The Flame of the North (Last Life Book #4) E-Book

Alexey Osadchuk

• Herausgeber: Magic Dome Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Konung Bjørn Sharptooth, ruler of Vintervald, has announced a Great Trial. Whoever emerges victorious shall be wed to the konung's daughter, Princess Astrid. In accordance with ancient custom, for the duration of the Great Trial, a ceasefire is declared in Northland. Sworn enemies in the midst of bloody war must put down their weapons, and all those worthy of the princess' hand may come to the capital to try their luck. Carl III, wanting to impede Northlander raids into his northern borderlands, decides to conclude an alliance with the konung and sends his youngest son Prince Louis to Vintervald to take part in the Great Trial. Impressed by Max Renard's mastery as a swordsman, Prince Louis invites him to join the northern embassy, to which Max Renard agrees. After all, the trip to the north with the embassy will serve as a great cover story for him to complete a secret mission from the Duke de Bauffremont. And while the powers that be think they've found an obedient agent, Max Renard will put his own plan into action.

Leseprobe

Inhaltsverzeichnis

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

About the Author

The Flame of the North

by Alexey Osadchuk

Last Life

Book#4

Magic Dome Books

Last Life

Book # 4: The Flame of the North

Copyright © Alexey Osadchuk 2023

Cover Art © Valeria Osadchuk 2023

Designer: Vladimir Manyukhin

English translation copyright © Andrew Schmitt 2023

Published by Magic Dome Books, 2023

Podkovářská 933/3, Vysočany, 190 00

Praha 9 Czech Republic IC: 28203127

All Rights Reserved

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Shop and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is entirely a work of fiction. Any correlation with real people or events is coincidental.

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Chapter 1

“ARE YOU CERTAIN the tavern owner will still be waiting for us?” Lucas asked Jacques. “There are more visitors arriving all the time.”

To be frank, I shared Lucas’ concern. Crowds of outlanders mixed with local city folk and people from nearby villages had flooded the capital city in the run-up to the grand event. And all these outlanders would need somewhere to stay and something to eat. At this pace, local property owners were going to start renting out space on their roofs.

In Jacques’ words, the Copper Cauldron tavern, where he had rented us the entire upper floor, was quite a nice place. So there was a risk that some nobleman would offer the owner more silver than us, and we would have to spend another night in the wagon.

“I’m certain,” Jacques laughed back. “You just don’t know Leif René. Call him what you like, but he is a man of his word.”

Luc just shrugged his shoulders without comment.

“René?” I asked. “Is he Vestonian?”

“If Leif is to be trusted, his daddy was Vestonian. Came to Fjordgrad’s port years ago on a pirate schooner. The ship got badly tossed around in a storm, and the crew had to sit idle while it was in for repair. And that was when Leif’s daddy met a beautiful redheaded northerner, who he fell madly in love with. He took his share of the booty, married her, and opened a tavern near Fjordgrad’s port, which Leif then inherited along with his mother’s copper red hair and his father’s stern ways.”

After a brief pause, Jacques continued with a smirk.

“Before settling down in the capital and starting his family business, Leif heard a lot of tales from his father about the freebooting life, ran away from home and spent a long time journeying around the continent in search of adventure. Which was how we met. As young hotheads, we got hired into a certain baron’s retinue. He then got into a dispute with a neighbor. While storming their castle, Leif was injured. A healer tended to him but was unable to save his leg. And that was when his life of freedom came to an end, and he returned home. He got married and had a bunch of kids. And now, he’s looking after the family business. When he heard my Vestonian aristocrat master wanted to stay in his lodgings, he looked very happy. So I have a hard time imagining old René breaking his word and ruining his reputation over a couple silver coins.”

When we made it to the solidly constructed two-story stone building, which in comparison with the other port buildings looked like a giant standing in a row of dwarves, I whistled in my mind.

Seeing where I was looking, Jacques said with self-satisfaction:

“When René’s parents first started the place, it was a little one-story hovel. Leif lost a leg, but never lost his vibrant, bustling nature. He has gotten a nice little business going over the last few years.”

I must admit that I was already starting to like Jacques’ old war buddy.

At the entrance, a muscular redheaded kid was waiting to lead us into the back yard, where he and a few other servants took care of our horses. We meanwhile were invited into the tavern.

Once inside, I looked around. Jacques was not lying — it all really did look quite seemly. All three main rooms were packed with visitors. The kitchen doors never closed. A dozen servers flitted around the rooms with full trays of food and drink. The owner even had to set a few dozen tables and benches outside the front of the tavern and, despite the cold weather, they were also occupied by patrons. The Great Trial had brought a huge number of people to Vintervald. With no exaggeration, one could easily call it the event of the century up here. The locals must have been very pleased with their konung’s decision.

* * *

“So, the most junior Vestonian prince has come to test his luck in the Great Trial…” Leif René stroked his beard half inquisitively.

The broad-shouldered thick-set big man spoke fluent Vestonian and Northlandic. Beyond that, owing to his service, he was able to capably express himself in Atalian, Astlandic, and the language of the Foggy Isles.

With a black bandanna on his head, pipe between his teeth, golden earrings in his ears and wooden peg leg — to tell the truth, René looked more like a pirate than the owner of a respectable tavern.

As an aside, our fears proved to be misplaced. I couldn’t say for sure what Jacques told his old mercenary pal, but he took us in with a big hug like old friends.

After that, he expressed a wish to personally serve us dinner. Or rather, to have his servers do it. Leif himself just orchestrated the process. And of course, he was unable to resist asking about the latest news from King Carl III’s court.

“That’s exactly right, my good man,” I nodded. “His Highness Prince Louis craves victory. He is eager to take the beautiful Princess Astrid for his bride.”

That made Jacques and Lucas give clever chuckles. Everyone in the Vestonian embassy knew Prince Louis’ true feelings toward the northern princess. Leif René, on the contrary, puffed out his chest as if the Konung of Vintervald’s daughter were his own. In fact, I had noticed already that Princess Astrid was very popular among common folk. Even more so than her father.

“We truly live in great times!” Leif René said, slowly shaking his head and patting his slightly extended belly. His broad freckled face beamed with satisfaction and cheer.

While I ate, I spent a little while observing René. Despite the excess weight and peg leg, the tavern owner’s movements were light and quick. At first, I even suspected we were dealing with a gifted man, but a scan revealed that not to be the case.

“And how often do the konungs declare a Great Trial?” Lucas asked.

As a part of the warrior class, he had the right to sit with me at the table. Bertrand and Gunnar meanwhile were at a neighboring spot. The old man was a keen enforcer of etiquette, even in this tavern. And that earned him a respectful glance from Leif René.

“The last time was almost one hundred years ago,” the tavern owner replied, and again patted his stomach for some reason. “There was a change of the royal dynasty in Vintervald at that time.”

“I hope that doesn’t happen again…” Jacques snorted. “I wouldn’t want to be caught in a gory struggle for the throne.”

“No,” Leif shook his head with a smile. “You aren’t getting it… The dynasty change was peaceful. Ivar the Wise’s titles were inherited by an ancestor of Bjørn Sharptooth, Ulf Whiteye. It was entirely voluntary. Ulf Whiteye was the winner of the Great Trial. Ivar the Wise meanwhile, after the death of his nephew, the rightful heir to the old royal dynasty, declared a Trial precisely in order to find a new heir. This time, everything will be different. The king has three sons as well as a daughter.”

“Then what’s all this for?” Jacques asked in surprise. “He could just marry his daughter off without any Trial.”

“Oh!” Leif René’s eyes lit up with delight. “It isn’t all that simple, my old friend. Our konung’s daughter is no common princess. Astrid the Swift is one of the most powerful gifted people in all Northland! Every elite and influential house in the country would want a bride like her. Her sons will become great warriors and rulers.”

“Bjørn Sharptooth meanwhile doesn’t want to insult anyone with a refusal, which is why he declared a Great Trial…” Jacques finished for him. “Hm… Now I see…”

“Indeed!” Leif replied, raising a pointer finger.

Curious, here I thought it was all prearranged between the Konung of Vintervald and King of Vestonia. Lord Gray was without a doubt the most powerful stryker I had ever seen. Even the Wild Duke seemed weaker. But still, who could guarantee his victory in the Trial? There were probably other powerful gifted people among the northern contenders. Without a doubt, Bjørn Sharptooth was playing a game of some kind. Either that or he and Carl III already had prearranged things, and the other contenders were in for a lot of surprises.

Meanwhile, Leif continued passionately:

“Everything that happens this winter will forever remain in the memories of our descendants!”

“Any idea what the konung is planning?” Jacques asked, adding with a smirk: “Just don’t tell me the fine people of Fjordgrad live in ignorance.”

The tavern owner nodded and smiled.

“It is a secret to no one that the Trials take place at Icefjord. There, the konung constructed a large arena where the best warriors of all Mainland will face off in mortal combat.”

Actually, speaking of warriors…

“The number of banners bearing the crests of elite families arriving in Fjordgrad boggles the mind,” I nodded. “I am ashamed to admit it, but I did not recognize many of them. For example, the black boar’s head on a yellow backdrop…”

“Jarl Sigurd Bloodsword, elder brother of our Queen Margaret,” Leif said with an important nod. “That is his banner. He has brought along his daughter, Helga the Valiant, a most powerful healer.”

So, that was False Thais’ name.

The tavern owner wanted to say more, but he was interrupted fairly unceremoniously by a loud demanding cry from the bar.

“Hey! What’s this seasoning you’re putting on everything here?”

Leif, upset to be interrupted, frowned, and turned around.

At the table, there stood a plump rosy-cheeked man dressed to the nines in Vestonian fashion. His little, closely set eyes were filled with disdain while his meaty lips curled in disgust.

The chubby man, who in every way resembled a stuffed turkey, was speaking to Leif in Vestonian with a noticeable accent. I had heard similar pronunciation before on multiple occasions. A Bergonian nobleman must have decided to try his luck in the Great Trial.

“Quite right,” the tavern owner nodded. “My name is Leif René, and you…”

“Yes, yes,” the turkey waved Leif off. “I am Pierre Léger, third valet of His Lordship Count Étienne de Mornay, who will be arriving in Fjordgrad tomorrow to take part in the Great Trial. This backwater only has a few hotels and inns, and they are all at full occupancy. I was suggested your tavern as a decent establishment.”

With that, the third valet looked around scornfully at the hall and continued in his commanding tone: “You should be happy. You will be afforded a great honor! My master will be staying in your tavern. He will take the entire second floor. But before that can happen, I need you to show me the rooms. I simply must be certain everything is up to standard. Step to, we haven’t got much time. Order your people to commence with cleaning and…”

“Alas, we have no vacancies,” Leif interrupted him.

Despite Pierre Léger’s arrogant tone, the tavern owner remained calm. Visitors such as him must have been no rarity.

“What do you mean no vacancies?!” the third valet exclaimed in indignation. He clearly was not going to give up so easily. “I was told you had the whole upper floor free.”

“You must have been misinformed,” Leif shrugged his shoulders and added, nodding in my direction: “The entire upper floor is occupied by Chevalier Renard.”

The turkey’s little eyes immediately sized me up with his arrogant gaze. Pierre Léger’s thick lips curled into a condescending smile.

“You must not have heard me right, good man,” he proclaimed in a nearly triumphant tone. “My master is Count Étienne de Mornay. His family is one of the wealthiest and most ancient in Bergonia. His Lordship is also a most powerful stryker. Do you not see what a great honor is being afforded to you? Think about the prestige of your establishment. Some obscure chevalier is never going to improve your reputation to the same high degree as my master. Beyond that, you will receive handsome pay. Well, what do you say? Do we have a deal?”

“You seem not to have understood,” Leif’s self-control was a thing of envy. “As soon as everyone finds out that Leif René, flattered by the clanking of coin, put his guests out on the street, my reputation and that of my establishment will be at an end.”

The turkey raised his chin slightly and glimmered his little eyes in rage. Leif bore his gaze calmly and wanted to get back to our interrupted conversation, but the Count de Mornay’s third valet didn’t allow it.

He walked around the tavern owner quite nimbly and loomed over our table. Quickly hitting us with an arrogant gaze, he unfailingly determined who was who.

“Your Worship,” he addressed me with false politeness. “Would you be so kind as to give me a modicum of your time?”

“Do you suppose you’ll be able to draw me in somehow?” I decided to play the insolent man’s game. His master the count must have really been a bigwig in Bergonia given his third valet was behaving as if he were at the very least a marquise.

Pierre Léger must have found my tone sympathetic, because he took heart and said in a trusting voice:

“I’m simply sure of it!”

His dismissive look, his high-handed smile — it all evinced the fact that I had already been written off and assigned a price tag. I could somewhat understand Pierre. Despite his common origin, his outfit was twice as expensive as mine. Chevaliers like me were a dime a dozen in his world. He just needed to find my price.

But my companions were not fooled by my tone. Jacques and Lucas smiled, looked at one another, and got ready.

“Okay,” I shrugged and, sitting back in my chair, added: “You’ve piqued my curiosity.”

Pierre Léger looked encouraged. In his little eyes, I saw sparks of delight. He must have already been imagining getting rid of the simpleton chevalier and receiving praise from his master.

He rubbed his puffy hands together and said:

“Your Worship, you wouldn’t deny that a noble lord such as the Count de Mornay doesn’t deserve to spend the night in a hayloft like some commoner, would you?”

“You are correct, I wouldn’t,” I shook my head. “As a matter of fact, I would consider that a blatant injustice.”

Pierre Léger smiled even bigger and continued:

“Both of us understand that His Lordship requires comfort equivalent to his status.”

“Quite right!” I agreed eagerly.

Pierre Léger, like a regular magician, took a fat sack from his bosom.

“Here… I’m sure that a man of indubitably noble blood such as yourself, might find it in himself to relinquish the upper floor of this tavern to my master. I then will compensate you for the inconvenience.”

I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. A short pause hung.

“How do you mean?” Pierre Léger decided to hurry me along. “Do you agree?”

“It’s a very tempting offer,” I snorted. “But I’m going to have to refuse.”

“But why?” Pierre Léger seemed genuinely taken aback.

“Do I really need to give you an explanation?” I asked.

“No, but it seemed we had started to understand each other… And my master…”

I raised a hand to stop him.

“If His Lordship will have to spend the night in a haybarn, all that means is that he must quickly replace his listless, lazy servants for failing to provide their master with the comfort his status deserves.”

That made the chubby man’s face go long.

“Take me for example,” I continued and nodded at Jacques: “Thanks to my man’s sense of urgency, I will be spending the night in a warm bed. If he had not managed such a simple task, I’d have thrown him out by the collar and given him a whipping for good measure.”

“And you’d be entirely right to do so, Your Worship,” Jacques picked up the game. “It would be a lesson I’d never forget.”

I looked around quickly. The visitors sitting at the other tables in the tavern had fallen silent and were all listening to our conversation with rapt attention. Leif René’s red-bearded face flickered with a satisfied smile.

After Jacques spoke up, I heard laughter.

Pierre Léger seemed to finally understand that we were simply mocking him. He frowned and opened his mouth…

“Before you continue,” I turned to him coldly. “Let me give you some free advice. Weigh your words carefully. I know you’re accustomed to being afforded protection by your master’s status in Bergonia, but you’re up north now. Here, personal valor is valued above all else, and those who cannot answer for their words are not tolerated.”

A buzz of approval flew around the tavern.

The Count de Mornay’s third valet flickered his eyes in fury, turned and hurried to leave.

Watching him closely, Jacques glanced at me.

“Something’s telling me his master will hear a radically altered account of what happened just now. A duel with a stryker is serious business.”

I shrugged.

“One more stryker couldn’t hurt. In any case, we need to hurry…”

Jacques gave a nod of understanding, while I glanced at Leif René and asked:

“My good man, beyond all else, I’ve heard tell that Fjordgrad is a city where one can hire powerful warriors. If that is the case, could you perhaps recommend me a guild of mercenaries with flawless reputation?”

“You heard right, Your Worship,” the tavern owner smiled back. “As for recommendations… That all depends on how well you can pay.”

“Money is no object,” I replied. “I need the best. Particularly gifted.”

Chapter 2

“I DIDN’T KNOW they were in Northland,” Lucas came, rubbing the back of his head.

“Me neither,” Jacques agreed. “As far as I recall, the main dusksworn stronghold is in Astland. They must have gotten into a serious dispute with the king if they’ve taken shelter under Sharptooth’s wing.”

I was riding next to him and listening in silence. Essentially, this was a repeat of yesterday’s conversation between these two, but after Leif René recommended me a mercenary guild called the Blades of Dusk, whose members were popularly known as dusksworn, I heard that they were the most famed and oldest guild of mercenaries on the continent. Despite being essentially new to this world, even I had heard them mentioned.

Leif’s words came as a surprise both to Jacques and Lucas. As it turned out, the Blades of Dusk had established themselves up north a year before.

It would have been a shame to miss this opportunity. Especially given my finances allowed it.

We got up early, ate a big breakfast, and headed to the outskirts of Fjordgrad. And there, amongst the cliffs, I saw a castle called Icy Cliff, the new dusksworn stronghold.

“It’s hard to even imagine what could have happened there,” Lucas said thoughtfully.

“I’d bet my life that the usurper Otto the Second must have tried to bring the guild to heel,” Jacques shook his head. “Further evidence that the impostor is also a fool.”

Hm… I never thought Jacques would share Baron von Herwart’s opinion about the current ruler of Astland. But I would speak to him about that later…

Now I wanted other information. Last night, we weren’t able to have a proper discussion. I went to sleep, while Jacques and Lucas stayed back with Leif to toss back a few tankards of ale and reflect on bygone times. I decided not to interfere with the two old war buddies catching up.

“What do you know about the guild?” I asked. “Other than the fact that they’re one of the oldest guilds in Mainland?”

“Emissaries of aristocrats from various countries, including messengers of kings always prefer dusksworn first and foremost when looking for troops to fill their ranks,” Lucas came.

“If of course they have the gold for it,” Jacques snorted. “The guild’s services cost a fortune and have for their nearly two hundred years of existence.”

“That’s true,” Lucas confirmed. “But they’re worth the money! Whoever has the Blades of Dusk on their side is certain to come out on top.”

“What’s the secret?” I asked. “Gifted? Then I don’t quite understand. They’re not the only guild where one can hire mages. The Red Axes, or the Steel Souls also offer such services.”

“Your Worship,” Lucas came. “With all due respect for those doubtlessly serious guilds… The Blades of Dusk are as far in reputation from the rest as we are from the Shadow.”

Jacques nodded.

“They train their fighters from birth. And if they take on adults with experience, the selection process is very harsh. Which is why the guild guarantees that their fighters will complete their contract no matter what.”

“What about conflicts of interest?”

“The guild stays out of royal politics,” Jacques replied. “They care not for the disputes of priests and aristocrats. And as far as I know, dusksworn never fight against one another.”

“And they never retreat unless ordered and never leave a battlefield,” Lucas added at once.

“Betraying their employers is all but impossible,” Jacques confirmed. “Deserters and traitors are punished harshly by guild enforcers. I have personally witnessed dusksworn cohorts perish while covering the retreat of the Duke von Welff’s troops in the Battle of Black Creek. Every last one of them died, but they never ceded an inch. No other guild can boast that level of discipline.”

“So, are there a lot of people who want to join this essentially suicide squad and put their lives at the behest of dimwitted commanders?” I asked in surprise.

“Yes, Your Worship,” Lucas replied. “The guild code demands a lot from their fighters, but it gives a lot in return. For instance, if a client violates the terms of the agreement, the guild will take decisive measures to protect their fighters and their honor. They don’t care who that may be, either. It could even be a king. Violate the terms of a contract? Expect consequences. And that’s why people have a particular attitude toward the dusksworn. No one wants to risk their life for nothing. And that is one of the main reasons gifted choose to work for their guild in particular. That and, of course, the high wages.”

Hm… That was worth considering. I figured that after existing for so many years, the guild must have accumulated a lot of firm, and far-reaching connections with different levels of society all around the continent. The head of the organization, or whatever they called it — the grandmaster — was likely one of the most influential people in all Mainland. Contacts in royal courts, with the upper aristocracy, trading houses, members of various sects — I was afraid to even imagine the levels of information the guild leadership must have possessed. How many mysteries and secrets they’d put together in their nearly two centuries of existence.

But in spite of all that, as paradoxical as it may have sounded, the guild maintained neutrality. The Blades were beyond politics or any religious disputes. That was precisely why, to my eye, no kings or upper aristocrats had exterminated the guild after all these years. They simply didn’t view the mercenary guild as a threat to their rule. Hm… Until now. Something had clearly gone wrong with Astland’s king.

Bjørn Sharptooth meanwhile was a sharp old fellow. The more I learned about his deeds and actions, the more I liked him. First, he made a whole show out of his daughter’s engagement while also letting his citizens earn some cash on tourism. And now he was giving shelter to the most powerful guild of mercenaries.

Leif said it was no secret that, according to the agreement the konung had made with the guild, they were supposed to be securing the borders of Vintervald, all while staying out of internal affairs. In return, Sharptooth was to provide the guild with protection, and not tax them. Overall, the Blades of Dusk had a special status all throughout the country. I suspected that it was partially thanks to that symbiosis that Vintervald had been something of a quiet sanctuary for the whole north despite all Northland being mired in a bloody war.

* * *

“Woah!” Lucas sighed loudly, staring wide eyed at the high walls surrounding the well-defended castle, which seemed to grow directly from the cliffside. “I have heard of Icy Cliff many times and I have to say — it really lives up to its name.”

“Storming this castle would take a whole army,” Jacques whistled, riding next to me. “I’m afraid to even imagine the kind of gold the guild had to pay the konung for it.”

I looked around. All nearby trees had been cut down to the roots. Well armed troops were standing guard up on the walls. Despite the apparent calm, the masters of this place were clearly on guard. The air was charged with danger and menace. The many narrow loopholes up high kept watch over every passing traveler like the dark eyes of a giant monster.

When we made it to the main gates, two Northlanders standing on the wall asked as politely as any northerner could who we were and what we wanted there. Jacques introduced me and quickly laid out the purpose of our visit.

When he heard that we were there to discuss business with Herman von Salm, grandmaster of the guild, we were asked to wait.

A little while later, a new face appeared up on the wall. The swarthy, gray-haired man with military poise spent about a minute staring at us all in silence from afar. After that, with a nod at the guards he disappeared, and we were invited inside.

At the main gates, we were met by two taciturn boys, both appearing to be fourteen or fifteen. They took the reins and led our horses toward a wide structure. They must have been stableboys.

A few moments later, the door to one of the towers leading to the wall flew open and, on the doorstep, I saw the gray-haired man from before.

“Your Worship,” he said to me in Vestonian with a noticeable Atalian accent, bowing respectfully. “My name is Armando Marino. I am an assistant to the commander of this fortress. I heard you’d like to employ our services?”

“That’s right,” I nodded back. “That’s why I came, to discuss that with His Excellency Herman von Salm.”

“I should tell you, Your Worship, that business matters are dealt with by Master Gisa Fellen,” the gatekeeper replied. “Let me show you the way.”

I was expecting a certain disregard from the men in the castle. After all, the guild’s usual clientele consisted of kings and dukes, wealthy merchants, and religious cults. And here was some chevalier in plain clothing that made him look poor and yet, he wanted to play employer. But my fears were unfounded. Neither the fighters on the walls, nor the youngsters who collected our horses, nor even the gatekeeper so much as thought of laughing.

Furthermore, they all spoke to me very politely and respectfully. Either I was missing something, or I was in for some kind of nasty surprise.

Still, if the gatekeeper up on the wall decided to turn us away, we never would have made it inside. He must have seen something in me.

Magic had nothing to do with it. The gatekeeper had no magical gift at all. In all likelihood, he simply had finely honed intuition. He saw something the others missed. For instance our fancy horses, and our clothes which, despite their simplicity, were very high quality. Or the weapon, which I could say with no false modesty cost me a pretty penny. His darting and attentive gaze didn’t even miss my wing. Essentially, I didn’t look much like a trifling petty noble. And he could see that.

He probably thought I had come to hire myself a couple of bodyguards. But what he didn’t know was that I wanted gifted people. Preferably the best they had.

Watching the gatekeeper, we headed toward the castle.

Stepping through the door, we found ourselves in a large hall. I looked around and laughed internally. Whoever made this place clearly knew how to present the guild to potential clients in a positive light.

The dark stone walls, hung with a great variety of weaponry and armor, would have given any visitor the impression that their former owners had centuries of service and expertise behind them.

The majority of the central wall in the hall was occupied by a large mosaic made of dark stones depicting crossed shadow blades. It must have been the guild’s crest.

The clearly very ancient mail armor, shields, swords, and battle axes still seemed to carry an air of battle, blood and sweat. The place had an atmosphere of martial brotherhood, and at the same time palpable respect for history and guild tradition.

* * *

“So Your Worship, did I hear you right? You require bodyguards who are gifted?” Master Gisa Fellen asked in a bemused tone.

The black-haired woman with a strict, narrow face who looked to be about fifty was seated on a high-backed chair at a solid desk in the middle of a spacious office.

“And to be more specific — strykers,” I confirmed.

Gisa Fellen first gave me a scrutinizing once-over, then my companions, who weren’t even considering leaving the office. Their grim faces were stamped with determination to fly to their master’s defense at a moment’s notice. And they didn’t care that they were in the heart of the lair of one of the mightiest mercenary guilds on the continent.

Once done staring us all down, the master said:

“I must warn you, Monsieur Renard, that our guild’s services are not cheap.”

“I’ve heard a great deal about your influential and wealthy clients,” I nodded back. “And I am perfectly aware of what it will cost me. I am prepared to pay it. But, as my grandfather Pascal Legrand loves to say, never buy a pig in a poke. And much to my dismay, you have not yet shown me what you have available.”

“The head of the Vestonian trading house Legrand and Sons is your grandfather?” Master Fellen asked.

“That’s right,” I nodded. “And Heinrich de Gramont is my uncle. The Duchess du Bellay is my aunt. I came to Fjordgrad with the embassy of His Highness Prince Louis, youngest son of his majesty the King of Vestonia. Here are my documents and travel papers. I hope they will suffice to dispel any doubts about my ability to pay.”

After Master Fellen studied my papers, the look in her eyes changed.

“You have my gratitude, Your Worship,” she nodded. “This will do just fine. But I must warn you that if you were planning to hire strykers from the guild to take part in the Great Trial, you have embarked on a mistaken path. Our guild reached an understanding with the konung of Vintervald that our fighters will not take part in the Trials.”

“You needn’t worry about that,” I replied. “That isn’t what I need them for. Particularly given His Highness Prince Louis has brought one of Vestonia’s mightiest strykers along with his arms bearers.”

“Then what do you need them for? This is a standard question we ask all potential employers.”

“Simple,” I replied. “I need bodyguards, and seconds to duel in my stead against gifted people. I’ve seen that presently there are a huge number of them in Northland. And they’re all raring to fight. Will that answer do?”

Master Fellen nodded with understanding. I clearly hadn’t said anything unusual.

“Entirely,” she responded. “That leaves one question — the rank of your bodyguards.”

“So, strykers are divided into ranks? First I’m hearing of it.”

“And no wonder,” the master replied. “The system of ranks I’m talking about exists only in our guilds. It’s based on each stryker’s level of effective fusion with the Power of the Shadow. For us, it’s a way of helping to organize teams and select mercenaries suited to your particular requirements.”

“Interesting,” I nodded. “What are the ranks? And most importantly — which can you offer me?”

“There are five ranks,” Master Fellen responded. “Initiates are essentially strykers who have just become acquainted with the Power of the Wing of Strix. For the most part they are children and teenagers. Some of them can complete basic tasks and even have mastered fusion, but they still are not suited for fights on even footing against experienced gifted people like in your case.”

“Fusion?” I asked.

The unexpected stream of free information had me delighted.

“Fusion with stryker weaponry and armor,” the master nodded.

“Ah, yes,” I nodded. “Right.”

“The next two ranks are expert and medius,” Master Fellen continued. “By the way, we just so happen to have an incomplete group available containing one medius and two experts. They are experienced warriors who have taken part in many military conflicts in various parts of Mainland. I’m certain the three of them will meet your demands with ease. Insolent brawlers will quickly become a thing of the past with them at your side.”

“Very intriguing offer,” I nodded. “But I’d like to raise the stakes. What rank comes next?”

The master gave an understanding smile and nodded.

“Avant. They are the most powerful gifted. For example, we have reason to assume Lord Gray, who came with your prince to take part in the Great Trail is an avant. At present, all our avants are tied down with contracts.”

There he slightly stumbled and corrected himself.

“Ghm, or rather, almost all. One stryker of that rank is currently without employment.”

“So in other words, you’re saying I could hire a whole four strykers right now. A medius, two experts, and an avant?”

I was already rubbing my hands together mentally. I even missed a correction from the master. And seemingly, it was important.

“Alas, but no,” Master Fellen shook her head. “You’ll have to choose. Either the group of three strykers, or the one avant.”

“Is that some kind of rule?” I asked in surprise.

I had already started imagining my team with four new experienced strykers, and here my hopes were dashed…

“It’s confidential,” Gisa Fellen retorted. “All you need to know is that the guild answers for all its fighters and guarantees their unquestioning obedience to their employer.”

“So either three or one, but very powerful,” I muttered thoughtfully.

“It’s our final offer,” Gisa confirmed.

“Alright,” I sighed. “I’d like to see your avant.”

Master Fellen nodded and rang a little bell to call her helper a bit too eagerly for my taste. My sixth sense, which had never let me down before, was telling me that Gisa seemed to want to ink the contract more than I did.

I was curious to see the avant who for some reason was still without a contract even though strykers at that rank were probably scheduled out years in advance with dukes or kings.

After the door closed behind the master’s assistant, I asked:

“You said there are five ranks, but never named the last one…”

“Absolutes,” Gisa responded and, with a heavy sigh, added: “At present, I am not aware of a single stryker at that power level. The last absolute we knew of founded our guild almost two hundred years ago. So it’s more likely a legend than reality.”

We traded another few phrases primarily about the history of the guild when suddenly the door opened without warning, and in came a tall stocky man wearing leather stryker armor with a one-handed sword on his belt. His long gray hair was up in a taught bun on the back of his head while his beard was in braids. The first thing to jump out at me were a set of hideous burn scars on his cheeks shaped like runes or hieroglyphs. He looked around the room in silence with a heavy gaze from beneath shaggy brows and stopped on me.

Just then, I heard Lucas hissing from behind me with a voice full of hate.

“Frost priest!”

I calmly bore the giant’s gaze, then glanced at Master Fellen.

“Is it true?”

“Partially,” she replied, wincing slightly. “Sigurd is a heretic. He disavowed Hoar the Wicked. And is no longer a cavalier of the Order of the Frost Spear. His former brethren cast him out many years ago and left him with these markings on his face as a parting gift.”

Well, at the very least it was now clear why I couldn’t hire other strykers with him. They didn’t want to work with a heretic. Why the avant was still without work was no longer a mystery, either. Upper aristocrats didn’t want to tarnish their reputations by hiring a former priest of one of the most bloodthirsty cults on the continent.

While the master spoke, I cautiously scanned the stryker’s energy system out of the corner of my eye as he remained in the doorframe, blocking the passage with his bulky body.

Woah! Yes, this big fellow was tougher than Lord Gray. At the very least, I wouldn’t have bet on Gray were the two to meet in a duel.

Okay…

“Madam, I suggest we discuss the conditions for hiring this avant,” I said, meanwhile watching Gisa breathe a sigh of relief. “I’m certain that, in light of the circumstances, I can count on a significant discount.”

Chapter 3

Northland. Fjordgrad, capital of Vintervald

The Pearl of the North, palace of Konung Bjørn Sharptooth

THERE WERE THREE FIGURES seated on the roof of the Crimson Tower keeping away from prying eyes. Princess Astrid, Helga, and Prince Erik, youngest son of Konung Bjørn Sharptooth.

Being almost all the same age, the three of them had been friends since childhood. Together they romped and played practical jokes, then came up here to the roof to hide away in their secret spot.

Now, years later they were again gathered here and reminiscing about childhood playtime and adventures.

“Ah, for a moment I felt like we were children again,” Astrid said with a glum sigh, watching the far-off blood-crimson disk as it slowly dipped beneath the horizon. “I’d forgotten how much fun we used to have.”

“If you ask me, sister,” Prince Erik snorted and nodded down. “The fun is just beginning.”

There, in the palace’s internal courtyard was a crowd of foreign guests.

Astrid again sighed while Helga gave a dismissive snort and looked down on the vibrantly colored mass.

“How ridiculous these southerners are,” Prince Erik snorted.

“Ridiculous?” Princess Astrid’s thin little brows raised slightly. “What do you mean, Erik?”

“Well, for example, they wear these useless hats with feathers in them,” the prince replied, waving his hands. “In this cold, they’d lose an ear soon enough. Plus all that bowing makes them look silly. Stamping their little feet like goats. I mean, don’t you find it all ridiculous?”

Helga laughed.

“Yes, and they talk so loud it seems like they’re shouting to the whole world.”

“And yet their fabrics are among the finest in the world,” Astrid jumped to the southerners’ defense. “Their craftspeople are more skilled than ours. Not to mention their artists, sculptors, and poets. Can you really dislike the south so strongly?”

“Of course I like the south, sister. Particularly their fruits and vegetables,” Erik came with a broad smile.

“And wine,” Helga added, nodding.

“Yes, yes!” Erik supported her. “Their wines are fantastic! But alas, sister, wars are not won with wine and fruits. The Vestonians, much like their king, are weak.”

Princess Astrid chuckled back.

“Brother, you’re as ignorant as ever. If you hadn’t spent all that time dodging Maître Jacob’s lessons, you might have known that unlike our jarls, who fancy themselves great military leaders, Carl the Third, King of Vestonia, put down a rebellion and managed to unite the country under his rule. He forbade his nobles from warring amongst themselves, declaring that from that point on, all disputes would be settled by a royal court. He forbade dukes, counts, and barons from minting their own coins. And that is just the beginning. And if, gods forbid, you have to fight against Vestonians, don’t forget that their army is much better prepared for war than ours.”

“Now that’s going too far!” Prince Erik chuckled. “Look at those primped up peacocks! One of our warriors is worth a dozen of those winemakers.”

“Those ‘peacocks’ as you put it, are well studied in concepts such as discipline. The famed Vestonian cohorts are thought to be unbeatable.”

“And yet, our divisions have been marauding in their cities and raiding their caravans unpunished for months.”

“Good point, brother,” Princess Astrid came coldly, standing to her full height and smoothing the folds in her dress. “Unpunished indeed! Our warriors return home alive and unharmed only because they have never met Vestonian cohorts in battle. We’re facing only little city garrisons. Because all aristocrats from the Vestonian northern provinces took their troops to fight the war with the Atalians, which our jarls took advantage of. As a matter of fact, their actions are far from heroic. They’re acting like common bandits and robbers.”

“Sister!” Prince Erik exclaimed. “Have you forgotten that you’re now speaking about your fellow countrymen?!”

“Oh, brother,” the princess laughed. “I’ll never forget it. But you should keep something else in mind. You’re currently speaking to the future Queen of Vestonia. Get this through your thick skull — as soon as the crown rests upon my head, the first thing I will do is bring order to the northern borderlands of my kingdom.”

Without another word, Princess Astrid thrust her chin up in pride and made for the doors of the attic. When her silhouette disappeared into the dark passage, Prince Erik turned to Helga.

“No, I mean, did you see that, cousin? That silly and weak Prince Louis hasn’t even won the Trial yet, and she already thinks herself the future queen! And that’s with that prince being Carl the Third’s youngest son!”

“Dear cousin,” Helga shook her head. “In case you haven’t noticed, your sister is no longer such a pushover — she became Astrid the Swift long ago. If she gets an idea into her head, it simply will come to pass.”

“Yeah…” Prince Erik rubbed the back of his head. “She sure is a stubborn one.”

“And her will is iron,” Helga added. “I never doubted for a second that she would ascend to the throne of Vestonia. So I suggest you heed her words.”

Erik breathed a heavy sigh:

“Perhaps you’re right…”

They spent some time watching the lively movement down in the internal courtyard, thinking. Then Erik again breathed a heavy sigh as if awakening from a short dream and glanced at the sullen Helga. A wry smile appeared on his face. He already knew why his cousin was in such a rotten mood.

“What’s going on with you, Helga?” he asked. “Ever since the Vestonian embassy came to town, you’ve been dark as a storm cloud.”

“What makes you say that?” she tried to wave him off.

“Oh come on,” Erik laughed. “You don’t have to pretend. Astrid already told me everything. What the insolent Vestonian on his white horse said hurt you! I don’t think you should give his words such weight.”

Helga rolled her eyes and shook her head. Astrid was just as big a talker as ever. She’d never learned to hold her tongue.

In fact, Helga was afraid to admit it to herself, but the insolent man had actually caught her eye. There was something about that young Vestonian… Something inexplicable… As if she’d seen him before. Furthermore, she got the feeling they’d known each other for years. The strange and unendingly inexplicable feelings made her heart beat faster. But at the same time, she felt annoyed and angry.

Prince Erik, not waiting for his cousin to respond, said:

“If he’s upset you so badly, you could have stopped his heart or something. After all, you’re a healer. I shouldn’t have to tell you this stuff.”

“First of all, you’re forgetting that a cease-fire has been declared for the duration of the Great Trial,” Helga objected. “And second, your sister would rip my head off if something happened to anyone from her beloved Prince Louis’ retinue.”

“But duels are permitted,” Prince Erik replied.

---ENDE DER LESEPROBE---