Last Life

Book 4: Chapter 3

Northland. Fjordgrad, capital of Vintervald

The Pearl of the North, palace of Konung Bjørn Sharptooth

THERE WERE THREE FIGURES seated on the roof of the Crimson Tower keeping away from prying eyes. Princess Astrid, Helga, and Prince Erik, youngest son of Konung Bjørn Sharptooth.

Being almost all the same age, the three of them had been friends since childhood. Together they romped and played practical jokes, then came up here to the roof to hide away in their secret spot.

Now, years later they were again gathered here and reminiscing about childhood playtime and adventures.

“Ah, for a moment I felt like we were children again,” Astrid said with a glum sigh, watching the far-off blood-crimson disk as it slowly dipped beneath the horizon. “I’d forgotten how much fun we used to have.”

“If you ask me, sister,” Prince Erik snorted and nodded down. “The fun is just beginning.”

There, in the palace’s internal courtyard was a crowd of foreign guests.

Astrid again sighed while Helga gave a dismissive snort and looked down on the vibrantly colored mass.

“Ridiculous?” Princess Astrid’s thin little brows raised slightly. “What do you mean, Erik?”

“Well, for example, they wear these useless hats with feathers in them,” the prince replied, waving his hands. “In this cold, they’d lose an ear soon enough. Plus all that bowing makes them look silly. Stamping their little feet like goats. I mean, don’t you find it all ridiculous?”

Helga laughed.

“Yes, and they talk so loud it seems like they’re shouting to the whole world.”

“And yet their fabrics are among the finest in the world,” Astrid jumped to the southerners’ defense. “Their craftspeople are more skilled than ours. Not to mention their artists, sculptors, and poets. Can you really dislike the south so strongly?”

“Of course I like the south, sister. Particularly their fruits and vegetables,” Erik came with a broad smile.

“And wine,” Helga added, nodding.

“Yes, yes!” Erik supported her. “Their wines are fantastic! But alas, sister, wars are not won with wine and fruits. The Vestonians, much like their king, are weak.”

Princess Astrid chuckled back.

“Brother, you’re as ignorant as ever. If you hadn’t spent all that time dodging Maître Jacob’s lessons, you might have known that unlike our jarls, who fancy themselves great military leaders, Carl the Third, King of Vestonia, put down a rebellion and managed to unite the country under his rule. He forbade his nobles from warring amongst themselves, declaring that from that point on, all disputes would be settled by a royal court. He forbade dukes, counts, and barons from minting their own coins. And that is just the beginning. And if, gods forbid, you have to fight against Vestonians, don’t forget that their army is much better prepared for war than ours.”

“Now that’s going too far!” Prince Erik chuckled. “Look at those primped up peacocks! One of our warriors is worth a dozen of those winemakers.”

“Those ‘peacocks’ as you put it, are well studied in concepts such as discipline. The famed Vestonian cohorts are thought to be unbeatable.”

“And yet, our divisions have been marauding in their cities and raiding their caravans unpunished for months.”

“Good point, brother,” Princess Astrid came coldly, standing to her full height and smoothing the folds in her dress. “Unpunished indeed! Our warriors return home alive and unharmed only because they have never met Vestonian cohorts in battle. We’re facing only little city garrisons. Because all aristocrats from the Vestonian northern provinces took their troops to fight the war with the Atalians, which our jarls took advantage of. As a matter of fact, their actions are far from heroic. They’re acting like common bandits and robbers.”

“Sister!” Prince Erik exclaimed. “Have you forgotten that you’re now speaking about your fellow countrymen?!”

“Oh, brother,” the princess laughed. “I’ll never forget it. But you should keep something else in mind. You’re currently speaking to the future Queen of Vestonia. Get this through your thick skull — as soon as the crown rests upon my head, the first thing I will do is bring order to the northern borderlands of my kingdom.”

Without another word, Princess Astrid thrust her chin up in pride and made for the doors of the attic. When her silhouette disappeared into the dark passage, Prince Erik turned to Helga.

“No, I mean, did you see that, cousin? That silly and weak Prince Louis hasn’t even won the Trial yet, and she already thinks herself the future queen! And that’s with that prince being Carl the Third’s youngest son!”

“Dear cousin,” Helga shook her head. “In case you haven’t noticed, your sister is no longer such a pushover — she became Astrid the Swift long ago. If she gets an idea into her head, it simply will come to pass.”

“Yeah…” Prince Erik rubbed the back of his head. “She sure is a stubborn one.”

“And her will is iron,” Helga added. “I never doubted for a second that she would ascend to the throne of Vestonia. So I suggest you heed her words.”

Erik breathed a heavy sigh:

“Perhaps you’re right…”

They spent some time watching the lively movement down in the internal courtyard, thinking. Then Erik again breathed a heavy sigh as if awakening from a short dream and glanced at the sullen Helga. A wry smile appeared on his face. He already knew why his cousin was in such a rotten mood.

“What’s going on with you, Helga?” he asked. “Ever since the Vestonian embassy came to town, you’ve been dark as a storm cloud.”

“What makes you say that?” she tried to wave him off.

“Oh come on,” Erik laughed. “You don’t have to pretend. Astrid already told me everything. What the insolent Vestonian on his white horse said hurt you! I don’t think you should give his words such weight.”

Helga rolled her eyes and shook her head. Astrid was just as big a talker as ever. She’d never learned to hold her tongue.

In fact, Helga was afraid to admit it to herself, but the insolent man had actually caught her eye. There was something about that young Vestonian… Something inexplicable… As if she’d seen him before. Furthermore, she got the feeling they’d known each other for years. The strange and unendingly inexplicable feelings made her heart beat faster. But at the same time, she felt annoyed and angry.

Prince Erik, not waiting for his cousin to respond, said:

“If he’s upset you so badly, you could have stopped his heart or something. After all, you’re a healer. I shouldn’t have to tell you this stuff.”

“First of all, you’re forgetting that a cease-fire has been declared for the duration of the Great Trial,” Helga objected. “And second, your sister would rip my head off if something happened to anyone from her beloved Prince Louis’ retinue.”

“But duels are permitted,” Prince Erik replied. “Want me to order Magnus to teach him a lesson? I promise the Vestonian will not be killed. Though without a tongue, he may have a hard time saying anything ever again. But that may be to his advantage. What do you say?”

“Forget it,” Helga threw out, standing up. “Let’s go… People are probably looking for us.”

After saying that, she lunged forward. If she turned, she’d have surely noticed the clever smile on Prince Erik’s face. He always smiled like that when he was thinking of playing a dirty trick.

Northland. Fjordgrad, capital of Vintervald.

It had been two days since my visit to the mercenary guild. In that time, Maître Berault de Briansonne, chief steward of his Highness Prince Louis’ embassy, has not bothered me. But I was perfectly aware that the more prominent members of our delegation were visiting the konung’s palace daily. Max’s two cousins had certainly been.

Honestly though, I preferred it that way. I wouldn’t have even been mad if they completely forgot about me, preferably until the Great Trial was completely over.

Of course, I understood that this was essentially free time, so I used it as rationally as possible.

Early in the morning on day three, at the breakfast table, I asked a question to Sigurd Hansen, who was seated next to me and silently eating a lardon omelet.

“Are you aware of what’s written in the contract I signed with the guild?”

“In general terms,” the stryker shrugged.

“I assume it is little different from standard contracts.”

“And logically so,” Sigurd boomed back. “Fellen has been wanting to get rid of me for a long time now. Nobody wanted to hire a former frost knight.”

“You sure are open.”

“You hired me for a whole year, Your Worship,” Sigurd shrugged his bulky shoulders. “It’s easier this way.”

“I am with you there,” I nodded and asked: “Did you know that I wanted to hire four strykers, but Master Fellen refused with no explanation? Is that somehow connected to those?”

I nodded at the hideous scars on his face. The burns went over some tattoos, which once marked Sigurd as a cavalier of the Order of the Frost Spear. That was what signaled to Lucas that Sigurd was a frost knight.

“Your comrades in arms didn’t want to be hired because of your past?”

“They are not my comrades in arms,” Sigurd snorted and ate a big bite of omelet. “And they never were. And if it’s come to that, it’s not that they don’t want to work with me — on the contrary.”

“Hm… So that’s how it is…”

We spent a little while eating in silence. I was first to break the silence.

“You local?”

“I was born beyond Crooked Pass, but I know the capital well,” the stryker replied.

“That’s good,” I nodded. “I want you to show me the city. I’m interested in magic shops and crafters’ workshops. Who better than a stryker to know those places, right?”

Sigurd stopped eating and glanced at me in surprise.

“Is something the matter?” I asked. What I said must have come as a surprise to the northerner.

“Very strange,” he snorted, staring me closely in the eyes.

“What do you mean?” I asked in surprise.

“To be frank, I wasn’t expecting that out of you, Your Worship.”

“What were you expecting?”

“Well, for one, I thought you were going to set me against all the people who hurt you, your enemies, on day one. To settle scores.”

I chuckled.

“Well, to be fair, considering the kind of money the mercenary guild charged me for you, I’d have every right to do that.”

“That’s what I mean,” Sigurd confirmed. “It would be a completely logical move for any noble at your age and in your position. Which is why after all this time at your side, I still can’t figure why the devil you wanted an avant.”

“If you think I have hidden motives, you’re mistaken,” I came. “Very soon, you’ll have to start earning the money I spent on you. I just so happen to have a lot of enemies. And almost all of them are gifted.”

To get the stryker, I had to give up one of the sacks of gemstones I’d taken from the Fox Den’s treasure chamber. It was easier that way than dragging a whole cartload of gold and silver up north. Because I was planning on spending a lot here.

Making deals through the Craonne family bank was also not an option. I had decided not to make any withdrawals yet so I wouldn’t attract attention.

“And that’s not all,” I added. “According to the contract, beyond room, board, and everything else, I am also required to provide you with magic energy. Which is why the quicker we go make purchases, the better.”

“What exactly do you want?” Sigurd asked seriously.

“The guild gave me just one lilac brut,” I said and set the small crystal in front of him. “Take it.”

I didn’t need to ask the stryker twice. The crystal disappeared from the tabletop as if by magic.

As an aside, I should note that the crystal was filled to the brim with energy. Master Fellen was honest with me when she said it was a whole brut.

From what she said, one brut to start was standard practice. And from there, it was up to the mage and his new master’s requests. Well and of course the length of the contract. For a one-time mission, one brut would be more than enough, but my case was somewhat different.

“I assume you haven’t had any missions in a long time so your energy supplies must be exhausted,” I said. “So I first wanted to provide you with plenty of crystals. How many bruts do you have left, by the way? This isn’t just idle curiosity. I need to know what to prepare for in case of an attack.”

“That’s better, Your Worship,” the stryker responded and, utterly unashamed, added: “Not considering what you gave me, I have three more crystals. Yes, I hadn’t had a contract in a long time, but I was trying to conserve energy.”

He wasn’t lying. On the day we rode out from the dusksworn castle, I gave him a surreptitious scan as he rode on his horse, also examining all his few possessions. On Sigurd’s chest, beneath his armor, an amulet with three large purple crystals glowed faintly. But I didn’t spot any other magic light in his travelling bags or voluminous backpack.

“Good,” I nodded. “In any case, we should restock.”

“There’s no such thing as too many bruts,” Sigurd shrugged. “Just be ready to spend big.”

“Beyond crystals, I’d like to get magic elixirs,” I said, ignoring the warning about spending.

“As you like, Your Worship,” Sigurd responded. “I…”

I don’t know what he wanted to say because he was cut off mid-sentence by a loud cry from the front door of the tavern.

“He’s here, Your Lordship!” a familiar voice whooped. “There he is! Sitting like nothing happened!”

I turned toward the door and saw a group of five men with a broad-shouldered blond towering in the middle wearing a steel stryker armor suit richly adorned with gold. In his blue eyes, I saw anger and disdain. The other four warriors were just as well armed and looked quite dangerous.

In front of the fivesome, hopping and pointing a hand at me, I saw my recent acquaintance stamping his feet — Pierre Léger. Jacques must have been right again — the Count de Mornay’s third valet had indeed spewed falsehoods to his master about me.

Okay, this would be interesting.

“There’s the insolent man!” Pierre continued to whoop, pointing at me. “Can you imagine? He said you should sleep in a haybarn!”

“Is that true?” Sigurd asked, continuing to calmly gulp down the rest of his omelet.

“Of course not,” I snorted. “But I am not planning to explain myself. Look at His Lordship’s armor. I assume he is not cheap.”

“Right you are, Your Worship,” Sigurd nodded and added with a sidelong smirk: “Something’s telling me you found a way to save money on buying bruts.”

“Can you handle it?” I asked, nodding at the warrior in glimmering armor walking towards us. His fighters meanwhile deftly encircled us.

“Yes,” the stryker answered curtly and set his knife and spoon aside.

“Which one of you is Chevalier Renard?” the blond who walked up to our table asked intimidatingly. By the look of him, he was thirty or thirty-five.

“Me,” I replied, standing from the table. “Who do I have the honor of meeting?”

“The Count de Mornay,” he introduced himself drily. “And I demand explanations!”

“Explanations?” I asked, pretending not to understand. “Whatever do you mean, Your Lordship?”

The Count de Mornay frowned and nodded at Pierre Léger:

“My servant claims that you pushed him out of this tavern, insolently taking advantage and threatening him with retribution. Beyond that, you occupied rooms my servant had already agreed with the tavern owner to rent. How do you intend to explain yourself?”

“First of all, your servant is an insolent scallywag and fool,” I chuckled, watching the count’s already frost-reddened face go crimson. “And second, what makes you think I need to explain myself to you?”

“Insolent man,” the count spat out, squinting his eyes. “Do you have any idea who you’re talking to? House de Mornay is related to the kings of Bergonia. But no matter. I will teach you manners, whelp. Honestly though, you won’t be needing them after today — you’ll be dead.”

Ripping the leather glove off his right hand, the count cast it pointedly at my feet. That very second, Sigurd stood from the table to his herculean height, and picked the glove up off the floor.

“Monsieur, I accept your challenge,” I came, watching the Count de Mornay’s surprised countenance. “This man will be fighting in my stead.”