The Frontier (Last Life Book #2): A Progression Fantasy Series E-Book

Alexey Osadchuk

• Herausgeber: via tolino media
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

No one knows for certain what caused the Shadow to come into existence. Clerics say it was the gods laying a curse upon this world. Philosophers maintain that the Shadow of Strix is nothing short of a blessing and new milestone in human progress. But both sides agree that the Shadow will eventually swallow up this world and change it beyond recognition. However, there are also the mages, and they think the whole debate is just so much hot air. They accept the Shadow as is with all its horrors and wonders. Furthermore, for the last several centuries, mages have risked their lives attempting to harness the Shadow’s Power for themselves. Unsurprisingly, only a select few have access to knowledge about the Shadow’s magic. Max Renard understands that, so he chooses a different and more hazardous path. He decides to head for the frontier himself to experience the Shadow’s Power firsthand.

Leseprobe

Inhaltsverzeichnis

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Interlude 1

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

Interlude 2

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Interlude 3

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

About the Author

The Frontier

by Alexey Osadchuk

Last Life

Book#2

Magic Dome Books

Last Life

Book # 2: The Frontier

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

IT WAS EARLY MORNING on the day after my controversial duel with de Lamar and the departure of my “dear” relatives. Just as I was finishing breakfast, Madame Weber barged into my annex like a whirlwind of snow, sweeping away everything in her path.

As it turned out, while I was busy handling my problems the day before, Leon Weber’s wife had kept herself busy with a flurry of activity surrounding my departure.

In the morning, she stormed the main office of her husband’s trading house to prepare all their covered wagons for inspection, sent all idle staff out to purchase feed, provisions, and travel accessories, then dispatched couriers to all my creditors with bundles of cash.

Overall, Weber and Sons’ main office spent the whole previous day preparing for my departure. It gave the impression that Madame Weber was more interested in my safe arrival at the frontier than I was.

At any rate, I was not surprised by her enthusiasm — she was a doting mother who now saw a glimmer of hope to save her son Ruben’s life. Just one final step remained — for Chevalier Renard, i.e. me — to make it in one piece to Westerly Fort as soon as possible with a copy of our contract, notarized in Abbeville’s chancery, and present it to the commander, Captain Louis de Rohan.

The moment I was entered into the rolls of the Shadow Patrol, young Ruben would be freed of his obligations. Essentially, he was free already, but only as long as I was still alive. In other words, if I now got shanked down some Abbeville alleyway, or on my way to Westerly Fort, the Webers would have to start over from square one. Madame Weber said as much to me openly while admonishing me to pack and get on the road quickly. I’d bet my hand if she had her way, she’d have personally escorted me out of town all the way until noon today.

I had to put a slight damper on her enthusiasm, explaining that I needed at least one week before I could depart. First of all, I had to prepare diligently for my journey. And second, in one week, a caravan of several dozen recruits would be departing, and I was planning to go with them. Traveling with an armed group was much safer than going alone.

I ended my speech with assurances that I myself wanted to leave town as quickly as possible, because the spring floods were right around the corner and would be turning all roads into an impassable swamp.

Madame Weber, with a heavy sigh, had no choice but to agree with my conclusions. After that, she introduced me to a Monsieur Dormael who she claimed was one of the trading house’s best clerks and told me that he was mine to command until I completed my preparations. Beyond that, she loaned me a comfortable coach to facilitate my travels around town. Believing her mission complete, Madame Weber then returned home.

The clerk, a short balding man of fifty years with intelligent gray eyes and a neatly trimmed wedge beard was on the contrary not planning on going anywhere. Serious, unsmiling, taciturn — he stood at the door patiently waiting.

“Monsieur Dormael,” I addressed him with a nod at the table. “Have you eaten breakfast?”

“You have my gratitude, Monsieur Renard,” he nodded curtly. “But I have already eaten and am ready to perform my duties.”

“Good,” I said, getting up from the table. “About the coach...”

“It is parked outside the guest house’s main entrance,” he got ahead of me and added: “You may take it wherever you wish, as Madame Weber said.”

“Excellent,” I smiled. “Now as for your duties... Have you already been told how this will go?”

“Yes. You call the shots; I take care of the rest.”

“Superb,” I said. “Wait for me in the coach.”

“Yes sir,” Dormael bowed and left the annex.

“What a soulless puppet,” Bertrand snorted, saying about what I was thinking.

“Oh well,” I dismissed it, throwing on my well-loved coat. “All that matters is keeping him from putting a spanner in the works and making sure he does everything I say.”

I was about to follow the Weber clerk but remembered something and stopped in the doorway.

“Old fellow,” I said to Bertrand, who was already trying to get out of bed. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you...”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“In your estimation, is there anything I brought to the pawn broker’s worth retrieving?”

The old man considered it for a moment, then responded confidently:

“Other than the ancient medallion given to you by your late grandfather and which you pawned to Baptiste Harcourt, I do not believe so... It is the sole family heirloom you had with you.”

I nodded.

“Okay. Then I guess I’ll start with the pawn shop.”

Before leaving the annex, I warned the old man:

“You remember our deal? Today, I need you to eat well and refrain from overworking yourself. That way I can treat your condition properly.”

Bertrand nodded fatedly. When I stepped through the doorway, I heard him grumbling that I was wasting my precious attention on a lowly servant like him.

Oh, old fellow, you have no idea how wrong you are...

* * *

The shop where Max usually pawned off valuables to get cash for his sweetheart’s ever-expanding collection of fancy baubles was located in the center of Abbeville. Just two steps from city hall where the town council met. A nice little spot, from the outside the noble building looked like a fancy store. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out the owner of the establishment had an arrangement with a city councilmember.

And that guess proved accurate. When I shared my thoughts with the taciturn Dormael, he reported back robot-like that the pawn shop owner Baptiste Harcourt was a distant relative of the second most influential city councilman.

“A menagerie of abandoned property...” I muttered to myself, surveying the pawn shop’s interior curiously.

The shelves, racks, and counters were jam packed full of objects of all kinds. He had everything! Clothing of every fashion, dishware and table utensils, variously sized figurines, canes, jewelry... Everything in the shop carried an air of unique history as if every item bore a fleck of its negligent former owner’s soul. Just in case, I scanned through it all but did not detect anything magical.

Once done with my survey, I headed to the back counter where a rail-thin boy was standing with a smile and watching us. Based on the look in his eyes, he knew perfectly well who I was. And no wonder — Max was a regular customer.

He was clearly not the owner of the shop. Most likely a son or nephew. Or maybe even an adult grandson.

“Chevalier Renard!” the boy said with a sonorous voice, bowing when we stopped before his counter. “How nice to see you here! I would also like to offer my wholehearted congratulations on your victory in yesterday’s duel!”

“Thank you my dear... Uhh...”

“Jaco,” the kid “reminded” me with a smile.

“Yes, yes... Jaco...”

“Have you come to pawn the spoils from yesterday’s fight?” the slick kid took the bull straight by the horns.

Inside, I laughed. Baptiste Harcourt was raising himself a great replacement.

“No,” I shook my head. “On the contrary... I am here to redeem an item that belongs to me. Specifically — the medallion. A mere trifle... But it is worth a lot to me as a memory of my father.”

After I mentioned the medallion, something strange happened. Jaco’s big obliging smile suddenly turned to a face of grave seriousness.

With a clumsily muttered apology, he slipped through a small imperceptible door behind him. Dormael, by the way, had no reaction to the kid’s strange behavior. Was he perhaps truly some kind of automaton?

After a few minutes, a perfect copy of Jaco except bald and thirty years older emerged. It must have been Baptiste Harcourt himself.

“Monsieur Renard!” he said with a slightly shaky voice. “I am immeasurably glad to see you again! Please forgive my young son’s behavior. He is still learning the finer points of our family business... Monsieur Dormael!”

“Monsieur Harcourt,” my escort responded to the greeting with a colorless voice.

The pawn shop owner was clearly not himself. Eyes darting, arms shivering... I wondered what had him so spooked.

“So then, Monsieur Harcourt,” I went on the attack. “Surely your son has already told you the purpose of my visit. I trust you are still in possession of my father’s medallion.”

I could feel it in my bones. He wanted to lie and say the medallion had already been sold, but Harcourt seemed to get himself together.

“Yes, chevalier,” he nodded. “It is still in my possession.”

“Then bring it here with all possible haste! I wish to redeem it.”

“The thing is,” he said in an apologetic tone. “Please understand that the redemption period as indicated in the original record has expired... And...”

“And so what?” I kept pushing, though I could already tell where he was going. “You have the medallion. I am here. What is the problem? You get your money back with the commission owed to you. I get back an item of sentimental value to me.”

“Hm...” Harcourt started coming to his senses despite my pressure. His many years of experience had hardened him. “The thing is, there have been certain difficulties in this particular case...”

“Such as?”

“According to the current laws of our kingdom, if you do not repay in the stipulated timeframe, you no longer have any claim to ownership of the item pawned. In other words, the medallion now belongs to me.”

With those words, Harcourt extended me a record with Max’s signature. He originally got twenty crowns for the medallion. As an aside, this weasel had scammed me doubly with the absolutely criminal thirty percent commission.

“Hm, okay,” I said while closely reading the note again. “So, bearing in mind what you’ve said, do you have an offer for me then? Would you like to sell me my own medallion for an elevated price?”

Harcourt breathed a heavy sigh and, squinting at Dormael, said:

“That’s the thing, I would not... Or rather, I cannot...”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I frowned.

“That the medallion already has a buyer, who will come for it in one week’s time.”

In my past life, I had done business with people like him before. I even worked for one. Who later tried to stiff me on payment. Heh... Naive...

Doing my best impression of a man holding back rage, I frowned and wanted to put even more pressure on Harcourt but, before I could, Dormael suddenly entered the game.

“Monsieur Renard,” he came in a colorless voice, addressing me. “I consider it my duty to remind you of a decree issued by the Count de Brionne, the lord of these lands. The thing is that several years ago, the Viscount de Avesnes, son of one of our count’s closest friends, got himself into much the same situation as yourself. That case involved a family heirloom, a bracelet, which he pawned to a shop. The timeframe on the record had expired and the shop owner, not wanting to wait any longer, sold the family treasure to someone else. Technically, he was within his rights but, as you understand, neither the Viscount de Avesnes nor his father the count were happy about it. And so the Count de Brionne went ballistic. In the end, the pawn shop owner was banished from the county along with his family while the lord of the land issued a decree applicable only to our county extending the length of pawn redemption periods by six months.”

The longer Dormael expounded in his dry voice, the grimmer the shop owner’s face became.

“Thank you, Monsieur Dormael,” I said with a broad smile, to which Weber’s clerk just gave a short nod. “What do you say, esteemed Monsieur Harcourt?”

The man gave a heavy sigh and, striving to imitate a welcoming tone, replied:

“Indeed... I must have forgotten about that decree... Thank you for reminding me, messieurs. In point of fact, I am actually happy it all worked out this way and would be glad to see a family heirloom return to its rightful owner. How about I sell it to you for the same price as the other gentleman offered? Namely — one thousand silver crowns.”

What a rat... And his ugly mug was positively beaming!

“I see surprise on your faces, sirs,” Harcourt continued as if nothing had happened. “But alas, the law is on my side. You have another few months. That is true. But I get to set the price.”

He spoke with a cold tone. The mask of kindhearted respect slipped to reveal his true form. Even the resolute Dormael let himself snort.

What was going on? And what was this whole song and dance around some little medallion? A regular trip to the pawn shop had turned into yet another of Max’s family secrets. Well, rat, you asked for it…

“One thousand crowns?” I asked calmly.

“To the obol,” Harcourt responded in a harsh tone.

Dormael wanted to say something, but I gestured for him to stop.

“I hear you, Monsieur Harcourt,” I nodded. “I have to think.”

“If you like, chevalier. But bear in mind — the clock is ticking.”

“Of course,” I said, maintaining my unflappable facial expression. “Let’s go, Monsieur Dormael.”

We turned and headed for the exit. As an aside, no one entered the pawn shop that entire time. Which was a big help.

Opening the front door and letting Dormael go ahead of me, I said:

“Wait for me in the coach, my good man. I just remembered another valuable I’d like to redeem.”

Dormael gave an unflappable nod while I, after looking down the street, shut the door carefully behind me and turned all three locks. Now we could have a proper chat.

Harcourt saw that, frowned and, walking back to a small door behind him, exclaimed in a demanding tone:

“Chevalier! What do you think you’re doing?!”

He wanted to give off a fearsome air but failed. On the last word, his voice gave a treacherous crack.

I closed the gap between the door and counter in a matter of seconds, but still was nearly too slow. Harcourt was a nimble fellow. As I hopped over the counter, he was already closing the door to the back room behind himself.

The thrill of the hunt awoke within me. No, rat! You won’t be getting away from the Fox so easily!

Harcourt fumbled with the lock, which I immediately seized upon.

With a kick, reinforced with a small mass of energy, I blasted straight through the little door. Harcourt got somewhat lucky — the door only hit him on the shoulder.

While he fell back on the floor and spewed curses, I took a quick look around. A small windowless room with a wide table piled high with papers and various objects against the wall. A little sofa and chair at the opposite wall, and yet another door a bit beyond that. I pulled the handle — locked.

I heard rustling behind the sofa and a plaintive sob. I glanced there and smiled. Harcourt’s son was pressed up in the corner and staring hauntedly at me, hugging his knees. Tears welled up in his eyes.

“Jaco, do not fear,” I said calmly. “I just need to have a talk with your father, then I’ll be on my way.”

“Renard!” Harcourt barked through his teeth, trying to stand up. “You’ll pay for that! I will sue you! You’ll spend the rest of your days working the mines!”

I walked over to the pawn broker, grabbed him by the collar, and shoved him into a chair.

Baptiste Harcourt wailed in pain and clutched his left shoulder with his right hand. I looked at him using true vision.

“Quit your whining,” I said. “It’s just a scratch. You’ll be fine.”

“You’re done for, Renard...” Baptiste hissed. “Abbeville’s most senior judge is best friends with my uncle the second councilman! You’ll be in shackles by this evening with a one-way ticket to the northern mines!”

“These are supposed to be different worlds, but you people are all the same,” I whispered to myself with a smirk. “One might think you were being grown in a lab.”

Harcourt frowned and listened in.

“What are you whispering?”

“I’m saying you’re greedy and over-confident,” I smiled. “Your impunity has dulled your edge. You’re also phenomenally stupid. What makes you think your uncle’s buddy would bring charges against me? Have you forgotten who I am? I am a nobleman from an ancient and influential house. The only person here who can bring charges against me is the Count de Brionne, not some lowly commoner. And think about the trial... Especially considering the lord of these lands’ ‘love’ for your brother. I for one can’t wait to see the look on the Count de Brionne’s face when I tell him how you were planning to rob me. Based on your sour face, you’ve already realized how badly you miscalculated.”

Harcourt froze. He looked like a plucked rooster who’d suddenly lost his voice. In his eyes, I could see sorrow and a realization of his error. He had done business with impunity for a long time thanks to his relative. But now he’d met his match.

“And now tell me,” I continued pressing. “What made you get so excited over some little medallion?”

He shuddered and squirmed. Then he glowered at me but was in no rush to speak.

I snorted and took my dagger from its sheath. Candlelight glinted off its predatory curved blade. That really got to Harcourt. He started hurriedly muttering something, shifting to a more respectful tone:

“Monsieur, I beg of you... I really do have a buyer lined up, who is willing to pay one thousand silver crowns for that medallion! I have nothing more to say!”

I snorted to myself. Such great acting talents going to waste in a small-town pawn shop. The sudden changes in personality were striking. Just one minute prior, he was burning with righteous fury, and now he was ready to lick my boots.

“Well, you know...” I sighed, taking a step forward. “The gods will see I tried to play nice...”

“Monsieur Renard!” Jaco exclaimed, jumping out from behind the sofa. “I’ll tell you everything! Just have mercy on my father!”

“Silence, whelp!” Harcourt senior shrieked.

“Your medallion is an artifact of the Forgotten!” the boy shot out in a single breath.

“What have you done...?” Baptiste rasped, lowering his head fatedly. “Foolish child...”

“The medallion comes from the Forgotten?” I asked.

“Yes!” Jaco nodded and started speaking quickly, fearing that his father would shut him up again: “It was created in one of the ancient kingdoms which are now covered by the Shadow of Strix. My father was unable to determine which one but has no doubt it was one of the northern kingdoms.”

“Hm... That’s a surprise. I didn’t know that...”

“Of course you didn’t!” Jaco took my very simple bait. “Then you’d never have pawned it for a pittance.”

Ahem, kid, you might not be cut out for the pawn business. Your dad is wasting his time on you. You’d better start looking for another line of work.

“Aha,” I drawled, watching out of the corner of my eye as Harcourt’s face went pale. “And who might this mystery buyer be?”

“We don’t know,” Jaco shrugged. “He approached my father while he was researching artifacts of the Forgotten, offering one thousand crowns for the medallion in a letter. He didn’t mention his name...”

I quickly glanced at Baptiste Harcourt, shrinking on the chair. He appeared to have lost his footing.

Oh, kid, looks like your dad does know who he’s dealing with. He just isn’t telling you. And based on his fearful face — this mystery buyer will not forgive his error. But I don’t care. It’s not my problem.

“Monsieur Harcourt,” I said in an icy tone. The sound of my voice made him shiver and raise his head. I saw a fated look in his eye. “I must have my medallion.”

One hour after my more exhaustive talk with the pawn broker, I was sitting in the coach as it rolled down the road, looking thoughtfully at the medallion, which sent shivers through my body. Scanning showed that in my hands was a magic artifact the very existence of which disproved the local theory of the origin of the gifted. Seemingly, magic did exist in this world, and long before the Shadow ever came to be.

Honestly, inside I was ready for a reminder or even simple greeting from my mysterious benefactor. And now, the thing I was intuitively expecting had come.

In my hand was a small round piece of gold the size of a quail’s egg depicting a grinning fox’s face on the back side. Though its predatory grin was more reminiscent of a happy smile.

The other side meanwhile was decorated with a coat of arms: a triangular shield held up by a pair of foxes standing on hind legs and a serrated crown on top.

But that wasn’t what caught my eye... Beneath the shield I saw a motto which sent a chill running down my spine. It was a short phrase in the ancient witching tongue, which read:

“Here and now!”

Chapter 2

I WAS LYING IN BED with my hands behind my head staring up at a dark ceiling. It was the middle of the night, but I was wide awake. And no wonder — tomorrow morning we would be setting off on my very first trip in this world. All kinds of thoughts swarmed in my head. How could I sleep...?

As always, I was keeping a running tally of my accomplishments, mentally scanning down my list of tasks and crossing off the one’s I’d completed.

First on the list was a future quest. Our destination was Westerly Fortress, located in the north-east of the country on the edge of the Shadow where I would serve as part of the Shadow Patrol.

Before presenting myself to the commander Louis de Rohan, I had to rent a place in Toulon, a small town near the fortress. As a noble, I was not required to stay in the barracks with the commoners, which was hard not to be happy about.

From Abbeville to Toulon was approximately five hundred miles, which in a car on my old world’s advanced roads, I could have made in seven or eight hours without pushing the engine too hard including all stops for snacks and bathroom breaks. In that world, I even could have taken an airplane.

But here, it would be a grueling forty-day trek. And that was the best-case scenario. Terrible roads, weather, attacks by highwaymen and wild animals, and illnesses were but a small fraction of what we would face. And to top it all off, not everyone in the caravan I’d signed up with was going to be as prepared as us.

Thinking back on the last week of travel preparations, I frowned. The people of this world had gotten on my last nerve with their lackadaisical ways. And that was with the unflappable Dormael relentlessly watching over me, for whom I mentally thanked Madame Weber hundreds of times. Without the laconic and diligent clerk, my preparations could have easily taken another few months. This world simply had not caught up to the speeds of my native one.

Dormael was a fan of my manner of conduct. I started to get the impression that he viewed me as a kindred spirit. Still, at first I took him for somewhat bilious. I suspected that he felt like a nanny assigned to a capricious aristocrat and who would have to patiently tolerate his every whim and obey his stupid wishes.

I suspected that the first warming of our strange relationship took place after that visit to the pawn shop. What was indubitably a losing scenario for the young naive aristocrat — a showdown with the streetwise Baptiste Harcourt — had ended in an unexpectedly quick and unqualified victory.

Later that same day, we made a short but exhaustive trip to every market stall and small trader in Abbeville that dealt in magic potions.

On that one evening, I cleared the entire local stock of healing infusions, perfumes, and inks. I felt a huge temptation to pay a visit to Trebolt and try to get more magic dust, but I wisely suppressed that urge. I had no need to give him extra grounds for suspicion. In fact, that was the very reason I was giving a wide berth to the weapon store belonging to the city’s sole artifactor. It was not time to show my cards to any gifted.

I got three times more potions than stipulated in the contract, but Dormael covered all the purchases saying that Madame Weber had given him clear instructions to comply with my every demand related to preparing for the trip.

Whereas all was clear with the healing potions — he just had to consider where I was headed — Dormael clearly had questions about the huge quantities of perfume and ink. An irrepressible curiosity peeked through the clerk’s mask of unflappability. I could see it in his eyes.

I had to slightly show my hand. I told him my path would take me through various counties, baronies, and one duchy, meaning I would have to face many meetings with local aristocrats among other things. And small gifts in the form of magic potions would be a big help to both curry favor with these people and help me cut through red tape if necessary.

Dormael found my reasoning more than convincing that evening, and his vision of me as a young, naive aristocrat began to fade.

I of course was lying through my teeth. I was not planning to sell much less give away this vitally necessary energy. Furthermore, I was already running low on crimson dust, and had used up all my emerald. My energy channel reinforcement procedures required large amounts of the valuable resources.

From time to time, I found myself recalling with pity the little baggy of crimson dust I gave to the witch, only for her to never show her face again. Seemingly, she had made up her mind. Didn’t want to see me? Okay, sure. I could figure everything out on my own.

I got gear and weapons from Guy Arnault’s weapon shop again. Jacques’ friend managed to catch me off guard — his junk heap actually had quite a lot of worthwhile items.

Above all, I had to buy gear for Bertrand. Thanks to the crimson potions, his health was making vast strides in the right direction.

Jacques meanwhile still had a kit from his glorious martial past. I also had an unexpected stroke of luck — de Lamar’s servant finally deigned to deliver my rightful spoils.

Among them was the very vest Vincent de Lamar was wearing for our duel, an exquisitely crafted brigandine. The outside was silk, which concealed a set of overlapping steel plates attached to soft leather lined with a layer of luscious velvet. This fancy armor was nice enough to wear at any party or reception hosted by a count or baron.

The brigandine was big on me, but Guy Arnault promised to tailor it to my size. De Lamar’s sword meanwhile I decided to sell. Too heavy for me, the one-handed sword was clearly made to order, but the owner of the Mace and Poleaxe helped me out there as well, accepting the sword in exchange for a pair of slightly curved blades.

When I first saw them, I lost my breath. Our worlds had a lot in common. Mamoru Yamada had used practically identical swords in our circus to perform his tricks, which he eventually taught to me.

Guy Arnault told me they had been sold to him by some sailor who spent time in the Eastern Isles. I found the story unconvincing, but I didn’t care. We all had our skeletons in the closet. I was no exception.

Despite the excellent steel and balance, the unusual shape of the blades and slightly elongated handles bothered swordfighters from around here who were used to fighting with different weapons. So for all these years, the unusual swords had been serving more as decoration than anything.

To test their balance, I went into the shop’s backyard and performed a few katas, impressing everyone watching with their complexity. After the demonstration, I caught Guy Arnault staring at me a few times. I could see that Jacques’ military buddy had a lot of questions but didn’t dare to actually ask any. My new stable hand and wagon driver had already whispered to his friends about my opinion of people sticking their nose where it didn’t belong.

After that came the scene at the Webers’ stable. A close inspection and scan of the horses they’d prepared for me revealed that three of them were unsuitable, which I told them. Jacques by the way was no less surprised by my assertion than my employer’s staff. The horses were quite nice.

The Webers’ head stableboy was outraged. The inscrutable Dormael meanwhile seemed pleased. I had apparently accidentally landed a blow on someone he long considered a rival. I noticed that they had no lost love for one another as soon as we entered the stable.

When the head stableboy, diligently suppressing his rage, asked through clenched teeth whether the young gentleman would deign to explain to him, a mere mortal, what precisely was not to His Lordship’s liking about Abbeville’s best horses, I was eager to indulge him.

The longer my calm enumeration of the aches and pains suffered by the horses went on, the more the stableboy’s face turned first pale, then long.

By the time I finished, the Webers’ head stableboy made for a fearsome sight. Because even a fool could tell that he was perfectly aware of the majority of the problems I pointed out. Only a few of my diagnoses were truly novel discoveries.

In the end, the problem horses were traded out for others of my choosing while Dormael, glowing like a polished thaler, told the main stableboy in a triumphant tone that he would be reporting on all these honor-tarnishing events to their employer.

To my delight, we had no further problems with any of the Weber and Sons “departments.” In those places, Dormael’s unquestioned authority was palpable.

Thoughts about the trip gradually gave way to thoughts about finances. There I could only smile. I was not only able to cover all the debts that had multiplied like fleas thanks to that dunderhead Max, I even came out ahead.

By local standards, the amount of money in my bank account was enough to make me quite a wealthy man. Honestly though, I was not a huge fan of having my money just sitting in an account. I was more used to having it work for me, always on the move. But on the other hand, slightly more than seven thousand silver crowns could also be viewed as something of a safety cushion, which I actually needed several more of and in several locations at that.

Beyond silver, I also had the jewelry I had pilfered from Paul Lepetit’s hiding spot which I was planning to sell off in piecemeal fashion in the small towns we’d be stopping in along the way.

I decided to keep only one thing for myself — an emerald brooch. The one that stood out from all the rest. I also decided to keep the record indicating the value of the pawn just in case.

I was not going to sell the golden signet with large dark crimson ruby the Count de Angland used to buy back his son’s family armor either. I would need it in the future. Let it serve as a memory for His Lordship about the favor I once did for him.

But although the other jewelry was all clear, I had a gut feeling Max’s family medallion was going to cause problems. And my gut feelings had never let me down before.

A careful scan of the artifact showed that it contained a primitive energy system. What purpose it served I was unable to discern. Pushing a tiny ball of mana through it served only to make the round hunk of metal glow with a dim magic light. The glow then lasted several minutes before the artifact went out, turning back into a regular gold medallion. And that was where I concluded my experiments, spawning more questions than answers.

I interrogated Bertrand about the artifact, but that got me practically nowhere. The old man said only that the medallion was given to Max by his father a matter of hours before his arrest, and the count asked him to keep it under wraps. That was all. Maybe he’d told his dear son more about the medallion, but the contents of that conversation were never revealed by virtue of the deaths of both men.

As an aside, strangely, beyond the medallion his father could have given him a bit of cash, but I had one theory on that account. The count was seemingly not expecting his bastard to be thrown out of his mansion with just three hundred crowns to his name. Max himself meanwhile clearly did not expect his exile to last long. Which was why he was partying so hard. And essentially, he was right. Before a year had passed, his dear uncle found a use for him.

And that took me to the next point. To myself I headlined it, “Dear Relatives.” Even a fool could see that, in my weakened state, people would try to manipulate me and shove my body into the peculiar sort of gaps that often formed in family affairs.

I was not yet aware what specific gap my dear uncle wanted me to fill but it smelled distinctly of shit — that was a fact. My sixth sense could not be fooled by talk of a “brilliant marriage.”

And I had no problem with filling gaps. That I could understand. Max was the weakest link in his family chain, so of course he got the short end of the stick. But now they were also trying to kill him. And who was behind it? Some aunt on his mother’s side who he seemingly hadn’t ever even met in person. What made Max such a target for her?

By the way, that was precisely what I wanted to address with the “love of my life” Vivienne Leroy, but the devil woman must have had a great sixth sense of her own — the night after the duel, she fled the city to parts unknown.

De Lamar’s servant, who I had to threaten with my dagger, quickly spilled everything he knew about the handsome couple. As it turned out, after de Lamar slew me at the duel, he and Vivienne were planning to leave Abbeville and travel somewhere to the south of Vestonia, then onward to Atalia. Hm… Completely expected.

I also didn’t get a chance to talk to Betty, who knew what her “friend” and her lover were planning. She left for the capital the day after the duel. It was turning into a proper wave of emigration.

However, unlike Vivienne, I knew perfectly where to find my “fiancée.” As soon as I reached the capital, I would take her father Monsieur Gilbert up on his invitation.

I could have found Vivienne quickly as well, by the way. It wasn’t all that easy to get away from Dodger. I simply did not want to waste my precious time on her. Especially because I already pretty much knew everything.

Overall, Max’s family was something to be envied. And now this mystery about the Forgotten kingdom. That Max and I had a direct relationship with the Forgotten I was certain of as soon as I saw the fox medallion and motto written in the ancient witching tongue.

Well, at least I now understood what my mysterious benefactor meant when he promised to pick me a new body and world that would be lots of fun for us both. He was expecting me to give him a show. He’d gotten bored, see...

By the way, speaking of entertainment... Very soon I would be going out beyond the frontier and learning more about the Shadow’s magic. I had no intention of waiting several years for my reservoir to get bigger from long and persistent training. No, no... It wasn’t that I feared hard work either but, given there was a way to speed the process along, I had to take advantage. What did it say again? “Here and now!” Heh... That family motto was already starting to grow on me.

And so, mulling over what I’d done and had yet to do, I did not notice as I drifted away into slumber’s soft embrace.

That night, I dreamed of Thais. But not the Thais from my past life — so happy and full of life with a shock of red hair — a different, new Thais. With dark eyes, raven locks, and a harsh, cold face.

This time, I saw more. My “little sister” was standing on the bow of a large triple-masted ship staring thoughtfully into the distance. A bloodthirsty smile played on her lips while a fire of fury danced in her dark eyes.

This time, even the dimples on her cheeks couldn’t break through the cold stare enough for me to see my sweet little Thais.

After that, I looked behind her and felt a chill run between my shoulder blades. The top deck was packed with soldiers armed to the teeth and crammed into armor suits wearing wolf pelt capes and jewelry made of animal fangs and ears with blue tattoos on their bearded faces.

Thais, or rather the woman who looked like her, stopped contemplating the horizon, turned and shouted something triumphant in a croaking language I did not recognize. The armored soldiers shook their weapons and responded with a unison wolf howl that made my heart nearly leap out of my chest.

After that, pseudo-Thais pointed straight ahead and shouted out again. I looked that way and froze. On the horizon, I could see the shore and the outline of fortress walls dotted with tall towers crowned by colorful flags flapping in the wind.

Gulping with a scratchy throat, I made myself look around. The fog dispersed somewhat to reveal a large flotilla with dozens and even hundreds of soldiers on the top decks of all the ships.

Then I woke up... Panting like I’d just run a marathon I bolted upright in bed and with shivering hands pulled off my sweat-soaked shirt.

My heart was pounding. The dream just felt too real... But that was not all.

Before emerging into the real world, I noticed something on pseudo-Thais’ chest. This time, I got a good look at her necklace. It was set with ten large crimson bruts.

Chapter 3

IT HAD BEEN EIGHT DAYS since we left Abbeville. Without exaggeration, I can say that Bertrand and I left our annex and the city where I first awoke in this world without the least bit of pity. First of all, I was not a fan of sitting around in any one place for too long. And no wonder. I spent my entire childhood and young adult life on the road. And second, Abbeville was not the kind of location I’d want to settle down in. There was nothing special about it.

My goodbye to Trixie and her little brother was quite emotional though. They saw us off with tears in their eyes. Trixie was simply beside herself. After all, she was also seeing her fiancé off along with us.

When I hopped into the saddle, she ran up to me and, clutching at my boots, shot out rapid-fire that she wanted me to look after her Patrick. All I could do in response was snort to myself. But out loud I assured her that I would do everything in my power as long as Patrick asked for it himself.

In other words, I didn’t promise anything in particular but I did leave the door open. Trixie was perfectly fine with that. She was completely aware that after everything that happened over the past few days even that response was the height of magnanimity.

The whole issue was that Patrick Dupree, Trixie’s future husband, and I had gotten off on the wrong foot. It all happened when Jacques and I paid a visit to the man leading the caravan headed for the frontier.

To say we got a cold reception would be a severe understatement. Roland Buquet, the caravan leader, was a short stocky older man with his nose turned to the side, while his right cheek was adorned with a hideous burn scar. He was clearly none too pleased to hear we wanted to join up with his caravan.

A retired sergeant, he’d spent half a life serving in a royal legion and, after retiring, made a business escorting recruits to the frontier. He saw few upsides to having a nobleman in his caravan. Roland Buquet was not accustomed to having his orders questioned. A wanton aristo could easily gum up the works of his finely tuned machine.

I had to assure the grim sergeant that I was not planning to try and dictate the caravan’s travels, and that even if someone asked me to do it, I would refuse the unenviable honor.

I also promised to obey the caravan leader within reasonable limits. For example, I was prepared to help fight off highwaymen or wild animals. But I was not willing to take part in setting our nightly camps. The caravan contained a fairly large number of commoners. Let them dig the pits and so forth.

Roland Buquet was fine with that, and the look in his eyes warmed though only very slightly. Particularly after I paid him five silver crowns for our travel.

However, he just so happened to have a broad-shouldered hulk of an assistant by the name of Patrick Dupree with hands the size of shovels who was itching for a fight.

While I spoke to the sergeant, I kept catching Trixie’s fiancé boring into me with his eyes. He clenched his big fists until his knuckles turned white and kept snorting like an enraged bull. But unfriendly looks and snorting were as far as it went. It was not hard to guess the reason he felt that way, either. Patrick must have been burning with jealousy. Later, Jacques confirmed my theory, also having seen Patrick’s state.

Naturally, I was not planning to let his rude behavior slide. I didn’t give a damn whose fiancé he was. Commoners could not look at aristos that way.

So I advised Roland Buquet to clamp down on his assistant and teach him some manners. Otherwise, I would have to educate him. A dozen lashings was the best medicine for cases like this.

I didn’t know how, but Trixie found out very quickly. Though with her phenomenal ability to stick her nose into everyone’s business, it was no big surprise.

She approached me that same day with tears in her eyes and twisting her hands, begging me to forgive her stupid fiancé for his bad behavior.

Overall, I was not interested in playing such foolish games. I already felt like the main character in some second-rate love play.

By day eight, I had enough time to take a closer look at the head of the party and its other members. There were essentially four groups.

The first was Roland Buquet and his ten troops. It was immediately evident that they knew one another very well. And no wonder. Jacques said that the head of the caravan and his people once served in the same legion.

Group two was mercenaries who had signed contracts with well-heeled Abbevillians and who were heading to the frontier to serve as part of the Shadow Patrol. One such mercenary was Patrick, leader of the group, which comprised a dozen soldiers clearly receiving payment from the caravan leader for their assistance.

Group three was the biggest with nearly thirty people. To myself, I was calling them the “poor saps.” They not only didn’t have the cash to pay a mercenary, they weren’t even able to purchase basic weaponry or decent clothing and food. For some inscrutable reason, Roland Buquet and his people had taken the “poor saps” under their wing, providing them with transport, food, and basic clothing. I of course did not believe the sergeant and his people were such pure and untainted altruists, so I told my companions about the oddity and warned them to keep their eyes peeled.

Group four then was our little team. The most well equipped and prepared of them all.

Beyond that, over the last eight days, we picked up random companions on the road from time to time. Many people from nearby villages preferred to pay Roland Buquet for a safe day or two of travel due to their fear of highwaymen.

I must give the retired sergeant his due — he was a real pro. He ruled over the caravan with an iron fist, evidence of his army experience. Any disobedience was met with instant punishment.

I was also a fan of his sense of time. Over the whole eight days, we had not once spent the night on open ground. Every time, thanks to Sergeant Buquet’s insistence and familiarity with the route, the caravan spent the night in settlements, villages or, as happened on day eight of the trip, in a small town by the name of Thiviers. There we decided to spend two nights to resupply and give the horses a rest.

There were no hotels in Thiviers but there were two inns where Sergeant Buquet and his people stayed, and one guesthouse which I selected for myself.

It was nothing special, but I didn’t mind. I was not planning on spending the rest of my life here. A filling dinner, hot bath, clean linens, a roof over my head, and a separate room — that was all I needed.

By morning of the next day, after a short stretch and big breakfast, I went into the backyard to check in with Jacques, who had spent the night in the wagon. Our driver pointedly refused to spend the night in the inn, arguing that he had such a cozy wagon that it would be a crime to waste money on a room ridden with bedbugs and fleas.

“How’d you sleep?” I asked Jacques, nodding at the big wagon.

“Great as ever!” he replied with a broad smile. He carefully ran a hand over the wooden side and patted the boards lightly. “A mansion worthy of a duke! I’m scared to even imagine how much silver you shelled out for it...”

The wagon the Webers provided for us really was strikingly large and well appointed. A true home on wheels, it was unlike any of the others I saw in their office’s internal courtyard. Dormael, in his usual colorless manner, informed us that this wagon was meant to be a gift for the Webers’ eldest son who was constantly on the move in the few years leading up to his death.

To brighten their heir’s spirits and ease the burdens of his nomadic lifestyle, his parents had endeavored to construct a small but very comfortable little house on wheels where he was intended to spend the majority of his time. But alas, their eldest son never even had a chance to see it, much less take it for a test run.

The first time I entered the wagon, I was slightly puzzled. A split-level bed, small steel stove with a pipe leading outside, two big soft armchairs, a dress wardrobe and two bedside tables, walls decked out in dark blue velvet. Gee, my bedroom in Madame Richard’s annex was actually smaller and had somewhat less opulent decor.

“Looks big enough,” I replied to Jacques. “To tell the truth, I was expecting more modest accommodation.”

“It was all Madame Weber,” Jacques shrugged, continuing to stroke the wooden side of the wagon like it was a living creature. “Everyone knows that Leon Weber is such a cheapskate he’d make you beg for snow in winter. His wife is no better, but you saved her son. So...”

But before he could finish, Bertrand walked into the guesthouse backyard where the wagon was parked next to a narrow-shouldered man with darting little eyes and a goatee.

“Monsieur,” he came while looking sidelong at the pipsqueak. “You have visitors...”

“And what brings them here, my good man?” I asked, raising a brow inquisitively.

“Chevalier Renard,” the pipsqueak said with a respectful bow and welcoming smile. “My name is Arnaud Lefevre. I come in the name of my master, Viscount Bastien de Tosny with a dinner invitation for yourself. He will be expecting you this evening in the Red Ox tavern.”

I grimaced. Another of Max’s creditors? Did he just hear what I was doing and decide to catch me en route? I didn’t seem to recall that name on any of my loan documents.

I glanced over at Bertrand. He just shrugged his shoulders with a baffled look, as if to say he’d never heard the name before.

“The Viscount de Tosny?” I said, feigning forgetfulness. “Nothing’s coming to mind...”

“Oh!!” Smiling, he threw up his thin little arms. “You and my master are not acquainted, but he would very much like to correct that oversight now that he’s heard so much about you.”

“Is that right?” I asked in surprise. “What would make a viscount seek a meeting with a man he’s never met before?”

“You see, chevalier,” the pipsqueak fumbled and lowered his voice slightly. “The thing is my master is quite a well-known figure in certain circles.”

“Such as?”

“The Viscount de Tosny is a passionate collector and, quite importantly, a very wealthy man...” the pipsqueak came softly and added: “In certain circles he is known as the Watchmaker. And he has a business proposition for you.”

So there it was... Now I could see what this was about. He reacted quickly. It hadn’t even been a week. The same mysterious buyer who wanted Max’s medallion from the pawn shop for a thousand crowns. The pawn broker also mentioned a “Watchmaker.”

Well, okay... This will be interesting. But to keep up appearances, I decided to give him a hard time.

“I’m not sure,” I frowned.

“Say yes, chevalier!” the pipsqueak smiled. “I promise you will not regret it. My master is a generous man! Beyond that, the Viscount de Tosny is an excellent conversationalist. For a man such as you, backwaters like this must come with such a dearth of interesting conversation. Particularly with people of your station.”

I rubbed my chin and, after a brief pause, said with a smile:

“You know something? You and your master have caught my interest. Tell the viscount I accept his invitation.”

The pipsqueak melted into an obliging smile and, with a bow, walked away. In the end, thinking I wouldn’t notice, he hit me with an unfriendly scornful look. So, this Arnaud Lefevre was not a one-dimensional character.

“A snake in human skin,” Jacques spat out when the pipsqueak had left. “I’ve known plenty of apparently obliging simpletons like him. The second they catch you yawning, you get a knife in your backfat. Keep your eyes peeled around that little live wire...”

“Since when did you start worrying about me?” I snorted.

“Ever since you started paying me a yearly salary of ten crowns including room and board,” Jacques shrugged and smirked. “Not many can boast of such a generous salary.”

“Ah, so that’s all it is! Well, that explains a lot...”

* * *

The main and seemingly only room of the Red Ox tavern greeted me with silence. There were no visitors much less employees.

Actually, no... There was one visitor. I just didn’t notice him right away. At a wide table set with modest dishware near the far wall there sat a thin gentleman of fairly unpleasant appearance. No, he was not ugly. In fact, between his posture, expensive clothing, aristocratic facial features and tar-black hair, this man was probably quite a hit with the ladies. But there was something repellant about him.

My scanner showed nothing. The man sitting before me was completely normal.

“Chevalier Renard, I presume?” the man said, standing from the table.

“The same,” I responded. “And you, I take it, are the Viscount de Tosny?”

“Indeed,” he nodded and added with a sidelong smile: “You certainly are punctual. I appreciate punctuality.”

I just shrugged and sat down in a chair uninvited, which caused the viscount to huff a bit.

Deftly grabbing a silver pitcher from the center of the table, he poured into my glass a dark red wine and said:

“Help yourself, chevalier! Alas, this backwater cannot boast of a large variety of dishes, but I am quite sure you’ll appreciate this wine from my personal collection. I take a couple bottles with me wherever I go.”

Casually, I rubbed the tip of my nose with my pointer finger, covering my mouth. That gave me enough time to silently whisper the Snake’s Breath incantation and splash out a small mass of energy.

The wine’s energy structure immediately revealed lines of dim yellow. The viscount was seemingly trying to slip me some potion. And not any old potion — a magic one. Didn’t spare a dime, ugly bastard. Based on the color, he had most likely used something intoxicating to the mind, to make me more talkative.

The wine in his glass meanwhile was a different sort. Oh well... The dirty games had begun. Heh... I was actually intrigued to see what he’d do next.

My reservoir could easily cope with a primitive sleeping potion. So, as if nothing was going on, I grabbed the glass and took a sip, meanwhile watching the dim yellow dots dissolve into my energy system to absolutely no effect. Yep, ugly bastard, this was a far cry from Swamp Queen’s Kiss. It would take something more serious to bring down Dodger.

The viscount meanwhile, watching with pleasure as I drank his “wonder” wine, continued to speak:

“You have probably noticed that we are the only ones here. That is because I asked the owner of the tavern to find us a quiet place to talk, and he was only too eager to oblige. I am certain that neither you nor I would be too pleased to look on the drunken faces of the local commoners. So get a more comfortable seat. You have nothing to fear.”

“Thank you,” I nodded, taking another little sip from the glass. Soon, I would have to imitate the unsophisticated drunk of a young man.

We spent a bit of time eating in silence, exchanging the odd glance. I was waiting for the viscount to get to business. He meanwhile was probably waiting for the potion he’d mixed into my wine to take effect.

A few minutes later, setting aside his knife and fork, the Viscount de Tosny finally began:

“Chevalier Renard, you must be intrigued.”

“I will not tell a lie,” I said in slightly stilted language, trying not to overdo it. “Your invitation caught my interest. Your servant said that you have some sort of business proposition for me. You have my undivided attention.”

After that, I clumsily dropped my fork on the table, but the viscount had no reaction. That must have been normal.

“Alright, all the better,” the viscount nodded. “Let’s get straight to business.”

For the next several minutes, the viscount told me about his collection and passion for antiquities but served it under a sauce that made it sound like an innocent past time, an aristocrat’s fancy and nothing more. In other words, he expressed a desire to purchase my medallion, which he learned existed only by chance, saying as a passionate devotee of ancient objects he was looking for just such an item to complete his collection, but meanwhile tried to do it in such a way that I would not ask for too much money.

In the end, he offered me a whole fifty silver crowns for the medallion. Slurring, I announced that this medallion was a family heirloom and I had no intention of selling it for less than five thousand silver crowns. Beyond that, I triumphantly told him that I knew the price he offered to the pawn broker.

The viscount feigned indignation and started assuring me that Baptiste Harcourt was a flagrant liar and crook who made a habit of fleecing upstanding citizens. I was then asked the logical question. Who did I trust more — a dishonorable commoner or an elite nobleman with a crystal-clean record? I naturally, cursing all peddlers of overpriced wares with indignation, assured him that as a nobleman he had my complete trust.

After that, the viscount told me confidently that a good price for the medallion would be sixty crowns. And although it was ancient, it was utterly worthless for anything other than exhibition as part of his personal collection and that there was zero chance of resale.

At the end of our negotiating, the viscount talked me down to sixty-five silver crowns. But as if by magic, a scroll appeared before me on the table. A quill was then thrust into my “enfeebled” hand to sign the purchase contract. Following that, the tavern owner and cook appeared out of thin air to place their own signatures as witnesses to the transaction. Then came the buyer’s turn.

After signing the contract, on the viscount’s nod, Arnaud Lefevre threw a small leather coin purse on the table. When I said I had the medallion in my room, the Viscount de Tosny looked slightly upset.

“Get this dolt out of here and take his medallion,” the viscount muttered in disgust while I started to quietly sob with my head between my hands. “Take the silver, too. The bar owner and others must witness it. I’ll be waiting in my room. Make haste. We must leave this place before sunup.”

A moment later, I was grabbed on two sides and dragged to the tavern exit. Out of the corner of my eye, from beneath a half-closed eyelid, I spotted Arnaud Lefevre darting around next to some troops. All the better.

They loaded me into the back of a buggy. One of the hulking men sat next to me while another sat down opposite. Arnaud Lefevre gracefully hopped up on the driving box, took the reins, and the buggy rolled off.

From beneath half covered eyelids, I watched the road carefully while keeping up my telltale trills and glissandos.

“What a lightweight,” one of the soldiers laughed.