Devlin's Luck (20 page)

Devlin had barely spoken to Stephen since. The delay had chafed at his nerves, already worn raw from the strain of the Geas. Each day of the journey the pull of the Geas had grown stronger, driving him until he could not rest. He set a pace that taxed the limits of his endurance and that of his mount. And although the minstrel had complained about the brutal pace, he had not fallen behind or turned back. There was more to the lad than met the eye.

Even when they stopped for the night, Devlin could not find peace. He slept fitfully, waking early and forcing himself to wait until there was light enough to travel safely.

They had crossed the border into Esker in the morning. From there, Stephen had claimed it was but four days’ journey to the lake. That is if his guide knew where they were, something Devlin was beginning to doubt.

“You said nothing about a fork in the road,” Devlin said. “And we should have reached the village of Zimsek by now, if we were where you said.”

He reached into his belt pouch and unfolded the map that Lady Ingeleth had given him. Not that he had much faith in the map. The major roads were still there—for the most part. But many of the smaller roads shown were no longer passable, while others had sprung up that the map-maker had known nothing about.

“I did not mention the fork because it is unimportant,” Stephen said. “If you journey to the left, you will join a larger road, which eventually will take you to the manor of Lord Brynjolf. We will take the right-hand side, which will lead us to Zimsek within the hour. From Zimsek we will take the trade road, and from there will find a path to Greenhalt on the Lake.”

Devlin peered at the map, then folded it, dismissing it as useless. He looked ahead. Both roads curved off among the trees, a faint layer of dust covering wheel ruts and hoof-prints, showing that they were well used. Then he looked over at Stephen, who was regarding him earnestly, appearing absolutely confident.

Traces of dust appeared on the left-hand road. “Riders,” Devlin said.

He flexed his arms, checking that the knives were still in their wrist sheaths, then loosened the bindings of his axe. He expected no danger, but it was best to be ready for anything.

As the riders drew closer, Devlin could see they were dressed in dark green, with bows on their saddles and quivers on their backs. Each also wore a short sword for good measure.

“The Baron’s riders,” Stephen explained.

Devlin waited impatiently for the riders to reach them. There were two, a man and a woman, both dressed in dark green shirts, with brown leggings and high-topped boots. Their swords were still in their scabbards, but unlike the city guards’, the weapons had the look of ones that had seen hard use.

“Greetings travelers,” said the man. He smiled affably, but his eyes swept over the two of them, assessing them as if they were a threat. His gaze was cold on Devlin, taking in the uniform of the Chosen One, but his gaze lingered even longer on Stephen, who seemed to shrink under the scrutiny.

“Chosen One. Stephen. What brings you to Esker on this day?”

“We—” Stephen began.

“Our business is our own affair,” Devlin interrupted. “We will continue on to Zimsek, and you may be on your way.” He found it strange that these armsmen recognized Stephen at once, and that Stephen appeared unhappy to see them. He wondered for the first time if Stephen’s absence from his homeland was by his own choice. And yet if Stephen was an exile, surely the talkative minstrel would have said something before now.

“Lord Brynjolf’s manor is but a short ride,” the female guard said. “He would welcome the opportunity to provide hospitality for you both.”

Devlin shook his head. “We must refuse. Our errand brooks no delay.”

The two guards exchanged glances.

“You are come for the creature in Long Lake,” the first guard said.

“Yes,” Stephen said.

Devlin gave the minstrel a sharp look.

“Then you must make Lord Brynjolf aware of your arrival,” the first guard continued. “The lord has sent guards of his own to try and deal with the creature, but they failed and had to return. Surely your quest will benefit from talking to those who had tried before you.”

“No,” Devlin said sharply. The guard’s words made sense. This was Lord Brynjolf’s domain. Courtesy demanded that Devlin inform the lord of his presence and gain whatever knowledge of the creature the lord could share. But courtesy meant nothing when balanced against the pull of the Geas in his mind. The earlier detours had cost him dearly, for with each day the Geas grew stronger and his ability to control it grew less. Even now, it chafed against the small delay, urging him to ignore them and ride onward.

“Perhaps you would like to confer with your companion,” the female suggested. The two guards backed their horses a few steps away.

“There is reason in what they say,” Stephen began. “And I know Lord Brynjolf will welcome us and treat us well.”

Hospitality. Clean bedding, food that he neither had to hunt or prepare, and warm water for bathing. It was a tempting thought. And what matter a delay of a day or two? The creature had been there for months. Another day would make little difference.

But there was no giving in to such temptations. Not while the Geas held him in its grip. Duty called him in one direction, and one direction alone. It would not permit him to choose another path.

“No,” Devlin said. “I cannot.”

Stephen glared at him. “You mean you will not.”

“I cannot,” Devlin said, grinding the words out between his teeth. “I must journey to the lake. Nothing must come between me and my task.” His hand went to the axe by his side. “Not Lord Brynjolf, not these guards, not even you. Do you understand, minstrel?”

Beads of sweat formed on his brow, as he clenched the handle of the axe in his fist, and for the first time Devlin felt a trace of fear. Not fear for himself, but for what the Geas might force him to do. There was no reasoning with this force. The voice whispered that anyone who sought to delay him was an enemy, an obstacle that he must overcome.

Something of his desperation must have gotten through, for a look of pity appeared on Stephen’s face. In that moment Devlin hated himself for showing such weakness before another.

Stephen rode over to the guards, and Devlin kicked his horse into a trot, turning down the right-hand path. He expected the guards to call him back, or try to intercept him, but they did nothing. As the moments passed, he could feel the awful tension that had built in him begin to drain away, as the Geas accepted that its pawn was once more continuing along the path that had been set for him.

A short time later, he heard a single set of hoofbeats, and turned his head as the minstrel drew his horse alongside.

“What did you say to them?”

“I told them they had no reason to delay us, and that they could inform Lord Brynjolf of our presence if they so wished.”

Devlin waited for Stephen to comment on his behavior, but for once the minstrel forbore to question him. Instead he talked about their route, saying the guards had confirmed that the dry summer had left the roads to Greenhalt in fine shape, and they should reach their goal with ease.

And then, with luck, it would be over, and he would be freed from his burdens forever.

Twelve

DEVLIN SAT PERCHED ON A ROCK AT THE EDGE OF Long Lake. From his vantage point the lake looked deceptively peaceful, with still, blue waters and tree-lined shores that gradually curved away in the distance.

To his left, on a narrow strip of sand, there were two rows of small boats, lying idle and useless though the day was fine. Next to the boats were empty wooden racks that should have been full of fish drying in the sun. Behind him, to his right, was the village of Greenhalt, three dozen or so cabins nestled among the fir trees.

Greenhalt was located at the narrow end of Long Lake, and was the largest of the seven communities that made their living from the lake. The other settlements looked to Greenhalt for guidance, and thus it was Greenhalt that had petitioned first their lord, and then their King.

The villagers had greeted Devlin’s arrival with initial disbelief, followed by an enthusiasm that made him squirm. Their confidence in the power of the Chosen One was absolute. They seemed to think that Devlin had but to swim out to the center of the lake, challenge the creature to single combat, and with one mighty blow rid them of its evil presence.

As a plan it held all the subtlety of a berserker charge. Its only virtue was that his death would be swift—either from the monster or from drowning, since Devlin had never learned to swim. The Geas, which had driven him so hard to arrive, apparently agreed with this assessment, for it refused to consider such a plan. Instead it allowed him to keep his mind clear, and to form the outlines of a plan that had at least some chance of succeeding.

The villagers described the creature as a giant skrimsal, a creature from their ancient legends. The head alone was as big as a man, on a long snakelike neck, connected to a massive body. Four triangular appendages, two at the front and two at the back, served to propel the creature through the water as swiftly as a bird could fly.

The skrimsal could swim underwater for great distances, surfacing only at the last moment before it struck its prey. The massive jaws could reduce a boat to splinters or devour a man whole.

The guards had tried attacking the creature with bow-shot, but the creature had simply dived under the waters and swum away. The size of the lake meant it was impossible for the guards to patrol all of it, so while Greenhalt was protected, the lesser villages at the northern end of the lake came under attack. When the guards moved north, the monster moved south. Eventually the guards had realized they did not have sufficient force, and had conceded defeat.

Turning the problem over in his mind, Devlin had realized that the key to defeating the creature was to somehow capture it, to force it to remain on the surface long enough for the archers to do their work. And so he had devised his scheme, and set the villagers to work.

“The fisherfolk are nearly finished with the net,” Stephen said, as he climbed up on the rocks.

“Good. Let me know when it is ready, and I will try a few practice casts.”

To capture the creature, Devlin had devised a scheme that was daring in its boldness, or stupidity. The fisherfolk were to take nine of their largest nets and sew them together. Small rocks were to be tied into the edges to give the net the necessary weight. Finally, cordage was spliced into two long ropes, to be attached to opposite sides of the net.

The ends of the ropes would be anchored on the lakeshore. Devlin would venture out in a boat as far from shore as their length allowed. When the skrimsal appeared, Devlin would throw the net, hoping to catch the head ridges or one of the fins. Once the creature was caught, the fisherfolk would open fire with their bows from the shore.

There was just one flaw with the plan. Well two, actually, if you counted Devlin’s probable demise at the hands of an irate lake creature.

“Who have they found to row the boat?” Devlin asked.

Stephen cleared his throat. “No one,” he said. “It seems they are all afraid.”

Of course they were afraid. All folk were afraid, when it came to the test. But the mark of a people was how they behaved in such moments. All told, the creature had already claimed more than a dozen lives. If left unchallenged, it would no doubt claim more. And yet no man or woman among these folk had the courage to risk their own life for the sake of their kin and neighbors. Devlin turned his head and spat on the sand in disgust.

He did not understand these folk. When the banecats had appeared in Duncaer, never had it occurred to him that he should call upon another to destroy their evil. He would have been ashamed of himself if he had sent to the King for help rather than pursuing them himself. It was not the way of his people to rely upon others. In his eyes these Jorskians were as sheep, witlessly awaiting their slaughter.

Stephen interrupted his musings. “When I was a boy, I learned to row boats on a pond near my father’s home. It would be an honor to serve you this day.”

Devlin turned his head so suddenly he nearly snapped his neck. He regarded Stephen, certain he must be joking. But though the minstrel’s face was white, he raised his chin and met Devlin’s gaze squarely.

“Show me your hands,” he ordered.