Devlin's Justice (30 page)

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.

“And if you are killed, I expect her to carry on. Likewise, if she is the first to die, then you will take her place. The two of you will guard each other,” Devlin said. And if he were to be killed, either Oluva or Didrik might well be able to take his place as a rallying point.

“And I will watch over the Chosen One,” Captain Drakken said.

He had already had this argument with Drakken and lost. Accustomed to command, her experience would have made her an invaluable leader in the field. But Drakken had argued that he needed someone to watch his back, and when that had not swayed him, she had added that he needed her knowledge of tactics.

“What of me?” Stephen asked.

“You will stay with me,” Devlin said. It might not be the safest place, but ever since he had been reunited with Stephen, Devlin had been unwilling to let him out of his sight. The horrific image of Stephen’s mangled corpse still haunted his dreams. He knew it had been a trick, but a part of him feared that it might come true unless he was there to prevent it.

There might well come a time when Stephen was called upon to give his life for the rebellion. But if that day came, it would be because Devlin himself had already fallen.

Twenty

C
APTAIN
D
RAKKEN MOPPED THE SWEAT FROM
her brow, and shaded her eyes with her hand as she scanned the fields where corn ripened under the blazing summer sun. Assured that the fighters were in position, ready to cut off possible retreat, she made her way along the eastern ditch until it rejoined the road.

Devlin waited there, along with two dozen fighters on horseback. She had selected them personally from among the recruits who arrived nearly every day. Only the best were allowed the privilege of guarding the Chosen One.

“Everything is ready,” she said. “You are certain you wish to do this? No parley?”

“The assessor has chosen her lot,” Devlin said.

Devlin’s face was grim, as it often was these days, whether the news was good or ill. Looking at him, one would suppose the rebellion was on the verge of being crushed. Yet the opposite was true. Against all odds, they continued to survive, and each day they grew stronger.

The tactics that Devlin had outlined were simple, if brutal. They launched no full-scale attacks, but instead relied upon ambush and assassination. If a chance arose to kill one of the invaders it was taken, and the captured weapons were distributed to the ever-growing band of rebels.

The cost had been high, as inexperienced fighters found themselves swiftly outmatched. Trading one rebel life for that of an enemy was considered a success. Sometimes they lost two, three, or four for each soldier they managed to kill.

But Devlin had the weight of numbers on his side, and as the summer wore on, his fighters grew more cunning and experienced. No longer did the enemy send out four-person patrols. Now they traveled in groups of twelve or twenty, and the rebel bands had grown in size to match.

At first they’d offered no quarter to the enemy, but then Devlin had suggested that when possible, a single survivor would be left for questioning. When they had learned what they could from him, the rebels would amputate his sword hand and then set him free as a warning to the others as to what they could expect.

General Bertrand, who had assumed command upon Prince Arnaud’s death, did his best to hold his troops together, but spies in the larger towns reported that there were obvious signs of strain and poor morale among the soldiers. Using captured uniforms, Didrik had disguised his band as a mercenary unit and boldly attacked an army encampment, looting it of valuables. He’d repeated the same trick a week later. Other bands copied his tactics, as word spread through the informal network they had established. The change in tactics, from ambushes to wanton looting seemed to convince the army that they were now facing renegade mercenary bands as well, which served to increase the tension between the two presumptive allies.

As the weeks passed, the enemy casualties mounted, but so did the tally of fallen rebels. New recruits came each day, but the majority of folk in the occupied territories remained neutral. Some would offer the rebels food or shelter for a night, others offered only their silence. If Devlin was to succeed, he would need to convince these to join him.

And now, against Drakken’s advice, Devlin had chosen to escalate the fighting to a new level. It remained to be seen if his new tactics would garner him more supporters or would drive a wedge between him and those who followed him.

“Burn it,” Devlin said.

Drakken stood in her stirrups and raised her fist high. The fighters she had positioned around the field repeated the signal, as they touched their torches to the glowing coals that they carried, then tossed the burning torches in among the grain.

As the first wisps of smoke rose above the fields, Devlin rode forward, and his escort followed. They moved swiftly down the gravel lane that led to the manor house where the Assessor Emiliana and her family resided. The troops scattered around the house, surrounding it, their bows cocked and ready.