Last Life

Book 8: Chapter 3

Wolfsburg, capital of Astland

The Granite Palace, residence of King Otto II

ON A WIDE SQUARE, thickly strewn with small pebbles, two strykers had just crossed swords in a training fight. The first was a tall, massive warrior, clad from head to toe in armor that specialist artificers had crafted from the bones of some massive cave beast. The giant wielded his long, two-handed sword as if it were as light as a bamboo walking stick.

The second stryker was a full head shorter than his opponent, but just as thick (if not more so) in the shoulders. His armor had been forged from rare blue steel, which had come from across the Barrier, and as he fought it glimmered and flashed in the pale light of the winter sun.

Both Mages were avants. Their lightning-quick movements around the training ring were accompanied by loud gasps and cheers — normally followed by thunderous applause — from the audience of young aristocrats.

The noble public was especially loud in its praise of the stryker in the sky-blue armor. Which wasn’t surprising... After all, that stryker was none other than the King of Astland, Otto II the Brave himself. True, he also had another moniker that was still in use among the common people: Otto the Usurper.

To be fair, though, the “Usurper” tag was being heard less and less in Astland with every successive year of Otto II’s rule. According to the bootlicks and sycophants at court, this was because of the King’s unsurpassed talents as a ruler. Supposedly, the people had finally seen that their new ruler was simply better and wiser than their previous one.

In private, however, everyone in the country understood that Otto II was neither better nor worse than Conrad V, who had been beheaded and quartered in Wolfsburg after the Battle of Lüneburg, almost fifteen years before. And nobody needed to be told who exactly was responsible when the King’s most vociferous critics started losing body parts — first their busy tongues, then their hot, intemperate heads...

Wilhelm von Lander, Chief Minister to the King of Astland, was standing in the audience, watching the duel with careful attention. Tall and well-built, with a penetrating gaze and an icy expression that seemed permanently affixed to his face, Wilhelm was the kind of person whose very name inspired anxiety and respect, both within the court and across length and breadth of the land.

Wilhelm von Lander was the kind of hidden powerhouse who could manage all the various complex processes that make a country run, and direct them into their proper courses. His methods were harsh, but undeniably efficient. He stood at the root of many of Otto II’s decisions, but somehow he always managed to remain in the shadows and avoid any unnecessary attention.

The man who would one day become Chief Minister had been born into a noble family, but one which had fallen on hard times some time before; by the time of Wilhelm’s birth, they were completely impoverished. As the youngest son, Wilhelm understood from an early age that whatever he wanted in life would have to be earned through his own efforts — he could expect no financial help from his father. He therefore started preparing to devote his life to military service. Initially, he planned to make a career for himself in His Majesty’s army.

Alas, his plans were fated never to come to fruition, because something miraculous happened. When Wilhelm turned ten, it was discovered that he possessed the Shadow Gift. Representatives of the Gray Guild of Mages soon paid a visit to the family home, and his father’s joy knew no bounds. He knew that his youngest son’s healing gift might end up saving the family’s position in society.

Within the Guild, young Wilhelm soon showed an aptitude for the sciences, in addition to a natural flair for using his gift. He soon reached the rank of medius, and from there his ascent was meteoric: before long he was made Prior, and then Grand Master.

It was during his time in the Gray Guild that Wilhelm became acquainted with the eldest son of the Duke of Meerane — a man who would one day be known as Otto II the Brave, and whose line was every bit as ancient and exalted as that of King Conrad V himself.

Thanks to his skills and abilities, Wilhelm quickly attracted the attention of Otto and the men in his inner circle. They never really became friends, but they were certainly allies. Normally, Wilhelm would handle the plans and logistics, and Otto would put those plans into action.

Wilhelm played a crucial role in overthrowing the previous King, and thereby helping Otto ascend the throne, and the latter rewarded him with the post of Chief Minister. Basically, this equated to a grant of practically-unlimited power within the country’s government.

And Wilhelm von Lander took to the role with a vicious zeal. In the years following the coup, he had curtailed the power of the aristocracy, thereby strengthening the position of the King. He had suborned all the magical guilds in Astland to the will of the state, and done the same with the country’s most powerful mercenary guilds.

Slowly but surely, he enlarged and rearmed the army, created a Royal Guard Corps, and also reformed the secret chancery, whose network of spies and informers was responsible for gathering intelligence in both the foreign and domestic spheres.

In addition to all that, Otto II’s Chief Minister had taken it upon himself to develop the country’s international trading network, which soon brought a significant increase in revenues flowing into the treasury.

Naturally, such sweeping changes weren’t to everyone’s liking. Wilhelm von Lander had already been the target of several dozen assassination attempts during his years of service. Eventually, worried about losing his main ally (some might say co-conspirator), the King decided that, for the first time in the history of Astland, his Chief Minister would be allowed to form and maintain his own personal guard unit...

The loud ovations that signaled the end of the sparring session (which, of course, His Majesty won handily) soon tore Wilhelm von Lander out of his train of thought.

He glanced down at the King’s flushed, satisfied face as soon as he removed his helmet. A fiery red mane, bright blue eyes, lively mannerisms… Otto II wore his forty years very lightly indeed. And his Shadow Gift was unlikely to let him age any time soon. In addition to that, Wilhelm himself — a healer at the rank of avant — always paid careful attention to his ruler’s health.

With a big smile on his face, Otto slapped the bone armor of his black-haired opponent as he leaned over and said something to him. The giant smiled his animal smile in response and bowed to his King.

Many people might have assumed that Baron Charles de Flavy, Captain of the Royal Guards, had thrown the fight against his King on purpose. And considering that de Flavy was so ruthless toward the King’s enemies that he was popularly known as the Destroyer, they could certainly be forgiven for thinking so; but Wilhelm von Lander knew better. He knew that Otto excelled his bodyguard both as a Mage and as a swordsman.

As the procession of nobles and guardsmen filed toward the Palace doors, the Chief Minister turned and headed back toward his office. Otto would be busy bathing and having breakfast, which meant Wilhelm would have an opportunity to get some paperwork done...

“So,” said Otto II, once he and the Chief Minister were alone in the Royal Office. The King plopped down into an armchair and stretched his legs happily out toward the fireplace. “What news do you have for me today?”

“Important report from Bergonia, Your Majesty,” said the Chief Minister. The King snapped to attention as soon as he uttered these words.

“Go on,” said Otto impatiently.

“For the time being, at least, the war in Bergonia is over,” Wilhelm announced. “The Golden Lion has retreated to Atalia with what remains of his legions.”

“Oh!” The King exclaimed with a wide smile. He slapped his hands down loudly onto the armrests of his chair and jumped excitedly up to his full height. “That’s excellent news! Everything’s going to plan, then!”

“Not exactly...” The Chief Minister’s tone didn’t change at all as he continued. Gradually, the expression of joy on Otto II’s face started to morph into one of bewildered confusion.

Meanwhile, without paying any overt attention to the changing expression on his King’s face, Wilhelm von Lander continued:

“Before leaving Bergonia, the Golden Lion turned and gave battle to the army of the Dukes. And he crushed them — he took Prince Philippe and the Duke de Bauffremont prisoner.”

“How, in the name of all the ancient gods, is that possible?!” The King exploded. “You told me yourself that the Atalians were practically wedged in between two Vestonian armies!”

“As indeed they were,” the Chief Minister nodded. “But the Dukes de Gondy and de Bauffremont decided to attack the Golden Lion without waiting for the Margrave de Valier to join them.”

“May the Abyss swallow that overconfident fool!” The King growled. “He managed to get himself captured AND failed in his task to keep the Prince safe! We’re going to have to start all over! Maybe it would be easier and cheaper just to start with Heinrich this time?”

“If only the situation were that simple,” Wilhelm objected, “we’d have done that a long time ago. Prince Heinrich is too independent-minded and unpredictable. Sure, he’s not as impteuous as his late younger brother Bastien, but he’s nowhere near as pliant as Prince Philippe — who, by the way, has already been freed from captivity.”

“What do you mean?” The King’s eyes widened.

“The young bastard truly managed to surprise everybody this time,” said the Chief Minister, permitting himself a little smirk. “Somehow, he reached an understanding with the Duke di Lorenzo, and they simply exchanged Princes.”

The King’s eyes narrowed slightly; turning his head, he strode in silence over to the window. For a while, he just stared at the winter landscape outside his window, lost in thought. Then, turning around, he said:

“You said that the Atalians only had the Duke de Bauffremont. What about de Gondy?”

“He was badly wounded in the battle, but he still managed to avoid getting captured. He’s almost certainly in the capital by now, preparing for Prince Philippe’s arrival.”

“In other words, then, while Claude’s cooling his heels in Atalia, waiting for his vassals to get his ransom together, there’s nothing to stop de Gondy from taking total control of Prince Philippe? I’m starting to get sick of all this. Carl’s teetering on the edge of the Abyss. His legions have been smashed. It’ll be months before the Vestonian nobles can throw another army together. We’re never going to have a better chance than we do right now. My men are tired of waiting around. They’re eager for battle. If we let them loose now, we’ll be in Herouxville by the end of spring!”

“Will you permit me an objection, Your Majesty?” Wilhelm von Lander replied calmly.

The King replied with a low growl. His entire demeanor was like that of a cave tiger, with a big piece of meat in front of its nose that someone was suddenly trying to take away.

“Go ahead and try,” Otto II growled menacingly. “But I’ll warn you now — make it convincing. Because otherwise, I’m issuing mobilization orders today. And if I do, you’re going to do everything necessary to make the campaign a success. Understood?”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” said the Chief Minister. “But there’s something I need to know first. What exactly do you hope to achieve with this campaign? What will be its goal?”

“It seems that what they tell me about you is true after all,” the King chuckled as he stared firmly into his Minister’s eyes. “I’ve given you too much power. And now it’s finally come to mockery. I mean, how else should I interpret what you just said to me?”

Wilhelm von Lander meekly lowered his head; then, in a calm, even tone, he replied:

“Your new councillors are mistaken, Your Majesty. I really don’t have any power whatsoever. Such a thing is simply impossible. After all, every scrap of power in this country belongs to you and you alone, as its lawful ruler. I am merely your humble servant. Every action I take is taken exclusively on your authority and with your blessing. As for my question... There’s not even the merest shadow of mockery in it. No matter the case, I would need to know Your Majesty’s plans regarding Vestonia in order to carry out your will. Therefore, I can only repeat my question. What is to be the goal of this campaign? Simple plundering? Seizure of border territories? Or perhaps you’re planning something on a larger scale?”

“You know EXACTLY what I’m planning!” Otto II roared. “An Empire! That’s the point! Or have you already given the idea up as an impossibility?!”

“Your Majesty.” Wilhelm raised his head. For the first time in the conversation, a spark flashed across his eyes. After all, how could he fail to believe something he himself had implanted in Otto’s head during the young man’s training in the Guild? “Resurrecting the Empire is my dream. The day I see the Imperial Crown descend upon your head will be the happiest day of my life.”

“Then why are you opposed to this campaign?” The King shot back. “And don’t you dare try any excuses with me! I know you too well.”

“Because we aren’t yet ready to conquer the whole of Vestonia,” Wilhelm replied bluntly. “Even if we strip our northern borders bare — which, considering the situation in Northland at the moment, we categorically cannot do — we still won’t have enough men for the job. Yes, looting the northern baronies and counties, or even annexing a sizable chunk of their territory, would be easy enough. Carl doesn’t have any army that could possibly stop us. And yes, he’s at death’s door. But for some reason, he isn’t dying. I’ll tell you something else, too: even in a situation as complicated as this, he’s still in firm control of his government. His recent extermination of the Order of the Gray Rock is proof enough of that. There wasn’t so much as a whimper in defense of the Stone Knights. The Vestonian nobility is as loyal to the Royal Family as ever, and they won’t simply surrender the hundreds of castles and cities along our path as soon as we arrive. Of course, there will always be those who would take our side in the event of an invasion, but there won’t be many of them. And you know why that is: currently, Astland and Vestonia are firm allies. So as soon as our armies cross their border, they’ll instantly perceive us as backstabbers, invaders, and mortal enemies. We can always find a suitable pretext to justify our invasion, but in the eyes of the Vestonian nobility you would be the violator of an alliance that bears your very own signature. Nobody would ever accept your oath again. Even when you become Emperor, the stain will remain on your reputation forever.”

The King stood by the window in silence, listening as his Chief Minister explained his interpretation of events in a dry monotone. And, as usual, he found himself agreeing with everything he heard. The initial burst of enthusiasm had faded, to be replaced by a clear understanding that they would need to stick to the existing plan. Vestonia was simply too large. It couldn’t be swallowed in a single gulp. Any attempt would just result in a pointless waste of men.

A lightning-quick advance on Herouxville was one option, but taking the capital would never be as easy as it might seem on paper. Problems with supply would crop up as sure as night follows day. Supply lines from Astlandia would come under attack by noblemen and their retinues, who would always be able to hide out in their castles when reprisals came.

And they wouldn’t have to stay bottled up for long anyway. It wouldn’t take long for one of the Dukes to put out a call and gather the Vestonian aristocracy together into a new army. Last but not least, there was the man who had actually beaten the Atalians: the mysterious Margrave de Valier. As he stood there in his office, the King reflected that it hadn’t even been a full year since he first heard this man’s name.

The Margrave would be unlikely to sit tight in Bergonia while an enemy army was besieging Herouxville. He would definitely return to Vestonia and bring his army with him.

Otto sighed. Wilhelm had been right when he proposed his original plan. There would be no point in carrying on a bunch of pointless wars, wasting the lives of his soldiers for no reason, when he could induce the rulers of these other countries to bend their knees and acclaim him Emperor of their own accord.

Wilhelm had fallen silent some time before. He was waiting patiently while the King digested what he had said. Recently, Otto had been showing signs of impatience, which expressed itself in outbursts of anger like the ones Wilhelm had witnessed that day. He would need to be kept busy. Apparently, the King’s old favorite had begun to bore him. Some new object of conquest would have to be found. Fortunately, at any given time, the Chief Minister always had several suitable candidates for such a role. A half-measure, to be sure, but it was working for the time being.

More seriously, the time had clearly come to purge some of the hot-blooded young war hawks from His Majesty’s court. They were constantly egging the King on, and it had become a serious nuisance. Wilhelm made a mental note to arrange some duels and unfortunate accidents. At the same time, he would introduce some more calculating, calmer nobles into the King’s inner circle.

Finally, the King turned and walked back over to his chair. He picked up his goblet, took a huge gulp of wine, and then — already sounding calmer — he asked:

“So what do you intend to do?”

“We need the Duke de Bauffremont in Herouxville,” replied the Chief Minister. “But his ransom is something of a problem. His people have already contacted our banker.”

“Very well,” the King nodded. “Let Bauffremont sink even deeper in debt to me. Any other news?”

“Messengers have arrived from Fjordgrad,” said Wilhelm von Lander. “They’ve brought an invitation to the coronation.”

“And onto whose head, exactly, are the priests going to place the Crown of Vintervald?” The King’s left eye narrowed slightly as he turned to glance at his Minister.

“Forgive me my impertinence, Your Majesty,” Wilhelm von Lander replied calmly as he cocked his head to the side. “But you owe me a hundred gold marks.”

“Heh!” The King grunted with irritation and shook his head. “So Sharptooth’s girl didn’t strike while the iron was hot. I was sure she’d elbow her brothers out of the way and ascend to the throne herself. But you were right once again... Which one of the two idiots is going to be the new Konung?”

“According to our ambassadors, Princess Astrid has voiced support for her eldest brother, Olaf the Gray, so as not to exacerbate the country’s precarious situation any further. Her next eldest brother, Ulf Wolfheart, is already busy gathering a new army to face the Frost Knights. And I’ve also learned that Vintervald’s ambassadors have already begun scheduling meetings with the leaders of Wolfsburg’s mercenary guilds.”

“Well,” the King snickered. “I wish them luck. I trust you’ve already communicated my will to the heads of those guilds?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the Chief Minister replied with a bow of his head. “Not a single Astlandic mercenary will be signing a contract with the northerners. Any who fail to follow your orders on this matter will find punishment swift and severe. That said, I think they already understand that with the defeat of the Konung and his army, nothing good awaits them in Northland anyway.”

Otto II ran a hand through his long, wavy hair and cracked his neck:

“Sharptooth should never have turned to the Frozen Spears. The savages have buttered their bread, and now they’re going to have to eat it. Although I must admit, I was a little unnerved by just how easily those Frost Knights destroyed Sharptooth’s army.”

“I’m already gathering intelligence, Your Majesty.” As always, Wilhelm von Lander was quick with an answer. “I’ll have a full report for you very soon.”

“Well, the sooner the better,” the King replied morosely. “We need to know what we’re dealing with...”