Last Life

Book 8: Chapter 9

THE UNIT OF LOCALS consisted of a dozen soldiers. All on horseback, and leading five spare horses along behind them. Judging by their nice equipment and the fact that they frankly looked like a bunch of bandits, it seemed like the people who had just stopped in to visit us were no strangers to violence against their fellow man.

Their leader was a short, stocky, big-bearded man with dark gray eyes and a flattened nose like that of a seasoned fistfighter. My true vision also showed that he was a stryker at the rank of medius. Even without that, though, the leather armor he was wearing, which had clearly been made from the hide of some sort of Shadow beast, would have been proof enough that the leader was a combat mage.

Besides the leader, my abilities as a Seer revealed two more true gifted among the newcomers. One woman and one man. They stood out from the others by their thin, flexible bodies, their attentive, unblinking gaze, and the deep hoods that covered their entire heads except for a few locks of long black hair.

At first, I thought they might be brother and sister, but when I noticed a tiny energy system and a little heart beating inside the woman’s abdomen, I concluded that the pair were probably husband and wife instead. Certain characteristic facial features, as well as some telltale marks on the skin that both strykers had tried carefully to conceal, made it clear that I was standing in the presence of two shapeshifters who were both of the same stock as the late Émile de Marbot.

True, their energy systems had obviously never been deformed by witching magic like the late Viscount’s had been. This meant that they actually looked pretty calm, almost phlegmatic — which was actually much more typical for lizardmen. The same, however, definitely couldn’t be said for the rest of the cutthroats in the small unit. They were all extremely nervous, although they were trying hard not to show it.

When I stepped forward to greet our unexpected guests (with a circle of my people forming a protective ring around me), a light breeze brought a quiet message from Vaira into my ears:

“Their camp is a day’s ride from here. Five more of them there. Two combat mages. Glenns are monitoring them.”

I nodded silently in reply, then kept moving.

Our guests had already backed up a few steps, and they were trying not to make any sudden movements as they waited for me to approach.

The leader was looking around attentively at my soldiers and our camp. I could see surprise and respect in his eyes. When, in the company of Sigurd and several other strykers, I stopped a few paces in front of him, his eyes widened a little bit, and his thick eyebrows rose ever so slightly.

His people were even more tense than before, but they were still trying hard not to make any sudden moves. By the way — I could tell by the bright flashes in their energy systems that my appearance had caused a stir even among the phlegmatic lizardmen. Especially the female one. Presumably, pregnancy had made her even more sensitive to magical emanations.

“I’ve been told that one of you was looking for a meeting with the Margrave de Valier,” I said. “Well, here he is. Please — introduce yourselves.”

I spoke at a reasonable volume, and with a healthy degree of politeness, but everybody who knew me understood perfectly well that I could easily give the order to slaughter these uninvited guests in the exact same tone.

Apparently, the leader of the newcomers had keen senses as well. Recognizing that the man in front of him was not someone to mess with in any way, he greeted me with a low bow, and when he began to speak, it was with a tone that positively radiated peaceability:

“Greetings, Your Lordship! Chevalier Jean Duval, at your service. And this is my band.”

The rest of the newcomers followed their commander’s lead and bowed to me.

“My castle and my modest landholdings, which I inherited from my ancestors, have always served the Margraves de Valier with honor. We’re located in the northwest reaches of the Margraviate,” Jean Duval continued.

“You’ve come a long way from home,” I replied.

“You’re absolutely right, Your Lordship,” the black-bearded chevalier replied. “But I had good reason to make the trip. I set off for Gondreville as soon as the roads became passable, in order to kneel before my new suzerain. And I’m happy beyond words to have met you earlier than I expected.”

Having said that, he slowly drew his sword and held it out to me with both hands. Then, as promised, he descended onto one knee, and in a serious, steady voice, he said:

“I, Chevalier Duval, swear to you, the Margrave de Valier, that I will be true and loyal in good times and in bad, in poverty and in wealth, in life and in death. I swear never to do you harm, never to betray you, and never to bring harm to your property. I pledge to defend your interests with this sword, to aid you in war and council, and to meet all the obligations incumbent upon me as a vassal. Should anyone threaten your life, I will stand in your defense. Should I ever violate this oath, may I suffer the loss of my fief and all other privileges you have granted me. I utter this oath in the presence of the gods and of men. May it remain unbroken until the end of my days!”

While Chevalier Duval was reciting his oath of vassalage, his people were standing there more or less motionless. Mind you, this was only appropriate. After all, the rule in this world was pretty simple: “The vassal of my vassal is not my vassal.” Relationships involving loyalty were intensely personal, and they only involved two people directly: the vassal and the master.

After he finished, Chevalier Duval remained where he was — down on one knee in front of me, facing the ground, not moving a muscle as he held his sword up in offering to me. I didn’t reply right away; I was lost in thought as I looked down at him. A long pause ensued, which obviously made the Chevalier’s people even more nervous than before. And judging by the lilac flashes in his energy system, Jean Duval himself was ready at any moment to start wielding the sword in his hands — and he definitely wasn’t preparing to use it in defense of the suzerain he was trying to swear fealty to.

This Jean Duval was a curious character. I was glad, of course, that he had come to find me himself, rather than making me look for him all over the Margraviate. I had already heard his name before. It was listed in one of the logs I had found in the Sapphire Guild’s treasury.

Chevalier Duval was one of those who had worked with the Guild, selling them everything he managed to collect in the Shadow and on the frontier. Put simply, the man genuflecting in front of me was the leader of one of the three bands of smugglers who plied their trade in Shadow Pass. According to the journal entry that recorded his hauls, Chevalier Duval was actually something of a small-fry in comparison to his competitors in their extremely-dangerous business. He had sold the Guild less than either of the other bands.

Naturally, I already had a lot of questions for him. And I could have gotten answers to those questions right then and there. I could feel the attentive eyes of my people as they watched me. A single gesture from me, and the newcomers would be disarmed and bound in the blink of an eye. Duval might take a bit more effort than the others, but he wouldn’t get away either. Then, with the help of truth serum and the lunari’s manipulations, I could have wheedled out any information that I cared to know.

But I wasn’t planning to start off on such a radical foot. Why create enemies when there was no need? Everything that had happened prior to my arrival in these lands was already in the past. A new era was dawning. Sure, Chevalier Duval might have been a scoundrel, but I preferred to keep him close — maybe not as a friend, but at least as an ally. Especially since he had taken the initiative and come to meet me himself. Besides, my reaction to this event would probably determine how many of the other locals would perceive their new master. To be sure, a show of strength was definitely important. There would be no more of the chaos that had once reigned in these lands. At the same time, it would also be necessary to show the whole independent-minded population that their new Margrave was a decent man — someone they could work with.

The tense pause continued. I cast a quick glance around at the faces of the other smugglers. Their faces displayed a mix of emotions. Some were clearly annoyed at their master’s spontaneous decision; some of them merely seemed resolved to fight to the last if need be.

Finally, in a silence that was interrupted only by the usual sounds of the camp around us, I took a step forward and stopped right in front of Chevalier Duval before picking the sword up from his hands.

Then I examined it carefully. Hm, I thought... This Chevalier Duval is certainly full of surprises.

The stryker’s sword looked simple and unremarkable at first, but upon closer inspection, a trained eye could pick up many curious details.

The thin, slightly-curved blade had been made from a single piece of dull gray metal. It didn’t gleam in the torchlight, and it had obviously been made especially to avoid attracting unwanted attention.

The surface of the steel was covered in small scratches, which bore witness to the many fights it had seen its owner through. In true vision, the stryker’s weapon looked like an elongated, spindle-shaped web of thin, lilac-colored energy channels. My parasite was full, so it didn’t react to the foreign mana at all. But the flowery magical pattern somehow seemed very familiar to me...

The sword’s hilt was made from the leather of some sort of Shadow monster. It had darkened with age, and been soaked through with sweat and blood. The pommel was simple, but massive. It was shaped like the fanged head of a predator — some kind of feline, most likely.

Basically, the sword didn’t look very impressive at all. It had obviously not been created to dazzle anybody with its external appearance at royal balls and receptions. Only someone who could sense Shadow magic would realize that it wasn’t a mere weapon at all — it was a truly unique artifact, which had seen a lot of action already, and might be the key to victory in the next lethal confrontation.

At that point, I also remembered where I had seen similar handiwork before. The Ghost dagger that the Wild Duke had taken from me. This sword and that dagger had both been created by masters from the Shadow...

I tore my eyes off the sword and turned to look down at Chevalier Duval. Our eyes met. His unexpected appearance, followed swiftly by this oath — it was all happening so fast. On the other hand, according to the laws of this world, all landowners in my Margraviate (or at least any who were still alive) would have to swear an oath of loyalty to me sooner or later and recognize me as their suzerain. So really, Chevalier Duval had merely decided to get the jump on the competition. Most likely, he was simply hoping to secure the support of his new Margrave in the future.

Well, I thought — let’s see how that turns out. I just hope I don’t end up regretting this.

As I began to speak, everybody around us tensed up at first, but after they heard the first few words of the suzerain’s standard reply coming out of my mouth, I saw smiles of relief pop up at numerous places in the crowd.

“I, the Margrave de Valier,” I began in a firm, solemn, ceremonious tone. “Accept your oath, Chevalier Duval, with profound gratitude and favor. From this day forth, you are under my protection and my patronage. I promised to safeguard your rights, to defend your home, and to care for you as my loyal servant and ally. I give you my word that I will be a just and wise ruler, ready to listen to you and support you at all times. In exchange for your loyalty and service, you may be assured of my intercession and my favor. You may rely on me as your master, and in exchange I will expect you to meet all the obligations and promises you have sworn to me. May our union be firm, and may it bring peace and prosperity to our lands. We are henceforth bound by ties of honor. May they remain strong until the end of our days!”

As I finished speaking, I handed my new vassal his sword. Once he rose to his feet, we exchanged a firm handshake. A moment later, a shout of joy rang out from hundreds of throats all across the camp.

Everybody present understood that this was just a formality, but at the same time, the fact that a new vassal had come to swear allegiance on the very evening of our crossing — one from among the locals, no less — struck my people as a very good omen indeed. Many people around the campfires that night would be talking about how the ancient gods had blessed their leader and his enterprise. By extension, of course, they’d also be able to congratulate themselves on having made the right decision when they chose to emigrate with me to my new Margraviate.

“I hope, Monsieur,” I said with a smile. “That you have no objection to joining me for dinner and livening up the evening with some conversation? You need not worry about your people or their horses. They’ll be taken care of.”

“Thank you, Your Lordship,” Chevalier Duval replied with another bow. “I’d be delighted to accept your invitation.”

* * *

As we walked around the camp, Chevalier Duval kept turning his head from side to side with rapt interest. Once in a while, he would shake his head and click his tongue with obvious approval. Apparently, he found our marching camp to his liking.

That said, it would have been surprising if he hadn’t. I daresay that at that time, there was no other army in this world that could boast the kind of preparation and discipline that my army displayed every single day. And that’s not even to mention its equipment, transportation, and ancillary services.

When we finally reached my tent, the first thing that I saw as I crossed the threshold was the rack of a dozen trophy swords that somebody had placed prominently along one of the fabric walls.

The main exhibits in this particular collection were the Gray Reaper’s curved blades hanging in the center.

I shot an inquisitive glance at Gunnar. My valet’s face didn’t change in the slightest, but I could see a flash of mischief dancing in his eyes. He obviously wanted to see how my guest would react. And the latter certainly didn’t disappoint.

As he stepped in behind me, Chevalier Duval didn’t even get a chance to look around properly before his eyes were drawn to the sword rack like a magnet. Once there, they didn’t move for quite a while.

He clearly recognized the curved blades. I mean, he must have, given the way his eyebrows shot upward and his whole bearded face spread into a mask of amazement. My valet’s freckled face, meanwhile, began to shine like a well-polished copper bowl. His entire being seemed to radiate self-satisfaction — put into words, it would have been something like “look what MY master can do.”

I have to give my guest credit, though: he quickly overcame his initial surprise and continued looking around at the rest of my campaign tent. Again, I could see approval in his eyes. He didn’t mention the Gray Reaper’s swords. As we were taking our seats at the table, however, I noticed that he would occasionally cast a quick glance across the room — first over at the sword rack, and then at me.

As we carried on a polite, meaningless conversation about the weather, we spent a little time simply enjoying the culinary talents of my new chef, whom Gunnar had introduced to me over the winter. The man was one of his compatriots, who, as a young man, had moved first to Vestonia, then to Bergonia. After serving as a chef in the kitchens of a local baron for a few years, the war forced him to flee to Conterne, where he eventually became acquainted with Gunnar.

And so it was that the old man had ended up there in the tent with us that night, where he was pampering us with black grouse and mushrooms in a sour-cream sauce, baked trout with freshly-picked herbs, stewed venison, and three different kinds of pate.

As Gunnar started laying the plates out on the table, Chevalier Duval took a deep breath of the intoxicating smells in the air, and for a little while he seemed to forget about the swords and concentrate entirely on the food in front of him. Only occasionally did he manage to tear himself away from his plate, in order to carry on our conversation.

When he was finally full, he leaned back on his chair. He turned to look at me (now with a slightly drowsy look in his eyes), and I asked:

“Judging by your accent, I gather that you’re not a Vestonian?”

“You’re right, Your Lordship,” he replied. “My ancestors came to these parts from southeastern Bergonia.”

“I see,” I said. “And how’s the situation in your lands at the moment?”

My question seemed to liven up my dining companion considerably. After all, it presented him with the perfect opportunity to complain about how difficult life was and how badly things were going for him.

Chevalier Duval justified every one of my expectations. Things in his lands were going very, very badly indeed, just as I had assumed. While he had somehow been managing to make ends meet before the Scarlets made their appearance, the invasion had forced him to flee north and seek shelter among the mountain clans. Which, by the way, was where he had first heard about me.

Returning to his home in the fall, Chevalier Duval discovered that his castle had been ransacked. The Scarlets had razed the only village in his lands and (apparently) taken the peasants with them when they left.

As for my question about Fort de Gris and the garrison the Scarlets had left there, he replied that he didn’t really have any information about it at all. Something about the Scarlets abandoning Fort de Gris pretty much as soon as they heard that the Gray Reaper had been defeated. As far as he knew, they had fled northeast along the mountain paths. And when they did, they left the Margraviate’s main fortress entirely to its own devices. Basically, just as I had assumed, the Margraviate was in a state of chaos and lawlessness.

At the end, the Chevalier told me about how, after somehow managing to survive the winter, he had decided to head for Gondreville to present himself to the new Margrave de Valier and ask him for assistance.

I listened carefully to what he was saying, replying with the occasional nod and shaking my head sympathetically from time to time. When he finally finished, I picked up my wineglass from the table and took a slow, thoughtful sip. Then, after a short pause, I calmly began to speak:

“It seems to me, Monsieur, that you’ve left one very important part out of your story. Or rather, there are probably many missing parts, if I had to guess, but for now there’s only one I’m interested in. I’d really like to discuss it with you, as long as we can do so without any of the lies you’ve just been trying to feed me. And before you ask — yes, please dispense with anything resembling the spectacle you just put on for us outside. I have no doubt that you’re gifted in the art of self-transformation, but for now I’d simply like to save as much of our time as possible. All I need to know first is whether you’re prepared for a frank conversation. Before you answer, I’d like to warn you that the degree of your frankness will determine the nature of our future relationship. So — what do you say?”

My words made Jean Duval stiffen, and (as I had hinted) he seemed to transform right before my eyes. The man who had so recently looked and sounded like yet another battered provincial vassal complaining about his hard life was gone. In his place sat a dangerous predator, who was ready at any moment to launch himself into an attack.

For a minute, we just stared at each other; then, apparently having decided something in his mind, Chevalier Duval spoke in a low, icy tone:

“What will this frank conversation be about, then?”

“First, I’d like to know what exactly you’ve managed to recover from the Shadow,” I replied in the same tone, watching as his face changed. “After all, you’re practically radiating Barrier magic...”