“No,” Devlin rasped, raising himself up on one elbow with a show of great difficulty. “I must fulfill my duty. I must see the Baron, so that the guilty may be brought to justice.”
The muscles in his elbow quivered, and he shook as if he were at the end of his strength.
“It is his last wish,” Ensign Mikkelson whispered, just loud enough for Devlin to overhear. “The Geas drives him to seek justice.”
“We are sworn to uphold his orders. But if the Baron would grant us his presence, the Chosen One would be satisfied and then we could take our ease,” Lieutenant Didrik said, in the tones of one who has long suffered from the whims of his commander.
The senior armsmen chewed his lip thoughtfully, then nodded. “I will go speak with the Baron and find out his will.”
Devlin’s elbow fell, and he sank back on the litter.
The guard Olga knelt down by his side. “Can I serve you?” she asked, her eyes bright with mischief. She tugged at the blanket that covered his torso, pulling it straight, then ran her hands along the sides of the litter to ensure that the weapons hidden beneath were in easy reach.
“Your concern warms my heart,” Devlin said.
A few moments later, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Help me sit up,” Devlin said.
Olga placed her arms behind his shoulder and tugged him into a sitting position. He grasped the axe in his right hand.
It was easy to spot Lord Egeslic. The young noble sported the golden circlet on his brow that was reserved for nobles of the first rank, of which he was not. He wore a purple silk tunic over green leggings, and his soft slippers made no sound on the stone courtyard. Accompanying him was the officer Devlin had seen earlier, and two ceremonial guards trailed behind.
The Baron smiled as he caught sight of Stephen, held between two of the guards. Stephen’s head hung low; he made an abject sight.
“So this is the criminal? I have a very special punishment planned for him,” he said, with a cruel smile.
This was it. There would be no second chance.
“Message,” Devlin croaked. “Must tell Baron. Only Baron.”
He tossed his head wildly from side to side, as if in the grip of delirium.
“I fear he is failing fast,” Olga announced.
But the Baron’s attention was for Stephen. He came up to the minstrel and grabbed his chin with one hand, forcing Stephen’s head up until he could look into his eyes. “A very special punishment indeed,” he drawled.
Devlin’s heart froze. How long could Stephen maintain his deception before the Baron realized the truth?
“Please no! Mercy, my lord, mercy, great Baron,” Stephen sobbed, his legs collapsing from under him as the guards struggled to hold him upright.
The Baron laughed.
“Message,” Devlin said, this time more loudly.
“My lord,” Ensign Mikkelson said, approaching with a low bow. “The Chosen One has a message that he can reveal only to you. And I fear there is very little time… .” His voice trailed off.
The Baron turned from his prey, slowly, reluctantly. As he drew near the litter, his face wrinkled with distaste. “Hardly an impressive sight. He looks more like a peasant than the Chosen One.”
“Lord Egeslic,” Devlin whispered.
The Baron drew nearer until he stood within an arm’s length of the litter. “What is this message?”
“Now!” Devlin yelled, rolling off the litter and springing to his feet. Before the Baron could do more than blink, Devlin’s axe was pressing against his neck.
Around them, Devlin’s troops had seized their own weapons from the litters and formed a loose circle, facing outward. The Baron’s armsmen took a step forward, only to be halted by the swords of Mikkelson and Didrik.
“What is the meaning of this?” Lord Egeslic demanded.
“I have come to serve justice,” Devlin said. “Now tell your armsmen to drop their weapons.”
“No.”
He had known it would not be this easy. He raised his free arm above his head, so that his hand was clearly visible. “I am the Chosen One, and what I do here I do in the name of justice, in service to King Olafur and the people of Jorsk. I call upon the Seven Gods to witness the truth of this oath.”
The ring on his finger glowed with bright ruby light.
“A pretty trick,” the Baron scoffed, but his face was pale and beaded with sweat.
“Hear me!” Devlin called. “You will lay down your arms, and surrender yourselves to the King’s justice. Or you will be declared traitors, and your lord will suffer the consequences.”
The senior officer looked at Devlin, and then at his lord.
“You would not harm him,” the officer said.
“I will what I must, to fulfill my oath. Lay down your weapons,” Devlin replied, letting the grim anger he carried within rise to the surface. He met the officer’s stare with his own determined glare, and it was the officer who glanced away first.
“My lord, we must do as he says,” the officer said. Then he unbuckled his sword belt and laid it on the ground.
The other armsmen swiftly followed his lead. But these were only a handful, and there were sure to be more in their barracks, or scattered around the keep.
One of the soldiers cut loose Stephen’s bonds, and he chafed his wrists.
“Mikkelson! Secure these prisoners, then take the rest of the armsmen into custody,” Devlin ordered.
He turned his attention back to the Baron. “Lord Egeslic, I accuse you of failing in your sworn duty to your King and your subjects. This land was given to you in trust, in return for your fealty. Yet you have failed to defend the King’s realm and his people. For this, you will pay.”
“You fool. You have no idea who I am, or what you have done,” Lord Egeslic sneered. “I will see you destroyed for this.”
“I fear no petty lordling. Save your concern for yourself. If you are lucky, you will only lose your rank.”
For if he were proven traitor, the Baron would lose his life.
Securing the keep proved nearly impossible. There were too many folk, scattered in too many places. And this was their home. They knew all the passages, and the escape routes. Mikkelson managed to surprise about forty armsmen in their barracks and took them into custody. But an equal number were still missing, having either fled the keep or doffed their uniforms, blending in among the members of the Baron’s household.
Some of the servants had fled as well. Devlin had watched from the walls of the keep as they scattered in a dozen different directions, frustrated because he lacked the troops to pursue them. He knew some were honestly frightened, afraid they would suffer for the Baron’s crimes. But at least some of those who fled were fleeing with a purpose, no doubt to alert the Baron’s allies.
He had very little time. He could not hold the keep against a besieging force. Not when he had but a dozen guards and ten soldiers, plus himself and the minstrel Stephen. Nor could he count on the loyalty of the armsmen who had surrendered. They, and the majority of the servants, had been imprisoned in the keep’s storerooms. It was a makeshift solution at best.
His forces were stretched thin, between guarding the prisoners and maintaining at least a skeleton watch. That left Mikkelson and Didrik to question the prisoners, while Stephen searched the Baron’s rooms for incriminating documents.
Questioning the Baron was a task Devlin had taken on himself, but as the hours turned into days he grew increasingly frustrated. The Baron’s arrogance was amazing. He refused to answer questions, and gave every appearance that he regarded Devlin as simply a minor inconvenience who would be swiftly dealt with by the Baron’s allies. But who these allies were, he would not reveal.
And even if Devlin had had the stomach for stronger methods of questioning, the Geas would not permit it. Not when all that could be proven against the Baron was incompetence.
It was the evening of the third day since they had taken the keep. His last session with the Baron had degenerated into an angry tirade. Slowly Devlin had realized that the Baron was deliberately provoking him. He stopped in midtirade and left without explanation. Let the Baron stew on that while Devlin took a few hours’ rest. It was nearly three days since he had slept. He needed at least some rest, so his wits would be sharp.
Devlin made his way through the unfamiliar corridors of the keep. There was a guard at the bottom of the main stairs who directed him to the chambers that had been assigned to the Chosen One and his officers.
Devlin turned down the corridor and saw a figure approach. As she drew near, he recognized Freyja, one of the soldiers. When she was a regulation two paces away, she drew to a halt and saluted stiffly.
“All quiet?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord Chosen. This wing is secure.” Her voice was calm and professional.
“Good. I am going to indulge in a few hours’ sleep. Leave word with the watch leader that I am to be awakened in six hours if all is quiet. If aught is amiss, wake me at once,” Devlin said, repeating the orders he had given the guard below. Better that he repeat himself than risk the message going astray.
“Of course, my lord.”
She held her pose, and belatedly he remembered to return her salute. Freyja was one of those who clung firmly to the formal disciplines of the army, but she seemed competent enough.
She lowered her arm and stepped aside for him to pass.
He began to walk on.
“My lord! Behind you!” a voice shouted.
It took Devlin a moment to realize that the voice was speaking to him. That moment almost cost him his life. As he began to turn toward his left, he felt the sharp edge of a blade graze his right side. He threw himself to his left, landing on the floor, then rolling over to face his enemy, flexing his arms so the throwing knives were already in his hands.
Freyja stood there, a bloody sword in her hand. Her eyes were vacant, and her features held a look of sheer astonishment. The point of a sword protruded from her midsection, and blood was rapidly staining her uniform.
“Damn you,” she said, though he could not tell to whom she spoke. Then she fell to her knees, her sword clattering to the floor beside her.
Ensign Mikkelson withdrew his sword, and she collapsed in a lifeless heap. A pool of blood spread out over the dark wood floor. Devlin knelt beside the body, but even as he searched for a pulse, he knew there would be none.
Devlin rose to his feet.
“Why did you kill her?”
“I had no choice. She was about to strike again. I could not risk your life,” Ensign Mikkelson said.
It was a fair enough explanation. Now was not the time to point out the obvious, that Freyja’s death was also convenient to whoever had given her the orders to kill the Chosen One.
“I owe you my life,” Devlin said.
“It is my duty,” Ensign Mikkelson replied. He looked down at the corpse and shook his head. “Freyja. I had suspected others, but never her.”
“She took us both by surprise,” Devlin said. It had been a very narrow escape. If Mikkelson had not been there to warn him. If Devlin had turned to his right, instead of to his left. If—
He shook his head, banishing that futile speculation. It was enough that the Gods had chosen to spare his life, so he could fulfill his promises.
He had been expecting some kind of attack for so long that this came almost as a relief. He wondered if Freyja had been behind the earlier attack in Rosmaar. Or did she have accomplices? There could still be others in his company who wished him ill.
Devlin glanced sideways at Ensign Mikkelson. Even he was not free of suspicion. Had Mikkelson saved his life because it was his duty? Or was he hoping that through this service he would gain Devlin’s confidence? For all he knew, Mikkelson might have been in league with Freyja, encouraging her to attack Devlin, then killing her so as to cast himself in the light of a hero.
“If I had not come looking for you,” Ensign Mikkelson mused.
“Why did you seek me out?”
The Ensign tore his gaze from the corpse. “One of the Baron’s clerks has decided to cooperate and I knew you would want to be informed at once.”
“Take me to him,” Devlin said, banishing thoughts of conspiracies to the back of his mind. Time alone would prove whom he could trust.
He took a step, then sucked in air with a hiss as his wound chose to make its presence felt. He pressed his hand to his right side, and when he withdrew it, his hand was bloody.
“You are wounded,” Ensign Mikkelson said, stating the obvious.
“It is a scratch. Nothing more,” Devlin said, replacing his hand over the wound. A deeper cut would have bled more, or struck his ribs. He had been lucky indeed.
“Any wound can turn deadly. You must see a healer.”
His insistence was proper. Devlin would have ordered the same, if any of his troops had been injured. And yet he did not have time for such things.
“Take me to the others, then you may summon the healer. There is no reason why we cannot talk while the healer binds this up.”
Stephen watched with horrified fascination as the guard Heimdall used strips of linen to bind up the wound in Devlin’s side. It was not the wound itself that horrified him, but rather the knowledge that someone Stephen had known and trusted had tried to kill Devlin. Since the day she had come to his aid and helped him repair his saddle, he had thought of Freyja as a friend. He had spent many evenings with her, sitting around the fire, as he shared his music and listened to the soldiers’ stories. He felt sickened as he realized that the friendship was but a ploy on her part. He had thought her a friend, but she had only been using him, to try and win Devlin’s confidence.