CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Brave New World

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Landing a skyship with just two people was impossible. The best Bram could do was tinker with the twin sorcerite engines in the engine room to have the eighty-foot-long brigantine descend low enough across the clearing for him to throw climbing ropes down to the people below. It didn’t take them long to come up, and Bram wasn’t surprised by who’d arrived to visit his new deck, which, incidentally, was still littered with the bodies of the dead.

First up was the wearg leader, Scarfang, though he’d reverted into his red-chested human form and was naked as the day he was born…again. He had more scars than Bram remembered, though these were already healing quite well, proving a theory that the Imperium’s scholars had about weargs of the wilds possessing a strong regeneration ability. The ones under captivity weren’t so blessed.

Next up was another big fellow, Chris, who arrived on deck sporting new gear; a shiny scale chest piece to replace his torn padded jacket, a shiny sword with a jeweled silver pommel hanging from his waist, and a shiny round shield strapped to his back that bore the twin clouds sigil of House von Galen on its front.

Other weargs followed these two burly men, their weary gazes fixed on the blood pooling across the wooden deck. Bram didn’t pay much mind to their unease though. His focus was fixed on Chris’ shiny new loot.

“I see you’ve relieved Alaric von Galen of his belongings.”

“The kid wasn’t going to use them anymore. Not while he’s tied up and locked away with the rest of his troops.”

The Texan flashed the prince a wide grin, which Bram returned with equal glee.

“I figured you’d enjoy that.”

“I do. I truly do.”

Chris gave the deck a once-over.

“Looks like y’all had a rough time.”

“Not really. Rowan was…enthusiastic with her lessons.”

“Ah. Where is our trickster of legend?”

“Gone off exploring the rest of the skyship’s underbelly…like an otherworlder might.”

Chris chuckled.

They clasped hands like comrades who’d just survived a great battle—which they did—but then Chris had to ruin the moment by asking if anything else had happened, forcing Bram to recall the reason he’d been so anxious to get the skyship to the ground.

“Where’s Kazem Bashar?”

“Gone,” answered a low, gruff voice.

Glancing to his left, Bram found the wearg leader standing nearby.

“He disappeared after you sunk the other skyship,” Scarfang reported. “I’ve sent trackers to look for the old sorcerer in case he was injured, but they’ve yet to report back.”

A dark look flashed on Bram’s face.

“What’s wrong, Boss?”

“I don’t know yet… Is Master Mina down below?”

“She’s helping to heal the wounded Weargs with Ravi and Hajime. Bridge is with them too.”

The Texan briefly recounted how Master Mina’s Ophiotaurus grew to the size of a giant as soon as it dipped its tail into the river. The giant bull snake then sent a massive ‘Tidal Wave’ crashing onto the battlefield that seemed to be able to distinguish between friend and foe because only von Galen’s soldiers were swept up in it. The devastation to the enemy lines proved fatal after the spell was done. Most of von Galen’s soldiers were drowned by the Ophiotaurus who’d pulled them back into the Rhyne’s depths where they disappeared along with it.

“Then y’all crashed a skyship onto the other side of the clearing, causing a big honking mess, and that’s when the fight left the enemy. We wrangled the survivors up and stashed them inside the ruin with their hands and feet bound like hogs.”

“And Kazem…no one saw him after?”

Scarfang and Chris exchanged a look, both shaking their heads afterward.

The wearg leader cleared his throat. “The old sorcerer is prone to vanishing every once in a while…”

Bram raised an eyebrow. “He was gone often…?”

Scarfang nodded.

“At first we thought it strange as well, but since we too could move as we wanted unless Mother…” he cleared his throat again before correcting himself, “…Unless the nymph called on us, we decided to leave the old sorcerer be. For all we knew, he moved at her will.”

“No, not her will,” Bram guessed, frowning.

The prince brooded for a long moment before Scarfang’s gruff voice reached his ears.

“We’ve won a great battle, but you seem like you’ve lost instead, Bram of House Attilan,” the wearg leader observed.

“There’s a saying among the nobility…” Bram’s brow creased. “Don’t be gladdened by one victory if you can’t see the war’s end.”

“Ain’t it a little soon to talk of war, Boss?” Chris weighed in.

“That’s the problem…” The creases of Bram’s brow deepened. “What if the war’s already begun…?”

No, he wasn’t referring to this skirmish in the Red Forest which wouldn’t even be enough to ignite the powder keg brewing in the north. Even the death of Baron Archibald could be explained away so long as Bram wasn’t implicated in it. Fortunately, all the enemies who’d heard him say he was Governor of Lotharin were slain by Rowan’s magic. As for their new prisoners, Bram had a plan for them too.

From what he remembered of the scarred woman’s proposal back in Bellen, it wasn’t inconceivable that some of von Galen’s soldiers might be convinced to switch sides. If managed right, Bram could have more soldiers to lead in the coming war and information on his enemies.

The information alone would be worth the attempt…

The sound of shuffling feet drew Bram away from his musings, and he watched as the weargs bowed to the trickster who had returned to the deck. Arriving swiftly at his side, Rowan offered Bram a mask made of white porcelain and gilded in sparkling gold.

“You can add this to your disguise,” she said. “I found it in the baron’s stateroom along with other curious eccentricities.”

“Torture room?” Chris guessed.

“Perhaps,” Rowan replied uncertainly. “It had a torture rack and a variety of whips on display, but the room itself didn’t give off an aura of suffering… I sensed a depravity of another kind.”

“Ah,” Chris chuckled. “On Earth, we call those BDSM lairs.”

“Interesting…and what do these letters stand for?”

Bram gave Chris a look that told him to quiet his tongue.

He didn’t know what this ‘BDSM’ was, but he had a strong feeling in his gut that Rowan shouldn’t know either.

“This is a ‘Geist’,” Bram said as he accepted the mask, deftly changing topics away from stranger tides. “It’s worn in the opulent balls and lavish parties of the high nobles…and for the ‘Valenosian Carnaval’ or the ‘Midwinter Solstice’ where young sorcerers like us are introduced into high society at the middle of this year’s Conjuring season.”

The geist’s face was one of anger with narrowed eyes and a gritting mouth highlighted in gold patterns… It was perfect for Bram’s inner thoughts—and the Loom seemed to think so too.

ALERT! You have acquired [Mask of the Angry Ghost]! This magic item will require attunement to wield its boons.

“Interesting,” both Bram and Rowan said together.

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ITEM: Mask of the Angry Ghost QUALITY: Epic TYPE: Accessory (Face Mask) ARMOR RATING: +1 WEIGHT: 1 lbs. DESCRIPTION: It is a mask that’s inherited the anger of one who was abused, tortured, and driven to madness by the ‘Great Evil’ Wrath. This mask is possessed by a grudge that may drive its wearer to experience a constant anger bubbling at the surface of their conscience, giving them the impulse to visit their wrath onto others. CONDITIONS OF USE: None BOONS: Increased defense against mental attacks, the ability [Rage of the Angry Ghost].

“Where could the baron have found such a novelty?” Rowan asked.

“Who knows,” Bram shrugged. “We nobles are known for collecting the oddest things…”

ABILITY: Rage of the Angry Ghost LEVEL: 1 TYPE: Passive DESCRIPTION: When one is attacked while wearing this mask, there is a 10% chance of unleashing the anger bubbling inside of it. This anger will alter the mask’s expression. If its expression changes 10 times, the mask will transform into the face of a demon, instilling its user with the power of a [Berserker] for 10 seconds.

“Berserker…?”

Bram had heard of the savagery of the ‘Berserkers of the Kingdom of Dane’ who’ve been said to wield twice the strength of regular men and ignored all manner of injuries done to them whilst in a berserker state. They were quite famous, particularly because of their penchant for destroying enemy lines when unleashed. However, because of their vaunted strength, they also possessed savagery that could keep a berserker from distinguishing friend from foe.

The prince couldn’t help but wonder if he would experience the same savage delight as those great warriors should he wear this mask in battle. He wasn’t planning to, but an extra boost in strength might be useful in a duel to the death.

“I am used to double-edged swords,” he reasoned.

“And on the bright side,” Rowan leaned in to whisper in Bram’s ear, “this mask won’t affect you much. Your inner anger drives you, after all.”

The prince couldn’t help but agree.

“Did you discover anything else?”

As he asked Rowan this, Bram wiped at the mask’s inner side with a cloth dabbed in the same alchemical cleaning solution he often used to clean his weapons. There was no telling what this mask had seen or touched while in Baron Archibald’s possession.

“Besides the curious décor, not much. Although…” Rowan produced a stately-looking envelope like the ones Bram had on his desk. “I did find these… Letters of Marque from a Margravine Kornelia Möhrain giving the baron permission to raid the Red Forest’s uncharted western region at his leisure.”

Scarfang growled.

“What right does this noble have to give permission?” he asked angrily.

“She does not know your tribe exists and is therefore unconcerned by your opinion.” Rowan offered the wearg leader a challenging smile. “If you seek legitimacy of your claim to this land then perhaps it’s time the Flame Tail Tribe revealed itself to the world.”

Scarfang’s face was unusually contemplative. “How do we achieve this legitimacy…?”

“Why not join hands with the prince who offered you an alliance,” she suggested. “It wouldn’t hurt to wear more clothes either…something to cover up all that…manliness.”

Leave it to Rowan to find the perfect moment to steer the conversation toward an alliance. Unfortunately, Bram hadn’t been listening. He was too busy ruminating over something else.

Hearing the name of the high noble who led Lotharin’s northern faction caused his eyebrows to twitch, though it wasn’t because of her role as the leader of his dissenters or because of her status as the third highest-ranking noble of the kingdom. Bram had encountered Margravine Kornelia many times in the Sovereign’s court, and she was one of the few high nobles who didn’t hide her dislike of him even in the Sovereign’s presence. The margravine often questioned the prince’s aptitude regarding his studies while surrounded by many courtiers. Usually, on subjects he was known to be poor in, such as enchantment and elemental arts. She’d never bothered to ask him about subjects he excelled at, such as arithmancy or astronomy, because uplifting him was never her goal. The prince recalled how the margravine enjoyed watching his younger self floundering for answers he didn’t know and couldn’t help balling his hands into fists even now.

Once, when he was twelve and asked Ser Anthony why Margravine Kornelia—his second cousin on his father’s side—hated him so fervently, his guardian knight who took pity on the boy told him a truth he hadn’t known until that moment.

“Your father and the margravine were close companions when they were young, often together even on the battlefield…” Ser Anthony had revealed. “When Ser Berenger fell in the final days of the War of Thirteen, they say it was Margravine Kornelia who wept for him most…even more than the Sovereign he loved.”

“If she was close with my father, shouldn’t she be nicer to me…?” a young Bram had asked.

Ser Anthony could only sigh. “She should, but she can’t. A love lost makes monsters of us all, My Prince.”

“I…I don’t understand,” a young Bram had said, tears pooling beneath his eyes.

“Gods willing, you’ll never have to,” Ser Anthony had said, ruffling his hair afterward.

Bram gazed down at the mask in his hands while recalling those old days. It made him think of the Berenger of House Lothaire whom he hadn’t thought of in a long time.

The prince knew nothing of his father apart from the fact that he’d attained the highest rank a knight could achieve and was celebrated as a great hero of the war that saw the Imperium’s kingdoms fall by one. The Heavenly Knight Berenger had died nearly nine months before Bram’s birth, and the Sovereign did not speak of him except once when Bram was very young.

“May you grow as brave and brilliant as he was, our lost star whose light flared too brightly in an age of conflict,” she’d whispered to a five-year-old Bram.

“Have I begun to shine just a little bit…Mother?” the current Bram asked in an undertone.

No one answered although he did feel a hand slip into his.

Bram glanced to the side and found Rowan observing him.

“You reminisce about such sad things,” she chided him playfully. “The young wearg is right. We won a great battle. We should celebrate.”

The young wearg…only Blutmädchen herself could deign to call Scarfang that.

“We have other troubles—”

Rowan’s other hand rose to cup Bram’s cheek, silencing him swiftly with her soft caress.

“We will ponder those other troubles another time. When we have more threads to pull on.”

Rowan dragged Bram over to the port side of the skyship, and only then did he finally hear the loud noises from below. She pushed him gently toward the railing so that he could see the crowd gathering underneath the skyship’s hull. One that was far different from the ones who watched him when he sang.

There were far more weargs now than had been present for the battle. The old and the very young, children not yet fit for conflict or those too injured to fight—it seemed all the Flametail Tribe had arrived outside the Red Ruin to celebrate their victory and freedom.

“Look!” a child with fiery hair yelled over the din, causing heads to look her way, which was when she raised her finger to the sky. “He’s got weird yellow hair!”

Though blonde hair was common in many parts of the Imperium, only one great house boasted hair so pale and bright that it seemed to glow under sunlight’s rays. Seeing such a sight sent silence racing through the crowd, and all the noise quieted save for the giggling of the little girl who found Bram amusing.

Sweat dripped down the prince’s brow.

He’d seen this sight of derision many times in the capital. Crowds forced by officials to gather and witness Atlan’s seventh prince perform the stately duties given to the children of the Sovereign often looked at him with the same indifference he saw now. It was a disheartening scene for Bram who had hoped he could at least escape his mother’s shadow in faraway Lotharin. He was about to turn around—his shoulders sagging slightly—when he heard a strange but familiar sound. One Bram only ever heard when he was pretending to be a bard.

‘Clap.’

There it was again.

Anxious, Bram glanced down.

‘Clap.’

‘Clap.’

‘Clap.’

What started as a slow clap by the scantily clad woman carrying the fiery-haired girl who’d trained the spotlight on the prince had begun cascading into rousing applause. Soon, cheers and roars filled the clearing, and Bram watched all this with his heart beating like a soldier’s drums signaling the beginning of a march.

“They are thankful that you came to our aid,” said the wearg leader who arrived at the prince’s side. “Not since William the Warrior declared the Red Forest a protected land has a royal of Atlan given our tribe such grace…”

Bram glanced down at the large hand being offered to him.

“When we met, I thought you like those other nobles who treat our forest as if it were theirs to rape and pillage…I was wrong.” Scarfang spoke with sincerity Bram wasn’t accustomed to. “You have shown us your quality, Your Highness. Like your ancestor, William, you are a warrior we would be glad to hold hands with.”

From below, the cheers got louder. They sang in tune to the beating of Bram’s chest.

“I won’t fail you.”

Bram shook Scarfang’s hand—and the crowd went wild.

He could barely hear them though, for a sweet and beguiling voice whispered into his ears. “Congratulations, My Prince… You’ve begun your first steps into a brave new world.”

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Geist – Spirit or ghost, which I based on the Volto (face) mask used in Venetian carnivals.

Margravine or Margrave – German for Marquis or Marchioness.