Devlin's Luck (47 page)

“Good luck? Or ill?”

Master Dreng smiled. “The best of luck, of course. I have wagered on your victory.”

Devlin smiled in return. “I fear I will make you a loser once again.”

“You should not jest,” Stephen said. “Not at a time like this.”

“On the contrary, this is the best time of all. I will not have it said that the Chosen One met his death like a mewling child, afraid of the dark. Let them see the courage that comes from the service of the truth.”

As they drew near their friends, Stephen touched his arm, as if for luck. “You will be remembered. Though you may fall, others will take up the challenge.”

Stephen’s eyes were moist and his voice hoarse, and Devlin had a sudden terrible suspicion. “You will not seek to serve as Chosen One in my place,” Devlin said firmly.

Solveig gasped, and the others stared at Stephen.

“You think I am too young, too weak,” Stephen said.

“No. I think you are too good. Too kindhearted for such a foul task,” Devlin said. What could have put such a mad notion in Stephen’s head? The minstrel would not last a month in this twisted court.

Devlin put both of his arms on Stephen’s shoulders, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Your heart is good, but if you wish to honor me, do not do this thing. The path of the Chosen One is not for you. If you need to keep my memory alive then make a song of me, a dozen songs if you must, but do not throw your life away for no reason.”

Stephen blinked rapidly and swallowed hard. Devlin held his gaze until Stephen nodded, and only then did Devlin release him.

“Chosen One,” Captain Drakken said, extending her hand in the clasp of friendship.

He squeezed her hand in return. “Captain Drakken.” There was nothing more he could say.

“My guards send their respect and wishes for your victory,” she said, her mouth twisting slightly on the word
victory
. “Many wished to join me here, to show you their support, but I feared that too large a gathering might provoke an incident.”

Captain Drakken was wise. The guards were well disciplined, but it would not be easy for them to watch a friend die. He knew how they felt. If it had been Didrik or Stephen or even Captain Drakken on that dueling floor, Devlin did not know if he could have forced himself to watch and do nothing.

Devlin clasped hands with Didrik and Mikkelson, and exchanged a few words with those nobles who dared risk the Duke’s wrath by showing their support for the Chosen One.

A silver bell sounded.

“The King is here,” Solveig announced.

Devlin nodded and unbuckled his sword belt, handing it to Stephen. He then stripped off his tunic, revealing the loose linen shirt underneath. Pulling the sword out of the sheath, he held the blade casually in his right hand, point down toward the floor.

He watched as King Olafur entered and took his seat, flanked by the members of the council. Next to appear were a pair of heralds, sounding a brassy challenge. Devlin gave a snort of disgust. Such foolishness. This was no pretty pageant for the amusement of the court, but rather a serious matter of life and death.

Stephen nudged him as Duke Gerhard and his second entered the room, accompanied by the Royal Armsmaster and a brown-robed priest. A page unlinked the silver chain so they could step onto the dueling ground.

Devlin and Stephen stepped over the chain and advanced across the room to meet his opponent. The thin layer of white sand crunched softly beneath their feet. The sand would prevent them from slipping on spilled blood, but was not deep enough that they need fear losing their footing.

They met at the north end, directly before the King and his council. The Duke and Devlin eyed each other, but neither bowed nor gave any sign of respect.

“I ask now, in the presence of the assembled court, will either of you agree to give up your quarrel?” asked the Armsmaster Koenraad.

“No,” Devlin and Duke Gerhard said at the same instant.

“Then the rules of the duel are thus. You will begin at my signal, not before. This is a mortal duel, so you will fight according to the rules of honor, until one of you is killed or chooses to yield,” Koenraad said. “Your Grace, do you understand these rules?”

“Yes,” Duke Gerhard said. He appeared very much the bored aristocrat, impatient for these formalities to be finished so he could dispatch the challenger and return to his courtly pursuits. It was clear he saw Devlin as no threat.

“Challenger Devlin, do you understand these rules?”

“Yes. I stop when he is dead,” Devlin said mockingly, in his thickest Caer accent.

There was a muffled sound as Stephen repressed a snicker. The armsmaster appeared appalled at this breach of etiquette.

His bravado had the intended effect, for Duke Gerhard’s eyes narrowed and he studied Devlin, as if seeking to understand the source of his challenger’s confidence.

“And now—”

“Wait,” Duke Gerhard said, raising his hand to interrupt the armsmaster.

The armsmaster paused.

“Forgive the breach of ceremony, but this one is well-known for using the weapons of an assassin,” Duke Gerhard said. “I would have him show that he intends to fight only with the sword, and not with any knavish tricks.”

A part of him burned at the insult while the cooler, logical part of his mind reveled in the knowledge that he had indeed managed to disturb Duke Gerhard’s aplomb. The Duke must think that Devlin’s confidence came from the possession of some hidden weapon. How would he react when he realized Devlin had none?

Devlin handed his sword to Stephen. “I have nothing to hide,” he declared. He grasped the right sleeve of his shirt in his left hand and gave a quick yank, ripping the sleeve free. Then he did the same for the left sleeve. He handed the sleeves to Stephen, and took back his sword.

“Are you satisfied, Great Champion? Or must I empty my boots, to prove them free from rocks that might trip you?”

The Duke’s face was calm, but his ears were tinged with red. Koenraad looked at the Duke, then back at Devlin, and made a quick decision. “Honor is more than satisfied,” he said. “Your seconds may leave the field.”

Devlin did not look as Stephen made his way from the square and joined the spectators in the gallery. All of his attention was for the Duke and for what he must now do.

Devlin and Duke Gerhard moved to the center of the square and took their places as directed by the armsmaster.

King Olafur nodded. The brown-robed priest, whom Devlin recognized from the Choosing Ceremony, now stepped forward. Raising his hands to the heavens, he proclaimed, “We thank the Seven Gods for their protection, as we witness their justice proven in the trial of arms. May their will be done.”

“May their will be done,” echoed the spectators.

The armsmaster raised his hand high, then dropped it. The duel had begun.

Captain Drakken watched with clenched fists as the Chosen One and the King’s Champion began slowly to circle each other, each seeking to gain the advantage. Duke Gerhard made the first move, a high stroke that was matched by a high block, followed immediately by a low thrust that Devlin blocked equally well, if less gracefully.

The Duke’s moves were fluid, almost lazy, as he probed Devlin’s defenses, looking for weaknesses. Each time Devlin managed to counter with his own sword, or evade the blow by shifting his body at the last moment. His technique was an armsmaster’s nightmare, but it was working. For the moment.

“He moves well,” she said. “But he uses only the one hand.” The long sword could be used as a two-handed weapon, to increase the force, and turn an ordinary strike into a killing blow. Or a very skilled fighter could switch the blade from hand to hand, confusing his opponent and enabling him to strike at both sides with equal ease. Devlin’s technique showed he had been trained by the guards. The guards trained one-handed, for they normally held shields in their left hands.

The Duke’s sword was a dueling weapon, easily six inches longer than the sword that Devlin wielded. And he held it in both hands, for shield training was no part of the courtly dueling rituals. This gave him the advantage of both longer reach and greater power. Combined with his long experience, it made him a deadly opponent.

The combatants met in a sudden flurry of blows and parries, and when they parted she saw a line of red staining Devlin’s right side. Another moment and, as the Duke’s sword slipped past his guard, he bore a matching cut on his left side.

Duke Gerhard’s experience and longer reach were beginning to tell. He smiled cruelly as he pressed the attack home, wounding Devlin again and again.

“He is toying with him,” Lieutenant Didrik said.

She nodded in agreement. Devlin had gained in skill, but he was no match for a man who had reigned as undefeated champion for the past fifteen years. Indeed the Duke had passed up several opportunities for a killing blow in favor of inflicting smaller wounds on his opponent. It was to be the death of a thousand cuts. Duke Gerhard intended that Devlin would suffer greatly before he died.

Devlin’s bloody shirt hung in tatters, and as the Duke’s sword sliced along his collarbone, the shirt split in two and fell to the ground.

A gasp ran around the room as Devlin’s scars were laid bare for all to see. Even Drakken, who had seen them before, was shocked, for she had forgotten just how horrific they were. His back and left side were a maze of ridged white scars, now gruesomely outlined by the fresh red blood that dripped down from his many wounds.

Devlin grinned. “You will have to do better than these pinpricks if you wish to destroy me,” he taunted. “Your pretty swordplay may be fine for the white sands, but you would not last five minutes on the battlefield. You would piss in your pants if you had to stand where I have.”

The Duke’s face turned dull red and he snarled a wordless reply.

At last, he had succeeded in angering the Duke. Devlin kept the grin on his lips, trying not to show how much it cost him. He was covered with sweat and his breathing was labored, and he could feel himself weakening as the small wounds combined to take their toll. If he had any chance, he must strike now, before the Duke overcame his anger and regained his icy precision. He just needed the Duke to come close enough, to be within his reach.

“Come now,” he said, beckoning with his free hand. “Or are you afraid?”

The Duke whirled, raising his sword high and bringing it down in a sweeping stroke toward Devlin’s neck. Devlin raised his sword, and the two blades rang with the protest of agonized metal as they crashed together. Devlin’s muscles strained as the Duke’s sword slid slowly down the edge of his own blade. He braced his sword arm with his left, and then, with a powerful heave, thrust his sword and the Duke away from him.

Off-balance, his right arm was extended for but an instant, but that was all it took. Duke Gerhard hooked the point of his sword under Devlin’s guard, and Devlin’s sword went flying.

It landed in the sand several paces to his left. He eyed the distance and took one step to his left, then another.

Duke Gerhard smiled. “So much for your fine words. Now we see what a pathetic fool you truly are,” he said, as he advanced, sword extended. “The Kingdom is well rid of you.”

Devlin knew he could never reach his sword in time. The Duke would kill him where he stood. There was only one weapon he had yet to try.

For the first time he let go his own will and surrendered himself to the power of the Geas. The peace that came from having no more choices washed over him.

Devlin took one more step toward the sword and stopped, turning to face Duke Gerhard directly. He waited calmly, his arms held down, hands slightly curled by his sides.

The Duke held his sword in classic attack position. He was so close Devlin could see the sweat on his brow, the triumphant gleam in his eyes.

Wait,
Devlin told himself.
Wait
.

The Duke tensed his body, then began the lunge that would end Devlin’s life.

At the last instant, Devlin twisted his body to the left— and then he did the unthinkable. He reached out and grabbed the blade of the Duke’s sword with his right hand.

The blade sliced into his hand with a fiery kiss, cleaving muscles and sinew alike. Pain, too horrific to be borne, raced along his nerves. No mortal man could have willed himself to maintain that grip. But Devlin was in the grip of the Geas, which recognized no mortal limitations. He held on to the sword, using the Duke’s own momentum to pull him forward until the Duke stumbled and fell facefirst to the ground.

As the Duke fell, Devlin’s mangled hand slid off the Duke’s sword. He dove to the floor and grabbed his own long sword in his left hand, rolling to his knees. As the Duke tried to rise, Devlin held the point of the sword to the Duke’s neck. The Duke lay still, eyes glaring defiance and hate. Devlin’s shaking hand held the sword as he rose awkwardly until he was standing over the Duke.

“Yield,” Devlin croaked. He coughed, and said again, “Yield or die.”

There was no sound, save the rasp of Devlin’s breathing and the dripping of blood onto his boots.

“Yield now or I will slay you,” Devlin said. It was the third and final chance.

“Your day will come,” Duke Gerhard spat out. “And I will see you in hell.”