Last Life

Book 5: Chapter 14

WITHOUT SUSPECTING IT, Ulf brought Aelira on his tail as he entered the northern district of the Old Capital, where there was an artisan quarter lining one of the river’s banks. Most of the area’s occupants were tailors, dyers, and weavers.

But this was also the home of the wolf pack I was seeking, a place concealed for many years within a respectable community of weavers.

After listening to Aelira’s briefing with careful attention, I set out in the evening to do some scouting. My bodyguards reacted to my solo mission with understanding. I would need to be extremely careful. Unlike Sigurd, the werewolves wouldn’t recognize my scent. Plus, it would probably be best not to bring Aelira’s scent to their attention any more than we had to. Although she assured me that she had done everything possible to cover her tracks. But I decided to play it safe. True, I didn’t actually go on my own — the nisse was with me. But there was no reason my bodyguards needed to know about her yet.

Prior to leaving, I put on my snakeskin armor and armed myself with my “fangs.” I had already run a few experiments with my “invisibility mode” by walking through the streets of the capital at night. After each such outing, I made a few modifications to my armor, resulting in significant improvements to Albrecht Lothar’s creation. The effectiveness of my new “scout” armor was about 30% greater than it was originally.

These transformations were further enhanced by the duplicate energy system within my suit of armor, which functioned kind of like a huge amulet using the energy of lilac bruts. After several more outings, I realized that I could add three more energy nodes to the system. Although that would have to wait for the time being. That kind of detail work was best left to master artifactors, and I still had to find one in the capital.

We made it to our destination without incident. I set up an observation post on the roof of the building opposite, while the nisse disappeared into the night to sniff out the area.

The crafting district was sound asleep. Nobody here worked during the night. According to local belief, Materius — the god of craftspeople and master artisans, an inventor and the guardian of the secret knowledge of creation, who was often depicted with a hammer in his hand — frowned upon the idea of working at night. But I suspected the real reason was the cost of illuminating their premises. Working by the light of candles and torches was dangerous and expensive.

The “weavers” were based in a two-story stone building with an exit to the river, which was surrounded by a tall stone wall. And I have to admit — it was a pretty good cover. Who would ever guess that besides weaving, this little group of respectable traders also dabbled in sending people off to be reborn as shapeshifters?

The nisse returned in less than an hour, but didn’t come back alone; she was accompanied by an old, ragged-looking mongrel. I didn’t even have time to wonder how the beast got up onto the roof before a familiar ripple passed across its body, and I found a little, lice-ridden old man with a scraggly beard standing in rags before me. He was skin and bones, as they say.

“Let me introduce you to someone, Master,” said Itta with a nod at the little old man. “This is Kervan. He’s one of the matagot. He lives on this land.”

Trying to conceal my surprise, I reacted in a calm, even voice:

“Peace be upon you, Kervan. You can call me Max.”

Well, I thought... Yet another fairy-tale character. Vadoma had told me about these matagot. They were spirit guardians who inhabited the workshops and houses of craftsmen. Unlike nisses or lutines, they didn’t forge connections with mages. They could also transform into animals, mainly dogs or cats.

They could be benevolent or malevolent, depending on how they were treated.

If respected and well fed, the matagot could bring good luck and prosperity to the masters of the house. But if they felt offended or ignored, they could become a source of misfortune and unpleasantness for everybody.

Vadoma had also told me that a matagot could bring wealth to its master in exchange for food or other offerings. However, they also tended to be pretty demanding when it came to the type of gifts they wanted, and an insufficiently rich offering might incur punishment.

Judging by his appearance, this Kervan wasn’t doing especially well when it came to such offerings.

“And upon you too, spellsword,” the matagot’s toothless mouth mumbled back at me. Then he turned to the nisse and said: “You weren’t lying — he’s a strong fox.”

Itta slapped her hands onto her hips and thrust her chin proudly up into the air.

“So what do you need here?” One of the old man’s eyes narrowed as he turned to address me.

Unnoticed by the matagot, the nisse nodded at me, indicating that I needed to speak the truth without holding back.

“Certain residents of this neighborhood have tried to kill me on several occasions,” I answered. “I want to return the favor.”

“So old Brima got in your way somehow,” he said as he ran a gnarled little hand through his beard. “And how were you planning to return the favor?”

Hm... So the Guild of the Nightwolves was headed by a pack mother.

“I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder my whole life. The only good enemy is a dead enemy.”

“Will you help us?” The nisse asked.

“What do I get in return?” The matagot’s eyes narrowed as he turned to me with a look of anticipation.

“Well, that’s another question — what can you do to help us?” I leaned my head slightly to the side as I asked this question. “Actually, one more question. Why would you help us anyway? I’m a stranger. They’re your neighbors. And they run this neighborhood.”

“They’re no neighbors of mine!” The old man objected suddenly and vociferously.

His little gray eyes filled with rage and hatred. Thankfully, the object of his hatred seemed to be the werewolves, not me.

“And they’ve never been the ones who run this neighborhood!” Kervan added, clenching his fists. “Many years ago, they killed the former master and his family. Then they took over his house. That was a long time ago, and most locals don’t remember it. But I do... Brima and her spawn killed everybody. They didn’t even spare the children...”

He suddenly raised his head and looked me firmly in the eyes.

“As for your first question. I’ll become your eyes and ears inside their den. They don’t have any claim on my loyalties whatsoever. Brima wanted to befriend me at first, but I wasn’t having any of it.”

The old man grinned evilly.

“When she realized we weren’t ever going to be friends, she tried to force me out. But that was a fool’s errand from the start... Hehe... I really threw some wrenches into her plans back then... After all, she hired a bunch of new masters and reopened the old master’s business as a cover for their den. When I was in my prime, I ruined a lot of things for her. Hehe... But eventually she brought in a powerful witch who beat me up pretty badly. She couldn’t kill me, but she sapped a great deal of my strength...”

At first, I thought it seemed a lot like a trap, most likely set for me by Brima herself. But then I remembered who had brought this matagot to me, and my suspicions disappeared. These creatures lived by different rules than humans did.

I also realized what old Kervan was getting to, in a very roundabout way. He needed energy.

I took a little leather bag of bruts out from behind my belt and dug a big scarlet crystal out from inside it. The sight of it elicited a loud gulp from the old man, and a joyful fire lit up his eyes.

“This is an advance,” I said. “Once we get rid of these wolves, I’ll give you three more just like this.”

“Deal,” said the old man happily, and we sealed the bargain with a handshake.

After that, I gave him the crystal. When the brut touched his hands, Kervan’s wrinkly little face lit up with a mix of happiness and satisfaction. It seemed like he’d been on meager energy rations for quite a while.

When the matagot finally regained his composure a little bit, he said:

“What should I do now, spellsword?”

* * *

And so it began...

Sigurd, Aelira, and I were sitting on the roof of one of the houses, watching a large unit of Stone Knights storm the werewolves’ den.

Fifty experienced warriors, clad in armor from head to toe, a dozen of them strykers, against seven shapeshifters and about twenty regular warriors. The odds were decidedly not in old Brima’s favor.

It was all surprisingly easy to arrange. I had certainly dealt with more difficult tasks. It couldn’t have happened without a little bit of luck, but overall, my approach was like that of a fisherman.

I chose the spot where I wanted to fish, and then studied it. I prepared my tackle in advance, and carefully shared relevant information with other fishermen who were bound to be interested in the same spot.

As promised, Kervan fed me information for several days. I learned all I needed to know about the den and its inhabitants. By the way — I also found out the reason for old Brima’s delay in attacking me again. Two of her older sons had died in the attack up north. Put differently — two of the clan’s strongest warriors. The others were either too young, or absent from the city.

Once I had all the information I needed, I spilled the den’s location to the Department of Carts and Wagons. And when, thanks to Susanna Marino’s active participation in my project, I learned that the recruiter who was courting Denise was actually working for the secret chancery, I slipped the same information to them as well.

Susanna communicated the intelligence to the accountants herself. She simply told her boss that she was tracking some strange man who was loitering outside Chevalier Renard’s mansion for some reason. The suspicious character led her to the crafting quarter. And thanks to her gift, Susanna was able to discover who actually lived in the weavers’ house.

Later, as she told me how it all went down, Susanna informed me that her boss was extremely interested in this information. As for Denise, we had to put on a little show for her. Remaining “unnoticed,” my maid eavesdropped on a conversation between me and Jacques. In hushed tones, we discussed the rumors that some sort of bloodthirsty guild of murderous shapeshifters was prowling the streets of the city.

Eventually, when Kervan told me that someone was staking out the wolves’ den, I knew that the plan had worked. True, I still didn’t know who exactly had given the orders to the Stone Knights. To me, it looked like something Susanna’s boss would do. Their office seemed to be a bit quicker on the draw than the secret chancery. I imagined that the chancery’s people would have shown up with a big unit of guards. Although I may be wrong about that.

Just then, I reflected on the fact that the day before yesterday, I was convinced that everything had failed and we would need to resort to plan B. Through the nisse, Kervan informed me that Brima was suddenly nervous and jumpy. The old wolf could obviously sense that something was wrong.

She even gathered all her children together and announced that the pack would probably have to flee the city. But they didn’t manage it in time... Whoever was commanding the Stone Knights somehow seemed to realize that they needed to hurry.

As I watched the assault, which was already well underway, I didn’t forget to keep track of a small, barely-noticeable door in the wall of the opposite building, whose outlines were barely visible even in true vision. The wall of this building, by the way, comprised one side of a dark, narrow alleyway that led away from the scene.

Sigurd, Aelira, and I chose our position very deliberately. The little door was the exit for an underground tunnel that old Brima dug long ago for just such an occasion. Only she and her eldest son even knew of the tunnel’s existence. Or rather, only she, her eldest son, and our much-offended matagot.

The seconds felt like hours. The noise of the assault was already starting to die down, but the old mother wolf was nowhere to be seen. She probably wouldn’t bring the entire pack out with her. Only the strongest and youngest — the future of the clan. The weaker wolves would be left to cover the retreat. But we had two crossbows loaded and ready, just in case.

Why was she taking so long? The passage wasn’t particularly narrow or long, according to Kervan. Maybe she was already dead?

I was thinking that the old wolf had probably fallen beneath the blades of the Stone Knights when the little door shuddered slightly and started slowly opening.

Finally...

First to emerge was a broad-shouldered, black-bearded man. His hands had already transformed into big, heavy-clawed paws. His nose was also slightly elongated. He jerked it quickly to the side and took a greedy breath of air. As he scanned the area for any suspicious sounds, his pointy, animal-like ears were constantly twitching back and forth.

Finally, he turned, let out a dull grunt, and then strode outside. Behind him came a tall, broad-shouldered woman with a thick head of tar-black hair. Her face, hands, and legs had also partially transformed.

The woman began sniffing the air feverishly and looking carefully down the dark alleyway. The rays of the morning sun still hadn’t reached this place.

A powerfully-built young man about my age jumped out of the doorway behind the woman. And then finally, behind him, a large, gray haired woman emerged. Even now, she wasn’t traveling at the front; she was taking cover behind the young.

But she couldn’t delay any longer. I was already preparing to fire both crossbows, which would have been the signal for Sigurd and Aelira to attack, but suddenly I was distracted by a noise coming from the neighboring streets.

Hm, I thought... I must have underestimated the commander of the Stone Knights. Apparently having discovered the door and its passage, he sent his warriors to intercept. Another minute, and they would seal both exits from the alley, shutting the wolves in a trap.

The werewolves seemed to realize this as well, and their bodies began to transform accordingly. A few more moments was all they would need, and then they’d be gone.

“Don’t let them escape!” I hissed quietly to my companions as I discharged both crossbows at the werewolves, who were frozen for just an instant next to the door.

Practically at the same time, Sigurd and Aelira both fired their weapons.

Our near-simultaneous volley temporarily took both the black-haired woman and the young man out of the game. They both collapsed into the dust. There were two bolts in her chest and one in his neck.

Actually, I had been aiming at Brima, but she managed to react at the last second, and even yank the big black-haired man in front of her. As a result, there were bolts buried in his shoulder and left side.

Knocked off balance by our volley, the wolves lost invaluable seconds — seconds that were critical if they wanted to escape. Both units of knights were already in position, sealing both exits from the alley.

The pack mother’s body and that of the black-haired man were completely transformed. The second female wolf was thrashing around weakly in the dust. Or were these pre-death spasms? On second thought, no. Two crossbow bolts to the chest wouldn’t be enough to stop something as insanely tough as a werewolf. But this time, the young man’s luck ran out. One of the projectiles severed the vertebrae in his neck. He was lying there, not moving at all. His wide-open eyes stared blankly up at the morning sky. He looked even younger than me as he lay there.

I didn’t feel bad for him at all. It seemed fair to assume that the young man already had several deaths on his conscience. Most likely, some of them were local children. Aelira told me all about the initiation that young werewolves had to undergo. Long story short, these creatures were totally morally bankrupt.

A moment later, both units of knights started moving forward at the command of their leaders, and within a few seconds the party was on. The energy structures of the strykers were clearly visible amidst the groups of warriors. I counted five of them. Four experts and one medius. Plus ten normal warriors. More than enough to apprehend two shapeshifters.

And that’s more or less what ended up happening. The battle was a short one. The werewolves put up a quick fight, but the knights managed to subdue them. In the end, the only one of the pack to survive was the old mother wolf herself.

Once a bright silvery color, her old hide was drenched in blood. There wasn’t a spot on it that didn’t have some kind of wound. She was lying in a puddle of purply-red liquid, breathing heavily. Her left paw had been run clean through by a blade. She was missing an ear on the right hand side of her head. A big, bloody hole yawned where one of her eyes used to be. Dirty strips of fir hung limply down from both her sides.

While four knights were busy quickly and expertly tying her up, she didn’t even have the strength to move. Two of the strykers walked around the bodies of the fallen shapeshifters and lopped off their heads. The second she-wolf still hadn’t managed to recover from our volley.

Within a few minutes, a cart equipped with a steel cage stopped at one end of the alley. I noticed a familiar magical pattern on the chains. There was a similar amulet on the chains binding the ghost from the Shadow, who I set free back on the frontier.

They dragged the old wolf off toward the cage-cart. A handyman was already waiting there with a hammer. It seemed like the priests wanted her alive. Apparently, once they shook all the useful information out of her, the plan was for her to feature in some kind of new entertainment for the crowd.

Old Brima seemed to realize this, too. Because when she was just a few steps from the cart, the old wolf suddenly wrenched her body to one side, causing the ropes that bound her to snap.

In an instant, she threw her captors to the side and lunged at the nearest stryker, who had a short spear in his hands.

The combat mage also reacted instantly. He jumped back and thrust his weapon out in front of himself. Within a second, the old wolf threw herself onto its point with all her weight. In true vision, I could see the spearhead sink into her heart and burst out the other side of her body.

As I listened to the other knights loudly shouting congratulations to their brother in arms, I just shook my head. They were praising him for a perfect lunge and a spot-on strike.

But I knew perfectly well that his “strike” had nothing to do with what happened. Old Brima had thrown her last ounce of strength into a suicidal attack, in order to avoid being tortured and humiliated on a bonfire before the unwashed rabble.

“Let’s go,” I said quietly to my bodyguards. “There’s nothing more for us to do here.”