Last Life

I WAS ON MY WAY BACK from a morning hunt, working my way carefully around the edge of a ravine ringed with thick bushes. Three rabbits and a fat partridge were bouncing from the side of my belt. I had a bow in my hand, with an arrow still set on its string, and a short sword strapped to my back.

The simple-looking blade was a gift from Ursula Hoog. Made from Shadow steel, it looked no different than a standard, inexpensive sword — the sort of thing a simple mercenary might carry.

As usual, I had golden bruts in the pockets on the strap running across my chest, as well as a supply of normal bruts sewn into the lining of my jacket and brigandine. The lilac crystals were part of a suit of magical armor that had been specially made for concealment beneath fabric; its structure was composed of thin plates of bone. This armor was also one of Ursula’s creations.

The pre-dawn dampness, which I had felt so distinctly when leaving the camp several hours before, was already long gone. The air in the springtime forest filled my lungs with a refreshing coolness, mixed in as it was with the astringent smell of young leaves, damp earth, and aromatic pine.

This wasn’t the busiest part of the Imperial track, but I’d still had to travel quite some distance into the forest toward the mountains before I ran into any game.

The Felvina Valley and the Dravar Hills were already far behind me, as was Lake Düren, where the Marquis di Spinola’s army had been so decisively shattered. The Marquis’ father still hadn’t delivered the ransoms he owed me, either for himself or for his son’s banners. Knowing the Duke, however, I felt certain that he would keep his word.

By my calculations, I’d arrive at Chéran in about twelve days. Provided, of course, that the rest of the journey passed without incident — something that was far from certain, given that I was no longer travelling through lands that my units patrolled.

I had spent the whole time traveling with Maître Brisot’s troupe. He had turned out to be quite a pleasant man. His traveling theater was basically a family business. The big man and the tall woman who had come to meet me when I first arrived were Jean and his wife Michaela, respectively brother-in-law and sister of Maître Brisot.

The two young women who had been tending the kettle were the couple’s daughters. The women’s husbands had been out hunting at the time. Or trying to hunt, at least; they hadn’t had much luck at all. The kids running all over the camp were Jean and Michaela’s grandchildren. The family accepted me cautiously at first. Later on, however, once they realized I was a peaceful man who wouldn’t make advances on their women or try to steal anything, the attitude of Maître Brisot and his family warmed considerably.

My standing in their eyes rose quite a bit when, the next morning, I brought in a deer after the morning’s hunt. During our lunch of meat stew that day, a visibly-happy Maître Brisot offered me a place in their little caravan. He knew I was headed back to Herouxville; having heard about the holidays that had been declared to celebrate Carl III’s recovery, the traveling artists were making their own way to Vestonia’s capital with all possible haste. Everybody else in the Brisot clan was enthusiastically in support of their patriarch’s offer.

For my part, I had been planning to link up with some sort of caravan at some point anyway, so joining up with a traveling theater didn’t seem like a bad option at all. Especially since the company was pleasant and creative.

Admittedly, calling their craft “theater” might be a bit of a stretch. After seeing one of their performances, I understood why Brisot’s troupe usually had to content itself with performances in poorer neighborhoods or out in the suburbs, rather than in the main squares of the cities they visited.

Basically, all the members of the Brisot family had long ago made peace with their lot in life, with the sole exception of the third and youngest of Jean and Michaela’s daughters. Her name was Bridget, and she had just turned eighteen earlier that year. If anyone in the whole troupe could accurately be described as an actress, it was her.

Bridget was a real talent. She was a diamond in the rough who, if faceted properly, could one day turn into a true gem. I knew that it was probably thanks mostly to her that audiences put up with the Brisot troupe at all.

Her relatives seemed to know it, and she seemed to know it as well. Like any other talented actress who knew the power her talent could exert over her audience, Bridget was capricious and ambitious by nature.

I couldn’t help smiling as I thought about the previous evening’s conversation around the campfire. We had been talking about the future. Each of us had talked about our dreams and wishes. The older members of the family had mainly talked about buying a small house in some small, quiet city, where they could finally settle down and leave the nomadic life behind them — a life which, as I quickly came to understand, everybody was already thoroughly sick of, especially the women in the group.

Maître Brisot had high hopes for the holidays that Carl III had just announced in Herouxville. The family had been saving collectively for several years, traveling from city to city, and he hoped that this big festival would finally rake in the rest of the money they needed for a house.

The war in Bergonia, by the way, had resulted in a substantial improvement in the Brisot family’s financial position. Yet more proof, if such was needed, of how true the old folk saying is: “For some, war means tears. For others, it means gold.”

“So we’ll buy a small house somewhere in the south of the Gondy Duchy and live out our days in peace. Right, Blackie?” Maître Brisot smiled as he patted the head of a big dog that was lying at his feet. The beast replied with a big yawn and laid his head in his master’s lap.

“Agh, uncle!” Bridget interjected with an exasperated groan. “This trip to the capital’s going to be a big success for us — I just know it! We’re going to get noticed by one of the big nobles, and our troupe will get a rich patron! The best theaters in Vestonia will be open to us.”

“And if that doesn’t happen?” Maître Brisot chuckled.

“Then we’ll travel to Northland and perform for His Highness Prince Louis! He’s the real art connoisseur in the Royal Family!”

Maître Brisot and the others just shook their heads.

“Come on, girl... I seem to remember you predicting some big success for us in Gondreville, too,” said Michaela with a note of sarcasm in her voice. She was weaving grass the entire time she spoke. “You were trying to convince us that the Margrave de Valier would love our performance, and that he’d take an active interest in us after that. You said that after your solo, His Lordship would probably come out and personally give you a bouquet of the best flowers money could buy. Where’s the Margrave de Valier and his big bouquet now?”

“Mommy dearest,” said Bridget, narrowing her big sky-blue eyes, “it’s not MY fault that His Lordship decided not to visit whatever dirty suburb of Gondreville we had the honor of performing in, with its stench of rotten old bathwater. And where, by the way, Clare messed up her lines again. Three times! And where Gaston decided for some reason that a horrible improv was the best alternative to a flawless script. Come on, mom! It’s a miracle that they weren’t pelting us with rotten vegetables!”

Neither Clare nor Gaston reacted to Bridget’s words in the slightest. It seemed this wasn’t the first time they had heard these particular rebukes.

“And I’m genuinely happy that His Lordship the Margrave de Valier wasn’t there to see our disgrace that day...” Bridget trailed off, her voice having dwindled almost to a whisper. Her cheeks went pink; her expression suddenly changed. The light from the fire was dancing in her wide-open eyes.

“I saw His Lordship at the dedication of the monument. He was so tall, so put-together, so elegant. His face looked like it was carved from marble. And his eyes... Oh, Gods! I would never have survived such a disgrace.”

“Child,” Maître Brisot shook his head. “We were standing way at the back. You couldn’t have seen his face. And I’ll tell you something else, too: you need to get rid of these illusions of yours. They’re senseless and dangerous. Remember — we’re not on the same level as people like him. I’m sure your talent, your acting, and your voice could make anybody applaud. Even a Prince or a King. Maybe someday, some Baron or Count will shower you with flowers and gifts. But you’ll never be part of their world. Unless you want to become a plaything in somebody else’s hands — something they’ll throw out or break when they get tired of it — think about more sensible goals for yourself.” The rightful source is novèlfire.net

“What sort of goals are you talking about, uncle?” Bridget turned to face him. There were tears in her big eyes.

“Get married,” shrugged Maître Brisot. “Start a family. Have children.”

“And who am I going to marry?” Bridget’s eyes widened a little bit. “What sort of man IS on my level?”

“Well, what about Jack here?” Maître Brisot chuckled as he nodded in my direction. It was so unexpected that I actually did a bit of a double-take. “Sure, he’s a little slouchy, and his face isn’t exactly sculpted from marble. And hopefully that limp will be gone soon. But he’s never once left this kettle without meat in it. He’s strong, and he could protect his wife and child. You’d be safe with a man like that.”

Bridget shot a withering glance in my direction, then rose to her full height and strode briskly off into the darkness, amid general laughter.

“Come on, brother. Go a little easier on her,” chuckled Michaela, although there wasn’t even a hint of actual reproach in her voice at all.

“She’s alright. She’s a smart girl,” said Brisot as he shot me a mirthful wink, as if to say “don’t worry about these little family squabbles of ours.” “She’ll stew for a bit, and someday she’ll thank us for the good advice.”

Jean, who hadn’t uttered more than ten words or so the entire time we’d been traveling together, just nodded in silence. It seemed that husband and wife were in total agreement when it came to how they wanted to raise their daughters...

I was still thinking about the previous night’s conversation when I suddenly froze.

“What is it?” Selina froze next to me.

“No sounds,” I whispered. “It’s too quiet.”

I was pretty close to our campsite by that point, and I would have expected to hear the usual noise: children shouting, adults arguing, Blackie barking, horses neighing. But there was nothing. Only the usual sounds of the forest.

A moment later, a light breeze picked up, and I detected the unmistakable smell of death. I shot forward immediately, scanning the area around me as I ran. Upon reaching the edge of the forest next to the camp, I stopped and peered out from behind a tree. The lunari froze next to me.

The first thing I noticed was the lifeless body of Blackie, lying next to an extinguished fire, right in the middle of the clearing where our camp had been earlier that very morning. A quick scan showed that there was nobody in the area anymore. Stepping out from behind the tree, I rushed quickly over to the dead dog. It was clear that Blackie’s head had been smashed with something heavy. The dog must have been trying to protect its owners.

I stood up and walked slowly around the camp. There were lots of tracks on the ground, from both boots and hooves. Hm, I thought... Fourteen... No. Fifteen riders.

“Max!” I heard Selina’s muffled voice from the other side of the clearing. “Over here!”

I ran over, and the lunari nodded toward the bushes. There, lying like a ragdoll, was Gaston, Clare’s husband. His dead, glassy eyes were staring crazily up into the sky. There was a big, bloody brown stain on his linen shirt, right in the area around his heart.

I shook my head, then turned back to look over the rest of the clearing.

“What now?” The lunari asked.

“The tracks lead northwest,” I said.

We didn’t waste a second — we took off in pursuit of the assailants immediately. After about half an hour of hard running along the forest path, I found Jean lying in a pile of branches and flattened grass right next to the path.

He was lying on his stomach, and there was a big, deep, black laceration running across his back. The big man was unconscious. His arms and legs were pointed off in all different directions, as though he had been trying to grab onto roots and rocks; he had clearly been standing at first, but then (presumably losing blood) he had fallen and begun to crawl, until his strength finally failed him.

I carefully turned Jean over, holding him by the shoulders and trying not to touch his wound. His face was gray from blood loss and pain; his eyes were closed; his breathing was barely perceptible. There were globs of wet dirt and rotten leaves on his hands and feet. It seemed like he had probably fallen quite early on, and kept stubbornly crawling along until he finally lost consciousness.

I switched to true vision, but I still had to squint to detect anything. Weak little sparks of life were still smoldering inside Jean’s energy system, ready to go out at any moment. His heart was beating very slowly, but it was still in sinus rhythm. The big guy was a hair’s breadth from death, but quick action could still save his life.

So, after scooping up a medium-sized clot of mana from within my reservoir, I created a healing web and wove it carefully into Jean’s energy system. The golden mana started working immediately. After watching the process for a few minutes, I let out a sigh of relief. The big man would live.

I took some clean bandages and a flask of herbal tincture out of my backpack, then carefully cut Jean’s shirt open and washed his wound before dressing it. The bleeding had nearly stopped — my golden mana had done its work.

At that point, I looked around again and noticed a tree with big, thick, low-set branches. I spent the following half hour dragging the huge man over to the tree and tying him to those branches. This would keep him from falling to the ground, and also keep him out of the clutches of any wild animals who happened to be in the area.

With that done, I checked the bandages one more time, and couldn’t help swearing under my breath as I realized that maybe I had tied them too tight, or missed some bleeding. Suddenly, Jean took a deep breath and opened his eyes. At first, his foggy, befuddled eyes just flickered back and forth across my face, but within a few seconds the spark of recognition lit up in his eyes. His lips trembled as he spoke:

“Jack...”

“Yes, it’s me,” I said quietly, leaning in closer to make sure he could hear me. “What happened, Jean? Who attacked you?”

The big man blinked, swallowed with difficulty, then whispered:

“A patrol... One of Margrave de Valier’s...”

“Are you sure about that?” I frowned. I could already feel my insides turning to ice.

“Yes... Commander said so. And the banner... I saw his banner...”

Suddenly, Jean grabbed me by the arm and squeezed my wrist firmly in his hand. This kind of strength could only have been the result of my golden web.

“I’m done for! But please, save them, I beg you...”

“I’m going to find them, and bring them back to you,” I said as I carefully freed my hand. “And then Michaela’s going to patch you up, good as new. For now, though, you sleep.”

This admonition worked pretty quickly. His head fell onto his chest; he had clearly fallen into a deep sleep the second I told him to.

I tied the flask of tincture to a branch within reach of his hand, then jumped down from the tree and kept running.

* * *

The sun was already going down above the tops of the trees when my trail finally led me to a small settlement. Right in its center, the bandits who were masquerading as my men had organized a little party for themselves.

To be perfectly honest, I felt a huge surge of relief when I realized that this was, indeed, just a bunch of assholes pretending to be my men. Although I was already impatient beyond words to find out who had ordered the whole atrocity in the first place.

After switching into invisibility, I slowly set out to walk the entire circumference of the bandit camp. There were three sentries. They didn’t seem too vigilant; their attention was riveted on the fun in the middle of the camp.

Their equipment was noticeably high-quality, but their positions gave away their ineptitude: one of them was leaning against the post of a toppled fence, another was standing between one of the houses and its adjacent barn, and the third was standing at the corner of a wall with a row of bushes stretching along its base.

The brightly-colored wagons of the traveling artists were parked next to a nearby log house. A scan revealed that they were empty. I also spotted my horse. Tycho, as always, was munching away on some grass with a melancholy sort of air about her. I couldn’t see my saddle or saddlebags anywhere in sight. Which wasn’t really a problem, mind you, because I always carried everything of any importance in my backpack anyway.

The biggest wagon had already been modified to make it into something resembling a stage, where, to the tune of drunken howling and guffawing from the bandits, the family of artists was being forced to put on a miserable little show.

I could see Clare, Gaston’s wife, who had been reduced to a shadow of her former self. She was standing at the corner of the stage, staring out into the distance with glassy eyes, without reacting to any of the sounds in the slightest. The children had clustered themselves into a corner, where they were pressed together, whimpering with fear like a nest of terrified baby rabbits. Monsieur Brisot was trying to play a song on an old lute; it was horribly out of tune, which was only exacerbated by the shaking in his hands. Michaela’s jaw was clenched so tightly that even her cheekbones were white. She was standing next to the children, whispering something to them in an attempt to calm them down.

Catherine (Michaela’s second-eldest daughter) and her husband Pierre were dancing awkwardly to the awful music.

And Bridget... She was frozen in the center of the stage. Despair burned in her eyes as she tried to recite some sort of poem. But her voice was so shaky that the words kept coming out all mangled, to the great delight of the bandits clustered around the stage. They were grunting, whistling, and shouting out all sorts of profanity. Everyone present knew exactly how this show was going to end.

“Song!” A red-bearded giant in the crowd suddenly roared as he jerked a mug into the air and spilled some of its contents onto the heads of his comrades below.

“Yea-aah!” A short, white-haired young man shouted in reply.

“The Bastard Sword!” A third bandit screamed. “Sing about our Margrave!”

“Yee-eess!” The others howled in a chorus of support.

Bridget’s whole body was shaking as she stepped over to Monsieur Brisot and took the lute from his hands. Then, staggering on unbending legs, she turned around and slowly hobbled back to the center of the stage.

Her thin fingers ran across the strings, and a beautiful female voice began to ripple out across the center of the hamlet. It was so unexpected that the marauders actually quieted down a little bit. The girl had managed to attract their attention.

Hm, I thought... I think there are four or five verses in this song. Not much time, but I guess I’ll have to make it work.

I rushed like a silent shadow toward the first sentry, who was standing motionless next to the collapsed fence. He had stretched his neck out, trying to see what was happening on the stage.

I approached him from behind, threw a hand across his mouth, and pulled him back onto myself. An impulse of golden mana stopped his heart instantly.

After carefully dragging the corpse into the shadows, I rammed a dagger into its heart, just to make sure no questions arose at any point in the future.

I left the second sentry’s body in the bushes where I had found him. There was still a wry smile frozen on his dead face. He had been so engrossed in Bridget’s voice that he didn’t even realize he was being attacked before he died. I could see the brand of a convict emblazoned on his right cheek.

That was when the second verse started...

The last sentry, between the house and the barn, was already lying on the ground when I arrived, with a lunari sitting placidly atop his chest. After thrusting my knife into his heart, I winked at Selina and then crept forward to one of the carts, where a pair of bandits was sitting and watching the macabre performance.

They had their arms around one another’s shoulders, and were swaying in time to the music as they drunkenly tried to sing backup for Bridget. Nobody noticed it when they simultaneously disappeared into the body of the wagon behind them (and never got out).

The second verse was ending...

My next target was a short little bald man who had climbed up into one of Maître Brisot’s wagons. The bastard was using the general hubbub as cover to rifle through the artists’ possessions. I snapped his neck just as he was opening a box full of clothes. Hm, I thought... This guy has a brand as well.

After covering the corpse with a pile of underwear, I turned to leave the wagon. Just at that moment, however, the flap opened a little bit, and I heard a tense, hissed whisper:

“Get out, Ed. I think the sergeant spotted you. Ed? Are you deaf?”

Muttering curses to himself under his breath and stinking of liquor, Ed’s co-conspirator started climbing into the wagon. I crept in closer and abruptly yanked him inside. Smacking his knee against the side of the wagon, Ed’s friend let out an angry snarl:

“Ed, you bastard, what the hell are you — “

My knife cut him off in mid-sentence. I looked down at his big, wide face. Another brand...

Bridget had finished the third verse and started the fourth. By that point, the whole camp was singing along with her.

I glanced out of the wagon’s canvas flap. A big, black-bearded giant was walking confidently toward the wagon. This, presumably, was the aforementioned sergeant.

“I need this one alive,” I whispered quietly to Selina.

The bearded bastard approached the wagon and wrenched its flap aside, leaning his chest up against the sideboards as he did so.

“Sons of bitches!” He growled into the wagon. “Ed! Jacques! Get the hell out here, now!”

But Selina had already ducked out the side of the wagon, and now she laid a hand on his head. In total silence, the big man’s eyes rolled up into his head, and he started to fall to the ground. I caught him in time and pulled him into the wagon, grunting from the effort of moving his enormous body. I quickly sent a small impulse of mana into my energy system, however, and the sergeant’s body felt noticeably lighter.

The song finally stopped, as did Bridget’s melodious voice. The bandits roared with joy.

I glanced out the canvas flap just as the red-bearded giant stood up, pushed his comrades aside like an icebreaker moving icebergs, and started moving toward Bridget, who was still frozen in the middle of the stage. The young woman was watching, eyes wide, as though she had been hypnotized by the approaching thug.

“Noo-oo!” Michaela screamed as she rushed forward, trying to block the bearded giant’s path. He brushed her aside easily, tossing her to the ground like a discarded rag doll.

My arrow crunched into the back of the giant’s head just as he was reaching out to put his filthy hands on Bridget. The noise in the camp suddenly stopped. The bandits began looking around nervously. By the time they realized what was actually going on, I had already loosed four more arrows and started making my way toward the stage. I threw aside my bow and drew my sword. There were only two bandits left by that point, and I needed them alive.

The first to come at me was the white-haired young man. He whipped his sword furiously out of its scabbard as he came running, snarling out curses the whole time. I ducked his sword arm, then shifted left and swung a short, sharp blow of my sword at his head — just enough to knock him out. He collapsed to the ground and went quiet.

Alas, it seemed that taking another informant alive simply wasn’t meant to be. Before the last bandit could even draw his sword, Michaela had crept up behind him and rammed the dead red-beard’s dagger into his back. That was the first of several blows. It seemed that the woman needed to vent the pent-up anger at the humiliation and pain that the bandits had just put her through.

I just sighed, then looked around. Bridget was still standing on the stage, staring out in horror at the scene of carnage in front of her.

I walked over to the stage, then smiled. Speaking as softly as I possibly could, I said:

“Alas, Mademoiselle... I don’t have a big bouquet for you, but I can tell you for a fact that I’ve just seen one of the best vocal performances in my entire life. And I’m sure His Lordship the Margrave de Valier would agree.”