Last Life

Book 4: Chapter 15

BJØRN SHARPTOOTH RAN A TRIUMPHANT GAZE over the crowd. For an instant, I thought I saw a humorous glint in his eyes. And partially, I couldn’t blame him. If my guesses about what he knew were correct, the Konung of Vintervald had plenty to laugh about.

Some southerners, who were regarded here as nothing but weaklings, first took down a group of shapeshifters by complete chance which was planning to send the konung himself to meet the Forefather. Then, at the court of the gods, completely taking the cake, some little Vestonian whose lips might as well have still been wet with mother’s milk, slayed the leader of a shapeshifter clan. And the ulfhednar was in beast form. He had good reason to laugh.

Konung Harold meanwhile was in no laughing mood. While the jarls and other northern clan leaders kept shouting out the ritual phrase “the gods have spoken,” confirming that I was right in the dispute with Eirik Irontooth, I practically saw Harold’s face darken before my very eyes.

In accordance with ancient custom, the death of the leader of Clan Brownwolf was de facto confirmation that there had been a conspiracy. The effect was reinforced by the fact that the common twenty-year-old boy had killed a ferocious shapeshifter. Was that not the gods’ reply?

Konung Harold, to my eye, had just two options left. One — take the bull by the horns and dispute the court of the gods. And two — on the contrary to do exactly what the others did and recognize the results of the ritual duel.

In the first case, Konung Harold and all his people would most likely not last until sunrise. Also, something was telling me that Bjørn Sharptooth would be delighted by that outcome. He must have been sincerely sorry that not a single warrior from Harold’s retinue was on a travois.

But in the second case, Graywolf would be showing weakness.

And now, Harold was looking gloomier with every second…

Finally, all the most respected northerners had their say, leaving just Graywolf. He was now staring blankly at the corpse of Eirik Irontooth and, when his turn came, he shuddered. He looked around and met eyes with Bjørn Sharptooth.

The silent standoff didn’t last long. Harold breathed a heavy sigh and announced loudly:

“The gods have spoken! The Brownwolves must have decided to murder the Konung of Vintervald, thus betraying all of our trust!”

I chuckled internally. Konung Harold was not bold enough for a fight to the death. Something was telling me that Graywolf would have something to say soon enough.

Harold turned sharply and made for his tents. His warriors followed after him straight away. Before leaving, he cast a hate-dripping gaze straight at me.

Heh… Another enemy. I stared at the corpse of Eirik Irontooth. On the other hand — this was a bigger problem for some than others. If only Harold knew who had been reborn in the body of the Count de Gramont’s wayward bastard. I was certain he wouldn’t have been so fast to shoot me threatening looks then. In my past life, I had dealt with plenty of monsters fearsome enough to make this northern chief look positively puny.

When Konung Harold and his people had left, both formations fell apart. The tensions hanging over the konung’s camp slowly started to let up. I heard cries of joy and laughter. Okay, there would be no slaughter. At the very least not tonight.

I felt someone picking me up by the shoulders. It was Sigurd and Aelira. For appearances, I winced, though my energy system blocked the pain quite successfully.

There was an unspoken question in my bodyguards’ eyes.

“I got lucky,” I chuckled. “That Eirik Irontooth wasn’t as fast as I thought.”

Sigurd just snorted and shook his head while Aelira came firmly:

“The gods have spoken…”

Bjørn Sharptooth walked over to us. He also looked me over wryly.

“Chevalier, you’ve managed to surprise me.”

“Your Majesty,” I bowed awkwardly, held up on both sides by my bodyguards. “I only told you the truth, and the gods confirmed that.”

Sharptooth gave a broad smile. He now looked like a cat with a belly full of cream. Removing a wide, gemstone encrusted gold bracelet from his wrist, the konung extended it to me.

“Please, monsieur, accept this bracelet. In remembrance of this day. Today you proved yourself a true nobleman. If you should ever desire to move to Vintervald, you’ll always have a place in my court.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty, for doing me this honor but I am a son of Vestonia and am loyal to my sovereign.”

I heard barely audible gasps of approval from the Vestonians piled up nearby awaiting me.

“Okay, Monsieur Renard,” the konung nodded at me in approval. “Your answer is but more proof that noble blood flows in your veins.”

“You have my gratitude, Your Majesty,” I said with another bow, taking a clumsy step forward. Lowering my voice, I said. “I also have a little souvenir for you.”

The konung’s eyes went wide in surprise.

“Here,” I said, taking two black amulets from my bosom and extending them to the konung. “These are proof that the Blackwolf guild was also party to the conspiracy.”

Sharptooth’s brows converged on the bridge of his nose. He took both amulets and started staring at them. In his big, huge hands, the black werewolf fangs looked like dog teeth. The presence of southern shapeshifters in his lands was apparently a surprise to him.

Finally, the konung looked at me and said:

“This I will not forget either, chevalier.”

I tilted my head in silence. The konung threw the amulets to a soldier standing next to him, turned and announced:

“The hunt is finished! The day after tomorrow, we return to Fjordgrad! It’s time to commence the event you all came here for! But now — let the feast begin! I hope we will not be interrupted again!”

The konung’s last few words were met with a cheery roar and laughter.

Watching the konung’s wide back, I said:

“And what about the wolf pack?”

“Sverre Moonbeast is dead,” Aelira explained. “The pack mother probably sensed that and has already retreated far to the north with her children. Far from human settlements. Which is why the konung announced the end of the hunt. He doesn’t believe the wolves remained in Varglund.”

Before I could respond, we were surrounded by Vestonian nobles. Lord Gray, his arms bearers Robert Bolton and Gaston de Gaulie, Baron Jean-Louis de Levy and other aristocrats who had joined us for the “glorious” hunt. They all congratulated me on the victory, assuring me of their genuine friendship and expressing admiration. Meanwhile, the blood on my shoulder didn’t seem to bother anyone. Understanding that all this might go on for a long time, I feigned malaise and frailty, after which my bodyguards quickly dispersed the crowd around us and dragged me into my wagon, where Bertrand was already waiting with hot water, warm bedsheets, and a fresh change of underwear. The old man must have seen my duel after all. After waiting for me to prevail, which he claimed not to have doubted for even a second, he hurried full speed to our wagon to prepare everything for my arrival.

Before my bodyguards’ eyes, I drank down a quarter of a flagon of crimson liquid. Meanwhile, I had to keep an eye on my aura to make sure the healing didn’t proceed too quickly and raise questions.

I got washed up and put on all clean clothes, shut my eyes, and laid back in a fresh bed. I could scarcely hear my valet’s reassuring muttering as he fussed around by the oven. He thought I was already asleep and couldn’t hear him.

“If only your grandfather could have seen you today… He’d have been so proud of you, Your Lordship…”

Already drifting off, I distantly considered that Bertrand, despite my periodic adjustments to his energy structure, was starting to grow old. He was starting to slip up. He called me Lordship, like some count or marquise. Or was that just me? It didn’t really seem like him. Or maybe he did it to push things forward. I’d have to remind him tomorrow not to call me that by accident with others around. I’d be in lots of hot water if he did.

The Fiefdom of Varglund. Hunting camp of Konung Bjørn Sharptooth.

At midday, when Helga, Astrid, and Prince Louis all went to visit the outlandish tent belonging to Renard she, as a healer who had seen a lot of blood and death, was ready for turgid air saturated with the smells of blood, medicinal herbs, and disease. She also expected to see a half-dark room packed with bandages dotted in rusty brown. But to her surprise, it was bright and fresh inside the tent. There were no bandages lying around, nor overwhelming ill aromas, just the pleasant smells of meat snacks and delicious wine.

Furthermore, the viscount himself met them on his own two feet instead of lying in bed wracked with fever. He gave a big smile and a fairly nimble bow. The only signs of his injury the day before were a slight pallor and a bit of white bandage peeking through a slit in the chest area of his tunic.

Helga had a hard time holding back her surprise. She saw the shapeshifter’s slash with her own eyes. It should have left Renard’s left shoulder unusable, at least temporarily. And healing it would have been a serious challenge even using the most powerful magic potions.

This Vestonian upstart really was hardcore. Helga didn’t want to admit it to herself, but this southerner had taken her by surprise.

Insolent and haughty, he was also noble and valiant at the same time. When Helga looked at Renard, she was overcome by strange emotions she had never experienced before. Sometimes, she thought the young man who had the gaze of a forty-year-old man was someone she’d known for a long time. As if she’d seen him before at some point. She also had a hard time admitting that he didn’t seem threatening. She only felt that way around her father and mother. And well, once very long ago — around her older brother as well. Before he died in battle at Twilight Hollow.

Helga did everything she could to fend off the strange fleeting sensations that welled up in her soul around Renard. And now, that odd look in his eye when he glanced at her. As if he was trying to see someone else in her.

Oddly, she noted that his eyes always looked warmer when she smiled. Astrid told her then that Renard had probably been noticing her dimples. Her cousin always said those dimples could charm any person on earth.

Helga herself was no big fan of the feature, though. Her smile, even when restrained, created an illusion that Helga was soft and weak. Even though she wasn’t really either. It was those damned dimples that made Helga try to smile as little as possible.

She was also surprised and made wary by her cousin Astrid’s interest in Renard’s fate. Her cousin had started mentioning the Vestonian in conversation with unexpected frequency. And when she did, she always had a strange and mysterious smile.

If Helga didn’t know her cousin’s personality, she might have thought she had fallen in love with the insolent southerner. But no. There was something else there and, strangely, it started to really bother Helga. She was aware that Astrid was pursuing some goal of her own and Helga was trying in vain to figure out what exactly it was.

What need did she have for that Renard? The strange, sly, dodgy, insolent and, as last night had proven, extremely lucky man.

Before falling asleep, Helga had thought back on that night’s duel many times. Prince Louis the spineless dodderer had seemingly not yet realized that Renard had been defending his honor last night. He was publicly called weak, but Renard had repaid the insulter’s “kindness” in full.

Helga thought back with satisfaction on the outraged crimson faces of Konung Harold and his lackey Eirik Irontooth.

And she was delighted to have a front-row seat for the predeath convulsions of that ulfhednar. The famed chief of the Brownwolves was dead! And the most humiliating and shameful part of his death was the fact that he had fallen to some young southerner who didn’t even have a magical gift. The highly esteemed shapeshifter had been stuck like a pig by a mere normal man, and a Vestonian to boot. Oh gods! That alone was enough for Helga to forgive Renard for all his boorish haughtiness.

After exchanging greetings and pleasantries, Renard invited them to a richly appointed table. Helga, as a true daughter of the savage north, understood little of all these southern subtleties but based on the satisfied looks exchanged by Astrid and Louis, the table had been set in full accordance with the rules of their precious Vestonian etiquette.

At the table, they were served by a gray-haired old man who looked to be around sixty. Helga, an experienced healer, was unable to ignore that the man was in prime physical shape despite his age. He had a lively look in his eye, stood up straight, had healthy teeth and a relaxed gait — it was all evidence that Renard’s valet had spent some time with healers. Or was gifted himself. Though that was unlikely… Her trained eye couldn’t be deceived.

Renard’s second servant, a young man who was clearly from the north, was playing backup to the old man. Helga noticed that the light-haired muscle man didn’t look unhappy or browbeaten. He was well dressed. Prim. No fear or disaffection in his eyes. It gave the impression that the people around Renard were happy with their master. Which was actually a great rarity.

“I am glad, Monsieur Renard, to see you in good health,” Prince Louis said and, taking a small sip from a glass, smacked his lips with satisfaction. “And I’m doubly glad to have you with us. This Lerian vintage is simply excellent!”

“I’m glad I could please you, Your Highness,” Renard smiled back.

Helga, looking at Prince Louis, struggled not to wince. Last night, Renard had risked his life for this man and here he was praising some swill!

Astrid was firm in her intent to marry this thin-skinned prince and herself become Queen of Vestonia. Knowing her cousin’s personality, Helga was certain she would get what she wanted — even if it meant bearing a bit of humiliation.

However, Helga looked at Louis and was unable to imagine that her cousin would be willing to risk her life to put this capricious sniveller on the throne. Although, that depended on how one looked at it. Knowing Astrid, Helga was perfectly aware of who would be the true ruler of the southern kingdom if she pulled it all off.

“Monsieur,” Astrid addressed Renard. “Yesterday, you proved yourself a true knight. We’re all delighted by your bravery. Eirik Irontooth was a highly esteemed warrior. Few would have dared to go against him.”

“I had truth and the gods on my side,” Renard shrugged. “So I wasn’t really taking a risk, Your Highness.”

Helga seemed to hear some humor in his tone. He clearly did not believe what he was saying. And he found it funny. How could one laugh at the will of the gods?

“In one way or another, you did get pretty hurt,” Helga came coldly and nodded at his shoulder. “I must say, I’m surprised by how fast you’ve recovered.”

“You know something? You’re right!” Astrid shuddered and glanced at Helga. “My cousin is a very skilled healer. She could take a look at your injury.”

“My opponent’s blow was merely glancing,” Renard waved it off. Helga noted that this talk made him uncomfortable. “It was just a scratch. The magic potions I acquired in the Crafting District can handle it with ease. So my injuries do not merit your attention or concern. As you can see, I’m nearly recovered.”

“And what specific potions did you use?” Helga asked. She liked making Renard uncomfortable with her questions. The injuries clearly made him tense to talk about. Astrid also noticed, as an aside.

Renard meanwhile glanced at his valet and said:

“Bring me my bag of potions.”

The old man went away with a respectful bow.

“Now this I want to see!” Astrid’s eyes lit up. “Have our master craftsmen really risen to such lofty heights?”

“For fairness’ sake, I should say that the alchemist who sold me the potions was not a northerner. He’s from somewhere out east.”

“Curious…” Helga came, looking thoughtfully at Renard. The slight embarrassment and discomfort she had been enjoying were completely gone. He was again put together and calm. Was he really only twenty? Typically, at that age, young men turned red or went pale. This one, on the contrary, had retained full self control.

She and Astrid traded fleeting glances. Her cousin had also noticed the drastic shift in Renard’s emotions. His self-control was the stuff of envy.

Helga glanced at Louis. And sighed. The prince had his head in the clouds again. He didn’t care one bit what they were talking about. He seemed to again be humming a tune to himself. Probably composing some moronic ditty. He really was not of this world.

Helga had asked herself many times if her cousin would be so interested in such a man if he didn’t come attached to a large, wealthy kingdom. Honestly, she could only ask such questions to herself. If she asked Astrid such a thing, their friendship would be over.

The servant returned a minute later and extended his master a small leather sack. Renard dug around inside it while his guests looked on intrigued and started removing various flagons and placing them on the table one by one. They clearly contained magical liquids, and when Helga saw them, a chill ran down her spine.

She glanced over at Astrid. A slight blush appeared on her cousin’s cheeks. Such things always happened when she was very concerned.

“Living Reservoir’s Breath,” Renard came. “Or at least, that was the eastern alchemist called this potion. This is the one I used to treat myself.”

Helga gulped with a scratchy throat. She — one of the most powerful healers in the north — was seeing a potion of such high concentration for the first time.

“And this,” Renard placed on the table an elongated flagon of dark-blue liquid. “Azure Dawn… This potion makes it so I practically don’t feel pain.”

Helga traded another glance with Astrid. The looks in their eyes seemed to ask: “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

When Helga turned her head in Renard’s direction, for a moment she seemed to see a smirk on his lips. She winced. No… It was just her.

“Your Highness, Your Lordship,” Renard set six flagons on the table each with their own appearance. “Allow me to give you these elixirs. As you can see, the craftsman who made them was a miracle worker.”

Helga first opened her mouth but was unable to say anything. Prince Louis’ pale valet flew into the tent, a man named Olivier de Belmont.

“What’s the matter, Olivier?” the prince exclaimed in indignation. “How am I to take this?”

“Your Highness!” the valet fell to his right knee. “Terrible news from Herouxville! Your father, His Majesty Carl the Third has sustained a fatal injury!”