Last Life

Book 7: Chapter 24

Bergonia

The Western Foothills

The Valley of Hills

Prince Philippe’s army camp

MORNING FOUND FRANCOIS DE GRAMONT in a spirited fighting mood, tinged with excitement and a sense of grandeur. In fact, all the noblemen in Prince Philippe’s army were in a pretty similar mood. The news that the Golden Lion was attempting an ignominious retreat with the remainder of his once-mighty army had lit a fire under all the Vestonian aristocrats.

Moreover, that most powerful of Atalian Marshals had plundered almost all of Bergonia over the preceding year, and smashed Marshal de Clairmont’s army as well, so he was bringing an immensely rich wagon train back to Atalia with him. Every time Francois thought about how many treasures must be trundling along behind the Atalian army, a shiver of excitement and anticipation would ripple across his body.

Before he and his brother had set out on campaign, their father had summoned them into his office and given them a long, frank description of the true state of their family’s affairs. For the first time, Francois had learned that the County’s treasury was empty, and that his father had gone deep into debt in order to salvage what his scoundrel and traitor of a brother had almost destroyed.

In addition to all their other woes, the family’s position had suffered a big setback because of that accursed bastard, whom Francois hated with every fiber of his being. His father had voiced the hope that his brother’s bastard would end up dying in Bergonia as he attempted to take control of the Margraviate given to him by the King. Alas, nothing of the sort had occurred. Max had not only avoided death, but also somehow managed to assemble a whole army around himself and win a series of startling victories.

Many noblemen knew about the familial relationship between Francois and the Margrave de Valier, and whenever they congratulated him on his cousin’s victories, it would always infuriate him even more than the news itself. The idiots had no idea that every victory the bastard managed to achieve was weakening the Count de Gramont’s position — and consequently, the positions of Francois and Gabriel.

After talking to their father, the brothers had given one another their word that they would kill the bastard themselves if the opportunity ever arose for either of them. As Gabriel pointed out, of course, killing an avant was practically impossible, but there were other ways they might do him harm. For example, both brothers were part of Prince Philippe’s entourage — the man who would become King of Vestonia as soon as Carl III died (the prospect of his imminent death was something that nobody doubted anymore) — and they were actively spreading horrible rumors about their cousin among the other highly-placed nobles around the Prince.

One of those rumors involved Max’s shameful liaison with a distant cousin, who was living in his castle even now under the care of one of his wards.

Rumors, however, would never be enough. The Count had placed high hopes on his sons. Their heroism, and their ability to stand out when the day of battle finally came, would make or break the family’s future. And now that day was dawning. Finally, after long weeks of waiting, Francois and Gabriel would have a chance to display their mettle.

Despite his debts, their father hadn’t skimped on the finest horses, saddles, armor, and weapons for both his sons. The Viscounts de Gramont were accompanied by their father’s vassals. More than that, their father had somehow managed to get them placed in the Prince’s entourage and procure the services of the Duke de Bauffremont as patron for both of them.

At that very moment, Gabriel was out there on the right flank, ready to race into battle on his charger. He was right next to the Duke de Bauffremont. Francois, meanwhile, had been accorded the honor of remaining in the reserve battalion — the battalion that served as Prince Philippe’s personal guard. Sure, everybody knew that the battle would end in a crushing defeat for the Golden Lion, and that the reserve probably wouldn’t even take part in the fighting at all. Nevertheless, being next to the future King in his hour of danger was a great privilege indeed.

Francois glanced over at the King’s eldest son, and his heart filled with pride as he thought about the momentousness of the occasion. The Prince was seated on his battle charger, clad in superb armor with red velvet inlays and gold filigree.

His visor was open, displaying Prince Philippe’s serious (even slightly bored-looking) visage to the world. It gave one the impression that he was utterly unperturbed and unafraid of anything. If Francois hadn’t known that this was the very first battle Philippe had ever seen in his life, he might have thought that the Prince really WAS bored, and that he was simply so confident in his army that he looked upon the coming battle as a mere formality, for which social etiquette demanded that he be present.

Eventually, however, Francois was distracted from the future King’s majestic figure by a long, loud blast on a trumpet. The Viscount stood up slightly in his saddle and leaned forward to peer into the distance.

Some sort of movement had begun in the enemy’s ranks. From somewhere right next to the Prince, word began to zip out through the ranks of the assembled nobility.

“The Golden Lion just realized he can’t win!” Baron Louis de Rochand shouted with a smile. “Now he’s just trying to save his plunder! The fool!”

Francois smiled back. He and the Baron were the same age; they had found common ground with one another very quickly, and before long they were practically inseparable. Like the Viscount de Gramont, the Baron was a true connoisseur of wine and women. If it hadn’t been for Louis and his raucous escapades, Francois felt like he might sooner have died from boredom than an Atalian crossbow bolt.

“Pitiful coward!” Francois shouted in support. “He’s not going to get away!”

In his heart of hearts, he couldn’t help envying his elder brother, who was about to be in the thick of the fray.

* * *

Meanwhile, Gabriel de Gramont was near the Duke de Bauffremont, waiting with clenched fists as he watched the heavy carts and wagons in the Atalian baggage train (loaded, no doubt, with a veritable mountain of trophies) hurry toward a nearby ford. The Golden Lion seemed to have realized this was a battle he could not win, so he was trying to save his treasures.

“We’ve got to stop him!” The Duke de Bauffremont roared. With that, he turned around and ran his eyes across the faces of his vassals. His eyes came to rest on his personal squire.

“Chevalier!” The Duke exclaimed. “Ride immediately to the Duke de Gondy and inform him that we can’t wait any longer! We need to attack this instant! Go!”

The squire bowed in his saddle, then turned and shot off like a galloping rocket in the direction of the left flank. Toward the spot where the Duke de Gondy’s banner could be seen flapping in the wind. Shortly thereafter, he returned and quickly rattled off the reply from the Duke of the South.

“His Grace the Duke de Gondy advises us to be patient and attack at the agreed-upon time.”

Shouting down the howls of outrage from his entourage, the Duke de Bauffremont replied in a loud, mocking voice:

“I never expected anything else from that coward! Monsieurs — the hour of battle is here! Sound the attack! We move!”

His speech was met with a thunderous, many-throated roar. Gabriel de Gramont was roaring along with everyone else. With eyes afire, he watched the Duke de Bauffremont’s every move and thanked all the gods that his father had chosen to side with this great man! People like this — people like the Duke de Bauffremont — THESE were the people who led armies and nations. At that moment, Gabriel would have been willing to give his life for His Grace in a second.

The Duke de Bauffremont grabbed his sword, whipped it out of its sheath, and held it high above his head as he roared:

“Attack!”

Another deafening shout erupted from hundreds of throats all along the ranks of the heavily-armed riders. An instant — and a tidal wave of metal-clad horses and men thundered toward the Atalian lines, picking up speed as they came.

* * *

“Look!” Louis shouted as he pointed to the wall of cavalry that had just lurched into motion under the Duke de Bauffremont’s banner. “It’s on!”

Francois’ heart felt like it was about to burst out of his chest.

“May the gods protect you, brother!” He whispered to himself under his breath.

Despite its now-considerable speed, it would inevitably take the Duke de Bauffremont’s cavalry battalion a little while to reach the Atalian positions. They would first need to charge down one hill, then all the way up another.

Arrows and crossbow bolts began to zip from the Atalian ranks into the oncoming mass of horses and men. Despite the thick flurry of projectiles, however, the damage to the mounted knights was negligible at best.

Yet again, Francois said a mental thank-you to his father for having shelled out the considerable sums required to get the best possible harnesses and armor for his sons. Thanks to them, Francois was confident that Gabriel and his mistral (who was nicknamed Raven) wouldn’t be seriously hurt by the storm of arrows.

“They’re going to smash those archers and tear into the battalion on the far end from behind,” Louis de Rochand predicted in a loud voice, with a smile on his face. “Why isn’t the Duke de Gondy moving yet?”

* * *

Through the narrow slit in his helmet’s visor, Gabriel de Gramont could see little besides the horseman charging forward in front of him and the occasional bright flash of another nobleman’s banner.

Inside his closed helmet, even the sound of his own breathing sounded far-off and alien, like something from another world. His body was encased in heavy armor; it felt awkward, almost like it wasn’t his own. That said, the dull clangs and thuds echoing out from all around him weren’t doing him the least bit of damage, so at least the heavy armor was doing an excellent job protecting him from arrows.

Alas, not everybody was as lucky as Gabriel. At a certain point, the horse in front of him suddenly lurched forward before crashing into a violent, chaotic roll along the ground that dumped the rider from his saddle and crushed him beneath the animal’s massive body. That left Gabriel on the front line, where he had the opportunity to get a good look at the Atalian positions in front of him. He didn’t like what he saw there at all.

The enemy archers, whom he and his cavalry battalion had confidently expected to churn into the mud beneath their horses hooves, had executed an organized shift to the left, behind the cover of pre-prepared field fortifications that hadn’t been visible from far away. They were already in position and firing again — this time, into the open, poorly-defended flanks of the Vestonian horses.

Realization of what had happened flashed briefly through Gabriel’s mind; an instant later, however, he felt a powerful force slam into him. His faithful Raven jerked his head to the side and let out a loud, almost human-sounding scream.

He lurched — and suddenly, the Viscount de Gramont felt himself falling earthwards. Sky and ground flashed through his visor in rapid, alternating succession several times before Gabriel collapsed onto the ground. The force of the impact was so intense that the Viscount’s eyes were suddenly filled with darkness; a moment later, it devoured him.

* * *

“Abyss take them!” Louis de Rochand exclaimed in horrified awe. “How is this possible?!”

Unlike his friend, Francois was utterly speechless. Only moments before, they had been watching an invincible equine hammer swinging rapidly toward the shaky-looking lines of Atalian archers; within a matter of minutes, those archers had somehow shifted position and begun to rain down a murderous hail of arrows on the Vestonians. By the time the latter managed to reach the forward ranks of the legionaries opposite them, the fight was already practically over. The all-important coordinated blow of several hundred mounted spearmen — so vitally necessary to the Vestonian plan — had lost its power and sputtered out. The Duke de Bauffremont’s banner disappeared from view. A bloody slaughter had already begun.

Suddenly, the Viscount de Gramont was torn from his stupor by a loud trumpet blast. Eyes still wide with shock, Francois turned to see where the Duke de Gondy’s battalion was located. The Ruler of the South seemed to have decided that the battle had begun, and he moved into an attack of his own.

His battalion was moving more slowly than that of the Duke de Bauffremont. And there was a good reason for that. The section of field between the Vestonian riders was riddled with numerous man-made and natural obstacles. Only at that point did a certain thought finally creep into Francois’ mind: maybe, just maybe, the Golden Lion and his army hadn’t been fleeing at all. The number of traps scattered across the field suggested that the Atalians had probably been there for some time — and that, in turn, meant that they had actually been WAITING for the Vestonian army to attack.

Meanwhile, the Duke de Gondy’s battalion had reached the Atalian positions, which slowed them down even more than before. Even from where he stood, Francois could see that the Duke’s cavalry had gotten stuck in a narrow passage between two seemingly-fragile rows of vineyard trellises. Only four or five men could ride through the gap abreast.

The Atalians had taken advantage of the situation immediately, successfully blocking the passage with a single battalion of legionaries. And all the while, a hail of arrows and crossbow bolts was flying into the faces of the Vestonians. The enemy was firing almost at point-blank range, and the results were horrifying. Soon, Francois watched in utter disbelief as the remnants of the Duke de Gondy’s battalion turned and fled. His banner hadn’t disappeared. That meant the Ruler of the South was still alive.

By the time the Duke’s cavalry unit retreated, two battalions of Vestonian infantry had almost managed to reach the Atalian positions. They were commanded by the redoubtable old Count de Poitiers.

Suddenly, Francois remembered the previous evening, when they had all laughed at the “crazy old man.” He certainly didn’t seem crazy anymore. In fact, the old Marshal had predicted practically everything...

As Francois watched, his battalions surged into battle with the Golden Lion’s legionaries, under cover from two units of archers on their flanks. Francois realized that at any moment, the horn might blow to send the reserve into battle as well. His mindset was radically different from what it had been earlier that morning. A sticky, pervasive feeling of terror was wrapping itself around his heart.

Every muscle in his body wanted to scream — to scream that what was happening was simply incorrect! This was not at all how things were supposed to be! He and his brother were supposed to return to Herouxville as conquering heroes, with wagons full of trophies and brand-new landholdings in Bergonia. As the conquerors of the Golden Lion — the man who, in reality, had turned out to be much cleverer and trickier than any of the Vestonian commanders...

“Look!” One of the other soldiers suddenly shouted. Francois jumped. “It’s the Duke de Gondy’s squire!”

A rider in blood-splattered armor, who was missing his helmet, thundered his way to Prince Philippe and said something to him. Francois and the other knights sat up straighter in their saddles.

The Prince responded with a short nod. Then, turning his horse around, he spurred it into a trot and headed away from the field of battle, together with his personal bodyguards.

One of Prince Philippe’s bodyguards trotted up to Francois’ unit and, in a dull murmur, he announced:

“Monsieurs, your task is to cover His Highness’ retreat!”

With that, he tore away and galloped off to follow the Prince’s cavalcade. Within a few minutes, the Prince and his unit had disappeared along a road that led between two hills.

Francois’ mouth was wide-open in shock as he watched what was happening. The battle wasn’t even over, but the Prince’s banner had already fled the field. Francois had never seen a battle like this before, but even he could already guess what was about to happen.

As if to confirm his conclusion, a long, mournful trumpet blast echoed out from the battlefield. Apparently, the Count de Poitiers had noticed the absence of the Prince’s banner and ordered that a retreat be sounded.

Despite the fact that the old Marshal and his battalion were retreating in good order, Francois realized that strategically, this wasn’t a retreat at all — it was a full-on rout.

At a certain point, another thought flashed through his head: he had no obligation to stay there and die. If the Prince himself had fled the field, what was the point of Francois staying behind? He was still too young — it couldn’t just end like this. Especially in such a stupid, inglorious way.

As he looked at the faces of the nobles around him, he could tell that they were thinking approximately the same thing. The ever-jaunty Louis de Rochand wasn’t smiling anymore. A shadow flitted across his face. He turned to look in the direction where the Prince had fled. Francois noticed that his friend’s lips were moving. He even managed to make out a few of the words he was saying. Quietly (but nonetheless obviously), Baron de Rochand was showering curses on the King’s eldest son.

At one point, the Baron turned around again; suddenly, he froze, mouth open with surprise. Noting the sudden change, Francois turned around to see what had shocked his friend so much.

“Oh, Gods!” He whispered.

At first, the Viscount de Gramont refused to believe his eyes. This simply couldn’t be happening. More cavalry was coming — from behind the very same hill where Prince Philippe had just disappeared. A standard bearer came thundering out ahead of the main body. The banner rippling above his head bore the sigil of Carl III.

A hundred... Two... Three... Four... Five... More and more riders were appearing with every passing second. The other banners in the newly-arrived force were vaguely familiar to Francois. As he watched the newcomers fan out into three organized battalions, he felt a fire spreading inside his chest.

He didn’t care where these heavily-armed knights had come from, or who was leading them. All that mattered was that they would give the Vestonians one more shot at victory!

“Hail to the King!” One of his comrades suddenly shouted.

This salutation was immediately picked up by all the others, including Francois himself. The riders in their three battalions responded with the exact same shout as they charged forward, picking up speed the whole time.

Francois frantically ordered his squire to hand him his spear. The latter, however, seemed strangely frozen as he stared out at the oncoming Vestonian riders with a look of worry on his face.

“Idiot — are you asleep back there?” Francois screamed impatiently.

“They’re moving too fast,” murmured his squire in reply.

“What the hell are you mumbling?!” Francois snarled with rage.

“Monsieur — they’re charging too fast for us to get out of their way.” There was a note of panic in the squire’s voice. “They’re not attacking the Atalians — they’re attacking US!”

“What?!” Francois turned around, and when he did it was his turn to fall into a stupor.

The boy was right. The Vestonian cavalry had picked up quite a bit of speed, and by that point it was obvious that they were headed straight for Francois and his little battalion. He could already hear frightened screams and curses from his comrades around him.

Francois stared out in confusion at the banners of the oncoming Vestonian knights; suddenly, his gaze came to rest on one of them in particular. He recognized that sigil. As it happens, he had learned about it purely by chance — thanks to the bastard.

Prior to Max’s arrival in the capital, Francois’ father had told him that his uncle’s bastard had fought a duel with a Viscount from some backwoods county out west. In passing, his father had mentioned the sigil of a certain d’Angland family. Later on, of course, they would play the decisive role in the defeat of Marshal de Clairmont and his legions...

And now, Francois watched with a frozen heart as the red-and-white banner of the traitorous Count d’Angland rippled through the air above one of the charging knights... By that point, too, he could see that Vestonians only comprised the first few ranks. The rest of the riders were Atalians...