Last Life

DESPITE THE HARD NIGHT, my traveling companions (who, after all, were in a hurry to get as far away from the scene of their horrors as possible) managed to make it quite a long way before stopping again. The sun was already at its zenith in the sky above when I finally turned off the road toward their camp at the edge of a small river.

The sight of the horses grazing alone amid the empty wagons made me worry at first. Then, however, the wind brought the mournful sound of funeral music to my ears from somewhere deeper in the forest. It wasn’t hard to guess where they were: the Brisot family was bidding farewell to Gaston.

My assumption was confirmed after a few minutes, when Pierre emerged from the forest with a shovel in his hand, followed closely by the rest of the family. I happened to be taking care of Tycho when they came walking out. They paused for a second when they saw me; as soon as they recognized me, however, they all looked significantly more relaxed.

The children let out a joyful shout (“Jack’s back!”) and then rushed forward to greet me. Only the late Gaston’s eldest son, 17-year-old Étienne, remained behind with his mother. He was holding poor Clare tightly by the arm, trying his best to act like an adult at this trying time for the family. Still, though, the look in his eyes made it clear that he, like his sisters and cousins, was happy to see me again.

Judging by the anxious and slightly confused expressions on the faces of Maître Brisot and Michaela, I knew I was in for a long and difficult conversation.

“Jack,” Maître Brisot began, choosing his words very carefully, “we’re grateful to you for saving us. It can only be the Most Luminous Mother who led you to help us.”

He hesitated for a second, sighed, and then continued:

“Thanks to you, Jean’s going to survive. But...”

We were sitting around the fire. The elder members of the Brisot family (with the obvious exceptions of Clare and Jean) were sitting across from me, seemingly frozen in place. “How is it possible?” Pierre blurted out as he leaned forward a little bit. He obviously couldn’t help himself. “I’d never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. Fifteen soldiers! You killed fifteen soldiers!”

“At the age of fourteen, every Glenn goes out into the woods for their first solo hunt. It often lasts for many days,” I shrugged. Basically, I told them what they wanted to hear. “Sometimes, that hunt is unforgiving of even the smallest mistakes, and the Great Forest devours the weak. But survivors earn a place at the campfire of the clan’s hunters. And by the way, you shouldn’t call those impostors “soldiers.” The only one of them who fit that description was their sergeant. The others were all prisoners or highwaymen. If I’d been facing real, disciplined soldiers instead of that rabble, I’d have had a much more difficult time.”

“So you’re gifted, then.” Michaela was looking straight into my eyes as she said this. Her words were a statement, not a question.

“Yes,” I replied, without elaborating further.

Sometimes, a half-truth looks an awful lot like the real thing. I wouldn’t even need to pretend to convince them.

“And your name?” Bridget frowned as she stared at me. “Is it real?”

A tense pause settled across the circle around the fire.

“It is,” I nodded.

That, by the way, was another half-truth. Jack Todd actually was one of my old names, from another world.

After taking out a small scroll from beneath my belt, I added:

“This certificate was issued by a magistrate in Gondreville. It confirms my identity.”

Everybody sitting around the fire exchanged a quick glance.

“And you’re really going home?” Bridget asked.

“Yes,” I nodded.

“Jean...” Michaela nodded at the wagon where her husband was lying. “How did you manage to save his life? I’ve seen his wound. It’s already closing up quickly.”

I took a bandolier of little vials out of my pocket, pinched the fabric between two fingers, and held it up to Michaela.

“Red brew...” She said as she leaned forward.

“It’s a little stronger than that,” I smiled. “Our Margrave’s special recipe.”

“So you’re one of his soldiers?” Pierre asked, eyes afire. “And those others...”

“Impostors,” I nodded. “His Lordship’s enemies are trying to besmirch his name.”

“There are several units like that one roaming the roads. I’d bet anything on it,” noted Maître Brisot, hinting rather obviously that he wanted me to tell them what I had learned from the bandits during my interrogation.

“There certainly are,” I nodded. “That sergeant alone knew of two more such bands. But don’t worry — they’re operating far from here, on the Royal track.”

I wasn’t lying. In fact, their commander, Louis de Rohan (formerly the Captain of Westerly Fort) was sitting in Bresmont, blissfully unaware that I was planning to pay him a visit in the near future. But of course I didn’t share that with anybody else.

For a little while, the Brisot family turned away from me and started discussing what they had just heard. Maître Brisot himself, however, stood up and walked over to his wagon, gesturing silently for me to join him.

I got up and followed him. Michaela came to join us as well.

“Here,” said Maître Brisot as he climbed out of his wagon. He was holding the two bags we’d collected in the bandits’ village. “These are your trophies. We haven’t taken anything. This is why you came back, right? Now you can go on your way without us.”

“What if I told you I’d rather continue on my way WITH you?” I asked.

“But why?” Michaela sounded surprised. “It made sense why you wanted to come with us at first: it’s safer and easier to travel together. But now, after what’s happened, we realize we were only slowing you down.”

“It’ll be easier for me to cross the border as one of you,” I replied bluntly.

Michaela and Brisot frowned and glanced at one another.

“Back at that village, they told me that the King recently issued several new decrees that make life harder for simple travelers. Not only that — the little red foxtail is currently out of favor in the part of Bergonia we’re headed to. And that certainly won’t get any better in Vestonia either.”

“I see.” Maître Brisot scratched the back of his head. “So that Bergonian certificate of yours will probably cause some difficulties.”

“As surely as night follows day,” I nodded. “I could cross the border in secret, of course, but avoiding royal patrols gets harder and harder the closer one gets to Herouxville. Plus, there will be recruiters wandering the area, and the local peasants are unlikely to keep quiet either. Sooner or later, I’ll end up in trouble.”

“But we’ve got a certificate from a Herouxville guild...” Maître Brisot mused aloud. “And if anybody questions you at the border, we can show them Gaston’s papers.”

“Charles...” Michaela was about to object.

But her brother stopped her:

“My dear sister... Have you already forgotten how much we owe this young man? This is the very least we can do to repay him. Plus, need I remind you that we’ve lost Gaston, and that Jean’s not going to be back on his feet for quite a while? We need help.”

“But brother, it’s — “ Michaela was about to interrupt again, but a soft voice from the neighboring wagon cut her off in mid-sentence:

“Let Jack come with us, Mama.”

All three of us turned around. Clare’s pale face was looking out of the canvas flap on the back of the wagon.

* * *

Morris Berk hadn’t lied to me: things in the Bergonian border settlements were done very differently than they were in the lands under my control. Carl III’s representatives had already started taking gradual control of the area. New masters had come to occupy the lands their King had given them. Once there, they proceeded to roll up their sleeves and start squeezing the last drops of profit out of the local population.

My name wasn’t held in particularly high regard in this region. This was thanks in part to the disguised flying columns of marauders, news of whose depredations had already flown out all across the region. In Chéran, for example (where we arrived twenty days after setting out), singing the Song of the Bastard Sword could get you into hot water with the local citizenry, as well as the representatives of the new powers in the land.

A month after that, we finally made it to the border itself, which we managed to cross in relative peace. As I had expected, the Brisot family’s guild certificate answered all the basic questions, although the weighty bag of coins we left in the local patrol captain’s pocket certainly didn’t hurt either. We didn’t even need to show anybody Gaston’s documents.

“Nothing’s changed here,” I said, grimacing slightly at the stench that assailed my nostrils as I steered one of the wagons toward one of Bresmont’s suburbs. This neighborhood was a very recent addition to the city, having evolved out of the Duke de Clairmont’s military camp.

After passing through the suburb, we made our way to the city gates. We wanted to get into the city before nightfall. Spending the night in the suburbs would have been a dangerous proposition indeed. Maître Brisot was itching to make it to the artisanal quarter, where he and his family knew they could always find a place to stay at the inn of his old friend Madame Drieux. He had told me that in her youth, this innkeeper had also traveled all around Mainland as part of a traveling company, just like the Brisots, before marrying and settling down in Bresmont.

“Stop!” A big-bellied guard with rotten teeth shouted at us. “That’s far enough! Gates are closing!”

“You should’ve gotten here earlier!” His disheveled-looking, wide-faced colleague added spitefully.

“My dear guardsmen!” Maître Brisot shouted back. “It’s at least an hour until sunset!”

“You want to argue with me?” The rotten-toothed guard raised a bushy eyebrow.

I just grunted and shook my head. It was the same thing in every single city we passed. They all seemed to be working from the same playbook. It was truly a stroke of luck for me, having been reborn in the body of a nobleman. Over the preceding two months, I’d had plenty of opportunity to sample the life of a common person. And there was very little indeed that was pleasant about it.

The wide-faced guard hobbled his way around an extinguished brazier by the main gate, made his way around to the back of one of our wagons, and happened to glance inside the one where Bridget was sitting.

“Jacques!” He shouted. “Come see the beauty they’re hauling in this one!”

I sighed. Apparently, I was going to have to slip yet another loose-bowel curse on yet another pair of barbarians. The same thing had happened at the last small city we’d passed through: the guards at the gates suddenly came down with some severely upset stomachs.

The rotten-toothed one was about to step forward when a menacing shout stopped him in his tracks.

Ah, I thought... Lucky for you, asshole.

“What’s going on?” A massive, bearded soldier, wearing chain mail and carrying a big sword on his belt, suddenly appeared from behind the gates.

“Lieutenant, Sir!” Rotten-teeth straightened up. “Uh, it’s, uh... Time to close the gates.”

“Then close them,” the lieutenant scowled. He was about to turn around, but Maître Brisot stopped him.

“Mr. Lieutenant, Sir, I beg you! Put yourself in our shoes!”

“Circus?” The lieutenant asked, staring out at the wagons.

“Not exactly,” replied Maître Brisot.

“Aa-aah,” the lieutenant drawled. “Songs, songs, songs... Not my thing. A circus would be a different story. Anyway — get comfortable! Gates open tomorrow at nine.”

“But Mr. Lieutenant!” Maître Brisot tried again, this time reaching demonstratively down to the bag of money on his belt.

Seeing this move on Maître Brisot’s part, however, the lieutenant unexpectedly frowned. His face went red, and blood started to flush into his eyes.

“What are you intending to do?!” He growled like a wounded bear. “You want to try to buy me? ME?! You mean to try to bribe Lieutenant Brique?!”

I was puzzled by the lieutenant’s reaction. I think that was probably the first time (at least in recent memory) that I had seen someone in a position of power in this world react that way to the offer of a bribe.

A quick glance at the faces of the other guards, however, put everything in its place pretty quickly. Judging by the clever looks on their faces, and the mirthful looks in their eyes, Maître Brisot was being taken for a ride. They were trying to squeeze more out of him.

“Lieutenant, Sir!” I shouted as I jumped off the goat I was riding and gently moved Maître Brisot back. He had gone pale with fear. “As it happens, we do have a few circus tricks up our sleeves! May I demonstrate them for you?”

I said all this with a smile, walking slowly toward the lieutenant, who was watching in confusion as I slowly took my coat off.

“It’ll just be a moment, lieutenant!” The latest_epɪ_sodes are on_the novel※fire.net

Without giving him time to answer, I walked past Bridget’s wagon and knocked lightly on its sideboards:

“Come out and bring the lute with you. There’s nothing to fear.”

A few seconds later, a surprised Bridget jumped out of her wagon, holding her instrument in her hands.

I reached into the next wagon, grabbed three knives, and slipped them behind my belt. All this was going on in the presence of several other guards, who had begun to sprinkle out of the guardhouse in ones and twos.

I could see that the lieutenant had started to recover his bearings.

“Play,” I said to Bridget.

Then, walking over to the ash-filled brazier by the gate, I ran both my index fingers along the inside of its bowl. I quickly snapped my fingers up to my face and smeared ash on both my eyelids, then drew a smile that stretched from ear to ear.

“Something cheerful,” I winked at the young woman, who was watching me with rapt attention.

As Bridget’s thin fingers hit the strings, I whipped off my shirt, got a running start, and bounced like a spring up onto the wall in front of me.

An instant later, and to the tune of a loud gasp from the impromptu audience, I was frozen on the narrow parapet above the gates. I turned around and began walking confidently back and forth down the narrow strip of brick crenellation, sending a small clot of mana coursing through my system as I did so. My energy nodes and channels replied with a nice warm feeling.

After catching the tempo of Bridget’s melody, I turned around again, took three big steps, and did a cartwheel down the length of the parapet — without even touching the bricks with my hands. Another gasp of excitement rose up from below. All the members of the Brisot family had stepped out of their wagons by that point, and were staring up at my every move with spellbound expressions on their faces.

Bridget’s eyes were like two blue saucers, but her hands didn’t miss a beat on the strings. I repeated the hands-free cartwheel trick twice (something our acrobats had always referred to as a “crossbow”), getting a thunderous round of applause each time.

For the next few minutes, as Bridget played a fast rhythm that wasn’t hard to recognize as a variation on the Song of the Bastard Sword, I performed all the acrobatic tricks that Thais had taught me.

After finishing my final jump, I froze. It was time to show off one of my old favorites from Mamoru Yamada’s repertoire. Taking the three knives out from behind my belt, I started juggling them, walking freely up and down the parapet as I did so.

I ducked into several one-legged squats, alternating between my right and left legs. I arched my spine backwards. From time to time, I would do a somersault while all three knives were still in midair. My body was reacting perfectly to my commands. It felt like I was walking down a wide street, rather than a narrow, rough stretch of bricks.

“And now — your daggers, please, gentlemen!” I shouted down to the guards below. “Don’t be shy, gentlemen!”

The lieutenant was the first to pull his dagger out of its sheath and throw it up to me. I snapped it easily out of the air, and suddenly I was juggling four daggers.

Rotten-teeth threw his knife up next, but it didn’t make it up to the parapet. To general guffawing, it bounced off the stone wall and onto the cobblestones below with a dull clang.

Unlike his friend, wide-face managed to throw his dagger up to me. Before long, I was juggling eight daggers. The eighth and final dagger belonged to rotten-teeth. Prompted by nasty joking from his comrades, he had managed to throw his knife up to me on the second try. He threw it hard, trying to hit me in the stomach, but I intercepted it with a smile.

After two more rounds, I suddenly whipped the daggers one by one into a fat barrel that was standing nearby, then slipped deftly onto the ground as the audience let out one final gasp.

They burst into thunderous applause, and I bowed several times in quick succession. The lieutenant was clapping louder than anyone. Looking at him just then, he reminded me of a large child. Apparently, he hadn’t been lying when he said he loved circus tricks.

“Go on through!” He shouted, slapping me on the shoulder. “Now THAT’S my kind of thing. Acrobats are the best! I’ve never seen anything like that!”

“I’ve never seen such a masterful performance either,” said a familiar-sounding voice from over by the gates. “Such a shame I only arrived at the end. I’d have loved to see the whole thing.”

The guards suddenly fell silent. I turned around. Heh, I thought... These two are here as well. Standing just inside the gates were the former lieutenant of Westerly Fort, Brossard, and Roland Buquet, master of a slave-trading caravan. Judging by the looks on their faces, they didn’t recognize me in my improvised makeup.

“Captain, Sir,” said the lieutenant with a bow of his head.

“You’ll have to repeat your performance at the Baron de Rohan’s reception,” said Brossard, turning to me and ignoring the lieutenant entirely. “You’ll be paid well.”

“It’d be my great pleasure, Mr. Captain, Sir,” I said with a big smile and a bow. “You need only name the time and the place.”

* * *

Atalia. Outskirts of the Capital

The Yellow Palace

The King of Atalia’s suburban residence

The anteroom leading to the bedchamber of His Majesty Alfonso V the Honorable was immersed in a thick, stuffy gloom that smelled heavily of burning candles, essential oils, and sweat. Richly-bedecked noblemen had split off into groups and clustered along the walls. From all sides came the sounds of whispering, muffled coughs, and rustling clothing.

Whenever the massive door leading into the bedchamber opened, the anteroom would fall immediately into an oppressive, anxious silence. But as soon as those present noticed that it was merely another servant, carrying a basin of water or a bundle of urine- and blood-soaked bedding in their hands, the sounds would come back almost immediately.

At such moments, the nobles could catch a glimpse of the big, wide bed where, under the watchful eyes of his family, the King of Atalia was going through the final minutes of his life. The Royal Healers had done everything possible, but everything in life has its limits. And when the final hour comes, even the most powerful magic is powerless to stop it.

Duke Ricardo di Lorenzo, known popularly as the Golden Lion, was also in the antechamber. Like everybody else in that stuffy little room, he was waiting impatiently for the weak, mewling fool of a King to finally give up the ghost and go join his forefathers in the afterlife.

No one had the slightest shred of doubt that Prince Adrian would be the next King of Atalia. It would have been hard indeed to doubt the likelihood of a succession that was supported by the Golden Lion and his legions.

The sound of an opening door — this time the one that led out into the hallway — brought the whispering to yet another abrupt halt. A gaunt figure in a scarlet robe appeared in the doorway. The tension in the air increased enormously. Everyone recognized the newcomer as Enzo di Riva, the new grandmaster of the Order of the Scarlet Shield.

The Order had weathered many changes over the preceding months. The internal conflict on the Council, which had been smoldering for many years by that point, had burst into new life, stoked by the string of defeats in Bergonia. The eventual result was a change of management.

The grandmaster looked around at the noblemen with a calm expression. His eyes came to rest on the Marshal. After the briefest of pauses, Enzo di Riva strode confidently over toward Ricardo di Lorenzo.

“Your Grace,” said the master with a restrained nod.

“Your Excellency,” replied the Marshal in the exact same tone.

As if by the wave of a magic wand, an empty space suddenly and silently appeared around the two men.

“I thought it was all over,” said the master with a nod at the doors of the Royal Bedroom.

“It seems one of the Healers has been trying too hard,” the Marshal shrugged.

“Idiots,” snickered Enzo di Riva, shaking his head. “One can fill a broken old vessel with precious energy. It will leak out the cracks all the same.”

Ricardo had difficulty restraining a laugh. The grandmaster was talking about the King, of course, but the exact same might have been said of the Scarlets themselves. Despite the reshuffling in the Order’s management structure, and the elimination of the more zealous proponents of the old regime, their “old vessel” remained riven with cracks all along its surface. Enzo and his partisans did deserve some credit, however: they had chosen a good strategy, which would enable them to retain at least a little bit of their once-omnipotent organization.

“So, has the Prince agreed?” The master inquired.

“Yes,” the Marshal nodded. “But it took quite a bit of effort to convince him. It wasn’t so long ago that your brothers did quite a good job convincing His Highness to hate the very idea of cooperation with the Order.”

“All those responsible have been punished,” replied Enzo. “His Highness can count on the full support of all our brothers. In the current circumstances, it’s important to remember that our common enemy is in the North. An ancient evil is lurking beneath the person of that bastard, Margrave de Valier. This demon intends to destroy the world, and he must himself be destroyed before he can do so. In pursuit of that goal, His Highness can count on having every one of the Order’s resources at his full disposal. We’ve already started making moves, as you know.”

“Oh, yes,” nodded Ricardo. “And I must admit that thanks to your priests and their sermons, we’ve seen quite a flow of volunteers and new recruits for the legions. I suspect that the Duke di Spinola’s serious illness was also your handiwork?”

“He failed to hear the voice of reason.” The grandmaster didn’t deny it. “We cannot allow our enemy to grow stronger. The Duke di Spinola put his own code of honor above Atalia’s wellbeing. In the face of the coming war, he was prepared to pay our enemy a massive sum that would have given the bastard enough gold to re-equip himself with mercenaries and provisions.”

Much as Ricardo might have hated the fanatic in front of him, he had to admit that the Scarlets’ actions had proven highly effective. More than that, the fate of the Duke di Spinola had served as a warning to others. Despite their oaths, none of the Margrave de Valier’s former prisoners had left Atalia since their return. It was this specific action that had motivated Ricardo to persuade Adrian to collaborate with the priests. Only the gods really knew how much effort it had taken. He had been forced to give his word that the collaboration would be temporary, and that the Order would be liquidated as soon as their common goal was achieved.

Suddenly, the doors of the Royal Bedchamber swung open, and the Lead Healer appeared on the threshold. He took several steps forward, looking around at the gathered nobles with eyes that were tired, but still firm. There was a delicate white glove in his hand — a sign, which all those present recognized immediately.

“Your Graces...” The Healer’s voice sounded dull, but it was still clear. “His Majesty has left us. Neither our knowledge, nor our combined efforts proved sufficient to save him. His soul belongs to the ages now.”

The Healer stepped aside with a bow, ceding the floor to Prince Adrian, whose eyes were afire with majesty and decision. Silence hung over the hall. Every eye was riveted on the face of the King’s eldest son.

The Golden Lion was the first to step over to Prince Adrian’s side.

“The King is dead!” He declared loudly as he sank to one knee. “Long live the King!”

An instant later, the Grandmaster of the Order of the Scarlet Shields knelt down next to the Marshal. Then, one by one, all the nobles in the room bent down onto their knees and bowed before their new King.