Last Life

THE NEXT MORNING greeted me with abundant snowfall. Before my training session, I had to do a lot of shoveling to clear space. The work gave me satisfaction, spreading warmth throughout my body.

After that for a warm-up, I did a few short katas with my new sword. Although the descriptor “new” clearly did not fit this hunk of iron. But Guy Arnault, owner of the Mace and Poleaxe, alongside his old army buddy Jacques, assured me that I wouldn’t find a more reliable sword for the money I was planning to spend on weapons and equipment.

As an aside, despite its humdrum appearance, I did like the sword. Its triangular blade with rhomboid profile and long tip made it the ideal weapon for thrusting. Its short hilt with heavy mushroom-shaped pommel, with the blade at maximum width near the guard, gave it a balanced feel in the hand. One flick of the fingers and the blade would move with lightning speed. As an aside, it could also be used for slashing, but its main intended job was thrusting. Something like a big stiletto with a two-and-a-half-foot long blade.

Which was just the thing I was looking for. I was not going to pack myself into a heavy suit of armor with a closed helmet to engage a similarly armed opponent with a cumbersome two-handed sword at the ready.

First of all, my present physical shell simply would not have been able to stand under all that weight for even a minute so, other than a sword to defend my body, I got myself only a light leather vest, bracers and greaves. I was decidedly opposed to a helmet. Even Bertrand’s argument that it was a helmet specifically that saved my life the last time didn’t move me. I responded that, unlike the duel with de Lamar, I was not intending to let the viscount get his sword anywhere near my head.

And secondly, my main advantage in the fight with the viscount would be speed, multiplied on account of my energy. Overall, a helmet would only get in the way.

Guy Arnault, being a professional in his field, knew the weaponry and fighting styles of every aristocrat in the area. When he heard who I was up against, he looked sincerely sympathetic.

However, he confirmed my theories about the Viscount de Angland’s equipment. Guy even gave me a short rundown of all the count’s son’s previous duels he had seen.

They were all in the tournament the viscount won. Basically, by the time I’d left his shop, I could sense Jacques’ army buddy staring at me with sympathy. Honestly though, that did not stop Guy Arnault from deftly shaking me down for fifteen crowns for his wares.

As an aside, Jacques was not seemingly trying to take pity on me and hold back either. The war dog was clearly eager to see my clock cleaned. Were it Max in my position, this could easily have ended in a serious injury. I couldn’t help but be alarmed by Jacques’ behavior. It was like he was trying with all his might to take me out of commission and prevent tomorrow’s duel. I would have to talk to him about that when the opportunity presented itself.

As for Jacques’ level as a swordfighter, there was a lot I could say. For example, that swords were not the kind of weapon he was accustomed to fighting with. When parrying his fairly clumsy lunges and counterattacking, I could see that he was instinctively trying to block my blows with his left hand.

As a veteran of several battles, he must have been used to fighting in formation with a shield, most likely armed with a spear or axe rather than a sword. But despite that, he did perform a few clever moves that made me happy to see and was surprised when his tricks didn’t work on me. Heh... Stuff like that was no match for Mamoru Yamada’s top student.

Though I had to admit — if I had fought without energy surges to help me, using only the meager resources of my present physical shell, Jacques would have easily taken me down at the starting phase of our sparring match. As a matter of fact, I was going all out on our training duels both in energy and physical strength. The slightest error could have cost me a serious injury.

Jacques was a very dangerous opponent. The kind of man you had to keep your eyes peeled around. He now seemingly thought the same about me. The stare he rewarded me with after our “training” fight that slowly grew into a real duel was seared into my memory. I was particularly amused by the surprise and puzzlement in his eyes when he finally saw what had become of his clothes after my lunges. The sections where there were supposed to be weak points in the viscount’s armor got particularly bad: in his armpits and inner elbows.

After a morning stretch, in what was becoming a tradition, I rubbed myself down with snow and bathed in the icy water from the bucket, then happily ate breakfast while Bertrand quietly lamented. The old man had seemingly made peace with my fate. Even my sparring with Jacques didn’t convince him. Bertrand thought the only reason I defeated Jacques was because he purposely let me win out of fear he might hurt me. The old servant couldn’t even conceive of the notion that his dear master, weakened by an injury, and who he had known since infancy, could outdo a seasoned veteran.

I didn’t try and convince Bertrand, simply decided to redirect his attention somewhere else. And more specifically, I sent him to Paul Lepetit’s office to bet all my money on me.

After selling the books and Trebolt’s henchmen’s daggers, all my purchases had left me with twenty-five crowns. It would have been more, but after the armorer, we dropped by another shop — a pharmacy. There, due to Abbeville’s lack of alchemist, several magic potions were sold. Like those inks or perfumes.

I should note that the assortment of magic perfumes was, to put it lightly, not amazing. Same went for the concentration of emerald dust in them, but still I was able to pick something out for myself.

My purchase was very surprising to both Bertrand and Jacques. The small phial of lavender-scented liquid cost me a whole ten crowns. The two men subsequently stared at me puzzled the whole way back.

Because I had spent the whole day haggling over every last cent only to make such a lavish purchase before the duel. And on what? Some pricy, useless perfume.

Inside, I just laughed. I was not going to explain to them that the phial was going to make the mana build back up in my reservoir quicker.

As an aside, I was tempted to drain the mana out of all the perfume they gave me to sample but held back. Even though the pharmacy owner was not gifted, it would not be too great a challenge to line up my visit with the sudden disappearance of the mana from all the containers.

I had seen before that even non-gifted people could tell such products were ruined, at the very least they could with the inks. After I drained all the mana out of them, they turned into a nasty smelling dark brown sludge.

Bertrand was deeply surprised by the transformation. On the day when I fell into a short coma, he found the inkwell in my hand, and it smelled of rot. He had never noticed the aftermath of my experiments before that because I was always washing my hands, but that time put him on guard.

Honestly though, he very quickly found an explanation, chalking it up to low-quality product. Then he spent a few days reminding me if we ever visited the capital to drop by the store of the cheat who sold me the counterfeit ink. Basically, I didn’t know how the perfume might react, so I didn’t take the risk.

Standing opposite the polished sheet of copper that served as a mirror in our guesthouse annex, I admired my reflection.

“Ahem,” I snorted. “I’m still quite far from a fearsome warrior.”

I now looked like a young consumptive bookworm. A thin neck, bags under my eyes — a stranger would assume that I hadn’t eaten properly in days. The leather vest, bracers with steel inserts and greaves looked even funnier. My ludicrous appearance was capped off by the basic scabbard hanging off my belt containing my short sword.

I was distracted from contemplating my dear self by the sound of a door opening. In the frame appeared Jacques’ gaunt figure.

“Monsieur, the buggy is ready,” he said while scrutinizing me top to bottom.

“Then let’s go,” I commanded. “We have to get there before the viscount.”

When I got into the buggy, I saw Trixie in the window. Based on her puffy eyes, she had been crying recently.

Following my gaze, Jacques snorted:

“She was bawling all night, the foolish woman.”

“Did someone insult her?” I asked, hackles raised.

“No,” he shook his head. “She’s crying over you.”

“So soon?” I asked with mock surprise and added: “I guess my fearsome warrior look isn’t too convincing.”

And that, much to my surprise, caused Jacques to break down laughing.

* * *

While we made our way to the duelyard, the snow stopped falling and, when I got into the arena, it had already been cleared and even covered in fresh sand.

The barriers separating the fighting area into smaller rectangles had been removed, providing the viscount and me access to the entire duelyard.

And no wonder! What an event! The fiancé of the local viscountess was going to teach a lesson to a man who had insulted him.

I looked up at the stands. The sheer array of flashy outfits was dazzling. It seemed the whole city had come out.

The people were delighted. They kept pointing at me shamelessly. And for good reason. Beyond my ridiculous looking gear, I was again wearing the hare skin coat and fur cap Madame Richard had loaned me. I decided I didn’t give a damn about this place’s moronic fashions and left the tricorn at home. I couldn’t afford frostbitten ears at a time like this. And thus, I made it to the duelyard feeling warm and comfortable.

In the audience, I spotted several familiar faces. Vivienne Leroy and her friend Betty were seated in the merchant section. I had a very good view of my “lady love,” her face slightly red with worry. But oh the hatred and scorn in her eyes.

“Oh well,” I chuckled. “I’m about to turn up the heat, snake. I can’t wait to see you squirm then.”

Fashioning a stupid love-struck smile, I waved a hand to Vivienne and blew her a kiss. That made her blush even more deeply when she momentarily became the center of attention.

A wave of commotion ran over the crowd while people discussed my move. They started pointing fingers not only at me, but Vivienne and Betty as well. Betty, red as a lobster, even instinctively sidled away from her friend but got herself in hand quite quickly and started to smile.

Among the nobles, Ursula Hoog’s dull gray dot of a figure stood out. I caught her languid gaze trained on me. I wondered if the local mages had access to true vision. Vadoma once told me that in bygone times, when there were many more gifted people in our world, it was considered a very rare gift. If Ursula was a so-called “seer,” my abilities would be exposed today.

But I wasn’t particularly worried about that. Oh well. So be it. I would have preferred to reveal myself after gaining a bit more power.             

I switched to true vision. In the whole crowd, Ursula was still the only mage. Her body’s energy structure flickered with a saturated dark-brown glow. The three large brut reservoirs in her chest area particularly stood out. My reservoir would need a lot of growing to reach the size of even one of them. I was afraid to even imagine how much energy they contained. I also wondered why brown magic specifically.

I got distracted from my thoughts about magic by welcoming shouts from the crowd. I saw a slight stir in the main box where a few particularly richly appointed nobles were seated. A thin black-haired woman with an ardent gaze and rosy cheeks stood out most of all. One look made it clear — she was the Viscountess de Brionne, my rival’s fiancée. Her reaction was easy to explain because the Viscount de Angland himself had just entered the duelyard to a superstar’s welcome.

And a superstar was just what he was. Especially compared to me, a man dressed in a hare skin coat and fur cap. His airtight helmet was adorned with red and white feathers. His armor glimmered in the winter sunlight. Even the squire walking next to him carrying his longsword looked wealthier than me.

Everyone was whistling and ululating. I even caught a few grim looks in my direction. One of them was from my trusty Bertrand, who was in among the mob and furtively wiping away tears with a kerchief. He was clearly already saying his goodbyes.

I looked at him questioningly. The old man responded with an affirmative nod. That was good. It meant he had managed to place the bet. Too bad I didn’t know the odds. It didn’t justify walking over to Bertrand for a chat though. The crowd was already having enough fun at my expense. Plus it was too late. The Viscount de Angland had set foot on the sand of the arena. If I ran over to the stands now, people might have thought I was fleeing.

“Gentlemen!” a broad-shouldered man wearing bright red livery with dark blue stripes proclaimed. There were another five identical men with long trumpets next to him. “Take your positions!”

I threw my coat and cap down onto the snow, much to the delight of the crowd. Everyone there knew perfectly well why I wasn’t properly equipped. I owed money to at least half of the aristocrats in the stands. I figured a few of them were secretly wishing I would win, but it wasn’t likely any of them had bet money on it. And of course! Nobody wanted to lose money twice when their debtor died.

The viscount meanwhile finished sending gestures of affection to his fiancée and finally pulled his longsword from its scabbard to reveal a blade glimmering cheerily in the rays of the winter sun.

I even clicked my tongue at the sight of the beautiful sword. I wondered how much all the viscount’s equipment would fetch. Would I be able to pay off at least most of my debts by selling it?

I mirrored his body language, which caused yet another wave of laughter to roll over the stands. People started inventing names for my sword straight away. The most popular was Toothpick.

Not knowing the local rules and thus following the viscount’s lead, I walked over to the barrier and stopped opposite the main box. In its center, two men were seated in large armchairs. Based on his red and white clothing, one was the viscount’s father, the Count de Angland. The red and blue man then must have been the lord of the land, the Count de Brionne. And he greeted us by raising a hand without standing, his large fingers glimmering with dozens of rings.

We bowed and turned to the center of the arena.

The viscount looked cool as a block of ice. A bad start. I needed him more fired up.

The five men in livery blasted their trumpets, and silence fell over the stands, which was immediately broken by the Viscount de Angland. Raising his helmet visor and sticking his big nose out, he shouted loudly:

“Chevalier, you smell as sweet as a young lavender bush! It’s a shame I’ll have to chop you down at the root!”

I did indeed reek of lavender to the point my eyes were stinging. It was all down to the magic perfume. Back in the buggy, while Jacques looked on quizzically, I had emptied the whole container onto my neck. But that was the price of quickly restoring energy.

Laughter flew down the stands. I swore by my useless tricorn hat that by evening the viscount’s words would be being recounted in every last tavern in Abbeville.

Oh well, he had given me quite the opening.

“Viscount, I can only envy your excellent sense of smell!” I responded loudly with a slight bow and showily reached the tips of my fingers to my nose.

Everyone in attendance knew perfectly well why the two of us were at the duelyard, so the aristocrats didn’t laugh even though I saw smiles on a few of their faces. But the deafening guffaws from the rabble and city folk of middling means more than compensated for the nobles’ silence.

I couldn’t say for sure what psychologist the viscount had spoken with, or if it was all down to some self-help exercises, but I had to say — he kept his composure admirably. Though a spark of fury had been lit in his eyes. On top of that, brazenly using my true vision, I could see perfectly well all the processes underway in the body of the soon-to-be loser. He only needed a splash of fuel, and the fire would be set ablaze.

“Chevalier!” the viscount shouted loudly in a slightly strained voice. “You do not seriously intend to fight me with that stiletto, do you? And what about your armor? Where is it?”

I traced a graceful figure eight with my sword, making the air around me hum, and answered cheerily:

“I call this sword Toothpick! But when needed, it can also pick a meddlesome nose!”

The rabble, listening closely to our repartee, burst into laughter. Even among the nobles, people began tittering.

The viscount couldn’t stand that. All his psychologists and self-help exercises went out the window, he barked loudly, slammed down his visor and dashed my direction.

“Let the games begin...” I whispered quietly to myself and drew a bit of energy from my reservoir.