Firebrand

Entrapment

While theory of magic remained one of Martel's favourite classes, he was less enthused by the disturbing topics they had covered lately. Maleficars, leechcraft, curses, and more. Yet he knew it was best to be aware of these matters, rather than close his ears and pretend they did not exist. Especially as he might one day be confronted by such a dark wizard, given what had happened in the copper lanes.

"Today, we will cover a topic I believe I mentioned before," Master Fenrick said. His eyes, as always protected by thick spectacles and heavy brows, glanced over the room. "Tyrian shape changers. While I doubt we shall ever see any in Morcaster, you may encounter them if you travel to the northern provinces, near the border."

He looked briefly at Martel, presumably the only student from Nordmark in the room.

"The most famous example of these shape changers would be the wolf, what we also referred to as a werewolf."

"My papa told me if they bite you, you turn into one," a novice spoke with a dramatic voice.

"Then you really need this lesson," Master Fenrick replied dryly. "This is a specific curse with limitations, used by the seiðr-wives."

"The witches of the North," Martel added, pleased that he remembered.

"Yes. We do not know their methods, but we know the results. To the Tyrians, there is no separation between body and mind. Even dead, the instincts of a wolf reside in its skin," their teacher explained. "The witches have the power to enchant a wolf's skin, so if a man wears it, he becomes the wolf, body and mind. In fact, I believe they use similar powers to draw the strength of a bear into their berserkers."

Martel had seen wolves a few times. Large beasts, but they shied away from humans. He had heard stories of what they might do if driven by hunger, but he had never experienced anything like that.

"When a man clads himself in such a cursed skin after sunset, his mind is taken over. Until the sun rises and the hide falls from his body, he has only the thoughts of a wolf, he acts like a wolf."

Martel raised a hand. "But why would the witches create something like this?"

Master Fenrick scratched his cheek. "Imagine that enemies invade your lands, your village. Even the gentlest man, who has never held arms, may become a vicious killer for a night. The witches also know how to induce fury and anger, even in animals."

The novice thought about the wolves he had encountered, how he might react if suddenly attacked by such a large beast in the dead of night.

"But the worst use is punishment." Their teacher paused, holding their attention. "Imagine forcing the cursed hide upon a man after sunset, and then you throw him into a pit with his family. When the sun rises and he returns to human form, when he sees what he did as a wolf? I can scarcely think of worse torture."

"That's cruel, barbaric!" exclaimed one of the novices.

Master Fenrick nodded. "It is. And if it makes you fearful, I suggest you never anger a witch of the North. They are capable of even greater cruelty than this."

~

After his second lesson, improving his spellpower, which did the same for his appetite, Martel eagerly sat down to eat at the evening meal.

"Nordmark, there you are." Maximilian motioned for some novices to clear the table and give him the seat opposite Martel in the dining hall.

"Looking for me?"

"I was. My father was impressed with you," the viscount beamed.

"That's good." Martel still had no idea why that even mattered.

"In fact, my father bade me personally invite you to be part of his entourage for the annual celebration of the emperor's coronation." Maximilian said all of this with a big smile.

Martel had the opposite expression. "Oh no. Every time I go to one of these celebrations, I end up in a fight or worse."

The mageknight frowned. "I thought you would be pleased. An invitation to the Imperial palace, Martel! Do you understand what an honour this is?"

"That only makes me more nervous!"

"Relax. You will be in the background. I doubt you will come even a hundred paces near the emperor or anyone else of importance," Maximilian declared confidently. "You simply have to stand in the background, drink some wine, so my father can point at you and explain that you are a promising young mage under his wing. That is all."

"Max, I don't want to go." He said each word with conviction.

The mageknight crossed his arms. "Very well, you force my hand. Martel, I ask this of you as a favour. Given what happened at The Broken Crown, or with the Broken Blades, not to mention the berserker, I believe you owe me many times over. I walked into fights for you – the least you can do is attend this party with me."

Martel felt himself deflate. "Fine. When is this?"

"Next fiveday." Maximilian's beaming smile returned. "Be ready at sixth bell. A carriage will pick us up. We cannot afford to be late." He rose from his seat, and Martel only realised now that his friend had not brought any food to eat at the table.

"Wait! Next fiveday, but which day?"

Maximilian laughed. "All of them! This is the emperor's celebration of his coronation, not some wedding in a village."

"You hid that on purpose! You knew I would think it's just one evening!"

"I knew no such thing." The young nobleman almost looked innocent denying the allegation.

"We just had all the harvest games! I never thought I'd say this, but why do we need so many celebrations?"

"Those were for the peasantry," Maximilian explained with a frown. "Who are we to question the emperor if he wishes to celebrate for a fiveday? Calm yourself. I shall inform the overseer to dismiss your classes in the afternoons, and I will have clothes sent to you. You will need to wear something different each evening, naturally." With a final smile, the mageknight departed, leaving Martel feeling trapped.