Devlin's Justice (36 page)

“What of these?” Idly she kicked one of the Selvarats in the leg.

“Search them for hidden weapons, take their boots, and let them walk back,” he said.

Oluva repeated the orders, and two of the band made quick work of stripping the captives. They showed little enthusiasm for walking barefoot over the stony ground and had to be encouraged at the point of a sword.

“What is our toll?” he asked, once the prisoners were out of earshot.

“Seven killed, four gravely wounded. And we lost five of the prisoners.”

It was victory of a sorts. Without the element of surprise, his band would have been no match for soldiers trained to fight on horseback. He knew the toll could have been much higher. But even if their entire band had been destroyed, it would have been worth it. The hostages had been only the secondary goal. Their primary aim was to drive a wedge between the mercenaries and the Selvarat army. As news of this apparent treachery spread, the army commanders would think twice about trusting any of the mercenary units. And since the mercenaries comprised nearly half of the occupying force, their loss would severely cripple General Bertrand’s plans.

But the price of victory had been high. Seven already dead, and with no healer it was unlikely any of the gravely wounded would survive the forced march they must now make.

“We’ll leave as soon as we’ve rounded up enough horses,” Didrik said.

They could not stay here. The fleeing soldiers would soon return, bringing reinforcements.

He walked around the bodies of the fallen, nodding at those who were stripping friend and foe alike of anything of value. As he reached the line of prisoners he saw that most of them had been freed. The woman who had helped him now wielded a dagger as she cut the last of them free.

“I am Troop Captain Arnulfsdatter,” she said. “You were the Chosen One’s aide, weren’t you? I recognized you from court.”

“Lieutenant Didrik, late of the Guard. Now of the Army of the People,” he said.

“The what?” In her surprise she paused with her dagger stuck in the middle of its stroke. A protest from her comrade recalled her to her task.

“The Army of the People,” he repeated. Stephen had come up with a number of more lofty titles, but none of them had stuck. He’d been fond of Drakken’s suggestion: “Those too stupid to know when they’re beaten,” which was accurate enough but too much of a mouthful.

“You soldiers, come here, gather round,” he called. After a few moments he was surrounded by the former prisoners. More than a few regarded him with suspicion, as if they still believed him to be a mercenary. And not one of them uttered a word of thanks for their rescue.

He’d always known the Royal Army was an ungrateful lot.

“I’ll make this quick, because there’s not much time. We need to be long gone before the Selvarat army returns.”

“We’re not going anywhere with your lot,” a man said.

Didrik glared. “I am Lieutenant Nils Didrik, aide to the Chosen One. Captain Arnulfsdatter will vouch for my identity.”

“He speaks the truth,” she said.

“Devlin is alive. He is in Esker, raising an army of the people to destroy the invaders,” Didrik explained.

“Then he is a fool. What chance have peasants against the Selvarat army?” It was the same man who had complained before.

“Those peasants rescued your ungrateful hides. Seven of them died for you and more will die before this day is through,” Didrik said.

A few of the others had the grace to look ashamed.

“But what of the King’s orders?” Captain Arnulfsdatter asked.

“The King may have been cowed by Selvarat threats, but we refuse to be defeated. We have sworn to fight on, until the last of the invaders is killed. Once we are free from pursuit, each of you will be asked to make a choice. You can continue riding north with us, and join Devlin’s army. Ride west, and you will meet up with Major Mikkelson and the troops that are seeking to take control of the Southern Road. Or you may take the coward’s way, and ride back to Kingsholm to hide behind its walls.”

“Obedience to orders is not cowardice,” an older woman said.

“Neither is it bravery to hide while others fight your battles for you. Each one of you must decide for yourself. I have pledged to defend Jorsk. All of it. And so I will, with my last drop of blood.”

As he paused to catch his breath, he looked over the former prisoners, among whom a few heads nodded in agreement. Perhaps he had swayed them. Devlin could use experienced officers. Or, if Mikkelson had indeed managed to bring troops from Kallarne, perhaps they would join up with his forces, seeking the familiarity of serving in an ordered regiment. In the end it did not matter. The twenty-six surviving officers were not enough to tip the balance of the fighting one way or another. They had been rescued as a symbol rather than for their military value.

He felt chilled, despite the heat of the day and his exertions. He longed suddenly for a place to rest and a chance to turn over his burdens to someone else. But there would be no rest, not for long hours yet.

“You don’t have to decide now,” Didrik said. “But prepare yourselves to leave. Each of you will be given a weapon, though some of you will have to share horses. Anyone who falls behind will be left behind, understood?”

“I am not taking your orders,” the man said.

Didrik’s temper snapped. “Then I’ll leave you here. But first I’ll cut your tongue out so you can spread no tales.”

The threat shocked the others into silence. There were no more objections.

“Captain Arnulfsdatter, see Oluva over there, the one dressed as an islander? Go to her, and she’ll give you weapons to hand out.”

“I’m not senior,” the Captain protested.

“You are today,” he rejoined. He did not have time to figure out the intricacies of the army command. With his luck, the man who had challenged him would turn out to be the senior officer. “Welcome to the Army of the People.”

“I liked the old ways better,” she said. But she did as she was bade, and in a short while each of the freed prisoners had at least a dagger to defend themselves with and they mounted up.

There were not enough horses for everyone. The gravely wounded members of Didrik’s band each rode with a comrade to steady them, and most of the soldiers were forced to ride double. They headed north, toward the distant fringe of the forest. They should reach it by nightfall.

If all went as planned, friendly eyes would be looking for their approach, ready to guide them along the game trails, deep into the forest. It would be dark before the Selvarat army reached this spot, and even if they followed their hoofprints to the forest, their pursuers would not be able to enter the woods until daylight. By that time, Didrik and his band would have an insurmountable lead.

Unfortunately, Didrik’s mare proved fractious. It took him three tries to heave himself into the saddle, and by then he was covered with sweat. He breathed shallowly, trying not to disturb the wound in his side.

He’d taken a deeper slash than he’d guessed, but he could not waste the precious time it would take to bandage it. He’d underestimated how long it would take to round up the horses and free the soldiers from the chain. Even now, the first of the fleeing soldiers was undoubtedly telling the Major of the mercenaries’ treacherous attack.

He bit his lip, concentrating simply on staying erect and making certain that his horse followed the one in front of it.

“Are you all right?” Oluva’s voice came from his right side.

“I can ride,” he said.

They had few standing orders in this new army, but there was one that was sacrosanct. No one was left behind alive.

If he could not keep up, it would fall to Oluva to slit his throat.

Although they pushed the horses and themselves as hard as they dared, it was twilight by the time they reached the trees. Didrik had grown steadily numb; but he held himself erect through sheer force of will until he recognized Maalvo, the first of those who had come to greet them. Swiftly the scouts lit torches, ready to guide them through the forest paths.

“Good hunting today,” Maalvo greeted him, as the first to arrive dismounted and filed into the woods.

Didrik watched until the last of the band had entered the forest. He squinted at the plain behind him. There was a dark blur, but whether it was a pursuing army or the approaching dusk he could not tell.

“Come now, we’ve a long night ahead of us,” Maalvo said.

Didrik mumbled his agreement. He tried to kick his right foot free of the stirrup, ready to dismount, but it did not obey him. The reins slipped from his clumsy hands, as he slumped forward in the saddle.

It was darkest night when he hit the ground. And cold, so cold that it seemed he was standing on the castle battlements in the depths of winter.

Devlin is never going to forgive me for this
, he thought as he died.

Twenty-four

D
EVLIN DISMOUNTED, HANDING THE REINS OF
his horse to one of the archers who led the horse over to join the others at the wooden trough. The young boy pumping water for the horses gaped as he caught sight of Devlin, his hands slowing at their tasks. A quick word from the archer recalled the boy to his duty and he ducked his head, pumping as if his life depended upon it.

Devlin bit back a curse. It would not take long for news of the Chosen One’s arrival to spread through the village. And it was not only the children who would stare, following him around and hoping for a word of acknowledgment. He called himself General, but as the weeks had passed, he grew to realize that he was not the leader of these people so much as he was their talisman. A living symbol of defiance. His presence inspired those to fight who might otherwise have stayed in safety. Where he journeyed, farmers walked away from their crops, craftsmen abandoned their trades, and parents left their children.

King Olafur had issued a decree denouncing the False Chosen One and branding all those who followed him as traitors, but this did nothing to slow the tide of recruits. Those who could not join one of the roving bands found other ways to serve, providing safe havens in the villages and towns. They shared information and provisions with the rebel bands, and learned the value of a well-placed knife.

That was not to say that everyone was pleased with his efforts. Some folk bitterly resented the new kind of war he had brought to the region, convinced that the struggle was doomed. Others blamed Devlin for their losses. One woman had pledged her loyalty, then that very night she’d tried to kill Devlin. She’d had passion, but no skill. He still remembered the astonished look on her face as his throwing knife lodged in her throat. Later he’d learned that the woman’s husband had been one of the hostages executed by the Selvarat army.

Wary of another such incident, Devlin’s followers had created an unofficial escort comprised of their most trusted members. One of them was always at hand, so that he was never left alone. He felt trapped, like an animal in a cage, a rare exotic beast brought forth to awe the crowds.

Apparently Captain Drakken was his watcher that morning, for after leading her horse to the trough, she limped across the small square to join Devlin. Her left foot had been broken a fortnight ago, but she’d not let that slow her down.

“What is the name of this place?” she asked.

Devlin shrugged. “Does it matter?”

They wouldn’t be there long, and one part of Korinth looked very much like any other to him. He and his band had ranged throughout the province and its southern neighbor of Ausland, and west nearly to the Southern Road. Now they were heading back north through Korinth, planning on joining up with other scattered bands to harass the Selvarat supply lines near the port of Trelleborg.

A frail elder, his back bent with age, limped toward them, his right arm slung over the shoulders of a sturdy girl child. As he drew near, the elder stopped, drawing himself upright, and raised his right hand in a pitiable attempt at a salute.

“General Chosen One, I have come to make my report,” he said. He held the pose until Devlin nodded his acknowledgment.

“And your name is?” Devlin asked.

“I am Ulmer, and this is my granddaughter Leyza. Her father leads the village fighters, while I have the honor of being the message keeper,” the old man said proudly. “I have much news to relate.”

As he began to sway, Leyza slipped her grandfather’s right arm back over her shoulders. He was an odd choice for a message keeper, so frail that a single blow would crush the life out of him. Yet perhaps that was the very reason why he had been chosen. If he were captured by the enemy, Ulmer would not live long enough to betray their secrets.

His granddaughter was another matter. She appeared to be ten or eleven years of age, old enough to understand what was being said around her and young enough to be too curious for her own good.

“Let us find somewhere in private where we can sit and I will hear what you have to say.”

He summoned Stephen to join them, and they followed the old man to the house of the village speaker, who seemed more than pleased to have the Chosen One take over her home. Leyza was dismissed, with orders to wait outside until her grandfather needed her.