Devlin's Justice

by Patricia Bray

  Slowly, as if he were stretching each moment out, Arnaud crossed the few feet that separated him from Devlin. He held the glowing metal in front of Devlin’s face, so close that Devlin could feel the heat rising from it.

  “Remember you can end this at any moment. Swear to me your allegiance, and it will all be over.”

  “You know that it is not possible,” Devlin said.

  “So I intend to find out,” Arnaud countered. “It should be a fascinating experiment.”

  With that he released the tongs, and the metal weight fell on Devlin’s right thigh. The first impact was not unbearable, but then the metal burned through the leather and touched the skin beneath.

  Sweat broke out on his forehead, and Devlin ground his teeth together as he struggled not to scream. The smell of seared flesh filled his nostrils, and his blood pounded in his ears. He twitched the muscles of his leg, but it was firmly bound and he could not shift the burning metal.

  She had known this would happen, he realized. The lieutenant had not bound him in order to ensure that he would not try to attack Prince Arnaud. She had trussed him up like an animal awaiting the slaughter.

  “Shall we try another?” Arnaud asked.

  He did not wait for Devlin’s response, and in far too short a time a second glowing chunk of iron was suspended over Devlin’s body.

  “You can burn the flesh from my bones,” Devlin panted. “But my answer will be the same.”

  “You repeat yourself,” Arnaud said. He walked behind Devlin and pressed the burning metal against the back of Devlin’s neck.

  Devlin gasped in pain and tears began to stream from his eyes. His body bore its share of burn scars from his days as a metalsmith. But the wounds caused by a splash of molten metal or a careless touch were far different from what he felt at the Prince’s hand. This was a deliberate attempt to inflict the maximum amount of pain upon another human being.

  “Tell me, Chosen One, whom do you hate more? Me for torturing you? Or your King for his betrayal?”

  Twelve

  “WHAT IS YOUR PLAN?” DIDRIK ASKED.

  Captain Drakken leaned forward and added another branch to the fire, which hissed as the rain-soaked wood was added, before settling down to a sullen burn. She adjusted the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, then stretched her hands out to the feeble warmth of the flames.

  They had pushed themselves hard in the days since the four of them had fled Kingsholm, traveling the main roads when they must and taking the smaller country paths whenever they could. There had been no time for leisurely discussions. But just after dark they had reached this creek. Swollen with spring rains, it was too dangerous to ford in the dark, so reluctantly they had made camp for the night.

  Her body craved sleep, but she ignored its demands, just as she ignored the other discomforts of the journey. Rest would come later, after she had accomplished her mission.

  “What do you intend?” Didrik’s tone was respectful, but it was clear that he expected an answer.

  Didrik had changed. He still called her captain and looked to her for orders, but he no longer did so unquestioningly. In time he might make a decent captain himself. If he lived that long.

  Seated on the opposite side of the campfire, Oluva and Stephen leaned forward, waiting to hear her answer.

  “We will go to Korinth, or wherever the axe leads us,” Captain Drakken said. “We will find Devlin, free him, then deal with the Selvarat invaders.”

  “That’s it? That is your plan?” Didrik’s voice rose in incredulity.

  She grinned. “Do you have a better one?”

  He shook his head. “For all we know, Devlin is surrounded by an army. What do you expect the four of us to do?”

  “We will do what we must,” she said.

  “I wish you had recruited others. Behra, Signy, I can think of at least a dozen who would have begged to join us,” Didrik said.

  “The smaller the party, the greater our chance of passing unnoticed,” Captain Drakken said. “The risk was not worth it. Four swords or twelve, we will do what must be done.”

  “We are not as friendless as you think,” Oluva chimed in. “There are many in Korinth who know my face and will be willing to take up arms to free the Chosen One.”

  Didrik nodded grudgingly. “Any help is good, but if we had trained guards—”

  “We have what we have,” Drakken said sharply. “And Oluva’s peasants may yet surprise you.”

  Korinth had long been troubled by sea raiders, and while the King had done nothing to protect them, Devlin had sent Oluva and Sergeant Henrik to travel among the coastal villages, teaching the natives the rudiments of defense. Such actions had shocked the King and his court, who feared that armed peasants would rise up against their overlords. King Olafur had forbid Devlin to train any more armies of the people, but in Korinth he could not undo what had been done. Hundreds of folk had been trained to defend themselves.

  It was for this reason that Drakken had asked Oluva to accompany her when she left the city. Oluva had agreed, and had duly been arrested as Drakken’s so-called accomplice. It was not till they had made their escape that Oluva had learned the true reason for the journey. She, along with those who had helped Drakken escape, only knew part of the truth—that the King no longer trusted Drakken to be Captain of the Guard, and that her life was in danger. Only Embeth had been told the full truth, that Devlin was still alive and Drakken intended to find and free him.

  “The axe still calls us to Korinth?” she asked.

  Stephen nodded. “I checked as we made camp. Still north and east. I fancy it has grown a little warmer, but that may be wishful thinking.”

  Within its leather coverings, the axe blade glowed faintly with a reddish light. Master Dreng had altered the spell, so the axe glowed strongest when it faced Devlin’s location and grew darker when it was pointed away. A crude locating device compared to the elegance of the soul stone, but it would serve.

  “Why Korinth? What use have the Selvarats for the Chosen One?” Oluva asked.

  “They knew he would never agree to the protectorate,” Didrik said.

  “Then why not simply kill him? Why take him prisoner?” Oluva asked.

  It was a question that Drakken had often asked herself in the past days. “I suppose they think he has value as a hostage, though the King’s declaration that Devlin is dead would cast doubt on any claim they might make. Either that or they think they have some way to use him against us,” she said.

  In hindsight, she should have paid more attention to Lord Karel’s departure. He had left the city on the very day that Devlin had disappeared, reportedly carrying messages from King Olafur and Marshal Olvarrson to the Selvarat commander in the east. He had left on horseback, with only a single servant to accompany him.

  Such in itself was not suspicious, until it was added to the disappearance of the mercenaries who had arrived in Kingsholm aboard Ambassador Magaharan’s ship and taken quarters in the old city. Only now was it apparent that while she had been searching for Devlin’s body, he had been smuggled out of the city from under her very nose.

  “Did the King order Devlin to leave? Or you think he was taken against his will?” Didrik asked.

  “Devlin would not have left without warning, without speaking to anyone,” Drakken replied. “Nor would he have left his axe behind.”

  “He would not have stood by and let Saskia be killed,” Stephen added.

  They sat in silence, lost in their own thoughts. Satisfied that she had dried out as much as she was going to, Drakken was ready to stretch out for sleep when Stephen’s low voice caught her attention.

  “I think I may know why they want him. Or rather not why, but who,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  Stephen bit his lip and tugged the axe a bit closer, seeming to take comfort from its presence. “I think it is the same enemy who attacked him this winter.”

  “What enemy?” She had heard almost n
othing of what had transpired during Devlin’s return to his homeland, only that after much searching he had found the Sword of Light and had been bringing it back to the capital as proof that he was indeed the true Chosen One.

  Didrik shook his head. “No. He was defeated. That witch in Duncaer destroyed him.”

  “Not destroyed. Cast out,” Stephen argued.

  She raised her voice to get their attention. “What enemy? What haven’t you told me?”

  Didrik shrugged. “It is his tale,” he said, pointing to Stephen. “Let him tell it.”

  “Do you remember when Devlin and I were attacked by the creature of darkness? An elemental, Master Dreng called it, created by a sorcerer and sent to attack us?”

  “I remember Devlin told me of it,” she said cautiously. She had not witnessed the actual attack, but then again Devlin had no reason to lie. He had said it was a sorcerous creature, and she had believed him.

  “This winter Devlin was attacked again. A mind-sorcerer cast a spell on him, causing him to hear voices and see things that weren’t there. It nearly drove him mad.”

  “But the Chosen One is protected against direct magic,” Drakken argued. “That’s why the sorcerer had to send an elemental to do his bidding.”

  “Devlin performed a ritual of his people that inadvertently left his mind open for attack, and the mind-sorcerer seized the opening,” Stephen said. “For a long time no one knew what was happening, but in the end we found a wizard woman who was able to cast out the invader. She told us the spell had been cast by a mind-sorcerer, someone who was a great distance away.”

  “It could have been anyone,” Drakken said. “Even one of his own people.”

  Stephen shook his head. He had always been stubborn, and since being proven right about Devlin he had become even more so. “The Caerfolk are wizards, not sorcerers. And Ismenia said that whoever had cast the spell was not in Duncaer. It could have been one of our own, but who would have the skill for such? Master Dreng is only a mage of the second rank, and yet he is the Royal Mage. The best the King has at his command. But in Selvarat they teach mind-sorcery for its healing powers. If one of their sorcerers has studied the dark side of that talent, then he could well be Devlin’s long sought enemy.”

  “But why take him? What do they intend to do with him?” Oluva asked the question that was on everyone’s mind.

  Drakken shivered, but not from the cold. It was bad enough to imagine Devlin a prisoner, held captive by his enemies. But the prisoner of a mind-sorcerer? Someone who could drive a man mad with his touch? There were no limits to the horrors that such a one could inflict.

  Even if they succeeded in rescuing Devlin, would there be anything left of the man they had once known? Or would they arrive only to find a lifeless shell had taken his place?

  “Enough,” she said, rising to her feet. “It does no good for us to spend the night fretting over things that we cannot change. Didrik, you have first watch. The rest of us should sleep while we can. It may be a long time before we have another uninterrupted night.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Didrik said.

  Using their saddlebags as pillows, they wrapped themselves in bedrolls and pretended to fall asleep.

  It took several hours before Prince Arnaud declared himself satisfied that Devlin would not break under torture. By the time his gaolers returned to unfasten him from the chair, Devlin was so weak he could not stand and they had to drag him back to his room.

  He half stumbled, half fell onto the bed, then immediately groaned from the pressure on his burned back. The burns on his front were even worse, so he curled up on his right side, which had received the least amount of Arnaud’s attentions. His breath came in short pants as he tried to cope with the pain. His head swam, but the mercy of unconsciousness was denied him.

  Arnaud had enjoyed torturing him and had displayed an expert’s touch. At times the pain had been so intense that Devlin thought his heart would burst, but each time Devlin felt he had reached the limits of his endurance, Arnaud had pushed him one step further. The Prince had shown a perverse pride in Devlin’s refusal to yield, caressing his head and praising him as if he were an obedient pet. Then he would begin again, promising Devlin that he could end the pain if he swore allegiance.

  Devlin could not fathom his captor, nor the twisted game that he was playing. It was easy to say that the Prince was mad, that he was the embodiment of evil. But what about those around him? His soldiers had shown no surprise at Devlin’s condition; indeed, they had prepared him for his ordeal. How often did one have to witness torture before it became simple routine? How many victims had they trussed up to await Arnaud’s intentions?

  “You stupid bloody fool,” Master Justin said.

  Devlin opened his eyes. His vision was blurry, but he could see the mage, accompanied by an older woman.

  “Where are you injured?” the healer asked.

  Devlin glared. It was a foolish question. After a moment, the healer seemed to realize his mistake. He turned to the woman and said, “It looks like burns, but may be more. Fetch springwater, the linen strips, and the salves in the blue jars. Both the jars, the large square one and the smaller round one, understood?”

  The woman nodded and left to do his bidding.

  Justin grasped Devlin’s shoulder with one hand and rolled him onto his back. Devlin bit his tongue rather than cry out.

  “Kanjti had better claim you, for no one else would have such a fool,” Justin said. His tone was angry, as if Devlin were somehow responsible for his injuries.

  “I did not ask for your help,” Devlin spat out.

  “I am not doing this for you,” Justin countered. He beckoned to one of the guards. “Come now, give me a hand. We’ve got to get these clothes off so I can clean out the wounds and see the damage.”

  Between the two of them they stripped off his clothes, showing little care for either his modesty or his comfort. By the time the woman returned with her supplies, Devlin’s hands were clenched into fists, the nails biting into his palms to distract himself from the pain elsewhere in his body.

  There were dozens of burn marks, each of which had to be cleaned and coated with a thick salve. Some were left to breathe, while the worst were wrapped in linen bandages. As he worked, Master Justin muttered under his breath, complaining about the impossibility of his task, the difficulty of working without properly trained apprentices, disparaging Devlin’s faculties and his breeding.

  His voice was angry, and his touch less than gentle, but under his care the throbbing aches of the wounds grew slowly numb. At last he pronounced himself satisfied, and with the old woman’s help he loosely draped a quilted robe over Devlin before allowing him to lie back down on his side.

  “I have done what I can,” Master Justin informed him.

  Devlin nodded. He would not offer the words of thanks. The healer had made it quite plain that he was here not to serve Devlin, but because Prince Arnaud required it of him. Strange to think that such a bitter man could have been called to Lady Geyra’s service.

  With a wave of his hand the healer dismissed the old woman, who left bearing the stained rags and filthy basin.

  “You will not be so lucky next time,” the healer declared.

  “Next time?” Devlin’s breath caught in his throat. Surely the prince didn’t intend to repeat that day’s work?

  “Each healing places a strain on your vitality and robs me of my strength,” Justin declared. “If I were well rested, I could have done more for you, but two major healings in the space of a week would be a challenge for even a healer of the first rank.”

  “I did not choose this,” Devlin said.

  “Of course you did.” Justin crouched by the bed, so his eyes were level with Devlin’s. “Just do what the Prince asks, whatever it is. Swear you will obey him and he will have no reason to harm you,” he whispered, in a voice too low for the guards to overhear.

  “I cannot.”

  “Look around you. The wor
ld has changed. This may once have been Korinth, but it is now ruled by Prince Arnaud in the name of the Selvarat empire. There are only two choices for those of us here. Cooperate or be killed.”

  So he was still in Jorsk, in the coastal province of Korinth. Devlin had suspected as much, from the few glimpses of scenery that he had seen outside his window.

  “The Prince rules Korinth? But what of the alliance?”

  King Olafur’s message had spoken of the revival of the ancient alliance between Selvarat and Jorsk. Devlin had imagined the Selvarats supplying troops to help defend Jorsk’s vulnerable coastline. But from what he had seen and heard, it seemed the results had been far different than anyone had imagined.

  Justin chuckled mirthlessly. “Arnaud has proclaimed himself Viceroy of the Selvarat Protectorate. His rule stretches from Rosmaar down to Myrka.”

  “You are mad or deceived.” Arnaud might have captured part or all of Korinth, but he could never have taken the eastern territories in such a short time. Mikkelson and his troops would have seen to that.

  “You are the one who is mad,” Justin replied, no longer bothering to keep his voice lowered. “King Olafur sent his orders. Our armies marched out of their encampments, and the Selvarats and their allies marched in. The King abandoned us to our fate.”

  “I cannot believe the King would have surrendered without a fight,” Devlin said. “You may not have heard of it, but surely the Royal Army is preparing even now for an attack.”

  Even to himself the words sounded hollow. Olafur had never been a man of courage. And he had handed Devlin over to the Selvarats. Devlin, who was both Chosen One and the General of the Royal Army. Devlin, as bearer of the Sword of Light, could have rallied the Jorskian people in their own defense.

  But it seemed Olafur did not want war. Olafur wanted to hold on to whatever shreds of his kingdom he could. But like a man who cut off his leg to escape a trap, Olafur might well find that he had inflicted a fatal blow upon himself. It was just a question of how long it would take him to bleed to death.