CHAPTER THREE

A Bard’s Tale

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Bram’s encounter with the ghost riders left him even more cautious, making him choose to traverse the wilds of northern Lorraine rather than travel through towns and roads frequented by travelers. Of course, this meant a heightened threat of encountering bandits, but even thieves and cutthroats welcomed bards to their dens when they happened upon them. Such was the case on night two of Bram’s journey when he and Renfri came upon a clearing where a gang of thieves were resting from a long day of thievery.

Indeed, with the number of crates and barrels piled up around them, Bram guessed that these bandits had just finished robbing a merchant caravan. Fortunately, there were no captives among the pilfered. There were no stolen auto-carriages around either, which meant these bandits had at least left the merchants a way to return home without difficulty. These observations suggested to Bram that the bandits weren’t the sort of bastards who traded in evil things like illegal slavery.

That made them tolerable in his eyes.

They’re full now, and they’ll be wanting to celebrate…and celebration’s a bard’s specialty.

With his deductions made, Bram chose not to flee the edge of the clearing, because he didn’t doubt that there were scouts nearby who’d already noticed him. Instead, he urged Renfri forward while inwardly reminding himself not to show an ounce of fear to these bandits for to be daring would be his way to survive this encounter.

“Lo’ friends!” he called.

A dozen icy glares snapped toward him.

The bandits sitting around the campfire all looked gruff and burly. They all glared at Bram like they would skin him alive and then eat him for dinner, which, from the fragrance of herbs wafting out of the pot magically floating over the fire, was already being prepared.

“Fancy a few songs or stories in exchange for a seat at your fire?” Bram asked in his practiced commoner’s drawl.

“Are you a bard?” the largest of the bandits replied in a low, menacing tone.

He was like a bear, tall and large, with a long mane of dark hair and a thick beard that was like the fur on a beast’s face. His eyes, which were big and brown, were probing Bram and his mount for any valuables they might possess.

“Aye, I’m a bard,” Bram answered happily.

More than one gaze drifted toward the sword strapped to his belt.

“What kind of bard?” the bear-man asked.

Prepared for this question, Bram raised his lute high in one hand, and in the other, a bottle of ale from the bag Ser Anthony prepared for him.

“The kind that’s fun to be around.”

Bram flashed them with his charming smile, and their gaze softened a little, but only a little.

“A seat for a tale then, bard,” the bear-man answered.

Truthfully, Bram wasn’t as good a storyteller as he was a singer, but he had a few yarns ready to spin for them. So, taking the spot beside the bear-man—as if proving to these others that he was fearless—Bram began a tale he’d heard years ago that actually set him on this path he took now.

“Have any of you heard the tale of the Trickster of the Burnt Tree?”

Such questions were important in engaging his audience.

Not a single thief could say yes, which he expected, because the yarn he was about to weave was one he cobbled together from scattered tales he’d discovered of this nearly forgotten legend.

“She who flew too close to the heavens was burned by the will of the sun who judged her unworthy,” he began in as eerie a tone as he could manage. “Broken and spurned, she called to the hearts of man and beast, whispering sweet lies and empty promises into their ears, instilling these mortals with desire for that which the gods would not share.”

“What wouldn’t the gods share?” asked the only scrawny-looking thief in the group.

Honestly, Bram wondered that too.

“Their deepest desires perhaps,” he assumed.

In his desperation to find ways to change his fate, Bram had scoured the Imperium for hidden knowledge. Of this legend, he found only a few sources; brief passages in holy scriptures or obscure songs and rhymes told by bards who hailed from the Imperium’s outer edges. It seemed almost like an invisible hand had wiped this tale from the memory of Aarde, and it was down to luck that he eventually discovered the secret hidden in that cursed cave he longed to visit.

He told the bandits nothing of his mad plans, of course, choosing instead to regale them with a tale of rebellion and failure which were the best kind of stories for thieves who spent their days on a razor’s edge.

“They who followed her false light learned the truth of her deceit, and with the aid of the gods who reconciled with their creations, these champions rejected her claim to innocence and banished the Burned One to the abyss where her flame of rebellion would be forever dimmed…”

Finished with his tale, Bram accepted the mug of ale he’d been offered, which he took as a sign that he’d earned favor with them. This seemed true enough for every bandit’s gaze was fixed on him as if they wanted more story time.

“So, what happened to this Burned One?” the bear-man finally asked, invested it seemed in the trickster’s tale.

“I expect she’d be long dead by now, Boss,” the scrawny thief cut in.

“Why would she be dead?” asked another, a rotund man this time.

“Well, if this story be true, and the gods’ stories are always true, Blessed Pallas,” as he spoke, the scrawny thief clasped his hands together in a sign of faith, “then this trickster’s been imprisoned for a thousand years. She’d be all shriveled up and old if she isn’t dead yet and isn’t that more unlikely than getting executed for being a trickster.”

“Boo!” several of them yelled.

As if agreeing, the bear-man tossed a bone he’d plucked from his dinner bowl at the scrawny thief who was quick to duck out of its way.

“If the trickster’s strong enough to fight gods, then she’d be one of them immortals too,” he argued. Then added, “And the bard never said she died.”

“He said they trapped her,” the rotund man chimed in.

“Right, he did,” the bear-man chuckled. Then, still laughing, he said, “And you only trap something if you can’t kill it.”

He turned his big brown eyes on Bram.

“Aren’t I right?” he pressed.

“Right,” Bram agreed.

He was smiling again, genuinely this time. For he didn’t expect such a debate to begin among godless bandits. Their speech might be rougher, but to Bram’s ears, they sounded just like the scholars he’d met during his days researching obscure legends.

“They say she waits in her prison,” Bram took a swig of his ale before adding, “for a fool brazen enough to free her…”

“What happens if she’s freed?” asked a strong-looking woman with long wiry hair framing her comely face. She’d been the one who’d offered Bram his drink.

“I don’t know…” Bram’s brow creased in contemplation. “I’ll have to free her and find out.”

He sounded like he meant it, and they all looked at him like he was crazy. That’s when Bram laughed—and they laughed with him. Eventually.

The rest of the night was merry, with the bandits welcoming Bram as if he’d been one of them this whole time. He sang to them, and they cheered him. He drank with them, and they toasted him. More and more, Bram enjoyed their company. It helped that they shared his love for building muscles and that they seemed an honest group at least who didn’t deal in slavery.

“We don’t do that sort of shit,” answered the wiry-haired, comely-faced woman whose name Bram learned was Josslyn. “There’re enough evil pricks in Lotharin. We don’t want to be like them. We just want to survive.”

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Strange how she echoed words Bram often heard in Bastille’s Lowtown. Survival seemed such a difficult thing for commoners.

“We don’t steal from our lot either,” Josslyn added.

“You only steal from the nobles?” Bram guessed.

She grinned.

“We may be bandits, but it’s the nobles who’re the real thieves,” Josslyn insisted. “They steal our livelihood to fill their coffers, they steal our men for their wars, they steal our women for their beds…we’re just taking back a bit of what’s been stolen from us.”

Bram found it hard to argue with her logic because he knew many nobles who did the things Josslyn spoke of—nobles who thought of commoners as no better than cattle.

A thought struck him, and he asked, “Do you steal from the rich to give to the poor?”

It wasn’t just Josslyn. Nearly every bandit who overheard him laughed out loud.

Josslyn refilled Bram’s cup. “Why would we risk our lives just to give away our spoils to people who can’t find the balls to take back what’s theirs on their own?”

Her words certainly made more sense than his. The idea of a noble thief was an interesting notion to him though.

Much later, the bear-man, whose name Bram now knew to be Lil’ Joss, noticing the thick muscles hidden underneath Bram’s loose-fitting shirt, challenged him to an arm wrestling match. Bram accepted, and despite having the strength to beat the man, he let Lil’ Joss win, though not before making the bear-man sweat a little.

“You sure…you’re a bard?” Lil’ Joss asked again, half-breathless.

“A bard…can be…more than…just an entertainer…” Bram pretended to be more breathless than Lil’ Joss to boost the bear-man’s ego. “Now, shall we…drink some more?”

“You were right.” Lil’ Joss slapped Bram hard on the shoulder. “You’re a fun bard!”

The next morning, with his head feeling like a nail that had been hammered repeatedly, Bram woke up while regretting that last cup of ale Josslyn offered him. He did not, however, regret waking up next to her underneath a tree at the far end of the clearing with their naked bodies still intertwined. He may have earned the bandits’ favor, but he was certain that it was thanks to Josslyn that no one thought to steal from him while he slept. It was also thanks to her and Lil’ Joss that Bram was able to mount Renfri that afternoon without anyone stopping him.

“We’ll keep a lookout for these ghost riders of yours,” Lil’ Joss promised.

“They seemed a dangerous lot… Avoid them if you can,” Bram suggested.

“You sure you don’t want to stay?” Lil’ Joss asked again. “The Mighty Greenwood Gang could use a bard with your talents.”

Bram flinched at hearing the word ‘talent’ for it was a word closely associated with those who possessed the gift of magic.

“The call to adventure takes me elsewhere,” he answered.

Yes, it was better he parted with the Mighty Greenwood Gang while they thought highly of him. For, surely, if his secrets were revealed, he would lose their favor quickly.

From atop Renfri’s back, Bram looked down at Lil’ Joss with a fond smile, one he didn’t think he’d ever give to a bandit. “We’ll meet each other again if the Loom allows.”

“Aye,” Lil’ Joss agreed. Then, glancing over his shoulder, he added, “You should say farewell to my sister too.”

“I plan to,” Bram answered, grinning.

He led Renfri to that spot underneath the tree where he’d gotten better acquainted with Lil’ Joss' younger sister. Josslyn was putting on clothes while seemingly uncaring if others saw her naked flesh.

“Off to woo other damsels?” she asked distractedly, busy as she was reclipping her axe to her belt.

“You’re no damsel,” Bram said, chuckling. “You’re all fire and passion.”

Josslyn blushed at the compliment.

“When I sing of the Mighty Greenwood Gang, it’ll be a happy song of noble thieves,” Bram promised.

He meant it too.

Frankly, it was a huge stroke of luck that the bandits he met weren’t an evil gang that even a bard might have trouble with.

“Noble thieves. I like the sound of it.” A smile flashed on Josslyn’s face. “See you, Bard.”

She waved him off—and Bram left the clearing without having lost a single griffin or piece of clothing. Such was the privilege of a bard of the Imperium.

Four days after meeting the Mighty Greenwood Bandits, Bram arrived at Laire, a bustling river town in the northeast of Lorraine Shire that was the last stop before the bridge he needed to cross to reach the lonely mountain that was his true destination.

He found the busiest of Laire’s two inns and secured himself a spot in that night’s entertainment because he wanted to be surrounded by people in case he met the ghost riders who had been hunting him, which was likely, as Laire was a town travelers had to pass to get to the bridge.

He made sure Renfri was comfortable inside the inn’s stables before spending hours donning a new disguise, one that changed his appearance more completely.

“They’ll know what I look like if they’ve come from Bastille,” he deduced. “I’ll need a disguise that would make the Delightful Troupe proud.”

Like his bardic talents, Bram’s skill with disguises wasn’t self-taught. He’d had many teachers, some who were more than simple entertainers.

As he proved on his night with the Mighty Greenwood Gang, bards were welcome all over the Imperium. So, it became a tradition among the nobility to employ these musicians and poets as spies and saboteurs. Among the many organizations in the capital born from this tradition, there were none better than the Delightful Troupe whose skills for espionage were said to be as dazzling as their talents in the performance arts. Bram’s teachers had come from this very troupe, and though he lacked talent in sorcery, they taught him other things that didn’t require the gift of magic because they saw the benefit in having a prince beholden to them.

So, in a secret room of a brothel that a then fourteen-year-old Bram frequented, Atlan’s seventh prince learned to paint his face with strange dyes and alter his features with clay. He learned to change his gait, his size, and even his speech, turning him from prince to pauper as easily as if he were changing clothes.

“I’ll also need a backup plan just in case I do run into them tonight.”

His backup plan was a small vial of white powder he found among the potions Ser Anthony had packed for him. The potion was nothing lethal, though it could give Bram an edge in a fight, should a fight occur.

“Welcome, welcome, my friends!”

That night, on a wooden stage by the back of the inn’s tavern, Bram was nowhere in sight. In the prince’s place was a purple-haired bard with pale skin, painted brows, and dyed lips. His eyes were hidden behind tinted spectacles hanging over a hawkish nose whose one nostril had a ring clipped to it. His painted chest was bare underneath his purple coat and lathered in oil to make his muscles pop.

“They call me the Gentleman Caller,” he strummed his lute once, twice, and then a third time, before adding, “and I dedicate this song to you brave fools who dare to be merry under the red moon’s light!”

The audience cheered.

“Hmmm-hmmm, hmmm-hmmm….”

Certainly, no one could mistake this Gentleman Caller for Atlan’s seventh prince, which was fortunate, for there were guests among this gathering who didn’t look like they’d enjoy Bram’s company. Particularly the two hooded figures seated around a table near the tavern’s entrance, a convenient spot to be in should they choose to stop someone from leaving.

“Be wary, be vigilant against the trickster’s voice…” Bram eyed these two figures while he sang, his gaze taking in the length and breadth of them. “Beware, lest you hear her call, whispered one who’d fallen for her wiles, his body sinking in despair beneath the tides…”

The expensive cloaks they wore lacked the ghost-like veils that hid their features from his eyes six nights ago, but their auras felt too similar. Indeed, the burly-looking hooded fellow seated on the left was about the same size as the ghost rider who’d almost discovered Bram’s campsite. Instincts born from years of dodging the spies of other royals left him with little doubt that they were his pursuers. Although even if his guess was wrong, Bram didn’t like the look of them which was enough to be wary of them.

“In the blood-soaked lands of ancient Gaullia where her followers fought and died,” his voice turned loud and mournful, “to the gods’ champions they fell because she left their side.”

Since he saw only two of them, Bram guessed that the other riders were elsewhere. Possibly, they were still searching for him in Lorraine which was as large a city as Bastille. If he guessed right, then there was an opportunity to be made here.

He strummed his lute to a somber melody. “Buried deep within the mountain, betrayed by blood and oath, to the gods with her last breath cursed, beware the Trickster of the Burnt Tree…for vengeance I’ll give to thee~~e…”

Bram sang an old, outlawed tune barely remembered except in the farthest reaches of the Imperium. He sang it to its last mournful melody, and when he finished, there came no applause. Yet from the troubled faces spread amongst his audience, it was clear that they’d felt something from his song. Remnant feelings of an old hatred perhaps, one left behind like a curse by something even the gods feared.

Seeing his song’s effects on them, he couldn’t help smiling. Here was proof that magic wasn’t the only worthy talent in Aarde.

Bram’s gaze fixed on the two hooded figures; the big one and the lithe one sitting next to him. He couldn’t see their faces from underneath their hoods, but it didn’t look like they recognized his song. Nor did it seem like they understood what it meant to him.

Either they have no clue what I’m planning or I’m wrong about them being here for me…

Bram sang three more songs—upbeat ones this time—with each tune louder and wilder than the first as if echoing the flashiness of his disguise. When he was done, his audience had grown lively. Lively enough that the two hooded figures wouldn’t have an easy time observing anyone, not even a purple-haired bard who stood out like a sore thumb. He could have left without them noticing for they clearly didn’t recognize him. It would be a waste of an opportunity though, one that was literally walking toward him.

Bram noticed her earlier, the straw-haired barmaid who’d been serving their table. As luck would have it, she was on her way back to the kitchen after taking their order once more.

“Hello there, beautiful,” he called.

A charming smile and a little flattery were enough to gain the barmaid’s interest, but it was the gold griffin he planted on her palm that sealed their deal for such a weighty bribe would ensure her family was fed for months.

“This isn’t poison, is it?” she asked.

In her other hand was the vial of white powder Bram had prepared.

“It won’t cause any lasting harm. All that’ll do is stimulate their bowels,” he promised.

Bram didn’t wait to see the results of his scheme. Instead, after reclaiming Renfri from the inn’s stables, he rode out of town in haste. He also didn’t forget to bribe the guards at the gate to keep them shut on his pursuers for the rest of the night.

Under the glare of the red moon’s watchful eye, Bram crossed the Rhyne once more, passing through the Laire Bridge, which, fortunately, was empty tonight. He urged Renfri onward, and they rode north without rest, ignoring all other distractions in their haste to reach the lonely mountain. With a stroke of luck, they arrived at the town by Sundermount’s foot just as dawn’s first rays crested the horizon.

The sun had barely risen when Bram reached the trail behind the town.

He was alone.

It would’ve been a quicker climb if he had taken Renfri with him, but he chose to leave the hart in the town’s stables. He’d grown too attached to Renfri to risk its life on the dreaded climb, because, as he looked up toward Sundermount’s peak, Bram became certain of one thing—blood would be spilled on those slopes…likely his.