Devlin's Justice (33 page)

“Devlin is dead,” Gregorson said.

“He is very much alive. And he wields the Sword of Light.”

“Lies, traitorous lies.” Gregorson spat out the words, his face turning red with anger. “I do not know what your purpose is, but I will not allow you to disrupt my command. Your treason will cost you your life.”

It was no more than Mikkelson had expected.

“Whether you kill me or not, you cannot silence the truth. At least I will die with honor, having fulfilled my oaths.”

Gregorson shook his head in apparent disgust, before turning to his aide. “See how he infected them all with his madness. Devlin was a menace, and we are well rid of him.”

“But if there is a chance he is telling the truth—”

“It does not matter. We take our orders from King Olafur, not from the Chosen One. Olafur has approved the protectorate, and it is not our place to question him. If the Chosen One himself were to appear in this office, I would tell him the same. We must follow the King’s orders, or we will all be lost.”

Blind fool. If Gregorson had argued that he needed his troops to be ready to defend central Jorsk, then Mikkelson would have understood. He would not have agreed with his decision, but he would have understood that Gregorson was preparing to fight a defensive war rather than an offensive one. But Gregorson lacked even that much foresight. He was not preparing for defense. Instead, he would sit here, tamely waiting for orders, until the day that the Selvarat armies overran the garrison.

“Remember the oaths we swore,” Gregorson reminded his aide.

“I do, Commander,” Captain Linasdatter replied. “I will see to this disturbance and make certain you are not troubled any further.”

Gregorson turned on his heel, heading for his own office. As he passed his aide, she struck him solidly in the back of the head. His body crumpled, and she caught him before he hit the floor.

“Don’t stand there, help me,” she said.

Mikkelson shook off his astonishment. Picking up the discarded gag, he shoved it in Gregorson’s mouth. Together they dragged the commander into his office, where they bound him to a chair.

“We will both be hanged for this, so you had better be telling the truth,” Linasdatter said.

“I swear to you upon my life that every word I said was true. And before they can hang us, they must first catch us.”

She grinned. “True enough.”

“How many others are likely to follow us?”

“Your old command will follow you even without orders,” she said. “We’ve had trouble with them ever since they returned to the garrison. A number of the officers are still held by the invaders, but you should be able to fill in the holes.”

He nodded. He’d caught glimpses of the other prisoners in the early days of his captivity, before they had been moved to another camp.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I swore an oath to defend Jorsk. I refuse to sit in a garrison while the Kingdom crumbles around me. There are a number of others who feel the same, and we’d been planning our strategy. Your arrival just moved things forward a bit. When I give the order, the royalists will be detained. It will take us at least a day to organize, but we should be able to take nearly all of the garrison with us.”

“We’ll need them. Devlin has asked that we try and take a portion of the Southern Road. If we can hold it, we will cut the Selvarat supply lines.”

If they succeeded, they would drive a wedge into the occupied territory, forcing the Selvarats to go far out of their way along the lesser roads to move supplies and troops between the northern end and southern ends of the occupied territories. Of course doing so would also mean that Mikkelson’s forces would be exposed, subject to attack along both flanks. And if he was defeated, only the headquarters regiment in Kingsholm’s own garrison would stand between the invaders and the capital.

It was a dangerous gamble. But it was a risk they had to take.

Twenty-two

I
T WAS NOT EASY TO LURK UNOBTRUSIVELY
outside the council chamber. To start with, when it was in session, two sentries stood outside, so that the deliberations would not be disturbed. Nor could one casually stroll past the chamber, since beyond it lay the entrance to the private wing reserved for the royal family. Fortunately, the chancellor’s office was adjacent to the council chamber. Knowing that the council was meeting that morning, Solveig had descended upon the chancellor’s office. Esker, she’d declared, had not received proper credit for supplying armsmen to fill the King’s levy, and she had been instructed by her father to take up his claim.

With the chancellor occupied in the council, it fell to his hapless assistant to answer Solveig’s questions. In a rare burst of efficiency he’d produced a detailed listing of the tax credits allotted to each of the Barons who had answered the King’s call. As it was a summary only, she sent him to find the actual muster records, so she could confirm the count of those enrolled. He’d protested that those files were stored elsewhere, but she’d fixed him with her best glare until he mumbled that he supposed he could fetch them.

At least she was able to intimidate a petty clerk. She’d never had to stoop to such tricks when Lord Rikard had been on the council. But nowadays all she could do was wait and hope she could glean a few scraps of information before the rest of the court heard the tale. Whatever had happened, it was urgent enough that King Olafur had summoned his councilors to an early-morning meeting, rather than waiting till their regular weekly session.

As she waited for the clerk to return, she heard raised voices from the direction of the council chamber, though she could not make out their words. The argument, if that was what it was, lasted for several minutes. Then the voices quieted. At last she heard the squeal of hinges as the massive doors were opened.

Fortunately, the clerk had still not returned from his errand. He would be surprised to find her gone, but she could always come back later and explain she had grown tired of waiting. Solveig stepped out of the chancellor’s office just as the first of the departing councilors passed by.

Marshal Olvarrson was the first to appear, his shoulders slumped and his gaze fixed downward. As if separating themselves from the hapless Marshal, the other councilors appeared a few paces back, Lady Vendela in the lead, her lips pressed firmly together. Whatever had happened, she was most displeased.

“Lord Arnulf,” Solveig said, as he drew near.

He barely glanced at her. “Mad, the world has gone mad,” he muttered.

She fell into step beside him. “I was wondering if there was news of your daughter Lynnheid,” she said. It would do no harm to remind Arnulf that he owed her a favor for bringing the matter to Count Magaharan’s attention.

Arnulf stopped so abruptly that Baron Martell bumped into him, before apologizing and walking around them. “Lynnheid’s lost to me, and you had better look to your own affairs,” Arnulf said. “Whatever agreements we thought we had are gone. The garrison at Kallarne has deserted.”

That was grave news indeed. Kallarne was the bulwark that protected the eastern approaches to Kingsholm. If the garrison were truly empty, then there would be little to stop a hostile force.

Solveig placed her hand on Arnulf’s arm. “Walk with me,” she said, not wishing to draw further attention to them.

“What did you mean when you said the garrison deserted?” she asked, when they had strolled far enough away from the others so there was no risk of being overheard.

“A messenger found Commander Gregorson and a handful of loyalists locked in the punishment quarters. There were a few dozen soldiers manning the walls; but the rest—numbering in the thousands—have marched east and declared war upon the protectorate.”

A fierce joy rose up in her, even as she tried to feign horrified disbelief. So the soldiers of Kallarne had the courage to face what the King and his councilors did not. Now they were fighting a war, whether Olafur willed it or no.

“Madness,” she said, echoing his earlier comment. And it was indeed madness. One garrison, on its own, could inflict damage upon the enemy, but they would not be sufficient to drive the invaders from Jorsk. The best they could hope for was that they would harass the enemy, throwing them into confusion, thus giving her father and his allies in the north more time to prepare to meet the ultimate challenge. Every enemy soldier they killed was one fewer who would face her father’s troops.

“I am told Major Mikkelson broke his parole and secretly journeyed to Kallarne. When he whistled, they came. King Olafur explained that Mikkelson was acting on his own, but the Ambassador did not believe him.”

“Would you, if you were in his place?”

Arnulf shrugged. “The Ambassador has informed King Olafur that the treaty is broken and warned that we face the most dire of consequences.”

Troop Captain Lynnheid Arnulfsdatter would not be returning to join her father, nor would any of the other hostages that the Selvarats held. Not in light of what Mikkelson had done. It was tempting to see Devlin’s shadow behind Mikkelson’s daring; but if there had been news of Devlin, then Arnulf would surely have blamed him rather than Mikkelson.

“I did not see the Count leaving the chambers,” she said.

“Wasn’t there. He’d heard of Kallarne, of course. But Olafur wanted to keep the latest news quiet, though he is foolish to think that there are any secrets in this court. My fellow councilors are no doubt racing across the palace grounds, hoping to be the first to inform the ambassador.” Arnulf gave her a sidelong glance. “Messenger birds brought word from Lord Kollinar. He has emptied the garrisons in Duncaer and is marching north.”

“Why? Is he bringing his troops as reinforcements?” That was even more astonishing than the news that the garrison had deserted.

“Against his orders? I’d wager he merely wishes to take advantage of the confusion and grab what land he can for himself and his followers. Duncaer is a bleak and poor place, but there are richer lands to be found.”

Mikkelson had learned his tactics and courage from the Chosen One, so his bold actions did not surprise her. But Kollinar was a conservative, who had spent over a decade as the Royal Governor of Duncaer, seemingly content to preserve the status quo. She could not imagine why he would have deserted his post, or what would have drawn him north.

True, the uneasy occupation of Duncaer had meant that large numbers of soldiers were required to maintain Jorskian rule—troops that would be invaluable in shoring up the Kingdom’s defenses. But King Olafur had refused to consider recalling those troops, even when faced with probable invasion of his Kingdom. If Kollinar had indeed taken all of the occupying forces with him, something which she doubted, then he had also ceded the territory of Duncaer back to the natives. And that would be treason, something for which King Olafur would see him hanged.

It seemed Kollinar no longer feared King Olafur’s wrath or the justice of his peers. She did not know who led the army these days, but it was assuredly not King Olafur or Marshal Olvarrson.

“What will you do?” she asked.

“See what can be salvaged from this disaster,” Arnulf said. “There are still alliances to be formed, though you may find the ambassador far less friendly than he was a few days ago.”

“Of course,” she said.

She bade Arnulf good-bye and left the palace to stroll outside in the courtyard, trying to gather her thoughts.

Arnulf was an experienced courtier, but he was wrong in his assessment of the situation. With King Olafur’s authority being eroded, the Selvarats would be even more anxious to secure agreements with those who still held power. Like her father, whose influence extended far beyond his own province of Esker, thus her bargaining position strengthened as Olafur’s weakened. She could obtain much from the ambassador if her father could be convinced to form an alliance with the Selvarat Protectorate, or even simply to sign a treaty pledging neutrality.

If the situation worsened, they would have no choice. She and her father would have to do whatever it took to preserve Esker. But for now, she still had hope. Stephen had surprised her before. He and his friends might still find the Chosen One and bring Devlin back so he could lead the armies of Jorsk in throwing out the enemy. It was a slender hope, but it was all she had.

It might be time to return to Esker, to inform her father of the latest news, and to find out his wishes. Such matters could not be put down on a scroll, nor was there anyone in Kingsholm that she trusted with such a vital task. And it was clear that Kingsholm was no longer safe.

It was well enough for Arnulf to stay in Kingsholm, working to form alliances with his neighbors in the face of the new threat. But those whom she might seek as allies had already left the court or were in detention. Here she was vulnerable. In Esker, she would be negotiating from a position of strength.

Her musings were cut short by the arrival of Lieutenant Embeth, accompanied by a pair of guards.

“Lady Solveig, the King has requested your presence. If you please.” Lieutenant Embeth’s words were studiously polite, but the escort signaled that she would not take no for an answer.