Last Life

Book 7: Chapter 22

Bergonia

The Western Foothills

The Valley of Hills

Field camp of the Atalian army

AFTER TWO WEEKS of uninterrupted rain that blanketed the entire Valley of Hills and the Atalian army came within it, the sun finally, finally made an appearance through the clouds.

True, it wasn’t anywhere near as warm and soft as the sunlight under which Ricardo di Lorenzo had been born and raised in Southern Atalia. Sitting in his tent, where every single thing had become saturated with the dampness that he loathed so intensely, the Marshal of Atalia (known to almost everyone as the Golden Lion) sighed wistfully as he thought about Costa del Sol, his seacoast estate with its magnificent pink-marble villa.

Fresh bread, the best olive oil in the world, Southern Atalian wine, warm seaside sunsets in the company of naked slave girls with deep brown skin and amber-colored eyes... Ricardo missed it all so much.

He was sitting in his campaign chair, wrapped in a damp woolen cloak as he vainly tried to warm himself next to his camp stove. Mind you, it wasn’t just the appalling weather that was ruining the Duke di Lorenzo’s mood. More than anything, his day had been ruined by the news he had received that morning informing him of the Duke di Spinola’s crushing defeat. Suddenly, the military campaign that had seemed so well-planned was threatening to end very differently than Ricardo had imagined it would. All because of some no-name bastard boy the Duke had never even heard of...

Ricardo had chalked up the Margrave de Valier’s first victory to pure luck, or maybe a number of fortuitous circumstances coinciding with one another. With time, however, new reports on the bastard’s progress — especially the new victories he was adding to his fast-growing tally — began to convince the Duke di Lorenzo that the young man was potentially a very dangerous opponent indeed.

Long, long ago, when Ricardo was still a little boy traveling down the coast in his grandfather’s galley (back when his grandfather was still the Duke di Lorenzo), he happened to witness an intensely dramatic scene at sea. A huge gray shark had decided to pursue a white-bellied dolphin — the smallest example of the species that Ricardo had ever seen.

Apparently, this dolphin had gotten separated from its pack, and it was trying with every ounce of strength in its body to escape the enormous predator behind it. No matter how much it ducked and dodged, however, the sharp-toothed beast stayed firmly on its tail. It was only thanks to almost supernatural effort and dexterity that the dolphin eventually managed to save itself from the predator’s murderous teeth.

Ricardo could still remember the feeling he had felt that day. On the one hand, he had watched the dolphin’s frantic diving and whirling with bated breath; on the other hand, in the depths of his soul, he wished the gray predator luck as he waited impatiently for the moment when its enormous jaws would slam down on the fugitive’s body and fill the sea with scarlet.

Alas, he was fated to be disappointed that day. As the shark’s movements became less rapid and abrupt, a group of several dozen white-bellied dolphins suddenly intervened in the chase.

They threw themselves at the huge predator from all sides. Mere minutes before, the beast was about to bite an abandoned, exhausted, tiny little dolphin in half, but the hunter had suddenly (and quite literally) become the hunted.

As the young Marquis di Lorenzo watched in awe, he eventually turned to look at his grandfather and noticed a clever smirk on the old man’s face.

“What?” The old Duke di Lorenzo said as he turned to his grandson with a wink. “You thought it was over? That the dolphin was done for?”

Ricardo’s emotions must have been pretty easy to read on his face, because his grandpa burst into loud laughter.

“What just happened there?” Ricardo asked.

“That gray shark swam into the white-bellied dolphins’ territory,” the Duke replied when he finally stopped laughing. “It posed a threat to their young, so they set a trap for it. The little one went out to lure the predator in, then the rest of the pack attacked it.”

“Did you know it would end like that?” The young Ricardo asked, feeling puzzled by the old Duke’s reaction.

“Like any battle,” the Duke shrugged, “it would have been impossible to know exactly how that was going to end. I don’t think even the gods are capable of that... Otherwise, they’d never fight battles at all. But there’s a lesson in this that I want you to remember for the rest of your life: if you underestimate your enemy, like that shark did, you might end up becoming prey too.”

Ricardo di Lorenzo had never forgotten that lesson from his grandfather. Like that little white-bellied dolphin, the Margrave de Valier had appeared out of nowhere; like the dolphin, he had pretty quickly assembled a big pack around himself. And now, intent on defending itself and its family, that pack was out to kill the big gray shark...

Suddenly, the flap of his tent rose slightly, and the Duke di Lorenzo’s personal secretary Tony Nappo poked his face inside.

“Your Grace,” he said quietly to his master, thereby tearing the Duke out of his morose train of thought. “The generals have assembled as you ordered.”

“Send them in,” nodded the Duke. He threw the cloak from his shoulders and hopped up out of his chair with renewed vigor. “And have some warm wine brought in. You know the kind I like... Have them add spices and honey as well. I need some more energy. This cursed damp will be the death of me.”

“Understood, Your Grace,” said Tony Nappo with a bow before disappearing beneath the tent flap.

A few moments later, the flaps parted again, and the Golden Lion’s generals began to file into his tent. These were his most devoted and faithful people.

First across the threshold was Count Antonia di Salva. A short man with black hair, a beard, dark eyes, and an aquiline nose, he came from an ancient southern line of horsemen who had sworn fealty to the Duke di Lorenzo’s own ancestors about two centuries before.

None of Ricardo’s vassals were more devoted or unquestioning in their obedience. Admittedly, all the scions of the di Salva line seemed to be famous for their irascibility and cruelty. But Ricardo, like his ancestors, had the ability to make those features work to his advantage. General di Salva, like his ancestors, was an excellent cavalryman; on this particular campaign, he was in command of a thousand heavy cavalry.

Next into the tent came Count Sergio di Alcaraz. As always, he seemed cold and silent. This rather short 70-year-old man, with a pale face and dull gray eyes, was Ricardo’s maternal uncle. He commanded the First Legion.

Behind him came his eldest son — Viscount Carlo di Alcaraz, the Duke di Lorenzo’s cousin. Unlike his father, he was tall and broad-shouldered. A mischievous smile danced on his attractive, deeply-suntanned face, and the fire of anticipation for the coming battle was already burning in his bright-blue eyes. Carlo was bold and daring, yet remarkably cunning and calculating at the same time. It was thanks to these latter qualities that he had risen to become general of the Second Legion.

“Please, have a seat,” said Ricardo, gesturing toward some chairs around a big table that had a map of Bergonia all across its surface. “Warm wine and refreshments will be served in just a moment.”

“Excellent!” Carlo di Alcaraz exclaimed as he rubbed his hands together gleefully. “I think this damnable wetness has literally soaked through my skin. How do people live here?”

“What news did that rider bring?” Count di Alcaraz asked, totally ignoring his son’s comments. “It must be bad, judging by the look on your face.”

“Di Spinola’s force has been destroyed.” Ricardo had decided to get straight to the point. He sat down at the head of the table. “The bastard has taken him prisoner. And he’s taken Prince Adrian as well...”

“Devil take him!” Antonia di Salva spat as he plopped down into his chair. “That damned bastard! I could strangle him right now with my own hands!”

Ricardo glanced at Carlo and pointedly shook his head. His cousin loved to prod the irascible Antonio. Usually, they would trade barbs until a full-on quarrel developed between them. Sure, they would always make peace after a while. But now, with a battle expected imminently, any potential disturbance would have to be strenuously avoided. There was absolutely no time for childish squabbles. Both men were already over forty, but sometimes they still behaved like teenagers.

The Duke di Lorenzo already had a pretty good idea of what Carlo might have wanted to say. Most likely, it would be some sarcastic reminder that Antonio was just a man, while the bastard who he wanted to “strangle with his own hands” was one of the most powerful avants in all Mainland.

“So he’s got Adrian, then?” Count di Alcaraz mused to himself. “In different circumstances, I’d probably be happy to hear it. As it is, though, I’m betting that old fool Alfonso already has a rider thundering north with instructions to open negotiations...”

“Which means all our plans are for shit,” concluded Count di Salva with an angry growl.

“You haven’t said anything about Marco...” said Viscount di Alcaraz. “His legion would come in very handy right now.”

Ricardo shook his leonine mane of golden hair and let out a heavy sigh.

“There’s no Third Legion anymore,” he announced darkly. “The Count di Milatto has fallen in battle.”

A heavy silence settled over the tent for a moment; soon, however, Count di Salva and Viscount di Alcaraz exploded into flurries of cursing.

“And the bastard’s losses?” Ricardo thought he detected a note of hope in his uncle’s voice.

“Negligible.” The Marshal had no choice but to disappoint them all again.

“So he controls all of North Bergonia now?”

“Yes,” nodded the Golden Lion, before adding: “According to my sources, he’s taken Conterne and is most likely already moving toward us with his force.”

Everyone looked around the room. The dour looks on his comrades’ faces told Ricardo that he had been right to start coming up with a new plan. And apparently, his uncle noticed immediately that his nephew had cooked up something new.

“I suppose,” he concluded as his eyes narrowed, “that the plan to conquer Bergonia, then Vestonia, is going to be shelved until better times?”

Ricardo couldn’t help catching the note of relief in Count di Alcaraz’s voice. The situation wasn’t developing in their favor, and if their commander-in-chief had refused to listen to reason, everything could have ended catastrophically for them all.

“Yes,” sighed the Duke, who had always been famous for his flexible mind and his ability to adapt to changing circumstances. “This war has turned into a dead end for us. I thought I had foreseen every possibility, but who could have guessed that some mysterious bastard would come along and change everything? While we were bringing the Royal track under our control, along with Southern Bergonia, he sauntered in and destroyed that idiot di Spinola and thinned out the ranks of the Scarlets pretty considerably. The death of the Gray Reaper alone is a very serious loss... The notorious Crimson Knights couldn’t even handle an enemy that was practically handed to them on a platter.”

Everyone exchanged glances again. Cautious smiles had appeared on all their faces. And whereas Antonia and Carlo were just starting to guess what their leader had in mind, the more experienced Count di Alcaraz already knew exactly what was coming.

Meanwhile, Ricardo stood up from his chair and leaned over the tabletop map. He picked up a long pointer, made from the bone of a Shadow beast and intricately inlaid with gold and precious stones, and started moving its tip around the map.

“As I’ve already said, our plan to conquer Bergonia and Vestonia has failed,” he said in a calm, firm voice. It was the tone the Golden Lion always used when he started to explain a new plan. “Prince Philippe’s army is waiting for us up ahead, and the Margrave de Valier’s force is approaching from behind. We’re outnumbered, for the first time in this war. And therefore, our top priority for the moment must be to save our army and get it back to Atalia. We’ll leave by the southern track after the battle with Prince Philippe’s forces. We don’t have much by way of provisions, but I’m sure it’ll be enough. Things will be easier after we cross the border.”

“We still have time — we could simply withdraw along the southern track without fighting the Prince’s army at all,” said Carlo, rubbing his chin. “The scouts have reported that the Vestonians don’t seem to be in any hurry to advance. Not to mention these accursed rains.”

“Exactly,” nodded Ricardo. “The Dukes de Gondy and de Bauffremont are waiting for the bastard’s army. I don’t think I’m wrong in assuming that they want the Margrave de Valier to take the brunt of our initial attack. And yes, you’re right. We could simply race out of here on the southern track without a battle. But then we’d be faced with a very serious problem. Once those two forces unite, where will they be headed?”

“They’ll be over the border just a few days behind us, and then we’ll be fighting on our own lands,” said Count di Alcaraz as he shook his head. “We would never be forgiven for leading an enemy army into our lands. More than that, we’d lose a lot of people in the process. The bastard has several large packs of shapeshifters in his service. Together with the Dukes’ cavalry, they could make our exit very difficult indeed. I have no doubt whatsoever that the Dukes de Bauffremont and de Gondy will jump at the chance to ravage our lands. All the more so where the Bergonians are concerned...”

“My uncle’s right,” said Ricardo with a nod to the old Count. “And that’s why we have to use our remaining time as wisely as possible, and attack before their armies can unite.”

“What if we fight the bastard instead?” Di Salva asked. “His army is poorly trained. He has very few actual legionaries in his ranks. Savage mountain men, townsfolk, and peasants against Atalia’s best legions? Even if they outnumber us, they won’t stand a chance.”

“I’d like to fight the bastard as well, cousin,” said Carlo. “We could easily crush the rabble he’s been scraping together from all the dark corners of this savage country. The Dukes have heavy cavalry. Even if we defeat them, it’ll cost us a lot of men.”

Ricardo glanced at Count di Alcaraz.

“Do you feel the same way, uncle?”

The latter was silent for a moment; then, in a flat, colorless voice, he replied:

“No... We should give battle to Prince Philippe as planned. I’ll say it again: THAT is the battle we’re prepared to fight. Throwing ourselves against an unpredictable opponent in these circumstances would be a mistake.”

In almost perfect unison, Antonio and Carlo let out sighs of disappointment. They had been opposed to the Duke’s scheme from the start: specifically, they were worried about taking the field against heavy cavalry. Therefore, they both jumped at the alternative prospect that had briefly seemed to be in the offing.

“It’s decided, then,” concluded Marshal di Lorenzo. “We’re fully prepared for a battle against the Dukes. Besides, if we were to withdraw at this point, Prince Philippe’s horsemen would have an easier time attacking us from behind. But the bastard won’t arrive in time to pursue us as we withdraw.”

“What makes you so confident that the bastard won’t pursue us after the battle against the Dukes?” Carlo inquired.

The Duke couldn’t help but enjoy the fact that, despite his disagreement with the choice of opponent, his cousin didn’t seem to have the slightest doubt that the Atalian army would triumph — an outcome that, after all, was by no means assured.

“I’m not ruling it out,” Duke di Lorenzo replied, before adding: “But something tells me that he’s going to be quite busy, even if he makes no attempt to follow us. After all, his army is basically the only military force left in Bergonia. There are so many cities and villages that still need to be brought under control. He’ll have a whole leaderless country to deal with. Admittedly, he won’t have it to himself for long. Because while he’s spending several years restoring order to these lands, we’ll return home and use all the gold and silver we’ve taken during this campaign to raise new legions.”

“Are you sure the priests will just let that happen?” Carlo asked skeptically.

“After what the bastard did to them, all the priests can really do about it is sit back and grind their teeth in helpless frustration,” the Golden Lion snickered. “They lost a lot of knights, including many of their strykers. Their influence hasn’t taken such a serious blow in many decades. Lately, they’ve been acting like they own the country, and as a consequence they’ve been irritating practically everyone. I’ve been in correspondence with the grand masters of the Atalian magical guilds for some time now. I’m confident that their mages will support me and my enterprises.”

“What about the King?” Carlo asked in the same skeptical tone. “You think he’ll allow you to amass that much power?”

“Alfonso is weak,” replied the Duke di Lorenzo as he pursed his lips with disdain. “We’ve been focusing on other countries for so long that we’ve completely forgotten about Atalia. Why are we thinking about Vestonia or Bergonia when our own country has a puppet on the throne — and one whose masters have lost their power, no less? A weak Order is ruling us through a weak King. We need to restore justice!”

“And how will we do that?” Count di Alcaraz inquired.

“By putting Prince Adrian on the throne, for example,” replied the Duke.

“Did you forget that he’s a prisoner?”

“You know very well that he won’t be there forever,” replied Marshal di Lorenzo. “I know what you’re thinking: Adrian will never be a friend to us. First of all, though, he doesn’t have any more love for his father than he does for us, and I’m sure that in his dreams he’s already trying to Crown of Atalia on for size and scheming to get it onto his head as soon as possible. And I won’t even comment on his attitude toward the priests. I’ll simply remind you of the whole affair with his beloved Viscountess and her mysterious disappearance. Nobody has any doubt about what happened: the priests were simply getting rid of one of the Prince’s inconvenient lovers so they could marry him to a girl from a family loyal to the Scarlet Temple. Second, we’ll have something to offer the Prince when the time comes. That, specifically, is why we need to safeguard this army and get it back to Atalia as soon as possible. First, though, we need to get Prince Philippe’s army out of our way. So enough talk — prepare yourselves! We move out at sunrise. And we stick to the plan!”