Devlin's Justice

by Patricia Bray

  Many of Devlin’s followers would have said yes, without stopping to reckon the cost. But no doubt in his lifetime the old man had seen his share of famine and hungry winters.

  “Starving men cannot fight,” Devlin said. “They will be forced to bottle themselves up in their fortresses, and then we can surround them.”

  “I will pass the word as you have given it to me,” Ulmer said.

  “I thank you,” Devlin replied.

  With that, Ulmer summoned his granddaughter and took his leave.

  In theory, all of the bands had sworn allegiance to Devlin as the General of the Army. But with only the loosest of command structure, it was up to the band leaders to make their own decisions. In the beginning a few had scorned Devlin’s tactics, likening them to those of bandits rather than soldiers. One reckless youth with a head for glory had taken on a full company of the enemy. On open ground, with nearly equal numbers, the result had been a slaughter. Those few of the band who had surrendered had been spared only to face public execution.

  It had been a brutal lesson, and one Devlin was swift to hammer home. The rebel bands were never to fight a pitched battle. They were to attack only on their terms, using the elements of surprise and of overwhelming numbers. If faced with a larger force, they were to retreat and wait for the opportunity to attack the force from cover, or from positions that offered a quick escape. Strike when the enemy was least expecting it.

  Assassination was their tool of choice. Even killing a single soldier could be a victory, if the killer vanished and was never found. Anyone could be the enemy. Handsome young men and women flirted with the Selvarat officers, then wrapped garrotes around their necks when they leaned in for a kiss. Stooped elders still had enough strength to wield deadly daggers, and even young children could be taught to lure the enemy into a trap.

  It was a fine thing he had done, when in his name the folk of Jorsk taught their children to be killers.

  No one among them had ever conceived of this kind of warfare. Even Stephen, with his vast knowledge of the history of Jorsk, could bring to mind no comparisons with the past. There was not a single song in either Jorskian or the Selvarat tongue that told of such a brutal war.

  But there were plenty of ballads in the Caer tongue from which Devlin drew his inspiration, tales of blood feuds and kinwars that lasted generations. Entire families destroyed, down to the least member. He alone of the fighters knew what he had unleashed and how high the price would be. For now the Jorskians had eyes only for the immediate future and for driving out the invaders. But even if they should prove victorious, they would not find it easy to set aside the memories of what they had done and the new skills they had acquired. The echoes of their rebellion would shape Jorsk for decades to come.

  Would future generations hail him as a deliverer? Or curse him as a destroyer?

  He could not afford such grim self-indulgence. It did not matter what they thought of him. It did not matter what the far-off future held. Only the present mattered, and the conviction that each day, each victory led them closer to their ultimate triumph.

  For now his tactics were working. The Jorskians were new to this kind of warfare, but they learned swiftly, and their unconventional tactics baffled the Selvarat invaders. Devlin’s forces were more than holding their own, despite the cost.

  Didrik was just one of the many who had fallen in the weeks since Devlin had declared war against the Selvarats. More than one had died at his own hand, when they’d been forced to execute those who were too wounded to continue. Every victory or defeat brought a tally of those who had been lost.

  He had grieved for Didrik, who surely had never expected that he would die so far from Kingsholm and the Guard to which he had dedicated his life. Didrik had been one of the first friends he made in this land. Yet even as he mourned Didrik’s loss, Devlin’s grief was touched with guilt. What of those others who’d died, those whose faces and names he’d never known? Was he any less responsible for their deaths, and were they any less deserving of his sorrow?

  And how many more would be killed, friends and strangers alike, before he finished this bloody quest? It was a daunting thought, but he pushed it aside, just as he pushed aside his grief over those he had lost. He could not afford the weakness of mourning his dead. He could not stop to count their losses. He had to rediscover within himself the single-minded dedication that the Geas had provided. The ability to think of nothing but the task at hand and to conceive of no other outcome than ultimate victory.

  It was ironic that he had spent two years desperately seeking to be free of the Geas, only to find that freedom brought its own burdens. It had been easier when he had had no choice, was able to blame his decisions on the consuming power of his duty. Freed of the Geas, he had no such shield. The consequences of his actions would rest squarely on his own head.

  Devlin blinked as he left the dim house for the bright sunshine outside. A small crowd had gathered in the lane, children mostly, and he pushed impatiently through them as he returned to the square where the horses were being tended. There was so much to do, and he was conscious of time slipping away. Already they had lingered there too long. Trelleborg was still several days away, and his forces had to be in position before the first shipments of the confiscated harvest began to arrive.

  The archer who had taken his horse earlier now approached Devlin, handing him a cup of water and a cloth-wrapped bundle that proved to be a chunk of cheese and a small loaf of bread, gifts of their hosts, no doubt.

  “Is there enough for everyone?” Devlin asked.

  Most days the band that traveled with him was relatively small, numbering fewer than fifty. That enabled him to travel swiftly and ensured that they would not place too heavy a burden on the villages and towns where they foraged for supplies. New recruits were swiftly assigned to one of the roaming bands, but a few stayed, replacing those who had been killed. This particular archer had been with them at least a fortnight, but Devlin had not yet learned his name.

  He tried very hard not to learn any of their names, nor, indeed, to grow fond of any of them. His nights were haunted enough, he did not need to add to the tally of those who reproached him for their deaths.

  “Yes, General, the rest of the band has been fed, and Lirna is paying for the supplies,” the archer replied.

  “Good.”

  When they could, they paid for the supplies they needed, to assure that the folk here would be well-disposed toward them should they need to return. There had been some lean days, but for the most part they had not lacked for food. That, too, would soon change, for the harvest was upon them. At each village where they stopped, Devlin had given the same orders that he had given to Ulmer. Any crops that could not be secured for the rebellion were to be destroyed. Nothing was to fall into the hands of the invaders, not so much as a single mouthful of grain.

  Cut off from their supply lines, and unable to feed themselves from the land, the invaders would be forced to surrender or risk starvation.

  It was a bold plan, but one that would bring privation and suffering to the very people that he was trying to save. The smaller bands might be able to survive off forest game, but the coming winter would be one of hardship for everyone.

  Twenty-five

  TINY SNOWFLAKES FELL FROM THE LEADEN GRAY sky, dusting Stephen’s cloak briefly with a sprinkling of white before melting away. The stone cobbles underneath their horses’ hooves were wet from melted snow, and there were icy patches that required care. But it was not full winter, not yet.

  Stephen shivered as much from apprehension as from the cold. He looked to his left, where Devlin rode, bareheaded despite the weather. Even without the snow, Devlin’s hair was more white than black these days, a visible reminder of the time he had spent as Prince Arnaud’s captive. The other changes were no less profound, even if they were not visible to the casual observer.

  Stephen still did not know what had happened during Devlin’s captivity. Devlin, as was his
nature, had been remarkably silent about his ordeal. It was left to his friends to piece together his story from the few clues that Devlin had let slip. They knew that Arnaud had been a mind-sorcerer, the same one who had previously tried to kill Devlin or drive him mad. There was no doubt that he had used his skills to torture Devlin, yet Devlin had somehow defeated him and emerged sane from his ordeal.

  Or as sane as one could expect. There were those who would argue that Devlin’s decision to launch the rebellion was a sign that his wits had been badly damaged. Yet if madness it was, it was a peculiar kind, for against all odds, Devlin and the army he led were winning the war. A war in which Stephen had played no small part, though his actions were far from the heroic deeds he had once imagined.

  When he had joined with the others in urging Devlin to lead the rebellion to throw out the Selvarat invaders four months ago, he had not understood what it was that he was asking. Devlin had warned him of the horrors they would unleash, but Stephen had dismissed his concerns. He had not realized that the cost of victory might be nearly as high as the cost of defeat.

  If he were to be faced with the same choice today, he did not know what he would do. Would he still urge Devlin to launch this people’s war? Could he still blithely urge untrained peasants to join the fight, now that he knew how many of them would be killed? Old, young, men, women, veteran army soldiers and peasants who barely knew one end of a spear from another . . . He no longer knew how many deaths he had witnessed. Hundreds perhaps.

  He had killed as well, dispatching at least a dozen of the enemy to join Lord Haakon’s realm. Others had done more, but Devlin had guarded Stephen closely, refusing to allow him to take any of the dangerous scouting missions, or indeed to venture far from Devlin’s sight. And Stephen had never been called upon to deliver the final mercy, that of dispatching wounded comrades so they did not fall into the hands of the enemy.

  He knew that Devlin was attempting to protect him and to spare what remained of his innocence. He had not the heart to tell him that there was no innocence left to protect. Stephen’s hands were as bloodstained as anyone else’s. He may not have been the one to give the orders, but that made him no less responsible for what was done in the name of the rebellion.

  His nights were haunted by memories of what he had seen, and the knowledge that it might still come to naught if Devlin was not able to secure the concessions he needed.

  “What will you do?” he asked.

  Devlin glanced over at him, then fixed his gaze at the walls of Kingsholm, which loomed before him. “What needs to be done,” he replied.

  It was not a comforting answer. In the past Stephen had ascribed Devlin’s single-minded ruthlessness to the force of the Geas spell. Now, with the spell removed, it was disquieting to realize how much of that ruthless focus was an intrinsic part of Devlin’s nature.

  Devlin would do as he saw fit, with only his own sense of honor to limit his actions. Ordinarily it would have been enough. Stephen trusted Devlin. He would trust him with his life and the lives of all those he cared about. Devlin had demonstrated on numerous occasions that he could put the welfare of others and of the Kingdom ahead of his own concerns. But he was still a man, and more important, he was a man who had been betrayed. There was no telling how he would react when he came face-to-face with King Olafur.

  At least this time Devlin would not face the King alone. Stephen rode on Devlin’s right, while Captain Drakken rode on his left. Behind them were two hundred fighters, mostly drawn from the ranks of Devlin’s volunteers, with a few of Mikkelson’s regular troops to leaven the mix. Hardened veterans, all of them, who had personally pledged their loyalty to the Chosen One. The force was not enough to take the city, but it would make those within Kingsholm think twice about trifling with Devlin.

  “We need King Olafur,” Captain Drakken chimed in.

  Devlin shook his head. “We do not need him. We need what he has. Troops. Supplies.”

  “We do not need a civil war. Not now,” Drakken added. It was an oft-repeated argument.

  “And that is why I sent in Arnulfsdatter under a seal of truce. I will treat with Olafur civilly, if he is willing to do the same. We can set aside our differences. For now.”

  Devlin did not make any promises about what he would do if the King refused to support the rebellion. It was clear that the final reckoning was merely postponed. Though Stephen did not believe that Devlin meant to depose King Olafur and start a civil war, he was sickened by the killings, as they all were.

  And it would be difficult to explain the reasons for Devlin’s anger against King Olafur. Only a handful knew that the King had betrayed Devlin, handing the Chosen One over to the Selvarat invaders to face certain death. The rest merely saw Devlin as a disobedient hero, one who had gone against the King’s orders, finding victory where the King had seen only the certainty of defeat.

  Not that they had won. Not yet. But they were close. The Southern Road was firmly under their control, as were the territories in the south where the improbable alliance of Lord Rikard and Marshal Kollinar had succeeded in liberating Myrka and burning the Selvarat fleet docked in the harbor. Most of the mercenaries had deserted, seizing the ships that had brought resupplies so they could return to their bases in the Green Isles. The surviving Selvarat invaders were now cut off, confined to a narrow ring of territory around the port of Trelleborg and the fortifications they had built along the southern coast of Esker.

  Winter had begun. Soon the harbors would freeze, making it impossible for the Selvarat armies to receive reinforcements or supplies. If they did not starve before spring, they would emerge greatly weakened.

  But Devlin’s irregular forces also needed supplies, as did the thousands of refugees who had been displaced from their homes. And they needed access to the arms and soldiers contained within the other royal garrisons, those who had remained in barracks obedient to Marshal Olvarrson’s commands. Jorsk had shown that it was not easy prey, but it was possible that Empress Thania might try a full-scale attack come spring, and they needed to be ready to defend themselves.

  There were few folk abroad on this dreary morning, and those who were quickly drew aside as Devlin’s party came into sight. They recognized the Chosen One at once. Devlin’s features were clearly visible, as was the hilt of the Sword of Light, which he wore in a baldric across his back. Some cheered and called out his name, while others bowed their heads. Devlin did not acknowledge their greetings, but the stone in the sword’s hilt began to glow, as it did when the Chosen One was preparing to wield it.

  Captain Drakken drew her horse closer to Devlin, and Stephen did the same. He felt an itch between his shoulder blades and resisted the urge to look behind him. He knew well the risks that they were taking. A single archer could put an end to all their hopes. Devlin believed that the rebellion would survive his death, but Stephen was not as sanguine.

  The gate ahead of them was open, and Stephen tried to take that as a good sign. Had it been barred against them, they would have been forced to abandon their mission or try to fight their way in.

  A half dozen guards were at the gate, and as Devlin approached, one of them stepped forward. He recognized Lieutenant Embeth, though she wore the two gold cords of a Captain.

  “My Lord Chosen One,” Captain Embeth said, thumping her right shoulder in the formal salute. Then she did something unexpected, sinking to one knee and bowing her head. The guards behind her did the same.

  Stephen’s skin crawled as he witnessed the formal obeisance given only to the ruler of Jorsk. It was a shocking departure from custom, but it left no doubt where Embeth’s loyalties lay.

  “Rise. Report,” Devlin growled.

  Embeth rose to her feet. “Kingsholm is secure, General Devlin. Those who supported the Selvarat occupation have been rounded up and await your judgment.”

  “And what does the King say to all this?”

  Embeth drew closer, pitching her voice so it could be heard only by those who were
closest to Devlin. “King Olafur is dead,” she said. “We found his body just before midnight.”

  Devlin began cursing in his own tongue.

  “Have you arrested the assassin?” Drakken asked.

  “The King took his own life,” Embeth said.

  Stephen shook his head, certain that he had misheard her. It must be a mistake of some kind. What reason could Olafur have to kill himself?

  “What are your orders?” Embeth asked.

  “Assign someone to find lodging for my troops, then I want to see his body,” Devlin said.

  The body of Olafur, son of Thorvald, was laid out upon his bed. A pair of guards stood vigil, and at Devlin’s command they drew down the silk shroud that covered the King’s body. From his contorted features it was clear that Olafur had not died an easy death. There were traces of dried vomit on his face and clothes, and his tongue was bloodied from where he had nearly bitten it in two.

  Devlin forced his gaze lower, to the King’s belly, where a gaping wound revealed how the King had nearly disemboweled himself. A loop of intestine could be seen, still threatening to spill forth. And the room held the sickly-sweet stench that he had become all too familiar with, for it was the stench of death.

  “Coward,” he said, reaching down to grasp the King’s chin in his hand. He turned Olafur’s head, but the King’s lifeless gaze held neither secrets nor apologies. Devlin’s anger, which had carried him through the long months, rose up, and it was only with great effort that he resisted the urge to strike the King’s lifeless body. How dare Olafur have done this? What right had he to take the coward’s way, abandoning his people in their time of need? He had deserted them. And he had robbed Devlin of his chance for justice.

  He had spent months dreaming of the moment when he would see Olafur, when he would force the King to acknowledge his errors and demand satisfaction for the wrongs that had been done to him. And now that, too, would be denied him.

  “You stupid bloody fool,” Devlin proclaimed.