Last Life

Book 7: Chapter 17

“HOW ARE YOU FEELING, Your Highness?” I asked Prince Adrian as I stepped into his tent, which we had set aside especially for his use, and in which he had been living for two days already by that point.

That’s how much time had passed since the day of the battle on the banks of the Miroir — or, to use the title the minstrels had already adopted, the Battle of the Golden Swords.

More than 500 high-quality swords, whose hilts were engraved with the crests of various Atalian noblemen and lavishly set with gold, silver, and gemstones in the finest Atalian fashion, had been found on the field after the battle.

We had dealt the aristocracy of Northern Atalia a terrible blow on that day. It would be years before Fernando di Spinola’s duchy could replenish its losses...

Several hundred Atalian cavalrymen managed to flee the field after the battle. We sent several units of werewolves after them. It didn’t seem like the Atalians would manage to get very far.

The Golden Lion’s legionaries and the Rivlians both tried to make an organized withdrawal, but our people — infuriated by news that these same men had perpetrated the massacre of Marshal de Clairmont’s survivors — surrounded them and slaughtered them to the last man.

For the Rivlian mercenaries, the day was an especially unlucky one. First, all their crossbow volleys fell short because of Vaira’s intervention. Then, in an effort to save their men from the hooves of the Atalian cavalry coming up from behind, the Rivlian captain had led their cohorts over to the army’s left flank, which put them directly in front of Ignia’s attack. Finally, at the very end of the battle, the Vestonians and mountain men slaughtered any who were still alive.

By the way — my little ruse with the nonexistent crude oil, supposedly procured from the frontier by the Sapphire Guild, had worked like a charm. There was some oil, of course, but it wasn’t crude oil — just a small amount of lamp oil. Just a few barrels’ worth, actually, which I had requisitioned from the Citadel’s warehouse.

It was enough to allow the Glenns, who were in on the whole charade, to sneak out late at night and dump the contents of the barrels into the pre-prepared ditches in front of our positions. They pulled it off without a hitch, thoroughly and very carefully. After all, we had deliberately spread a rumor beforehand that the liquid was extremely dangerous and highly flammable.

I wasn’t worried about the possibility that the oil might simply absorb itself into the damp earth in the ditches. Ignia could simply create a wall of fire wherever necessary — no oil required. That option simply would have required us to come up with a long explanation about where the hell the wall of fire had come from.

In the end, as soon as the first fire arrows from the Glenns hissed into the oil-filled ditches, the fayret and the efirel worked in tandem to turn the place into a genuine hellscape...

“It took you two entire days to finally climb down from your ivory tower and meet me face to face?” Prince Adrian spat arrogantly.

Bereft of his armor, his white mistral, his weapon, and his gems, dressed in borrowed clothing, and wrapped in a thick wool cloak, the heir to the Atalian Throne didn’t look anywhere near as invincible and majestic as he had before.

He was lying on a wide cot, propping himself up on one elbow, with his right leg wrapped in some sort of thick fabric and elevated on a pillow. There was also a bandage wrapped around his head. Nothing too serious. The Prince’s only injuries were a twisted ankle and a mild blow to the head.

“Your Highness,” I said with a bow of my head. “I’ve been busy tending to the wounded.”

“What’s going on with my people?” The Prince asked. “Your man isn’t telling me anything.”

“Gunnar is merely obeying my orders,” I replied. “Don’t judge him too harshly, Your Highness. After all, I trust he’s carrying out all his other duties appropriately?”

“He’s refusing to give me any wine!” The Prince snapped back with indignation.

“That’s also on my orders,” I patiently explained. “You can’t have wine right now. As for your people... Well, most of them were killed. Those who survived are in our hospital as we speak. But there aren’t many of them.”

The Prince was staring firmly back at me.

“You’ve disgraced yourself forever with this victory, Margrave,” he finally announced.

“Permit me to inquire — in what way did I disgrace myself?” I was surprised.

“You weren’t fighting like a nobleman or a knight at all — it was like fighting some sort of savage!” The Prince snorted contemptuously. “People of noble blood don’t fight that way! Hiding behind spears, surrounding themselves with ditches and fire traps...”

“In other words, I should have allowed myself and my men to be killed?” I asked. “To come out into the open field and wait for your cavalry to stomp us into the mud?”

“Then you’d have died like a true knight!” The Prince replied, apparently not having noticed the sarcasm in my voice. “You’d have met your fate and your death with honor! Now all the noble houses in Mainland will know you as a man WITHOUT honor.”

The Prince noticed the smile on my face, and he frowned.

“Why are you smiling, Monsieur?”

“What makes you think I give a damn about what the noble houses of Mainland think about me?” I asked, cocking my head slightly to the side in an expression of mock bewilderment. “And actually, if we’re speaking frankly... Aren’t we similar, at least in that sense? Do you really give a damn about what people think and say about you?”

“You and me?” The Prince was genuinely outraged. “You dare compare yourself to the heir to the Throne? In any other situation, the very thought would be enough to have you quartered!”

“Perhaps — in any other situation,” I shrugged as I sat down in an armchair across from his cot. I crossed my legs and folded my hands on my knee. “At the moment, however, you’re in my power — I’m not in yours.”

“You’d kill an unarmed man?” Adrian’s right eyebrow rose slightly. A mask of derision was frozen on his aristocratic face.

“Even if I returned your sword and armor and stepped into the ring against you unarmed and wearing nothing but an undershirt, Your Highness, you’d still be a dead man.”

“Ah, yes...” He shook his head. “You’re a mage, aren’t you.”

“And you, Your Highness, are hardly one to moralize about killing unarmed people,” I went on, ignoring what he had said.

“What do you mean by that?!” The Prince shouted, as indignantly as though I had physically slapped him in the face. “Do you accuse me of dishonor?”

“You and your father,” I nodded calmly. “You’re both complicit in the deaths of hundreds, maybe thousands, of women and children who’ve been burned by the fanatics from the Scarlet Order. It has always happened, and continues to happen, because you allow it. After all, you’ve never lifted a finger to save any of these poor people.”

“Ah, you’re referring to those rabble — the true gifted...” A squeamish grimace stretched across the Prince’s face.

“Well, first and foremost, they’re your father’s subjects — YOUR future subjects,” I interrupted him. “There’s no honor in subjecting an innocent child to torture and then burning them to sate the bloodlust of the crowd. And yet somehow, you see fit not only to call them “knights,” but to think of yourselves as honorable rulers?”

Red spots appeared all across the Prince’s face. There was nothing in his eyes anymore but pure, unbridled hatred.

“Now, as to your mention of what the other noble houses of Mainland will think of me...” I continued in a calm, slightly bored-sounding tone. “Would you like to know what they think of you and your father? I mean, I’ve had occasion to meet Counts and Dukes, as well as Princes and Kings, from all across the continent. And I can assure you... Both you and your father are objects of disdain to every single one of them. In their minds, you’ve long been considered nothing but puppets, dancing at the ends of the Scarlet Temple’s strings.”

I wasn’t making that up, of course — in fact, I had heard such a statement about Prince Adrian himself not long before. And I simply couldn’t resist the opportunity to rub his face in it.

Prince Adrian’s fists were clenched so tightly that it seemed like blood might start dripping from where his fingers were digging into his palms. His cheeks were practically convulsed by twitching, and the shadow of offended pride had joined the look of burning hatred in his eyes.

Well, I thought... I made yet another enemy today. Once who might be the King of an entire country someday, if he could somehow manage to avoid dying in battle. I had also inserted a little bit of grit between him and the Scarlets. It didn’t seem likely that the Prince would ever forget my words on that subject.

Judging by his face, it seemed to be the first time anyone had ever spoken so frankly to him. To be honest, I was actually surprised by his restraint. Pleasantly so, I might add — after all, there were going to be many, many more such conversations between us while I waited for his ransom. During that time, I was also planning to put a whole lot of new ideas into his head (not without the lunari’s help, of course).

In my mind, I couldn’t resist a small chuckle. When it had first been reported to me that the Prince had been taken captive, I could barely believe my good fortune. The game would get a lot more interesting with a trump card like that in my hand.

For the time being, however, I could see that the Prince was about to descend into a furious, rage-fueled diatribe. He actually opened his mouth to start speaking, but he didn’t end up getting the chance. Suddenly, we heard a noise from outside, followed by overjoyed shouts from hundreds of throats. An instant later, the tent flap opened, and Gunnar’s smiling face popped in.

“What’s going on out there?” I asked.

“The Viscount de Châtillon’s unit has returned,” replied Gunnar. “They brought the Atalian wagon train back with them.”

“Excellent,” I said.

I rose from my chair and turned to address the Prince, who was breathing heavily with rage and indignation:

“I thank you for your time, Your Highness. Alas, I’m going to have to take my leave now. By the way — I seem to remember you complaining about a lack of appropriate clothing for a man of your station. I think your wardrobe may have just arrived. I just hope your servants haven’t fled. Because I’m going to need Gunnar back.”

Without waiting for the Prince to answer, I bowed and stepped out of the tent.

Once outside, I took a look around. Five strykers, headed by Kurt von Hartha, were standing there waiting for me. Sigurd was there, too — I had assigned him to guard the Prince’s tent, just in case.

We exchanged glances and a quick nod of mutual understanding. Then I turned to Kurt, who had walked over to me as soon as I came out of the tent.

“I hope, Captain, that you fully understand the importance of this mission?”

“Of course, Your Lordship,” he replied immediately. “The boys have been warned.”

“Has anyone else made an attempt to visit the prisoner?” I asked.

Over the preceding two days, Marquis de Gondy and some of the noblemen from his entourage had tried on several occasions to visit Prince Adrian, but my strykers had barred their way every time.

Count de Broglie even paid me a visit to complain — something about Prince Adrian being a prisoner of His Highness Prince Philippe, and the idea that such an important prisoner should be sent immediately to the Duke de Bauffremont. Supposedly, His Grace would have known exactly how to proceed in such a situation.

In reply, I simply told Count de Broglie to stop talking nonsense, because the Atalian Prince was my personal prisoner. And I also advised him to give a better account of himself in the next battle. Otherwise, I said, I would have to inform the Duke de Bauffremont that his representative had sat through the entire battle with his hands folded placidly behind his back, only to emerge with a series of loud complaints about the division of spoils once the battle was safely over.

In the end, the Count left my tent as red as a boiled crab, muttering curses at me as he did so. For obvious reasons, he had no intention of allowing the situation to escalate into an open conflict between the two of us.

Well, I thought... One more ill-wisher. So be it... The man’s been driving me crazy with his stupidity and arrogance anyway.

Besides that, of course, every word I said to him was true. Unlike Marquis de Gondy and his entourage, who at least came out and took part in the battle, Count de Broglie and his bodyguards only joined in during the very last minutes of fighting. Even then, it was just to grab some wounded Atalian Count, take them prisoner, and hurry back to the camp.

Later on, it was reported to me that Count de Broglie had forced some of our healers to work on his noble prisoner, in order to make sure he survived so that he could be ransomed.

To the healers’ surprise, not only did I react to this without getting angry — I actually gave my approval for them to provide such help when requested. At the same time, however, I also ordered them to keep careful track of how many of my elixirs and medicines, as well as how many man-hours of labor, ended up being used for each such patient.

Heh heh... Count de Broglie, along with all the other cunning nobles, would be in for a nasty surprise when I presented them with the bill for these medical services. They had simply assumed everything was free... Well, as they say, a fool and his money are soon parted.

“Nobody else,” replied Kurt von Hartha.

I just nodded in reply, then went to investigate the noise that was still coming from the entrance to the camp. It took me a while to get there. People kept coming up to me with all sorts of distractions. A huge caravan was about to head back to the Citadel with all our trophies and prisoners, along with our wounded. This alone was causing quite a bit of hustle and bustle in the camp. The last thing they had been waiting for was the Atalian wagon train.

And that — a huge garland of carts and wagons loaded with all sorts of valuable goods — was what my soldiers had congregated to see. They were watching it pass by with smiles on their faces. After all, there was a share for each of them inside that mass of boxes and cases. When these men finally returned home, they would all be financially comfortable. It need hardly be said, of course, that my reputation with my troops rose higher and higher after every division of the spoils.

Personally, by the way, I didn’t come out of the battle empty-handed either. Mainly, my share took the form of armor and weapons. We knew that most of the loot would be in the Atalian wagon train which, like some enormous caterpillar, was inching its way slowly into our camp. There were bound to be a lot of interesting things inside.

The sheer number of wagons, carts, and sleighs, as well as the fact that the Duke di Spinola’s carters were driving them into our camp, suggested that by the time these men learned of their master’s defeat, it was just too late. André de Châtillon managed to intercept them. True, it didn’t happen without some of our werewolves lending a hand. When all was said and done, though, the enemy’s carters didn’t stand a chance.

Everybody stepped obligingly to the side to let me pass. The first thing that caught my eye when I finally reached the gates at the camp’s entrance was the Viscount de Leval.

Judging by his happy expression, he seemed to have found his father the Count de Leval in good health.

And sure enough, there the old man was. Sitting in a cart. He was thin, and looked considerably older than he had before, but the sharp, stubborn look in his eyes suggested that the Third Legion’s general had never given up hope.

Samuel Kroner soon appeared next to the Count’s cart. He was obviously very happy to see his commander again. The two old men smiled as they embraced one another. The Count gave his faithful Captain a friendly slap on the shoulder. A silent thank-you for keeping his little boy safe.

Then the Count said something else to Kroner, and a shadow fell over the Captain’s face as he peered over the side of the cart. I already had a pretty good idea of what — or rather, who — they were looking at...

I saw Kroner say something back to the Count, and then both men raised their heads and started looking around.

Captain Kroner spotted me first, whereupon he nudged the Count de Leval and said something to him. The old man whipped his head around and started climbing down from his cart. I rode up to meet him alongside it.

“I’m truly glad to see you, my dear Count,” I said with a smile.

“Thank you, Monsieur,” Guilleme de Leval replied with a bow of his head. “And I want to thank you on behalf of Pierre as well. My son told me a lot while we were on the road.”

He glanced around at the hubbub surrounding the wagon train and shook his head in mild bemusement.

“Indeed...” he said sadly. “Fate has laws and intentions all its own... I seem to remember leaving you with two cohorts of infantry and a unit of Mertonians. At the time, we naively imagined that the war was all but over, and that we’d soon be on our way home as conquering heroes... In the end, the man who had no obligation to fight these battles at all ended up conquering all of Northern Bergonia, while those who were meant to do it are here without an army, traveling with the trophy wagons.”

“Send him to the hospital,” I said to the driver, whereupon the cart jerked from its place and began to move.

“It’s no use,” the Count de Leval shook his head as tears welled up in his eyes. “The Duke is on the door of the Abyss... He needs a Priest of the Forefather, not a healer...”

I didn’t need to look into the cart; even from where I stood, I could sense the breath of death magic. And I might have agreed with the Count’s dire prognosis, if something strange hadn’t happened at that precise moment. My parasite, which had been well-fed and sated when I first approached the cart’s sideboards, suddenly stirred into life and tried to extend its tendrils forward into the cart. It was so insistent and confident that I decided to see where this might lead.

After all, its reaction to black bruts had always been decidedly the opposite: it seemed to fear the death magic hidden in those crystals. This time, things were different. I had already learned to sense it a bit better than before, and this time I felt a certain sense of superiority over the force that had taken up residence in the Marshal’s body.

Once we reached the hospital, and the Duke de Clairmont had been carried into a private tent (on a jerry-rigged stretcher made from two spears and a thick cloak), I ordered everyone to leave.

The Count de Leval was about to object, but Pierre caught my glance, interpreted it correctly, and stubbornly led his father outside.

“Disgusting,” said Vaira quietly after appearing out of thin air.

Selina and Ignia appeared next to her, and within a few moments I could also hear Lorin’s agitated voice from the corner of the tent.

“Be careful, auring...”

Hm, I thought... This is all much worse than Lord Gray made it sound. It was hard to see any trace of the brilliant Marshal de Clairmont in the dried-up, withered old man in front of me. His thin, grayish skin, through which I could see his black arteries and veins, was stretched so tightly over his skull and bones that I didn’t even need to use true vision to examine him.

I stepped closer, intending to examine the living skeleton a little more, when suddenly his eyes shot open. The Abyss itself was staring into my face. The Marshal’s eyes were as black as coal. A hissing, creaking sound began to come from the back of his throat. Weakly, he began to move.

I was observing him in true vision the entire time; finally, I had come to understand what I was seeing. Marshal de Clairmont’s was home to a parasite pretty similar to the one in my own body. But their natures — like their colors — were very different. I also realized that my golden parasite was much stronger than his black one, which had nearly exhausted all the resources in the Duke’s body and was consequently nearing its last breath. Basically, it was clinging to life — in doing so, it was also preventing its host from dying.

To put it a different way, if I were to let the golden tendrils shoot out and kill the black parasite, I would instantly kill the Marshal in the process. That said, there was another way. It would be considerably more painful for me. In any case, though, I knew I needed to try. And the experience would be invaluable.

With a heavy sigh, I began to speak:

“Selina, get ready. I’m going to need your help.”

Inhale... Exhale... A calming warmth spread through my body. The lunari had already started doing her thing; she was well used to it by that point.

After taking a single step forward, I finally allowed the golden tentacles to make contact with the Marshal’s energy system. At the very instant of contact, I abruptly scooped a sizable portion of golden energy out of my reservoir. After two days in the hospital, where I had been treating the wounded alongside the healers, I was able to produce a Lesser Healing Web almost instantaneously.

The web filled to the brim with golden mana in the space of a single heartbeat. I tried not to react to the wave of pain my parasite sent into me in an outraged response to my insolence.

Another heartbeat, and the web sank into the Marshal’s body and wove itself into his energy system. I could see that the golden mana was considerably more effective than scarlet mana. The Duke’s energy system lit up like a match. The spell kick-started every healing process in his body. Now, at the very least, there was a chance that my patient wouldn’t simply die immediately — which, in turn, would give us at least a little bit of time to fight for his life.

Meanwhile, the golden parasite sent several dozen thin tendrils into the main nodes of the Duke’s energy system and started violently sucking the black mana out of them. Upon closer inspection, it wasn’t actually pure black at all. To me, at least, it seemed to be more of a deep shade of gray. The searing pain abruptly subsided, and I let out a big sigh of relief.

It occurred to me that had the Duke had a magical reservoir of his own, the black parasite would probably have been much more difficult to deal with. As it was, the devouring process was proceeding smoothly, and without any surprises. At first, the black parasite twitched weakly in response to the suction force, but under pressure from the golden parasite it seemed to give up and make peace with the fact that it was about to be devoured.

The Duke could only wheeze quietly and react with the occasional twitch. He was so weak that he couldn’t move his limbs, and the golden tendrils were completely blocking the nervous plexae in his body.

As the process continued, I quickly realized why my parasite had gotten so excited at the sight of the black mana. The amount of energy my reservoir was taking in was frankly striking — especially considering that it was coming from a black parasite that was already half-dead.

In just a few minutes, my reservoir filled up by about 20%, which hadn’t happened for a very long time. Prior to that, I had always given the gluttonous parasite a strict ration of food; after all, I had to shepherd my resources, and the bruts only provided me with a temporary break from the parasite’s incessant demands.

Finally, the blackness disappeared from the Duke’s system entirely. The golden tentacles released their hold on the energy nodes, and for the first time ever I sensed that my parasite was genuinely full.

What’s more, I suddenly realized that I could draw a small amount of golden energy from my reservoir without negative side-effects.

I couldn’t neglect the chance to try this — I did it immediately. And — wonder of wonders — the ever-hungry beast occupying my energy system reacted with apparent willingness (even slightly lazily, in fact).

I carefully stored the golden energy in the energy nodes throughout the Duke’s body; doing this strengthened the effect of my spell, and with a heavy sigh I finally took a step back.

I switched back to normal vision and turned my tired eyes down to look at my patient’s face. Visually, nothing really seemed to have changed, but that wasn’t surprising. His body had been under the power of the black beast for a very long time.

I could tell for certain, however, that the Duke wasn’t going to die that day.

I glanced at the anxious faces of the first-born around me, then calmed them all down with a nod. A moment later, I heard a loud whoosh as the lunari emerged from her trance. We exchanged a glance, and big smiles spread across our faces at the same time.

We had done it...