Devlin's Justice (38 page)

If he were to be faced with the same choice today, he did not know what he would do. Would he still urge Devlin to launch this people’s war? Could he still blithely urge untrained peasants to join the fight, now that he knew how many of them would be killed? Old, young, men, women, veteran army soldiers and peasants who barely knew one end of a spear from another . . . He no longer knew how many deaths he had witnessed. Hundreds perhaps.

He had killed as well, dispatching at least a dozen of the enemy to join Lord Haakon’s realm. Others had done more, but Devlin had guarded Stephen closely, refusing to allow him to take any of the dangerous scouting missions, or indeed to venture far from Devlin’s sight. And Stephen had never been called upon to deliver the final mercy, that of dispatching wounded comrades so they did not fall into the hands of the enemy.

He knew that Devlin was attempting to protect him and to spare what remained of his innocence. He had not the heart to tell him that there was no innocence left to protect. Stephen’s hands were as bloodstained as anyone else’s. He may not have been the one to give the orders, but that made him no less responsible for what was done in the name of the rebellion.

His nights were haunted by memories of what he had seen, and the knowledge that it might still come to naught if Devlin was not able to secure the concessions he needed.

“What will you do?” he asked.

Devlin glanced over at him, then fixed his gaze at the walls of Kingsholm, which loomed before him. “What needs to be done,” he replied.

It was not a comforting answer. In the past Stephen had ascribed Devlin’s single-minded ruthlessness to the force of the Geas spell. Now, with the spell removed, it was disquieting to realize how much of that ruthless focus was an intrinsic part of Devlin’s nature.

Devlin would do as he saw fit, with only his own sense of honor to limit his actions. Ordinarily it would have been enough. Stephen trusted Devlin. He would trust him with his life and the lives of all those he cared about. Devlin had demonstrated on numerous occasions that he could put the welfare of others and of the Kingdom ahead of his own concerns. But he was still a man, and more important, he was a man who had been betrayed. There was no telling how he would react when he came face-to-face with King Olafur.

At least this time Devlin would not face the King alone. Stephen rode on Devlin’s right, while Captain Drakken rode on his left. Behind them were two hundred fighters, mostly drawn from the ranks of Devlin’s volunteers, with a few of Mikkelson’s regular troops to leaven the mix. Hardened veterans, all of them, who had personally pledged their loyalty to the Chosen One. The force was not enough to take the city, but it would make those within Kingsholm think twice about trifling with Devlin.

“We need King Olafur,” Captain Drakken chimed in.

Devlin shook his head. “We do not need him. We need what he has. Troops. Supplies.”

“We do not need a civil war. Not now,” Drakken added. It was an oft-repeated argument.

“And that is why I sent in Arnulfsdatter under a seal of truce. I will treat with Olafur civilly, if he is willing to do the same. We can set aside our differences. For now.”

Devlin did not make any promises about what he would do if the King refused to support the rebellion. It was clear that the final reckoning was merely postponed. Though Stephen did not believe that Devlin meant to depose King Olafur and start a civil war, he was sickened by the killings, as they all were.

And it would be difficult to explain the reasons for Devlin’s anger against King Olafur. Only a handful knew that the King had betrayed Devlin, handing the Chosen One over to the Selvarat invaders to face certain death. The rest merely saw Devlin as a disobedient hero, one who had gone against the King’s orders, finding victory where the King had seen only the certainty of defeat.

Not that they had won. Not yet. But they were close. The Southern Road was firmly under their control, as were the territories in the south where the improbable alliance of Lord Rikard and Marshal Kollinar had succeeded in liberating Myrka and burning the Selvarat fleet docked in the harbor. Most of the mercenaries had deserted, seizing the ships that had brought resupplies so they could return to their bases in the Green Isles. The surviving Selvarat invaders were now cut off, confined to a narrow ring of territory around the port of Trelleborg and the fortifications they had built along the southern coast of Esker.

Winter had begun. Soon the harbors would freeze, making it impossible for the Selvarat armies to receive reinforcements or supplies. If they did not starve before spring, they would emerge greatly weakened.

But Devlin’s irregular forces also needed supplies, as did the thousands of refugees who had been displaced from their homes. And they needed access to the arms and soldiers contained within the other royal garrisons, those who had remained in barracks obedient to Marshal Olvarrson’s commands. Jorsk had shown that it was not easy prey, but it was possible that Empress Thania might try a full-scale attack come spring, and they needed to be ready to defend themselves.

There were few folk abroad on this dreary morning, and those who were quickly drew aside as Devlin’s party came into sight. They recognized the Chosen One at once. Devlin’s features were clearly visible, as was the hilt of the Sword of Light, which he wore in a baldric across his back. Some cheered and called out his name, while others bowed their heads. Devlin did not acknowledge their greetings, but the stone in the sword’s hilt began to glow, as it did when the Chosen One was preparing to wield it.

Captain Drakken drew her horse closer to Devlin, and Stephen did the same. He felt an itch between his shoulder blades and resisted the urge to look behind him. He knew well the risks that they were taking. A single archer could put an end to all their hopes. Devlin believed that the rebellion would survive his death, but Stephen was not as sanguine.

The gate ahead of them was open, and Stephen tried to take that as a good sign. Had it been barred against them, they would have been forced to abandon their mission or try to fight their way in.

A half dozen guards were at the gate, and as Devlin approached, one of them stepped forward. He recognized Lieutenant Embeth, though she wore the two gold cords of a Captain.

“My Lord Chosen One,” Captain Embeth said, thumping her right shoulder in the formal salute. Then she did something unexpected, sinking to one knee and bowing her head. The guards behind her did the same.

Stephen’s skin crawled as he witnessed the formal obeisance given only to the ruler of Jorsk. It was a shocking departure from custom, but it left no doubt where Embeth’s loyalties lay.

“Rise. Report,” Devlin growled.

Embeth rose to her feet. “Kingsholm is secure, General Devlin. Those who supported the Selvarat occupation have been rounded up and await your judgment.”

“And what does the King say to all this?”

Embeth drew closer, pitching her voice so it could be heard only by those who were closest to Devlin. “King Olafur is dead,” she said. “We found his body just before midnight.”

Devlin began cursing in his own tongue.

“Have you arrested the assassin?” Drakken asked.

“The King took his own life,” Embeth said.

Stephen shook his head, certain that he had misheard her. It must be a mistake of some kind. What reason could Olafur have to kill himself?

“What are your orders?” Embeth asked.

“Assign someone to find lodging for my troops, then I want to see his body,” Devlin said.

The body of Olafur, son of Thorvald, was laid out upon his bed. A pair of guards stood vigil, and at Devlin’s command they drew down the silk shroud that covered the King’s body. From his contorted features it was clear that Olafur had not died an easy death. There were traces of dried vomit on his face and clothes, and his tongue was bloodied from where he had nearly bitten it in two.

Devlin forced his gaze lower, to the King’s belly, where a gaping wound revealed how the King had nearly disemboweled himself. A loop of intestine could be seen, still threatening to spill forth. And the room held the sickly-sweet stench that he had become all too familiar with, for it was the stench of death.

“Coward,” he said, reaching down to grasp the King’s chin in his hand. He turned Olafur’s head, but the King’s lifeless gaze held neither secrets nor apologies. Devlin’s anger, which had carried him through the long months, rose up, and it was only with great effort that he resisted the urge to strike the King’s lifeless body. How dare Olafur have done this? What right had he to take the coward’s way, abandoning his people in their time of need? He had deserted them. And he had robbed Devlin of his chance for justice.

He had spent months dreaming of the moment when he would see Olafur, when he would force the King to acknowledge his errors and demand satisfaction for the wrongs that had been done to him. And now that, too, would be denied him.

“You stupid bloody fool,” Devlin proclaimed.

One of his watchers hissed at the insult, as Devlin relinquished his grasp upon Olafur, letting his head loll to one side.

“Cover him,” he ordered, then turned to face Lieutenant, no Captain, Embeth.

“Tell me again what happened,” he said.

“The King met with his councilors last night, after receiving your message. He ordered that the city be prepared to welcome you. Then he retired to his private sitting room. We found a bottle of poison by his side. It appears that it did not act swiftly enough, so he turned to the knife.”

“And no one heard anything? No one heard him cry out?”

“The guards were outside the entrance to the royal suites. They heard nothing. A chamberman found the King’s body as he was preparing to bank the fires for the night,” Embeth reported.

Indeed the thick walls of the sitting room and its interior location could mask a multitude of sins, from an illicit liaison to a horror like Devlin’s betrayal. There was a grim symmetry in the fact that Olafur’s blood stained the floor not far from where Saskia had spilled her own life.

But why had he killed himself? Had he really feared Devlin so much? Had he thought that Devlin intended to murder him? It only showed how little Olafur had understood him. Devlin had sought satisfaction, yes, but he would not have murdered Olafur.

Strange how the King’s cowardice proved to be his final undoing. Terrified by the thought of Devlin’s revenge, he had chosen for himself a far harsher punishment than Devlin would ever have inflicted.

And now it was up to Devlin to clean up the mess that the King had left behind.

“Who knows of this?” he asked.

“Only a handful of us know. The chamberman who found the body is in seclusion along with the guards who were on duty when the body was discovered. These two have kept watch over the King’s body, while the guards outside were told nothing except that the King was not to be disturbed. Although Lady Ingeleth may suspect something is awry. She was quite angry when I refused her admittance earlier,” Embeth reported.

Her quick thinking had preserved the calm, but it would not last long. Knowing that Devlin was arriving in the city that morning, Embeth had implemented the plans she had made long ago with Captain Drakken. Before dawn trusted members of the Guard had rounded up those of their number who were suspected traitors, confining them to the goal before seeking out the members of the court who were equally suspect. Over a dozen courtiers were either confined to their chambers or guests of the Guard, including Baron Martell, whose armsmen had betrayed Devlin, and Count Magaharan, the Selvarat ambassador.

Even if all those sworn to secrecy held their tongues, it would soon become obvious that Olafur was no longer in charge of Kingsholm.

“Fetch Lady Ingeleth. And Marshal Olvarrson, if he can be found,” Devlin ordered. “And send messages to the rest of the King’s Council that they are to meet in one hour.”

Embeth saluted again. She had developed an odd taste for formality, but Devlin was too tired to correct her. She disappeared for a moment, speaking softly to those outside before returning.

Devlin noticed that she was careful not to glance at the shrouded body. Indeed, all present had turned their heads away. Even the sentries on either side of the bed faced outward, guarding against threat. He glanced at Stephen, who had remained unusually quiet; but if Stephen was troubled, he gave no sign. Strangely, that disturbed Devlin more than it would have if Stephen had appeared ill. Once such a sight would have sent the minstrel stumbling from the room. Now Stephen had grown hardened to such horrors, as indeed, they all had.

Devlin ran the fingers of his good hand through his hair, noticing that it was still chill and damp from the melted snow. The room was cold—no fire had been lit in deference to the King’s body.

Olafur’s death had shocked him, but as Devlin gathered his wits, he realized that his purpose in coming was unchanged. He still needed the same things—provisions, arms, and troops to reinforce those who had grown weary with battle. His goals had not changed, only the means by which he must achieve them.

Lady Ingeleth arrived swiftly, before his panic overwhelmed him. Hard on her heels was Marshal Olvarrson. Both were dressed in their court finery, but the effect was ruined, for they arrived out of breath, as if they had run the length of the palace. And, indeed, perhaps they had.

“What is the meaning of this?” Lady Ingeleth asked as she crossed the threshold.

Devlin stepped aside so she could see the King’s body.

“What have you done?” she demanded, striding swiftly into the room.

The chief councilor was elderly, but she did not lack for courage. She had practically accused Devlin of murder, even though she could see that he was surrounded by those loyal to him.

“Uncover his face,” he ordered.

Lady Ingeleth’s steps slowed as she approached the bed, and the guard drew down the coverlet to reveal Olafur’s tormented visage.

“As you can see, this was done last night. Long before I arrived,” Devlin said.

Lady Ingeleth swallowed convulsively, but she stood her ground. Marshal Olvarrson fared less well, for he turned pale as he beheld the King’s body.