Eighteen

sword

AS DEVLIN FED THE FIRE A SLENDER PINE branch, it hissed and snapped before settling down to a sullen burn. It was a small fire, not large enough to provide any true warmth: But it was familiar, and comforting in its way. Fire was an old friend. Hearth fire, forge fire, or one of the countless campfires from his travels, they were all part of a thread that tied him to his past.

He held his hands out to the blaze. He had scrubbed them in a stream earlier, but they were still stained red with the Prince’s blood. Arnaud had taken a long time to die. He’d held on to his defiance far longer than Devlin expected, but in the end he’d broken. He’d spilled his secrets, until Devlin could no longer think of any more questions to ask. Even then he did not stop. Consumed by his need for vengeance, Devlin had continued until each wound the Prince had inflicted upon Stephen had been repaid a dozen times over.

It should not have been an easy thing, to torture a man to death, but Devlin had done it without hesitation. A dark part of him had enjoyed seeing the Prince suffer, victim of the same torments he had so callously inflicted on others.

Some would call it justice; Devlin knew better. It had not been about justice. It had been revenge. A just man would have executed Arnaud for his crimes, leaving the judgment of his soul to Haakon, Lord of the Dread Realm. But Devlin had no faith in the Gods. He had executed his own judgment, ensuring that Arnaud’s final hours were spent in agony and humiliation.

Devlin did not regret what he had done, but he wondered what he had become that he was capable of such a deed.

Two years ago a simple metalsmith, half-crazed with grief, had walked into Kingsholm and presented himself as candidate for Chosen One. A year later, after exposing the traitor Gerhard, the same man had been named General of the Royal Army and a trusted advisor to the King.

Now, he did not know who he was. Was he still the Chosen One? The King he had sworn to serve had betrayed him, handing him over to their enemies. He had forsaken any claim he might have on Devlin’s loyalties. What honor was there to be found in obeying oaths given to one who had proven faithless?

Devlin leaned back against a tree, tucking his hands under the borrowed cloak. He stretched his legs out before him, wincing as his feet protested their too small boots.

After he had killed Arnaud, he had stripped the bodies of the Prince and the two guards, taking whatever he could use. He had ill-fitting boots, a slightly better fitting cloak, three daggers, and a pouch containing a generous handful of coins along with flint and steel.

And, of course, the Sword of Light. It was quiet, but earlier it had blazed with white fire as he had struck down the soldier who’d had the ill fortune to come across Devlin as he was making his escape. He’d expected to have to battle his way free, but luck had been with him. There’d been only one witness to his hasty departure, and Devlin had hidden his body where it would not soon be found.

By now someone among the Prince’s followers would have summoned the courage to interrupt their lord at his sport and discovered his mutilated corpse. Devlin had a head start, but his advantage would not last. By dawn the woods might well be crawling with soldiers summoned from the nearby encampment.

By dawn he would have to have a plan. And a destination.

He could hunt for food, though that would slow him down. Or he could venture out of hiding and purchase food from a farmstead or village, weighing speed against the risk of discovery.

He had no maps, but he knew he was in Korinth, near the border with Rosmaar. These lands were held by the occupying troops, who controlled the Great Southern Road and all the territories that lay to the east. His pursuers would expect him to head west, to the safety of Rosmaar and of lands still controlled by Jorsk. They would concentrate their patrols along that border, fearful that Devlin would return to Kingsholm and rally an army against the invaders. They would be looking for a legend, a champion on horseback, making all haste to return to his duties.

They would not expect him to head south. He had traveled on foot before, and he knew how to set aside hunger, when needs must. A solitary traveler might well slip past their patrols. Even if he had to walk the entire way, he could be in Duncaer before the harvest.

It was up to Devlin to choose. It had taken him some time to realize that he had choices, once again. It was not until he had reached the relative safety of the forest and set camp for the night that he understood what he was missing. For two years the Geas had been a familiar presence in his mind. At times it slumbered, other times it called to him, urging him onward, letting him think of nothing but his duty and his oaths to his King.

Arnaud’s final spell must have destroyed the Geas. Rather than mastering the spell, he had unleashed magics that rendered him unconscious, and Devlin had taken him prisoner before he had a chance to recover.

Now Devlin was free. Not simply free from his captor, but free for the first time in two years. He was once again a man, able to choose his own fate.

Devlin had served the people of Jorsk to the very limits of human endurance and beyond. He had battled monsters for them, brought justice to evildoers, and foiled a planned invasion. His maimed right hand bore testament to the duel which he had fought to expose Duke Gerhard as a traitor. Time and again Devlin had shed his blood for these people.

He owed them nothing. He could walk away and return to his homeland, where he had kin who would welcome him back. Not as the Chosen One but simply as a friend. He could no longer practice metalcraft, but he could still teach others. Or if his guild refused him, then surely he could find some work to turn his hand to. Honest work, which did not leave a bitter taste in his mouth or an emptiness in his soul.

There was nothing holding him in Jorsk. No reason to stay.

But there was one who would never understand why Devlin had resigned his post as Chosen One.

Stephen would expect better from him. Stephen, who even now, could be hunting for his friend.

After ripping out the Prince’s heart, Devlin had crouched over Arnaud’s body, watching as the life faded from him. Only when he was certain that Arnaud was truly dead had he risen. And then he had glimpsed the table where Stephen’s body lay.

But it was not Stephen who lay there. The murdered youth bore a passing resemblance to Stephen, but his hair was blond instead of light brown, and what skin could be seen was the weathered tan of a farmer who worked bareback in the fields.

Somehow the Prince had enchanted him to resemble Stephen. He had used his knowledge of the minstrel, drawn from Devlin’s own mind, to shape his form and his speech. Devlin had seen what he expected to see and heard what he had expected to hear. Only with the Prince’s death was the enchantment broken.

Robbed of his semblance, his voice, and even his ability to speak his own final words, the nameless youth had died. Devlin had closed his sightless eyes and covered him with the Prince’s own robe, as a sign of respect. He could do no more. He doubted the Prince’s servants would think to give the boy a decent burial. And somewhere a peasant family waited anxiously for a son who would never return.

Arnaud had been mad for power and heedless of the damage he inflicted upon others in his quest. Though these provinces had been occupied only a few short months, it was likely that the nameless youth was not the first victim of the Prince’s madness. Devlin had come to know the people of this region last year, when he had traveled through Korinth. Downtrodden under an unjust lord and suffering from the so-called coastal raiders, at first they had appeared defeated. Sheep, waiting placidly for their slaughter.

Then he had met Magnilda, who had murdered a tax collector in a misguided attempt to protect her village. And her father, Magnus the village speaker, who had confessed to the deed and taken upon himself the death sentence that the law required. Magnus had been a brave man, and his daughter was equally brave, if hot-tempered.

He wondered what had happened to Magnilda and the village she now led. Had they accepted their new masters, uncaring whether they swore allegiance to an empress or a king? Or had they resisted the invaders, using the skills that Devlin had tried to teach them? How had they fared under Arnaud’s rule? What would happen to them as the Selvarats brought in reinforcements and tightened their grip upon their newest possession? Would they be dispossessed from their lands as Arnaud had hinted?

The murdered youth could well be one of Magnilda’s folk. It was a sobering thought, and Devlin regretted once again that he had no name to give the boy, no means to tell his kin of his fate. Arnaud might have wielded the blade, but Devlin felt responsible for his death.

Once he had known what it was to be an honorable man. Then his life had been simple. Duty to family and kin. Duty to craft and those tied by the bonds of friendship. Now, who was he? Where did his duty lie?

Could he return to Duncaer and be the man he had once been? Or were those the thoughts of a coward?

Devlin owed King Olafur nothing. Indeed, the King was as one dead to him. For weeks he had thought of returning to Kingsholm to seek revenge, but Devlin had burned out his taste for vengeance during the long hours in which he had made Prince Arnaud suffer.

But what did he owe to the people of Jorsk? Those who believed in him as Chosen One and looked to him for their protection? Folk like Lord Brynjolf, the Baron of Esker, battling against the anarchy of the northlands, protecting his people when the King had failed. Brynjolf, who held nothing back, sending even his own children into deadly danger. Or Magnilda, who was as far removed in rank and wealth from the Baron as one could be. In her own way, she also did all in her power to keep her people safe.

Devlin had made promises. To Brynjolf and Magnilda, to his friends, and to a host of others great and small. He had sworn he would do whatever was in his power to protect the folk of Jorsk and keep them safe.

Those words had not been in a formal oath, nor had they been prompted by the hellish spell. They had come from his heart. From a man who had found a new purpose for his life when he realized that he could use his strength and skills to protect those who could not defend themselves.

Olafur had rejected Devlin, spurning his efforts to serve. Arnaud had lifted the Geas spell. But as the long night wore on, Devlin realized that neither had changed who he was. He was still Devlin of Duncaer. He had a sword and the will to use it. It would have to be enough.

When dawn came, he began to head north.

 

“The village appears safe. We crept as close as we could and saw no sign of Selvarat troops,” Didrik said.

Captain Drakken turned to Oluva. “And do you agree?”

Oluva nodded. “I saw no signs of trouble. There are people working the fields and tending their animals. Just what I’d expect to see at this time of year.”

Captain Drakken hesitated. They needed information, but this small village was exposed—if this was a trap, there would be nowhere to run, nowhere they could hide.

“Oluva, you may go. Be cautious. Learn what you can, but tell them nothing of why you are here or who you are with. At the first sign of trouble, we’ll split up and retreat to where we camped two nights ago. Understood?”

There was a ragged chorus of assent. Oluva saluted and began making her way back through the trees, in a direction opposite from the village. She would emerge some distance away, so as not to draw attention to the fringe of the pine forest where the others waited. From here, they could see a league of open meadow, and the village beyond. All appeared calm, but appearances could be deceptive.

A short time later, Oluva’s figure appeared on the road. Drakken’s skin prickled as a group of people gathered at the entrance to the village. Welcoming party? Prudent caution at the sight of a stranger? Or hostile forces? Whoever they were, they surrounded Oluva as she approached and led her deep into the village.

“I’ll keep watch,” Major Mikkelson said.

By rights Mikkelson could have challenged Drakken for leadership of this strange expedition, but he had deferred to her instead. Which was fortunate, for she had lost her taste for following any orders but her own. Still she was careful never to give him a direct order, but rather to phrase her commands as suggestions.

She rose, handing Mikkelson the transverse bow and a handful of bolts before retreating a few hundred paces deeper into the woods, to where they had set up their camp last night. All was ready for a hasty departure. Their horses were saddled, their packs on the ground nearby, ready to flee at the first sign of trouble. She could only hope it would be enough.

Stephen stood in the center of the small clearing, holding Devlin’s axe before him. He turned slowly in a circle, three times, pausing finally as the axe pointed northeast.

“Put that away,” she said crossly.

“It’s changed direction again,” Stephen said. “Yesterday it was more north, and now it is easterly. And I think the glow has brightened.”

“It means nothing,” Drakken said. “We followed the axe, once, remember? Now we need to temper hope with reason.”

Stephen stubbornly shook his head. “We are wasting our time. Even now, Devlin could be moving farther away.”

She was tired of these arguments. Had Stephen learned nothing from their earlier mistake? The axe was a crude tool at best. They had followed it to the army encampment, only to discover that Devlin was most likely being held on a nearby estate, where Prince Arnaud resided in luxury. Worse, Mikkelson’s rescue had alerted the soldiers to their presence, and they had been forced to flee the numerous patrols that had combed the countryside. There’d been no chance to try for a second rescue.

Stephen had nearly driven her mad, insisting that he was going back to find Devlin. Alone, if the others were too cowardly to join him. At one point she’d threatened to gag him and tie him to his horse. It might have come to that, if the axe had not seemed to show that Devlin, too, was on the move.

Unlike Stephen, Captain Drakken had learned her lesson. Knowing that Devlin was in this region, they would do their best to find out where he might be held rather than charging blindly ahead. When their path took them near a village that Oluva knew, she had volunteered to speak with those she trusted and find out if there had been any troops passing through the area.

“We will do Devlin no good if we are captured ourselves,” Drakken said. “Oluva will speak to her friends. Find out if they have seen any soldiers or where they might have set up their camp.”

“And if Devlin is being taken to the sea? What then?”

The coast was less than a day’s walk. As they had followed Devlin’s trail north, the sea had never been far from her mind. If she were in command, she would have seen Major Mikkelson’s rescue as a sign that her security was vulnerable. She might well have decided it was time to move her prisoner to safety—perhaps even to remove him from the country entirely.

But even if Devlin were being taken to a ship, he and those who guarded him would be vulnerable while they were on the move. It was a question of finding him in time, without their being discovered.

An hour passed. Stephen paced and grumbled under his breath. Didrik wandered off, obeying her caution to remain within earshot. He returned with handfuls of nearly ripe berries, which they shared among themselves. The scant mouthfuls did nothing to satisfy her hunger. Provisions were low, for there’d been no time for foraging, and they’d been unwilling to risk venturing into a village to buy what was needed.

“If she’s not back in another hour, then we must assume the worst. We’ll mount up and return to our previous camp,” Drakken said.

“We can’t abandon her,” Stephen protested.

“Oluva knew the risks. Losing one of our number is better than losing all of us. And if we wait until sundown, it will be too dark to retreat safely.”

The road would be a death trap if they were pursued by mounted soldiers. Moving along the game trails of the forest was possible—if one had enough light to see by. And with a waning moon, that meant travel was limited to daylight.

Stephen looked to Didrik for support, but Didrik wisely kept his mouth shut. He knew the risks, and in fact he had argued that he be the one to make the approach, not Oluva.

Stephen turned to face her, and she knew from the stubborn look on his face that he was not prepared to accept her judgment. Not for the first time, she wondered how Devlin had managed to travel so long with the minstrel without giving in to the urge to strangle him.

Before Stephen could launch into his argument, a low whistle sounded.

“Get ready,” Drakken said.

She left Stephen and Didrik to see to their mounts, while she made her way to where Mikkelson kept watch.

“Oluva is returning. And she is not alone. There are two people with her,” Mikkelson said.

His eyes were better than hers. She loosened her sword in her scabbard, waiting as the distant blur resolved itself into three people approaching on foot. Oluva was in the lead, flanked on either side. Sunlight glinted off the shoulders of one of her companions, indicating that he might be wearing a sword across his back, or possibly a steel bow.

The three approached swiftly, but without undue haste. There was no sign of pursuit from the village. It was possible Oluva was bringing back those who had news that could help Drakken and the others. It was also possible that Oluva was luring these two out to her friends, where they could be eliminated.

Mikkelson loaded a bolt in the transverse bow and cocked it. Drakken drew her sword.

The group paused, just outside of effective bowshot. Oluva appeared to be arguing with the man on her right. After a long moment she threw up her hands in apparent disgust, then walked forward until she was within shouting distance.

“Captain, I’ve brought a friend, but he will not reveal himself until you come out where we can see you,” Oluva shouted.

“You’ve brought two of them,” Drakken answered. She remained partially hidden behind a tree. From here she could see the woman carried a cudgel, while the man to whom Oluva had spoken did indeed have a sword across his back. A sword that he now drew and held loosely in his right hand. A prudent precaution in this troubled land. They had taken the risk of coming this far, it was up to her to cross the final distance.

“Stay hidden,” Drakken told Mikkelson. “And at the first sign of trouble, take out the swordsman.”

At this range it would take an expert shot. Mikkelson merely nodded.

Drakken stepped out of the woods. She held her sword in her right hand, point down, indicating that she was not an immediate threat.

The villagers waited, remaining just out of bowshot, as she approached Oluva.

Oluva grimaced and spread her hands wide. “He still seems to think this is a trap,” she explained. “Maybe you can convince him otherwise.”

Oluva turned and walked with Drakken toward the villagers. There was something familiar about the man’s figure, though his face was hidden in the shadow of his hood. A suspicion grew in her. “Who is he?” she demanded.

Before Oluva could answer, with his free hand the man pulled back the hood of his cloak.

It was Devlin. After all these weeks of searching, he had been the one to find her.

“Devlin!” she exclaimed. She sheathed her sword in one fluid motion.

Ominously, Devlin made no move to do the same. Drakken glanced at the woman villager, but if Devlin was worried about her, it did not show. Instead his attention was fixed upon the woods behind her, as if he expected an imminent attack.

“Captain Drakken,” he said. He did not smile, nor was there any warmth to his greeting. “Who is with you?” he asked.

“Mikkelson is in the woods, with a bow. Stephen and Didrik are nearby.”

“Is that all?” he asked.

“See, it is just as I told you,” Oluva said.

They both ignored her.

“Call them out,” Devlin ordered.

“You don’t trust us,” Drakken said, stung by the realization. She had given up her post, forsworn her oaths, and risked her life for a man who no longer trusted her word.

He favored her with a mirthless grin. “We will talk about trust later. Call them out, where I can see them.”

It went against all her instincts. But the search for Devlin had already taken her far beyond what she knew. She could go this last distance.

“Oluva, tell Mikkelson to stand down and summon the others,” she said.

Oluva took off at a lope. Drakken looped her thumbs in her sword belt and rocked back a bit on her heels. It had been more than half a year since she had seen Devlin. He was thinner than she recalled, and his hair was now more white than black. There were new lines carved into his face, and his expression was unyielding. She was surprised by the ease with which he held the long sword in his crippled hand. And then as her eyes traveled up the blade to its grip, she saw the dark stone set in its pommel.

“Is that it?”

Devlin nodded. “A trinket from my travels.”

She wanted to demand explanations. What did it mean that she found Devlin a free man, carrying the legendary Sword of Light? Had he ever been a prisoner? Had she and the rest somehow misread the signs in Kingsholm? Had the gossips been right when they whispered that Devlin had gone rogue?

She saw Devlin’s frame relax as she heard Stephen’s shout. Stephen brushed by her, and Devlin barely had time to lower his sword before Stephen grabbed him in a fierce embrace.

“I never believed you were dead,” Stephen declared. “I never gave up hope.”

As Stephen released him, Devlin sheathed his sword. He named each of them in turn. “Didrik. Mikkelson. Drakken. Much has changed since I saw you last.”

Gone was his earlier wariness. It seemed Stephen’s presence had been enough to convince Devlin that they meant him no harm.

“We need to talk. And make plans,” Devlin said. He gestured to the woman who had observed the proceedings in silence. “Magnilda is speaker of the village. She has offered us her home for the night. We’ll be safe there.”

“There are patrols on the roads,” Drakken warned him.

“There are patrols everywhere since the Chosen One slew the foreign Prince,” Magnilda declared. “My people are on watch. They will give us fair warning.”

So Prince Arnaud was dead? It seemed they both had stories to tell.

“Oluva, Didrik, you break camp, then join us,” Drakken said as she fell into step beside Devlin.

“What happened to you?” Stephen asked.

“I was betrayed by those I trusted.” Devlin’s voice was cold, and his gaze slid over Drakken.

“King Olafur declared you dead,” she informed him, wanting to see his reaction.

A chill smile touched Devlin’s lips. “That is not the first mistake Olafur has made, but it may well be his last.”

She shivered, not at the threat, but by the matter-of-fact tone of voice in which he made it. Even Stephen was shocked into silence. Theirs should have been a joyous reunion, but instead it was a grim party indeed that made its way into the village.