Devlin's Luck (36 page)

Devlin’s expression was unreadable, but Stephen knew him well enough to know that underneath that impassive façade he was furious that the soldiers of the Royal Army had failed to make their appearance by the appointed hour.

They wound their way through the city until they reached the great market square, with its milling throngs of vendors and city folk. Stephen let his gaze wander over the crowds, knowing it would be a long time before he saw the place again. There was movement at the far edge of the square, and Stephen caught a glimpse of a blue-and-red pennant fluttering in the breeze.

Lieutenant Didrik had seen it as well. “Chosen One, look. There to the left.”

Devlin turned his head. “I see them,” he said. “Ride on.”

They continued across the market square, reaching the eastern gate of the city before the Royal Army troops caught up with them.

An army Ensign followed by a Sergeant carrying the army pennant rode up alongside Devlin. “My lord Chosen One, we tried—” he began.

Devlin held up his left hand to cut off the flow of words. “When I give an order, I expect it to be obeyed. This time I will let it pass, but fail me again and I will not be so lenient. Tell your soldiers to fall in behind the Guard.”

“But—”

“Have them fall in behind the Guard, then return to ride with me to make your report.”

“Yes, my lord,” the Ensign said.

As they passed out of the city through the eastern gate, the guardsmen on duty drew stiffly to attention and saluted, which Devlin acknowledged with a nod of his head. Once outside the city, the guards aligned themselves into columns of two and the soldiers formed up behind them. A few minutes later, the Ensign returned.

Stephen, curious to hear what would be said, drew his horse up closely behind the pair, and Lieutenant Didrik did the same.

Devlin began by gesturing behind him. “You have already met Lieutenant Didrik, who commands the guards. Beside him is Stephen of Esker, who has consented to join us. This is Ensign Mikkelson, of the Royal Army.”

“It is an honor to make your acquaintance,” Stephen said, with his best seated bow, but the Ensign’s eyes swept over him without acknowledging his presence. Then he turned back to face Devlin.

“What is the meaning of this? You said there were to be no luxuries, and yet you bring your own minstrel to record the glory of your deeds?”

Stephen cringed, waiting for the explosion.

“You should not be so quick to pass judgment on others,” Devlin said in icy tones. “Stephen of Esker has proven his courage and his friendship. Twice now he has faced death by my side, against horrors that you can barely imagine. I am honored that he chooses to join us and risk his life again. Tell me, Ensign, when was the last time you drew your sword against an enemy?”

Lieutenant Didrik snickered. Stephen felt his face grow hot at Devlin’s words of praise, but he knew his discomfort was nothing compared to what the Ensign must be experiencing.

“I have not had the honor of serving in combat,” Ensign Mikkelson admitted in a low voice. “I apologize if I have given offense.”

“It is Stephen’s pardon that you must beg,” Devlin said.

The Ensign turned around awkwardly in the saddle. “I crave your pardon.”

“The words are already forgotten,” Stephen replied, wishing to spare the Ensign farther embarrassment.

“Now, Ensign, tell me of the soldiers you have brought. What are their skills and their experiences? Have any journeyed to the borderlands before? Tell us what you know, and we will decide how best we can use them.”

Devlin waved his hand, and Lieutenant Didrik drew his horse along his right side. The discussion turned to matters of military strategy, and Stephen was content to let his horse fall behind, for he had no interest in such details.

That night they camped in a fallow field, lent to them by a farmer. The guards and the soldiers set up separate camps, with their own cookfires. After they ate, Devlin called everyone together.

They gathered in a loose circle around him, the guards to his right, the soldiers to his left, each group leaving a careful space between itself and the other.

“Sit,” he ordered.

He scanned their faces. The guards seemed relaxed and curious as to what he had to say. Most of them he knew, either from lessons with the throwing knives or because, like Behra, they had been assigned to shadow him.

Then he looked to his left, where the soldiers sat sullenly. He could feel the waves of resentment rising from them. Most refused to meet his eyes. All afternoon he had felt their gazes boring into his back. If looks could slay, Devlin would have died a dozen times over.

He could endure their resentment, and even their hatred. He cared little for what they thought of him. But he had to have their obedience.

Devlin turned to his right. “Guards, I thank you for presence. You have volunteered for this mission, which speaks well of your courage, if not your common sense.” At this some of the guards chuckled.

Then he turned to face the soldiers of the Royal Army. “Like Ensign Mikkelson, you were ordered to take this duty. I neither know nor care the reasons why you were selected, but those who journey with me will need to understand why we go forth.”

He paused, wondering how to phase his message, and decided plain speaking was best. “Who can tell me what the Chosen One is?”

“A damn fool,” one of the soldiers said.

Ensign Mikkelson half rose, his head turning as he sought to identify the culprit. “Who said that?” he asked.

“Rest easy, Ensign,” Devlin ordered. “I will not punish someone for speaking their mind. It is true that many would call me a fool. But that is the least part of being Chosen One. My rank makes me an easy target for all those who would strike at Jorsk, and yet at the same time it demands that I defend the Kingdom to the utmost limits of my strength and abilities. And I expect the same from each one of you, soldier and guard alike. If I give an order, I expect it to be obeyed. Failure is not acceptable, for the price of failure is death.”

His eyes swept over the soldiers, trying to see if his words were sinking in. A few looked thoughtful, but most had the sullen look of men and women who had already made up their minds. “Remember that I am the Chosen One. I am your commander, and you will look to me for orders. Lieutenant Didrik and Ensign Mikkelson will serve me, but it is my orders they will pass on.”

“We serve our General, Duke Gerhard,” a woman objected.

Devlin nailed her with his eyes. “You serve at my command, or not at all. This is no pleasure jaunt. As the Chosen One, I invoke my power as war leader. Anyone who disobeys one of my commands will face summary justice. Do you understand?”

The woman swallowed hard. “I understand,” she said, as the soldiers exchanged glances among themselves.

As Chosen One, Devlin had the power to execute both high and low justice. He could pass sentence as a magistrate, as he had done with the inn-wife. Or he could execute military justice. And
execute
was indeed the right word, for the penalty for disobeying orders during war-time was death.

“As I have told your leaders,” he said, turning slowly in a circle, “I fully expect that we will see combat on this trip. You will be asked to risk your lives at my command. And if the recent history of the Chosen Ones is any guide, it is likely that many of us will perish. If any man or woman here is unwilling to journey with us, they have but to speak, and you may return to your comrades.”

“They will hang us as deserters,” a man objected.

Devlin shook his head. “There will be no punishment. Anyone who chooses to leave will be given written orders and a token, proving that I commanded you to return.”

“Chosen One, you cannot do this,” Ensign Mikkelson said, rising to his feet. “These are my soldiers, under my command.”

“No. These soldiers are under my command now. As are you. And the offer applies to you as well. If you cannot carry out my orders, then now is the time for you to leave.”

He drew a deep breath. Ensign Mikkelson looked troubled, but Lieutenant Didrik’s face was impassive. Then again, the guards were all volunteers. Didrik had little to fear.

“Think on it this night,” Devlin said. “On the morrow you will give me your decision. But mark this, I make this offer only once. Those who remain past sunrise tomorrow have committed themselves to the mission. From then on there will be no turning back.”

In the end, four soldiers chose to return, including the man who had worried about being called a deserter. To each of them Devlin gave a wooden token, marked with the seal from his ring. As he watched them leave, he felt a strange regret. Those four were the only soldiers he could be certain were not plotting against him.

His eyes swept over Ensign Mikkelson and the ten soldiers who had decided to remain. He had not expected the Ensign to accept his offer. But as for the rest, he wondered at their motives. Surely at least one was a spy, sent by Duke Gerhard to report upon the Chosen One’s actions and to bear witness to Devlin’s mistakes. That was only to be expected, and did not worry Devlin overmuch.

What worried him was the possibility that one or more of the soldiers was in the pay of his mysterious enemies, the ones who had sent the assassins to kill him. The soldiers had no reason to be loyal to Devlin, and a full purse might easily outweigh whatever scruples they had about killing their commander.

For that matter, he could not be sure of all of the guards. Didrik was loyal. But what of the rest? How well did he really know any of them? For all their seeming camaraderie, behind those smiling faces could beat the heart of a traitor. Three of their number were fresh recruits. Any one of them could be a spy, or an assassin in the pay of his enemies.

He would have to watch his back.

Twenty-two

STEPHEN SHIVERED IN THE CHILL MORNING AIR AS he slung his saddlebags over his shoulder and approached the picket line. His horse whinnied in greeting, and Stephen rubbed the mare’s nose fondly before crossing over to where his saddle had been stored with the others, covered by a tarp against the night mists. There were only a few saddles left, for most of the others had already saddled their horses and were ready to mount and leave at the Chosen One’s command.

Stephen hurried back to his horse, smoothing the saddle blanket over the horse’s back before placing the saddle on top. He fastened the girth, adjusted the saddle irons, and lashed the saddlebags on. Glancing around, he saw that he was nearly the last one to be finished, the guards and the soldiers each vying to show that they were the best disciplined and most efficient at their tasks.

Stephen reached down to check the girth. He gave a final tug, only to find it gave slightly. He tugged again, and heard the sound of ripping stitches, as the girth came loose in his hand.

The mare swung her head around to gaze at him reproachfully as he held the useless band in his hand.

“Blast,” Stephen swore.

“Mount up,” Ensign Mikkelson called out, from across the clearing.

Stephen swore again.

“Is there a problem?”

Stephen glanced to his right, where one of the female soldiers was preparing to mount a bay gelding.

“My girth has broken,” Stephen said. “And I am fairly certain that I do not have a spare.”

He did not know how this could have happened. He was an experienced traveler, and knew how important it was to check his horse’s tack every day. And yet somehow he had missed the fraying of the girth, until it was too late.

“Devlin is going to kill me,” Stephen said.

She chuckled. “I doubt it is that serious. Even the Chosen One cannot expect the tack to obey him.”

He shook his head. “You don’t understand. I should have caught this before. This can only be carelessness, which he will find hard to forgive.”

Stephen knew from his own experience that Devlin inspected his tack and weapons every day, with almost religious dedication. This would never have happened to him.

The company began to ride out of the clearing, and Stephen looked over to find Devlin, to let him know what had happened.

“Trygg!” the soldier called out. One of the riders paused beside them. “Trygg, tell the Ensign that I have a problem with my tack, and that the minstrel has agreed to help me fix it. We will join up in a few moments.”