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 the second night of Bram’s journey, when he and Renfri came upon a clearing where a gang was resting after a long day of thievery.

Indeed, with the number of crates and barrels piled up around them, Bram deduced that the bandits recently 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 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 tall and large, like a bear, with a long mane of dark hair and a thick beard 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.

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 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 about this, 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 they offered him, which he took as a sign that he’d earned favor with them. This seemed accurate enough, for every bandit’s gaze 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. “And you only trap something if you can’t kill it.”

He turned his big brown eyes on Bram.

“Aren’t I right?” he asked.

“Right,” Bram agreed.

He was smiling again, genuinely this time. 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, “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 on. 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 are 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 commoners.

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

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

She grinned.

“We may be bandits, but it’s the nobles who’re the actual 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 they stole 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 could 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.

“I can’t,” he answered.

Yes, it was better that he parted with the Mighty Greenwood Gang while they exalted him. For surely, if they learned his secrets, he would lose their favor quickly.

With a wide smile and a wistful look, Bram said, “The call to adventure takes me elsewhere.”