Book 7: Chapter 10 |
LOUIS DE HANGEST TURNED his arrogant stare onto André de Châtillon, and a wry smile stretched across his lips.
“So you’re with the upstart now, are you?” He spat contemptuously as he nodded in my direction.
With a stony face, André silently unbuttoned his cloak, took off his hat, and handed them to one of his men. Then he drew his sword and threw his scabbard aside. He swung it through the air a few times to stretch out his hand. The whole time, he was staring straight at the Marquis, who didn’t seem to be in any hurry to draw his own weapon.
“You know, André,” Louis de Hangest continued as his eyes narrowed. “I’m really not surprised. You were practically made for each other. You’re every bit as much of an upstart. It’s only thanks to other nobles and their benevolence that you ever made it out of the mud at all.”
The Marquis’ vocabulary seemed to be failing him; he had used the word “upstart” several times in rapid succession.
The Marquis kept talking, but he didn’t draw his sword. He knew his opponent too well. That said, the Marquis was no slouch as a fighter — unlike his soft, flabby older brother, he certainly knew which end to grab the sword by. André de Châtillon had spoken of him before, and referred to him as a formidable opponent.
“And this is how you repay us?” Louis de Hangest smirked. “Have you forgotten who’s responsible for your elevation? Who introduced you to His Highness Prince Heinrich, who was so generous toward you? I warned my father about this! I told him that people like you can’t be trusted! But he was deaf to my warnings. He treated you like his own son.”
I just grunted. André wasn’t looking at me, but I knew exactly what he was thinking. Ever since he joined me, I had been working carefully to help him rid himself of the nonsense that the Duke de Hangest and his hangers-on had been stuffing into his mind for all those years.
From there, the lunari had been hard at work on André, giving him all the right sorts of dreams. Mind you, we kept everything honest and above-board — there was no manipulation or brainwashing of the kind that the de Hangests and Prince Heinrich had subjected him to. We just opened his eyes to the truth. Made him look at things from a different perspective.
Pretty quickly, André realized that the de Hangest family had been using him the entire time, treating him like an attack dog that they could sic on their enemies; naturally, they also understood the importance of throwing the dog an occasional scrap from the master’s table. Even by (supposedly) giving their “dog” to Prince Heinrich free of charge, the de Hangests had made a handsome profit in other ways.
All that ended with my arrival in the capital. Suddenly, the grizzled attack dog couldn’t even handle some mutt who’d just come in off the street. His masters even graciously gave him a chance to correct his mistake, but it didn’t work. From there, his highborn “patrons” did what they always did in such situations: the loyal hound who had disappointed them was released to the tender mercies of the brutal world outside the manor. They also accused him of all sorts of other failings.
Louis de Hangest was trying to use the same old methods with his once-faithful hound, just as he used to do. Making him feel guilty. Reminding him of his patrons and their generosity. That was why he wasn’t drawing his sword. He thought he could turn the Viscount around and bring him over to his own side again. What Louis didn’t know, however, was that André himself had approached me and asked me to let him throw down the glove if things came to a duel.
“Louis.” Viscount de Châtillon replied in a calm voice as he swung his sword lightly from side to side. “You haven’t changed a bit. You’re the same thieving loudmouth. The same cowardly son of a bitch who’s always hiding behind daddy’s back. Before, you used to shovel gold coins from the Duke’s treasury into your purse and blame it on other people. Now you’re stealing from your comrades in arms and starving them to death.”
After the Viscount spoke, the silent legionaries and riders from his unit let out a roar of approval. Enraged shouts started to ring out at the Marquis, whose face quickly went pale again. Again, though, the pallor quickly gave way to redness.
This kind of insult was something Louis de Hangest simply could not accept. Snarling out curses, practically foaming at the mouth, he whipped out his sword and rushed toward Viscount de Châtillon.
The battle was on. As an observer, I can say that it looked like a sort of dance between two long-time rivals, whose had known each others’ movements and tricks for a very long time. Most likely, the two men had sparred against one another many times in training.
Things were different this time, of course. Louis’ blows were powerful and fast. Despite the rage and hatred in his eyes, however, the Marquis clearly hadn’t lost his power of judgment. The experience of many duels was evident in his style. Especially since he knew exactly what his opponent was capable of.
In that sense, though, there was something of a surprise in store for him. De Châtillon’s fencing style had changed considerably during my fencing sessions with him. Under my influence, and the lessons learned from our sparring bouts, André’s style had grown considerably more deadly. He had turned out to be an excellent student who absorbed new knowledge with excitement and relish. Mamoru Yamada would have liked him. I’d bet my right hand on it.
Viscount de Châtillon was answering the Marquis’ attacks with confidence and moderation. His parries were light, his counterattacks precise. It was like he could read Louis’ intentions a second or two in advance.
The legionaries and nobles gathered around them were watching the duel with bated breath. Now and then, shouts of encouragement would ring out from among the crowd. The Marquis’ people were supporting their lord, while the legionaries and cavalrymen were rooting for the Viscount.
Louis de Hangest started to get tired. Slowly but surely, his breathing was becoming more labored, and his movements were losing their former coordination. André de Châtillon, by contrast, actually quickened his pace, landing blow after blow and forcing Louis to retreat as he hemmed him in and forced him to make mistakes with ever-increasing frequency.
Eventually, Louis — who was panting like an overworked horse and trying desperately to land a decisive blow — lunged into an ill-conceived attack. André parried his blade with ease, counterattacked, and knocked his opponent off his feet. The Marquis de Hangest’s sword slid away across the dirt.
Silence settled over the makeshift arena.
As he lay there on the ground, Louis’ face had frozen in an expression of horror and disbelief. André stood there, looming over him like a grim stone monolith. The tip of his sword was pressed against the Marquis’ throat.
“Well?!” Louis croaked. The foam on his lips had dried into a crusty film. “What are you waiting for? Kill me!”
“Oh no, Louis.” André’s voice sounded perfectly calm, but everyone could hear it amid the deathly silence that hung in the air. “You don’t deserve that. No, from now on you’re going to live the life of a known thief who betrayed his comrades in arms. And even if His Majesty pardons you, the mark of that disgrace will lie on you and your family forever.”
Louis’ eyes filled with burning hatred. At the same time, though, I noticed a flash of relief as well. He realized that he wasn’t about to die. Really, though, his troubles were only beginning...
Viscount de Châtillon turned his head to face me. Our eyes met. He had kept his promise, and refrained from killing the Marquis. Although I could see how hard it was for him. With a grateful nod, I addressed him in a loud voice:
“My honor is satisfied, Monsieur! I thank you.”
Then I turned to where the Marquis de Hangest’s men, equipment, wagons, and carts were all assembled by the gates.
“In the name of the King, I order you to bring the contents of all these wagons forward for my inspection! Anyone who resists this order will be executed on the spot!”
Mertonian archers began to file out from behind the legionaries’ backs, with their arrows already drawn and ready to fire. The Marquis was about to move and try to say something to his people, but André de Châtillon pressed the tip of his sword firmly back up against his throat. Louis froze.
The behavior of the Marquis de Hangest’s people clearly demonstrated the wisdom of the old saying: “You can tell a lot about a master by looking at his servants.” As soon as I spoke, they obligingly stepped aside and let my people walk up to examine the wagons and carts.
Within a few minutes, an impressive pile of chests and boxes had appeared in the makeshift arena where the duel had just ended, right beneath the surprised eyes of the nobility and legionaries. The lid of one of the chests accidentally slid off and revealed its contents to the assembled public. More specifically — silver coins, piled almost to the very brim of the chest.
A collective gasp echoed out across the courtyard; before it could turn into an uncontrolled furore, however, I quickly spoke up and regained the initiative.
“HERE, gentlemen, is the Legion’s supposedly-empty treasury!” I shouted from my position atop the pile of goods that my men had just taken off the Marquis’ wagons.
Hm... Louis de Hangest had actually made quite a profit while living in the fortress’ basement.
“If memory serves, Monsieur Marquis, you had the audacity to blame His Majesty for the fact that your legionaries were left without pay for seven months, did you not? You’re even more of a scoundrel than I thought you were. Not to worry, though — I’m confident that our wise King, may the gods extend his glorious reign, will learn the truth and sort things out in very short order. Isn’t that so, gentlemen?”
I glanced at Marquis de Gondy and his entourage. The nobles all started nodding vigorously, as did the heir to the Ruler of the South himself; as they did so, their expressions of squeamish disdain were riveted on Louis de Hangest, who was still lying on the ground with a face the color of chalk dust. Whoa, I thought... I think he might actually have a heart attack.
“Captains of the Fifth Legion!” I shouted to silence the ever-increasing noise. I summoned the commanders of the two cohorts who had transferred to my command. “Tell your men that your Legion’s treasury is now under my control. Each of them will be receiving the pay due to them, just as soon as we stop for long enough to count out the coins. In addition, please prepare a detailed list of all those who died over the last seven months. Their families will get every last copper of what they’re owed. You have my word. I will see to it personally that His Majesty’s legionaries want for nothing from this day forth. Further, I hereby order the arrest of anyone here who’s complicit in what happened. They’ll be sent to the capital later, where our wise and glorious King will decide their fate.”
I was speaking loudly enough for all the legionaries to hear every word. So when I finished, a unanimous shout of joy rang out through the courtyard and into the air above the fortress.
* * *
The meeting with the elders from the southern clans of mountain men took place about a week and a half into our march. As soon as we crossed into the lands of the southern shapeshifters, the lead unit of our vanguard sent word that the locals were requesting a meeting with me. And the note they brought me came from Baron de Bacri himself.
The evening of that very same day found me seated on the ground atop some thick animal hides, in a big campaign tent, sipping some of the southerners’ herbal tea. All the elders had taken their seats in a semicircle around me. Baron de Bacri took up his seat on my right.
There were four southerners at the meeting. They were all stocky and strong. Their animal eyes were watching me intently, but without any hint of malice; rather, it seemed more like an intense feeling of interest. Only one of them — the largest and youngest — looked as if he wanted to challenge me. I could see a sort of wonder in his eyes.
Jean-Claude de Bacri had warned me about the big guy before the meeting. He was their eldest commander, in charge of the entire collected forces of the southerners. And he didn’t believe what Jean-Claude had said about me. The elders wanted confirmation of my strength. Really, it seemed like they simply wanted a demonstration of an auring’s powers.
There was tension in the air. Including a very literal tension in the energy field. Sure, the golden parasite was sated for the time being, but I knew that it could wake up at any moment; if it did, it could ruin the long-awaited negotiations before they even started.
For that reason, my pockets were packed with huge brown bruts. Besides that, I also had an amulet around my neck with a huge lilac crystal in it, and bracelets with more of the same (albeit slightly smaller) on each of my wrists. Like the others in the tent, I wasn’t wearing any armor; this was a sign of trust in my hosts.
After we exchanged the usual phrases of greeting (thereby confirming our peaceful intentions), the oldest shapeshifter — a man with long, salt-and-pepper hair — spoke up in a hoarse croak:
“Our brother from the north,” he nodded at Baron de Bacri, “tells me that you’re leading an army against the Atalians, and you’re suggesting that we join you. Is that so?”
There was a sort of stiffness, a sort of staccato quality, in the way the old werewolf spoke. Almost as if he hadn’t spoken a human language for a very long time, and he was having to tense up his throat and mouth in order to approximate the sounds of our language.
“Indeed,” I nodded.
“Explain — why would we want to do this?” He asked the logical question. “Why should we send our sons and daughters to die? We once lived in peace with the people of the valleys. They didn’t touch us, and we didn’t touch them. There’s a war among them now. If the Atalians win, they’ll take the place of the losers. And we’ll go on living as before. Why should we get involved in their war?”
“Alas, things will never be the same as before,” I shook my head. “The world has changed.”
“What does that mean?” A different elder frowned.
“It means that this war the people of the valleys have launched will soon affect all of you. Believe me, I don’t want to be involved in other peoples’ wars any more than you do. If it weren’t for the threat from the Atalian army, I would already be marching toward my new lands.”
“Yes, we’ve heard that Shadow Pass belongs to you now,” the first elder nodded. “Are you really certain that the Atalians will attack you?”
“Absolutely,” I nodded.
“But why?”
“Because the King of Atalia is weak. He’s long been under the control of the Scarlet fanatics, and they won’t rest until they take revenge on me for the deaths of their people and the loss of their land.”
The elders’ faces darkened at the mention of the Scarlets.
“We understand your motivations,” the headman nodded. “And we would probably do the same if we were in your position. But you have yet to explain why WE should participate in this war.”
“Because it’ll be better for you to fight alongside me than without me,” I shrugged. At this, all the old shapeshifters tensed up. “Weathering the storm in your mountains simply isn’t going to be an option this time.”
The young werewolf’s glare had been burning into me ever since the beginning of the conversation. And the last phrase I spoke didn’t sit well with him at all.
“You call us cowards?” He growled.
I turned my head to face him, then answered in an even tone
“I said what I said. But I’m happy to repeat it for anyone who couldn’t hear me the first time.”
In an instant, the werewolf’s hands transformed into big lupine paws as he lunged into the center of the tent. He froze, towering over me from just a step or two away.
“And this pitiful human calls himself an auring?” He asked, in a voice dripping with mockery.
He tore his arrogant glare from my face and turned to Baron de Bacri, who (as I had requested prior to the meeting) was sitting there like a statue. It was obviously taking every ounce of willpower he had to maintain his calm:
“You said this human shared power with you. Where would such a weakling get power from?”
The werewolf, whose energy system looked a lot like a newly-awakened volcano, was standing very close to me. Too bad for him... Our auras made contact with one another.
Sensing the presence of “live” mana, the parasite in my system woke up and leapt into action. My aura immediately let off a flash of golden light that dispelled the gloomy darkness in the tent. Baron de Bacri was staring at me, eyes wide — so was everyone else.
“Stand aside,” I said to the Baron through gritted teeth. He rolled a little further away from the golden haze that had begun to envelop my body.
The werewolf, however, wasn’t so lucky. Several golden tentacles attached themselves to his aura and started draining his reservoir at terrifying speed. The big beast fell to his knees, quite literally unable to lift a finger in his own defense. A hoarse croak burst from his throat. Meanwhile, I started to speak as though nothing were out of the ordinary at all. I was staring right into the shapeshifter’s horror-widened eyes as I informed him:
“The thing is, an auring isn’t just capable of sharing their own energy. They can also take energy from others.”
Pretty quickly, the werewolf’s hands morphed back into those of a human. His reservoir, which had so recently been roiling like a big chamber full of magma, began to empty with alarming speed. The parasite was obviously ecstatic. The shapeshifter’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he started to slump over. Ironically, it was only the golden tentacles that prevented him from crumpling to the floor.
The elders had been trying to maintain their composure the entire time, but by that point it was obvious that they were reaching their limit.
“I think he’s already realized his mistake,” the headman said in a tense croak as he nodded at the limp giant lying on the ground.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yes,” he nodded, before asking: “Please, let him go...”
“As you wish.” My reply was calm, but inside I was as tense as a guitar string.
Summoning a sizable clot of brown energy, I sent it racing into my reservoir, which caused the parasite to twitch and lose its focus. Right at that moment, its tentacles weakened their grip to focus on the brown mana right at the reservoir’s core. I physically pushed the shapeshifter’s body away from me; given how big he was, I couldn’t help noticing that he seemed extremely light as I pushed him back. At first, I was actually a little bit scared, but a quick scan revealed that he was still alive (albeit entirely depleted of energy).
My trick had worked... I wanted to sigh with relief, but I knew I had to make a show of unflappability. My tests with the lunari had yielded some tangible fruit. I was beginning to understand how to work with the parasite.
The elders could also see that their comrade was still breathing. Strangely, though, they didn’t display any sign of aggression. They were waiting for me to continue. Silence reigned in the tent, until I finally broke it:
“You were asking what I meant when I said that the world has changed? Several weeks ago, I killed one of the Younger Hrimthurs. I’m guessing you know who I’m talking about?”
The stunned looks on the old shapeshifters’ faces told me that they knew. They started exchanging glances with one another.
“In addition,” I continued, “it’s come to my attention that she wasn’t the only one of her kind. There are several of the beasts in Northland as we speak. I know I don’t need to tell any of you that the reappearance of these younger demons is no mere coincidence.”
“They’re here to prepare the way for their master.” The headman’s hoarse conclusion gave voice to what I was getting at.
“With your permission, I’d like to show you something.”
The elder replied with a nod.
“Sigurd!” I shouted, whereupon my bodyguard’s head appeared from between the tent flaps.
“Show them.”
He walked in, holding a small box in his hands. He set it down in front of the elders, then opened the lid so they could see the big, coal-black crystal inside.
Apparently, all three of the elders could sense the death magic radiating from the stone. They all recoiled and turned to look at me with evident concern.
“I found this on the Scarlets. The Frost Knights have them too. I still don’t fully understand what their priests are doing with these bruts, but I know that they’re killing true gifted and first-born to create them. Us, in other words. I hope that these conclusions have helped to convince you?”
I could tell by the shocked and confused expressions on the elders’ faces that our army would be getting a little bit larger before the day was out.