Episode One - The World According to Bert BACK
Noise, the smell of meats and sweetcakes, and music were all too much of a lure for a young, curious boy to sit still. Even if that boy was charged by his tutor to copy letters, temptation eventually must overcome and entice him to the scene of the action.
Brian spared one more glance around for Miss Brigit before slipping into the kitchens, where the cooks were flitting between stove and counter so the pages could serve the next course. He took a moment to inhale the aroma of the cooked ham, spiced with clove and pineapple and glazed with maple syrup, the buttery potatoes as they simmered in their pans, the earthy smell of the greens as they stewed. His stomach growled with anticipation, and he could feel beads of saliva forming in his mouth, but when Miss Brigit found him gone, she was going to go ballistic. So he could only wait… and blend.
He ran his hand through his unruly dark hair, and looked around at all the fairer people around him, snorting. His dark, curly hair was an oddity here, and something which was extremely noticeable. It just wasn’t going to do.
Glancing around, he spotted an open bag of flour, and slinked over to it. Reaching in, he rubbed a generous handful into his hair, wiping the rest off on his clothes. Looking over at the pages, all his age, he nodded with satisfaction and joined the chaos of serving the next meal.
A poke in the back made him freeze, but it was only Rory, a tall, skinny boy with blond hair, a year or two older than Brian. The two boys exchanged a grin as they each grabbed a tray and headed out to the main hall.
The vast feast hall was a contrast to the severe grey stone of the rest of the castle. White marble adorned its walls, lit overhead by huge electric lamps that hung from the ceiling far overhead. The center of the hall was cleared to make way for a stage, and the tables lined the edges in rows, the family crests of the great families of Ammuntir hanging proudly from poles in the center of each table. The members of these great families laughed and feasted, as several bards performed music on the stage. It was hard to tell where the bards stopped and the roar of the feasters began, or even what song the bards were playing.
Brian risked only a glance toward the far end of the hall, where hung the Sun and Moon, the crest of Tera Daly, Duchess of the city-state of Ammuntir and ruler of the land. The great lady herself sat at the center of the great table, overseeing her court as she conversed with her man-at-arms. She smiled at everyone she made eye contact with, her blue eyes brightening, discernable even from Brian’s vantage point. Her slender figure was dwarfed by the great throne she occupied, but even without the circlet of her rank upon her brow, she was the Duchess, and sat tall.
Brian looked away as the piercing hawk-eyes of the man-at-arms slid over him. Sir Cenni mac Coilan was shrewd, his handsome face set with the resignation of a man who never lets down his guard. Just seeing him made Brian’s stomach queasy: if the Duchess were exposed to his game, she would smile and tell him a story at bed time, and that would be the end of it. Disappointing Cenni was a consequence Brian had not considered when planning this foray with Rory and his cousin Megan. He gulped, and hid behind Rory.
At first, serving feast was fun, but eventually he grew tired and began to seriously regret his decision. He began to think Cenni was watching his every move, and almost every female in the place was Miss Brigit.
“Rory,” he whispered to his friend between removed, his eyes on the man-at-arms. “Do you think Sir Cenni knows it’s me?”
“Pfft,” Rory scoffed. “There’s, like, a thousand people here. He can’t pick you out of the crowd.”
Brian wasn’t so sure. He tried to keep an eye on the man, but it grew difficult. Even the delicious and aromatic food could do little to dissuade his anxiety. Again, he tried to keep a low profile, but fatigue and nervousness were beginning to weigh on him, and eventually he dropped a tray, and suddenly felt like the entire weight of the room was upon him.
This was nothing new – the pages dropped trays all the time. Usually the other pages just jeered and went back to serving. It was a duty the pages reveled in to serve the feast, because it enabled them to be in the center of the action and have all the food they wanted between courses. During this time, they gathered in a small room between the kitchens and the feast hall, and Brian could overhear a small knot of them talking.
“Bertram the Bard is almost on!” he heard one exclaim. Since this was the precise reason he had risked Miss Brigit’s ire, he listened more closely.
“I wonder if he’s going to do ‘Legend of the Two Towers,’” someone else said.
“Or ‘Fire in the Sky!’” Rory added, emboldened by a sense of group excitement.
“I hope he does ‘A History,’” Brian added quietly. He was heard.
“Good song,” they all agreed.
“Say, Brian Daly! What are you doing here?” growled one of the pages, pushing through the group to confront him. Brian took an involuntary step back, but his eyes narrowed, and he took a defensive stance. He was almost immediately flanked by both Rory and Megan. The latter’s blonde curls were a sharp contrast to the fighting stance she adopted; Megan was a girl who had climbed a lot of trees, and for that matter, beaten up a lot of boys.
“Leave him alone, Jim Finn!” she growled back, a snarl marring her pretty face. Jim Finn stopped and glared back at her.
“I’m not afraid of you, Megan,” he spat. “Just ‘cuz you beat up Mike Haggerty doesn’t mean – “
“Looks like I got here just in time,” a voice boomed from the doorway, and everyone turned to look. Brian’s stomach fell to his knees when he saw Cenni leaning in the door frame, looking sternly over the pages. Glaring hard at Megan and Jim Finn, he added, “I’m sure, since you’re both pages and all, that there won’t be any fighting here, because that would be against the Pages’ Code.” He punctuated this with a smile and a wink. Every eye was upon him, mouths open, complete silence. Only Brian was afraid, though; the rest were completely awestruck.
Cenni turned his eyes to Brian. He didn’t say anything, but turned and walked out of the room. Not hearing anything from the other pages, although there were mutterings from all over the room, he ran out and chased Sir Cenni.
“I… I’m sorry!” he blurted out.
Sir Cenni was surprised. “For what?” he asked.
Brian was now equally surprised. “Um… You’re not mad?”
“That you snuck out of letters to see Bertram the Bard?” Cenni laughed, and knelt down next to the boy. “I put aside the rosters to see him. We shall both be punished enough in the morning, when we have to do that on top of our other daily responsibilities.”
This was a consequence Brian hadn’t considered. Equally surprising: “You like Bertram the Bard?”
“I don’t know. I’ll find out after dessert, I suppose.” He paused, looking the boy over for a moment. “Very clever, by the way, disguising yourself by making your hair lighter. It took quite some time to spot you.”
With that, he rose and returned to the high table. He and the Duchess exchanged words, finishing with Tera’s face lighting up as she joined Cenni for a laugh. Brian wondered what he had told her, wondered if he had amused them both. However, in the back of his mind was still the nagging feeling he had disappointed Cenni somehow. It stayed with him when he returned to the kitchen staging area, despite the sudden admiration from the pages upon realizing who he was. It stayed with him all through dessert, but afterward, the anticipation in the room became electric, and all else was forgotten.
As the pages cleared the last of the dishes, a rather large youth, who looked a few years older than Brian and his comrades, lurched up the steps of the cleared stage, his large frame laden down with drums on slings. Unceremoniously, the drums were all dropped to the floor at once, and then painstakingly arranged in some semblance of order, from the huge booming drum traditional to the war march to the dumbek, the light party drum used for dancing. The last thing he put out was a black box, which sat in the middle of the stage, away from his setup.
The youth himself didn’t look like a Bard, though; Brian thought he looked more like a squire, with his bulky muscles and short-cropped hair. His clothing was too plain, too; a plain brown tunic and breeches, leather shoes. Even when he finished and sat down on a stool that had been ingeniously packed around one of the drums, he never spared the audience a glance, just leaned his elbows on his knees and kneaded his hands.
At long last, even the tables were removed and the room was focused on the youth on the stage, all hushed anticipation. The pages now took up the end of the room opposite the High Table, and even they only spoke to one another in reverent whispers as they waited for the spectacle to begin.
The lights went out, and a collective gasp circulated the crowd like a wave.
Then, suddenly, lightning seemed to hit the stage, and there was a great cloud of smoke. Everyone gasped again, and some people even rose from their seats, but a bright, golden light appeared beneath the smoke, illuminating a figure within it, as the keening wail of a guitar echoed around the great chamber. Soon, other lights of other colors joined the madness, and the slow, steady rhythm of the war-drum set the pace for the guitar’s keening melody. Then, another lightning strike, and the smoke was gone, the stage illuminated slowly by the floating, glowing lights, which danced around the impressive figure that was unmistakably Bertram the Bard.
He was clothed entirely in black leather – a thick jacket, tight breeches, huge black boots – but all of it was etched with symbols of different colors, which seemed to glow with the balls of light. Purple spirals laced up with red and blue knots, which then segued into yellow sunbursts and silver crescents, all lit with the same faerie-fire that lit the stage. His hair was a deliberately-wild shock of black that surrounded his head like a halo before tapering down his back to a point which ended around his waist. What could be seen of his face as his head fiercely bobbed up and down, hair flying, was a black stripe across his eyes, set into a pale landscape of white.
The pages, and most of the younger crowd in the audience, were on their feet, head-banging and jumping to the music along with the legendary figure. The guitar wailed for a few more bars, and then suddenly, silence, punctuated by a few more beats from the war drum. The Bard just stood, surveying the audience, allowing the silence to saturate it, before picking an intricate and quiet series of notes to introduce his lyrics:
“When the infantile man took his first steps
Upon the virgin land
Even gods made way and stepped aside
Laid their weapons down
Great was the power of man
Hopeful was his future
Thus began his History!
For he was the Gods now
Steward of the land
He founded mighty empires,
Which rose and which fell,
Great wonders he gave birth to
Great magics at his beck and call
Thus a mighty History!”
Brian leaned back, swept away in the story of mankind’s endeavors – of the Pharoh people of the south, who lived in the desert, and the mighty Romas, who killed the last of the gods to walk the planet. The exotic Hellens, from which the system of city-states was derived, and the glorious Mid-Evil age, with its knights and churches and romanticism. Of the wizards of the Far East with their slanted eyes and boom-powder, which ruled the world for centuries to come.
“Still divided, ever warring, magic made for killing
Hatred raged for centuries as mightier man grew
Magic ever-stronger, mighty beasts created
Spitting fire and stone
And slaying all in their path
Potential wasted in death
Thus a desperate History….”
The story became more dismal as the Elder Druids created more and more magics – great beasts that lumbered over land, dragons of the air, fireballs that could traverse seas. The Land of Freemen dropped a sun on the Land of the Sun, and the Elder Druids stopped trying to develop magic to kill each other when they harnessed a star, too.
“Then great towers touched the sky
And the Golden Age began!
Healing magics then were born
And man flew to the heavens
Glorious man!
Glorious History!”
This was Brian’s favorite part – the wonders of the Golden Age, when the Elder Druids created fabulous creatures – steeds which carried people over land, air and sea; minds in boxes that thought about things and created even more creatures. Metal men walked among men of flesh and people were born from nothing in the great Druid temples, where they mixed their potions. The Druids were far more knowledgeable then; a lot of that magic was forgotten now, but the Druids still dwelled in the great temples, guarding these lost arts.
“Even faerie did man’s bidding
Fixing everything man broke
Glorious man ruled all he touched
But all things die, all things must end
Even the Golden Age of Magic
Even glorious History….”
The Bard’s guitar took on a more mournful tone now, and his voice once again grew quieter as he related the next part of the story. The lights grew faint so that only the bard himself could be seen, and the smoke began to rise again.
“The Earth itself rumbled and split
A sun grew from the land
The very world was rent open
The fruit of man’s magic
A hole in the land
Sad, sad history!
A hole in the land, gaping and burning,
A hole in other lands,
Other lands we could not see
But had been there all the time
Other people from afar
No longer just man’s history!
Two races rose upon man’s fall
One blinding with brilliance
The other dark as death
Scattering men upon the Earth
They fought each other
While we observed
Passed over by history!”
The legendary war between the Tuath and Fomor had happened thousands of years ago, supposedly bringing destruction upon the land and scorching the whole planet a second time, making most of it unlivable for all three races. How the benevolent Tuath held back the fearsome Fomor, almost to the last man.
Decimated, the two races from the other world went back to where they came from, the land of myth and legend. Meanwhile, man once again struggled from the ashes, finding more and more places that were healing in the difficult terrain created by the previous disasters, banding together into large metropolises, with outlying villages dedicated to farming. The city-state was the center of life today, and its nobility the center of society.
“And so we now remember
These legends from afar
For those who do not learn
Will make the same mistakes
This is the law
The law of History!”
A final wavering note finished the epic lyric, and for a moment, no one stirred. Brian looked around at the sea of faces, all entranced and woven into the long tale of their people. He looked up at the Bard, who gamely threw one arm in the air and bowed gallantly.
This punctuation caused the whole room to explode in thunderous applause, with people standing up, whistling, and screaming. Brian joined the excited fray, jumping up and down with the other pages and crying himself hoarse. The entire High Table was on its feet, Duchess Tera clapping her arms over her head, her mouth moving, her words indiscernible.
The Bard’s lightning struck again, and he vanished as suddenly as he appeared, but this time, he reappeared before the High Table. He bowed at the room, who renewed their wild applause, then bowed to the Duchess, who smiled… and bowed back. She leaned in and spoke to him, but the roar of the appreciative crowd was far louder than this private exchange, and Brian was too busy whooping with the other pages to really notice it anyway.
He was pulled out of the crowd a few minutes later, though, by Sir Cenni, who took him back to the chamber where the pages waited between courses. Brian wondered what was going on; again, Sir Cenni didn’t seem mad, but there was something going on that was unusual. He waited to see what was on his elder’s mind.
“Brian, the Duchess has requested an audience with Bertram the Bard,” the great knight explained almost immediately. “So, apparently, you were in the right place at the right time. Can you and your friends be quiet and not share anything you hear while serving a late-night libation for a thirsty Bard?”
“Wow – he’s a really big star, isn’t he, Cenni?”
“He’s more than just a performer, Brian,” Cenni replied. “He’s an emissary between the city-states. He brings us news and tales of the lands beyond the waves. Bards are more than just the musicians you’re used to here in the court. This is the first time in many years a Bard has come to Ammuntir.”
“But… we’re just pages…” Brian began to stammer as his mind froze at the prospect. He took a deep breath and was about to continue, but instead took another deep breath. He repeated, “We’re pages.” Looking up at Cenni, meeting the knight’s gray eyes, he said, very solemnly, “I will talk to Rory and Megan. You can count on us.”
Sir Cenni nodded, and clasped the boy’s shoulder. “I trust you, and I trust your choice in friends. That’s why I came to you first.”
His cloak swirling, he turned and strode back toward the High Table. Brian hastened to his friends to explain this exciting news, which resulted in a mad dash to the kitchens to assemble the necessary victuals. It wasn’t very long into this task before the weight of what was really going on hit them fully, and they all stopped and looked at one another.
Brian voiced it, but they were all thinking: “We’re going to be serving Bertram the Bard and spending a lot of time with him this evening.”
“I’m going to spill wine all over him, I just know it,” Rory frowned. “Maybe I should serve supper…. No, that could be even worse.”
“Then carry the goblets in,” Megan instructed, but even her voice was wavering.
“I’ll break them, I’m sure,” Rory responded pessimistically, but he did assemble several goblets on a tray, thinking even to put them bottom-up to lessen their chance of falling.
Brian and Megan exchanged a glance over the counter-space.
“This is exciting!” she breathed.
“This is scary,” Brian replied. “Bertram the Bard is a bigger star than we realized. Sir Cenni said so. He’s like a – uh, emissary.”
“So he’s almost like a really important noble.” Megan frowned. “You’re right. I wouldn’t want to make him mad.”
With this mindset, the three nervously made their way to the Duchess’s parlor. This modest affair was lit entirely by kerosene lanterns mounted on the walls and the occasional decorative candle strategically placed on a table or shelf. The entire room was paneled in wood, carpeted in plush crimson, and its three couches and some dozen chairs were upholstered to match. These chairs were as well-placed as the candles, clustering in threes and fours around tables set with coasters. A large low table dominated the room, and a fireplace crowned one end.
Bertram the Bard sat next to the fire, facing the rest of the room as though about to give another concert. He was using a rag to wipe the black and white stage make-up from his face, revealing a perfectly normal, boyishly handsome visage. His clothing was plain black; the faerie fire designs seemed never to have existed. He issued a welcoming smile to the three as they entered the room. His drum-boy sat behind him, but away from the fire, perched on the same little stool he’d used on the stage. He looked them over, then looked down to the floor, rubbing his hands.
Megan hastened to the low table with the plates, as they were heavy with hamhocks, sweet breads, buttered vegetables and jellied fruits. She served both the bard and his retainer one at a time, not daring to meet either of them in the eye. Once they’d both been served, she helped Rory disperse the rest of the goblets between the tables.
Brian stood and looked at the bard, hardly aware of the weight of the large carafes of wine and water. Bertram’s ambiance had not been diminished by the subtraction of his make-up and faerie-lights. The easy posture with which he sat, the casual way he reached out and picked pieces of food to pop into his mouth, looking at the other two pages with his amused expression – all of it was as fluid as his performance of the history of Man had been.
“Say, are either of those barley-pop?” he asked casually, and Brian realized the bard was addressing him. For a moment, he had to think of the answer, glancing helplessly between the two carafes.
“N-no,” he finally managed.
“Do you have any?” Bertram’s eyes were big and brown and focused on Brian. It disconcerted the boy more that the expression they wore was perfectly friendly and welcoming, rather than aloof, like a noble’s would be. The look of amusement also never faded from his face, as if everything everywhere were amusing.
Again, Brian had to think. “Yea, we do.” He set the two carafes on the table and dashed out the door and back to the kitchen. By the time he returned with a third carafe of the bubbly ale, Megan and Rory had finished and were quietly sitting on the couch next to the door.
Perhaps emboldened by Bertram’s lack of airs, Brian walked right up to him and held out the jug. “Here you are!” he exclaimed, not knowing what else to say.
Bertram the Bard’s eyes brightened as he poured himself a full goblet, and his retainer a half. The retainer frowned when he saw the amount in the glass but sipped at it with pure satisfaction.
“I’m just a person, you know, like you.” Bertram’s gaze now alternated between Brian and the pages on the couch. “Please don’t be so afraid of me.” A bite of ham and a sip of ale later and he added, “Did you enjoy the show?”
Now all three of them couldn’t wait to speak their accolades. The bard listened with the practiced air of one who hears this many times, and waited patiently for them to finish.
“What did you like about it?” he asked when they were done.
The three exchanged a glance, returning to their shyness. Brian still stood before the bard, and again the friendly eyes enticed him to speak first.
“The Golden Age of Magic,” he said after a long pause.
“Why?” Bertram was genuinely surprised.
Brian thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “There are lots of things I like about it. It was-“ He groped for a word, and finally finished lamely, “-magical?”
“Pfft! That magic blew up the world!”
Bertram’s eyes now widened in shock as he turned to his retainer. “Andrew!” he cried. “We are guests here – manners!”
Andrew shrugged. “Sorry.” Then, “It’s true, though.”
“It is true,” Brian agreed. “Because they used it wrong.” The two boys’ eyes locked for a moment and something passed between them unspoken, a kind of playground kinship that arises between young people thrown together by adults for lengths of time.
“Well, what do you think they did wrong?” Bertram wondered.
“They wasted all that time throwing fireballs and suns at each other,” Brian replied. Bertram the Bard’s face lit up with a smile.
The door opened, and at the head of the noble entourage that entered was Duchess Tera, slender, angelic, and taller in presence than her short frame, wearing a radiant smile. She was followed by Sir Cenni and a group of the nobles of Ammuntir, men and women from the city-state’s great families, nine of them in number. Cenni and these nine dispersed to the couches and chairs, but the Duchess approached Bertram warmly.
“I hope your supper was quite satisfactory,” she said.
The bard wiped his hands with a napkin from the table, and then took both of hers and gazed into her eyes.
“Duchess Tera, I liked it very much. Let’s both relax, now, and enjoy the rest of the evening, okay?”
She laughed musically in response. “Forgive me. I was younger than these pages the last time a Schooled Bard came to Ammuntir.”
The three pages had scurried to their feet to pour goblets, but they all looked up when the Duchess mentioned them. The moment had passed, however, and Duchess Tera took a seat next to Bertram’s table. Their tasks finished, the three pages retreated back to their couch and awaited further instruction.
Duchess Tera cleared her throat. “I’m sure you know we have a lot of questions about – “
“Is it true there’s a war going on?” one of the other nobles interrupted, leaning his portly body forward and stroking his bushy beard. The Duchess smiled apologetically, but waited patiently for the answer.
Deadpan, Bertram replied, “Yes.”
“Is it really the Fomor?” the same noble pressed. The anticipation in the room was electric.
A pause, and then, “Yes.”
The nobles exchanged glances, some of them exclaiming in either horror or disbelief. Sir Cenni and the Duchess took a long look at one another.
“Where is the fighting concentrated?” Sir Cenni wondered aloud.
“Why does everyone want to know the bad news?” the bard exclaimed, his face turned upward.
“The bad news is usually of more interest,” the Duchess returned in a stage whisper. Everyone heard, however, and a nervous chuckle traveled the room. Bertram, too, chuckled, and ran a hand through his wild halo of hair.
“The Fomor landed in great iron ships on the southeast coast,” he finally replied. “Near Glaston. They’ve taken the Fords.”
“Iron ships?” asked one of the nobles incredulously, her eyes widening.
To this Bertram only nodded.
“The Fomor,” another scoffed, stroking his beard. “They’re a fairy tale.”
“Well it’s obvious that whoever the attackers are, they are a huge threat,” Duchess Tera responded.
“Exactly the point,” the portly noble agreed, taking a moment to glare at the others.
“Are the city’s defenses up to defending against iron ships?” one of the older nobles put in, squinting through thick glasses at Sir Cenni.
“I honestly don’t know.” The knight was looking at the bard.
Bertram pulled his feet up on the chair and sat cross-legged as he glanced around the room, then down to the floor.
“In my lifetime, I have never seen ships like these,” he admitted. “Huge iron ships, like out of the tales of old. Spitting fire with a mighty crack of thunder. We thought it was thunder until the fireballs landed, and the inn we’d just left was destroyed.”
“Splinters everywhere,” Andrew added, his voice gruff and deep.
“How do we fight against such magic?” a noble wondered.
“With steadfastness and hope,” Sir Cenni replied, and inside, Brian smiled as the nobles all unconsciously responded to this by sitting a little taller. “We have advantages of our own, and we’re going to need to use them all. We’ll have to consult the Druids on this. And maybe ask the other city-states for help.”
Bertram chuckled. “Most of them are in a panic, most of the ones we’ve been to since.”
“Where have you been?” the Duchess asked.
“Well, first to Kilney, then along the southern coast. Then we made our way north and found our way to your welcoming halls.” He smiled at the Duchess, then extended the expression to the whole room, including the pages. “This is only the beginning, though. Here, there are only rumors, but within a year’s time, there will be devastation.”
“How do you know?” One of the nobles angrily rose, his eyes blazing under his circlet. “What are the problems of the Ford to us?”
“Invaders in any city-state will come after us all,” Sir Cenni said.
“But why?”
No one could answer this, so all eyes fell to the bard, and even he shrugged.
“I didn’t stick around to ask them.”
Another nervous chuckle scattered the room.
“So how can we be certain it’s the Fomor?” Duchess Tera wondered. “I mean, what do we really know about the Fomor?”
“Just the things you said in your song,” the portly noble said to the bard. “And legends.”
“What do we know of those?” Sir Cenni pondered.
“Bedtime stories,” scoffed the noble with the blazing eyes.
“If it really is the Fomor, bedtimes stories may be our only hope,” Duchess Tera said, her eyes piercing the room, ever the Duchess.
The three pages fought to remain silent. Stories of the Tuath and Fomor were told to them as children, and told amongst them as well. However, this was an important meeting amongst the adults, and it was not their place to interfere.
“Some of them are monsters and some of them are not,” Bertram supplied helpfully.
“They ravaged the land by burning it with light from the stars,” another noble said uncertainly.
Again, the pages squirmed, afraid to interrupt. The bard, however, noticed.
“Maybe we should ask our younger peers,” he said, gesturing to them. For all three, this was all the invitation they needed.
“Their armor was ten times the size of a man’s!” Megan cried out.
“They could fly!” Rory added.
“They could shoot star-beams at you from their bows!” Bertram’s retainer jumped up and added from behind the bard.
“The used the magic that is now forbidden,” Brian added quietly.
“What is this accomplishing?” the angry noble asked. “These are children’s tales!”
“I bet that’s what the people of the Land of the Sun thought before the Freemen dropped one on them,” Brian argued.
“Enough!” Sir Cenni exclaimed, glaring at the three pages for a moment. Then he turned to the nobles. “But these children are right. We’re going to need to find out as much as we can about these invaders, whoever they are. And if what the children say turns out to be true, then we’re going to have to figure out how to survive.”
None of the nobles could argue with this.