Devlin's Justice (29 page)

Nineteen

D
EVLIN LOOKED UP AS
M
AGNILDA ENTERED.

“I’ve brought more kava,” she said, setting a clay pitcher on the rough plank table that dominated the room.

“Thank you,” he said. “All is quiet?”

He knew she would have warned him if there were any trouble, but it was a sign of how off-balance he felt that he needed to ask.

“All quiet,” she repeated, with a patience that he had not expected from her.

“Join us. We need your thoughts.”

Magnilda shrugged, then took a seat next to Mikkelson, who slid down the bench to make room for her. She was a stocky woman, broad-shouldered with hands strong enough to choke the life out of a man, as he well knew. Elected village speaker upon her father’s death, the last year had smoothed the rough edges from her temper. She had no love for the nobles who ruled over her, but she had opened her home to Devlin and given him honest counsel. Though their tentative plans had been overset by the arrival of his friends and allies.

He lifted the jug of kava and refilled his mug, then passed the jug to Stephen, who sat on his left. By now Devlin had drunk so much kava that he would bleed brown not red, and yet it still brought no clarity to his thoughts.

Captain Drakken sat across from him at the table. She watched him with wary eyes, as did Mikkelson. He knew they had been dismayed by his coldness when they met, but he would not apologize for his caution. He remembered too well the night he had been taken. It had not been just King Olafur who had betrayed him. Marshal Olvarrson, head of the army in Devlin’s absence, had stood alongside the King. And two of the Guard had been present as well. They were the ones who had killed Saskia and bludgeoned Devlin into insensibility.

His captivity had given him long hours to reflect and to wonder who else had chosen allegiance to the King. But his friends had proven themselves beyond measure. Drakken had challenged the King, resigning her post to search for him. Didrik and Oluva had risked their lives, leaving behind everything they knew on the faint hope that they could find him and rescue him. Stephen’s unswerving loyalty was something he had come to expect. Less welcome was the hungry look in Stephen’s eyes. He had come looking not just for a lost friend. He had journeyed here to find the Chosen One. A savior for his people.

What had seemed so simple only the day before was once again fraught with complications.

“Chosen One,” Drakken began.

“Devlin,” he said, interrupting her.

“Devlin, then. What are your plans? How do you intend to fight them?”

“With a sword. Or my axe, now that Stephen has returned it.” Though he was not quite certain that he wanted the axe back, not after hearing what Master Dreng had done to it. The axe had led his friends to him, but he was bitter that yet another piece of his past had been tainted by sorcery.

Drakken favored him with a glare perfected through years of cowing errant recruits. “This is not the time for jests. What are your orders?”

“Orders? Whom do I command? You? Didrik and these others? Shall the seven of us declare war upon the Selvarat Protectorate? Upon Jorsk? Shall we split our forces and attack both at once?”

He had come here to see for himself how the villagers fared and whether they needed the help of a strong sword arm. But he had come here as Devlin, not as the Chosen One, and it was as Devlin that he was determined to remain.

“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 another 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.