Devlin's Justice

by Patricia Bray

  “Have you already forgotten how Kollinar keeps order in Duncaer? Or is it different when it is your own people who are dying?”

  Devlin tossed the wineskin to Stephen, who caught it awkwardly in his left hand but refused to drink.

  “If you remember, I protested against those killings as well. Wrong is wrong, regardless of who does the deed,” Stephen said.

  Devlin bit back a curse. He had known this day would come, and yet he was too tired for a confrontation. It would have been better if Stephen had accompanied the raiding party today and the news of Sarna had been left for another time. At least that way he could have preserved his illusions. For at least a little while longer.

  “This is what you asked for when you asked me to lead you,” Devlin said. “You were the one who told me that I was the Chosen One. You were the one who said you would follow me, as I did whatever it took to drive out the invaders.”

  He knew his words were harsh, but they masked his anger. Stephen had grieved for the folk of Sarna for only a few hours. For weeks Devlin had grieved for them, along with all those who would perish before he was done. He had known from the moment he accepted the leadership of the rebellion that there would be innocents killed, and that their blood would be on his hands.

  He grieved for them, but he would not allow his grief to blind him to what must be done.

  “I did not think it would come to this,” Stephen said.

  “Then you are a fool.” Drakken’s judgment was harsh, but he knew she condemned herself as well as Stephen. She, too, had not reckoned on the price that they would all have to pay.

  “I did not ask to be your leader,” Devlin said. “But having started down this road, we must continue to the bitter end. Each hostage executed will bring a dozen new fighters to our side. Every act of terror that he commits will be repaid thrice before I am done.”

  The Jorskians had no experience in civil war, but the Caerfolk had long memories and the tradition of blood feud to call upon. He was not simply teaching the people to defend their homes, he was turning them into an army of assassins. The consequences of his actions would echo for generations, and plague the next ruler of Jorsk.

  “How else will we win this war? We must be harder than they are. More cunning, more brutal, and more willing to die. We cannot stop to count the cost,” Drakken said. It was strange to hear the words he had often said coming from her lips.

  “But surely when Mikkelson returns with his troops—” Stephen said.

  “Mikkelson is most likely dead, and the army will not come. False hope will get us all killed. There is no one to protect us, nothing that we can count on except ourselves. This is what I have been trying to teach you. One man can do nothing on his own; but if we band together, we will be invincible.”

  The enemy was the anvil upon which they would either break themselves or he would forge an army the likes of which Jorsk had never seen. Whether he led them to victory or to defeat, his soul was already damned for what he had done, and what he was prepared to do, to win the war.

  From the look on Stephen’s face, it was clear that he was coming to the same realization. The Stephen of old might have cursed Devlin, or pled with him to find some other way to win the war. But the man he was becoming simply sighed and lifted the wineskin to his lips.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Stephen said.

  “So do I.”

  Twenty-one

  MIKKELSON’S HEART QUICKENED AS THE ramparts around Kallarne came into view. The palm of his left hand itched, reminding him of the mark he now bore. The brand had healed cleanly, without infection, but it was not an easy thing to bear. A small part of him was always aware of it, and of the matching weight of the Chosen One’s ring.

  The journey from Esker had been difficult; but with the help of Captain Drakken’s coin and borrowed clothing, he had managed to avoid the roving patrols, crossing back into Arkilde, which was still under King Olafur’s rule. Even there he had not let down his guard, continuing his disguise until he knew he was only a few hours’ ride from Kallarne.

  Last night he had taken shelter at an inn, scrubbing a fortnight of travel grime from his body. This morning he’d shaved his beard, braided his hair, and donned the uniform he had carefully packed away. The inn-wife’s eyes had opened wide at the transformation in her guest, but she’d taken his coins and asked no questions.

  He’d given much thought to how he should approach Kallarne. By some measures, he could be considered a deserter. After all, his orders had been to remain in Esker and assist their Selvarat allies. Orders signed by Marshal Olvarrson, under the seal of King Olafur. Dutifully he had obeyed those orders, until it became clear that the allies were occupying troops. Before he’d been able to act, he’d been disarmed and confined as an unwilling guest of the Selvarat army.

  Helpless to influence his fate, he had dismissed Prince Arnaud’s tales of the new protectorate as lies, meant to weaken his morale. He’d known that the Prince was lying, just as he’d known that the orders he’d been shown must have been forged. He’d clung firmly to that belief, until Captain Drakken had rescued him and told him the truth. That King Olafur had betrayed them all, sacrificing the eastern provinces so he could retain his grip on the rest of his kingdom.

  Mikkelson knew that there were others in the army who must feel equally betrayed. They—not to mention those who came from the lands that now comprised the protectorate—had sworn to defend Jorsk, not to step tamely aside as their lands were taken from them. Those were the troops he hoped to win to Devlin’s cause.

  If he could reach them. The garrison of Kallarne was the largest of the four army garrisons, dating back to the time of Queen Reginleifar. It was from here that he had drawn the troops to shore up Esker’s defenses, and it was to here that they would have returned. As soon as he approached, he was bound to be recognized.

  He contemplated trying to send a message in to one of the officers he trusted, but such a scheme seemed chancy. He was not the only hostage the Selvarats had held, and he had no way of knowing who was or was not in the garrison. Sending messages to those who were absent might do nothing but reveal his presence, ensuring that he would be captured before he could spread the news of Devlin’s uprising.

  If Devlin were here, he would ride boldly through the main gate, trusting in his luck and that the Gods who watched over him were not finished with him yet. Mikkelson was not Gods-touched. He was not a legendary hero. But he bore the Chosen One’s mark, and his seal. It was time to see if he held a bit of his luck as well.

  As he approached the main gate through the rampart, he was surprised to see that the wooden doors were shut even though it was the middle of the day. Two soldiers stood at attention outside the gate, and archers were visible in the towers that flanked each side of the gate. It seemed that the garrison commander was taking nothing for granted.

  Mikkelson slowed his horse and came to a halt a short distance from the sentries.

  “Major Mikkelson, reporting to the garrison commander,” he said.

  Both sentries saluted, then the senior stepped forward. “Major, may I see your orders?” she asked.

  The last time he had been here, the sentries had merely saluted as he passed.

  “My orders are for those within,” Mikkelson said.

  “Sir, my orders are—”

  “My orders come from the commander in the east,” he said, interrupting her. “Summon your watch officer, if must be, but you delay me at your peril.”

  Her eyes swept over him and she apparently decided that a single man was no great threat. She gave a hand sign, and the second sentry called an order to those in the gate tower. Slowly the right hand gate was pulled back.

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” he said.

  “The sentries inside will escort you to the watch commander,” she said.

  He nodded.

  As Mikkelson guided his horse through the open gate, he was surrounded by a half dozen soldiers. One of them
grabbed the bridle of his horse. “I’ll take him for you,” the man said.

  Mikkelson dismounted, watching as the wooden gate was swung closed behind him. He was well and firmly trapped. But it would be worth it, if he could convince even a handful of soldiers that Devlin was alive, and that there was a chance to take back the east. Such news could not be kept secret for long. And he knew there would be those who would join Devlin’s ranks, whether Mikkelson was alive to lead them or not.

  Rumors of Devlin’s survival might have already reached the garrison, but without a living witness, they would be put down as wishful thinking. But Mikkelson had known the Chosen One and bore his mark. His testimony could not be lightly dismissed.

  His escort led him through the broad grassy field behind the rampart, which served as a training ground for the mounted troops in peacetime. In time of war it would form a killing ground for anyone foolish enough to attack Kallarne, as those protected by the stone walls of the main garrison could rain arrows down upon the exposed invaders.

  The inner gate into the stone fortress was open. Just beyond the inner gate he could see two squads practicing formation drills. Luck was with him indeed, for not only did he know one of the soldiers on watch, but Private Jonas knew him very well indeed. Jonas had not only been part of Mikkelson’s troops in the east, he had also been one of the band of twelve who had accompanied Devlin on their journey to oust Baron Egeslic.

  Mikkelson took that as a sign. He could not allow himself to be whisked away into the deeper fortress, where he could be conveniently made to disappear. Whatever he did, it had to be public. And loud.

  And it had to be now.

  He nodded at Jonas as he passed, then stopped just past the gate, so swiftly that one of his escort bumped into him.

  “Jonas, I bring news from a friend,” Mikkelson said.

  Jonas’s head turned. It went against all custom for an officer to speak so casually to a mere private, especially when that private was on duty.

  Mikkelson held up his left hand so that the ring was clearly visible.

  “Devlin sends his greetings,” Mikkelson said.

  Jonas took two steps forward.

  “Private, back to your post,” one of his escorts ordered.

  Jonas ignored him, coming closer.

  Someone shoved Mikkelson. “Do not speak. You will go to the commander. Now.”

  Mikkelson stumbled and righted himself. Once again he lifted his hand. He glanced around swiftly. Attracted by the commotion, a number of the drill squad had broken formation to see what was happening.

  Mikkelson spoke, in a voice trained to carry over a parade ground.

  “I am Major Mikkelson, and I serve the Chosen One, Devlin of Duncaer. He is raising an army in the east, and he calls on all true Jorskians to join with him to drive out the invaders. This I swear in his name, and with the seal of the Chosen One as my proof.”

  The ring, which had begun to glow as he spoke, now brightened until one could no longer stare at it directly. He heard startled exclamations, and a few muttered curses.

  Hope warred with doubt on Jonas’s face. “They told us he was dead,” he said.

  “I swear to you he is alive, and . . .”

  The rest of his speech was lost as a blow to the back of his head sent him crashing to the ground. His senses swam, and he could barely resist as he was picked up and half-dragged away.

  But they had silenced him too late. There had been at least two dozen witnesses to his return, and to the news that Devlin still lived. The garrison commander could not silence all of them. Whatever else ensued, Mikkelson had done his duty.

  The sight of a Major being dragged through the garrison was not a common one, especially when said Major had a gag in his mouth and a cloak hastily wrapped around his left hand. Folk drew to a halt as they passed, their jaws dropping in astonishment before they hastily averted their eyes. He heard his name whispered. Despite his pain, Mikkelson grinned. If the leader of his escort had any sense, he would have stashed Mikkelson away and merely informed the garrison commander of what had transpired. Instead, by publicly displaying Mikkelson, he ensured that the news of Mikkelson’s return would spread like wildfire.

  Finally, the odd procession reached the offices of the garrison commander. The commander’s aide rose to her feet as they entered her office.

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

  Once they had stopped, Mikkelson was able to get his feet under him. He recognized the aide—Senior Troop Captain Rika Linasdatter. From an old family, she had been a junior ensign under his command ten years ago. With her family connections, she had swiftly risen to the rank of ensign, then junior captain, all the while he had languished as a mere ensign until Devlin had plucked him out of obscurity.

  She was unlikely to be an ally.

  “He claimed he had a message for the commander, but then as soon as he entered the fortress he began speaking all sorts of subversive nonsense,” the sergeant explained. “I knew my orders, so I brought him here.”

  “May I assume no one saw him in this condition?” Her tone was frosty.

  “Well, err, that is . . .”

  She sighed heavily. “Sergeant, you will be dealt with later. Leave these two here and take the rest of your squad and wait outside.”

  The soldiers saluted and left.

  The sergeant and most of his squad withdrew, leaving Mikkelson still held between two soldiers.

  Captain Linasdatter turned on her heel and went through the connecting door that led to the commander’s private office. When she returned, Commander Gregorson was at her side. It seemed Marshal Olvarrson had replaced the previous commander with one who was bound to him by ties of blood. That did not bode well for Mikkelson’s mission.

  At Gregorson’s command, the remaining two soldiers were dismissed. Only then was the gag taken from Mikkelson’s mouth. Impatiently, he shook the cloak off his left hand, revealing the ring, which still shone with a faint light.

  “Your presence here, against all orders, condemns you,” Commander Gregorson said. “Marshal Olvarrson—”

  “I serve the Chosen One, Devlin of Duncaer,” Mikkelson said. “It is in his name I come, to bring word of a rebellion in the east.”

  He held up his left hand, revealing the still-glowing ring. “Devlin is assembling an army in the east, and he orders the garrison to be emptied and the troops sent to join his efforts. He gave me the ring of his office as proof of what I say.”

  “Devlin is dead,” Gregorson said.

  “He is very much alive. And he wields the Sword of Light.”

  “Lies, traitorous lies.” Gregorson spat out the words, his face turning red with anger. “I do not know what your purpose is, but I will not allow you to disrupt my command. Your treason will cost you your life.”

  It was no more than Mikkelson had expected.

  “Whether you kill me or not, you cannot silence the truth. At least I will die with honor, having fulfilled my oaths.”

  Gregorson shook his head in apparent disgust, before turning to his aide. “See how he infected them all with his madness. Devlin was a menace, and we are well rid of him.”

  “But if there is a chance he is telling the truth—”

  “It does not matter. We take our orders from King Olafur, not from the Chosen One. Olafur has approved the protectorate, and it is not our place to question him. If the Chosen One himself were to appear in this office, I would tell him the same. We must follow the King’s orders, or we will all be lost.”

  Blind fool. If Gregorson had argued that he needed his troops to be ready to defend central Jorsk, then Mikkelson would have understood. He would not have agreed with his decision, but he would have understood that Gregorson was preparing to fight a defensive war rather than an offensive one. But Gregorson lacked even that much foresight. He was not preparing for defense. Instead, he would sit here, tamely waiting for orders, until the day that the Selvarat armies overran the garrison.
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  “Remember the oaths we swore,” Gregorson reminded his aide.

  “I do, Commander,” Captain Linasdatter replied. “I will see to this disturbance and make certain you are not troubled any further.”

  Gregorson turned on his heel, heading for his own office. As he passed his aide, she struck him solidly in the back of the head. His body crumpled, and she caught him before he hit the floor.

  “Don’t stand there, help me,” she said.

  Mikkelson shook off his astonishment. Picking up the discarded gag, he shoved it in Gregorson’s mouth. Together they dragged the commander into his office, where they bound him to a chair.

  “We will both be hanged for this, so you had better be telling the truth,” Linasdatter said.

  “I swear to you upon my life that every word I said was true. And before they can hang us, they must first catch us.”

  She grinned. “True enough.”

  “How many others are likely to follow us?”

  “Your old command will follow you even without orders,” she said. “We’ve had trouble with them ever since they returned to the garrison. A number of the officers are still held by the invaders, but you should be able to fill in the holes.”

  He nodded. He’d caught glimpses of the other prisoners in the early days of his captivity, before they had been moved to another camp.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I swore an oath to defend Jorsk. I refuse to sit in a garrison while the Kingdom crumbles around me. There are a number of others who feel the same, and we’d been planning our strategy. Your arrival just moved things forward a bit. When I give the order, the royalists will be detained. It will take us at least a day to organize, but we should be able to take nearly all of the garrison with us.”

  “We’ll need them. Devlin has asked that we try and take a portion of the Southern Road. If we can hold it, we will cut the Selvarat supply lines.”