chain so they could step onto the dueling ground.

  Devlin and Stephen stepped over the chain and advanced across the room to meet his opponent. The thin layer of white sand crunched softly beneath their feet. The sand would prevent them from slipping on spilled blood, but was not deep enough that they need fear losing their footing.

  They met at the north end, directly before the King and his council. The Duke and Devlin eyed each other, but neither bowed nor gave any sign of respect.

  “I ask now, in the presence of the assembled court, will either of you agree to give up your quarrel?” asked the Armsmaster Koenraad.

  “No,” Devlin and Duke Gerhard said at the same instant.

  “Then the rules of the duel are thus. You will begin at my signal, not before. This is a mortal duel, so you will fight according to the rules of honor, until one of you is killed or chooses to yield,” Koenraad said. “Your Grace, do you understand these rules?”

  “Yes,” Duke Gerhard said. He appeared very much the bored aristocrat, impatient for these formalities to be finished so he could dispatch the challenger and return to his courtly pursuits. It was clear he saw Devlin as no threat.

  “Challenger Devlin, do you understand these rules?”

  “Yes. I stop when he is dead,” Devlin said mockingly, in his thickest Caer accent.

  There was a muffled sound as Stephen repressed a snicker. The armsmaster appeared appalled at this breach of etiquette.

  His bravado had the intended effect, for Duke Gerhard’s eyes narrowed and he studied Devlin, as if seeking to understand the source of his challenger’s confidence.

  “And now—”

  “Wait,” Duke Gerhard said, raising his hand to interrupt the armsmaster.

  The armsmaster paused.

  “Forgive the breach of ceremony, but this one is well-known for using the weapons of an assassin,” Duke Gerhard said. “I would have him show that he intends to fight only with the sword, and not with any knavish tricks.”

  A part of him burned at the insult while the cooler, logical part of his mind reveled in the knowledge that he had indeed managed to disturb Duke Gerhard’s aplomb. The Duke must think that Devlin’s confidence came from the possession of some hidden weapon. How would he react when he realized Devlin had none?

  Devlin handed his sword to Stephen. “I have nothing to hide,” he declared. He grasped the right sleeve of his shirt in his left hand and gave a quick yank, ripping the sleeve free. Then he did the same for the left sleeve. He handed the sleeves to Stephen, and took back his sword.

  “Are you satisfied, Great Champion? Or must I empty my boots, to prove them free from rocks that might trip you?”

  The Duke’s face was calm, but his ears were tinged with red. Koenraad looked at the Duke, then back at Devlin, and made a quick decision. “Honor is more than satisfied,” he said. “Your seconds may leave the field.”

  Devlin did not look as Stephen made his way from the square and joined the spectators in the gallery. All of his attention was for the Duke and for what he must now do.

  Devlin and Duke Gerhard moved to the center of the square and took their places as directed by the armsmaster.

  King Olafur nodded. The brown-robed priest, whom Devlin recognized from the Choosing Ceremony, now stepped forward. Raising his hands to the heavens, he proclaimed, “We thank the Seven Gods for their protection, as we witness their justice proven in the trial of arms. May their will be done.”

  “May their will be done,” echoed the spectators.

  The armsmaster raised his hand high, then dropped it. The duel had begun.

  Captain Drakken watched with clenched fists as the Chosen One and the King’s Champion began slowly to circle each other, each seeking to gain the advantage. Duke Gerhard made the first move, a high stroke that was matched by a high block, followed immediately by a low thrust that Devlin blocked equally well, if less gracefully.

  The Duke’s moves were fluid, almost lazy, as he probed Devlin’s defenses, looking for weaknesses. Each time Devlin managed to counter with his own sword, or evade the blow by shifting his body at the last moment. His technique was an armsmaster’s nightmare, but it was working. For the moment.

  “He moves well,” she said. “But he uses only the one hand.” The long sword could be used as a two-handed weapon, to increase the force, and turn an ordinary strike into a killing blow. Or a very skilled fighter could switch the blade from hand to hand, confusing his opponent and enabling him to strike at both sides with equal ease. Devlin’s technique showed he had been trained by the guards. The guards trained one-handed, for they normally held shields in their left hands.

  The Duke’s sword was a dueling weapon, easily six inches longer than the sword that Devlin wielded. And he held it in both hands, for shield training was no part of the courtly dueling rituals. This gave him the advantage of both longer reach and greater power. Combined with his long experience, it made him a deadly opponent.

  The combatants met in a sudden flurry of blows and parries, and when they parted she saw a line of red staining Devlin’s right side. Another moment and, as the Duke’s sword slipped past his guard, he bore a matching cut on his left side.

  Duke Gerhard’s experience and longer reach were
beginning to tell. He smiled cruelly as he pressed the attack home, wounding Devlin again and again.

  “He is toying with him,” Lieutenant Didrik said.

  She nodded in agreement. Devlin had gained in skill, but he was no match for a man who had reigned as undefeated champion for the past fifteen years. Indeed the Duke had passed up several opportunities for a killing blow in favor of inflicting smaller wounds on his opponent. It was to be the death of a thousand cuts. Duke Gerhard intended that Devlin would suffer greatly before he died.

  Devlin’s bloody shirt hung in tatters, and as the Duke’s sword sliced along his collarbone, the shirt split in two and fell to the ground.

  A gasp ran around the room as Devlin’s scars were laid bare for all to see. Even Drakken, who had seen them before, was shocked, for she had forgotten just how horrific they were. His back and left side were a maze of ridged white scars, now gruesomely outlined by the fresh red blood that dripped down from his many wounds.

  Devlin grinned. “You will have to do better than these pinpricks if you wish to destroy me,” he taunted. “Your pretty swordplay may be fine for the white sands, but you would not last five minutes on the battlefield. You would piss in your pants if you had to stand where I have.”

  The Duke’s face turned dull red and he snarled a wordless reply.

  At last, he had succeeded in angering the Duke. Devlin kept the grin on his lips, trying not to show how much it cost him. He was covered with sweat and his breathing was labored, and he could feel himself weakening as the small wounds combined to take their toll. If he had any chance, he must strike now, before the Duke overcame his anger and regained his icy precision. He just needed the Duke to come close enough, to be within his reach.

  “Come now,” he said, beckoning with his free hand. “Or are you afraid?”

  The Duke whirled, raising his sword high and bringing it down in a sweeping stroke toward Devlin’s neck. Devlin raised his sword, and the two blades rang with the protest of agonized metal as they crashed together. Devlin’s muscles strained as the Duke’s sword slid slowly down the edge of his own blade. He braced his sword arm with his left, and then, with a powerful heave, thrust his sword and the Duke away from him.