Bear Trap

Martel's first lesson of the day gave him the chance to ask a question that had been on his mind since last Manday, and which yesterday eve's conversation had reminded him of. "Master Fenrick, when you spoke of Tyrian shape changers, you mentioned they did something similar to create berserkers. But how? Berserkers don't turn into bears."

"No, they don't. This is simply my theory. The seiðr-wives guard the secrets of making berserkers, and I was only able to glean a few things in my time among the tribes. But I believe the method is similar to how they create the cursed wolf skins, fusing the spirit of the bear into the body and mind of man."

"But only to a limited effect, if also permanent," Martel said. "Considering the berserker looks the same and his mind remains his own."

"True, except perhaps the last part. There's a reason that berserkers usually fight alone, or enter the fray without their comrades next to them. Once they draw blood, once the rage fills them, it is said they no longer distinguish between friend and foe, and they will fight until not another living soul remains in their presence." The teacher regarded his inquisitive student under his heavy eyebrows. "Consider yourself lucky that you survived your encounter with one of these warriors. And if you ever come across another, I suggest you turn around."

~

For the fourth day in a row, Martel dressed into expensive clothing, including a new shirt and doublet he had never worn before. He felt uneasy knowing the value of the garments in his drawer, especially since he would have so few occasions to wear them. They were not practical clothes; the white shirts would stain and tear quickly if he wore them day to day or out on the streets, and the intricate stitching on the doublets would fray with frequent use. Perhaps he could give some of them to his brothers, and they might save them for a wedding feast or another such unique event.

The journey was the same as ever; however strange it seemed, Martel had become almost familiar with travelling to the Imperial palace. Their names were quickly checked at the gates as before, the praetorians easily recognising them by now, and they could soon enter the palace itself.

Like previous nights, they gathered in the same hall that clearly served as a general location for such assemblies. Less enthralled by the surroundings, Martel had better time to look at the other guests, some of whom he recognised, having seen them before. He had also begun to understand some of the intricacies of rank on display. Those with landed titles, such as dukes, counts, and barons, wore their house insignia with bold colours and often had daggers with exquisite hilts in gold strapped to their waists. Attendants of lesser rank wore clothes in muted hues and tended to be unarmed.

Tonight, entertainment was provided by the praetorians themselves with a display of martial prowess, both mageknights and ordinary soldiers. They took position opposite each other and began a spectacle of swift combat. Martel was reminded of the solstice celebrations where similar had taken place, twice with his involvement. While he could not imagine any way he could somehow be roped into participating in this fight, he made sure to stand right against the wall and appear as invisible as possible, while keeping his mouth shut.

A servant appeared in red livery with a two-headed eagle in silver as insignia. While all the guests stared at the spectacle of duels in the centre of the hall, the servant nimbly made his way through the crowd at the edge to approach Maximilian. Martel could not help but feel curious; the two-headed eagle was the symbol of the emperor, meaning this servant was not some attendant to one of the guests or a courtier, but someone who directly served the Imperial family – or so Maximilian had explained it while telling Martel to stay out of their way if he saw anyone dressed like that.

The servant spoke quietly into the young viscount's ear, who nodded vigorously and turned around. His eyes searched until they fell upon Martel, upon which Maximilian gestured with his head to come along.

"What is going on?" the novice asked as they moved along the crowd.

"A great honour," Maximilian replied, waiting a moment as they separated to move around some patrician and his family before he spoke again, "His Highness, the emperor's nephew, has requested our presence!"

Martel's heartbeat doubled in speed. "Why?"

"I have been spreading the story of how we defeated a berserker. I figured it might earn us an invitation, and I was right!" Maximilian's entire face smiled.

The fatal flaw in Martel's plan finally revealed itself. He had intended to remain unnoticed and get through this celebration without attracting attention, but he attended in the company of Maximilian, who had the exact opposite intentions. He tried not to look at the middle of the hall, where the praetorians currently displayed their impressive skills for butchering those who displeased the emperor and his family.

~

The servant took them through a short hallway and up the stairs to a balcony overlooking the spectacle. A single person sat inside. From behind, Martel could only see black hair on a thin body. He looked at Maximilian next to him, wondering what to do; apparently, the answer was nothing as the viscount simply stood, quiet.

Finally, a match between two praetorians in the hall ended. The young prince raised one hand to wave them closer. Maximilian went first, walking to the edge of the balcony to stand next to its occupant; Martel followed, keeping one step behind.

The prince turned his pale face towards them, revealing large, dark eyes that stared at them. "You are Maximilian of Marche?"

"Yes, Your Highness."

"I have heard that you defeated a Tyrian berserker."

"I did, Your Highness."

"And he is the one who helped?" His great eyes blinked quickly as they turned to stare at Martel.

"Yes, Your Highness."

"We will talk again tomorrow." The Imperial scion turned his attention back to the hall where the next fight was ready to commence.

Relieved at being dismissed, Martel gave half a bow and stepped backwards, almost stumbling, though thankfully outside the prince's field of vision.

He was halfway down the stairs when he remembered what had been said at the end; tomorrow, he would have to come back.