Devlin's Justice Read Online Free

why she had decided to leave Duncaer and embark on this long journey. Did she see this as a duty that she owed her lost comrade Cerrie? Or was her interest more personal? He had not missed the growing friendship between her and Lieutenant Didrik.
    Whatever her reasons, he had not protested. Though their journey so far had been untroubled, an extra sword arm could prove useful. Especially given that one of their party was already hurt.
    He looked over at Didrik, who clutched his mug in hands that trembled despite his best efforts to control them. Didrik’s complexion was gray with exhaustion, but he held himself erect as if refusing to admit that there was anything wrong.
    Stephen finished his kava and set his mug on the nearest table before reaching for his cloak. “I’ll go get the saddlebags. If we hang our blankets by the fire, they’ll be dry by the time we finish eating and are ready to ride on.”
    “A good thought, but we are not riding on today,” Devlin said. “The inn-wife has ordered our baggage brought to our rooms. If you go into the kitchen, she’ll show you where they are.”
    Stephen’s eyes flickered in Didrik’s direction, then his gaze returned to Devlin’s face, nodding almost imperceptibly. “Of course. It’s too miserable a day to travel. I’ll take care of things,” he said.
    “No,” Didrik growled, but it was a weak sound. “You’ll not stop on my account. I can ride.”
    “I know that,” Devlin answered. Didrik could ride, and he would, right up until the moment it killed him. “We’re not stopping for you. We’re stopping because these damn cobblestones are slick with ice. I cannot risk another horse going down. This time someone might be seriously injured, then where would we be?”
    A fortnight ago Didrik’s horse had slipped as they were descending a narrow switchback, and the others had watched in helpless horror as the horse began to fall. Didrik had managed to kick himself free from the stirrups, and thus avoid being crushed by his mount. But his tumble down the hillside had snapped several ribs, undoing the work of those who had healed him in Duncaer.
    The accident could have befallen any of them. It was the Gods’ own luck that it had been Didrik who happened to be in the lead as they began their descent. Another might have suffered mere bruises and discomfort, but Didrik had been vulnerable—as his newly healed ribs had been no match for the strain.
    At least Didrik had lived. His mount had snapped a foreleg, and Devlin had put the beast out of its misery. They had done what they could for Didrik, binding his ribs and taking turns walking while Didrik rode, until they reached the next village where a suitable mount could be procured.
    The delay had chafed Devlin, though he knew it was unavoidable. Since that time he had done his best to take things slowly, fighting the maddening pull of the Geas, which urged him to return to Kingsholm with all haste. But despite shortened days of journeying, and ensuring that Didrik did no unnecessary labor, Didrik was growing weaker, not stronger. He could not keep up the pace much longer.
    And yet what choice did they have? Even now, there was a part of Devlin’s mind that pulled him toward Kingsholm, reminding him that if he rode hard, he could be there in less than a fortnight. Were he to listen to its call, he would leave here at once, setting off without friends or protection, heedless of anything except the need to fulfill his oath and return the Sword of Light to Kingsholm.
    He stretched his right hand out and touched the scabbard of the sword, feeling strangely comforted as he did so. Since he had reclaimed the sword, it had seldom been more than a few feet away from him. It was as if the sword were a part of him, or perhaps a part of the Geas that ruled him. Even when the sword was out of his sight, he always knew precisely where it was.
    Indeed it was hard to remember that there had been a time when he had not held this