Last Life

Book 4: Chapter 11

THE ROYAL HUNT PROCEEDED over a wide road that wound between endless snowy ravines. Ancient trees formed an impenetrable wall lining the road, standing watch like eternal guardians as the noisy column of riders and carts passed.

Sometimes, the Northern Tract would rise and fall, or lead to small but sturdy stone bridges over burbling mountain streams that didn’t freeze even in winter, girded by towering frost-coated cliffs that lent the surrounding area a particular air of magic and mystery.

Huge heavy clouds drifted slowly and majestically over the endless pure white plain until they collided with the dark bodies of the tall mountains that formed the horizon. Snow blanketed the ground in a thick impenetrable layer, glimmering in the sun with a variety of shades ranging from white to light blue.

When the road brought us up high enough, I glimpsed the seacoast and its broad fjords filled with cold water as dark as the night sky. The fjords were framed by nearly vertical coastlines overgrown with thick pine forests. In these forests, centuries old trees reached majestically up to the sky, standing watch over the endless northern solitude.

And all of it was beneath a dome sky, which could go in a moment from saturated gray to an explosion of the many colors of the northern lights, which pierced the heart with their beauty and mysteriousness. Northland was just the way I imagined it — a landscape both harsh and beautiful.

For some still unclear reason, Princess Astrid had expressed a desire to have me join her and Prince Louis for the hunt. So for the last few hours, I had been riding in quite a noisy group, most of them staring at me in incomprehension, though I also saw plenty of disdain. The looks from Max’s cousins were particularly hostile. It clearly must have been because Her Highness had reacted quite coldly to them, at times ignoring them outright.

“And there’s my cousin,” Astrid said with a mysterious smile, nodding at the galloping cavalcades of northerners behind us led by False Thais, better known as Helga the Valiant.

She rode atop a large powerful mare with amber brown eyes and a coat that glimmered like fresh honey.

Despite her considerable dimensions, the horse moved with surprising ease and grace. She easily sprang over obstacles. Her thick red mane flittered in the wind like a flame. Her ears constantly rotated like radars, picking up every sound, while her big nostrils flared with each big inhalation, taking in the cold winter air.

The fine animal was clearly enjoying every moment of travel, every jump, every step on the snowy earth.

Pensively staring at the woman rider racing our direction, I found myself yet again mechanically starting to compare her with the woman I’d once called my sister.

Helga, like Thais, was not tall but, unlike my sister, who was thin verging on dainty, the jarl’s daughter was larger with a more solid build.

Based on how easily and confidently Helga stayed in the saddle, she had been studying the art of riding since childhood. Still, she was a far cry from my Thais in that regard. Having been born and raised in a travelling circus, my little sister was an excellent rider and even spent some time performing complex tricks in the ring.

Helga wore a light suit of armor. Her belt held a short sword, while her saddle was fixed with a bow and quiver of arrows. A true northern warrior.

There my Thais would have lost outright. She was a kind and soft person. Weapons and Thais were two concepts that did not go together.

Ah… Too bad… If Helga had been in her place that night, she’d have gutted Lord Darem’s son like a fish.

For the record, she very much lived up to her nickname “the Valiant.” When Helga was seventeen years of age and her father was on a campaign with his retinue, someone attacked their home and she slayed many of the attackers to protect her domestics. And she did it using her crimson magic, stopping the hearts of enemies, and turning their circulatory systems into minced meat.

Or at the very least, that was how Leif the tavern owner told it. I now had to admit that it seemed plausible. A powerful healer with a highly developed energy system could easily pull off such tricks. And at the very least, I could confidently say Helga was a powerful healer.

“You’re late,” Princess Astrid said when Helga’s mare caught up to her white horse, snorting with delight. “I figured you were staying behind in Fjordgrad.”

“And miss the wolf hunt?!” Helga smiled wide, casting her condescending gaze in my direction.

Today was my first time getting so close to my sister’s twin and so I found myself overcome by sudden anxiety. This raven-haired beauty was a completely different person in theory, but her dimples looked so familiar when she smiled, conjuring my unfortunate sister’s image in my memory.

It cost me a lot of effort to hold myself together and look at Princess Astrid’s cousin in a new light. Her movements, looks, voice… Everything else. The flood was immediately swept away… No, this was not Thais. There was a resemblance, but she was not my sister. An entirely different person. How could I even compare them?

Hm… I could guess who might have been trying to mislead me by sending those visions.

“Monsieur Renard,” Princess Astrid came to me. “I’d like you to meet my cousin, Helga Sigurdsson.”

Bertrand told me the northern jarls were equivalent to the southern dukes, meaning Helga was, in the Vestonian noble code, at the level of a marchioness.

“Your Ladyship,” I bowed in the saddle. “It is an honor.”

“Renard?” Helga asked and her dark brows shot up in surprise. “The man who hired a frost knight for his bodyguard?”

“Not exactly, Your Ladyship,” I answered quietly. “A former frost knight.”

Helga did not like my response. She clearly had her own scores with Sigurd’s former brethren.

I saw a pensive smirk on Princess Astrid’s face. I was getting the impression that she had set this meeting up on purpose. I wondered why she wanted all this commotion around some Vestonian bastard. In any case, everything would become clear with time.

“By the way, monsieur,” Princess Astrid came to me again. “Last time you promised to tell me about the history of your order.”

And she nodded pointedly at the silver wing on my chest.

Helga just snorted and, rolling her eyes, shook her head. I had noticed before that northerners treated their guests from the south dismissively. We were openly regarded as weaklings and softies. There seemed to be a similar opinion about Vestonian medals and decorations.

And to tell the truth, who was I to them anyhow? Just another minor noble searching for adventure.

“If I’m not mistaken, this decoration is awarded to those who serve with distinction on the Frontier?” Astrid continued her “interrogation.”

“That’s right, Your Highness,” I replied.

“And what great feat did you accomplish, monsieur?” Helga jumped in, adding with mockery: “Something very heroic, I trust?”

“I am far from a hero, Your Ladyship,” I replied with a respectful smile. “I only did what any noble person would have done in my place.”

“But you got a medal nevertheless,” Helga’s dark eyes squinted slightly, and her full lips spread into a wicked smirk which gave her cheeks elegant little dimples.

For a moment, I felt like I was seeing Thais. But a moment later, she was gone. Especially after the look Helga used to measure me up from head to toe. It was full of sincere disregard. If the real Max were in my place, he’d have gone red with awkwardness and confusion. I wondered what about me bothered her so much.

“I did,” I said and shrugged.

My calm indifference seemed to get on the princess’ cousin’s nerves. She was about to say more but Jean-Louis, who was riding next to me, got ahead of her.

“Your Highness,” he jumped in with a broad smile. The experienced noble had sensed the conversation taking a strange turn and hurried over to smooth out any bumps. “Allow me to speak in my friend’s defense!”

“I allow it!” Princess Astrid supported his friendly tone, her pink lips stretching into a happy smile to reveal even rows of pearly white teeth. The konung’s daughter seemed sincerely amused by how much this was bothering her cousin.

Jean-Louis glanced at me and continued:

“My friend Chevalier Renard, has an array of unique good qualities, one of which is modesty. Just so you know, let me tell you that in Vestonia, cavaliers of the Order of the Silver Wing are rare enough to be counted on your fingers. For instance, the only person in my family to be so highly honored was my great grandfather Baron Jean de Levy.”

Astrid and Helga turned their heads toward me at the same time. The princess stopped smiling, but there was something strange in her eyes. I got the feeling she was looking at me the way a person looked at a newly acquired object. And most importantly, she was not disappointed with her purchase.

But in her cousin’s eyes, beyond distaste, there was now some curiosity.

“You’ve caught my interest,” Astrid came. “Continue!”

Jean-Louis glanced at me inquisitively. I just shrugged my shoulders without comment. Jacques had recounted the tales of my misadventures on the Frontier to Baron de Levy at a stopover on our way north. At the time, it seemed to me that Jean-Louis was already aware of them from other sources. The royal court was first and foremost a nexus of all kinds of rumors and hearsay.

For the record, the Baron de Levy was an excellent storyteller. For the next half hour, he described in detail my fight with the shadow beast, my travels with injured brothers in arms over the steppes of the Frontier, and our miraculous return to Westerly Fort.

If the baron’s audience were common Vestonian ladies, whose biggest concerns were fashion choices for ball gowns, my authority in their eyes would have shot sky high after that poetic rendition. But Princess Astrid and Helga were not common ladies. Astrid was a powerful combat mage in her own right, while Helga was a healer who had already taken part in a number of deadly battles.

But even still, the Baron de Levy’s tale had an effect. The look in the princess’ eyes grew even more sympathetic and considerate. Helga meanwhile stopped looking at me with scorn.

“Killing a shadow beast isn’t all that easy,” the princess said. “Particularly for a person with no gift.”

“He probably came up against some small creature weakened by the ebb,” Helga snorted. “Four people could easily handle such a thing.”

“What kind of beast was it, chevalier?” Astrid asked me.

“It looked a lot like a wolf,” I responded and added: “Only very big.”

Helga just laughed and shook her head.

“Your Highness,” I came, lowering my hand into a pocket of my saddlebag. “Allow me to give you a small gift.”

Riding up closer, I tilted my head and handed Astrid a black claw from the leader of the shadow pack. I shot a quick glance at Helga, whose eyes started going round after seeing my artifact. Astrid meanwhile was also impressed.

Hefting the claw, which was as big as a boathook, the princess glanced amusedly at Helga:

“Little creature, cousin? Fat chance! Looks like they were able to take down a darkpaw and, based on the claw size, it was an adult male. Few strykers would be up to such a task. I personally would have been very wary to go against such a tough beast.”

I just snorted to myself in approval. And rightly so. Sure, she was a well-cultivated medius, but if she’d done battle on the lakeshore that day, I’d have placed my bets on the shadow wolf.

After that, the princess glanced at me and, without the slightest smile, said:

“I thank you, monsieur. And I’m glad to have you by my side for the hunt, and that Prince Louis has a hunter as experienced as yourself.”

I tilted my head to one side and replied:

“The honor is all mine, Your Highness.”

* * *

When the sun dipped beneath the horizon and stars blanketed the sky, our hunting camp was overcome with the haze of smoldering fires. The air became saturated with the smells of char and roast meat mixed with a thick aroma of snow-covered evergreens.

In the middle of camp, on a well-trod area, there was a towering fire surrounded by wooden benches and chairs. On them were copper trays of food and pitchers of warming beverages. In the light of the flames, the shadows of the feasting hunters played out a jerking dance.

Around the fire, there were tents, each of them decorated with the crests and flowers of various clans. Some of them were bigger and more opulent, with golden ties and embroidery intended for the konung and his family. The other more basic ones served as simple abodes for huntsmen and servants.

Near the fires, away from the hustle and bustle and under open sky were our temporary horse runs. Their quiet neighing and the rustling of hay periodically broke the silence of the night.

Somewhere in the shadows, under the protection of the pines, I could see the dark silhouettes of soldiers on night watch keeping a close eye on the surroundings. Despite the feast, the konung’s people had not forgotten their ruler’s safety. Bjørn Sharptooth himself, like a wild animal, was always on guard. Around him there were always ten gifted people ready to fend off any foe.

We traveled in comfort to the main camp. Before the trip north, our wagon, thanks to my experience from a past life, got a little upgrade.

Our means of transport, which was now transformed into a half-tent half-wagon, stood out a lot from the other traveling vehicles and drew a great deal of attention. The main features were its functionality, simplicity, and ease of setup.

My first guests were the prince and princess. While their tents were still being set up, my transformer wagon was already equipped to accept visitors. When saying goodbye, Princess Astrid said she wanted to get a similar wagon for herself. To which I replied that when I got back to Herouxville, I would place an order with the craftsmen. But I neglected to mention that these craftsmen were already far too busy working on a new travelling wagon design. A larger one with more space.

It took a bit of fussing to explain to them what precisely I wanted, but the result was worth it. When we ran the first test of our home on wheels on the shore of the pond near my castle, Jacques was naturally delighted. In fact, he seemed to start respecting me even more that day.

When all the guests had gone their separate ways, Sigurd and I sat down at the small table to eat dinner. The addition of a second stove meant the tent was warm and dry.

Bertrand and Gunnar ate separately, inside the wagon. The stubborn old man was kept a sharp eye on etiquette even while travelling. However, when the prince and princess came to visit me, my valet didn’t embarrass himself. His Highness truly appreciated the level of service and flawless serving of beverages and snacks.

Special thanks to François for the wine. If he found out which wine Prince Louis was drinking in my tent, he’d probably have gotten mad enough to cause dyspepsia.

Just as we were getting started on the mulled wine, the tent flap slid aside, letting some frosty night air inside. Aelira was standing in the doorframe. Throwing back the fur cover, she quickly walked over to the table and, unceremoniously grabbing a fat piece of meat, sunk her teeth into it with relish. I slid her a dish of meat and poured her a glass of warm wine. She had spent a few days in the forest carrying out my orders. Based on the cold look in her eyes, there had been problems with the game.

We spent a little while in silence watching Aelira eat her fill. Finally, once done chewing and swallowing the last bite, she breathed a sigh of relief and came:

“As we thought, the Brownwolves are up to something. They have werewolves with them.”

“Were you spotted?” Sigurd asked.

Aelira shook her head “no.”

“How many are there?” I asked. “And how far are they from camp?”

“Several hours’ travel,” she replied and added: “There are two werewolves. Both very tough. There are a dozen Brownwolves, and twenty common troops.”

“So there’s no wolf pack at all?” Sigurd asked.

“There is,” Aelira replied. “However it’s being led not by an alpha male, but an old she-wolf. They came down from the north. I imagine the Brownwolves managed to make an arrangement with the lesser beings so they wouldn’t draw attention.”

“Then we should expect the werewolves to attack during the hunt,” said Sigurd.

“No, no,” I shook my head. “We must attack first.”

“When do we move?” the stryker asked calmly.

“Tomorrow morning,” I responded, standing up from the table. “And now, you may rest.”