Devlin's Justice (12 page)

He took several deep breaths, trying his best to ignore the foul stench. But his thoughts were still befuddled by the drugs that stubbornly remained within him.

Angrily, he flexed his right hand, and then squeezed his three fingers tightly together as he began pulling at the manacle once again. Escape. He had to escape. This chance might never come again, and from what he had heard, it was more urgent than ever. This prince, whoever he was, believed that Devlin was the key to destroying Jorsk. As Chosen One, he could not let that happen. He would free himself, or he would die trying.

She was not a coward. Nor was she a traitor. She was an honorable woman doing everything within her power to fulfill her oaths and protect the people of Kingsholm. Prudence was not the same as cowardice, and being cautious did not make one disloyal.

Captain Drakken knew all those things to be true, but as she entered the banquet hall and caught sight of the King and his cronies seated on the main dais, chatting as if they had not a care in the world, she felt a sudden wave of self-loathing. Only long habit enabled her to salute the King and weave her way through the crowded tables to take her customary seat at the foot of the center table.

The King frowned, though whether it was at her tardiness or because she was in disfavor, it was difficult to know. Drakken exchanged greetings with those already seated, while a server set a trencher of fish in front of her. So they were on the second course already. It was no wonder the King was annoyed.

She pretended an absorption in her food, while her eyes scanned the room. The court was in session, so nearly every seat was filled, the tables so crowded together that the servers had to carry the platters of food high over their heads as they passed between them.

Solveig was there, engaged in an animated discussion with Jenna, the aide to Ambassador Magaharan. In the past weeks Solveig had publicly distanced herself from Devlin’s supporters, though it was difficult to tell if anyone believed her change of heart. The reformers who had supported the Chosen One and his radical ideas now clung to each other defiantly, and their disfavor was shown by having them placed as far from the dais as possible. She strained her eyes to see across the hall, and there at a table near the servant’s door she saw Lord Rikard, but Lady Falda’s seat was empty. Drakken’s stomach clenched even as she told herself that it was most likely that Lady Falda had been too unwell to attend. She was an elderly woman who had complained of feeling poorly of late.

Still she must be gravely ill or foolhardy beyond belief to have missed the weekly court dinner. Olafur liked to have his courtiers where he could see them. Absence was taken as a sign of disrespect, and these days it was likely that the King would conclude that any missing courtier was plotting against him.

Of course there was another reason for someone to be absent. At least a dozen members of the court were no longer to be seen. Some, like Lord Branstock, had been arrested, but many had simply vanished. Few were brave enough to ask questions as it became apparent that the dungeons below the palace were once again being used.

Her stomach churned, and the fish was but half-eaten when the server cleared it away and replaced it with roasted fowl and the last of the winter vegetables. The fowl was tough and the vegetables stringy, but it was better food than most in Kingsholm had, and she forced herself to overcome her distaste for the company and eat a healthy portion.

She heard a young girl’s laughter and looked at the dais to see Princess Ragenilda smiling at Count Magaharan. The Princess was in formal court garb, and wore a sapphire necklace and matching earrings. The outfit made her look much older than the mere eleven years she had to her claim.

The jewelry had been a gift from the Selvarat ambassador, a man who was much to be seen these days. He appeared everywhere with the King, regularly dining with the royal family as if he were a close relation or one of the King’s chief councilors. His open interest in the Princess did not bode well for the girl nor for her future.

Drakken’s gaze traveled down the dais to King Olafur, watching as the King beckoned the server to refill his wine cup.
Murderer
, she thought, and she quickly averted her gaze lest he could read the accusation on her face.

A true hero would not sit here, choking down the King’s bounty. It did not matter whether the King had wielded the knife himself, or if he had merely ordered it done. He had still killed a man who had pledged his life to defend the kingdom against all perils. He had killed the Chosen One, and with that act shown his scorn for both the Gods and the people whose loyalty he commanded.

It had been many years since she had believed in the legend of the Chosen One. Believed that the Gods chose one person as their anointed champion, and gifted that person with the courage and skill needed to defend the Kingdom. Devlin had changed that. He had made her believe again, as if she were a child listening to legends told by the fire. Made her believe that a man with courage and conviction could do extraordinary things.

If Devlin were here, he would not hesitate. He would challenge King Olafur in front of the court, secure in the strength of his own convictions and that the power of his calling would sustain him.

A part of her wished that she was able to take that simple path. Proclaim King Olafur’s foul deed to the world and call upon the court to see that justice was done. Give over living a lie and free herself from her oaths of loyalty to a man she now despised.

It would be brave, but foolhardy, and she knew better than to expect the King to respond to her allegations. He would order her arrested and, save for a small handful of loyal guards, no one would lift a finger in protest. Her claims would be dismissed as the ravings of a lunatic. It was a swift way to get herself killed, but it would accomplish little else.

Drakken needed proof. Proof that Devlin was dead, proof that the King had ordered his assassination. Only then could she seek out allies in the court. If enough of them stood together, they might be able to bring down Olafur.

But even that strategy had its risks. Ragenilda was but a child, and unfit to take the crown. A Regent would need to be appointed, and while the courtiers might unite to depose Olafur, it was impossible that they would agree on who should serve as Regent. The result could well be civil war, at a time when the Kingdom stood in grave danger. Possible invaders aside, the Selvarat alliance carried as much risk as it did reward, or so Solveig had often cautioned her.

Where did her duty lie? Captain Drakken had sworn loyalty to the King, but she had also sworn to serve the cause of justice. Was it better to have a corrupt king reigning over a united kingdom? Or was it her duty to see justice done, regardless of the cost? She could serve the King or the cause of justice, but she could not do both. One of her oaths would have to be broken.

She threw the half-gnawed fowl leg back on her plate with a snarl of disgust.

“The chicken is not to your taste?” Troop Captain Karlson asked. He leaned across the table and gave a conspiratorial smile. “I find it tough going as well.”

The troop captain was Marshal Olvarrson’s chief aide, and she knew that anything she said would be reported first to the Marshal, then find its way to the King’s ears. These days even the most innocent of remarks could be construed as treasonous.

Captain Drakken grimaced a bit and made a show of rubbing her lower jaw.

“Bad tooth,” she explained. “Cracked it on a nut this week. The apothecary gave me a salve, but it does damn all to help.”

Karlson leaned back in his chair, having lost interest in her. “My sympathies,” he said, his eyes already wandering past her to see if any of the other diners were worthy of his attention.

“In fact, I think I had best depart, for I cannot bear to chew another morsel,” Captain Drakken said, rising to her feet. She nodded in the general direction of the head of the table. “I leave the rest of the meal to those who can enjoy it.”

The double meaning of her words passed unnoticed by her fellow diners, who barely acknowledged her leaving.

Only when she had left the hall did she breathe a sigh of relief. Her stomach still churned from the tension of having to pretend that all was well. She did not know how much longer she could endure the strain. Another few evenings like this one, and her temper was bound to snap.

Time passed. Hours, or perhaps minutes that merely felt like hours. Devlin’s world had narrowed to a few inches of metal as he strained to free himself. Nothing else mattered—not the searing pain of his abused wrists, nor the ache in his chest that told of cracked ribs. Not even the foul stench of his own vomit could distract him.

Enough of the drugs remained in his blood that his mind was clouded, and his thoughts wandered through scenes from his past. He was in Duncaer, dying from wounds received when he had killed the murderous banecats. He was in the great palace of Jorsk, blood dripping from his maimed hand as he stood over the corpse of the traitor Gerhard. Stephen offered encouragement, even as the lake monster crushed Devlin between its mighty jaws. Captain Drakken appeared, angry that Devlin had failed to report. She began to lecture him on duty, but her image faded and was replaced by that of the King.

The sight of King Olafur spurred Devlin’s anger, though he could no longer remember why. Indeed, he no longer knew where he was, or what had happened to him. Weakened by captivity, he might have fallen into a drugged stupor, but the Geas would not let him rest. One message was burned into his mind. Escape. Nothing else mattered.

He pulled with every bit of strength left to him, but still it was a shock when his right hand slipped free. In the darkness he could not see how badly he had damaged it, but when he flexed his fingers they responded to his orders.

He rolled to his left and used his right hand to explore the manacle that encircled his left wrist. It was slippery with blood from his struggles, but unlike the other it was properly fastened. He would not be able to slip it off. He might be able to pick the lock, if he could find a bit of metal, but that would take time, and his abused right hand was unlikely to be dexterous enough for the effort. His arm traced the length of the chain until he found where it was fastened to the floor of the wagon. It was a simple ring bolt, hammered into the wagon floor. His fingers traced the base of the bolt, and found that his struggles had partially lifted it away from the wood.

He looped the free chain around his right arm and pulled with all the strength of both arms. His arms shook, and he panted with the effort. His head swam, and he blinked as stars appeared in front of his eyes. Still he continued to pull, and with a screech of metal the ring bolt loosened and came free.

He lay back, panting, waiting for the alarm to be raised. But no one called out, and he realized that no one had heard his struggles. They must be sleeping or careless indeed.

He wrapped the short chain around his left arm, careful not to clink metal against metal. He could use the chain as a weapon, if needed. Raising himself to a sitting position, he bent forward and investigated the bindings on his leg. There were two shackles, connected to a central chain. Unlike the manacles on his wrists, these had no lock, and it was only a moment’s work to undo them.

Now he had to make his escape. The prospect of freedom brought clarity to his thoughts, and he took stock of his situation. He was in an encampment surrounded by an unknown number of guards, some of whom he might have to fight. He had neither food nor water, nor did he know where he was, or whether the locals were likely to be well disposed toward the Chosen One. He had no cloak, no boots, and his only weapon was a length of chain with an iron bolt on the end. Even if he was successful in making his escape, without knowing where he was, he might flee toward his enemies rather than away from them.

Still, he had no choice. He remembered Lord Karel telling the female mercenary that Devlin was the key to destroying Jorsk. And as Chosen One, it was his duty to preserve Jorsk. Regardless of the cost. Better that he die in an attempt to win his freedom than risk being used against the people he had sworn to protect.

His brief glimpse outside the wagon had shown that the flap faced a central campfire, so he crawled to the opposite end. Here the leather covering was held in place by wooden pegs. He removed the pegs, then lifted the leather up a small bit and peered out.

The gray light of pre-dawn lit their surroundings, revealing them to be in a clearing bordered by fir trees. He could be anywhere in Northern Jorsk, or even Nerikaat for that matter. They would expect him to break south, so he would head north for a while and search for landmarks.

In his limited field of vision he saw no one, nor could he hear anyone moving. Prudence suggested that he wait and choose the right moment, but there was no time. It would be dawn soon, and the camp would be stirring. And his captors would be returning to the wagon to administer his next dose of drugs.

Devlin lifted the covering, swung his legs over the side, and slipped to the ground. His knees buckled, and he had to grasp the side of the wagon to keep himself from falling. His legs cramped with the ache of returning circulation, and he wondered again just how long he had been held captive, drugged and oblivious to his fate.

In the distance he heard a voice call out a greeting, and he knew he had to move. He pushed himself away from the wagon and began a shambling run toward the tree line.

He had gone no more than a few paces when the alarm was raised. “Alert! Ware!” a voice called out.

Others began to raise the cry, speaking in a tongue he did not recognize.

He urged his weakened body to greater speed, but not even his will could sustain him, and he stumbled and fell to one knee. When he rose back to his feet, he found himself surrounded.

There were at least a half-dozen of them, a motley group whose mixed features proclaimed them a mercenary band. Some were half-dressed, but there was no mistaking the intensity of their purpose, nor the meaning of their drawn swords.