Ten

sword

DEVLIN SLEPT, BUT HIS REST WAS PLAGUED BY nightmares. King Olafur mocked him, laughing as a faceless soldier ran Devlin through with a sword. He lay on the ground of the training yard, straining to reach a bucket of water that sat just out of his reach. A column of Guard recruits stepped over his body with barely a glance as they made their way to the practice field. As he lay, his skin shriveling from fever, Sergeant Lukas appeared. He paused by Devlin’s side. “Thirsty, are you?” he said. Then he kicked over the bucket.

Tears ran down Devlin’s face as he watched the water sink into the muddy ground. Yet even as he cried, he knew there was something wrong. He blinked his eyes furiously, and his vision swam. No longer was he in the courtyard, instead he was staring up at a sliver of blue sky, surrounded by leafy green trees. A face swam into view, and Devlin tried to speak, but his tongue was thick and clumsy. He tried to raise his arm, and was shocked when it did not respond. He could not even feel his limbs.

I am dying, he thought. And then he fell into confusion once more.

He could not tell night from day, nor waking from the fever dreams. He no longer knew who he was or what had happened to him. There was only one thing he was certain of. He was being held prisoner and he had to escape. He struggled with the mindless rage of a trapped animal, but his dulled wits were no match for his captors.

Time passed—how long he did not know. But then there came a day when he awoke, in full possession of his wits.

He was Devlin of Duncaer, called the Chosen One. He had been betrayed into the hands of his enemies, who had drugged him into insensibility. He remembered waking and his ill-fated escape attempt. Beyond that was nothing, save dark images that might have been truth or feverish imaginings.

He held himself still, trying to preserve what advantage he could. Slowly, stealthily, he took stock. There was a lingering ache in his wrists, but none of the pain he had expected. Gone, too, were the terrible thirst and hunger that had featured so prominently in his nightmares.

He lay not on the floor of a jolting wagon but on the soft surface of a bed. The scent of herbs filled the air, and he heard the sound of someone pouring liquid out of a pitcher.

“You can stop the pretense,” a man’s voice said. “I know you are awake.”

Devlin opened his eyes. He glanced swiftly around and saw that he was in a large chamber that would not have looked out of place in a noble’s house. The walls were hung with silk and the floor was of inlaid wood, but it was strangely bare of furniture. There was only the bed he lay in, a carved wooden chair by the fireplace, and a long table that held a pitcher, several small jars, and a brazier filled with ashes.

There were three windows, each covered by a lattice of iron bars. A pair of well-armed mercenaries flanked the door, while a man wearing a plain woolen robe stood by the table. The man picked up the clay cup he had been filling and brought it over to Devlin.

Devlin levered himself upright. His arms shook with weakness, but held his weight. He glanced at his captors, noting that in addition to belted swords, each held a heavy iron hammer. A strange weapon, but effective. Even if his legs would bear his weight, the chance that he could surprise and overpower the two was slim.

As the man held out the clay cup, Devlin saw that he was wearing the silver torc of a healer. But any reassurance of his profession was countered by the presence of the armed guards.

“Drink,” the man urged.

“No,” Devlin said, testing his voice and pleased to find that it worked.

“It is redfruit juice, nothing more,” the man said. “If you tolerate this, we will see about getting proper food for you.”

Devlin closed his lips tightly and shrugged. He would not let them drug him again.

“Stubborn ox,” the man exclaimed. He raised the cup to his lips, and downed the contents in several noisy swallows. “Satisfied?”

Devlin watched as the man went back to the table and refilled the cup. This time when it was held out to him, he accepted.

His stomach had awoken, and it complained bitterly of long privation. At some point he would have to eat or drink, if only to keep his strength up. Besides, he reasoned, it was unlikely that they intended to keep him a drugged captive forever.

Devlin took a cautious sip. It tasted like redfruit juice. As he turned the cup in his hand, he was surprised to see that he was still wearing the ring of the Chosen One. The ring’s stone remained dark, signifying that the liquid was safe to drink. With a shrug of his shoulders, he finished the contents.

“Who are you? And why have you brought me here?” Devlin said.

“I am Master Justin. As to why you are here, I cannot say. My orders were to heal you, and that I have done.”

“Where am I?” Devlin asked, swinging his feet to one side of the bed.

“You are in—”

“No,” one of the mercenaries interrupted.

Devlin looked at the speaker. He thought he recognized the man and his partner as being among those who had thwarted his escape attempt, but it was hard to be certain. The two wore the short tunic and leather pants customary among hired soldiers in Jorsk, while their elaborately braided brown hair called to mind the few sea folk he had seen. The healer, on the other hand, spoke as one who had spent years within Kingsholm’s walls, and his features marked him as one born and bred within Jorsk.

And he had not forgotten that it was Karel of Selvarat who seemed to be giving the orders. It was a strange alliance that brought such disparate folk together.

The door opened and a nobleman entered, followed by Karel and the female who had helped drug Devlin during the journey.

Devlin rose to his feet, grasping the headboard for balance.

“You have done your work well,” the stranger said.

“I kept my promise,” Master Justin said.

Karel cleared his throat.

“I have kept my promise, Your Highness,” Master Justin repeated, stressing the honorific. His attempt at civility was belied by the anger in his voice.

Interesting. So he was not pleased to be working for this prince. Such hatred might well prove to be a lever for Devlin to exploit.

“You may leave us and one of the guards outside will take you to see your family. When you have satisfied yourself that they are well, return to your quarters.”

“But—” Justin protested.

“I may have use for you later, if my new guest proves uncooperative. You remember the terms of our bargain. You will be free to go when I have no use for either of you.”

Master Justin muttered under his breath as he gathered up his supplies. Then he made his retreat.

“So you are the mysterious prince who holds Karel’s leash,” Devlin said.

Karel’s face darkened, but his master only smiled. “Chosen One, I am pleased to see you living up to your reputation for brashness,” he said.

The Prince’s gaze measured him, as if Devlin were a piece of bloodstock he had just acquired. Devlin returned the regard with all the insolence he could muster. The Prince was a lean man, lacking the heavy muscles of a warrior or laborer. Even his face was thin, the flesh stretched taut over angular features. His long, dark brown hair was gathered in the back in the Selvarat style, and a golden circlet sat on his brow, indicating he was of royal blood. He wore a long outer robe of pale green over a dark silken shirt and linen trews. He did not appear to be armed, but that did not make him any less dangerous.

Devlin tightened his grip on the bed post. He told himself it was his weakness that made him feel chilled, but he could not deny that there was something cold about the Prince’s gaze. And surely it was a trick of the light that made his dark eyes appear flat and lifeless?

“Sit, sit,” the Prince said. “It would be a shame to undo Master Justin’s hard work.”

The Prince took a seat in the carved wooden chair, and Devlin sank down on the bed.

“I am Prince Arnaud,” he said. “I am pleased finally to meet one of the Chosen Ones.”

Devlin was glad that he was sitting down. He had guessed that his captor was a prince of Selvarat. His dress and appearance had indicated as much. But Selvarat had numerous princes, since even second cousins of the reigning sovereigns were entitled to style themselves as royalty.

But there was only one Royal Consort, and he went by the name of Arnaud. His presence in Jorsk was a shock, if indeed Devlin was still within the borders of Jorsk.

Nothing made sense. He knew the King had resented Devlin’s influence and power, but why choose such a strange way of ridding himself of a rival? What deal had Olafur struck with the Selvarats? Had Olafur used them to dispose of an inconvenient enemy? Or had the Selvarats sought Devlin out for their own nefarious reasons?

“If you wanted to meet me, you could have come to Kingsholm. There was no need for all this,” Devlin said. He did not understand what was going on, but he would not let his captor see his confusion.

“I doubt I would be welcome there. Not today, although one day I will call it home,” Arnaud said. “And you will be the key to my victory.”

Devlin’s heart quickened. First Karel, and now Prince Arnaud. He did not know what they wanted with him, but he could not allow them to use him. His left hand clenched in a fist.

“The guards have orders to break your arms and legs if you so much as move in their direction,” the Prince said. “They will not kill you, but they will ensure that you are crippled. Do you understand me?”

Devlin gave a quick nod. The Geas insisted that he had to flee his enemies, but it was quieted beneath the voice of reason. He could risk death, since his death would prevent him from being used against Jorsk. But he could not risk being crippled, left helpless in their power. Better to be patient. In time he would find a way out of this trap.

The Prince turned his gaze on Karel. “See? Even the Chosen One is not immune to reason. Which brings me to the matter of your failures,” he said.

Karel blanched, while the female mercenary swallowed nervously.

“Guards,” Prince Arnaud called. Two soldiers came in. Unlike the others, these wore the uniform of Selvarat regulars. One stood behind Karel, and the other behind the woman. Karel began to shake.

“Cousin, I did my best. The spells did not work, and he fought us at every turn. Even with the drugs we could barely control him—”

Prince Arnaud waved his hand. “I have heard your excuses before. You were given a simple task and you botched it. Another two days of traveling and the Chosen One would have been beyond even Master Justin’s skills,” he said.

“I was only following orders,” the woman stammered.

“Indeed,” the Prince said. He rose to his feet and stood in front of her. Devlin held his breath, wondering would happen next.

The Prince nodded to one of the soldiers. Swiftly he looped a cord around the woman’s neck and yanked it back. She reached up, her hands scrabbling uselessly for purchase, but he placed his knee in her back, and there was a sharp crack as he snapped her neck.

Her head lolled to one side as the soldier released the cord. Then, grabbing the limp body under her arms, he began to drag her away.

The juice Devlin had drunk rose in his gorge and he fought the urge to vomit. He would not have hesitated to kill the woman in a fair battle, but this was cold-blooded murder.

Karel trembled, but he did not move from his place. Arnaud stood in front of him for a long moment. “Cousin, what shall I do with you?” he asked.

“I am your loyal servant,” Karel said. “I only wish to serve you.”

Prince Arnaud smiled. “And so you shall,” he said, leaning forward to kiss Karel on the forehead.

Karel stammered his thanks. He was still expressing his gratitude when Prince Arnaud gave the signal, and the soldier looped the strangling cord around Karel’s neck. He took longer to die than the woman, or perhaps it merely seemed so to Devlin, who forced himself not to turn away. There was no merciful neck crack, just a slow, painful struggle, as Karel’s features contorted, turning first pale, then red. At last his limbs ceased twitching, and he, too, was dragged away.

Prince Arnaud then turned toward Devlin, who flinched involuntarily. “Karel got his wish. He gave his life as an example. I do think it is best to make things clear from the start. There must be no doubt as to the seriousness of my purpose.”

Devlin looked long and hard into the face of evil. A monster with the manners of a prince, who had ordered the execution of his kin upon a whim. It was frightening to imagine what would happen if Jorsk fell under this man’s rule. As Chosen One, it would be up to Devlin to prevent that from happening. At any price.

Prince Arnaud resumed his seat, arranging his robe carefully around him. “Now let us discuss your future,” he said.

 

They came for her during the middle of the night watch. Drakken came awake at once, but from the grim look on Lieutenant Embeth’s face, she knew this was no ordinary crisis.

“What is it?” Captain Drakken asked, as she rolled to her feet.

Embeth had not come alone. Lieutenant Ansgar was with her, and Sergeant Henrik hovered just inside the door.

“We have orders to arrest you for treason,” Lieutenant Ansgar explained.

Drakken shot a look at Lieutenant Embeth, who met her gaze steadily. She had expected Embeth, but the presence of the others were a surprise. And the plans they had put in place were for days from now. Something must have happened.

“You must have gone straight to the King,” Drakken said.

“I did,” Embeth replied, lifting her jaw. “I, at least, know the meaning of the oaths I swore.”

She felt a moment of unease. Was Embeth simply mouthing these words for the benefit of these others? Or had she indeed changed her mind and decided to place her oaths to the King above her loyalty to her Captain?

Either way, there was nothing Drakken could do but play along and hope that she had not misplaced her trust.

“I always knew you were ambitious, but now I know you for a fool as well,” Drakken said, for the benefit of their audience. “You will not like how the King rewards loyal service.”

“Enough,” Lieutenant Ansgar said, stepping toward her. Both hands gripped his sword belt, as if to still them. “We are not here to debate. You will come with us.”

“Like this?” she asked, gesturing to her bare feet and the linen shift she wore to sleep in.

It was hard to tell in the darkness, but she thought Ansgar might have flushed. “Get dressed, but be quick about it,” he said.

Drakken took a step toward her wardrobe.

“No. Stay where you are.” Embeth turned to Lieutenant Ansgar. “She might have a weapon in there,” she explained.

“What do you suggest?” Ansgar asked. By rights Embeth was his senior, having served as lieutenant for these half dozen years. For all his newfound favor with the King, it seemed the habits of discipline still held.

“Henrik, find the Capt—,” Embeth stumbled. “Find Drakken some clothes to wear. Nothing fancy, and search everything for concealed weapons.”

Henrik pawed through her neatly folded uniforms and came up with leather pants, a linen shirt, and a pair of thick woolen socks. The latter was a kindness that she expected to have need of soon. Three pairs of eyes watched her as she stripped off her shirt and donned her uniform. Boots were searched, then offered. It would have been humiliating if she were not so furious.

“Hands,” Embeth ordered.

Drakken held out her hands, which were manacled before her. Then Henrik draped a cloak over her shoulders. He fussed until it hung just so, and for a moment she was touched by his care. Then she realized he was simply making sure that it hid her bound arms from any casual gaze.

“You will come with us and you will not call out or make any attempt to escape. Your cohort is already in custody,” Lieutenant Embeth said. “There is no need to confuse the other guards who have not yet learned of your treachery.”

They feared a riot if her guards saw her being led away in chains. A year ago they might have been right. Now she did not know what would happen. If even a veteran like Henrik would not lift a finger in her defense, then she did not know who would aid her.

Though it was hard to blame Henrik for his behavior. He was following orders, and the oath that he had sworn to serve the King. He had not seen what she had seen, nor did he know what she knew. Indeed, there was a part of her that envied his ignorance and the comfort that was to be found in blind obedience.

Lieutenant Ansgar led the way. Outside of her quarters were a dozen guards waiting to serve as her escort. Newcomers and troublemakers, there was nary a friendly face among them. Some smirked when they saw her. They formed a strange procession as she was led past the guardhouse where prisoners were normally housed and into the palace through a narrow door by the kitchen. Down through the wine cellar they went, down a narrow winding staircase, until they reached the lowest level and the newly refurbished dungeon.

She was led past four cells that were empty, but whose filthy straw showed signs of recent habitation. The fifth cell held a figure lying on the floor, who lifted his head as the torchlit procession went by. Rikard.

Drakken was thrust into the very next cell. At Embeth’s gesture she held out her hands, and the manacles were released.

“The King has ordered you put to the question,” Lieutenant Embeth said. “A wise woman would recognize defeat and confess her crimes.”

“A wise woman would know better than to serve a stinking worm like Olafur,” Drakken replied.

The blow that snapped her head back came as no surprise. Staggering on her feet, she watched as the cell door was closed on her.

Booted footsteps echoed as they made their way out of the dungeon, no doubt eager to report their success to the King.

She dropped to her knees. The cell was small with a narrow door, and only a single torch had been left to illuminate the corridor outside. When the torch burned out, they would be left in darkness.

“Cap’n, is dat you?” a slurred voice asked.

“Oluva?”

“Aye,” Oluva said. Her voice came from the cell just beyond Drakken’s.

“Are you hurt?”

“Only pride,” Oluva said fiercely.

“So, how the mighty have fallen,” Lord Rikard called out. She could hear the rustling of straw as he moved in his cell. “Even your cowardice could not save your hide. How does it feel to be called traitor?”

Drakken ignored him. She sank to the floor on her hands and knees in the center of the cell and began a careful spiral search, gently sifting the straw. It was a tedious task, and an unpleasant one too, for she was clearly not the first to occupy this cell. She wondered what had happened to the other prisoners. It was too much to hope that they had been set free. But if Olafur were conducting secret executions, surely she would have heard at least a whisper of it.

Rikard rained abuse on her, as she continued her task. Finally, on her eleventh circuit, her left hand closed around a piece of cold steel. She picked it up, and reverently traced the shape with her fingertips.

Now she had but to wait.

Rikard finally fell silent when neither she nor Oluva would rise to his baiting. Drakken counted cadence in her mind, imagining a line of new recruits being put through their paces. After she was certain a full hour had passed, she rose to her feet.

She slipped the key into the newly oiled lock, and it turned soundlessly. Pushing the door open, she padded her way over to Oluva’s cell and unlocked that door. Oluva’s face was swollen with fresh bruises but her grin was undimmed as she stepped into the corridor.

Rikard’s eyes widened as the two stood in front of his cell, backlit by the flame from the failing torch.

“What?”

Captain Drakken held her finger to her lips, commanding him to silence.

“Rikard, I admire your passion but you make a lousy politician,” she whispered. “You have no sense of who your friends are.”

She unlocked his cell and swung open the door. With a wave of her arm she invited him to join them.

Rikard’s face, at least, was unmarred, but his movements were stiff and she spared a moment to wonder what injuries were concealed beneath his clothes. If he was too badly hurt, he would not be able to keep up with them.

“What is this?” he asked.

“We are leaving,” she said. “Come now; if we miss this opportunity, then we may never have the chance again.”

“I do not know what game you are playing at,” Rikard began.

“There is no time for debate. Are you with us? Or shall I leave you here?”

The door at the end of the corridor swung freely open at her touch, and she shook her head at this sign of laxity. A proper gaol would have a lock on that door, opened by a key that was different from the master key that opened the cell doors. She would have told them as much, if anyone had consulted her when they fitted up the dungeon.

Beyond the door were two lifeless bodies slumped on the floor, both wearing the uniform of the special detail that had been assigned to the dungeon. One lay on his back, and as she took in his features, her eyes widened in shock. With the toe of her boot she turned his companion’s body over. After weeks of searching, she had finally found her two missing guards. But they were dead, and with them went any hope of discovering the role they had played in Devlin’s disappearance.

It was disquieting to think that she had searched for them for weeks, only to find that they had been in the palace all along. She wondered what else had been going on under her very nose.

With a nod to Oluva, Drakken began stripping the weapons from the woman on the right, while Oluva took care of the man on the left. Drakken took the woman’s sword for herself, but handed the belt-knife to Rikard.

“Don’t use this unless you have to,” she said. “Not all those we meet tonight will be unfriendly.”

“Your arrest was a sham?” Rikard asked.

“No, the arrest was real. I told Embeth that I was planning on accusing the King of murder, and she promptly went off and informed him of my plan.”

“But—” Rikard shook his head in confusion.

“But she also left the key to the cell doors in the straw and made sure I was assigned to that cell. And these two here are her work. I recognize her touch with a knife.”

She wondered what had happened. The plan had been to disable the guards, not to kill them. One of them must have recognized Embeth and thus sealed their fates.

Captain Drakken led the way up the narrow staircase, through the wine cellar, then paused at the kitchen door. She sheathed her sword, and Oluva did the same. Quickly Drakken stripped off her cloak and wrapped it around Oluva, pulling the hood over her face. Hopefully no one would look at her too closely.

Rikard was another matter. His once-fine clothes were stained and ripped in places.

“Keep your head down and don’t say anything,” Drakken instructed him. “If luck is with us, word will not yet have spread about my arrest.”

She and Oluva flanked Rikard, as if they were escorting him, then Drakken opened the door that led to the kitchen. At that hour it was quiet, save for the bakers laboring at their dough, who spared them barely a glance. It was not the first time that the guards had taken the shortcut through the kitchens when escorting a drunken or disorderly guest out of the palace.

As they stepped into the courtyard she could see that the stars had disappeared, and the sky was turning gray. She quickened her pace. They needed to be out of the city by dawn.

Everything depended on timing. She had waited an hour to make sure that Embeth had time to report the successful arrest to King Olafur, then to establish her own alibi for the escape. Ansgar would not be so lucky. He was to be drugged and made to disappear. Evidence would be discovered that he had fled the city, presumably after helping Drakken make her escape. Even if he did find the courage to come forward, once he was released, it was doubtful that King Olafur would believe any tale he might care to spin.

That is if Embeth let him live. Drakken had refused to countenance cold-blooded murder, but Embeth had already crossed that line.

Drakken led them to the prayer gate, a small door in the outer wall near the Royal Temple. Generations ago it had been carved into the wall so that devout worshipers could enter to pay their devotions at any hour of the day or night. Nowadays it was seldom used, but it was still functional.

Sergeant Lukas saluted as he caught sight of her. Wordlessly he handed each of them the brown cloaks of laborers, and to Drakken he gave a leather bag that she hung over her shoulder. The bag held her store of coins, as well as the maps she would need.

“Horses and provisions are waiting at the Drover’s Inn, just beyond the East Gate. It’s owned by Nifra’s cousin. You’ll be safe there.”

Thirty years before, Lukas and Nifra had briefly been married. Their marriage had not survived, but their friendship had. Nifra had risked her life to carry messages between Didrik and Drakken. If Lukas trusted this cousin of hers, then Drakken would too.

“Thank you,” she said. “Remember, follow Embeth’s lead. I will return once I have found him.”

“I’ll keep things safe for you,” Lukas replied, with a quick salute. “May the Gods watch over you, Captain.”

“And over you as well,” she replied. She was not a religious woman, but they would need all the help they could get.

No one challenged them as they made their way through the city, and as the dawn broke, the guards on duty looked the other way as Drakken and her companions slipped out of the eastern gate. She said nothing to them, so they could truthfully claim they had neither seen nor heard her.

It was humbling to realize how many people had risked their lives so that she could make her escape. From the moment Master Dreng had revealed that Devlin was alive, she had known that she could not remain in the city. But neither could she leave Kingsholm in the hands of Ansgar and his ilk. Together she and Embeth had hatched this plan, one that would bring Embeth into favor while eliminating the treacherous Ansgar.

War had been declared this night, though it was doubtful that anyone besides herself had realized it. Drakken might have been the first, but in time everyone would be forced to choose between serving a lawless King and their duty toward their country. Those slain tonight were but the first of the casualties that would come.

The horses were waiting at the Drover’s Inn, as were Didrik and Stephen.

Didrik frowned at Oluva’s appearance, but merely said, “The horses are saddled, and we are ready to leave as soon as you mount up.”

“We are bound for Korinth, to rescue Devlin if we can. And once the Chosen One is in our hands, we plan to challenge King Olafur and his damned Selvarat friends,” Drakken informed him.

Rikard’s jaw dropped. “Devlin is alive? Are you certain?”

Stephen patted the great axe he wore slung over his back. “Yes, we have proof.”

“Will you come with us?” Drakken asked.

Embeth had wanted to come, as had Lukas, and there were others who would have come if she had but asked. But it was a matter of balancing risks. Kingsholm needed the Guard to protect it, and to make sure that the city did not fall into anarchy. And a few more swords would make no difference. She was not planning on challenging the Selvarats to battle. She was planning on exercising stealth and cunning, and a small, swiftly moving group was of far more use to her.

Rikard shook his head. “My place is in Myrka,” he said.

“Your province is under Selvarat rule, and you have been named traitor,” she reminded him.

“My people will not accept the Selvarat yoke,” he said confidently. “With me to lead them they will rise up and overthrow the invaders.”

“You will get yourself killed.”

“It is my life. Those are my lands, the very soil is in my blood. I can do no less.”

“So be it,” she said.

Didrik led a roan gelding out of its stall and held it as Rikard attempted to mount. It took him two tries, and when he finally succeeded Rikard’s face was gray, and he held his right arm clamped firmly around his ribs. A brave man, but foolish. Riding alone and injured he would be easy prey for the patrols that the King would send out after the escaped prisoners.

“Didrik, do we have a spare sword?” she asked.

“Your fighting sword is on your saddle,” he replied. “Lukas smuggled it out of the palace yesterday.”

So absorbed had she been in her preparations that she had not even noticed one of her swords was missing. She wondered what else she had overlooked, then dismissed the thought as unimportant. What was done was done and there was no going back.

She unbuckled the borrowed sword from her waist and lashed the scabbard to Rikard’s saddle. “If I were you, I’d not be taken alive,” she advised.

“Give my respects to the Chosen One,” he replied. Then he kneed his horse into a slow walk.

“Mount up,” she said, as Didrik and Stephen led the remaining horses out from their stalls.

She watched as Rikard’s figure disappeared from view.

“He will be lucky if he lasts a day on the road,” Didrik said.

“So will we if we tarry any longer,” she said sharply. “We’d best be going, as we will not find Devlin by standing around here talking.”

As they rode, she resisted the urge to turn around, to take one final look at the walls of the city where she had served for over a quarter of a century. It felt as if she was abandoning her post, but she reminded herself that she was not running away. She was journeying toward a goal. They would find Devlin, and when they returned they would set the Kingdom to rights.