Devlin's Justice

by Patricia Bray

  “And if you are killed, I expect her to carry on. Likewise, if she is the first to die, then you will take her place. The two of you will guard each other,” Devlin said. And if he were to be killed, either Oluva or Didrik might well be able to take his place as a rallying point.

  “And I will watch over the Chosen One,” Captain Drakken said.

  He had already had this argument with Drakken and lost. Accustomed to command, her experience would have made her an invaluable leader in the field. But Drakken had argued that he needed someone to watch his back, and when that had not swayed him, she had added that he needed her knowledge of tactics.

  “What of me?” Stephen asked.

  “You will stay with me,” Devlin said. It might not be the safest place, but ever since he had been reunited with Stephen, Devlin had been unwilling to let him out of his sight. The horrific image of Stephen’s mangled corpse still haunted his dreams. He knew it had been a trick, but a part of him feared that it might come true unless he was there to prevent it.

  There might well come a time when Stephen was called upon to give his life for the rebellion. But if that day came, it would be because Devlin himself had already fallen.

  Twenty

  CAPTAIN DRAKKEN MOPPED THE SWEAT FROM her brow, and shaded her eyes with her hand as she scanned the fields where corn ripened under the blazing summer sun. Assured that the fighters were in position, ready to cut off possible retreat, she made her way along the eastern ditch until it rejoined the road.

  Devlin waited there, along with two dozen fighters on horseback. She had selected them personally from among the recruits who arrived nearly every day. Only the best were allowed the privilege of guarding the Chosen One.

  “Everything is ready,” she said. “You are certain you wish to do this? No parley?”

  “The assessor has chosen her lot,” Devlin said.

  Devlin’s face was grim, as it often was these days, whether the news was good or ill. Looking at him, one would suppose the rebellion was on the verge of being crushed. Yet the opposite was true. Against all odds, they continued to survive, and each day they grew stronger.

  The tactics that Devlin had outlined were simple, if brutal. They launched no full-scale attacks, but instead relied upon ambush and assassination. If a chance arose to kill one of the invaders it was taken, and the captured weapons were distributed to the ever-growing band of rebels.

  The cost had been high, as inexperienced fighters found themselves swiftly outmatched. Trading one rebel life for that of an enemy was considered a success. Sometimes they lost two, three, or four for each soldier they managed to kill.

  But Devlin had the weight of numbers on his side, and as the summer wore on, his fighters grew more cunning and experienced. No longer did the enemy send out four-person patrols. Now they traveled in groups of twelve or twenty, and the rebel bands had grown in size to match.

  At first they’d offered no quarter to the enemy, but then Devlin had suggested that when possible, a single survivor would be left for questioning. When they had learned what they could from him, the rebels would amputate his sword hand and then set him free as a warning to the others as to what they could expect.

  General Bertrand, who had assumed command upon Prince Arnaud’s death, did his best to hold his troops together, but spies in the larger towns reported that there were obvious signs of strain and poor morale among the soldiers. Using captured uniforms, Didrik had disguised his band as a mercenary unit and boldly attacked an army encampment, looting it of valuables. He’d repeated the same trick a week later. Other bands copied his tactics, as word spread through the informal network they had established. The change in tactics, from ambushes to wanton looting seemed to convince the army that they were now facing renegade mercenary bands as well, which served to increase the tension between the two presumptive allies.

  As the weeks passed, the enemy casualties mounted, but so did the tally of fallen rebels. New recruits came each day, but the majority of folk in the occupied territories remained neutral. Some would offer the rebels food or shelter for a night, others offered only their silence. If Devlin was to succeed, he would need to convince these to join him.

  And now, against Drakken’s advice, Devlin had chosen to escalate the fighting to a new level. It remained to be seen if his new tactics would garner him more supporters or would drive a wedge between him and those who followed him.

  “Burn it,” Devlin said.

  Drakken stood in her stirrups and raised her fist high. The fighters she had positioned around the field repeated the signal, as they touched their torches to the glowing coals that they carried, then tossed the burning torches in among the grain.

  As the first wisps of smoke rose above the fields, Devlin rode forward, and his escort followed. They moved swiftly down the gravel lane that led to the manor house where the Assessor Emiliana and her family resided. The troops scattered around the house, surrounding it, their bows cocked and ready.

  Devlin positioned himself at the front of the house, his transverse bow dangling casually from one hand.

  Those who worked the fields had already been taken prisoner, so it took a few moments for the alarm to be raised. The door swung open and a young man dashed out of the house calling “Fire,” only to be brought up short as he saw those who waited outside.

  The young man rocked back on his heels, nearly falling over.

  “What? Who are you?” he asked.

  “Fetch your mistress,” Devlin said.

  “But the fields—”

  “The fields are burning on my command. Fetch your mistress,” Devlin repeated.

  The young man backed up slowly, never taking his eyes from Devlin. He disappeared into the house.

  A few moments later, a woman emerged. The Assessor Emiliana was diminutive in stature, but her eyes blazed with anger.

  “What is the meaning of this?” she asked.

  “Emiliana, you have been condemned as a traitor for your support of the invaders,” Devlin said.

  Previous attacks had been confined to the Selvarat army and their mercenary troops. As far as she knew, this was the first time that a band had targeted one of the Jorskians who was collaborating with the enemy. Emiliana had made a name for herself in these parts as the first to pledge her loyalty to the invaders. The Selvarats had rewarded her by allowing her to keep her lucrative post as tax collector, but now her own people would judge her sins.

  “By what right do you do this?” Emiliana asked.

  “By right of arms, and in the name of the people of Jorsk,” Devlin said.

  Drakken glanced over her shoulder and saw that the smoke was growing thicker as hungry red flames devoured the crops.

  Emiliana’s estate was surrounded by fields, bordered by a small stream on one side and a road on another. The fire they had set would utterly destroy her possessions, but there was little risk that it would spread. The blaze was meant as an object lesson, to show that only those who cooperated with the invaders need fear their neighbor’s wrath.

  “So, you mean to kill me?” Emiliana said. “Will you murder an unarmed woman and her children? Is this the famed justice of the Chosen One?”

  “You may leave here, with the clothes on your back, and a waterskin each,” Devlin said. “Nothing more.”

  “But—” Emiliana protested.

  “I would hurry, if I were you,” Captain Drakken advised. “The flames are getting closer.”

  Indeed, the wind was already pushing the heat toward them. The wide tree-lined lane would provide an escape route to the open road, but only if they left before the flames reached it.

  After one last look, Emiliana disappeared back into the house.

  A few moments later, the young man they had seen before emerged, accompanied by an older woman. After a brief search, the servants were allowed to leave. Others swiftly followed. Finally, just as wind-whipped embers began to land on the wooden shingles of the roof, Emiliana emerged. A young boy clutch
ed one of her hands, while she held a baby in her other arm. A pair of waterskins were hung around the boy’s neck.

  Drakken swung down from the saddle and walked toward Emiliana. The boy’s face turned white with fear, and not for the first time, she wondered if they had gone too far. What did it mean when even a child was afraid of her? But there was nothing she could do to reassure him. After all, it was by her command that his home was being destroyed and his family impoverished. She could not expect a child to understand. Some days she did not understand herself.

  “Let me see the baby,” Drakken ordered.

  Emiliana clutched the child to her breast. “I will not let you harm her.”

  It was a fine show of devotion, but Drakken was not swayed by such tactics.

  “You have little time,” Drakken warned. “And I will not let you leave until I am certain that you have complied with our demands. Unwrap her blanket, and hold the child up.”

  The thick smoke surrounded them, making it difficult to breathe.

  “Loathsome bitch,” Emiliana cursed. As she unwrapped the blanket a leather purse fell to the ground with a solid clink of metal.

  It was as Drakken had expected. It was probably not the only purse. The boy’s loose tunic might well hide treasure, as could the bodice of Emiliana’s dress. But time was indeed running out, and they needed the assessor alive and humiliated, rather than dead and a victim.

  “Go,” Drakken ordered.

  Emiliana hurried past. Drakken walked back to her horse and swung herself back in the saddle, giving a piercing whistle to summon those fighters who had surrounded the manor house to prevent any from escaping with the assessor’s treasure. As the band re-formed, it followed the assessor and her family down the lane. The servants were waiting at the crossroads, and she watched until the assessor had joined them.

  She wondered how long they would have to travel before they found someone willing to take them in.

  “I still don’t know if this was for good or ill,” Drakken said. “I never thought I would make war upon children.”

  Indeed this entire affair went against her very nature. She had just destroyed acres of valuable crops, which would have fed hungry souls throughout the winter. And even now she could see the manor house ablaze, the fire consuming all within. Coins, jewels, clothes, provisions, foodstuffs. The accumulated wealth of the assessor’s lifetime, destroyed in a few short hours. Such wanton destruction went against everything Drakken believed.

  Yet, despite her misgivings, she had obeyed the orders given her and put her faith in Devlin. If the act marked her as unclean, then so be it. Though she felt a moment of resentment as she thought of Stephen, who had been left behind in the base camp. Devlin still protected the minstrel from the worst of the war, finding reasons for Stephen to keep his hands free of the killings. He did not seem to realize that none of them were innocent. All those who followed Devlin bore their share of responsibility for the deeds done in the name of the rebellion, and one day it would fall to history to judge them.

  “Come now, what is done is done,” Devlin said, breaking into her grim musings. “If there is a Selvarat patrol within a half dozen leagues, the smoke will draw them here, and we had best be gone before they arrive.”

  “We ride,” she called, and the fighters fell into a ragged line, six ahead and the remainder trailing behind.

  As they rode, one part of her kept her eyes open, searching for any threat. But another was wondering just what it was that she would be called upon to do next, and if there were any lines left that she was not prepared to cross.

  They took a circuitous route to avoid being followed, and it was nearly sunset by the time Devlin and the raiding party rejoined the others in the latest of their forest camps. Drakken saw to the care of those injured, while Devlin sought out the leader of the scouts. She reported that all seemed quiet, but that her instincts warned her of trouble coming. Devlin, whose own instincts for danger had saved them on more than one occasion, listened gravely, then instructed her to double the watch on this night. They would leave in the morning.

  At last he made his way back to his tent, where he accepted a basin of water and a rough woolen towel from a round-faced girl who looked to be all of twelve years of age. Someone’s sister or daughter, brought along because her home was no longer safe. He sighed, even as he thanked her. This was no place for a child. But there was no place in Korinth, or indeed anywhere in the occupied lands that could truly be called safe these days.

  He scrubbed away the soot from his face and arms, then rinsed out his mouth with a cup of watered wine. When he looked up, he found Stephen watching him.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “We’ve news from Sarna,” Stephen said.

  The speaker of the nearest village was one of the links on the informal chain of communications that bound the rebels together. Messages were seldom committed to paper, but instead passed from one trusted soul to another. Knowing that Stephen would be disturbed by witnessing the eviction of the traitor Emiliana, Devlin had sent him instead to the village, to see if there were any messages for him.

  “And?” Devlin prompted, as he began walking toward the cookfires. The hunters must have had success today, for the remnants of a boar were on a spit by the fire. Small knots of people, many of whom had accompanied Devlin on the raid today, sat around the fire. He nodded in acknowledgment of their greetings, pausing as he saw Turla, one of his rebels, sitting by herself.

  “How is your daughter?” he asked.

  “She is resting. But her wound is healing, and she is fit to journey,” she hastened to assure him.

  “Good.” Turla was barely competent with a spear, but her daughter had shown a flair for the sword. Unfortunately, her daughter had taken a deep slash in a skirmish two days ago. With no true healers, there’d been nothing to do but bandage her wounds and hope for the best. Anyone who could not travel with the band was left behind. It was considered a kindness to slit their throats rather than leaving them to die a slow death.

  The cook picked up a wooden trencher and piled a generous portion on top before handing it to Devlin.

  “Eat hearty, it will not keep,” the cook advised him. “And we may not see meat again for a while.”

  “We’re moving on tomorrow,” Devlin informed him. “You may pass the word.”

  With over fifty fighters in this group, they needed to keep moving both to avoid the enemy and to forage for food. No village could afford to feed them for more than a day or two, and venturing into a larger town to buy provisions had its own risks. Perhaps it was time to look at raiding another Selvarat supply caravan.

  Devlin ate swiftly, not even tasting the food.

  “What of this Sarna?” he asked Stephen, as he handed the trencher back to the cook. It was rare that Stephen had to be prompted twice to answer a question.

  “Let us find Captain Drakken, so I only have to tell the tale once,” Stephen said.

  Devlin shrugged. He made his way over to the small clearing where Captain Drakken sat on a flat rock near the tent that held their gear. As she saw him approach she lifted her wineskin and took a long swallow.

  “To our success,” she said. Her words were light, but she grimaced as she spoke.

  He had known that Drakken did not like what she had been asked to do. They would be lucky if this was the worst of it.

  “The raid went well?” Stephen asked.

  Devlin accepted the wineskin from Drakken and drank before sitting down on the ground, his folded cloak under him to protect him from the chill earth.

  “Success,” Devlin said. “Emiliana’s holdings were destroyed, and she walked out of there with only what she could hide under her cloak, muttering curses upon us all.”

  “Did we lose any of ours?” Stephen asked.

  “Nothing serious,” Drakken reported. “Thom burned his left hand, and the baker woman was singed when the fire took an unexpected turn.”

  “Anna. The baker is
Anna Karlswife,” Stephen said. He had a gift for names and faces.

  “It was a useful tactic, and a valuable lesson taught to any who might think of casting their lot with the invaders,” Devlin said. “We should pass the word to the other bands.”

  “We must tell them to be careful,” Drakken said.

  “Yes, if the wind turned, the fire could easily have gotten out of hand and turned back on the forest,” Devlin agreed.

  Drakken glared at him. “Tell the bands to be careful in their choice of targets as well. I understand the need to make an example out of traitors, but the innocent should not be made to suffer.”

  “You may draft the message,” Devlin said. It was as much of a concession as he was prepared to make. He turned his attention to Stephen. “And what is the news of this Sarna?”

  He did not even know if Sarna was a person or a place.

  “Sarna is a town in the east, just past where Egeslic had his keep. Didrik has had some success in that zone, and so the local commander finally decided to take action. He went to Sarna, chose three dozen folk at random, and executed them in retaliation.” Stephen’s voice was flat, but his eyes glittered with suppressed emotion.

  Devlin held out his hand, and after a moment Drakken handed him the wineskin. He took another swallow, though he knew that there was not enough wine in the entire camp to drown his anger.

  “Have you nothing to say?” Stephen’s voice rose. “Those were our people. There were three children among those killed.”

  “I heard you,” Devlin said, letting the anger creep into his voice. “What would you have me do? I regret their deaths, but they are not the first innocents to die, nor will they be the last. And at least their deaths may yet be turned to good.”

  “How can any good come out of this?” Stephen asked.

  “There are no innocents,” Devlin said. “Not anymore. Bertrand has forced them to make a choice. They support the protectorate or they join us as rebels. There is no longer any middle ground.”

  “But—” Stephen began.

  He was surprised by Stephen’s outrage. The Jorskian army had long executed hostages as a means of controlling the population in Duncaer. Now they had the first taste of what they had doled out to others.