CHAPTER THREE

  A Bard’s Tale

  Bram’s enter with the ghost riders left him even more cautious, making him choose to traverse the wilds of northern Lorraiher than travel through towns and roads frequented by travelers. Of course, this meant a heightehreat of entering bandits, but even thieves and cutthroats weled 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 mert caravan. Fortunately, there were no captives among the pilfered. There were no stolen autes arouher, which meant these bandits had at least left the merts 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 svery.

  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 deduade, 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 enter.

  “Lo’ friends!” he called.

  A dozen icy gres soward him.

  The bandits sitting around the campfire all looked gruff and burly. They all gred at Bram like they would skin him alive and the 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 exge for a seat at your fire?” Bram asked in his practiced oner’s drawl.

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

  He was like a bear, tall and rge, 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 iher, a bottle of ale from the bag Ser Anthony prepared for him.

  “The kind that’s fun to be around.”

  Bram fshed 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 sihief 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 fotten 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 a, whispering sweet lies ay 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 sy-looking thief in the group.

  Holy, Bram wohat too.

  “Their deepest desires perhaps,” he assumed.

  In his desperation to find ways to ge 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 es. 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 loo visit.

  He told the bandits nothing of his mad pns, of course, choosing iale 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 learhe truth of her deceit, and with the aid of the gods who reciled with their creations, these champioed her cim to innod bahe Burned Oo the abyss where her fme 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 happeo this Burned Ohe bear-man finally asked, ied it seemed irickster’s tale.

  “I expect she’d be long dead by now, Boss,” the sy 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 Pals,” as he spoke, the sy thief csped 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 uhaing 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 sy 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 ughing, he said, “And you only trap something if you ’t kill it.”

  He turned his big brown eyes on Bram.

  “Aren’t I right?” he pressed.

  “Right,” Bram agreed.

  He was smiling again, gehis 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 schors he’d met during his days researg 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 ely face. She’d been the one who’d offered Bram his drink.

  “I don’t know…” Bram’s brow creased in ption. “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 ughed—and they ughed with him. Eventually.

  The rest of the night was merry, with the bandits weling 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 eheir pany. It helped that they shared his love for building muscles and that they seemed an ho group at least who didn’t deal in svery.

  “We don’t do that sort of shit,” answered the wiry-haired, ely-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.”

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

  “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 tue with her logic because he knew many nobles who did the things Josslyn spoke of—nobles who thought of oners as er 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 ughed out loud.

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

  Her words certainly made more sehan his. The idea of a hief was an iing notion to him though.

  Much ter, the bear-man, whose name Bram now ko be Lil’ Joss, notig the thick muscles hidden underh Bram’s loose-fitting shirt, challenged him to an arm wrestling match. Bram accepted, ae having the strength to beat the ma Lil’ Joss win, though not before making the bear-ma a little.

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

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

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

  The m, with his head feeling like a nail that had been hammered repeatedly, Bram woke up while regretting that st cup of ale Josslyn offered him. He did not, however, regret waking up o her underh a tree at the far end of the clearing with their naked bodies still iwined. He may have earhe bandits’ favor, but he was certain that it was thanks to Josslyn that no ohought 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 aopping him.

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

  “They seemed a dangerous lot… Avoid them if you ,” 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 fli hearing the word ‘talent’ for it was a word closely associated with those who possessed the gift of magic.

  “The call to adveakes 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 ain if the Loom allows.”

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

  “I pn to,” Bram answered, grinning.

  He led Renfri to that spot underh the tree where he’d gotteer acquainted with Lil’ Joss' younger sister. Josslyn utting on clothes while seemingly ung 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, chug. “You’re all fire and passion.”

  Josslyn blushed at the pliment.

  “When I sing of the Mighty Greenwood Gang, it’ll be a happy song of hieves,” 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.

  “hieves. I like the sound of it.” A smile fshed 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 st stop before the bridge he o 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 eai because he wao 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 fortable ihe inn’s stables before spending hours donning a new disguise, ohat ged his appearance more pletely.

  “They’ll know what I look like if they’ve e 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 eainers.

  As he proved on his night with the Mighty Greenwood Gang, bards were wele all over the Imperium. So, it became a tradition among the nobility to employ these musis and poets as spies and saboteurs. Among the many anizations in the capital born from this tradition, there were ter than the Delightful Troupe whose skills for espionage were said to be as dazzling as their talents in the performas. Bram’s teachers had e from this very troupe, and though he cked talent in sorcery, they taught him other things that didn’t require the gift of magic because they saw the be in having a prince beholden to them.

  So, in a secret room of a brothel that a then fourteen-year-old Bram frequented, Atn’s seventh prince learo paint his face with strange dyes and alter his features with cy. He learo ge his gait, his size, and even his speech, turning him from prio pauper as easily as if he were ging clothes.

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

  His backup pn was a small vial of white powder he found among the potions Ser Anthony had packed for him. The potion was nothihal, though it could give Bram an edge in a fight, should a fight occur.

  “Wele, wele, 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 pce urple-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 underh his purple coat and thered in oil to make his muscles pop.

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

  The audience cheered.

  “Hmmm-hmmm, hmmm-hmmm….”

  Certainly, no one could mistake this Gentleman Caller for Atn’s seventh prince, which was fortunate, for there were guests among this gathering who didn’t look like they’d enjoy Bram’s pany. Particurly the two hooded figures seated around a table he taverrance, a ve spot to be in should they choose to stop someone from leaving.

  “Be wary, be vigint 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 beh the tides…”

  The expensive cloaks they wore cked the ghost-like veils that hid their features from his eyes six nights ago, but their auras felt too simir. Ihe 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 nds of a 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 searg for him in Lorraine which was as rge a city as Bastille. If he guessed right, then there portunity to be made here.

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

  Bram sang an old, outwed tune barely remembered except in the farthest reaches of the Imperium. He sang it to its st mournful melody, and when he fihere came no appuse. Yet from the troubled faces spread amongst his audie was clear that they’d felt something from his song. Remnant feelings of an old hatred perhaps, o behind like a curse by something even the gods feared.

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

  Bram’s gaze fixed owo hooded figures; the big one and the lithe otio him. He couldn’t see their faces from underh their hoods, but it didn’t look like they reized his song. Nor did it seem like they uood what it meant to him.

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

  Bram sang three more songs—upbeat ohis time—with each tune louder and wilder than the first as if eg the fshiness 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 anyone, not even a purple-haired bard who stood out like a sore thumb. He could have left without them notig for they clearly didn’t reize him. It would be a waste of an opportunity though, ohat 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 kit after taking their order once more.

  “Hello there, beautiful,” he called.

  A charming smile and a little fttery were enough to gain the barmaid’s i, but it was the gold griffied 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.

  Iher hand was the vial of white powder Bram had prepared.

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

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

  Uhe gre 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, ign all other distras 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 iown’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 ohing—blood would be spilled on those slopes…likely his.

  GD_Cruz