Devlin's Justice (37 page)

“What news have you?” Drakken asked.

Ulmer closed his eyes for a long moment, as if trying to recall what he had been told.

“As of the new moon, the Major and his troops now control the Southern Road from Trond down to the bridge at Ljusdal. He continues to sustain losses, but he reports that they are holding their own.”

“Ljusdal is near the border with Ausland,” Captain Drakken explained, seeing the blank look on Devlin’s face. “Mikkelson has pushed south at least a dozen leagues since our last report.”

That was good news. They now controlled a large stretch of the main road that linked the northern provinces of Korinth and Rosmaar with their neighbors to the south.

“Last week, my son observed a small group of mercenaries being attacked by Selvarat soldiers. He and his band remained hidden until the fight was decided. Those mercenaries who escaped were allowed to continue along the road north, while all save one of the soldiers were executed.”

“That was well done,” Devlin said. His plan to drive a wedge between the mercenaries and the regular Selvarat army had succeeded beyond his wildest hopes. There had been a number of reports of the two groups skirmishing. One mercenary captain had apparently decided that she had had enough, so she had seized a Selvarat supply ship, commandeering it to take her and her troops back to their homes in the Green Isles. He could only hope that others would follow her lead and join the growing ranks of deserters.

“Five new bands have formed in the last month,” Ulmer said.

Devlin listened closely as Ulmer described each of the bands, who led them, what successes or failures they had had, and where they were most likely to be found. He dare not commit any of this intelligence to paper, which was why Stephen’s presence was so valuable. He had a minstrel’s recall and could be counted on to remember anything Devlin or Drakken might miss.

Some of the news was old, and Devlin had already heard of two of the bands that Ulmer named; but such often occurred, when messages were passed from one trusted soul to another. It was better to hear the same message several times than to risk never hearing it at all.

Unless, of course, the news was ill.

“The one called Didrik sends news that he believes there are hostages being held in the keep belonging to the former Baron of Korinth. He and his band plan a raid there as soon as they are able,” Ulmer continued.

Devlin clenched his left fist, digging his fingernails into the palm of his hand, as he fought to quell the grief that rose up within him.

Ulmer’s eyes darted from him to Captain Drakken, then back again.

“Is there something wrong?” Ulmer asked.

“Your message is old. We have already heard that the hostages were successfully rescued,” Drakken explained.

Ulmer smiled. “Then that is good news indeed, that I will pass on to my brethren.”

“Tell them also that Nils Didrik died in freeing the hostages,” Devlin added.

“I am sorry for his loss,” Ulmer said, showing unusual sensitivity. The messenger who had first brought the news of Didrik’s fate had called it a glorious death. His callous dismissal of Didrik’s sacrifice had enraged Devlin. Only Stephen’s hand on Devlin’s sword arm had prevented the messenger from being struck down.

“Is there any other news to share?” Drakken asked, breaking into the silence that had fallen over them.

“That is all I have been entrusted with. What messages have you for me?”

“Tell your son and the other leaders that our aim is twofold. First, to drive the enemy back toward the coast, wherever possible. Let the mercenaries pass unhindered, if they agree to surrender their bows and swords. And second, we must cut off the Selvarat supply lines. As the harvest begins, they will seek to provision themselves for the winter. We must not let that happen. Any crops that cannot be secured for our own folk must be destroyed,” Drakken said. “Do you understand?”

“It is a hard thing you ask,” Ulmer said.

Many of Devlin’s followers would have said yes, without stopping to reckon the cost. But no doubt in his lifetime the old man had seen his share of famine and hungry winters.

“Starving men cannot fight,” Devlin said. “They will be forced to bottle themselves up in their fortresses, and then we can surround them.”

“I will pass the word as you have given it to me,” Ulmer said.

“I thank you,” Devlin replied.

With that, Ulmer summoned his granddaughter and took his leave.

In theory, all of the bands had sworn allegiance to Devlin as the General of the Army. But with only the loosest of command structure, it was up to the band leaders to make their own decisions. In the beginning a few had scorned Devlin’s tactics, likening them to those of bandits rather than soldiers. One reckless youth with a head for glory had taken on a full company of the enemy. On open ground, with nearly equal numbers, the result had been a slaughter. Those few of the band who had surrendered had been spared only to face public execution.

It had been a brutal lesson, and one Devlin was swift to hammer home. The rebel bands were never to fight a pitched battle. They were to attack only on their terms, using the elements of surprise and of overwhelming numbers. If faced with a larger force, they were to retreat and wait for the opportunity to attack the force from cover, or from positions that offered a quick escape. Strike when the enemy was least expecting it.

Assassination was their tool of choice. Even killing a single soldier could be a victory, if the killer vanished and was never found. Anyone could be the enemy. Handsome young men and women flirted with the Selvarat officers, then wrapped garrotes around their necks when they leaned in for a kiss. Stooped elders still had enough strength to wield deadly daggers, and even young children could be taught to lure the enemy into a trap.

It was a fine thing he had done, when in his name the folk of Jorsk taught their children to be killers.

No one among them had ever conceived of this kind of warfare. Even Stephen, with his vast knowledge of the history of Jorsk, could bring to mind no comparisons with the past. There was not a single song in either Jorskian or the Selvarat tongue that told of such a brutal war.

But there were plenty of ballads in the Caer tongue from which Devlin drew his inspiration, tales of blood feuds and kinwars that lasted generations. Entire families destroyed, down to the least member. He alone of the fighters knew what he had unleashed and how high the price would be. For now the Jorskians had eyes only for the immediate future and for driving out the invaders. But even if they should prove victorious, they would not find it easy to set aside the memories of what they had done and the new skills they had acquired. The echoes of their rebellion would shape Jorsk for decades to come.

Would future generations hail him as a deliverer? Or curse him as a destroyer?

He could not afford such grim self-indulgence. It did not matter what they thought of him. It did not matter what the far-off future held. Only the present mattered, and the conviction that each day, each victory led them closer to their ultimate triumph.

For now his tactics were working. The Jorskians were new to this kind of warfare, but they learned swiftly, and their unconventional tactics baffled the Selvarat invaders. Devlin’s forces were more than holding their own, despite the cost.

Didrik was just one of the many who had fallen in the weeks since Devlin had declared war against the Selvarats. More than one had died at his own hand, when they’d been forced to execute those who were too wounded to continue. Every victory or defeat brought a tally of those who had been lost.

He had grieved for Didrik, who surely had never expected that he would die so far from Kingsholm and the Guard to which he had dedicated his life. Didrik had been one of the first friends he made in this land. Yet even as he mourned Didrik’s loss, Devlin’s grief was touched with guilt. What of those others who’d died, those whose faces and names he’d never known? Was he any less responsible for their deaths, and were they any less deserving of his sorrow?

And how many more would be killed, friends and strangers alike, before he finished this bloody quest? It was a daunting thought, but he pushed it aside, just as he pushed aside his grief over those he had lost. He could not afford the weakness of mourning his dead. He could not stop to count their losses. He had to rediscover within himself the single-minded dedication that the Geas had provided. The ability to think of nothing but the task at hand and to conceive of no other outcome than ultimate victory.

It was ironic that he had spent two years desperately seeking to be free of the Geas, only to find that freedom brought its own burdens. It had been easier when he had had no choice, was able to blame his decisions on the consuming power of his duty. Freed of the Geas, he had no such shield. The consequences of his actions would rest squarely on his own head.

Devlin blinked as he left the dim house for the bright sunshine outside. A small crowd had gathered in the lane, children mostly, and he pushed impatiently through them as he returned to the square where the horses were being tended. There was so much to do, and he was conscious of time slipping away. Already they had lingered there too long. Trelleborg was still several days away, and his forces had to be in position before the first shipments of the confiscated harvest began to arrive.

The archer who had taken his horse earlier now approached Devlin, handing him a cup of water and a cloth-wrapped bundle that proved to be a chunk of cheese and a small loaf of bread, gifts of their hosts, no doubt.

“Is there enough for everyone?” Devlin asked.

Most days the band that traveled with him was relatively small, numbering fewer than fifty. That enabled him to travel swiftly and ensured that they would not place too heavy a burden on the villages and towns where they foraged for supplies. New recruits were swiftly assigned to one of the roaming bands, but a few stayed, replacing those who had been killed. This particular archer had been with them at least a fortnight, but Devlin had not yet learned his name.

He tried very hard not to learn any of their names, nor, indeed, to grow fond of any of them. His nights were haunted enough, he did not need to add to the tally of those who reproached him for their deaths.

“Yes, General, the rest of the band has been fed, and Lirna is paying for the supplies,” the archer replied.

“Good.”

When they could, they paid for the supplies they needed, to assure that the folk here would be well-disposed toward them should they need to return. There had been some lean days, but for the most part they had not lacked for food. That, too, would soon change, for the harvest was upon them. At each village where they stopped, Devlin had given the same orders that he had given to Ulmer. Any crops that could not be secured for the rebellion were to be destroyed. Nothing was to fall into the hands of the invaders, not so much as a single mouthful of grain.

Cut off from their supply lines, and unable to feed themselves from the land, the invaders would be forced to surrender or risk starvation.

It was a bold plan, but one that would bring privation and suffering to the very people that he was trying to save. The smaller bands might be able to survive off forest game, but the coming winter would be one of hardship for everyone.

Twenty-five

T
INY SNOWFLAKES FELL FROM THE LEADEN GRAY
sky, dusting Stephen’s cloak briefly with a sprinkling of white before melting away. The stone cobbles underneath their horses’ hooves were wet from melted snow, and there were icy patches that required care. But it was not full winter, not yet.

Stephen shivered as much from apprehension as from the cold. He looked to his left, where Devlin rode, bareheaded despite the weather. Even without the snow, Devlin’s hair was more white than black these days, a visible reminder of the time he had spent as Prince Arnaud’s captive. The other changes were no less profound, even if they were not visible to the casual observer.

Stephen still did not know what had happened during Devlin’s captivity. Devlin, as was his nature, had been remarkably silent about his ordeal. It was left to his friends to piece together his story from the few clues that Devlin had let slip. They knew that Arnaud had been a mind-sorcerer, the same one who had previously tried to kill Devlin or drive him mad. There was no doubt that he had used his skills to torture Devlin, yet Devlin had somehow defeated him and emerged sane from his ordeal.

Or as sane as one could expect. There were those who would argue that Devlin’s decision to launch the rebellion was a sign that his wits had been badly damaged. Yet if madness it was, it was a peculiar kind, for against all odds, Devlin and the army he led were winning the war. A war in which Stephen had played no small part, though his actions were far from the heroic deeds he had once imagined.

When he had joined with the others in urging Devlin to lead the rebellion to throw out the Selvarat invaders four months ago, he had not understood what it was that he was asking. Devlin had warned him of the horrors they would unleash, but Stephen had dismissed his concerns. He had not realized that the cost of victory might be nearly as high as the cost of defeat.