Last Life

Book 4: Chapter 6

I WAS SEATEDAT A TABLE in the far corner of the tavern’s main room. Leif always tried to reserve it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner just for me.

I just so happened to be finishing my omelet when the tavern’s front door opened, and Sigurd’s broad frame appeared. The giant cast a sullen gaze around at the half-empty hall. When he spotted me, he took a decisive step forward.

I had left him to deal with his former colleagues on his own. I eliminated the archers, while two experts would be no problem for an avant. Honestly though, he was out there a long time. He must have killed them slowly and with deliberation, then covered his tracks.

“Having breakfast?” I asked calmly, breaking off a savory, still warm piece of bread.

The stryker bored into me with a look, silently lowered into his bench and, setting his elbows on the tabletop, which gave an immediate plaintive creak, stated coldly:

“Speak, Your Worship. Let me first warn you — I’ll sense a lie straight away.”

Sigurd reeked of blood, death, and powerful magical emanations. Also of impurity.

I snorted and, as if nothing was happening, supped a bit of warm broth from a bone mug.

“You do recall that you’re speaking to your employer, right?”

“Now is no time for niceties,” Sigurd threw out. “Because I could snap my employer’s neck at any moment like a chicken. If he of course does not answer my questions honestly.”

“In other words,” I continued in a steady voice. “You intend to worsen your already unenviable circumstances? In case you haven’t noticed, you aren’t the most popular guy around here. Not to mention your friends from the order.”

“Don’t care,” Sigurd waved it off.

“I don’t think so,” I shook my head. “Murdering a noble from His Highness Prince Louis’ embassy, and during a ceasefire. You’d have to race headlong wherever your legs would take you. You’d become a pariah not only in Northland, but in Vestonia as well.”

“Then I’ll go to the Atalians,” Sigurd shrugged his shoulders, parrying my tone. “I’m sure they could find room for an avant.”

“Of course they could,” I nodded. “They’d be happy to have any stryker now. But you’d be in trouble. First of all, they aren’t big fans of heretics, and second, you’ll never make it to Atalia. Or any other country for that matter.”

“And why might that be?”

“For murdering your employer, the dusksworn will declare open season on you and execute you in broad daylight. The guild’s enforcers are a far cry from a couple frost knights who can’t even pull off a proper ambush.”

“How’d you know about the ambush?” he quickly changed the topic.

“I was following you,” I shrugged and saw the stryker’s energy system flood with purple energy.

“So that day of leave was a simple excuse to spy on me?” Sigurd squeezed out through clenched teeth.

“Partially, yes,” I replied. “After all, I must know how my personal bodyguard lives. Beyond that, I’ve been seeing that bleach blond woman a bit too often. I had to make certain you were not sent by my enemies.”

I was aware I was playing with fire. Sigurd was on edge. He was moment from attacking. But the stryker was slowing down. My reasoning was just too strong. He knew about my origins. He would not be forgiven for murdering a nephew of the Count de Gramont and Duchess du Bellay. The dusksworn were vigilant about maintaining their reputation.

Sigurd stopped boring into me, breathed a heavy sigh and, taking the second mug of water, downed it in a single gulp. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked me straight in the eyes and asked:

“Why did you help me?”

“You mean the archers, or the three keeping watch over the building where your woman lives, and who I had to take down after you left?” I decided not to mention that one of them was a stryker.

Sigurd’s face went pale. He instantly hopped up and wanted to run to the exit.

“Stop,” I ordered sternly. “She’s fine. They get to her. She doesn’t even know there was an ambush. But you can make sure of that yourself later. As for your question. First, you are with me now. I take care of my people. Second, I paid a fortune for you at the guild. I tend to keep my investments safe. And third, we’re in the same boat now and bound by the blood of your enemies, who are now my enemies as well. Who is she?”

I asked the last part in a normal tone.

“My wife,” Sigurd responded, continuing to bore into me with a grim gaze.

“I see,” I came thoughtfully. “What can she do?”

“Fight,” he replied without thinking.

“Hm,” I stroked my chin. “Then that simplifies matters a lot. I just so happen to need people who know how to swing a sword. If she’s looking for work, we could discuss terms of employment.”

Sigurd kept silent. The look in his eyes changed. The shade of anger retreated. He looked at me as if for the first time.

“You can consider my offer,” I continued. “Now a question. What about the bodies?”

“In the sewer,” Sigurd replied. “They won’t be found there for a while.”

I waved a hand in front of my face and said:

“Now I see where these aromas came from. I trust you didn’t take their armor or weapons.”

“No,” he shook his head. “Just money, bruts, and potions. But I stashed the armor and weapons underground nearby.”

“Good,” I nodded. “Now, if you’d be so kind, get yourself together. You stink so badly my eyes are tearing up. I wasn’t lying — we have a lot to do. At noon, you’ll be coming with me to the konung’s palace. Maître Berault de Briansonne, steward of His Highness’ embassy finally remembered I exist. You have two hours.”

I said the last part with a significant nod at the door. As if to say, feel free to run to her and test my words.

Sigurd first darted forward, but then stopped and said with a deep bow:

“Thank you, monsieur.”

* * *

It cleared up by midday. The northern sun peeked out from behind the gray clouds. In its rays, the Pearl of the North, palace of Konung Bjørn Sharptooth towered on a hill in the very center of Fjordgrad, this time not quite so oppressive with its gloomy majesty. Yet again staring at the stone monster, I was astonished by its odd name.

The palace’s central complex was made of dark gray nearly black stone. The roof was covered in flat tiles of the same shade as the walls. From a distance, it seemed that the palace was topped by the huge, scaled pelt of a giant dragon.

The many spires of the towers launched up into the sky while their bronze weathervanes reflected the rays of the sun, casting off flickering light.

The palace’s giant oaken gates were decorated with bronze sheets depicting the crest of the ruling dynasty, a bear rampant. The gates were guarded by fighters in suits of armor wielding battle axes on elongated shafts.

Inside the palace there were spacious halls, their walls decorated with tapestries and trophy banners from vanquished foes. The high arches were supported by stone columns decorated with carvings depicting scenes from northern mythology.

The central area in the palace was the throne room, dominated by an opulent seat made of stone and gold set with precious gemstones. This must have been where the konung greeted foreign guests and vassals and rendered his judgements.

Everything around was massive, heavy, solid and, based on the simple carving in the stone, very ancient. I suspected that, in the opinion of the local ruler’s ancestors, this primitive gigantism was invoked to demonstrate their might and majesty.

Konung Bjørn Sharptooth’s feast had lasted for over a month already without pause and, if it was at first a diligently planned festive occasion, by the time our delegation made it to the event, it had turned into a never-ending binge drinking session. The nobles from Prince Louis’ inner circle, who had gone straight from the ship to a ball on day one, were no longer glad to be staying in the palace. Jean-Louis de Levy, who I had made friends with on the way, certainly felt that way. He sincerely envied me.

Although, thanks to his mastery, as well as the prince’s healers’ abilities, he had maintained his dignity. The Vestonian aristocrats that never stopped supping from the nonstop river of booze at the konung’s tables now looked like merchants who had blown their entire fortunes.

Walking down the wide throne room past the long tables set with various delicacies and beverages, I saw noble counts, barons, and viscounts and couldn’t recognize them. Some were sitting on the bench with their heads laying on a plate of pâté snoring loudly. Others were lying under the table embracing bearded northerners and croaking out bawdy tunes. At the base of a column, curled up in a circle with his hands under his cheek like a child, slept Max’s cousin François. I never saw the older cousin.

“Now do you see what I mean, monsieur?” Jean-Louis asked with a sad lilt to his voice, having volunteered to take me to the feast and show me around. The redheaded perfumer ran a pointed gaze over the chaos.

Today, the konung had expressed a desire to invite junior nobles from Prince Louis’ embassy to the feast. The people from Carl III’s youngest son’s inner circle seemed to the konung to be weaklings, incapable of having fun and drinking. Basically, now it was time for embassy members of my level.

In the konung’s palace, beyond Vestonians, there were junior members of various northern clans and foreign nobles from other lands. Like us, they looked in surprise at the tables and revelers at them. Honestly, the northerners looked on it more with satisfaction. They must have been raring to get here all this time. Sigurd was utterly unsurprised, but not losing his head. Keeping a sharp eye out. Ready to cover me at a moment’s notice.

The air in the throne room was abuzz with raucous laughter, drunken cries, false singing, and trashy music. The smell of the delicious dishes prepared over open fire filled the air. Aromas of meat, fish, savory herbs, and sauces mixed with smoke and tar from stone chalices, burning with some kind of oil.

The faces of the “fresh” guests read as hungry and full of anticipation. Some northerners, who the older guests met with cries of joy, were already seated at the long tables.

While Jean-Louis led me to the far end of the room, I looked around at the tables, familiarizing myself with the menu. The tables strained beneath the abundance of varied yet simple dishes. Stewed and roasted meats, baked fish, smoked sausages, fresh fruit and vegetables, lots of bread and cheese. The clanking of plates and silverware blended with the sounds of loud belching, champing, and scratching.

Crowds of servants flying around the room filled pitchers and tankards of mead, ale, kvass, and wine. The sound of loud toasts and clinking of glasses was accompanied by joyous cries and wishes for good fortune.

The main table, which should have been occupied by the konung and his royal guests was empty. Jean-Louis said that they only visited at lunch and dinner. And didn’t stay long.

I didn’t blame them: the throne room was turning into a pigsty, though the army of servants was giving it their very best.

When we had practically made it to the part of the table where Jean-Louis led me, my path was blocked by three northerners.

“Magnus!” exclaimed a red-bearded kid. “Look at this southerner! I think we’ve seen him before!”

He was speaking to a bulky, broad-shouldered kid with long wavy hair. The look in his dark, closely set eyes promised nothing good.

“Yes, Knut!” the fit blond encouraged the redhead. A mischievous smirk played on his lips. “I recognized him, too! This is the jester that rode in on a white pony! He was acting rude!”

“And he complained about our hospitality!” the redhead looked around pointedly at the long table of food. “What do you have to say now, southerner?”

A quick scan revealed that I was now dealing with regular people. Heh… Apparently false Thais, or whatever she was called… Helga the Valiant, was holding a grudge and had sent these two young lads out to teach me a lesson.

I sensed movement behind me. Sigurd stepped forward.

“He brought a mage with him,” the fit one laughed. “These softy southerners are afraid of their own shadows.”

As an aside, all three of them noticed the wing on my chest but had no reaction to it. Either they didn’t know what it was, or they didn’t care about Vestonian decorations.

Jean-Louis came over to me and softly said that I was dealing with minor local nobility. But his face had no expression. He had already studied me well and was simply waiting for things to unfold.

“Sigurd, what do you think, would the king be very mad at me for cutting out the tongue of this redheaded blabbermouth?” I asked the stryker calmly.

“Your Worship, do you really think that would teach him anything?” Sigurd answered me in his turn. “Just let me cut his head off. It’s empty anyway.”

Redheaded Knut’s face flushed, and he lunged forward, but the black-haired Magnus held him back.

“Cool it, cousin.” Then he said to me: “How about a duel with wooden swords? You and me. That way, we’re not breaking the law. If you’re not too scared, of course.”

“Is he lying?” I asked Jean-Louis.

“No,” he replied. “There’s a special area here in the garden. People have been settling scores there for days now.”

“I agree,” I nodded at Magnus. “But I have one little addition. I say we have your cousin take part, too. That will save us time.”

Magnus and Knut smiled and traded looks.

The black-haired one grinned:

“You asked for it, southerner.”

* * *

Around the wide square next to the palace, there was a small crowd of spectators from the north and abroad. Among them, I noticed a tall, young man with light hair and dark blue eyes. He was surrounded by several young people laughing bawdily, commenting and nodding in my direction.

Based on his opulent clothes and large amount of jewelry, he was a local rich kid.

Following my gaze, Jean-Louis, who had been at my side all that time, came:

“That is the konung’s youngest son, Prince Erik.”

“Apparently,” I nodded at the trio staring me down. “His Highness has strong feelings about me.”

Magnus and his buddies were also standing next to the prince and listening to him speak with rapt attention.

“Are you sure you don’t need my help?” Jean-Louis asked yet again. “Those two seem like formidable opponents.”

“I thank you, monsieur,” I smiled. “But I am the one who must teach those two a lesson.”

“If you say so,” he shrugged.

Sigurd, on the contrary, didn’t say a word. He often tried to keep his opinion to himself. Especially after our morning conversation.

After a signal from a footman, the three of us entered the circle at almost the exact same time. Based on the cheery and bloodthirsty laughter from my opponents, they must not have been planning to take it easy on me despite my numerical disadvantage. Taking a training sword in each hand, I gave them a few swings to get used to the balance.

I decided not to use any energy yet. Recently, the body I’d inherited from Max had undergone significant transformation. My daily workouts and energy procedures had not gone to waste.

“Hey, southerner!” Knut shouted. “Today you learn the true meaning of northern hospitality!”

“I very much hope so, northerner!” I replied. “But first, I’m going to teach you some manners. You must not have been whipped enough as a child!”

That time, Magnus was unable to hold his cousin back. Though he didn’t particularly try. Clearly, no one here took me seriously. Other than the Vestonians, of course. They had already seemingly placed their bets on me.

The redheaded kid came racing in my direction, his face warped in anger. With a big swing, he chopped down back to front. Thought he could end the battle in one blow. If his sword hit me, I’d have ended up lying in the snow in a pool of blood.

Ducking beneath the redhead’s right hand, I found myself behind him. A loud thump rang out through the square. That was me hitting Knut below the belt with my right sword full force. I hit him with the flat, so the sound was juicy and evocative. And of course it hurt. My opponent balled himself up and started wailing.

“That’s for calling me a jester on a pony!” I shouted as the crowd chuckled loudly.

Redheaded Knut, red as a freshly boiled crayfish, turned over, but that was all he managed to do. My left blade, again flat, came down on his forehead. The big man’s eyes rolled back, and he fell to the ground like a sack of turnips.

For a moment, silence hung over the square. And then, everyone started buzzing all at once, expressing their opinion about what they’d just seen. The Vestonians smiled in satisfaction while the northerners and foreign visitors exchanged surprised glances. It clearly was not the outcome they were expecting.

Magnus, having learned from his cousin’s bitter experience, was taking his time. He adopted a defensive posture, waiting for me to strike. And I didn’t keep him waiting.

A quick step to the right. Then left. I smacked his wrist with my right sword, and Magnus’ training sword fell to the ground. A moment later, the tip of my left blade was sticking into the throat of the black-haired northerner.

“In a regular battle, you’d have lost your hand, then tasted your own blood,” I came coldly to Magnus, who was frozen in place.

I didn’t know what he read in my eyes, but he was clearly not planning to move a muscle.

“I suspect our training fight is over?” I asked.

“Yes…” Magnus rasped, trying not to wince in pain. A bruise was forming on his wrist.

I took the sword off his throat and, paying him no more mind, walked toward Prince Erik and the group of young nobles surrounding him.

“Your Highness, allow me to introduce myself,” I came, performing a respectful bow. “Chevalier Maximilian Renard, at your service. I hope you enjoyed our little friendly duel. I tried to go half strength so I wouldn’t hurt your warriors.”

Prince Erik just nodded in silence. I saw his jawbones grinding through the temples of his well-groomed face, a glimmer in his dark blue eyes.

Giving another bow, I froze bowing my head, only standing up straight when the prince and his escort had left.

“Valiant,” Sigurd said in a respectful tone, stopping next to me.

I just shrugged my shoulders in silence and, when Jean-Louis walked over, I asked him, “don’t you think it’s time for us to have a little pick-me-up?”

“Lead the way, my friend!” Baron de Levy came with a smile.

Before walking after Jean-Louis, I sensed someone watching me from above. Looking up, I spotted two familiar female silhouettes in the window of the palace’s third floor.