Last Life

Book 7: Chapter 25

WE ONLY REALIZED THAT THE GOLDEN LION and Prince Philippe had fought a battle when we started to encounter the first scattered, bedraggled units of Vestonian soldiers fleeing in our direction along the road. Such units were all that remained of the once-mighty army of the Dukes de Bauffremont and de Gondy.

Within a few days, I managed to get a decent idea of what had happened by piecing together all the bits and pieces these refugees reported to me. Once again, the Golden Lion had demonstrated to the whole world that he was one of the most invincible and fortunate commanders in all Mainland.

Mind you, it seemed to me that in this particular battle, luck wasn’t really the most significant factor at play. Marshal di Lorenzo had won the battle thanks to his sharp, calculating intellect, as well as a level of organizational skill that was frankly phenomenal by the standards of this world. If I was wrong about that... Well, then I don’t really know what else could explain the completeness of his victory.

The more I learned about Marshal di Lorenzo, the more clearly I came to understand that if he and I ever met on opposite sides of the battlefield, both sides would end up paying a high price in blood, no matter which of us came out the victor. In the depths of my soul, I was actually glad that we had somehow managed to avoid one another so far.

And judging by the fact that he had obviously decided to avoid me and fight the Dukes’ army instead, I felt confident that Marshal di Lorenzo was probably one of the very few people in my new world who took me completely seriously. At any rate, he didn’t seem to be itching to meet me on the field.

After carefully studying all the reports I had received, I came to the conclusion that the Golden Lion didn’t merely consider me more dangerous than the Dukes; he had actually used my tactics against them during the battle.

After all, the Dukes de Bauffremont and de Gondy placed their bets on their cavalry, just like both of the di Spinolas. Fully in keeping with the spirit of warfare in this world. Admittedly, some of the surviving nobles who had been present at the pre-battle council of war told me that one of the Vestonian commanders had suggested a pretty effective plan for fighting the Atalians who were dug in along the vineyard. A certain Count de Poitiers, who had been a Marshal under the previous King, had made several very sound observations. He had been laughed out of the tent in response.

Well, I thought... Those gentlemen certainly aren’t in a laughing mood anymore. The army had been destroyed. The wagon train was now a trophy in the hands of the Golden Lion. With such plentiful supplies, the Atalians would have a much easier time on the journey back to their own lands.

Nobody knew what had happened to Prince Philippe. Most likely, he was a prisoner. Nobody knew anything about the Dukes either. Some were confident that both of them had been killed; others, that they had been taken prisoner. Long story short, the picture was one of utter confusion.

The fact that the Golden Lion had decided not to wait for our army to arrive, and had instead set off down the southern track toward Atalia, became clear when we arrived at the scene of the recent battle. The field had already turned into an abode for scavengers. Just how much of a hurry Marshal di Lorenzo was in became obvious when we realized that he hadn’t even stuck around long enough to give the bodies of the fallen Atalian legionaries a proper burial. I made a mental note when I learned about this: it was yet more evidence that the Golden Lion’s methods were radically different from the norms that prevailed among the rest of the aristocracy.

He was cruel, calculating, and utterly unconcerned with generally-accepted rules and norms — the kind of opponent that demanded unflagging vigilance at every turn. He would stop at nothing in pursuit of his goals.

After arriving at the battlefield and setting up a temporary camp about a mile away from the field itself, I called a council at which all my commanders were present, along with the Bergonian and Vestonian nobles — including some of the new arrivals.

Thanks to the latter, Marquis de Gondy’s unit had grown quite considerably. They didn’t see me as one of their own, for obvious reasons, which meant that the Ruler of the South’s son (who, as they all knew, might officially be acclaimed the new Duke de Gondy at any time as news continued to trickle in) became a sort of rallying point for the newly-arrived nobles — and not just those of his father’s vassals who had survived the defeat, but a lot of the Duke de Bauffremont’s people as well.

“Our duty now is to follow the Atalian army!” Someone from the Marquis de Gondy’s entourage thundered vociferously. The Marquis had been in a very gloomy state of mind ever since news of the battle had arrived. The uncertainty, all the unknowns around his father’s fate... It clearly scared him quite a bit.

“We’ll make the scoundrel pay!” Another nobleman seconded his comrade.

“And we’ll drink from Atalia’s teats while we’re at it!” A mirthful bass voice chimed in from the opposite corner of the tent. “Northern Atalia is totally unprotected!”

That last phrase drowned in a multitudinous roar of encouragement before whoever said it could even finish speaking. The gentlemen aristocrats from the Marquis de Gondy’s entourage had obviously gotten carried away. My people, however — along with the Count de Leval — were watching the whole circus with unconcealed disdain.

Gradually, the shouts and martial exclamations mutated into a rapturous outpouring of praise for the Marquis de Gondy, who still looked utterly lost and confused. It was one thing to act upon the instructions of a powerful father; it was another thing entirely to take responsibility for a whole Duchy (and for one’s own decisions) into one’s own hands. The bootlickers around the Marquis were already regaling him with tales of his future as the commander who conquered Vestonia’s greatest enemy.

According to Vaira’s reports, the Golden Lion’s wagon train was a separate topic of conversation among these very same noblemen. If the survivors from the battle could be believed, Marshal di Lorenzo was bringing a staggering amount of wealth back into Atalia with him. Basically, the nobles were stamping their hooves with impatience, demanding to be allowed to avenge their countrymen’s shameful defeat — a process during which, of course, they would also be allowed to ravage a wide swath of seemingly-defenseless land.

For my part, I watched it all unfold with a slight sense of wonder. A mere two or three days after a battle that (by my approximate reckoning) had killed at least 70% of Prince Philippe’s army, these slick-talking young noblemen were already planning a glorious march into Atalia.

When the noise finally died down, the Marquis de Gondy finally turned to look at me. For the first time since we had known each other, I thought I saw a flicker of hope in his eyes. He obviously had no idea what to do, or how to react to the crushing weight of responsibility that had recently slammed down onto his shoulders.

“Monsieur,” he said as he turned to me, trying to restrain the note of anxiety in his voice. “Do you agree with what was just said?”

“What part of it, exactly?” I asked.

“Do you agree that we should punish the Atalians and conquer Northern Atalia?” He asked patiently.

“Monsieur,” I said. “I find it difficult to judge other men on what they feel their duty to be. If you believe that you must punish the Atalians and invade their lands, all I can do is wish you the best of luck.”

“Do you mean to say that you don’t consider it your duty to smash the remnants of the Golden Lion’s army and conquer part of our enemy’s lands?” One of the “new” nobles inquired acidly.

“My duty is to comply with the will of my King,” I snapped back. “I was assigned a very specific task: to take control of the Margraviate de Valier. And I still haven’t seen that task through to completion yet.”

“I can only hope His Majesty will forgive the delay,” the Count de Leval chuckled to me. “After all, you have quite a good excuse. You’ve conquered Bergonia for him.”

Encouraging smiles appeared on the faces of my commanders, and (I couldn’t help but notice) on those of several other Vestonian nobles as well.

“As for Atalia and Marshal di Lorenzo,” the old general continued as he turned to face the Marquis de Gondy, “you are, of course, at liberty to pursue him if you like. But I doubt you’ll have much success. Please don’t think I mean any offense to yourselves with these words of mine, Monsieurs. It’s just that I have many years of experience, and that experience tells me that even if you manage to assemble an army of sufficient size, you simply won’t be able to get it into Atalia. Even if you do, nothing good will be waiting for you there.”

“What do you mean by that, Monsieur?!” One of the young barons shouted indignantly.

“The Count de Leval is trying to tell you that pursuing Marshal di Lorenzo and his legions would be suicidal,” I said. “Thanks to this war, there are virtually inhabited villages left along the southern track. That means there’s nowhere to stock up on supplies — which, by the way, are lacking even NOW. I really don’t understand how you intend to wage war if you can’t even feed your army.”

A dissatisfied murmur began to fly around the tent.

“Further,” I continued, raising my voice to silence the noise. “That’s how things stand right now — once the Golden Lion’s legions have made their way down the track, there won’t be anything whatsoever left for you to scavenge. But even if you somehow manage to make it to the Atalian border, you’ll find an extremely hostile population that’s been forewarned of your coming. They’ll be locked up in their cities, fortresses, and castles, together with all their provisions and anything of value. And just in case you need reminding, winter will be here soon — that means cold, frostbite, and all the diseases that love to strike armies at the most inconvenient times. Plus, the Golden Lion won’t exactly be sitting on his hands while you invade. I’m sure he’s already planning a warm welcome for any uninvited guests who follow him over the border. That, basically, is what the Count de Leval was trying to tell you.”

“Exactly,” the old general confirmed with a nod of approval.

“Well then, what do you propose?” Marquis de Gondy.

“I have nothing to propose to you,” I shrugged. “You’re perfectly at liberty to do whatever you see fit.”

“You mean you’re just going to leave things as they are?” The Marquis sounded baffled.

“If by “things,” you mean Atalia and Marshal di Lorenzo, then yes,” I replied. “Especially since my people and I have plenty of work to do in Bergonia as it is. His Majesty is expecting some decisive actions from us. We’re under obligation to take control of all Bergonia’s major cities. To establish law and order in them. Otherwise this place will descend into chaos and confusion.”

The noblemen listened to the first half of my speech in gloomy silence, but by the end they had perked up considerably. Indeed, I could already see excitement on some of their faces — excitement at the prospect of plundering Bergonia’s leaderless towns and cities. I decided to disabuse these people of any such notion immediately.

“If you’re hoping for advice from me, Monsieurs, I’m willing to give you some.”

With that, I paused and cast a slow, heavy glance around the room. Some of the nobles met my gaze calmly; some looked back with defiance in their eyes. But there were also some who hurried to avert their eyes.

“My earnest recommendation is for you all to return to your homes,” I said firmly. “I’m sure your families are already at their wits’ end. Very soon, things are going to start getting rough in Bergonia. I’m already receiving reports that groups of bandits and marauders are stalking the roads. I intend to deal with this problem quickly and harshly. As part of that, all the main roads will soon be patrolled by units of men from the mountain districts.”

Judging by the sour looks on some of the nobles’ faces, they had heard my warning loud and clear. As for those who decided to ignore that warning... Well, we could always send some werewolves to teach them a lesson. True, it would be the last lesson they ever learned. Nobody would have much sympathy for marauders and robbers. Regardless of their social origins. Noble bandits, common bandits — they would simply disappear without a trace

The Count de Leval was already working on distributing troops into garrisons throughout Bergonia’s cities. He was perfect for the task, having done similar work in the past. For my part, I was planning to do a tour of all the major cities in Bergonia (including the capital, of course) and conclude agreements with the municipal leaders similar to the ones I had made with the authorities in Gondreville and Conterne.

Carl III, who was basically left without an army, wouldn’t be able to establish full control in Bergonia for quite some time. In fact, it would probably be a long time before there would be ANY centralized power in Bergonia. For the time being, it would be the leaders in the cities (and the councils of elders among the mountain men) who would carry the real weight of authority.

Those elders, by the way, had already come to me with a suggestion that I should simply take control of the whole country myself. But I had refused this suggestion, and asked them not to make any similar suggestions ever again.

First of all, I had no intention of wasting valuable time sorting out the entire country’s problems. Second, sorting out those problems was bound to be a bloody process; that seemed virtually inevitable. I had no desire whatsoever to be involved in anything of the sort. Third, I had other plans for my last life anyway.

Long story short, the whole idea of a struggle for the throne... Well, I simply wasn’t interested.

First and foremost, I wanted to make it to my Margraviate. I would have to decide what to do about the Citadel. I knew its former owners would probably be coming to me with an offer to buy it back before too long. If not, I could always sell it to someone else. I didn’t want to keep it for myself. Sure, it was useful as a base during wartime, but maintaining a complex like that long-term after military operations were over would be ruinously expensive.

Even as it was, I had some considerable expenses to bear in my new lands. All the Mertonians, as well as many of the mountain men (mostly the true gifted among them), had expressed a desire to move to the Margraviate de Valier permanently. Some of the Vestonian legionaries had approached me with similar requests.

Baron Reese, the Mertonian leader, had informed me that he had decided to send part of his unit back to the Foggy Isles to bring his Mertonians’ families to join them, and to inform the other Glenn clans that there was an auring in the world once again. The smile on Baron Reese’s face as he told me all this suggested that my Margraviate’s population would probably be increasing significantly before too long. It seemed like a full-on migration of peoples. At one point, I felt so overwhelmed that I actually lowered my head into my hands in despair. Even by the most modest estimate, I would be bringing about 3,500 people with me into my Margraviate. If not more... And all those people would need housing, as well as all the other necessities of life. And I still didn’t really know what was waiting for me there...

On that note, the council concluded, and I left the main command tent. Already, I had no doubt that all those nobles who had been so vociferous in their praise of the Marquis de Gondy would be eager to visit me over the next few days.

As I stepped into my tent, I found that Aelira and Vaira were already waiting for me. I had sent them to trail the retreating Atalian army, together with a small unit of shapeshifters.

“So — are they leaving?” I asked as I sat down in my chair.

“Yes,” nodded Aelira. “You were right. The Atalians have no intention of fighting us.”

“I don’t think Ricardo di Lorenzo will be back here any time soon,” I nodded. “We’ve thinned out his ranks pretty considerably — the fanatics even more so. I wouldn’t be surprised if we hear that the current King of Atalia has met an untimely end. The Golden Lion will be focused on internal affairs in his own country for the next few years at least. Did you get a chance to check his prisoners?”

The last question was addressed to Vaira, who had been ordered to get as close to the Atalian force as she could.

“Yep,” she nodded. “It was easy.”

“What’d you find out?” I asked.

“As you suspected, Prince Philippe is in their hands,” replied Vaira. “Together with his uncle.”

I wasn’t really all that happy to hear that the Duke de Bauffremont was still alive. I had already started hoping that the war would take care of that particular headache for me. But de Bauffremont turned out to be tougher than I thought.

“Did you hear anything about the Duke de Gondy?” I asked.

“No,” the efirel shook her head; then, a little sheepishly, she added: “I’m not totally sure, but...”

“What?” I asked.

“I think I caught a scent on the wind — it was the very same first-born who used to hang around outside your castle.”

I snickered. The lutine was losing her touch. Although you could never be totally sure with that particular first-born. Actually, she might have clocked my spy entering her camp and revealed herself to the efirel deliberately. Either way, I thought — I wouldn’t be surprised if she pays me a visit soon.

“Well done,” I nodded to Vaira; she was frowning, but she perked up immediately when she heard my praise. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” replied Aelira. “When we reached the spot where the Atalians had their temporary camp, some of the Golden Lion’s soldiers were waiting for us.”

“An attack?” I frowned.

“Nope,” Aelira shook her head. “They were flying a white flag, and they gave us this...”

My bodyguard held out a small scroll. After unrolling it, I ran my eyes carefully across the even lines on the page. They were written in the Vestonian language, in an elegant, confident calligraphic hand. Beneath the text was the very-familiar seal of the Duke di Lorenzo, together with a large signature that had been hurriedly scribbled onto the page. Everything suggested that the signature was genuine, that it came from the Golden Lion, and that the text itself had been written by somebody else (most likely his secretary).

In his message, the Golden Lion suggested that he and I should meet in person, without any witnesses. He also mentioned his hope that, as a nobleman and a man of honor, I wouldn’t attempt to take him prisoner or kill him at that meeting. On that point, he would be satisfied with my word. His people would be waiting for my written reply in the same place Aelira and Vaira had found them.

After reading through the message one more time, I chuckled and shook my head. It seemed virtually certain that a nobleman of the Golden Lion’s stature would have a bodyguard of strykers — potentially even including some avants — but that, for some reason, he felt pretty certain that they wouldn’t be a match for me in a fight.

Or maybe it was a trap? That could very well be the case. The man was probably capable of just about anything. That wouldn’t end well for him if he tried it, of course. He didn’t know the full range of my abilities. Nor did he know about my fairies.

I had to wonder: what could he possibly want with me? I rubbed the back of my head, then let out a long breath and gave a quiet order:

“Call Gunnar in here... And have him bring paper and ink.”