Devlin's Justice (5 page)

Devlin paced the length of the tiny chamber he had been given. He had retreated here earlier because his impatience had made him foul-tempered. He glanced toward the foot of the bed and confirmed that his gear was fully packed, for experience had taught him he might have to make a hasty departure. He knew that Saskia and Stephen would also be ready to leave the moment he gave them the word. All that remained was to inform his companions and saddle their horses.

Didrik was a warrior. He would understand.

Devlin felt the tension in his shoulders ease as he realized that he had made his decision. A glance through the narrow window revealed that it would soon be dark. Too late to resume the journey, but they could leave at first light. Both they and the horses had benefited from their days of rest, and without the burden of an injured companion, they could ride hard and make up for some of the time they had lost.

He decided he would inform Didrik first, and then tell the others to make their preparations. But as he opened the door, he saw Mistress Kasja standing in the hall, her fist raised as if she was about to knock. Devlin took a hasty step back.

“Your pardon, sir,” she said. “I was just coming to fetch you.”

“Is anything amiss?”

“Yes, I mean no, that is, err, my lord,” she stammered.

Devlin took a deep breath and waited for the woman to calm herself. He had never suspected her of a nervous temperament.

“Yes?” he prompted.

“There is a company of armsmen downstairs, sent by Baron Martell. They say they have a message for the Chosen One. . . .” Her voice trailed off, as she peered at Devlin quizzically, apparently unable to reconcile the legendary Chosen One with the humble traveler who had been her guest for these past days.

It was not her fault that she confused the office with the man. He wondered how she would have treated him if he had arrived wearing his dress uniform.

“Then you had best take me to them,” Devlin said. He took down the sword belt that hung on the wall and buckled it around his waist. It never hurt to be prepared.

“Of course, my lord.” She bobbed a hasty curtsy, then turned and led the way.

He could hear voices raised in conversation as they approached. Saskia was waiting at the doorway, and as he entered the common room, she took up a position on his right side. There were only a half dozen armsmen in the room, but they were fully armed and seemed to fill the space with their presence. Despite their uniforms he knew this might well be a trap, so he rested his right hand on the hilt of the Sword of Light.

“Who is in charge?” he asked.

A tall man stepped forward and bowed low. “My Lord Chosen One, I am Pers Sundgren, commander of Baron Martell’s armsmen.”

The rest of the attachment drew themselves to attention and saluted.

Devlin responded with a nod. He did not remove his hand from his sword.

From the corner of his eye he saw Saskia’s left arm twitch and knew she had released a throwing knife into her hand, ready for a quick release should the situation turn ugly.

“What is your errand with me?”

“King Olafur sent a messenger bird to the baron, instructing him to send out armsmen to find you and to speed your swift return to the royal court. We have been seeking you for the past three days.”

Devlin wracked his brains trying to remember what he knew of Baron Martell. The baron’s holdings were small, but his title was an old one. He had met the man during the last court session, but his overall impression was that the baron was firmly committed to the middle ground. A young man with an old man’s politics, favoring neither Devlin’s supporters nor his conservative opponents.

A man trusted by both sides, his loyalty should be unquestioned. Then again, traitors did not declare themselves openly. Martell’s public neutrality might well be a shield for more nefarious activities. Though if he had wished Devlin dead, it was far more likely that he would have tried to ambush him on the road.

Commander Sundgren reached into his belt pouch. “I was entrusted with a personal message for you,” he said, withdrawing a small scroll.

Devlin took the scroll with his left hand and broke the wax seal with his thumbnail. He knew at least one other person had read the message, since messages carried by bird were written in tiny letters on long strips of paper. Most likely Baron Martell and his scribe already knew whatever message King Olafur had sent to him. He hoped they could hold their tongues.

“Chosen One. Empress Thania honors alliance. Your presence required in council. Return at once. Olafur, King of Jorsk.”

Devlin read the message thrice before he allowed himself to believe. This was good news. Indeed, it was beyond all hope. If the Empress of Selvarat was prepared to send troops to help defend Jorsk, then the odds had just tipped in their favor. Such an alliance might well deter the invasion that Devlin had long feared. And if their enemies were foolish enough to attack anyway, Devlin would now have the strength to crush them.

More than ever he was needed in Kingsholm. It was clear that events were unfolding swiftly, and he needed to be in a position to influence their outcome rather than trying to undo what others had already agreed to—though it boded well that King Olafur had urged his swift return. Perhaps the King had paid more heed to Devlin’s advice than he had realized at the time. Or perhaps the new alliance was just one of the changes that had been wrought in the politics of the Kingdom during the long months of Devlin’s absence.

“Horses are saddled outside, and my troops and I are ready to escort you,” Commander Sundgren said.

His eagerness was commendable, if misplaced. The weather had warmed, so the roads were no longer icy, but they were still slick from the morning’s rain, and the sun was rapidly setting. Traveling at night on such roads was the act of a fool.

“Then unsaddle the horses and arrange with the inn-wife to find rooms for your troop. We’ll leave at first light.”

“I’ll inform the others,” Saskia said. “We will be ready.”

“You will stay here, with Didrik,” Devlin replied.

“I am going with you.”

Devlin turned to face her. “There is no need.”

“If you leave anyone behind, let it be Stephen. He is your friend, but I have sworn to be your sword arm,” Saskia said, in the tongue of their people. “I promised Didrik that I would see you safely to your King.”

He should have expected as much. Didrik was Devlin’s aide, sworn to obey his orders; but Didrik had made it clear that his first duty was to ensure Devlin’s safety. It seemed he had enlisted Saskia in his cause.

Stephen was a friend, and a proven fighter who had shed blood on Devlin’s behalf; but he lacked the hard edges and killing instinct that Saskia possessed. She, like Didrik, was a warrior trained. If this was a trap, she might spot it even before he could, and he had no doubt that she would acquit herself well in any battle.

“I accept your pledge,” he said in their own tongue.

The commander frowned, clearly unhappy that they had chosen to exclude him from their debate.

“Saskia will ride with us,” Devlin said, dropping back into the common tongue of Jorsk. Stephen would not be pleased to be left behind, but someone had to ensure that Didrik stayed until he was healed, even if that meant tying him to the bed.

“Chosen One, there is no need for this foreigner to accompany us. My men and I have sworn to protect you with our lives,” Commander Sundgren said.

“Saskia hails from the same city where I was born,” Devlin said, watching the commander flush red as he realized his mistake. “And she, too, has sworn an oath. Let us hope for an uneventful journey where neither of you is forced to put yourself to the test.”

“Of course, my lord Chosen One.”

Devlin sighed. It was going to be a long journey.

They left early the next morning, just as the stars were beginning to fade. The roads were still wet from last night’s rain, but it had not been cold enough for the ground to freeze. Devlin took this as a sign that their journey would be swift.

Indeed they set a fast pace, far faster than Devlin could have traveled on his own. When he had received the King’s message, Baron Martell had done more than simply send out riders to search for Devlin. He had also arranged to have post horses waiting at key towns along the route. Devlin and his escort changed mounts nearly every day. When there were no post horses available, Commander Sundgren requisitioned the best horses the villagers had to offer—whether they willed it or no.

Such was within his rights as the baron’s man, and indeed as Chosen One Devlin could have done the same. But he was too much the peasant to be comfortable with such tactics. For every mount that was taken, Devlin made sure that the owner knew that he would be able to reclaim his horse at the next posting station, and gave him coin for his trouble.

If he found Devlin’s concern unusual, Commander Sundgren said nothing. Indeed the commander hardly ever spoke to Devlin unless the needs of the journey dictated it. He treated Devlin with the utmost formality, always referring to him as “My lord,” or “Chosen One” despite Devlin’s protests. Such rigid propriety was suited for the royal court, but hardly proper for a small band of riders.

The troops that accompanied them followed Sundgren’s lead. They did not speak to Devlin unless he asked them a question, and their replies were as brief as possible. They offered no opinions of their own, instead deferring to the wisdom of their commander. It was a far cry from what he was accustomed to. Even the Royal Army, with its officer corps drawn from the nobility, did not stand on ceremony to such an extent.

Saskia took her role as his protector with due seriousness, and was seldom more than a few steps away from his side. Despite her actions, Commander Sundgren and his troops did their best to pretend that she was invisible. She was not called on to take a watch, nor did the commander ever ask her to ride ahead to ensure the road was clear. That suited Devlin well enough. Saskia, at least, he knew he could trust.

But however strange he found Sundgren’s manner, he could not quarrel with the results. Their journey was swift, and without incident. Nine days after they had left Kronna’s Mill, Devlin saw the torchlit walls of Kingsholm looming ahead in the darkness.

One of the troopers had ridden ahead, and she was waiting for them at the junction where the great road they traveled split into three. From here one could ride either to the east or the west, along the first of the great ring roads that encircled the city. If they rode straight on, it would take them through the outlying villages, then into the city through the southern gate. But Sundgren turned his horse to the left.

“Wait,” Devlin ordered, drawing his horse to a halt.

“My lord, I was instructed to bring you to the city by way of the western gate,” Sundgren explained.

Devlin raised his eyebrows. This was the first he had heard of any such order.

“And are there any other instructions that you have failed to share with me?” He kept his voice low, but he knew Sundgren heard the implied threat. Their journey so far had been without incident, but that did not mean that he trusted the commander. Anything could happen, and Devlin would not count himself safe until he stood within the palace walls.

Commander Sundgren drew himself to even more rigid attention, if such a thing was possible. “It is past sundown, my lord,” he said. His face was expressionless as he pointed out the obvious. “The other gates will be barred shut at this hour, but the postern in the western gate is always open for messengers.”

“Of course,” Devlin said. He should have realized that himself, but fatigue and his overriding need to reach Kingsholm had blinded him to the practicalities of entering a guarded city after dark. The southern gate was closer, but it would take time to unbar the wooden doors and raise the massive metal gate.

Devlin nodded to the commander and kneed his horse to a walk. After a moment, the others fell in behind him.

Two city guards stood watch outside the West Gate, and though Devlin did not recognize them, they clearly knew who he was, for they began to open the postern gate as soon as they caught sight of the travelers.

The gate was narrow and Devlin fought the urge to duck as he passed underneath the stone archway. On the other side he was greeted by a woman wearing the shoulder cord of a corporal. Her face was unfamiliar to him, but she was too old to be a new recruit. It seemed the City Guard had begun recruiting experienced armsmen, which boded well for the changes that had taken place in his absence.

The corporal waited until the travelers had passed through the gate and the postern door was shut behind them. Then she saluted, saying, “Chosen One, I have been instructed to bring you and your companions directly to the palace. The King is expecting you.”

“At this hour?” It was nearly midnight. Despite the urgent summons, the best he had hoped for was an audience with King Olafur in the morning.

“I have my orders,” she said.

Devlin drew himself erect in his saddle and rubbed his face, trying to shake off his exhaustion. His very bones ached, and he had scarcely slept in the past few days. It was no comfort to know that his companions were equally tired. Commander Sundgren and the rest could seek their beds, secure in the knowledge that they had done their duty. But Devlin would need all his wits about him, if he was to speak with the King.

His right hand gripped the hilt of the Sword of Light, and he felt renewed strength at the tangible proof that he had succeeded in his quest. Devlin was the Chosen One. Mere tiredness would not be allowed to distract him.

“Lead on,” he instructed.

Four