Devlin's Luck (14 page)

He stepped back from the doorway and extended the sword.

Devlin held the axe in front of him as he advanced, moving the blade in short arcs. The hallway was too narrow for a proper swing, but the knife in his belt had not the reach to counter a sword.

The man retreated a few steps, then stopped. A skilled swordsman could have dispatched Devlin in moments, but the man holding the sword was barely competent. Still, it was more than an even match, under the circumstances.

He needed to tip the odds in his favor. “Awake, awake,” Devlin shouted. He took his left hand off the axe, and began banging his fist against the wall. “In the name of all the Seven Gods, awake!”

Perhaps they had already been killed, and he had failed again. Devlin shook his head. No, he would not believe that. His opponent’s sword was clean and unbloodied. There was still time.

He banged the wall again until it seemed the whole building shook. “Awake you miserable sods! Your lives are in danger!”

A groan came from the open door. His opponent’s head turned toward the sound and Devlin saw his chance. Lunging forward, he swung the axe in a short arc, slicing across his opponent’s middle.

The man screamed in agony as a line of crimson began to stain his slashed jerkin. His sword hand fell, but then he raised it back up and held the sword pointed in Devlin’s direction, as he pressed his free hand to his stomach, to hold in his guts.

“You bastard,” he hissed.

“What is happening? What is the meaning of this?” a weak voice called from within the open door.

“What are you called?” Devlin asked, never taking his eyes off his opponent.

“Dalkassar.”

“Rise Dalkassar, and call to your companion. And arm yourself. This man tried to kill you.”

His opponent’s face shone with sweat, and his sword began to waver as the blood oozed out from between the fingers of his hand, staining his clothes a dark hue. He leaned heavily against the doorframe, still blocking the entrance to the lord’s chamber.

“Eylif! Eylif!” The older man called again and again for his companion, and after what seemed an eternity, the door on the right-hand side of the hall opened. A bleary-eyed young man peered out, still dressed in a linen robe, and with bare feet.

“Uncle! What is going on?”

“This man tried to kill your uncle,” Devlin said.

A voice came from behind him. “That is a lie,” Hulda announced.

Devlin turned so that his back was pressed against the wall. There, at the bend of the hallway, stood the inn-wife, her young son Jan by her side. The inn-wife carried a deadly-looking cleaver.

“This peasant sought to rob you and your nephew, Lord Dalkassar,” the inn-wife explained. “If not for my son’s courage, you would have been murdered in your beds.”

Lord Dalkassar appeared in the doorway of his room, foolishly coming within arm’s reach of the wounded swordsman. He had taken time to pull on trousers, and clutched a dagger in his hand. But his eyes were dulled from sleep or drugs.

“Come now,” the inn-wife urged. “What reason would we have to harm you, noble lords? This wicked villain has abused my hospitality and threatened my guests. Help us subdue him so you may return to your slumber.”

The lord looked at Devlin, then at the wounded man, clearly confused.

“I don’t know what to think,” he fretted.

“You cannot think because you and your nephew were drugged by this evil witch,” Devlin said. “To make it easier to slaughter you as you slept. If I were trying to kill you, then why am I standing here while this one’s blood stains your doorway? Think carefully, for your life depends upon it.”

For a moment Devlin thought he had convinced him, and then the noble shook his head. “No, you are clever-tongued, I’ll give you that. But the inn-wife is right. You are the only one who has reason to harm us.” He nodded decisively at his nephew, who vanished back into his room, presumably in search of a weapon.

Of all the cursed luck. Now the odds had changed, for it was three against one. Or four against one, if you counted the inn-wife, and Devlin did not doubt that she was the deadliest of all present. And he had no wish to battle the nobles, who did not deserve to die for their foolish trust.

There was but one way to regain control of the situation. “I will prove that I mean you no harm,” Devlin said, catching and holding the gaze of Lord Dalkassar. With his free hand he reached under his shirt and took hold of the leather lanyard he wore. He fumbled for a moment till he found the ring, and then with a quick jerk he broke the lanyard and the ring came loose in his hand.

He slipped the ring on his finger as he said, “I swear to you, in the name of the Seven Gods, that I mean you no harm, for I am the Chosen One.”

As he said the words, the ring began to glow with a brilliant red light, filling the narrow dark hallway until it was near as bright as midday. The wounded robber seemed to shrink in on himself.

The nephew Eylif gasped, and behind him he heard the inn-wife curse. But all of Devlin’s attention was fixed on the older nobleman.

“My lord Chosen,” the old man said, his eyes clear as the last vestiges of the drugs faded from his mind. “How may I serve you?”

Eight

DEVLIN SAT IN THE COMMON ROOM, HIS ELBOWS ON the table, cradling his head in his hands. The unnatural energy which had sustained him through the fight had drained away as soon as the villains had been disarmed— almost as swiftly as the glow from the ring had faded. Now he was left weary, and wishing there was someone, anyone, to whom he could turn over responsibility for this mess.

But he had declared himself and seized command, and now he must live with what he had done. And what he must still do.

His eyes were closed, but he could feel the heat of the inn-wife’s gaze. He and the lord’s nephew Eylif had brought her to the common room and bound her in a chair, and then done the same for the young man Paavo, whom Devlin had knocked unconscious earlier. A bucket of water had brought him back to wakefulness, but after a quick glance at his mother, the young man had held his tongue.

Lars, the wounded swordsman, had been dragged to his mother’s room and flung upon the bed. His mother had shown no interest in her injured son, so it had fallen to Devlin, assisted by the boy Jan, to bind up the wound which he had inflicted. The cut was not deep, but it was deep enough. The intestines had been slashed, and Devlin knew that he would not last for long. Still, he was capable of causing trouble, and so Devlin had taken the precaution of binding the outlaw to the bed, despite the man’s curses.

Hinges squealed with the sound of rusting metal as the front door was opened and then shut. A single set of footsteps crossed the hall and entered the room. So Eylif had returned alone.

“Your coachman, he is dead?” Devlin asked, without opening his eyes.

“Yes, sir, I mean, my lord Cho—”

“Devlin will serve,” he said, raising his head and finally opening his eyes. So another innocent had died because Devlin’s heroics had come too late to save him. “I have no use for fancy titles.”

Devlin looked around at the unlikely tableau. Hulda glared defiance, while her son Paavo merely looked scared—and far younger than the eighteen years he claimed to possess.

Lord Dalkassar had taken time to dress himself, in court silks no less, and sat calmly across the room from the villains. His nephew had moved to stand by his uncle’s shoulder, refusing the offered seat. He rocked back and forth on his heels, as if too excited to stay in one place.

Devlin’s own seat was squarely in the middle of the room. His gaze swept dispassionately over the innkeeper and her son on his right, and the two nobles on his left.

“Chosen One,” Lord Dalkassar said, rising and giving a formal bow. “I must thank you for my life, and that of my nephew.”

Devlin shook his head. “Only the Gods may give or take a life.”

“But you were their instrument.”

The praise made Devlin uncomfortable, because he knew he did not deserve it. A wiser man would have sensed the trap before it was sprung. A hero anointed by the Gods would have seen through the villains’ disguise at once, and not consumed the tainted food. A true hero would have saved the hapless coachman.

“Say rather that you owe your lives to Captain Drakken, who sent me along this road to seek out the forest bandits who are said to prey on travelers. And to my aversion to certain herbs, which made me immune to the sleeping draught. When this one came to dispatch me”—Devlin cast a dark glance at Pavvo—“I was awake, and could defend myself. Fearing that you were the true targets, I sought out your rooms and found Lars about to enter. The rest you know.”

Lord Dalkassar’s brow wrinkled. “If you are hunting for bandits, then where are the rest of your men?”

“I came alone,” Devlin said. “Bandits who know the terrain can easily avoid mounted troops, but what threat could one poor farmer pose?”

“But even the Chosen One is no match for a troop of bandits,” Eylif blurted out. “I mean no disrespect, of course.”

The young noble spoke the truth. The Chosen One had no special powers. If he had been confronted by armed bandits, then driven by the Geas, Devlin would have no choice but to fight until he was killed. He would have the satisfaction of knowing that he had fulfilled his oath, and he would have achieved the oblivion he craved.

But Fate had played a cruel game with him.

“It does not matter, for there are no robbers in the forest. Those that I seek are within these walls,” Devlin said.

Disgust filled him as he looked at the inn-wife, and Devlin spat on the floor in rejection of her hospitality. In Duncaer such a gesture could touch off a blood feud, but in this case it was only fitting that he express his utter contempt.

“The Guard has long suspected that these robbers were no ordinary band of desperate souls. Their targets were carefully picked, travelers who had coin, but were not sufficiently wealthy or powerful that their disappearance would cause the King to take notice. Those who were traveling on confidential affairs, or whose arrival was not expected, also fell victim to these mysterious disappearances. A robber band does not have that knowledge, but an innkeeper? Who better to know the affairs of her guests?”

“My lord,” Hulda said, ignoring Devlin and addressing her pleading words to Lord Dalkassar. “I do not know what this man is saying, or why he is accusing me. I am but a poor widow. My only crime is that I trusted my sons too much. I swear to you I did not know that Lars intended to harm you. He must have gone mad, and convinced Paavo to follow his lead.”

“Enough,” Devlin growled.

“The Chosen One is correct,” Lord Dalkassar said. “It was not Lars or Paavo who prepared the food we ate.”

“But I know nothing of a sleeping draught. They must have put it in the food without my knowledge. I ate that food as well. That is why I slept so soundly. I only awakened when I heard a voice call out.” Her voice cracked, as if with tears. “When I came upon the struggle, I was certain that Lars was only trying to defend you. I knew nothing of this evil, I swear it.”

Her words struck a chord with Lord Dalkassar, and he appeared troubled. His nephew was less troubled, but then again, he had been the one to find the body of the coachman. No doubt he had little sympathy left.

“What say you, Paavo? Is your mother telling the truth?” Devlin asked.

Paavo licked his lips, then looked at his mother. Under her fierce glare he seemed to shrink in on himself, and he hung his head as he replied. “I don’t know. I don’t remember anything.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

Devlin felt his frustration rising. He was convinced that the two were guilty not only of tonight’s misdeeds, but of far worse crimes. And yet, what could he promise them to make them talk? They must know that their lives were hanging in the balance. Lars, as the one who had tried to murder a nobleman, would have to pay with his life. But the other two might escape with their skins intact.

He knew with bone-deep certainty that these two were guilty, and deserved to die, but he had no proof. All he had were his own suspicions, and those were not enough.

But there was one person whom they had yet to question.

“Fetch the boy Jan,” Devlin said to Eylif.

He had not known what to do with the lad, whose youth made him the only innocent member of this family. In the end, he had settled for locking Jan in a storeroom, lest he be tempted to try and help his brother Lars escape. Devlin had no fear that the boy would try to run away. Where could he go? This was his home, and these foul creatures the only family he knew.