Last Life

Book 5: Chapter 7

UPON RETURNING HOME, I got to work preparing for the ritual. I finally had everything I needed to carry it out. Madleyn had given me a flask of ash oil for each of the birds, and also supplied all the other ingredients on my list.

And I took careful note of her warning that I should be expecting a visit from some spellsword named Basile at any time. I wouldn’t say the news scared me or made me particularly worried. I was curious, but that was about it.

It turned out that the capital was home to a small clan with several spellswords in it. If Madleyn could be believed, the group kept its profile very low, and its behavior very quiet indeed. They didn’t participate in conflicts, and they didn’t bring outsiders into their affairs. Plus, most of the time, most of their members weren’t even in the capital. Basically, each of them took care of their own business. The only one who lived in Herouxville all the time was Basile (plus a student or two), and that was because of his advanced age.

By the way — there wasn’t a single nobleman among them. Madleyn was convinced that one of the reasons Basile would be paying me a visit was my status. The “Old Badger,” as she called him, would certainly try to bring a young man with prospects like mine under his wing.

Well, I thought — we’ll see. Let him come. I was actually interested to see how Basile would conduct himself when the time came. And I wanted to see what a locally-grown spellsword looked like.

Besides that, I knew that there was at least one person like myself who regularly collaborated with werewolves. I recognized that the protective amulets on the necks of those killers from the Nightwolves Guild were made by a spellsword, a wolf by nature. Lada had mentioned it too.

So I had some questions of my own for Basile.

I didn’t ask Madleyn any of them, though. Sure, shapeshifters — especially werewolves and ulfhednar — didn’t tend to be friends to witches. Usually quite the opposite. But if I started asking questions about a spellsword who made amulets for shapeshifting murderers, there was no guarantee that the coven mother would keep quiet about this in her conversations with others. On the contrary, in fact — she would most likely try to turn the information to her advantage immediately and make some money out of it.

I decided that Vadoma’s ritual needed a little bit of modernizing and strengthening. For example: the so-called “bolt stones” were usually chosen from among the oldest available specimens, stones that had been absorbing the strength of the earth for centuries.

Instead of those normal (albeit powerful) stones, I decided to use ones from the Shadow. I had purchased several big cobble-sized stones in the Crafting District with dull, gray-brown mana glowing dimly inside them.

I engraved a witching rune on each of them: the Sun of the South, the Moon of the North, the Wind of the East, and the Thunder of the West. When everything was ready, I saturated the runes with my own mana and blood. Then, during the night, the nisse and I buried the magical stones at points marking the four cardinal directions. Each point was located at the base of the wall that ringed my mansion. And that was also where I engraved runes to avert prying eyes.

Itta, in her guise as a raccoon, was helping me dig the pits in silence, except for some frequent and irritable hissing and snorting. She was mad at me because of the conversation about the bronze figurines, which I struck up with her immediately upon my return to the mansion.

Whatever, I thought — I don’t mind if she’s mad. I haven’t done anything wrong. And she knows I’m right away. It’s just force of habit after living alone for so many years. That’s also why she’s so secretive. I’ll have to treat her like a head of cabbage — peeling back layer after layer of accumulated habit. And yes — the black magpies were the nisse’s personal possessions. I was grateful to her, of course, but I warned her that in the future she would need to be more forthcoming with me.

I wasn’t going to ask her whether there was anything else interesting in her little stash — it was her property, after all. If she ever felt like it, she could share that with me herself. True, I did try to offer her something from my collection in exchange for the bronze birds, but she just responded by declaring me an idiot.

After placing the runestones, I went back to the castle, where Bertrand, Jacques, Sigurd, Aelira, and Lucas were already waiting for me.

Lucas was slightly worried and preoccupied. And I could understand why — something very weird was happening in the mansion. All the servants, including Tom Davies and his warriors, were sound asleep. The nisse had done her work well; unbeknownst to anyone, she slipped some sleeping potion (supplied by me) into their food. Now the mercenaries and servants would be sound asleep until morning, and wouldn’t interfere with the ritual.

Lucas was further disturbed by my physical appearance. During the ritual, I was walking around shirtless, muttering incantations to myself under my breath. And my chest and abdomen were covered with various bizarre-looking symbols that were obviously drawn in blood.

Actually, Lucas was also casting worried glances at Jacques, who was watching it all as though nothing whatsoever were amiss; nevertheless, he didn’t ask for any explanation. Whatever, I thought — he’ll catch on soon enough.

Once I climbed the stairs, I found myself being watched by six pairs of eyes. My people’s reactions were varied. Lucas was worried, Sigurd and Aelira seemed impressed, and Jacques, Gunnar, and Bertrand all looked the same — those three trusted me completely.

“Everybody in,” I said quietly, and then added: “And I don’t want to hear a sound out of anyone.”

My command was carried out in total silence. A few moments later, I was left out in front of the door on my own. I knelt down on one knee in front of the castle’s threshold, dipped my hand into a clay bowl of gray, oily liquid, and then ran it across the smooth surface of the step, polished by many years of foot traffic.

The slightly-warm mix of ash oil and a dozen other ingredients hardened immediately on the stone surface, just like candle wax.

Once the mixture in the bowl was used up, I took my snake dagger out of my belt and started engraving witching runes into the temporarily-malleable stone. It looked like the sort of thing ancient people used to write on wax tablets.

The last rune was written — now, I thought, it’s time for the final touch. Slashing my left palm with the dagger, I poured my own blood down onto the inscription, whispering another witching incantation as I did so to summon a ghostly guard into my service.

As I pronounced the last few words, and the inscription on the stone dissolved, I suddenly sensed someone’s presence behind me.

When I turned around, I caught the wide-eyed stares of my people from inside the house. They were frozen where they stood. Whoever had come to answer my call, they made quite an impression.

I mean, I was in shock too. I was just trying extremely hard not to show it. The truth is, I wasn’t certain that my efforts would be a success until I actually saw it for myself.

Thanks to Vadoma’s lessons, I remembered the theory involved very well, but I had never actually used such powerful magic before. And my adoptive mother was always careful to stress that some rituals should only be performed in cases of extreme necessity.

Summoning a ghostly guard was one of them. Even the tiniest mistake, and the “guard” might turn into an executioner.

When I turned around to look at the creature, there was a single thought hammering in my brain: “I am not afraid of you! I am the master of this house!”

“Remember, son,” Vadoma had once told me. “The guard needs to feel your confidence and your strength. If it senses fear or doubt, you’re dead. Ancient magic doesn’t permit mistakes.”

Standing on the threshold of my home, staring into the serpentine eyes of the ghostly beast who had appeared in answer to my summons, I continued in a calm, measured tone of voice as I held out my wounded hand and formed a little clot of energy in my palm:

“These are my home, my land, and my people. Protect them from enemies. I offer you payment for your service.”

At this, the huge snake-like head hanging in the air in front of me turned its head to the side slightly, and a long, forked tongue appeared from within its mouth.

An instant later, the snake dug its face into my palm and started greedily devouring the proffered energy. A wave of gentle light rippled down through its huge transparent body. I let out a huge sigh of relief and smiled. It worked — the guard took its payment. Vadoma would be proud of me.

Hm... Could I ever have predicted, on the day that Togh and I went out to hunt the River Terror, that the spirit of that shadow beast would one day be serving me?

This, by the way, was another change I had introduced into the ritual. The original called for body parts from house pets — a dog or a cat, normally. Vadoma always said that the spirit of a big dog was perfect for protecting one’s home from the undead.

But I took it one step further, and decided to use the fangs and claws of the shadow bear I killed during the Trial. Before I could do so, however, I noticed a few little shards of snake fang left over from the forging of my sword and dagger. I had given most of the material to the armorers. All I kept for myself were these few little shards. I ground these into powder, which I then added to the ash oil. I decided to save the fangs and claws of the shadow bear for later.

After a few long seconds, during which I felt my hand start to go numb, the ghostly snake finally finished feasting and tore itself away from my palm. With one more glance at me, it disappeared into thin air. Just at that moment, I heard a friendly-sounding sigh of relief behind my back.

I turned around. People were obviously impressed. Even the normally-unflappable Sigurd looked completely stunned.

“Now let them come,” I grinned.

* * *

Herouxville. A quarter in the “Old Capital” of Vestonia

The “Yellow Bream” Tavern

Susanna Marino, a junior accountant in the tiny and virtually unknown Department of Carts and Wagons, was sitting at a table in the back of the “Yellow Bream” Tavern, picking at a plate of overcooked turnips without any particular appetite.

One in a while, she took a sip from a mug of ale in front of her, trying not to wince as she did so. The food and the swill that passed for beer here were revolting, as was the owner of the place and the few regulars who patronized the place.

Despite all those huge downsides, however, the place had one very big upside: nobody from the city constabulary, much less the agents of the secret chancery, ever poked their head inside the place. So it was in this specific tavern that Susanna sometimes arranged meetings for her informants.

Susanna dug around in the plate of vegetables with her knife, then frowned. The young woman’s mood was terrible, and the “culinary masterpiece” on the table in front of her certainly didn’t help.

A few days previously, she had gone in for a very unpleasant conversation with Henri Puret, head accountant of the Department of Carts and Wagons. Well, maybe “conversation” is a stretch... More accurately: in a tone that chilled her to the marrow, the head of the department matter-of-factly informed Susanna what exactly would happen to her if she failed to complete her task. Put simply, it was pure bad news for the junior accountant.

That day, in an effort to drown her fear, Susanna polished off a whole bottle of overproof brandy. Soaked with tears, with snot all over her face, she remembered the first few years of her service in the department.

At first, she thought an awful lot about how she might flee the capital, and flee Vestonia altogether. But each time, her self-preservation instinct stopped her — she knew all too well how the “accountants” dealt with those who tried to flee. Punishment units were always sent after the traitors, and they always caught up to their prey.

With time, Susanna reconciled herself to her situation, and in order to avoid arousing suspicion, she started getting more involved in her work. She was trying to be useful, so no one would see her as dead weight and decide to get rid of her. Firings in the Department of Carts and Wagons were handled by the same punishment units. The only way to leave the Department was in a coffin.

After almost six years of service, she was in good standing with the head of the department. And thanks to her thriftiness, she gradually racked up quite a nest egg for herself — the idea of fleeing was still drifting through her mind from time to time. During that time, Susanna grew up, and she got smarter. Her silly dreams gradually crystallized into a plan.

The boss started treating her a little differently. She found that she now had more freedom. If nothing else, the fact that she now worked without a partner (i.e., someone who was constantly watching her, and being watched by her in turn) said a lot. All this meant that within a year or two, she would be in a position to start putting her plan into action. That task was simplified by the outbreak of war with Atalia. In times like these, it was easier to drop off the radar and disappear. To throw the department’s bloodhounds off one’s trail.

All her hopes were dashed, however, after Susanna received that accursed list bearing a single name. After all, her promotion would depend on successfully completing this task. It would be hard to overstate how happy Susanna was at the opportunity, at least at first.

Max Renard... That gifted bastard somehow sensed her that day, as easily as if she were some kind of incompetent newbie rather than an experienced agent. Susanna had underestimated the man, and she paid for her mistake.

When she reported what had happened, Henri Puret didn’t seem upset, much to her surprise. More than that, it seemed to Susanna that the head accountant wasn’t even surprised; it was almost as if everything he was expecting had come to pass.

As per the department’s rules, Susanna was transferred to a different quarter, where she’d spent the last few months carrying out relatively simple tasks. In other words, she missed her chance, all because of that bastard!

But fortune smiled on her again — Henri Puret hadn’t forgotten her. He summoned Susanna into his office and handed her yet another list of names, along with a bulging bag that was filled to the brim with silver coins.

The junior accountant opened the list, and once again she saw a single name. Max Renard...

As Susanna listened to the briefing that followed, detailing the target’s escapades in the north, her eyes widened. The bastard not only managed to survive in Northland — he actually won the Great Trial declared by the Konung of Vintervald.

Renard returned to Herouxville at the head of a small band of cutthroats, along with two bodyguards who kept an unblinking watch over their employer. According to the head of the department, one of them was a stryker from the Blades of Dusk, who held the rank of avant.

Susanna left Henri Puret’s office with orders to recruit someone from Max Renard’s inner circle.

And soon, Susanna was in luck. She managed to bribe Marc Ducos, the butler of the “Fox Den.” After initially intimidating him, and then stuffing a bag of money into his hands, she explained to the shivering man what specific information she was interested in.

But her joy didn’t last very long: Marc Ducos started supplying her with information, to be sure, but it was completely useless, and came at a significant cost in money. What was more, she couldn’t really find any fault with his performance. Every single day, Susanna received thick letters, often five or six pages long, detailing the rhythm of life in the castle and the comings and goings of his master.

Eventually, after delivering yet another one of these letters, Susanna found herself summoned to have a “conversation” with Henri Puret. She received orders to meet her informant in person and fix whatever was wrong with his brain.

And so it was that she found herself fishing around in a plate of turnips with her knife that evening, sitting in the “Yellow Bream” and waiting impatiently for Marc Ducos.

Finally, the door of the establishment opened a little bit, and a familiar figure froze on the threshold, wrapped in a dark old cloak. Chevalier Renard’s butler took a step forward and stretched his neck out a little bit to take a look around the dark hall. He didn’t notice Susanna, who was sitting in the most distant corner; he just ran his hand distractedly across his face, shrugged, and walked out of the tavern.

Cursing the blind old fool Marc Ducos along with the owner of the tavern (who was too cheap to shell out any more than absolutely necessary on lamp oil and candles), Susanna hurried out to catch the butler.

She raced outside, looked around, noticed a cloak-wrapped figure walking away, and took off after him. She didn’t want to shout; no need for any extra attention.

Susanna only managed to take a few steps before a big, dark silhouette emerged in front of her. An instant later, she could feel a powerful magic emanation emanating from the stranger, whose face was covered with a dark mask.

She was about to whip out the dagger tucked into her belt when she heard a barely-audible movement behind her. A sudden, sharp pain in the back of the head, and she slipped into unconsciousness.

Susanna recovered quite suddenly, as if she had just emerged from underwater. Opening her eyes, she immediately squinted in the glaring light. A quick attempt to move convinced her it would be futile to keep trying. Her arms and legs were tightly tied.

After blinking to adjust to the light, she turned to stare blankly into the space in front of her. When she realized who she was looking at, her heart suddenly felt like it was being squeezed in a vise.

“Well,” said Max Renard in a mocking tone. He was sitting in an armchair, one leg resting atop the other. “Let’s get to know each other.”