But those were worries for another day. For now, his duty was plain.
“I’ll turn in now,” Didrik said. “Stephen, wake me for second watch?”
“I could take second watch this night. You do not always have to do so,” Stephen said.
“I am trained for it,” Didrik said. Keeping watch was hard when there were only three members of the party. On a long journey, without resting in daylight, the shortened nights would begin to wear on travelers, making them fatigued and prone to ill judgment. They did not keep watch when they stayed in inns, but Didrik was too much of a city dweller to be comfortable camping outside. There were dangers to be found in the wild places; robbers that preyed upon travelers as well as creatures that bore no love for man. It was only prudent to make sure that they could not be taken by surprise, and Devlin agreed.
Already they had established a routine. Stephen took the first watch, which was generally the easiest. The second watch was the hardest, for the watcher had to make do with a couple hours of sleep, followed by wakefulness, then another short nap before he was expected to rise and travel. Fortunately, Didrik’s years in the Guard had made him accustomed to night watches and snatching sleep when and where he could.
And Devlin claimed the last watch, in the dark hours before morning when all was still. He claimed to prefer it, or perhaps he simply enjoyed the solitude, of being awake when all others were at rest.
Didrik ducked into the low tent, sat on his blankets to remove his boots, and placed his sword so it would be close at hand. Then he rolled himself in his blanket, which had already been set out. He heard the ring of metal as two cups clanked together, and someone put the remnants of their meal away.
As he settled himself in to sleep, he heard Stephen’s voice.
“Devlin, will you answer a question for me?”
There was a long moment of silence, then the sound of someone settling back down on the ground.
“Ask, and I will see.”
“When I was a boy, I learned the history of the conquest of Duncaer, and memorized the songs that had been handed down. I never questioned them. Not until now.”
Stephen’s voice was soft, almost meditative, and Didrik had to strain his ears.
“And?” Devlin’s voice was sharp.
“You tell us this will be a difficult journey, which makes me wonder how Prince Thorvald and Lord Saemund managed to lead an entire army across the border into the mountains without being seriously challenged. And how is it that your people surrendered so quickly? Only Ynnis seems to have fought back. The more I think on it, the less I can make sense of it. You would not have given up so easily.”
“You should not judge a people by one man,” Devlin replied.
“Perhaps. But the Caerfolk tell a different tale of the conquest. Don’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Will you tell it to me? Or must I wait till Duncaer to hear it from a stranger?”
There was another long silence, and just as Didrik was convinced that Devlin was not going to answer, he finally spoke.
“We govern ourselves differently than you do. Or rather we did.” Devlin’s voice was soft and melodic. “The leaders from the high families assembled once every seven years to elect one of their numbers as the ruler overall. In those days, the Queen was Ysobel, she of the white shoulders. Ysobel’s family had waited long to see one of their own named as High Queen. They enjoyed their newfound prominence, but Ysobel ruled wisely enough, and at the end of seven years, she was chosen again. This time it seemed to go to her head, and as she flaunted her power, she made many enemies. When the end of her second term approached, all knew that she would not be chosen again.”
“And then the invasion happened,” Stephen said.
“Then Ysobel invited the army in,” Devlin countered. “She called it a peaceful delegation, come to talk about a joint expedition to cross the Endless Mountains and explore the fabled lands beyond. The residents of Alvaren decorated the gates and opened their doors, only to realize too late that they had welcomed in an invading force. Ysobel welcomed her new allies, and ordered the Caerfolk to surrender to their new masters. The lowlands fell swiftly, for the river proved no barrier to the army. The mountain folk resisted longer. Ynnis was in the south and got news of the invaders before they arrived. They resisted, and you know of their fate.”
“But surely there was a resistance? What of the people who fled the invaders or journeyed into the mountains? Surely Ynnis wasn’t the only city to fight.”
“The army had secured the borders, and as their troops poured in to occupy the towns and cities, most surrendered. And as for the resistance, we had far better things to do. The Jorskians may have invaded, but all knew that the true blame lay with Ysobel.”
“What happened?”
“She was assassinated less than a week after she welcomed Prince Thorvald into Alvaren. The high families called blood feud on her kin, and chaos ensued. We had no time to fight the Jorskians, for we were too busy murdering each other. It took years, but today there is no one left alive who claims Ysobel as kin.”
“No one?” Stephen’s voice rose in astonishment.
“Not nearkin, nor farkin, not even unto her cousin’s cousin’s children. All slain, from the eldest to the least. Many of the high families lost their own kin in the feud. Hundreds killed, on both sides. And now there are six high families instead of seven.”
Didrik shivered in his blanket. Such bloody vengeance was beyond anything he had ever imagined. To carry out such a feud over so many years would take implacable hatred and unwavering determination. He shivered again as he realized that Devlin was fully capable of such vengeance. Already Devlin had ruthlessly sacrificed his own hand in order to strike at his enemy.
One such man would be dangerous. A province filled with people who shared Devlin’s beliefs would be a nightmare. And yet it was to this place they must go.
He wondered what other surprises Duncaer had in store for him.
Six
STEPHEN APPEARED SHOCKED BY THE STORY OF how Ysobel had met her doom, for he asked no more questions. Devlin finished his kava in silence, then bade him good night. He crawled through the narrow opening into the low tent and wrapped himself in his bedroll, but sleep proved elusive. Instead he listened to the soft sound of Didrik’s breathing and the low crackle of the fire as Stephen tended it. It seemed he had only just fallen asleep when he was disturbed by Stephen rousing Didrik to take his watch. And though Stephen fell asleep readily enough, Devlin could not.
He tried to will himself to sleep, but such a feat was impossible, and he gave up in frustration. He sat up, and with slow movements so as not to wake Stephen, he put his boots back on, then his cloak. Picking up his axe with his left hand, he crawled out of the tent.
Didrik’s eyes widened as Devlin emerged.
“Your watch isn’t for hours,” he said. Though the stars were covered by clouds, Didrik’s years in the Guard had given him a keen sense of passing time, even when neither sun nor stars could be seen.
“I could not sleep,” Devlin said. “No sense in two of us being wakeful, so you should get what rest you can.”
Didrik frowned and opened his mouth as if he was about to object, then apparently reconsidered.
“Stephen said the horses were restless earlier. They may have scented a wolf on the wind,” Didrik said, his voice carefully neutral. “And a short time ago I heard an animal moving through the brush. A deer, perhaps.”
More likely it was nothing more than a brown digger waddling back to its den after an evening of foraging. In the marketplace Didrik could pick a cutpurse out of a crowd with a single glance, but his woods-knowledge left much to be desired. And on a night like tonight, with the gusting breeze swirling the fallen leaves, it would be difficult to pick one sound out of many.
“Wake me if you feel tired,” Didrik said mildly.
“I will,” Devlin promised, though he knew he would not wake him no matter how
tired he became.
He waited until Didrik had settled himself to sleep, then rose and paced the perimeter of the camp. The clearing was small, barely a hundred paces wide, bounded by the road on one side and surrounded by trees on the other three sides. The tent and fire had been set up at the edge of the tree line, where the trees would provide shelter if it rained. The horses had been tethered in the center of the clearing, where they could graze on the stubby grass if so inclined.
All seemed quiet, and though he strained his eyes and ears, he detected nothing amiss. He returned to the fallen log they had placed near the campfire and propped his axe against it. As he sat down, he positioned himself so that he had a view of the road, with his back to the fire. On a night like tonight it would be far too easy to lose himself by gazing into the flickering flames.
An hour passed, then another. When his muscles grew stiff with cold, he rose and repeated his circuit of the camp. It felt wrong to be sitting here idle, and his hands ached to find some task that would occupy him. He reached over to the axe, thinking about checking the blade, then reconsidered. The damp night would do the blade no good, and he could hardly sharpen it by the low firelight.
And his sword was wrapped with the rest of his gear. He continued to carry it, but such was more habit than for protection. For though he practiced at every opportunity, he had yet to regain his old skill. Even in a two-handed grip, his maimed hand could not keep firm hold of the sword, and more often than not it was knocked out of his hands by his sparring partners. With brute force and relentless practice he had regained his mastery of the axe, but such tactics would not work with the sword.
He heard a low whinny and turned to see that the gray gelding had awoken. The packhorse began tugging at the picket line, which woke the other three horses, who stamped their feet and voiced their own displeasure at the disturbance.
“Flames,” Devlin cursed. The stable master had sworn the packhorse was a reliable beast, but so far it had proven skittish and prone to starting at shadows. He rose to his feet and walked toward the horses to settle them down.
He stroked the packhorse’s neck to reassure him, but the horse tossed his head uneasily, swinging it from side to side.
Devlin fumbled in the pocket of his cloak for the pouch of horse treats he kept within. Just as his fingers found it, the unpredictable breeze died down for a moment, and he heard the unmistakable crunch of leaves underfoot.
“Didrik! Stephen! Awake!” he called, turning to his left, where he could see the shapes of moving figures through the trees on the northern edge of the clearing.
He turned and ran back toward the fire, cursing himself for being so foolish as to leave himself unarmed.
“What is it?” Didrik called.
He had no time to explain, as the attackers abandoned their stealthy approach and rushed into the clearing. The two men headed straight for Devlin.
He grabbed frantically for his axe. His fingers clumsy with haste, he managed to free the axe blade from its covering just as the first attacker reached him, sword extended.
Devlin parried the blow, then retreated a few paces. His two opponents kept pace with him easily, spreading out so they could engage him from either side.
He heard the ring of steel against steel, and saw that Didrik and Stephen had both emerged from the tent and were now engaged with their own foes. The two newcomers must have come in from the opposite side of the clearing. Now it was four against three, but who knew how many more opponents were lurking in the woods?
The tallest of his two foes lunged forward, sword extended. Devlin dodged the blow, then swung his axe in a sweeping arc, forcing the attacker to pull his blade back lest it be shattered. But as swiftly as the first blade retreated, the second fighter parried. He was a left-handed swordsman, and the two alternated their attacks with the well-timed precision of those who had been trained to fight together.
Devlin began to sweat, and his breathing quickened. Never before had he fought two skilled opponents at once. And the axe was no match for the longer reach of the dueling swords that his opponents wielded. Time and time again they forced him to retreat, and yet he could not get under their guard.
He cursed himself again. Even a single throwing knife would be enough to tip the odds in his favor. But fool that he was, he had only the axe and his wits to defend himself.
The left-handed fighter broke off and began to edge to the right, seeking to get behind him. Devlin slashed furiously with his axe, then took three quick steps back, nearly slipping on a patch of slick grass.
He knew he was getting close to the edge of the woods for they had driven him nearly across the clearing. If he was going to escape these two, he needed to do so now. Before they had him pinned against a tree.
He risked a quick glance over his shoulder and saw that Stephen and Didrik were each engaged with the foe. A stinging slash on his right arm brought his attention back to his own peril. He knocked aside the next thrust with the flat side of his axe.
It was a strange fight, for his opponents spoke not a word, neither taunting their enemy nor offering encouragement to their comrades. There was only the occasional grunt as a well-timed thrust was delivered.
Their silence and the skill with which they worked together argued that these were not mere bandits, but rather assassins. And yet, if so, they showed an amazingly poor grasp of tactics. Swords were weapons for duels. Had the attackers possessed a transverse bow, they could have killed Devlin where he sat, heedless of their approach.
Regardless of their tactics, they had skill in plenty and showed no signs of flagging, even as Devlin’s own breathing grew labored.
Stephen cried out, and Devlin took two hasty steps back and turned to see Stephen sprawled on the ground near the fire, the body of his opponent under him. Neither were moving.
There was nothing he could do to help his friend. Nor could Didrik lend aid, for he had disappeared into the trees along with his foe, though the sounds of steel striking steel told Devlin that Didrik, at least, was still alive.
It was up to him. Devlin held the axe before him, but let it drop a bit, as if his arms were weary. He swung it in increasingly shallow arcs, and panted heavily.
After a few moments, and one parry which he nearly failed to block, the right-handed swordsman took the bait. He waited until Devlin’s attention was focused on his partner, then lunged toward Devlin’s exposed right side.
Devlin took his right hand off the axe and flung his right arm outward, tangling the sword blade in the swirling fabric of his cloak. With his left hand he swung the axe downward, and as the heavy steel of the axe met the thin sword blade, it shattered. The axe continued on its murderous arc, biting deep into the assassin’s leg. He screamed as he fell to the ground.
Blood spurted into the air as a sharp tug pulled the axe free. The assassin clutched his wounded leg with both hands, but it was a futile effort, as his lifeblood drained away with each heartbeat.
Now the odds had evened, and Devlin grinned even as he parried the left-handed swordsman’s attack. “It will take more than a fancy sword to kill me,” he said.
The swordsman did not respond to his taunt, sparing his fallen comrade not a single glance as he came toward Devlin.
“This one’s dead,” Stephen called out, from somewhere behind him.
Devlin felt the knot inside his chest loosen, even as he battled the increasingly furious blows of the left-handed swordsman.
“Find Didrik,” he ordered Stephen.
“No, you stubborn bastard.” Didrik’s hoarse voice came from the trees to his north. “I can take care of this one.”
“I’m here,” Stephen said, coming up to stand on Devlin’s right. Stephen’s sword was bloody, as was the front of his tunic, but if he was injured, he gave no sign.
“Tripped and knocked the wind out of me,” Stephen explained. His eyes were bright with manic glee. “Luckily I had someone to cushion my fall, and that of my sword.”
Onl
y Stephen would manage to defeat a trained assassin by tripping over a root in the dark. And only a minstrel would have breath to jest about the deed. He wondered if Stephen was indeed uninjured, or if he was merely bluffing for the benefit of their enemies.
Stephen took several quick steps to his right, trying to attract the swordsman’s attention so Devlin could circle in behind him. But the swordsman was wise to such a ploy, and he spun to his right so that his back was now to the forest.
Devlin heard a short choking scream, abruptly cut off. He waited for several heartbeats, but there was no cry of victory, and he feared that Didrik was either dead or unconscious.
Stephen lunged toward the assassin, but was beaten back in a swift flurry of blows. Seeing Stephen’s strength begin to fail, Devlin darted forward, coming close enough to the assassin to be within sword reach, as he lifted his axe overhead and swung a killing blow.
The assassin dived and rolled, twisting his body like an acrobat as he bounced back to his feet, sword still in hand.
Then Devlin saw a movement in the trees behind the assassin. “Stephen,” he called, nodding in the direction where he had seen the movement.
Stephen nodded, showing that he had seen the shadowy figure. And then his eyes widened with relief as Didrik stepped through the trees.
His silence was now explained, for he had managed to creep up on the assassin unaware, and now the swordsman was surrounded.
“Can you use my aid?” Didrik asked, announcing his presence.
“We need him alive,” Devlin said, feeling lightheaded with relief.
The assassin gave a quick glance over his shoulder, only to discover that Didrik now stood less than a half dozen paces behind him.
“Surrender and tell us who sent you, and I will spare your life,” Devlin said. After all, these assassins were but tools. He needed to know who had hired them.
Devlin's Honor Page 6
