Last Life

I ROCKED MEASUREDLY IN THE SADDLE as I rode out to Icefjord, thinking about what the day had in store for me. The last day of the Great Trial. I was under no illusions — it was going to be difficult. No one in my inner circle thought otherwise.

Aelira, who was providing me with daily doses of recent news from the capital, said that even more armed people were now on the streets of Fjordgrad, making their way around town in small groups. Many among them were gifted.

Typically, the city guard didn’t seem to notice them. That led me to believe my theory that they were all somehow connected to Bjørn Sharptooth.

Overall, everything that had already happened had filled the air in the capital of Vintervald with anxiety, tension, and excitement. Anticipating the finale, the city folk were discussing recent fights nonstop, telling one another with envy about how one of their friends had made a ton of money on bets, cursing the lucky bastards out of habit and, falsely, with a glint in their eyes, sympathizing with the losers who had been beaten to a bloody pulp.

Additional bustle was added by the constant traffic of couriers, runners, and diplomatic escorts. Everyone was waiting for the tournament to end so they could evaluate its impact on the internal and foreign politics of both Vintervald and Northland as a whole.

Meanwhile, unlike most Vestonians, I hadn’t gotten any letters from Herouxville yet. Neither my uncle nor aunt had graced me with a message. Still though, I had no doubt my cousins had found time to complain about me.

Sure, my uncle’s feelings about me were clear, but the Duchess du Bellay could have sent word. Particularly considering our last meeting, where she treated me more than favorably. She must have been biding her time. She probably saw me as a puppy thrown into water. If I learned to swim, all would be well. If I drowned, it must have been written in the stars.

Valerie hadn’t sent word yet either. But that was no surprise — it wasn’t all that easy for her to send me letters. Even if she could, they would have to go through my uncle’s hands first. I figured my sister was more than aware of that, and thus not taking the risk of picking up a quill.

The only person to communicate anything was the Duke de Bauffremont. Not personally, through the lutine. Tikka had come to me again to find out how the mission was going. And to rush me along, of course.

I commanded Aelira not to touch the lutine, but to track the white cat closely. But my scout was not quite that skilled. Tikka was plenty solid herself. After sensing that she was being tracked, she high tailed it out of there and vanished completely.

When Aelira told me about that, she looked sullen and vexed, as well as very surprised and puzzled. I meanwhile just noted it to myself for the future.

The lutine wasn’t so easy to pin down. She easily evaded tracking, even from someone like Aelira. Her kind of magic was different. Tikka seemed to have lived several centuries already in this world. I could only imagine how silly she found Aelira. I figured the lutine had let herself be detected on purpose. She must have gotten bored. And so was playing a game with the shapeshifter.

Meanwhile, that led to a logical question: why had de Bauffremont, or rather the lutine’s true master wanted to give this mission to me in particular? With abilities like the lutine’s, finding out about the latest expeditions to the Svartvald would be no trouble at all.

I had a few guesses about it myself. One of them was that they were trying to test me. Tikka’s real master must have had far-reaching plans for me. And if that was so, they had gotten ahead of themselves.

There was another option, as well. That the lutine had sniffed out in some way that I could do more than I let on. That would have explained a lot. In any case, the mysterious mage commanding the lutine was looking into me.

Somehow, my thoughts turned imperceptibly to Princess Astrid. Over the last few days, I became certain that she had approached the issue of my victory in the Great Trial very seriously. The offer of help she intended to provide me was apparently not just hot air. Olaf Birdcatcher’s death was a vivid example….

Whereas at first, I had my doubts that his death was Astrid’s handiwork, later…

I thought back on the striking and significant look from Bjørn Sharptooth’s daughter when I came out into the arena on the day I was supposed to duel Birdcatcher.

The sheer jubilation in her eyes when my opponent failed to appear. That was when I realized Astrid was clearing me a path to the victor’s pedestal.

Word of Olaf’s death spread through the city at the speed of sound and, by midday when we were supposed to fight, most of the people in the stands were howling and screaming loud insults of every kind at me. I heard every name in the book from the audience. Coward, vile murderer, cheat.

Honestly though, it didn’t last long. That morning, something happened that I wasn’t expecting at all. When the herald was just about to announce my victory due to my opponent’s failure to appear, Olaf Birdcatcher’s father Magnus Thunder walked into the arena to a gasping crowd.

A dead silence fell over the arena.

The chief of Clan Snowhair walked unaided despite his wounds, though he was limping a bit.

I had started thinking the old man wanted more after the last night’s duel and decided to pull another stunt, but then we met eyes and I saw that Magnus Thunder had entered the arena for another reason.

He walked up to me and gave a short, silent nod. I scanned him quickly and concluded that my potion had worked wonders. The injuries were healing, and Magnus was on the mend.

The old man turned to the stands and exclaimed loudly:

“I, Magnus Thunder, chief of Clan Snowhair, acknowledge Maximillian Renard’s victory! The gods have spoken! He did not kill my son!”

Then he turned back to me and stated softly:

“I was blinded by sorrow. You opened my eyes. And you were right — I should really look into everyone around me a bit closer. Then strike decisively.”

I nodded in silence. Naturally, I wasn’t going to tell him my theories. It was none of my business. I had already done a lot.

I left the arena on that day to confused grumbling from the crowd. Nobody was singing the song at me anymore, much less slinging insults. Everyone was occupied by a bigger question: “What just happened out there?”

Astrid must have decided to stop at Olaf Birdcatcher, though. Or maybe she thought my next opponent was unworthy of her attention, and I could handle him on my own.

The expert stryker was not a part of “Sigurd’s Seven.” But that did not mean he was a weakling. What was more, after my fight with the Count de Mornay, my opponent had reached the same conclusion and come out fully armed, so to speak — he was armored up with a few amulets containing lilac bruts.

But he resisted any gibes. To the delight of the crowd, he was wielding the type of sword known popularly as a bastard sword. And for the record, he was pretty handy with it.

Beyond a magic gift, the stryker had a talent for sword swinging. If he were wearing magic armor and wielding a magic weapon, this would have been a tough match for me.

This stryker was part of Konung Harold’s allied camp. Needless to say, he wanted very much to appease his patron. The expert swung his hefty sword like a little twig. He was fast and agile, but not enough. In the end, I gained ownership of a nice suit of armor and a blade. My collection also grew by three lilac brut amulets, which I gave to Sigurd. Something was afoot in the capital, and I didn’t want my avant bodyguard to be left without mana in the coming storm.

In the end, beyond me, another four contenders had progressed this far. As was entirely expected, they were all members of “Sigurd’s Seven.”

The favorite, of course, was Ivar the Raven, son of Konung Harold. I should note that I partially didn’t blame Princess Astrid for trying to prevent Ivar’s victory at all costs.

The young ulfhednar was a real monster. Without even taking animal form, he had torn his opponents to shreds bare handed. After his fights, the arena was awash in blood, which the bloodthirsty audience surely found entertaining. Konung Harold’s son, as completely expected, was the audience favorite. When he stepped into the arena, the stands were packed to the brim.

Sigurd was right — Baron Pierce Butler, the man from the Foggy Isles who represented the interests of Duke Arcedekne was serious competition. Despite the injury, which he was hiding quite well, the medius had significant mastery over his blade and his gift. Based on the condition of his energy structure, Pierce Butler was a step away from avant-hood.

Unlike Ivar the Raven, he dispatched his opponents both quickly and efficiently. One or two lunges and his enemies died quick deaths. Butler didn’t play with them like a predator with prey, he simply struck them down in cold blood. He also studied them closely.

After my fight with the expert stryker, I spotted the baron in the stands. Looking into his icy gray eyes, I became aware that unlike the others, he perceived me as more than serious.

Minna the Flame, a medius fighting in the tournament in the name of the ruler of the small Duchy of Carinthia, was my third potential opponent. She had the strength of a bear paired with the agility of a mink. The heavy combat axe in her hands flickered with such speed that it appeared to be made of cardboard. With it, she cracked her rivals’ armor like walnut shells.

Minna the Flame meanwhile also garnered attention from minstrels. In their ballads, they called her The Blood Matchmaker, trying to win her master a bride by swinging her axe in the arena.

For the record, as in my case, Minna wasn’t the least bit affected by that popular ditty. She even seemed to like it. But the Duke of Carinthia was severely upset. As was Prince Louis by the song about the bastard sword.

Louis, for the record, had not yet congratulated me. Astrid was putting in the work for both of them. Carl III’s youngest son had soured on me for some reason. Jean-Louis told me as much with a look of shame. The prince seemed to prefer having his personal perfumer fight in the tournament, though he would have almost certainly fallen in the first battle with the Count de Mornay. My friend Baron de Levy didn’t stand a chance against a stryker of that level. And he was aware of that, and grateful to me.

As for Louis, I honestly didn’t care what the dimwitted and capricious prince thought about me. He didn’t seem to be fully aware that Princess Astrid had given him a chance to survive the storm gathering over his native kingdom. I didn’t even know what Astrid saw in him. Though it was not my business. Everyone had their interests.

By the way, speaking of that… The unspeaking woman who we took from the sacrificial table, was keeping a very low profile. She did her best never to leave the room I rented for her in the Copper Cauldron, and which was next to Aelira’s room, much less let anyone see her.

And our interests were aligned there. In theory, it was no challenge to figure out who she was afraid of. Particularly considering who she had been captured by.

I had made no attempts to get her talking. Let her put her guard down, then I could find an opportunity. But Aelira, who she was drawn to, I instructed to keep a close eye on her.

Bertrand, too.

The old man didn’t see her as a threat. What was more, when my valet found out what happened to her, I saw unfeigned concern. And that paid off — Bertrand had run through every name he could think of until he figured hers out. She responded to Verena. It was probably not her real name, but it was a first step.

I was distracted from thinking about Verena, or whatever she was called, by an insolent look boring into the back of my head. I turned sharply and met eyes with a thin bearded man with yellow animal eyes who was heading for Icefjord just like me.

Hm… He was my fourth potential rival — Agmund Gray, an ulfhednar from Clan Moonwolf. He stared at me unblinking, as if preparing to sink his teeth into my throat then and there.

Agmund was angry. Very angry. And with good reason. Eirik Irontooth, who I had taken down in the hunting camp, was a relative of Agmund Gray. No wonder then that he was out to get me. Still though, he wasn’t bold enough for direct confrontation.

Nevertheless, the avant’s massive figure was constantly looming behind me. And beyond that, the night before, my little army had recruited a dozen new fighters. As Jacques promised, his old war buddy Tom Davis and his underlings had joined my service. And that night, they were given their instructions and established a perimeter around the tavern.

Agmund Gray meanwhile was left to stare me down with his gray animal eyes. I nodded to him with a slight smirk and turned away.

It remained to be seen how the final trial would go, which had been scheduled for today after a three-day break. For the record, they weren’t casting lots anymore. And that meant that Bjørn Sharptooth had a little treat in store, so to speak.

That guess turned out right. The arena had transformed dramatically over the last three days. The big area where the fights had been held was now blocked off with wooden stakes. Beyond that, behind the strange barricade was a thick formation of Blades of Dusk fighters, one in five of them gifted. I counted twenty strykers of various power levels. Honestly though, there was not a single avant among them.

The changes surprised not only me, but everyone in the audience. By the way, based on the uncomprehending faces of Princess Astrid and Helga, Konung Bjørn Sharptooth hadn’t told a soul about this.

I noticed the princess looking at her father and saw a cold rage and anger in Astrid’s eyes. I didn’t know about the king’s relationship with his daughter, but were I in his place, I wouldn’t turn my back on her today.

Bjørn Sharptooth hit his daughter with a passing wry gaze and, getting up from the throne, walked to the edge of the bed. When he threw up his hands, silence fell over the arena. Hundreds of sets of eyes darted over to the ruler of Vintervald.

“Listen up!” he said loudly. “Today is the last day of the Great Trial! This is the day we find out who has been chosen by the gods to wed my daughter! Only one man can remain alive!”

After he said that, a few dozen bearded men pushed a big, huge cart through a gap in the barricade into the center of the arena. It was covered in thick gray fabric, making it impossible to see what was inside.

When the cart stopped, the dead silence was broken by a ferocious, mighty roar that sent a shiver down my spine.

The bearded men meanwhile pulled the gray cover off and revealed a large cage with heavy bars containing a huge pitch-black bear ready to attack and with fur standing on end. I didn’t even need to switch to true vision to realize the konung had brought a shadow beast into the arena.

“And the Black Terror of the Svartvald shall be today’s messenger of the gods!” Konung Sharptooth announced triumphantly, pointing at the beast in the cage.