Last Life

WHILE THE VISCOUNT AND I exchanged pleasantries, I was studying his defenses closely and counted at the very least a dozen places where I could land a fatal blow.

The viscount, naturally, wasn’t filling his head with such considerations. And that came as no surprise. Before him now stood a little wretch and hotspur who had insulted him in public on several occasions, then foolishly turned up for a duel without decent weaponry or protection. The leather scraps hanging awkwardly off his body excepted. And thinking back on the ill-fated and humiliating fight against de Lamar — let’s just say the viscount was underestimating me to put it lightly.

And that was exactly why he thought he could end me in one blow. With a furious cry coming from beneath his helmet visor, the viscount tried to bring his longsword down at an angle into my right collarbone. If the real Max Renard were in my place, that blow would have been more than sufficient. Just a moment later, he would have been lying on the ground hacked through to the waist and soaking the sand of the arena in his blood.

But to the Viscount de Angland’s misfortune, a dangerous otherworldly entity had come to dwell within the true Max Renard’s body and killing him would require a great deal more effort.

Easily sidestepping the viscount’s blade, I shifted left and, now behind him, swung my sword hard. The razor-sharp tip of my blade cut the bright feathers off my opponent’s helmet. The ritzy multicolored plumage, which was probably worth quite a lot all on its own, scattered through the arena. I even gave a slight wince. I would have to make peace with that loss. Everything the viscount was wearing I already regarded as my legal spoils.

But I had to do it. Today, I intended to make an example of the viscount, an exhibition performance to keep any other potential hotheads off my back. And it was actually good that de Angland was champion of some tournament. It would only make the lesson stick better for all those who would dare challenge me to a duel. Much less open their mouths to insult me.

As an aside, based on how fast my rival was moving, he was no rival at all, even to Jacques. And if the veteran had a shield and his weapon of choice, the viscount wouldn’t have stood the slightest chance.

I was certain the count’s son had been instructed by master swordsmen probably since childhood, but Jacques had been through a tougher kind of schooling. As, by the way, had I.

The viscount was clearly expecting his blade to get stuck in his rival’s body, so he took another two steps forward after stabbing thin air. My sudden disappearance had clearly puzzled him. He started looking from side to side sluggishly in incomprehension. He did it with his whole body, much to the delight of the crowd up in the stands. The people were particularly tickled by him losing the feathers on his helmet. Which was exactly what I wanted to achieve.

The tribunes again thundered with laughter. Several nobles were now openly joining the rabble. I even saw a smile flicker on the face of the local count. The viscount’s father though was in no laughing mood. I saw incomprehension on his face, as well as those of many of the other aristocrats. I was fully expecting that reaction. They all knew who Max Renard was, and that he was not supposed to survive a blow like that.

Meanwhile, the viscount turned and, egged on by the ululating and incendiary outbursts from the stands, roaring with fury, came racing my direction once again. And once again, he missed.

I easily stepped aside and again found myself behind him, but that time my opponent didn’t get off so easily as merely losing plumage.

A short lunge and the tip of my blade entered his left knee just above the cap. Which made the crowd gasp loudly.

Okay. Enough playing around. The main event could begin.

I was making precise strikes so the viscount wouldn’t bleed out too early. But still there was lots of blood. The first dark ruddy droplets had started dripping onto the sand beneath my rival’s feet.

With a shudder, the viscount turned in place and tried to make another lunge but lost his footing. I heard him give a muted groan. He mechanically reached for the wound with his left hand but got himself together before it was too late. Not bad. As son of a count and tournament champion, he was not supposed to show weakness.

“What’s the matter, viscount?” I asked, smiling placidly. “Not feeling too hot?”

In response came a growl and sudden lunge. The wound made it come off clumsy, and less quick. But it would have still been enough to run the old Max through like a grouse on a spit.

I meanwhile smoothly turned the viscount’s long blade aside, sliding it off my sword with a swish and countering with a lunge into the narrow gap between his left shoulder plate and cuirass. The tip of my blade didn’t go in too far, but it was enough to put the viscount’s left hand out of commission.

The stands responded with a loud humming gasp like a giant many-headed monster.

That time, my opponent was unable to contain his groan. Stepping back, he held his sword out in front. The heavy longsword in his right hand began to quiver. Wisps of steam started puffing out of his helmet visor. The viscount’s fury went up in smoke. Seemingly, today was the first time he had ever experienced true pain. The blood was leaving his body quickly, soaking the sand underfoot.

Not even a couple minutes into the fight, our roles had switched. Now the viscount had gone from offense to defense. And based on the frightened and baffled outbursts from the stands, everyone else could see that.

Out of the corner of my eye, I was tracking my opponent’s father’s reaction. I must note — he was holding it together alright. Only the look in his eyes betrayed his true concern. I could see in his dark gray eyes astonishment, disbelief, and a healthy dose of fear... I couldn’t blame him. He had come here to enjoy a show. His first born and heir was supposed to triumphantly slay a man who had insulted him. Never the opposite.

I should note that I saw similar emotions on the faces of many others. Even Betty, who had spoken with such scorn about Max’s abilities, was now completely stunned. Vivienne meanwhile didn’t look the least bit surprised. White as chalk, she couldn’t take her tense gaze off me. I saw an unasked question in her eyes: “Who are you?!”

That happened to me often. I looked mawkish. My build was gaunt. I was calm and conflict-averse by nature. Consequently, some types of men were constantly trying to boost their own egos on my account. It happened particularly often when I was a child and young man. Honestly though, by the time the conflict reached a certain stage, that quiet modest young man would transform into a brutal beast with a cold gaze and, as a rule, by then it was too late.

I figured the Viscount de Angland had just found himself in that very position. Holding out his sword, which was becoming heavier and heavier with every drop of blood he lost, he was probably already starting to feel a chill come over his body. The waves of fury and rage caused by my insults started to abate. Standing opposite his rival, he was gradually starting to realize that the situation had spun out of control. Because he was already imagining his foe cleaving his body from collar to waist with one herculean slash, but the reality was somewhat different.

Still, the viscount wasn’t going to simply surrender. Falling heavily onto his injured leg, he tried to close the gap yet again. Leaving a dark ruddy trail on the sand with every step, he came my way preparing to repeat his previous lunge.

He finally made an attack, but it was with only one hand. I though kept smiling and let him come closer until he made his lunge, at which point I easily turned his blade aside. After that, closing the gap with a sudden burst, I tripped the viscount and pushed him hard in the chest, laying him low.

A steel clang sounded out over the duelyard. An ominous silence crept over the stands. The people were struck by the sight of it.

No one was making fun of the viscount any longer, lying on his back and awkwardly flailing his arms and legs like a huge beetle. I was just barely able to make out several plaintive feminine shrieks.

I doubted the ladies would have felt this bad for me. Out here, the Viscount de Angland was the very embodiment of handsome charm and nobility. A knight in shining armor, no less.

I meanwhile was some upstart, a bastard. A traitor’s illegitimate offspring draped in unsightly leather armor. I wouldn’t be surprised to discover that most of the people watching us in the arena thought this was nothing more than a fluke. And now the viscount was about to stand to his feet, pick up his sword, and cut the bastard down to size.

But I didn’t allow the viscount to stand up or stick me with the dagger he pulled from his belt scabbard. Quickly disarming my opponent, I held his hand down with my foot and raised his helmet visor with the tip of my blade.

The viscount and I stared into each other’s faces. His eyes contained so much fear and desperation. What happened to the fierce warrior I first saw? Now before me was a twenty-five-year-old boy lying on the ground wanting desperately to live. While falling to the ground, he somehow managed to break his big nose and now blood was pouring down his cheeks and chin.

“Viscount!” I smiled and poked the tip of my blade toward his right eye. “I hope you understand you should not move your head right now.”

Staring at the steel tip just a few inches from his eye, the viscount nodded shortly.

“What’s taking so long?” he asked in a shaky voice.

“The fact I don’t want to kill you,” I shrugged. “Never did. You were the one thirsting for my blood. What got into you?”

“You insulted me in public on several occasions!” a faded shadow of his former rage flickered in the viscount’s gray eyes. “Once even in front of the Viscountess de Brionne!”

“Ahem,” I shook my head. Now I could see why the kid was so feisty. Max the moron had humiliated him front of his bride-to-be. On top of that, my jokes only added fuel to the fire. “I admit my mistake, viscount.”

Hearing that made de Angland’s eyes go wide in surprise.

“But you played your part, as well,” I reproached him. “You assumed I would ignore your remarks about my origin. If you weren’t a noble, I’d have cut your tongue out for that. By the way, next time you get the bright idea to make a rude comment, I will do just that. I hope you realize you are no match for me now.”

“Yes,” the viscount agreed unexpectedly. And meanwhile, he wasn’t groveling or trying to stall. He was being sincere. “I underestimated you, Renard. Now I realize that you could have killed me before. It was just your duel with de Lamar... I watched your fight... It deceived me. The man fighting me today was someone else entirely. And yes, you will not hear another word from me about your origin. I give you my word, chevalier. If of course I survive this day.”

“In my turn, I give you my word that I will stop pestering you about your nose,” I said without a hint of mockery. “And as I said before, I do not wish to take your life, viscount. As a matter of fact, I would never forgive myself for depriving the charming Viscountess de Brionne of the joys of married life. And as for de Lamar... I will have my revenge. Vincent has a burning desire to finish what he started.”

“Then I know who I’m betting on,” a smile appeared on the viscount’s pale face.

“So, it’s settled then?” I clarified.

“Certainly,” he nodded and added: “Victory is yours. My squire will bring my armor and weapons wherever you wish...”

“Good,” I said. “And now, try not to move.”

When I turned to face the stands, which had been seized by a cryptlike silence, I caught the Count de Angland, the viscount’s father giving me a probing gaze. Seemingly, he had aged ten years in the last few minutes.

I didn’t disappoint him and shouted out loudly:

“Fetch a healer! Now!”

While leaving the duelyard as the crowd roared, I could practically feel Vivienne Leroy burning my back with her eyes.

* * *

Jacques was waiting in the buggy in the parking lot. A satisfied smile danced on the veteran’s face. It wasn’t hard to guess the reason for his delight.

“I’ve never seen you this happy,” I muttered, taking off my vest, bracers, and greaves.

“What do you expect, monsieur, tears?” he chuckled. “Today, my pockets are full of silver thanks to you.”

“Found the courage to bet on me, eh?” I snorted. “What if the viscount stuck me with his sword?”

“Not in this lifetime,” Jacques chortled. “That sword by the way no longer belongs to the viscount. Now it is yours.”

Pulling a handful of dry clean snow from a snowdrift, I wiped down my overheated face. My hands were shivering slightly. My muscles and joints were burning. I had been going all out in my fight with the viscount. And I pushed both my energy and physical prowess to the max. If not for the green energy from the perfume, I’d have been in trouble. I quickly scanned my energy system and sighed. With the exception of a few micro-strains, I couldn’t find a single serious rupture. Ideally, I would have spent the next month on an energy diet meditating and getting my physical shell back in shape but, sadly, events around me were starting to unfold independent of my desires.

“What do you think, will your buddy Guy Arnault give a fair price for the viscount’s equipment?” I asked Jacques.

But another man answered instead.

“Chevalier Renard!” I heard a measured baritone behind me. “I’m certain that no one here will pay you a fairer price than me.”

Jacques jumped down from the buggy and lowered his head. I turned. A few paces opposite me stood the Count de Angland in the flesh, accompanied by a group of five tough warriors. They reminded me of Jacques in some way. The cutthroats had clearly taken part in their fair share of scraps. They stared at me with unhidden curiosity, as if they couldn’t believe a kid like me had just defeated their master’s son in full public view.

“Your Lordship,” I bowed respectfully.

“Chevalier, I would like to speak with you alone. Would you lend me a minute of your time?”

The count’s question had little to do with a request. His Lordship was clearly not accustomed to being defied.

I didn’t go looking for trouble. If I acted rude now, nobody would understand. I also didn’t want the count of a neighboring county for an enemy. The very fact he had come to me for a personal discussion spoke volumes. He had come down from the heavens to the earth, so to speak.

Jacques immediately vanished, while the count’s troops took a few steps back, forming something of a semicircle so no one could bother us.

“At your service, Your Lordship,” I bowed again.

“Okay, I’ll get straight to business,” the Count de Angland stated drily. Surprisingly, the viscount did not resemble his father. Except perhaps in the size and angle of his eyes. The big nose, heavy chin, broad cheekbones — the viscount must have gotten all that from his mother. I even wanted to see her.

“As you like,” I responded and folded my hands behind my back.

In one movement, the count removed a golden signet from his left-hand middle finger set with a large dark crimson ruby and extended it to me.

“This is for you, chevalier,” he came in a colorless voice. “This signet will fetch you a lot more silver than my son’s armor suit. This way, we both get what we want. You get money, and I get to rest assured in the knowledge that the Viscount de Angland’s armor suit will remain in our family armory. I trust you find that exchange acceptable?”

In my hand, the ring had a pleasant heft.

“More than,” I responded.

“Alright, we have a deal,” he came harshly. “I’m glad we were able to reach an understanding, chevalier.”

After saying that, the count quickly turned and took a step toward a richly appointed coach bearing the de Angland county crest, which was parked a few yards away from where we were chatting. He hesitated for a moment. Turned and, looking at me thoughtfully, said:

“Today you let my sole heir keep his life. From this day forth, I will be keeping a close eye on your fate.”