Devlin's Luck (12 page)

“If not the Guard, then who else shall see to them?” Captain Drakken demanded. “Who will protect the King’s own lands, and ensure the royal roads remain open? At least I am willing to do something.”

“And just what is it that you think your guards can do?” Councilor Arnulf asked. “They are thief-takers. Skilled at breaking up tavern brawls, perhaps, but no match for warriors.”

Captain Drakken fixed her gaze on Duke Gerhard, for she knew that he was her true opponent here. Arnulf was just his tool. “At least I am willing to commit my troops, rather than letting them molder away, unused.”

“Show me an enemy I can face, and I will commit my troops to battle,” Duke Gerhard said. “But I will not scatter my forces heedlessly around the countryside, chasing after every will-o’-the-wisp.”

It was the same argument they had had many times before. The Duke, with the King’s backing, insisted on holding the Royal Army in readiness, prepared for battle. They were fools, for they could not see that this enemy was different. There was no invading army, no great battle in their future. Instead, the Kingdom was dying from a thousand tiny pinpricks.

She knew some on the council saw the same dangers that she did, yet even her backers could not agree upon a course of action. They argued fervently in favor of their own interests, unwilling to put the Kingdom’s welfare ahead of their own. And as for herself, she had a voice on the council, but no vote. She could only try to persuade and cajole, and hope that the council saw reason before it was too late.

“This matter has already been debated, and our decision stands,” Lady Ingeleth said. “And while it would have been politic for Captain Drakken to consult us beforehand, she was within her rights to give this task to the Chosen One.”

Duke Gerhard smiled mirthlessly. “And after all, should the Chosen One fail in his task, he will hardly be missed.”

Lord Sygmund nodded, stroking the blond beard about which he was inordinately vain. “Now I see the urgency of replacing the ceremonial swords. Soon we will need a new sword, for the next Chosen One.”

Captain Drakken felt ashamed, as she realized that their sentiments mirrored her own. She had given this task to Devlin precisely because he was expendable. And yet he deserved better than to be made the subject of the council’s mockery.

“He may succeed at his task, and surprise us all,” Captain Drakken said.

“Or he may wind up dead in some forest glade, and us the poorer by another ten golden disks,” Councilor Arnulf argued. “Money that could be put to far better use. Even you, Captain, must agree that the Chosen One is a costly anachronism. How much lower are we prepared to sink? This man is a foreign peasant, to whom we have given not just money, but also rank and power. It is no wonder the Gods are deserting us in the face of such folly.”

“The Chosen One is one of our most ancient traditions. King Olafur is ever mindful of our history, and rightly so,” Duke Gerhard said. “Still, there is wisdom in what Councilor Arnulf says. There is much that could be done with ten golden disks. With such a sum you could recruit and equip another two dozen guards, could you not?”

“Easily,” Captain Drakken agreed. With such a sum she could recruit thirty guards, furnish their equipment, and pay them for a full year. Last month she had begged the council for only half such a sum, only to be rebuffed.

But she knew better than to suppose that the Duke was serious in his suggestion. Should they abolish the post of Chosen One, there was little chance that any of the funds would wind up in her coffers. Instead it would be kept for the Privy Purse to be dispensed to the royal favorites, while she and the Guard were left to make do with their limited resources.

“Your views on the Chosen One are well-known, Your Grace,” Lady Ingeleth said. “But we will not resolve this today, and so with your leave we will set this matter aside until the King is ready to debate it.”

“Of course,” Duke Gerhard replied.

“Captain Drakken, is there anything else you wish to add to your report?”

“No,” she said.

“Very well. The council thanks you for your thoroughness,” Lady Ingeleth said.

Captain Drakken gave another short bow and resumed her seat, uncertain if she had accomplished anything with her testimony. She had hoped that the council would be alarmed by the evidence of the false smith’s treachery but they had not seemed overly concerned. Instead they were far more interested in continuing the endless debate over the need for a Chosen One. A debate whose politics had shifted with Devlin’s selection. The conservative members of the council, who had been the staunchest supporters of the ancient office, looked askance at its current holder, a man they considered to be a foreign interloper.

Should the King allow the council to debate the subject, there was now a real possibility that they would vote to abolish the office. In which case Devlin would be the last Chosen One, and his death would mark the passing of an era.

Seven

HE SHOULD HAVE TAKEN A HORSE. SERGEANT LUKAS had tried to insist, but Devlin had stood firm, Eventually the veteran soldier had been forced to concede, and had reluctantly helped Devlin equip himself for his journey with goods befitting a poor farmer.

Devlin had been troubled when the Sergeant shared what little was known of these forest marauders. Devlin made no claim as a tactical expert. Such was best left to professionals such as Lukas and Captain Drakken. But still, something about the seemingly random attacks had made him uneasy. Though he did not voice the thought aloud, it seemed as if whoever was attacking the travelers was selecting his targets very carefully indeed, choosing only those who were well pursed but not so well off that their disappearance would raise eyebrows in the capital. Such care spoke of inside knowledge.

Perhaps there was a spy in Kingsholm. If so, then there was no sense in his investigating in the persona of the King’s Chosen. The raiders would either kill him swiftly or avoid him like the plague, and neither would let him fulfill his task. And as soon as he had reached this conclusion, the Geas chose to make itself felt.

Devlin would travel in disguise. He would take no equerries, nor servants. He would not wear his uniform, or even travel on horseback. Instead he would travel as he had on his journey to the capital, in the garb of a poor farmer, returning to his home.

He had thought of explaining to Lukas, but had realized that he did not know who in the palace he could trust. And as soon as he had that thought, the words had frozen in his throat. The Geas would not permit him to explain, merely to command. And so he had refused the offers of a mount brusquely, instead gathering a few supplies and slipping from the city as quietly as he could.

It had seemed a good plan. The nagging voice in his head had seemed to agree. But then the rains had come. For the past three days he had slogged on, ankle deep in muck. The torrential rains soaked his clothes, so that he was no drier wearing his cloak than without it. The straps of his pack dug into the muscles of his shoulders, and his calves ached with weariness at each plodding step.

A sane man would have taken refuge at one of the scattered farmsteads or tiny villages that he encountered along the road, and wait until the weather cleared. But the Geas allowed no such rest. He had a duty to perform, and the Geas drove him far more harshly than any earthly master.

Devlin’s foot skidded across a slippery stone, and he flailed wildly before regaining his balance. At the start of his journey, this road had been paved with interlocking stones, with a raised crown that allowed water to run off into the ditches on the side. The farther he traveled from Kingsholm, the worse the road became. The stones showed signs of wear, then cracking, and then weeds had begun to appear. By now, nearly two weeks’ journey from the capital, there were many places where the stones had vanished altogether. And the drainage ditches were choked with weeds and debris, so that instead of draining the water, the roads were covered with mud washed down from the fields on either side.

Slowly he became aware that there was another sound mixed with the driving rain. The faint jingling of metal on metal came to his ears, and then the rhythmic sound of hooves striking ground and the creaking of carriage wheels. The sounds were coming closer, and swiftly. Devlin turned, and saw a carriage emerging from the mist behind him.

“Ware! Ware away!” the coachman called.

Devlin leapt to the side, landing on his knees in the ditch. The coach, pulled by two highbred horses, swept by, splattering him with red mud without so much as an apology or even a glance backward from the coachman.

“Damn all nobles,” Devlin cursed. “May your axle break, and may you be forced to tread in the mire like the rest of us poor common folk.”

He tromped on in the mud. The fields of corn gave way to patches of rooted vegetables, and eventually those petered out until there were naught but overgrown meadows on either side of the road. Patches of scrub began to appear, and from time to time, as the road rose, he caught glimpses of a darker blur in the distance. It was the forest of Astavard, the reputed haunt of the robbers. He had not expected to reach the forest for a few days more, but the relentless pace of the Geas had driven him harder than he’d realized.

Once he reached the forest, his true work would begin. Perhaps it would be there, under the leafy bows of the alien pines, that the God of Death would finally see fit to accept the offering of his life.

His steps quickened. As if to mock his desires, the rain grew harder, and the wind began to blow, until the rain was falling slantways, lashing at his face. He struggled on, and slowly the gray day turned darker. The sun, hidden behind the rain clouds, began to set.

Devlin realized that he would not reach the forest today, not before night fell. He looked around, but there were no houses or cottages in sight. He’d passed the last village more than an hour ago. Hunching his shoulders, he contemplated the prospect of another wet night, spent out in the open.

He would walk a little farther, he decided. Perhaps he could reach the edges of the forest. The trees would prove better shelter than none at all.

It was full dark as he turned a bend in the road and saw the dim line that marked the beginning of the forest. But his luck had finally turned, for there, in a clearing at the edge of the forest, he saw a low building with lights in the windows.

The prospect of warmth and a dry bed quickened his steps and restored his flagging energies. As he drew closer, he smelled the acrid scent of burned timbers, and saw the burned-out shell of what must have been an impressive building—at least two stories tall, judging by the stone chimney that still stood, pointing forlornly toward the sky. Surrounding the chimney were piles of blackened timbers, which were slowly being overgrown by vines. The fire was not recent. At least a year; maybe two, if he was any judge. Strange that it had not been cleared away, even if the owners could not afford to rebuild.

A stone’s throw from the burned-out hulk was a large barn that loomed over a single-story dwelling, shaped like an L. Light shone from the windows of the dwelling, and under the covered porch a sputtering torch did its best to illuminate a wooden sign that creaked on rusty fittings as it swung in the breeze.

An inn, or such as was left of one, Devlin thought, as he crossed the courtyard. His luck had indeed turned. No need to beg for hospitality from a suspicious farmer. This night he would rest under a roof, after eating a meal of hot food.

As he approached the inn, he saw that the carriage that had nearly run him down was drawn up next to the barn. It looked strangely out of place, like a noble come visiting to the poor quarters. The inn did not look like a place that nobles frequented, but perhaps they too had decided that any shelter was better than none.

Devlin climbed the steps of the inn and reached for the door handle. He pushed it, and found that it would not budge. Strange for an inn to have a locked door. It said little for the innkeeper’s hospitality, but perhaps this was the custom in these parts. His own experience with inns was small, for in Duncaer there were few inns, and those that existed were run by foreigners for traders and the like.

Devlin struck the door with his fist, thrice.

After a moment, he heard footsteps, and then the door was pulled back, but only a few inches. The face of a young boy stared out.

“Open the door,” Devlin said brusquely. “I want a room for the night.”

The boy shook his head, his unkempt hair falling in his eyes as he did so. “I am sorry, but there is no room.”