Devlin's Justice

by Patricia Bray

  “With the death of Prince Arnaud, there will be confusion and disorder among his forces. We must seize this opportunity, before they have a chance to regroup,” Mikkelson said.

  “I have no army,” Devlin said. “Remember? King Olafur declared me dead, and the Marshal commands in my place. What is it you expect me to do?”

  “We expect you to be who you are,” Stephen said. “We expect you to be the Chosen One.”

  “No,” Devlin said, cutting him off with an angry gesture. “I am not the Chosen One.”

  He began to rise to his feet, but Stephen gripped his arm, refusing to back down under Devlin’s angry gaze. “You are the Chosen One. You know it as well as I. It is why the King feared you. If you give the word, the people will rise up.”

  He shook off Stephen’s arm and walked a few paces away from the table, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the others. Stephen’s words had angered him, because in his heart Devlin knew that Stephen had spoken the truth. There was power in the name of Devlin of Duncaer, and power in the legendary sword that he now bore. Those who barricaded themselves behind Kingsholm’s walls might ignore him, but the folk of the occupied lands would rise up if they were given a leader.

  But did he want to be that leader? It was one thing to fight alongside others to protect their kin and homes. It was only his own life he was risking, his own death if he failed. It was another to lead a rebellion, to know that people would die in his name. His soul was already bloodstained, and now they were asking him to bear the burden of countless deaths.

  “We will have to fight one day, if what you told me is true,” Magnilda said. “Better now, before they send over more troops, and the first batch of settlers arrives to claim our land.”

  Like most of the folk of Korinth, she and her village had cooperated with the protectorate. As long as they were allowed to live their lives unhindered, it did not matter whether they paid their taxes to their Baron or to the Viceroy. Life under the protectorate was not nearly as harsh as the rule of the late Baron Egeslic, and Prince Arnaud’s cruelty was not widely known.

  Only Devlin knew the true scope of the Selvarat plans, owing to his brutal interrogation of Arnaud. His dreams were still haunted by images of the Prince’s mangled body, and the knowledge of what he had done. Yet whatever its source, the knowledge that Devlin possessed was invaluable. Unlike the blind fools at court, Devlin now knew that the Selvarat empire was in turmoil. Long-simmering resentments had led to a series of uprisings in the north, which had been brutally crushed, but not before thousands of refugees had fled south. Weary of the cycle of unrest, they refused to return to their homes, but neither were they welcome in the southern lands. A series of poor harvests added to the overall misery, creating a potentially explosive situation.

  Faced with the threat of civil war, Empress Thania had taken a bold gamble. She would expand her empire, claiming the fertile lands of Jorsk. There she would settle her displaced subjects, rewarding her loyal supporters with land grants and titles once the Jorskians had been driven out.

  Arnaud had planned to carve out his own kingdom, betraying his Empress. Thus he had brought over only troops whose loyalty could be assured and mercenaries who obeyed their paymaster. But the failure of his plans did not mean that Thania would give up her dream of an expanded empire. She would send reinforcements, and settlers to take possession of the newly claimed lands.

  Magnilda and her people would not risk their lives for their lord. But like folk anywhere, they would fight for their homes.

  “If we do this, there can be no half measures,” Devlin said slowly. “No turning back.”

  “We understand,” Drakken said.

  “Do you? Are you prepared to teach children how to smile at their enemies before stabbing them? To use the old as bait for an ambush, because you cannot risk the lives of your valuable fighters? To fight to the death—no quarter, no mercy? Because nothing less will serve. We must destroy their army utterly. We must terrify them so greatly that they will flee across the ocean rather than stand and face us.”

  The occupying forces were spread thin, but they were experienced, disciplined, and well armed. There were a few trained peasants, but for the most part the fighters would be inexperienced, with only the crudest of weapons. They would have to make up for their lacks by the sheer weight of their numbers.

  And by their willingness to die.

  Even then, he did not know if it would be enough. If he failed, they would have been killed for nothing.

  “If we succeed in driving the invaders out, it will not stop there. Not as long as King Olafur sits on the throne of Jorsk. In victory I would be even more of a threat to him. It will mean civil war,” he warned.

  “The King didn’t betray just you,” Didrik said. “He betrayed us all when he handed you over to the Selvarats. I will follow you, here and to Kingsholm if you ask it.”

  “And I as well,” Oluva said.

  Magnilda shook her head. “I will fight for my land and my people, but nothing more,” she said. It was as he had expected.

  “I am yours,” Drakken said. “And you have more friends in Kingsholm than you think. When the time comes, Embeth and our allies will fight on your side.”

  Supporting Devlin might earn them nothing except a swift death. From what Captain Drakken had revealed, it seemed that the Guard was split between those obedient to their Captain, and those receiving secret orders from the King. If Devlin returned, the factions would turn on each other, echoing the greater strife around them. It would mean civil war, friends turning upon one another.

  “I will follow you, wherever you lead,” Stephen said. His mouth twisted in a wry grin. “Whatever happens, it will make a fine song.”

  Devlin snorted, remembering Stephen’s previous attempt at immortalizing the Chosen One. Still, there were worse fates that could befall a man.

  “If we are both still alive at the end of this, I will let you make your songs,” Devlin promised. “Just as long as I don’t have to hear them.”

  Stephen’s face brightened, his gaze turning inward. No doubt even now he was crafting lyrics in his mind, content to ignore the gravity of their situation. His optimism would not let him imagine any outcome other than victory.

  Devlin turned to Mikkelson, who had remained silent. Unlike the others, Mikkelson was not here by choice. The others had already cast their lots, choosing friendship over duty when they left Kingsholm behind. Now it was Mikkelson’s turn to decide where his loyalties lay.

  “You ordered me to defend the eastern coast, against all enemies. That order still holds. I will follow you,” Mikkelson said.

  Devlin felt a grim resolve. For good or ill, he had made his choice. It had been foolish to think he could take on the role of a simple soldier and leave the responsibility for the coming war to another. Whether he willed it or no, the fates had destined him as a leader. It was not enough that he be willing to sacrifice his life for these people. He had to be willing to bear the burden of the war, however great the cost would ultimately prove to be. He prayed fervently that he would be worthy of their trust.

  “Seven of us, plus the villagers that Oluva trained last summer. It is a start,” he said.

  “I will send runners to the other villages and ask them to spread the word. We can gather a hundred before the full moon, and more each day that follows,” Magnilda added.

  “There are five thousand armed soldiers who would follow you,” Mikkelson said slowly.

  “Kallarne,” Devlin said, naming the central garrison where the army was based.

  “Kallarne,” Mikkelson agreed. “On the King’s orders they were pulled out of this region and sent to Kallarne. But they will have no taste for the protectorate. If you called them, they would come.”

  “You have more faith in them than I,” Devlin said. In his time in Jorsk he had developed a close relationship with the guards, which was why his betrayal at their hands had stung so deeply. The army was an
other matter. Mikkelson was the exception, handpicked by Devlin for his position. Most of the others had resented the foreign interloper who had been named to command them. They had been obedient, but they did not love him.

  “I cannot speak for all the army, but my troops will follow you. If you could come with me to Kallarne—”

  “No,” Drakken said. “The risk is too great. And there is no time. We need him here.”

  Devlin had walked into a trap once. He had no intention of doing so again.

  “The troops have been told the Chosen One is dead,” Mikkelson retorted. “They will not follow on my word alone. They need proof.”

  “It is a fool’s errand. Those loyal to Olvarrson will arrest you and execute you as a traitor,” Devlin said.

  “I will take my chances,” Mikkelson said. “But I need proof of your survival. Something that cannot be questioned.”

  It was folly. And yet, it was not his life to risk. If Mikkelson could bring back even five hundred soldiers, that could well spell the difference between victory and defeat.

  “I can give you proof,” Devlin said. “Mark you so that all know you as my man. But once I have done so, it cannot be undone.”

  Mikkelson swallowed hard. “Let it be done,” he said.

  Devlin turned his ring so that it faced the palm of his hand, then walked over to Mikkelson.

  “Give me your hand,” Devlin said. He grasped Mikkelson’s left hand so that his ring was centered in the palm of Mikkelson’s hand.

  “I am the Chosen One,” Devlin said.

  The ring responded to his invocation. It did not care that Olafur had repudiated him, or that Devlin had tried to renounce his title. The ring recognized its master and began to glow.

  Devlin held the image of the ring in his mind, the solid gold of its curves, the crystal stone, and the runes around the stone that proclaimed its owner as the Chosen One. He imagined the metal heating, as if it were held in a forge fire.

  Mikkelson sucked in a breath of air, but he did not struggle as the ring seared his flesh. Devlin held the grip for three dozen long heartbeats before he relinquished his grasp.

  Mikkelson turned over his hand to see that the seal of the Chosen One was branded into the center of his palm.

  Devlin stripped off his ring, and dropped it in Mikkelson’s outstretched hand.

  “Put it on,” he said.

  Mikkelson slipped the ring over his finger.

  “Now, concentrate on the ring, and say ‘I serve the Chosen One.’ ”

  “I serve the Chosen One,” Mikkelson dutifully repeated.

  The crystal of the ring brightened, and glowed with a white fire.

  Stephen leaned across the table, staring at the glowing ring. “But how can he do that? Only the Chosen One can summon the power of the ring,” he said.

  The ring was sealed to its bearer during the Choosing Ceremony and used to identify him to others. A wise custom in the days when the Chosen Ones were killed so frequently that there was little time to remember their names or faces. The ring, along with the soul stone and the Geas, were all part of the customs of the Chosen Ones, handed down for generations, until even the mages who invoked the spell no longer understood what they did. And what they thought they knew was wrong.

  “Arnaud knew more about sorcery than any ten of your mages,” Devlin said. “Before I killed him, he taught me a few tricks.”

  His tone was even, giving no hint of what the knowledge had cost him. Arnaud’s efforts to pry the secrets of the Geas spell from Devlin’s mind had forged a strange link between the two. As Arnaud learned from him, Devlin learned from his captor. Some of the information was useful, such as the insights into the Empress’s plans and how Arnaud had intended to thwart her. Other knowledge sickened him, tainting Devlin’s soul.

  It was Devlin’s hand that had wielded the knife, but it had been the skills he learned from the Prince that had enabled him to keep Arnaud alive even as his body was being butchered.

  He’d hoped he would never have to call upon such savagery again. But if Devlin truly launched a civil war, he might one day be grateful for what Arnaud had taught him.

  The next morning, Mikkelson departed for Kallarne, with instructions to recruit as many troops as he could and begin the task of securing the Southern Road. Before his figure had dwindled in the distance, Devlin had already dismissed him from his mind. He could not afford to wait for Mikkelson to succeed or fail.

  True to her word, Magnilda sent out runners to nearby villages, and summoned their leaders for a council. They listened gravely as Magnilda explained the reasons why they had to rise up against the forces of the protectorate, but their eyes were on Devlin, who sat off to one side, the Sword of Light propped in a chair next to him. On the first night of the council, a brash young man asked Devlin to prove that he was the Chosen One. Grimly Devlin had unsheathed the sword, invoking its power until it glowed so brightly that no one could bear to look at it. As the spots faded from his eyes, he looked around and saw their doubts had turned to awe. They looked at him and saw a legend. It was not a comfortable feeling.

  Most but not all of the village representatives agreed on the need for action. Those who declined were dismissed. No doubt at least one of these would turn traitor and inform the invaders of Devlin’s plans. In fact he was counting on it. News of his presence would dishearten his enemies, those who had seen Prince Arnaud’s mutilated corpse and knew full well what Devlin was capable of. And it would bring hope to those who had not yet dared to oppose the conquerors.

  But the possibility of traitors meant that Magnilda’s village was certain to become a target. As a precaution Devlin ordered the smallest children evacuated to a temporary camp in the forest, while those who had stayed behind were organized into fighting bands. Thanks to the efforts of the previous summer, each of the coastal villages in this region boasted one or two trained fighters, who had in turn passed along what they knew to others. A few had bows, meant for hunting small game but capable of killing a man at close range. Others had wood axes, or crude spears, some tipped with metal, others merely sharpened stakes.

  Each day that passed brought new recruits and increased the danger that the Selvarat army would discover their presence. A fortnight after the council meeting, Captain Drakken had finally had enough.

  “The risk is too great. We can no longer stay here,” she announced, as Devlin joined the others for a cup of weak kava and a stale biscuit. With nearly a hundred recruits billeted in the village or camped in the fields outside, food was growing scarce.

  “I agree,” Devlin said.

  Drakken, who had opened her mouth to argue, abruptly closed it as she realized that she had won her point.

  “Oluva, how many bands do we have ready? Seven?”

  “Eight now. Waltyr Crippletongue arrived in the night, and I’ve assigned the newest band to him,” Oluva answered.

  Conventional warfare called for massing one’s forces, but he and Captain Drakken had mapped out a far different strategy. The recruits were assigned to bands numbering no more than a dozen. Their small size would enable them to move swiftly and help avoid detection.

  Each leader had been given a target area, ensuring that they would be widely scattered once they left the village. Even if the Selvarat army discovered one of the bands and destroyed it, the others would be able to fight on.

  “I will want to meet this Waltyr, and make certain he understands what he is to do,” Devlin said.

  “I trained him myself last year,” Oluva replied. “He knows what you want. He will pick his battles wisely, relying upon ambush and surprise. He brought with him a half dozen fighters, all of them armed with swords.”

  Devlin raised his eyebrows at that news. Six swords was a sign of unusual wealth. Or of initiative.

  “Were these perhaps liberated from the Selvarat army?” he asked.

  “A patrol of mercenaries had no further use for them,” she said, smothering a grin.

  “
Good man,” Captain Drakken observed.

  “My compliments to his trainer,” Drakken said.

  Oluva had proven herself a good judge of character, and those she had trained last summer had been the first to volunteer. In her own way, she was as much a rallying point to these folk as Devlin was, and it was an advantage he intended to exploit.

  “Magnilda, will you summon the leaders? I would speak with them one more time to give them their orders before we disperse,” Devlin said.

  He waited until Magnilda was out of earshot before turning his attention back to his friends.

  “Didrik, Oluva, when Magnilda leaves for the east, I would have you accompany her,” he said.

  Didrik shook his head, his mouth set in a stubborn line. “I will not leave you unprotected.”

  “If we stay together, then we are too tempting a prize,” Devlin said. The rebellion was still a fragile thing. If those present were to be killed, it was unlikely that other leaders would emerge to take their places.

  “Oluva and Magnilda will head for the sea, gathering new recruits and establishing lines of communication,” Devlin explained. “I need you with them to take charge of the east.”

  Unlike the Royal Army, Devlin did not have the advantage of being able to send orders that his troops would carry out. The scattered bands would be largely autonomous, organizing themselves and responding only to the overall strategies. There would be no clear chain of command, which meant that it would be harder for the Selvarats to defeat them. Each band would have to be dealt with separately. And just as the bands were scattered, it made sense to disperse the leadership to ensure they could not be taken out with a single blow.

  “I cannot be everywhere at once, yet I need someone there I trust. You know what we have planned here, and you know how I think. You will be my voice in the east,” he said.

  “Oluva could do as much,” Didrik protested.