Last Life

Book 6: Chapter 1

I WAS SITTING AT THE TABLE in my hidden basement, getting all my papers in order. I had accumulated quite a lot of them over the preceding few weeks. And these were just the ones that made it through Rémy Dormal and his minions’ vetting process. There were other documents that required my personal attention, and which would have to be taken care of before my departure.

At the moment, I was holding a large envelope bearing the seal of a mercenary guild poetically named the “Flaming Spears.” The letter was from one Gaspard Fontaine, the master of the guild, and the man responsible for engaging with its clients. He was polite, but adamant. As were his colleagues from other reputable mercenary guilds, who had already sent me similar envelopes of their own.

Replies like “alas, Your Lordship, our strykers have already been contracted out,” followed by assurances of their continued respect and deference toward my person and other meaningless nonsense that was nevertheless required in such circumstances.

Setting the letter aside, I leaned back in my armchair and ran my hands slowly across my tired face.

Ever since the moment the King’s jester had informed me of the Royal will, back in the exchange building, I had been looking into the possibility of hiring strykers for the unit I would eventually assemble.

And the first stages of that process were already underway: I sent inquiries to all the major mercenary guilds in the capital, including the “Red Axes,” the “Souls of Steel,” and the aforementioned “Flaming Spears.” And in reply? Not a single affirmative answer.

Basically, I knew pretty well what was happening. It didn’t take a genius to guess why they were all declining my business.

“Well?” The nisse asked, trying to sound casual although she had obviously interpreted the emotions on my face correctly. As usual, she was sitting on the edge of my table; as I perused my papers, she was polishing an emerald ring with a little rag. “So the capital’s shadow experts don’t want to go to war with you? Maybe that’s for the best, actually... Fewer freeloaders means fewer expenses.” “Heh,” she shook her head. “I remember the days when strykers would be out hunting on the frontier for years on end. Nowadays they seem to prefer sitting on their asses in the capitals. And then they wonder why their families don’t produce very many powerful mages these days. The Power is like a trusty blade — it needs to be tempered and honed all the time!”

“It’s not that simple,” I objected. “It’s one thing to go hunting in the Shadow, and another thing entirely to square off against people as powerful as yourself. You already know that my new lands are occupied by the “Scarlets.” That problem’s not going to solve itself without a lot of blood being spilled.”

The mere mention of the warrior-priests was enough to make Itta mutter a stream of curses under her breath, directed at those fanatics.

According to the information Susanna Marino was able to obtain through her channels, the “Scarlet” knights who were occupying my margraviate were under the command of one Master Alberto di Lanzi, who was also known as the Gray Reaper. When Sigurd heard the name of the opponent we would soon be heading off to fight, he immediately told me a whole series of tales about the man.

Alberto di Lanzi was a true fanatic. His hands were stained with the blood of a great many true gifted. And the same could be said of the Gray Reaper’s comrades. Bloodthirsty bastards, just like their leader.

According to Sigurd, di Lanzi himself was one of the most powerful avants in Mainland. But that wasn’t all. Besides the rank-and-file, he also had several senior knights, each of whom was at least a medius. And then there were the cohort commanders... In the Gray Reaper’s unit, they were all strykers.

Of course, I wasn’t going to have to knock the “Scarlets” out of my territory on my own. The King’s army would be invading under the command of Marshal de Clairmont. True, this army would have to actually make it to the border first. The Golden Lion and his legions were almost certainly already waiting for them. And I’ll be honest: the odds didn’t seem to favor de Clairmont...

Long story short, I wasn’t at all surprised that the heads of the capital’s guilds weren’t exactly eager to send their combat mages into that meat grinder. After all, it would be much more profitable to simply sell their services to some capital-city bigwig as personal bodyguards. And if they were really lucky, they wouldn’t even have to leave their client’s mansion.

“Yeah...” said Itta knowingly as she put the ring back in its little case and started polishing an elegant pearl bracelet. “The shadow gifted are getting weaker, little by little. If they had any idea of the kind of things they were capable of a hundred years ago...”

Listening with half an ear as the nisse waxed lyrical about the powerful mages of the past, my thoughts returned to my conversation with Sigurd.

The truth is that even while I was collecting information on my new margraviate and working out a plan to regain control over it, part of which involved sending inquiries to the big mercenary guilds, I was pursuing several goals at the same time. Besides hiring and establishing connections with the respected grand masters of these guilds, my actions were simultaneously getting the word out to anyone who might want to accompany me on campaign. I had no doubt whatsoever that word of a newly-minted margrave hiring warriors for his retinue would spread like wildfire.

And it worked. True, it didn’t work out exactly as I might have liked. For a short time, Monsieur Dormal’s accounting house — as well as my own castle — essentially turned into places of pilgrimage for a veritable flood of various mercenaries: everyone from opportunistic hired thugs to fully legitimate representatives of professional fighting units. Alas — there wasn’t a single stryker among them.

So far, the situation wasn’t heading in the best direction. I was already thinking I might have to take the most experienced men from my own castle’s garrison with me (commanded by Jacques), but then I had a conversation with Sigurd, who suggested an alternative to the capital’s mercenary guilds.

As if reading my mind, the nisse piped up:

“So what did you decide to do about that unit whose captain approached Sigurd about work? It’s a big unit, and they’re ready to head out right away. How many strykers did they have?”

Itta’s tone sounded innocent enough, but I knew better. I caught the subtle note of interest in her voice. The nisse obviously knew more than she was trying to let on. Sooner or later, she would crack and spill the beans to me, but for the time being she seemed to be enjoying watching my actions and decisions as they unfolded. A personality quirk, developed over the course of several centuries. And there was nothing I could really do about it. That said, two could play at that game. So I decided to pretend that I hadn’t noticed her interest in the subject at all.

“Two groups of five each — well, almost,” I replied. “That’s if you don’t count the true gifted and the regular soldiers.”

“Well, come on — what’s to consider?” Itta was surprised. “Besides, as far as I understand, Sigurd has known their captain for a long time.”

“That’s not the issue,” I shook my head.

“Then what is?” The nisse was genuinely surprised; she even stopped polishing the bracelet.

“It’s a conflict of interest,” I replied with perfect calm as I watched the nisse’s reaction attentively. “To put it mildly, these guys aren’t the most welcome guests in Herouxville.”

“Are they enemies of the King?” Itta asked. Judging by the expression on her face, however, she already understood perfectly well what I meant.

“No,” I replied. “But they’re enemies of Otto II, the current King of Astland, and someone our own Vestonian King has a peace treaty with. Besides that, I’m guessing that me choosing them will piss off at least one other influential person.

But to be honest, I don’t really care about that... The main thing I need is results.” Nine combat mages. Almost all of them powerful mediuses. Almost exactly what I was looking for. Besides that, Sigurd vouched for them as trustworthy, honest mercenaries. Which, in the end, was why I had given him the green light to head to Roanne, a small town not far from the capital. That had become the gathering place for any mercenaries and other assorted hotheads who wanted to sell their services for a pretty penny, but who for various reasons preferred not to go to Herouxville.

Somewhere in that mass of humanity was the unit we were hoping to hire. The remnants of one of the most powerful mercenary guilds in Astland: the Savage Hearts. This guild had supported Conrad V against Otto II at the Battle of Lüneburg, where it was almost completely annihilated.

The “Savages” who survived the battle fled north, into Northland itself, from where they took ship for the Foggy Isles, where there was always fighting of some sort.

For the moment, however, the islanders seemed to have calmed down somewhat, and so all the suddenly-unemployed hotheads had over to the continent, some to Vestonia, some to Atalia. And that was how the “Savage Hearts” ended up in Roanne. Sigurd explained their choice pretty simply: the Atalians were simply too far away, and “Savages” had an enmity with the “Scarlets” that stretched back decades.

At first, they tried to hire themselves out to Lord Gray, but he (no doubt eager to avoid testing the King’s patience any further) refused to hire them. Then they heard about the strange bastard whose exploits were already the toast of minstrels throughout the Kingdom, and who, to top it all off, had become a margrave, and an avant to boot.

From there, it was pretty straightforward: the captain of the “Savages,” Kurt von Hartha, heard a rumor that the margrave/avant was collecting a force to take his new landholdings back from the enemy. Sigurd also told me that the captain and his men knew exactly where my new march was located, and who exactly they’d be fighting there, so they knew all the risks involved. Sigurd also added that Kurt actually seemed happier once he heard the full explanation of what we were about to undertake. It turned out that the “Savages” had been itching to settle scores with the “Scarlets” for some time.

Eventually, the prospect was just too tempting for me to resist. Almost fifty experienced mercenaries, a quarter of whom were gifted. Again — exactly the sort of unit I needed.

But I hadn’t told the nisse about my decision quite yet. I wanted to find out why she was so interested in this unit.

“Anybody you want to avoid pissing off is going to be staying here, in the capital,” Itta objected quite accurately.

“I feel like there’s something you’re not sharing with me,” I said with a wry smile. “So come on, out with it... Let’s save our energy...”

Realizing that I had caught her out, the nisse snorted loudly and narrowed her eyes as she asked me:

“When did you catch on?”

“Right after I talked to Sigurd,” I admitted. “You didn’t do a very good job hiding your curiosity, or your excitement. Am I to understand that there’s someone else I should know about in this unit of “Savages?” And if he’s met you, that means he must be one of the ancients?”

The nisse sighed.

“You’re right... One of the mages in the “Savages” unit is a hejdelf.”

“Hm...” I thought for a moment. “Hejdelf... Aren’t those the creatures that guard livestock on a farm? I thought they were fixed to a specific location.”

“That’s right,” the nisse nodded. “Lorin — that’s this hejdelf’s name — has been serving this mage’s family for a long time. When the mage lost his home and family, Lorin took pity on him and went with him as he fled to foreign shores. Actually, he’s the one who first discovered that there was an auring in Herouxville, and that he was looking to hire warriors.”

“And he asked you to put in a good word for him?”

“Yes,” replied the nisse. “He also said that the captain’s been approached by another employer, but Lorin didn’t like the look of him at all. But the unit needs work of some kind... Basically, decide as soon as you can... The hejdelf says the people in the unit are all solid. They’ve stood the test of time.”

“I’ve already decided,” I replied. I just had to smile at the funny look that settled over the nisse’s face. “I’ve already sent Sigurd to Roanne with the offer and an advance.”

* * *

My footsteps echoed loudly off the stone walls of the King’s hunting lodge, which was located near the capital. Admittedly, it was a “lodge” in name only. In actual fact, it was a well-fortified castle with four towers, a dungeon, a raisable drawbridge, and a deep moat surrounding the entire perimeter.

In the short time since my arrival, I had already managed to spot more than 200 heavily-armed royal guards patrolling the place. Besides them, thanks to true vision, I also knew that there were at least twenty combat mages on the premises. The notorious Royal Shadows. They seemed to be everywhere. Actually, since becoming an avant, my “internal scanner” was much more effective. I could now “see” much farther, and also much “deeper,” as it were.

As I walked along in the company of a dozen soldiers, I took the opportunity to check out the royal “den” in all its glory. The stone walls were hung with tapestries depicting hunting scenes and lush forest landscapes.

And the hallways and small rooms we passed reminded me of certain museums from my previous life, packed to the gills with all sorts of iron implements made for stabbing and slashing. The king was obviously a fan of weapons, and judging by their impeccable condition, the servants kept a close eye on them, polishing them to prevent even the smallest speck of rust from appearing.

The air was filled with a heady mixture of scents, conspicuous among which were notes of pine resin, smoke, and grilled meat. And I could also detect the characteristic smell of a disease that had begun to win its battle against its victim’s immune system. It seemed that Carl’s health was worsening.

The audience hall was modest by capital-city standards, but by no means devoid of majesty. A huge, wooden throne upholstered with soft carpets towered in the center of the hall, and on it sat His Majesty Carl III the Victorious.

In the conversation I had with my aunt after that memorable masquerade at the Duke de Gondy’s palace, she warned me that the King would definitely want to meet me in person after everything that had happened. Judging by her overjoyed reaction as she said this, I gathered that what was about to happen signaled my elevation to a higher status within the feudal hierarchy in fact, as well as in name.

The Duchess du Bellay asserted that despite the sins of Ferdinand de Gramont, I would have to appear before the King in person to undergo the rite of homage. Her joy, she explained, was due to the fact that given the King’s illness, rituals of this type were being performed on the King’s behalf by the royal chancellor in the presence of a royal judge and some witnesses, instead of by the King himself. And at least on paper, that’s what should have happened in my case, too. But my aunt turned out to be correct — he wanted to meet me in person, and that was a big deal. But Carl III had an ironclad reason for bringing the son of his enemy closer to the throne. Strykers always went through the ritual of homage personally, without any intermediaries. And considering my rank, which seemed to be common knowledge even among the animals of Herouxville, anything less was out of the question in my case.

Once inside the hall, I finally identified something oppressive in the air — something I had been sensing since the moment I stepped across the castle’s threshold. The familiar aura of death. The same one that those black bruts always emitted. And the closer I got to the throne, the more powerfully I could feel the death magic in the air.

The King was dressed in loose-fitting clothing, and he was noticeably pale. I could see exhaustion on his face, but nevertheless he had a powerful, decisive glint in his eye that made it clear I was standing before a man of piercing, calculating intellect. I got a very distinct feeling that the King was sizing me up and deciding whether I was suitable material for his further use. At the same time, I couldn’t sense any aggression or other sort of negative attitude toward me from Carl III at all. It even seemed like he was happy to be meeting me.

Next to the throne stood his healer, a man with a graying beard and cold, fish-like eyes that remained locked on his royal patient, except for the occasional interested glance in my direction.

I could tell he was a healer by the deep red color of his energy system, which was being fed by ten huge, fiery red bruts.

Not far from the throne, on a little, narrow bench, sat a skinny, gray-haired old man. His dark clothing was covered in complex silvery patterns, so much so that it almost seemed to be made of magic. I knew this mage already; I had seen him at de Gondy’s ball. The grand master Gilbert de Ambrelle — head of the Amber Guild of mages.

His baleful glare drilled into me through narrowed eyes as he pursed his thin lips in apparent disapproval. Most likely, he was angry about the flat refusal to join his guild that I sent him several days previously. Actually, though, all his colleagues in the other capital-city mage guilds had received the same answer from me. In their cases, however, I was slightly more courteous and tactful. Gilbert, on the other hand, obviously needed to be put in his place. The next time we communicated, I wanted him to think carefully before addressing me as though I were one of his subordinates. He apparently thought that he was doing me the greatest of honors and that I’d come crawling on all fours to do whatever he asked.

There were several other noblemen in the hall as well, but I didn’t know any of them.

Kiko, dressed as gaudily as ever and with his ever-present expression of mockery firmly in place on his face, was sitting at the King’s feet and (apparently) enjoying the moment quite a bit. My guess was that he was either about to try to lighten the tense atmosphere with some of his jokes, or else deliberately ratchet the tension up a couple hundred notches.

Thanks to true vision, I also noticed the energy structure of another gifted person. A very powerful, true gifted person. Rank — avant. Hm, I thought... I think I know who this is... Marcel de Gaben, the notorious head of personal security for Carl III. The Shadow of the King. He seemed to blend in with the wall, unnoticed but always on his guard.

As I approached the throne, I took off my hat, bent down onto one knee, and bowed my head.

“Your Majesty.”

“So this is what a man looks like when every tavern in my capital is singing of his exploits!” I could hear Carl exclaim in a somewhat mocking tone.

Despite his illness, I could hear strength and authority in his voice. At the end of the day, I thought, even a wounded predator is still a predator. And Carl III was definitely one of the most dangerous ones in Mainland — that was an indisputable fact.

I raised my head and glanced at the King’s wound, which I could see perfectly well thanks to true vision. It was hard to hold back a grimace of disgust.

The royal healers were obviously unable to cope. Sure, they had somehow managed to hold back the progression of the dirty-black, pulsating stain, but only temporarily. I glanced up at Carl again and saw him through completely different eyes. It seemed likely that this would end up being our last meeting. Because at this rate, he wouldn’t last long at all.