Devlin's Luck (37 page)

The man studied Stephen for a moment, then nodded. “I will pass the word along.”

“You did not have to do that,” Stephen said, after the soldier had ridden off.

The soldier shrugged. “It is a little thing. I have a spare girth strap that should fit, and it will take us only a few minutes to repair your saddle. And the Ensign is scarcely likely to punish me for a short delay.”

The last of the guards left the clearing, and in the stillness he could hear the sound of the birds, as they greeted the morning.

The soldier reached into her saddlebag and withdrew a long strip of leather. She crossed in front of his horse and came to stand beside Stephen.

“I am Freyja,” she said. Up close he could see that she was young, perhaps his own age, with a broad honest face and warm brown eyes.

“I am Stephen, as you must know,” he said.

“Here now, take out the old girth, and I will fit the new,” she said.

He removed the old girth, and watched as she quickly fitted in the new piece of leather, using her belt knife to punch out the necessary holes. She fastened it first to the off side, then on the near side. Her movements were brisk and efficient, as if she had done this task a hundred times before. The new girth was plainer than the old, simply a wide strip of leather rather than the woven canvas he had used before. But it would more than serve, and he was grateful for her help.

“There now, give that a try,” she said.

Stephen tugged firmly on the girth, but it remained in place. He tugged again harder, and the mare snorted in protest.

“May I see the old girth?” Freyja asked.

He handed her the now useless girth, and she turned it over in her hands.

“See here, how the fabric has frayed and the stitches torn loose?”

Stephen nodded. To his eye the fabric looked more as if it had been cut or torn than frayed, but there was no denying that the stitching had come loose, which had ultimately caused the girth to fail.

“It must have been weak for some time,” Freyja commented. “Then the rough country and the strain of crossing the hills spelled the end of it. It would be easy to overlook, until it broke.”

He knew she was being kind, trying to excuse his failure to see something that must have been obvious for days. And yet he could have sworn that he had inspected the girth yesterday and that it had been fine.

“I owe you my thanks.” It had been good of her to help him, to save him the embarrassment of letting everyone see his incompetence.

“You would have done the same for me,” she replied.

Stephen wondered if that were true. If this had happened to one of the guards, then he would have helped without needing to be asked. The guards had adopted Devlin as one of their own, and by extension they included Stephen within that circle. But the soldiers of the Royal Army had remained firmly aloof from him. Even now, after days of traveling together, he still did not know most of them by name.

“We should join the others,” Stephen said. “I will explain to Ensign Mikkelson what happened. I do not wish to get you in trouble.”

Freyja untied her horse and swung up into the saddle. Stephen did the same.

“If you wish to thank me, then join us some evening after supper,” Freyja said. “A minstrel would be a welcome guest.”

It was pleasant to be sought after in his own right. “I brought no instrument,” Stephen said.

“You have your voice,” Freyja countered. “And Trygg has a bone whistle, which he will play if coaxed.”

“Your wish is my command,” Stephen replied. “The first evening I am not on watch, I will join you and your friends.”

Freyja grinned. “I will look forward to it.”

She kneed her horse to a trot, and he followed behind, as they hurried to catch up with the others.

As they approached the river that marked the border of Korinth province, Stephen mused upon the past few weeks of journeying. He could not help thinking how different this journey was from the last time he had accompanied the Chosen One. It was good to have the companionship of others, and not to have to rely upon his and Devlin’s indifferent cooking skills. And this time, though he set a good pace, Devlin did not drive himself and his companions to the edge of exhaustion.

But the real change was in Devlin himself. For a man who had often claimed he had no wish to be a leader, Devlin was proving himself an inspired commander, one who despite all obstacles was forging his disparate forces into a cohesive fighting unit.

He felt ashamed when he remembered his first impressions of Devlin. Then he had seen him as a mere peasant, one unworthy to hold the title of Chosen One. He had not been able to see past the ragged clothes and brusque manners to the man underneath.

Yet the Gods had seen what Stephen had not. None of the celebrated heroes of the past had ever had to face the obstacles that Devlin faced. A King and council who bickered and quarreled and withheld their support. A fighting force divided in half by bitter rivalries, and the ever-present possibility that one or more of his so-called protectors would try to betray him. And yet Devlin had set about overcoming each obstacle with the single-minded determination that characterized all of his endeavors. And now he had accomplished the seemingly impossible, getting the guards and the soldiers of the Royal Army to work together.

Not that it had been easy. Far from it. Those soldiers who had stayed had not done so out of love or respect for the Chosen One. Their resentment still simmered below the surface. But if he noticed their resentment, Devlin made no sign. Instead he showed himself calm and controlled, giving orders with the air of a man who expected to be obeyed without question.

As he had on the previous journey, Devlin practiced each morning and evening with his weapons. The first time he and Lieutenant Didrik had practiced with the swords, the soldiers had watched with amusement, laughing as the lieutenant defeated him in each of the three matches, earning Devlin sore ribs and a bruise on his neck.

There was no laughter the next day, as Devlin demonstrated his lethal skills with the axe, splitting the wooden target in two with one swing of the massive blade. And his keen eye enabled him to put a transverse bolt or a throwing knife in the center of the target, time after time, as if he were made of steel and not flesh and blood.

Though Devlin gave no command, the guards drilled daily with their own weapons under the watchful eye of Sergeant Henrik. After a few days some of the soldiers began to train as well, until within a week all were rising early to share in the morning practice, following Devlin’s example. Even the most biased against him could see that Devlin drove himself far harder than he drove them.

Devlin divided his time equally between the soldiers and the guards, showing favor to neither group. He even alternated his meals, eating one day with the soldiers and the next day with the guards. He was seen to consult Ensign Mikkelson as often as he did Lieutenant Didrik, although since their conversations were private, it was impossible to tell which one of them he favored, or how often he followed their advice.

In Rosmaar, they had tracked down a small band of robbers who were preying on the villagers, stealing cattle and horses. Stephen had tried to view this as a glorious battle, but even he had to acknowledge that the robbers were a ragged and pathetic band, barely a dozen in all. The robbers fell neatly into Devlin’s trap, caught between the bows of the mounted soldiers and the swords of the guards. A few tried to flee and were wounded, but most had surrendered, begging for mercy, and Devlin had turned them over to the local magistrate for justice.

That night the soldiers and guards had celebrated as if they had won a mighty victory instead of a mere skirmish, mingling as they swapped outrageous lies about their own daring and courageous feats. Stephen had observed it all with an odd feeling of detachment. A part of him had cheered the easy victory, and another part knew that the real test was yet to come.

As they crossed into the strangely peaceful province of Korinth, Stephen found himself wondering what form that test would take. Once he would have relished the prospect of adventure, of living in a ballad come to life. Now he was wiser, for he had learned that underneath the stirring lyrics lay the truths that all heroics had a cost in pain, fear, blood, and sacrifice.

After nearly two months of traveling, they finally crossed into the province of Korinth. They paused at the first town they came to, the town of Bruum, which lay at a crossroads. Though it was only midday, Devlin directed his troop to find lodgings, while he and his advisors retired to a tavern to discuss strategy. The Geas, which had slumbered during the journey, now chafed at him, urging him onward, although he still did not know what it was he sought.

“I say we should take the eastern road, and make our way to Baron Egeslic’s keep. If there is anything awry in his province, the Baron will know of it,” Ensign Mikkelson said, tapping the map with his finger for emphasis. The Ensign was an enigma to Devlin. Old for his rank, repeatedly passed over for promotion, the bitterness he often revealed was understandable. And yet he seemed to be doing his best to serve, and to uphold the high standards of the Royal Army.

“And I say we should take the coastal road,” Lieutenant Didrik countered. “Rosmaar, Myrka, and Arkilde all have been plagued by coastal raiders. We should see what it is about Korinth’s coast that keeps it free from harm.”

Devlin leaned back in his chair and took a sip of citrine as he listened to their debate. Both men had good reasons for their arguments. And yet the final decision would be his, as it had been so many times since leaving Kingsholm. Such was the burden of command.

He had spent the first few weeks of the journey in secret dread, certain that at any moment one of the soldiers or guards would denounce him as unfit. What did he know of leading others? Devlin had never done more than supervise apprentices at their labors. He had been terrified that he would fail.

He had cast his mind over the leaders he had known, wondering how it was that they had led. Cerrie had been loved by all, so she had risen to the rank of sergeant despite her fierce temper. Captain Drakken embodied cool professionalism, backed up by two dozen years of experience. Neither example would work for him.

Then he had thought of Master Roric, in whose forge Devlin had labored for ten years. Master Roric was legendary for never raising his voice, and yet his authority was unquestioned. Master Roric had led by example, setting the highest standards for himself. And thus it was Master Roric’s image that he kept in mind as Devlin began trying to wield his motley escort into a fighting command.

Slowly, gradually, the soldiers ceased their complaining and began responding to his leadership. In Rosmaar, it had been he they looked to for orders, and his name that they cheered after their victory. For there was nothing that the troops liked more than an easy victory.

But he was wise enough to know his leadership was but a fragile thing. If his plan to capture the robbers had failed, he could have lost more than a skirmish. He could have lost the respect of those he depended on. The true test would come when he asked them to face overwhelming odds, and to lay their lives on the line.

And there was at least one among them who wished him ill. During the skirmish, an arrow had barely missed him, plucking at his sleeve but doing no real harm. It could have been an accident, a careless shot gone astray in the excitement of the archer’s first battle. Or it could have been deliberate. For the bandits possessed only swords, as did the guards. Only the soldiers of the Royal Army had been using bows that day.

He sighed and tipped his head forward, rubbing the back of his neck to ease the tightness. As he raised his head, he saw Didrik and Mikkelson had fallen silent and were watching him.

“I take it you still disagree?” he asked.

Both men nodded.

“We must remember our purpose, and why we came to Korinth,” Lieutenant Didrik said.

“My point as well,” Ensign Mikkelson said. “We are here on a training mission, and it is only proper that we inform the Baron of our presence, before making free of his domain.”

Devlin kept his face still, revealing no trace of his inner conflict. The Ensign’s words made sense, but logic had little to do with their presence in this part of the empire. And yet how could he argue his own case? Devlin had no proof, just vague suspicions that there was something wrong in the reports of this seemingly peaceful area. And yet, with each league that passed under their horses’ hooves, he grew more and more certain that the answers he sought lay within Korinth province.

But at the moment he had a choice to make. From here the roads diverged, and he would have to decide their course.

Olaf, the tavern keeper came over to their table. Overawed to find himself hosting the Chosen One, the tavern keeper had banished his other customers to the far side of the tavern, leaving the surrounding tables vacant. Devlin had not protested, for if they kept their voices low, it would make it difficult for anyone to overhear them. Not that he expected to find a spy in such a backwater town, but it did not hurt to be cautious.

“More citrine?” Olaf asked. “Or perhaps you will want some wine now that you have washed the road dust from your throats?”

“Not for me,” Devlin said, shaking his head with a touch of regret. Wine would be welcome, but he needed a clear head to make this decision.