Last Life

Book 7: Chapter 15

THE ATALIAN DELEGATION ARRIVED with a whole host of banners fluttering along behind it — so much so that it actually made my eyes hurt. Many of the sigils on them — for example, the black griffon on a red background that belonged to the Duke di Spinola — were already familiar to me from the previous battle against the Atalian knightly cavalry.

All the trophies we had taken — standards, armor, and the personal effects of the noblemen who had fallen in that battle (or at least any of these that were left behind on the field or in the wagon train) — were already cleaned, polished, and packed carefully away in the Citadel’s warehouses.

As I watched the dour-faced Atalian noblemen, who had obviously come to Bergonia for the express purpose of avenging their fallen heirs, I did a little mental arithmetic and tried to estimate how much I might be able to wring out of these people in exchange for all those valuables. Sadly, I was pretty sure that wasn’t what they had come to discuss with me at all. These people were intent on recovering their goods by force; there would be no talk of buying them back with gold.

When the impressive Atalian delegation had assembled in the middle of the soon-to-be battlefield, I had the chance to get a better look at their banners. Conspicuous among them was a scarlet standard with three golden lilies embroidered on it; hovering above the lilies was the golden crown of the heir to the Atalian Throne. Prince Adrian’s personal standard.

Per my understanding with the two Dukes’ representatives, Marquis de Gondy and his entourage were present for these negotiations, so our delegation was every bit the equal of the Atalian one in terms of the number of flowery banners.

It was funny to watch Counts de Broglie and de Lorraine as each man jostled the other in an effort to move his respective master’s standard in front of his rival’s. Most amusing of all, the only soldier who was bearing Prince Philippe’s personal standard had somehow ended up way at the back.

The whole spectacle was a vivid illustration of exactly what kind of rule Vestonia could expect if Carl III’s elder son ever came to the throne. On the other hand, of course, he probably stood a better chance than either of his brothers, not only of ascending to the throne in the first place, but also surviving into his old age after he did so. A weak, spineless puppet for a King... That was exactly what his uncle the Duke de Bauffremont and his future father-in-law the Duke de Gondy wanted.

My people’s banners certainly didn’t end up sidelined. On my express orders, three standard bearers had trotted out ahead of our delegation with the flags of the King of Vestonia and his legions.

Oh, you should have seen the looks on the faces of de Gondy and de Bauffremont’s representatives. All their fussing and jostling turned out to be pointless — they knew that even if we went on to crush the Atalians and drove them from the field, we would do so under the King’s banner, not that of either of the Dukes.

From time to time, I caught the two Counts glancing at me: Étienne de Broglie was openly angry, while Armand de Lorraine just looked extremely glum. For my part, I simply pretended that everything was fine — and technically, it was, since I had upheld my end of the bargain to the letter. If they had any complaints about that, they could come and tell me to my face.

Heh... I would have loved to see Count de Broglie demand that I let the Duke de Bauffremont’s standard bearer gallop forward and take precedence over the King’s. Alas... As unpleasant as I found de Broglie to be, I knew he was no fool.

That said, I knew there was going to be a conflict sooner or later. In fact, I had virtually guaranteed it — next to Leo, who was holding my personal standard as the Margrave de Valier, was Kurt von Hartha, riding along at my express command with a light-gray banner flapping above his head. The banner bore the sigil of a black heart, surrounded by blades of fire.

The news that the Duke de Bauffremont’s banner had been raised right alongside that of the “Savage Hearts” would soon be the talk of everyone who knew anything about the “Savages” and their backstory.

I watched Count de Broglie’s face turn pale as he recognized the banner of the “Savages,” and the little werefox in my soul was positively squealing with delight.

Knowing the Duke de Bauffremont and his personality, this news would be unpleasant for him in the extreme. In fact, the grand old Duke himself would probably have to visit all his Astlandic buddies with explanations, justifications, and apologies for this little incident. Serves you right, I thought... A little payback for your stunt with the foxtails. And this is just the beginning. Believe me, my noble friends. Not right now, of course. But later...

When the two delegations met, Prince Adrian, as initiator of the negotiations, spoke first. In some ways, he reminded me of Prince Heinrich. He was also a good-looking, dark-haired, arrogant young man with mockery in his eyes and power in his physique. A lady killer — no doubt about that.

His armor was covered with ornate blue-gilt engraving, and its polished surface shone in the morning sun. The hulking white mistral beneath the Prince kept stomping one of its hooves impatiently into the earth beneath it.

“Marquis!” The Prince shouted, addressing de Gondy with a wide smile on his face. “I’m very glad to see you! I trust your father is in good health? And how is the Marchioness de Gondy? My heart ached when I heard that she was engaged to be married!”

“Greetings, Your Highness,” Marquis de Gondy replied with a light shade of pink on his cheeks. “I’m glad to see you as well.”

And indeed, he was positively radiating happiness. He was obviously full to the brim with pride at the fact that the Prince had ignored me, the actual commander of the force, and accorded precedence to the Marquis. The noblemen in the Marquis’ entourage started casting mocking, derisive glances my way. As if to say “See this, peasant? THIS is the way the world works around here.”

I just watched the spectacle with a detached, mild feeling of amusement. These people sure are strange, I thought. Our armies are about to meet on the field of battle — in a few minutes, this smiling Prince and his people will be doing everything in their power to stick their knives into our guts.

And meanwhile, Marquis de Gondy and Prince Adrian were still smiling as they reminisced about some funny event at some ball where they had both been present. It was clear that the two of them had known each other for some time, and had met on more than a few occasions.

As I exchanged glances with my own followers, a wry smile crept across my face. It was time to intervene. Otherwise they’d probably move on to discuss their shared escapades as children or something like that.

I turned my eyes from the Prince, onto a powerfully-built old man with a black griffon on his red breastplate. Unlike Prince Adrian, this man was staring very intently at my portion of the delegation, instead of Marquis de Gondy and his entourage. The combat mages in their ranks, who were tasked with protecting the heir to the Astlandic Throne, also had their eyes riveted firmly on me and my people rather than the noblemen.

I counted five mediuses among them. No avants.

Everyone who had set out to accompany me to these negotiations was a stryker. And I was wearing my snake armor to boot. The golden parasite was full, so I wasn’t worried about it ruining my armor.

“I presume that’s the sigil of House di Spinola?” I asked the old man in a loud voice as I nodded toward his breastplate.

If Bertrand had been present, I’m sure he would have reached up to clutch his chest in horror. I had broken something like ten basic rules of etiquette, all while insulting the heir to another country’s throne by interrupting and ignoring him. Further, I had addressed a member of his own entourage without first addressing the Prince himself. Although to be fair, I was only doing the same thing that Prince Adrian had just done himself.

Meanwhile, the old man’s frown deepened; without paying the slightest attention to the dumbstruck Prince or the Marquis (who seemed to fade into the sidelines after I spoke), he replied in a deep, groaning voice:

“And you, apparently, are the new Margrave de Valier? Count de Gramont’s bastard? The leader of a pack of highwaymen and mountain savages? The man who treacherously murdered my son and heir!”

“Yes, your son fell in battle,” I replied calmly. “But what treachery are you referring to? He had the advantage in numbers. The fact that he was either unable or unwilling to take advantage of that fact has nothing to do with any treachery on my part. It’s simply due to your son’s ignorance and stupidity as a commander. It’s much easier to conceal one’s own stupidity and inadequacy by accusing someone else of having acted treacherously. You ought to have devoted more time to your son’s education, and thought twice before entrusting him with command of such a large force of men. After all, his inept management not only cost him his own life — it cost Atalia the lives of almost all his men as well.”

Yep — that did the trick! The Atalians’ faces were almost purple with rage. The hatred burning in their eyes, their infuriated shouts — exactly what I had been hoping to achieve.

After all, they were already underestimating us. They considered us a rabble, which would be unable to withstand an attack by heavy cavalry. They came here to get revenge on us. And that meant they would definitely be trying to win the battle in as complete a manner as possible.

They would allow themselves to get worked up and rush into action. As a consequence, they’d probably make mistakes. Basically, the Prince had actually helped me quite a bit with his little bit of rudeness, although he certainly never intended to do so. And the Duke di Spinola’s reaction only added fuel to the fire.

Nobody in high society would really be able to accuse me of undue rudeness, or of behavior unbefitting a nobleman. They had met me with rudeness from the very start, and thereby set the tone for the negotiations that followed. That’s right: for the people in this world, it wasn’t enough simply to win — you had to do it as nobly as you possibly could.

Besides, the Duke had personally provided confirmation that their side knew perfectly well who was in command of our forces — and that therefore, Prince Adrian had acted with conscious inappropriateness in ignoring me. In this, it didn’t matter that he was the son of a King. After the disappearance of the ancient Empire, Kings were often thought of more as being first among equals than as absolute rulers.

Sure, Max was a bastard, but the de Gramonts were a very ancient line in their own right. And with my current title, I was practically on the same level as a Duke.

“Negotiations are over,” I said calmly, ignoring the enraged shouting from the Atalians and the stunned stares of the Vestonian noblemen.

As I turned Storm around, I shouted out a remark to my own people:

“Every day, I find myself more and more disappointed with the representatives of the Atalian royal house and the people around them. Although at least now I understand why it’s actually a bunch of religious fanatics who pull all the strings in their country.”

As we rode back to our lines, Kurt von Hartha trotted up to ride alongside me on his black charger. With a big smile, he exclaimed:

“If that’s the way you always conduct your negotiations, Your Lordship... Well, I’d like to be present at them more often. That was amazing! I wouldn’t be surprised if the minstrels in our train already have some songs composed about it by this time tomorrow.”

“And if we make it to tomorrow, we’ll have plenty of time to listen to them all,” I chuckled.

Kurt wasn’t thrown off by my words at all, and neither were the strykers who had accompanied me to the negotiations. In fact, they were discussing what had happened in hushed tones with smiles on their faces.

I cast a quick glance over my shoulder. The Marquis de Gondy and his suite were following us at a short distance. The cheer had completely vanished from their faces. They seemed to have realized that the time for joking around was decidedly over. Soon, it would be time to do what they had come to do — what they themselves had been prodding me to do with such insistence.

As soon as we reached our lines, the standard bearers dispersed to their respective units, and as a result the entire army knew about the negotiations before an hour had passed. Soon, I started catching cheerful, mischievous glances from my commanders and their legionaries alike.

Meanwhile, I spent the entire intervening hour carefully watching the Atalian army, which seemed surprisingly calm. I didn’t really know who was in effective command — the Prince or the Duke — but whoever it was, they managed to impress me.

Part of me was expecting them to launch into an immediate attack with an avalanche of 3,000 cavalry after the way I had provoked them. I knew they were burning with the desire to punish the insolent bastard and his army of highwaymen. But they didn’t. Instead of an impulsive attack (which we were fully prepared for), the Atalian army started deploying itself in precise, disciplined formation.

When they were finally in position, the enemy commander managed to surprise me again. The cavalry stayed where it was — instead, long, even rows of infantry began marching toward us, divided into six battalions. Judging by their armament and their iron discipline, we were facing one of the Golden Lion’s legions that Lord Gray had warned us about.

After marching forward about a hundred yards, the Atalian legionaries stopped. Then we heard long, repeated whistles sound from within the mass of infantrymen. Their ranks parted. Soldiers carrying big shields as tall as a full-grown man, and armed with crossbows, began to move forward from the gaps.

So, I thought... Here are the famous Rivlians. With all this heavy equipment, their services must have cost a pretty penny.

I had heard a little bit about them already. There was a certain principality in the eastern part of the continent, surrounded by chains of mountains and thick forests, called Rivlia. It was a proud, independent land. Famous both for its warriors and its artisans.

As always happens in such cases, the Principality’s independence and self-sufficiency inevitably rubbed someone the wrong way. Basically, the Principality of Rivlia had been fighting off attacks for centuries, and always managed to hang onto its independence.

More than that, the constant warfare had led to the Rivlians developing several powerful mercenary guilds, which later began to participate in conflicts all across Mainland. In other words, they started out by defending their own independence, and then went on to hire themselves out to the very people who were trying to take that independence — now, however, they were helping take away OTHER people’s freedom while keeping a firm hold on their own.

Well, I thought... Let’s see what you’re made of. I nodded, and a soldier standing next to me sounded three blasts on a military horn. Immediately, the commanders of my units of archers began shouting orders at their men.

A duel between the Mertonians and the Rivlians was about to start.

The first volley came from their side — a flurry of crossbow bolts. They looked like little black dots against the bright blue sky. Our soldiers were already hiding behind their shields in expectation of these first volleys.

Still, I could see tension on their faces. Nearby, a big, stocky, bearded soldier closed his eyes and started whispering what was either a prayer or some kind of spell. Next to him, a thin, red-haired young man quickly kissed a charm that was hanging from a cord around his neck.

The Mertonians, however, weren’t taking any kind of shelter whatsoever. Because they knew Vaira was covering them, from where she sat in the shelter of a wagon loaded with heavy stones. The first volley of dark bolts seemed like it was about to crash down on our archers in their neat ranks; suddenly, however the efirel created several barely-noticeable whirlwinds that slapped the Rivlian projectiles harmlessly to the ground. When all was said and done, it would have looked like the bolts had simply fallen short of their target.

I chuckled. So far, we were ahead, 1-0.

The enemy didn’t have to wait very long for our response. Several practically-simultaneous volleys soared up into the sky before slamming down onto the bewildered Rivlians and Atalians. The first cries of pain and streams of cursing began to echo out from the opposite side of the field.

The Rivlians tried to fire another volley; this time, they did so kneeling, from behind their shields. But these projectiles met the same fate as the previous ones.

Meanwhile, the Mertonians received new orders from their commanders and started firing arrow after arrow, one after the other.

More screams echoed out from the other side as, beneath a withering hail of arrows, the crossbowmen began a hurried retreat into the ranks of the legionaries behind them. The latter, in turn, saw that their own long-range units weren’t going to be of any help at all, and so (with another well-timed chorus of whistle blasts) they moved their big shields forward, closed ranks to face us, and started marching toward us at a much faster pace than before.

Vaira was about to start creating small whirlwinds to make things harder for them, but just then I began to speak in a quiet, insistent voice, knowing that she would still be able to hear me:

“Enough... Save your strength... Join the battle on my command.”

Despite the fact that my fairies had become a lot more powerful by that point, these powerful spells took a serious toll on the energy levels in their reservoirs. So I was trying to get them involved only when it would make a truly significant difference.

Besides, I wanted to keep their existences secret for as long as I possibly could. And when I did make use of their magic, I wanted to keep it concealed. As we had done with the crossbow bolts, for example, or during the assault on the Gray Reaper’s camp, or at Chateau Gardien.

While Selina and Vaira took this decision pretty calmly, Ignia — who felt that I barely ever made use of her in my plans at all — would sometimes allow her impulsive personality to get the better of her. I had to keep intervening to keep her under control, but on the other hand, you could say that was just an occupational hazard. Ignia was a fayret, after all — a descendant of massively-powerful fire spirits. Impulsiveness and impatience were simply the norm. Anyway, I thought... She’ll certainly have a chance to prove herself today.

Meanwhile, the Atalian legionaries had reached our first lines of fortification. The ditches and moats filled with filthy water came as a big surprise for them. All over the place, legionaries started falling and tripping, creating gaps in their mobile line of defense that our Glenns were extremely quick to take advantage of.

Spurred on by their commanders, however, the legionaries kept moving forward until they finally reached the row of sharpened stakes and the first ranks of our infantry assembled behind it. Our men met them with full-length shields and long spears. With that, the enemy’s forward movement ground to a halt.

The confrontation was brutal and merciless. The sound of dull blows, clanging iron, wounded men screaming, the incessant click and twang of crossbows and longbows — it all mixed into a single, deafening, murderous roar.

After a little while, I realized that despite our enemy’s relentless forward push, they simply weren’t going to make it any farther than they already had. A certain fragile balance set in all down the line. It was the kind of situation that any careless or poorly-thought-out order from a commander could ruin in a second.

I glanced over at the enemy’s original position, where the banners of Prince Adrian and the Duke di Spinola were still fluttering in the breeze. All 3,000 heavy cavalrymen were still there, waiting for their time to come.

“What’s the holdup?” I mouthed silently as I stared over at them. “Make a decision, Your Highness. You can see your infantry’s not going to be able to handle this on its own.”

It almost seemed like they had heard my words. A long, baleful blast from a military horn rang through the air. Then another, and another... The Atalian officers in front of our positions began blowing furiously on their whistles, and their legionaries began a slow, organized retreat.

The dull, low, slightly crackly blast of the trumpet rang through the air once again, and I saw the flow of equine lava surge forth from its position...