V: The Jagged Masquerade

[The International]

The Jagged Masquerade



:::::

Reserved
Recruitment Thread (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?23021-Blitz-The-Jagged-Masquerade&p=185946#post185946)

:::::


“For a year we took it lying down. For a year these men have enforced unfair taxes. They burned our fields. They attacked us in the middle of the night. They abducted our women. They even kept us prisoner in our own home. But no more!” The blood drenched Evan Jonson pumped his pitchfork into the air from atop the town square’s fountain and his fellow townspeople below him let off a rousing cheer. He waited for them to stop before he continued. “We’ve taken our little corner of the world back from the Empire’s cavalry thugs.”

This time the cheer of the crowd was cut short by the sight of a peculiar black cloud in the afternoon sky. It seemed to be looming closer and closer while its shape constantly remained in flux. Was it a swarm of locusts come to devour their crops? Soon they would wish it were. The first sign of their true form came when they made an example of the makeshift orator, Evan Jonson. The first steel tipped arrow head dug straight through the heart of the town’s de facto leader thus giving the fountain a crimson tint. A chorus of screams followed as the citizens of High Point retreated like a heard of buffalo. A rain of arrows bound many of them to the ground, to the walls, and to the benches. After the arrow storm ended, the cobblestone square resembled the back of a mutilated porcupine. It wasn’t over yet.

Next was the thunder of nearly a thousand horses who combed through the streets with Empire cavalry on their backs, and the deadly swords at their disposal. The shining sabers cut through arms, pierced chests and severed heads from their bodies as they rode through. They did this twice along center of the twenty mile township without meeting any resistance. Then, like a tornado on the Fields of Khu’Fein, they disappeared as quickly as they had arrived, but the destruction they left behind would be felt for a lifetime. The townsfolk knew the red sword cross of the Empire would return to wreak havoc on them. They had been delusional to think that little scouting party they had sent all year was all they had at their disposal, but the fact that they had stood up to the soldiers was such a boon to their confidence. Nothing could be farther from the truth now.

Ever since the Republic fell, this offshoot of rogue cavalry had been bullying the town of High Point, beginning with particularly demanding and violent methods of tax collection. Their justification was that the Empire needed to fund the war against the Rebellion. When a few citizens protested they were beaten. The next time they were tortured publically, and finally some were put to death. Their bodies decorated the arch that welcomed people to their secluded little town. A brave few set out to find help taking the southwest road from their little plateau down to the valley. They were never heard from again. They were intercepted, or so the story went, but their unspoken status as prisoners was all but confirmed when the equestrian thugs “volunteered” to sell their potato harvest at the Bazaar last year.

This little town of ten thousand on a plateau in the Jagged Mountains of Corone, was now a pack of slaves. They had no rights, nowhere to go, and no one to turn to. The few wandering heroes were no match for the brigade’s numbers.

However, chance would have it that they didn’t need a hero to provide protection. They needed a spy, and chance would have it that one olive pale little girl with the stars in her eyes took her dead father’s carrier pigeons, wrapped a distress call around their little talons, and sent them in the eight directions of the compass rose. Chance would have it that one of those pigeons went directly west, tired on the main deck of The International, and decided to have a little snack of Vespasian Villeneuve’s chicken pot pie.

“Hey hey hey!” Vespasian charged wide eyed at his plate as he swept his arm left and right. “Get the fuck away, birdie!”

“That’s what you get for preferring to eat outside.” Esme said as he pulled at one of an infinite number of thick ropes on his ship. He stood against a backdrop of crème colored sails and earthen hued timber at the Niema docks. “If you’re going to do it, stay with your plate.”

“Yea whatever, Dad. You could have taken it inside or something.” Vespasian said as he put his hands on his hips and looked at the pigeon, which hadn’t budged. He tilted his head in confusion as his amber eyes narrowed and focused on the little piece of paper wrapped around the bird’s right leg.

“I’d rather let the world teach you your lesson.” Esme stuck his chin up in with hubris. “That’s m’parenting style. Progressive and passive aggressive.”

“Do you know what you’re saying?”

“Nope!”

“That’s where I get it from.” Vespasian returned his focus to the bird of emerald and grey feathers that proceeded to feed on his evening meal without fear. He slowly reached for it and wrapped his fingers around its chest. “The fits of random talking.”

“Yup.” Esme now hung from one of the boons using it as leverage to launch himself upward. “A small price to pay for unconventional genius. Whatcha got there?”

“It’s a message, with coordinates, longitude and latitude and…” Vespasian’s voice trailed off as he read the crumpled piece of paper. He looked up at his father. “The message is simple but I can fill in the blanks. The town of High Point is being exploited by a rogue Imperial cavalry unit.”

“Hmm.” Esme rubbed his well kept beard in contemplation. “They don’t need some sort of superhuman shooing these guys away. As soon as the hero leaves they’ll come back.”

“Of course, of course.” Vespasian paced from side to side coordinating his directions with the rocking of the ship. This was a precarious situation. A solution would be difficult to find and execute. “The Empire also probably has eyes on the town, so someone would have to get through them to even get there.”

“Eh.” Esme shrugged his shoulders as he crossed his arms and leaned on the bronze railing of the ship’s edge. “That’s the easy part. I’ve got three solutions to that in my head right now. It all depends on the solution to the ultimate problem, and that’s permanently ending the Imperial threat for this little town… And then there’s payment.”

Vespasian’s eyes went aflame with enlightenment as the solution came to him. “I got it!”

[Amen]

No self-respecting Salvarman from north of Knife’s Edge would ever admit to being cold. To be cold there is simply to be, and to claim to be cold anywhere else is to be a damn, soft fool. And no man in his right mind would call Marcus Book soft, though a fool he might be.

But gods help him, he was cold.

A year in the arid, sun-blasted wastes of Fallien will either thin a man’s blood or kill him, and Marcus survived only just and not for lack of trying on the desert’s part. Now even these laughably stunted mountains and their comparatively sweltering breezes brought a shiver to him and numbed his fingers, and he quietly hated himself for his weakness.

He pulled his ragged captain’s jacket tighter, cursed himself for ripping off the sleeves, and plodded on.

“What the hell do you have?” he said, approaching a large raven bent over a bloody mess.

“Mine,” Mim croaked.

“I don’t want it,” Marcus said. “I want to know what it is. Move.”

“Mine mine mine,” the bird insisted, dancing around the small corpse with her wings half-spread.

“I’m bigger. Mine if I say it is. Shut up.”

Mim stood off to the side and watched Marcus, cocking her head right and left. Book did not know birds well, but she did not seem happy. He kept her in his peripheral vision – trusting her not at all – while he examined the corpse. It was another bird, he determined, a pigeon or something similar. By the look of its wings, something with even larger talons than Mim's had attacked it and had already made a snack of its innards. There was nothing Marcus was interested in eating, and he was prepared to move aside and let the raven finish her meal when the message tied to the mangled leg caught his eye.

He bent down to the dead bird, which caused Mim to go into hopping conniptions. Marcus paused and raised his head, and pointed at Mim in warning, “Gift or no, I will send you back to Emien Harthworth with a snapped neck. Shut it.”

“Viceroy,” Mim croaked, lowering her wings obediently. “Viceroy.”

“Not that I look forward to seeing that old man again,” Marcus mumbled to himself as he retrieved the pigeon’s message. “Not after I lost him a ship and an entire crew. He’s as likely to snap my neck as reward me now, eh?”

“Dead,” Mim agreed.

“I suppose we’ll see when we reach civilization,” he continued, half-interested in the message he was reading and half in his own words. “It’ll be an adventure.”

He crumpled the message up and tossed it aside. More complaints about the Empire, this in a child’s hand. Marcus had little interest in the whining of commoners, they tended to complain and grow belligerent toward their leaders in rough times, whether the leaders were to blame or not. No doubt this child had heard her drunken, sore-spirited elders voicing their bitterness and thought to rescue them – and perhaps herself – from the over-reaching pall of darkening times.

No matter now. Her hope lay dead on a vast empty hill, a bloody snack for a mouthy black pest.

Marcus pulled his coat tighter and continued on his way, and Mim cried happily behind him as she returned to her meal. He did not get far before she took flight, however, screaming displeasure and warning. Book turned around, curious, just in time to watch five horsemen mount the hill, framed by the distant mountain peaks beyond.

“Ah,” the templar said, “finally.”

They wore the colors of Imperial soldiers. As it so happened, so did Marcus.

As the cavalrymen reached him, they branched out and surrounded him, looking everywhere but at him. He imagined he looked a sight, dressed and colored and painted like a wild man straight out of the deserts of Fallien, except for where he was dressed like a pirate. Marcus reluctantly unwrapped his arms from around his torso so they could see the honorary ranks pinned to the coat’s breast.

“You’re alone?” their leader said.

“Yes,” Marcus replied. “It’s a long story. Pirates, a mutiny, cannons, it’s not important. I am…was…a privateer under Emien Harthworth’s command.”

“That’s nice,” the cavalryman said, in a way that implied it was neither nice nor interesting. Marcus decided he didn’t like the man. “You’re a little far from the sea now, Captain. Why don’t you toss that jacket to the ground, along with your belt. Those boots are nice, we’ll take those too.”

Marcus cocked an eyebrow. “You do work for the Empire.”

“Last I checked. You’re talking, not stripping.”

“Maybe you didn’t hear me. I work for Emien Harthworth. One of your viceroys.”

“Sounds like you worked for Lord Harthworth, actually,” one of the other cavalrymen said. “Sounds like you’re a mercenary. Sounds like your job is done, to me, and that makes you jack shit.”

“That’s possible, but to be safe, why don’t you take me to your commander and we’ll let him decide. After sending word to the viceroy,” Marcus said, an edge beginning to grow in his voice.

The horsemen laughed in the same dark, quiet way, all but the leader who only smiled.

“Trust me here, I think you’re better off just dealing with us,” the leader said. “Now, if you’ll kindly do as I said, we’ll be on our way.”

Book eyed his captors. He made note of their weapons, their positions, their demeanors, and he met the eyes of each man in turn and noted well the ones who looked away. Finally, he met the leader’s eyes again, and said the word they didn’t hear much of nowadays.

“No.”

And then he turned and punched the nearest horse in the nose. The beast reared and screamed, and in the confusion Marcus whipped past the struggling rider and stole the saber at his hip in one easy motion. Just as the horse fell back to all fours, Book shoved the blade into the rider’s back between his breastplate and his belt, and then danced free.

The remaining riders scattered as their fellow fell from his saddle, moaning as he bled his life out onto the hard earth. Four to go. They drew their swords, and the leader gave the order to charge. Marcus chose one of the ones who hadn’t been able to hold his eye, and ducked in near the horse’s legs, falling too close and too low for the cavalryman to slash at him. The templar, however, was in the perfect position to slash at the horse’s front legs, and the beast went down screaming right on top of its rider.

Three.

Marcus smiled, his breath fogging in the air. Mim circled overhead, crying dead dead dead.

The next charge came faster and tighter, and this time they made an effort to trample Marcus rather than slash at him with their swords. Just as the horses neared, Book roared inhumanly and slashed toward the eyes of one of the animals. Despite being well-trained, the beast flinched away just in time, creating a gap between two of the chargers. As one of the riders passed, the templar grabbed hold of him and yanked. The man stopped but the horse kept going. Down he went, and the saber came shortly after. Just two, now.

“Enough,” Marcus said with a sneer, holding his arms out wide. His saber dripped blood and steamed in the mountain air. “You can’t beat me!”

“Dead!” Mim cried.

The leader dropped off his horse, and approached Marcus taking long, furious strides. He wasn’t coming to surrender. Their swords met with a spark and a song, and the cavalryman was undoubtedly the faster man. At the same time, the remaining horseman wheeled about, raised his sword, and charged.

Book was slower, yes, but he was stronger, and fast men never really respect the value of good, raw power. He beat the scout leader’s sword away with a fierce blow, kicked him in the knee while he tried to recover, and then shoved him. The soldier never saw the horse coming, but surely he heard its panicked scream just before its broad chest met his head with a stomach-churning snap.

His body fell limp.

“Just me and you,” Marcus called to the last rider, who turned his horse and ran away.

“Mine!” Mim cried as she descended to perch on the leader’s warm corpse. She began to deftly remove an eye.

“All yours,” Marcus grunted as he trudged with purpose toward the fallen horse. It struggled feebly to move its front right leg, which was very nearly severed at the knee. Every desperate kick of its remaining legs caused the man pinned beneath it to shout and curse in agony, and he beat his fists on his mount’s back ineffectually.

Book kicked the pinned man in the head, viciously, causing him to go limp but not unconscious. “I hate killing animals,” the templar bellowed down at him.

He went around to the horse’s head, and sighed in honest empathy at the terror in the mount’s huge, rolling eyes. He reached out in an effort to comfort, but the horse whinnied and writhed away from him as best it could with its ruined leg. “I am sorry,” Marcus said, withdrawing his hand, and he drove his saber down into the beast’s neck and ended it.

Fifteen minutes later, the leader’s face was an unrecognizable pool of gore beneath his hair, and Marcus Book had retrieved two of the free-roaming horses. He pushed the dead horse off the dazed man just enough to drag him screaming the rest of the way free, and used some rope from one of the saddles to bind his arms. Both his legs had been pinned and broken beneath his mount, so Book saw no reason to bind those.

“You have no idea what’s coming for you,” his hostage seethed between sobs.

Marcus tossed him over one of the saddles and tied him down, then climbed up on the other horse. “No,” he admitted, “but you do. And I’m going to enjoy torturing every last detail out of you. You and your friends shouldn't have tried to kill me. I react poorly when people try to kill me.”

Book turned his horse toward the distant pillars of grey smoke he’d been working toward for some time now. They promised hearths, and Marcus figured there was at least one pigeon-loving little girl that would be happy to see him.

He left his burgundy captain’s jacket on the ground beside the dead cavalrymen, along with all the honorary titles on its breast.

He found that he wasn’t cold at all anymore.

[Zerith]

In addition to the one carrier pigeon that went west and encountered Vespasian, luck would have it that the message that was tied to another went south and ended up in the hands of another. It was like Khal’jaren’s unseen hand was moving all over Corone, moving the various pieces on the playing field according to whatever divine plan he carried in his mind. What probably started as a just tiny spark of hope in the heart of a little girl was quickly fanning into a mature flame. Although she couldn’t have possibly known where the small message would go, the one that went south ended up in the hands of someone who would be a perfect accelerant for her fire. As the man read it one final time, his gray eyes shifted to look at another who stood on the other side of a large table.

“Word has it that you grew up in a small village, is this true?” Edward Stormcrow asked as he dropped the piece of parchment down on the table. Clasping his hands together, the Marshal planted his elbows on the flat wooden surface and leaned forward. He studied the man he spoke to, he eyes staring at him so intensely it would have appeared he was trying to see something beyond the dark hair, blue eyes, suit of armor and crimson halberd.

“It is, thought I don’t understand why you why you need to kn-“

“I was also told you’re rather skilled with polearms, and were given the job of creating a division of soldiers specializing with him in addition to a cavalry unit in the Ixian Knights as well. Does that sound about right?”

“Yeah, those are the facts,” Zerith answered while he quickly began to feel uncomfortable. He didn’t know what it was about Marshal Stormcrow, but he couldn’t help but feel like there was some reason why he was suddenly called to me the leader of the Rangers and endure these questions of his. “With all due respect, Marshal Stormcrow, I fairly sure you didn’t call me here so we can get more acquainted with each other.”

Edward shook his head from side to side. “You’re right, I didn’t,” He replied in his coarse voice as he reached out for his crutch. Rising from his seat, the Marshal tucked his aid under his arm and quickly retrieved the message only to hand it to the halberdier. As he spoke, he gradually limped to a large map of Corone that hung on the wall behind him. “You and the others surprised all of us with how you dealt with the Colossus, and I’m slowly beginning to see how you can help us end this conflict.”

“Thank you sir, I just want to see this thing end as quickly as everyone else does.”

“Don’t start thinking I consider you on the same level as Ravenheart, you’re nowhere near his level.” Edward replied with a small touch of bitterness. “As much as I don’t want you to say this, I’m a little reluctant to you seem to be the perfect person to handle this new situation. Apparently some Cavalry from the Empire are harassing a small town. So I’m assigning you to go and deal with them on the behalf of the Rangers.”

The prince rubbed his chin, “Interesting. If I do this for you, will I be making this trip alone?”

“I figured that with all your experience, you wouldn’t need our help.” The Marshal looked over his shoulder and flashed the warder a sarcastic grin. “I can assign a few men to help you get there in one piece, but they won’t babysit forever. If you can somehow help the people there learn how to defend themselves, then we won’t have to spread out forces so to take care of them. We’ll help them climb to their feet, but after than we will probably need you and the others to get back here once you’re finished.”

“Fair enough, Edward. When do I leave?”

“As soon as possible, now get out of my sight.” The Marshal ordered. Naturally, Zerith obeyed without any objection and quickly spun on his heel and headed for the door. After his success with the Colossus, the halberdier was eager to try and further his role within the Rangers, so another issue needing his immediate help was a task he welcomed with open arms. Besides, he figured Edward was right when he said that Zerith seemed perfect for the job. A talented halberdier that knew a thing or two about cavalry? The young prince of Moriah thought that High Point couldn’t have been put in a better pair of hands.

“Just remember you’re not a General here, Zerith,” Edward said as the Ixian Knight was walking out the door. “You still have a long ways to go before I’d consider you anything close to that here.”

[The International]

The sound of thunder ticked Vespasian’s feet as he trudged over an emerald hillock to discover what was causing the sound. A herd of horses, no less than a few hundred moved as one within a large wooden barrier. He stopped at the top of the hill to revel in their majesty for a moment as he got into character. It was no secret that covert operatives like him did bad things for an official government body. They would lie, cheat, steal and kill so that normal people could live their lives in relative ease. What he was about to do was considered an act of terrorism to the Empire, but an act of heroism to the Rangers. None of that mattered though. His amusement and endless appetite for intrigue was what drove him.

His strut began to take on a confident lean as a sly curl of the mouth emerged. He took no heed to the gate that held in the horses in, vaulting over it and continuing his strut towards the stable that stood against the backdrop of a military village. A few uniformed figures in the distance took on a more urgent body language as they caught sight of him. Three hopped on their mounts while one left to alert the others. Their leader shouted once he was within hearing range. “State your business!”

“My business is your business.” Vespasian shouted as he held up the little piece of parchment. “And your business has been the plateau town of High Point. Who’s your ranking officer here?”

“I am. Commanding Officer Adam Rankin.” Lucky coincidence that the man who shouted at Vespasian in the first place was the head of this company. The bearded man’s amber eyes narrowed as his subordinates’ exuded jumpiness. That told Vespasian everything he needed to know. The abuses this town had suffered were not sanctioned. From this point there were many routes he could have taken, but he decided to take the route of most… conflict.

Vespasian held the slip up and read the words as the mounts came to a halt before him.”’To anyone. The Imperial Horsemen have taken my sister, beaten my mother, and killed my father. They are High Point’s bullies. Help us.’ It has coordinates too.”

An uncomfortable silence followed. Adam Rankin was probably considering whether to bribe or kill this unknown young man who decided to make his introduction with damning evidence. Vespasian decided to make it easy for Adam. “Just so you know, the Viceroy has no problem with this as long as their supply of potatoes and other crops are accounted for…” and with a bow he said, “I’m Evan Victrola – ‘consultant’ for the great Empire of Corone.”

“Ah. ‘Consultant’.” Adam let out a guttural chuckle that his peons imitated. “No need to sugar coat things here, spy. It’s nice to know that our superiors don’t take issue with our extracurricular activities given the state of things. Help yourself to some provisions and be on your way, Mr. Victrola. We have enough civilians around here.”

“You make that sound as if they are a burden.” Vespasian said as he eyed the relatively new village clad in timbre in the distance.

“I would not call them a burden. They are our wives and children, once living in Radasanth.” Adam’s eyes went to the sky where the afternoon sun did well to reflect the exhaustion. It was becoming a common theme everywhere in Corone, whether one were a soldier or civilian, Ranger or Imperial. In this case it communicated that the families of the soldiers were a burden. “Now they live with us here, just out of reach of the fighting in Concordia. Most of them moved here when we realized the promise of a short war was no longer possible.”

“Well I didn’t trek three days for nothing, Commander.” Vespasian stepped towards him with his eyes locked. “What do you want out of your side campaign? Whatever it is, I can make it happen.”

“We want…” The Commander signaled Vespasian to come closer as he leaned over and lowered his voice. There was no one else to keep this a secret from, but he felt it necessary anyways. “We want what was promised to us when this war began. Property… Plunder. Right now we will settle for something within our own boarders. Now tell me how you can make that happen, Mr. Victrola?”

“Oh that’s easy.” Vespasian chuckled as he adjusted his plain black doublet. “Have they resisted yet?”

“Minimal resistance, which was put down quickly.”

“Ah.” The spy wagged his finger in protest. “You’ve got to let them protest a bit.” The commander’s confused face made him laugh. “Here’s how we’re going to spin it. An agent with the Rangers will incite a rebellion in High Point. A massive mob of armed protestors will descend from their plateau in the Jagged Mountains threatening the security of all who live peacefully in the Niema River Valley. Commander Adam Rankin and his cavalry gallop in to save the day. There won’t be a soul left, you’ll have a township, you’ll be treated as heroes, and the Empire’s morale will receive a boost from the victory.”

“So you’ll be that…”

“Yes. I’ll be that agent.”

The commander pondered this for a moment. “And the price?”

“A horse to get up there, six of your men, and…” Vespasian stared into the ground as he made the calculations in his head. He needed enough to get the supplies he needed and then a little extra money on the side. “eleven thousand gold – preferably in treasury notes.” Adam and his peons coiled back at the statement as if they had been smacked in the face. “You get what you pay for, Commander.”

They turned their backs, along with their hoses’ tails to Vespasian to discuss the terms. They failed to hide their faces and body language as they went back and forth, which amused Vespasian. Where his sisters here the three of them would be playing a little game where they’d put words to what they were seeing. Eventually they turned to the spy again.

“You have a deal.nine thousand gold and two months.”

“It’s a deal.” Vespasian said as he strutted by them. “and If it takes me two months you can come up and kill me yourselves. I’ll be riding a good half mile behind your six men. I wouldn’t want to break my cover.”

[Amen]

“You can have the eyes.”

A fair-sized campfire crackled nearby, very much out of place against the cobblestone street in High Point. Marcus carved off a descent-looking cut of meat – he was no butcher, so he was playing this by ear – and laid it across a grate he’d pilfered from a thoroughly-raided smithy. Mim was perched on the topmost point of the tent’s A-frame, watching in blessed silence. The horses did not care for the smell of cooking flesh and sauntered out as far as their lines would allow them.

The downtrodden townspeople tolerated him to a point. They had been ready to run him out at the point of a pitchfork when he first arrived, dragging his captive along with him. They feared the retaliation that was surely coming for him, but just enough of them respected his apparent skill with the blade. So they told him he could stay, if he could find shelter without desecrating the houses of their honored dead.

So here he was, camped out between a pair of charred ruins, eating days-old mountain goat for breakfast.

And to think, three weeks ago he was a captain.

***

Marcus led the horse to the town entrance, and dragged his prisoner off the saddle so that he landed in the street with a pained wheeze and a fuck you. Mim perched on the vacated saddle, warming her talons on the spot where the man had been a second before.

The young templar slid his blood-crusted saber into his sash, and began to climb the uneven brick face of the arch. Passing townspeople began to pause and watch with concern in their eyes. The general consensus was that this man was trouble, and he wasn’t doing much to alleviate their fears. When Book was as high as he could climb, he leaned out to where the bodies of executed rebels hung, and he used his saber to cut them down one by one.

“Stop it!” a woman hissed up at him, glancing around as if the cavalrymen hid behind every bush. “Stop!”

“No,” Marcus said down to her.

“You’re going to get us all killed,” a man said dispassionately, drawing the woman gently back into the crowd.

“Already dead,” Book grunted, dropping from the arch.

With surprising deference, he unwrapped rope from rotting throats, and laid the bodies of the dead in an orderly line off the road. Silent, stern-faced men began to emerge from the crowd. Without looking at Marcus, they wrapped and removed the corpses.

Meanwhile, the templar was tying the retrieved rope together segment by segment to create one long length. This he tossed over the arch, and then he turned to his captive. He didn’t bother with a noose; he just wrapped the rope around his neck and secured it with a sure but basic knot.

“They’re right,” the cavalryman said. “You’re all fucked. Every last one of you. But especially you. Got a wife? Got kids? They’re fucked too. Get this off me. You’re dead, get it?”

Marcus stepped on one of the prisoner’s broken legs, and he screamed in blind, sanity-rending agony.

“You first,” Book said.

Then he began to pull the rope.

***

Marcus was atop the arch again, cutting away the excess rope. Mim was perched at the highest point, testing the rope with her beak when she suddenly stopped and looked out over the green hills. Book dropped the extra length to the street, and then peered around the arch to make sure the rogue soldier was where he left him.

He was hanging free, purple-faced and black-tongued, and his shattered legs were twitching their last. Marcus was tempted to spit on him, but didn’t.

The raven gave her warning cry, and Book looked up at her, and then followed her gaze out to the hills beyond the town limits. In the distance he could make out vague movement.

“How many?” he asked the bird.

She crowed six times.

The templar groaned under his breath. Five had been trouble enough when he had the element of surprise. He climbed down and gave his handiwork a quick once-over. Where once eight good men hung rotting, one uniformed bastard swung. He intended to add more.

“Seems word travels fast,” he told the townspeople. “Six riders are on their way. I’m going to ride out and take credit for my statement here. I’ve heard rumors going around about a Ranger either in town or on his way. If he’s here, I suggest you let him know.”

“Let him know what?”

“I guess that there’s six cavalrymen kicking the shit out of a man outside town, and he’s the last man with a spine left in High Point.”

[Zerith]

It didn't take long until the townspeople found the halberdier. After having just recently arrived at High Point, a man wearing armor and carrying a polearm couldn’t have gone unnoticed. So to be fair, Zerith was expected to be approached by a few people almost immediately. To make explaining why he arrived and evaluating of the situation easier on him and everyone else, he opted to leave the three Rangers he travelled with behind to deal with their respective horses. In the end, it was probably a good thing he made the choice. As the when two of the townspeople approached him, their sense of immediate help was almost overwhelming.

‘You there!” a man cried out as he ran up to the warder. “You’re the one that supposedly came the Rangers, right? You have to have come here so you could help us!”

“Whoa, easy pal,” Zerith answered as he tried to settle the stranger down. Based on appearance, the prince would have guessed the fellow was a farmer or something based strictly on the dirty pair of coveralls and the faint smell of manure. “You can relax, I did come on behalf of the Rangers. Now tell me what’s got you all riled up.”

“Those cavalrymen are back!” The second, and slightly pudgier man explained as he finally caught up to his companion. Leaning forward, he was wheezing for breath as he struggled to continue and pointed behind him blindly. “Some guy told a bunch of us to find you and said six of those guys would be kicking the shit out of another.”

“The cavalry decided to show up already!?” the Ixian Knight said astonished. “Where can I find them?”

“Just on the outside of town, You’ll probably hear ‘em long before you see ‘em” the first man explained. However the last part of the sentence was ignored as Zerith took off right after he heard where he would be going next.



***


Having lost himself to the urgency of the situation, Zerith completely forgot that he could have just turned around and saddled his horse. Instead he sprinted as fast as his armor would enable to him, his cloak trailing behind him as he flew through the air furiously. In the distance he could already begin to hear the horses and what he could only assume was shouting by numerous voices.

“Great, who the hell would be stupid enough to piss them off?”

A few minutes later, Zerith was just reaching the top of a small hill that oversaw the conflict. As he reached its zenith, he honestly didn’t expect to feel a smile cross his lips as his blue eyes took in the sight before him. A lone stranger was taking on the six cavalrymen the townsfolk mentioned, as was apparently able to hold his own for the time being. On the ground laid a single horse, with its rider laying motionless next to it. It was a small triumph for the time being, as it seemed like the other five were smart enough to stay away the stranger. Two of them were trying to taunt the man by charging toward him and break off to either side before they got too close. It was like watching pair of kids play keep away with a smaller one.

“I suppose it’s only fair to try and make things a little more even.”

Apparently Zerith must have hung around Jensen a little too much back home, because as he ran down the hill to join Marcus he started laughing. While it wasn’t the maniacal laughter the immortal was known for, it sounded more like a laugh of excitement. Like when someone was just about to do something they were eagerly anticipating.

“I can’t believe you guys started the fun without me!” Zerith cried as he joined the fray. Amenzanil blazed to life, arcs of electricity leaping across the titanium blade as its wielder stopped to stand by Marcus and faced the others on horseback. “Afterall, I’m built to be in fights like these.”

[The International]

The familiar ring of blades clashing whipped down the mountain path to tickle his ears. A bolt of adrenaline shot through his veins. He whipped at the reins of his amber steed, sending it into a sprint as he pushed his feet into the stirrups to elevate himself off the saddle. He crossed his right hand over to his left hip and drew his luminous schiavona with a hiss. “Time to go to work!”

The horizon gave way like a theatre curtain to an episode of the drama of High Point. Five horsemen circled like vultures around two brave men, both of whom made Vespasian feel like a dwarf. Where it not for their muscle bound physique it would have been for the fires that literally burned from their souls. The spy steered his horse to the left side of the bully circle, and as he passed he swung The Conduit like an axe against the tree trunk of flesh that was an Imperial horseman. A rosy spray of blood arched out as the man toppled from his mount.

“Traitor!” One of the horsemen yelled as he directed his white steed after the spy. Vespasian’s amber eyes went wide with fear, but his mouth formed an ear to ear smile as he directed his horse to retreat within the stone bevy that was High point.

The horseshoes created a cadence of chaos as they clicked upon the coble stone streets and echoed in the alleys. Instead of running around a very wide but shallow fountain, they ran straight through it, their white splashes crashing like symbols. Civilians, as Vespasian liked to call them, created the chorus of shock and awe as yet another dared to provoke the Empire’s mounted goons. The buildings ended just as abruptly as the farmland and the snowcapped backdrop of the Jagged Peaks began. Ropes, pulleys, and wagons began to litter the dirt path. Vespasian swung his sword almost randomly against anything he could reach and cut.

His hope to find something of significance was satisfied when a chain reaction managed to topple over a wagon of potatoes, and startle the Imperial’s horse enough to slow it down. Vespasian looked to his left, where a porch full of shovels, pitchforks, and hoes screamed out to him. With a smile plastered on his face he passed the owner of the house and commandeered the cleanest pitchfork. He sheathed The Conduit and stepped back out into the middle of the road, where the horseman was quickly catching up.

The spy held the farmer’s tool at hip level with both hands awaiting the thunder of the equine. The mount’s hooves struck the dirt path like a bass drum growing closer, louder, and more threatening until… Its rider, filled with hubris was clotheslined by the tip of a pitchfork. The soldier’s feet replaced his head, and his head clashed with the earth with a vengeance. The pitchfork was dull therefore the soldier was knocked out at best. That didn’t make a difference to Vespasian. He drew his blade once again and callously dug it into the horseman’s sternum as he passed.

“Did you get my note?” A timid little voice befitting that of a chipmunk chimed from behind him.

Vespasian didn’t bother to turn around. “Yes.”

“Then you’re here to save us?” The girl asked. He could hear the hope springing from her voice.

Far be it from a spy to tell the truth but… “No. Have everyone meet me at the city square in thirty minutes.”

As for the men at the town entrance… more power to them. Three down – three to go.

[Amen]

Thank the striking gods.

A ridiculously good-looking fellow with a lightning-spitting polearm came laughing out of the hills like a maniac. Marcus spared him a glance, and grinned as he nodded his greeting. Whoever he was, he claimed expertise, and the sparking weapon in his hand punctuated the truth of it. The templar was glad to have him.

The cavalry hesitated, and no one could blame them. Marcus was quickly developing a reputation for being a real bastard, and now he had a friend with an enchanted halberd – the bane of horsemen everywhere. Things were beginning to look almost even now and – as it is with all bullies in similar situations - the renegades were losing confidence.

That was before a dapper young streak of cloth and flashing steel carved a scarlet gash in one of the horsemen in passing. The horsemen were as confused as Marcus and Zerith, and every man on both sides paused to watch the brash rider speed away.

“Traitor!” someone shouted, and for a moment Book thought they meant him, so he sprung into action.

Quick as a shot, Marcus charged one of the horses. He put his foot over the horseman’s boot in its stirrup, grabbed his saddle’s cantle, and pulled himself half up onto the beast. Startled, the cavalryman raised his saber high to beat Book away. The act caused his breastplate to ride up, and Marcus buried his saber in the man’s now-exposed gut. The templar left the blade there, replaced it by snatching the saber from the dying man’s failing grip, and then shoved the soldier off the saddle to take his place.

In the meantime, the other two had come to their fellow’s aid. The first came up on Marcus from behind just as he was settling into the saddle, and would have done him in if a lightning-clad polearm didn’t catch him in the face first. Marcus fended off the second attacker, their sabers meeting sonorously.

Despite his attempts to steer it away, the templar’s mount seemed intent on bringing him closer to his doom, until it seemed to him he was nose-to-nose with the last remaining horseman. Zerith was thus forced to go around the beasts just to get a clear shot, and even then he couldn’t take it until Marcus forcibly grabbed the cavalryman and shoved him and his horse away. The man lost his balance and fell from his mount, and Zerith was there to drive his halberd into the renegade’s chest as he lay winded.

The pair stood panting, looking out over the sprawled corpses for a long moment.

“Is that all?” Marcus said at last, and the pair laughed.

The sound echoed strange and hollow from the blood-soaked hill. It felt like defiance.

***

The town had more people than Marcus had originally realized, and it seemed like every one of them was gathered in or near the town square. He had never cared for crowds and being among them had always seemed like his personal hell. That was before today. Today he wasn’t among the crowd. Today the crowd was looking at him, and it wasn’t happy.

“I told you he was going to bring them down on us again,” a woman shrieked. “I told you! We should give him to them, and the Rangers, and the other one too. Maybe if we just give them the ones responsible they’ll leave us alone.”

Marcus was standing on the steps of the town hall, though he wanted nothing more than to be adding the freshly-dead bodies in the field to the one hanging from the arch. As a rumble of voices added their support to the shrill harpy’s idea, Book tensed his naked shoulders and upper arms and turned to face the crowd. He still held a naked saber in his right hand, and a line of drying blood had been spattered diagonally across his chest.

His body said, try it.

“Quiet, girl,” an exhausted man toward the front said, “and the rest of you. They’re not going to go away no matter how many Rangers and foreigners you give them.”

“Maybe they won’t go away,” the same woman argued, “but at least they’ll leave us alone for awhile. Maybe they’ll kill them instead of our husbands and children.”

“So you win a few more days,” Marcus said with a shrug. “For what? Sitting around afraid of the thunder until they do come back? Hell, if that’s what you’re arguing about, I’d rather get the whole thing over with.”

“Good!” the woman shouted viciously, but her voice was lost as the crowd began to murmur.

“Look,” someone else said, “there are Rangers here now. Surely they’ll be sending more men to help us. We just need to hold out for a few more weeks.”

Zerith stood beside the templar, and spoke up now to explain the Rangers’ stance in regard to High Point. Marcus was amused at the situation – he, a mercenary fairly loyal to the Empire’s aims, side-by-side with a steadfast Ranger. He had to admit that this storm-spear-wielding nobleman was not what he envisioned when he imagined his enemy. Privately, he was glad not to have to fight the man.

“So the Rangers send us a mere handful to fight an army,” someone in the crowd sighed. “What are we to do with that? We are the people the Rangers claim to protect from the Empire!”

“No,” Marcus said, and immediately regretted drawing himself back into the argument. Too late now. “These men are renegades. I was under the employ of the Empire when their scouts found me, and they still tried to rob me. I left the marks of my previous station for them to find thinking that their commander would see his mistake and send someone to apologize and retrieve me, but no one came. The viceroys don’t know what’s going on here, and they don’t want them to.”

“Well, that settles it then! Word got to the Rangers, so we can get word to the viceroys! The Empire will help us.”

Marcus shook his head. “They won’t send help. If you’re lucky they’ll send someone to investigate, but nothing will come of it. The renegades aren’t hurting the war effort, and none of the viceroys will let a company of sufficient size leave the defense of Radasanth. And even if there were men to spare, or the threat of the Rangers was somehow reduced, you’re too close to Akashima. The Empire’s position is precarious already; they will not risk displeasing Akashima by moving troops so close to her borders.”

There was a long pause where murmurs went through the crowd, and no few queer looks cast in Marcus’ direction. He recognized that look. It said you’re smarter than you look, and that made people uncomfortable. A few more questions about the Empire and the Rangers flew, with Zerith answering with what he knew of the Rangers and Marcus doing the same for those queries about the Empire. Finally, the thread was broken and those gathered were beginning to sink into despair.

“There’s the Gaptooth Path,” an elder gentleman suggested wearily. “If help will not come, perhaps we must run.”

“What is that?” Marcus said.

“A hidden, narrow path that runs into Akashima through the mountains,” the elder answered. “It is a difficult way and all but forgotten these days. But it should still be passable.”

Book shook his head again. “They have scouts on every crag, hilltop, and hole. If you’re spotted, what’s to stop them from running you down, or herding you back? And if you divide yourselves, what’s to stop them from riding into town and doing worse things than kill? Your strength is your numbers, that is why they’ve always rode through.”

Marcus Book let his eyes wander sternly from face to face, until they settled on the round face of a small girl. He was distantly aware of someone approaching quietly from the town hall behind him, but he spoke his piece: “You can’t run, and no one is going to help you. You are on your own.”

[Zerith]

“...You could fight.”

All of the eyes that had just been on Marcus shifted to the source of the new voice that quietly spoke up. Even Book turned as well, his facial expression turning to one of genuine interest. The man wasn’t surprised to see that it was the halberdier that verbalized his opinion as he rested his polearm on his shoulder, but he still couldn’t believe what he suggested. Even the townspeople were taken back by the notion, with one younger man being happy to express it with words.

“Fight? Did you get hit on the head or something? Look at us, were just ordinary people!” he cried.

“You don’t exactly have a lot of options to choose from,” Zerith replied as he stepped forward and stood next to Marcus. “It’s like this guy said, with the exception of us and the few Rangers that came with me you’re on your own. However we’re no match for an entire army of cavalry.”

“Great, well some help you are!” the woman from earlier cried. “I still say we hand these guys over and pray that they’ll leave us alone.” The crowd broke out into shouting immediately afterwards as people quickly began to insist their ideas were the right ones through arguing.

“But I can teach you!” Zerith yelled at the top of his lungs. The bickering stopped almost instantaneously as the warder once caught everyone’s attention. “I trained soldiers how to use polearms in the Ixian Knights...” he explained. “Now I know none of you are soldiers, I’m sure you’re all still capable of learning. Am I right?”

“Do you seriously call this an idea, teaching a bunch of civilians how to fight?”

“It’s better than nothing! We could just stay here long enough to keep you safe while you learn the basics. Then when enough of you how to use one of these properly,” he stopped briefly to gesture to his halberd. “We might just be able to fend those renegades off and make them reconsider ever going near you guys again. We’ll turn you guys into the perfect army to fight against cavalry, and you can be sure it’s something they would never see coming,” Zerith concluded and turned to look at Book.

“What do you think? Do you have any ideas?”

[The International]

“I’ll see your protection!” A voice echoed around the town square. Vespasian emerged from walls of muted silver stone with whole new heard of people following from behind him as they hummed their speculations. “And raise you profit.”

Vespasian immediately sought to elevate himself above all others by hoisting himself atop the dry fountain in the center of the square. He looked around him at the drove of misery that was the tattered and weary faces of the citizens of High Point. His amber eyes stopped at the familiar face. “Hey, Marcus! How’s that cut healing up?” He lifted his hands. “Nope. Don’t answer that question because I have one for everyone here.”

He took a moment to allow the mob’s suspense quiet them down as he paced around the stone elevation. The spy had to stop and tilt his head in wonder as to how a blood stains found their way here of all places. He shook himself out of his trance looked out at the High Point people again. “If you don’t mind me asking – raiders aside, how poor are you exactly?”

Murmurs bounced back and forth between the citizens until the Human mass’s collective voice took a quizzical inflection. Vespasian spoke again. “I didn’t ask the question just to ask it, but maybe I need to be a little more specific. How many of you have been forced to sleep at night with a stomach roaring at you? Show of hands.”

Every hand went up.

“Okay. I see.” Vespasian nodded his head and hinted a grin. His mission wasn’t just to get these people to defend themselves. He needed to instill them with the anger, passion, and ambition to take the fight to the cavalry. He continued. “How many of you have less than ten coins in your name?”

Not every hand went up this time, but more than enough to make it matter.

“Alright.” He leaned against the centerpiece of the fountain and contemplated this information. “This next question is for the women of High Point. How many of you have lost a child before, during, or after birth?”

Every woman’s hand went up while every man’s head went down. Success. Miscarriages and infant fatality were a part of life in Althanas. It had very little to do with one’s quality of life, but the statistics worked in Vespasian’s favor nonetheless. Life was hard in High Point.

“These two warriors are absolutely right. You have to stand up for yourselves, but they speak of it in the context of protecting yourselves. I speak of it as a way to a better life. Consider the following: More than half of the Empire’s land army is composed of conscripts, men just like you and I, who live day to day as merchants, builders, and farmers. They receive training about two or three months out of the year from a force that hasn’t experienced a real war in several generations. Let’s be honest. The only real war Corone has had has been with the Demons and that was ages ago. Those horsemen sitting at the foot of these mountains may have seen a year or two of a stalemate conflict, but they aren’t career fighters. Not like Marcus Book over here. Not like this Ranger either. And believe it or not, you have more experience with pole arms than you think. Make room and allow the Halberdier to demonstrate.”

The princely man clad in armor stepped forward as the citizens stepped away from him in fear and amusement. They left him in a cobblestone ring alone and ready to fight. The Ranger swung with strength and ease, stabbing, slashing, spinning and twisting. “Take his movements and compare them to what you do every single day out there in those fields. The vertical strike is digging in the ground with a hoe or rake, a horizontal strike is cutting your wheat with a scythe. Some of the more elaborate maneuvers you see may not be normal, but some of them won’t be necessary.”

Vespasian raised his voice as a smile grew on his face. He continued. “Now tell me how is it natural for a merchant of Radasanth to slice with a saber atop a running steed? It’s not! When does he shoot a bow and arrow? He doesn’t! The vast majority of you have been practicing for this since you were children, and not only do you have the ability to defend yourselves, you have the ability to take the fight to them.”

What followed was a chorus of ambiguity and a distinct lack of decisiveness. Time to bring out the steam cannon. “Alright I didn’t want to tell you this, but they intend on killing all of you and taking High Point as their own… Happy?”

The crowd erupted in mix of emotions. The voice of a man found its way out of the void. “And who prey tell are you!”

[Amen]

“He’s lying!” someone shrieked desperately.

“He’s a Ranger!” someone else said.

“No, he’s an imperial!”

“I don’t want to die!”

And so on, until finally someone else simply wanted to know who the man was, and then someone seconded it, until the crowd took up the cry.

“Quiet!” the elder said. “Quiet! Hush now, all of you. You there, Book. This man seems to know you, at least, what do you know of him?”

Marcus sneered with his back half-turned to the crowd, then sighed and turned back. He’d been so close to getting away while they were distracted with Vespasian, and now he looked across the crowd and back to the swashbuckler, with a quick glance to Zerith. No help anywhere. V’s face was unreadable, perhaps expectant, but Marcus figured he was probably amused by all of this.

“We’re…acquainted,” the templar said hesitantly. “He almost cut my arm off. And he tried to catch me on fire.”

“So he’s a liar!”

“I didn’t say that,” Book sighed, thinking back to what he’d witnessed during that first encounter and the curious inquiries he’d made since, exhausting every rumor the Brotherhood had. “I don’t know much about him. I only know him by the letter V, and it's said he comes from a group of wandering troublemakers. Some say it’s just a small family, others say a whole clan that has manipulated the history of the world since time immemorial.

“I don’t believe he would hurt you, I can’t imagine a reason. He probably stands to gain in some way, but it doesn’t matter.”

Marcus shook his head. “Whatever his reasons for telling you, he’s right. The men hounding you are not particularly skilled or dangerous, they’re just better prepared.”

“So you think there’s some merit to the madness he’s proposing? You think we can win?”

The templar grinned. “He seems to think you can do better than win, though what he has in mind I cannot guess.”

“But what do you say?”

Marcus sighed, and gave it a moment of honest thought. It was easy to imagine any one of these frightened, world-ignorant hicks clinging to his pitchfork while getting run down by a laughing cavalryman. And yet, since the end of the war in Salvar there had been hundreds of successful and bloody peasant uprisings, most featuring angry men with farm tools slaughtering seasoned soldiers. Some small spark lit in him with that thought, born in his breast and flamed by one or both of the gods that had an intrigued eye on him. Quite suddenly, he found himself interested in the fate of this little town.

“I think V is telling the truth,” he started quietly, “and maybe tomorrow or maybe a week from now, they’re going to ride in here and kill you all. I think if your life is forfeit, what have you to fear or lose? If it were my home, I would let them come, and I would fight them with everything I had to give so that when I did finally fall, the ground would be too choked with their own blood to support crops and the smell of death couldn’t be washed out of the walls.”

The crowd had grown quiet, stunned, but the templar could see it in them – that selfsame spark he felt in himself. It just needed…

This was new, and Book felt unsure, tentative. He felt the precipice of something dangerous, an invisible turning point that led either to something glorious or something horrible beyond knowing. Greatness loomed, the promise of a notable fate, but heroes die bloody or young or both and villains often don’t see their legacy until death and that regretful immortality are inevitable.

But he was Marcus Book, and he had never known how to shy from lines better left uncrossed.

He stepped off the stone steps and met the people of High Point on the street, and they could see the tension in him. His mouth formed a grim line, and he stared at those before him. He was not a tall man, but somehow he loomed over them, captured their eyes and made their hearts thump. He paced before them as the intensity built, and as he spoke his voice rose from a low, animal growl to a howl of fury – and the beat in every breast followed it.

“No more questions,” he said. “No more cowering. You are, every one of you, dead already, what more harm can be done? What have you left to lose? What your fathers built burns already, what you built is your own mass grave. You have no home. Your families have already spent their tears for you. Your women have wailed their last; your men have no blood to spill, your children have forgotten how to laugh. You can’t be saved.

“Now your enemies are fat on the food they took from your babes’ mouths, satisfied on your wives, and all they can want for is the comfort of your beds. So they will ride out of those hills, your hills, smiling their fool smiles and counting your coins.”

“How they will scream when they find that you don’t rest easy,” Marcus roared, his bronze-tanned hide tensing from neck to abdomen, and he held his arms as if ready to strangle the life from any five of them at once. “How their women will wail when they fall from their horses. Their mounts will flee at the sight of you, the steel ghosts of High Point. The gods themselves will remember the day, and you will be stories to frighten even their half-breeds and star-children a thousand years from now. And as your enemies lay bleeding on the ends of your spears, they will see that they wrought their own death when they hammered your steel against the anvil of High Point.”

He had them now. The men in the front were like animals themselves, beating their chests and howling red-faced. The men farther back raised their arms and cheered, and the women watched, seeing their husbands and fathers and brothers with new eyes, and their breath grew shallow for it. Marcus might have felt something akin to pride, if he had any sense left in him. In truth, he was as caught up in it as any of them.

He had gone from hiding among them to being one of them.

“Dead men that kill don’t ask questions,” Marcus raged. “Dead men that kill don’t cower! Dead men that kill don’t worry about tomorrow. Tomorrow is for living men. But not the next day. Get your pitchforks. Get your spears, your knives, your hoes, your rakes. Sharpen sticks. Today you will learn. Tomorrow you will kill!

“GO!”

***

Marcus was running out of rope. Three uniformed bodies hung from the arch now, with four waiting on the ground nearby. Every few seconds he heard the Ranger Zerith shout alone in the distance, followed by the collective roar of the men and boys of High Point. It formed a rhythmic song that had become the heartbeat of the town.

He was contemplating his problem when he felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned to find three women staring at him warily.

“What?” he said.

The one in the front inched forward. He recognized her as the shrill woman, and began to get angry. Then she extended her arms, and he realized she was holding a fresh coil of rope.

“You’re going to need more rope,” she said. “And soon you will need more space. May we offer a suggestion?”

Later that day, the women and children of High Point erected their first impaled cavalryman in the field just outside the town and beside the road. Marcus offered to help, but a chipmunk-voiced little girl would have none of it.

“We got this,” she said, and there was nothing timid about her.

[Zerith]

“No, the middle! Your dominant hand should be gripping the middle of the haft!”

Apparently training some of the townspeople was going to be a challenge. While most of the older men had no difficulty in following the warder’s direction, it was those they were just a little younger than Zerith himself that frustrated him at first. As the sun began to set, the prince had pulled a young man by the name of Javan aside for some one on one teaching. The lad had no idea how to hold a polearm, let alone actually use one with any proficiency. Yet in spite of his lack of knowledge, Javan quickly taught Zerith something important.

He had to go back to the baby steps.

Up until then, Zerith had only overseen the training of soldiers, not civilians. So it only made sense that he would get frustrated with them when he expected the see the same amount of discipline or progress being made. Those fighters he trained before had at least known their way around a sword, so the noble’s teaching was built around a transition of fighting with a simple blade toward a polearm. Now, his students knew nothing when it came to warfare and fighting, so he had to go back to the very basics of what his preferred weapon and how to hold one properly before he could get through to them. Javan, the dirty blonde haired boy would be the first to be taught this way and then he would get a fresh start with all the others in the morning. He could barely contain his smile as he pictured what they would look like when he was done with them.

“Zerith!” a voice called out from behind him. “Zerith! Can we have a word?”

Turning around, the halberdier saw the two Rangers, Devin and Arden, quickly approaching him. “I suppose we can call it a day, Javan. With any luck, I’ll let you take a few swings at me tomorrow.” he said to his student, dismissing him. It happened just in time too, as once Javan had gathered his things and was on his way the two Rangers had just reached the halberdier.

“So how is the training going?” Arden asked. He was the taller and leaner of the two men, while Devin definitely had more muscle when compared to his companion. Arden always kept dark, brown hair trimmed short and tidy, reflecting the fact that he was a newer recruit and carried a military upbringing. Devin was more built like an ox, the majority of his bulk being muscle. Being bald man with big arms and a thick neck, he was a man of few words but one that carried his weight when on a mission.
“Things are going fine now,” Zerith answered. “I had a slow start, but it should pick up now that I think I’ve found the angle I’ll work from.”

“Well that’s good to hear. Is there anything we can do to help speed things up?”

“Actually...” Zerith tilted his head to his left as he thought. “Go find Vespasian. I want you two to take the money he'll offer to you and take the secret passage those townspeople spoke about before to Akaskima.”

“Hmpf, Akashima?” it was Devin that spoke for once, his voice as hoarse as sandpaper. “What the hell are we supposed to do there?”

“It’s simple really. Vespasian heard that there’s a blacksmith that’s come up with a way to make some quality weapons in a small amount of time. The people here will need some weapons of their own if they’re to stand a chance on their own against the cavalry, and I can only teach them so much with tools they’re improvising with for now.”

“Seriously?” Arden asked in disbelief. “You want us to play delivery boy for these people? Can’t we just make a request to Gisela for some weapons? There’s no point in wasting money on new weapons for these people, they’ll probably only get damaged in a week.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” Zerith snapped. His blue eyes turned cold as he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Marshal Stormcrow put me in charge for this mission, so you’ll do what I tell you. You Rangers are supposed to be protecting the people, and that is what you’re going to do....”

“...Now get on your way to Akashima before you say anything else that aggravates me. These people deserve our best, and that’s exactly what I hope to give them.”

[The International]

“One week.” The words made their way shakily out of Vespasian’s mouth as he jogged up the rocky mountain trail like a flight of Aleraran steps. His eyes stayed on the pebble sprayed path. He dare not look up at the sunrise as it revealed the snowcapped mountains that resembled rock candy. It would distract him. “One week, and I think we’ve made good progress.”

He didn’t have to see the necks of the two townsmen cock back in disbelief. Nor did he have to hear the murmurings of skepticism.

“Now I know what you’re thinking.” He took a breath. “You must be shitting me, V. Here’s the truth. Battles aren’t won on skill and experience alone. That they have the lion’s share of, but I doubt they have your discipline. Those cavalrymen clearly lack that or else they wouldn’t be subjecting High Point to such brutality.”

“Sir.” The pounding footsteps almost overshadowed the tranquil voice to his left. “What else decides a winner?”

“Stupid question that is.” A snide voice to his right sounded out.

“Jecosta, we’re talking about a town full of civilians defeating a horde of seasoned Imperials.” Vespasian said as he allowed the corners of his mouth to curl up in a smirk. “There are no stupid questions. Anyways, opinions might vary between myself and the other two visitors here, but I believe the greatest factor is knowledge, and the application of said knowledge. That includes knowledge of the terrain, knowledge of the enemy’s habits, numbers, equipment, so on and so forth. It also demands a mindset that understands what each individual can do, but also understanding what everyone can accomplish together. It’s a rare mindset, which is why I have the two of you accompanying me this morning. I’m looking for people with this mindset.”

“To be officers, right?” The chatty one to his right sounded off again. “Reckon I know what that’s like. I’m like an officer in me household. Ol’ lady an’ the little muskrats would be lost without me.”

“Tell me is it because you’re the man of the household, is it because you’re the eldest, or is it because you bring home the food?” Vespasian said as he rolled his eyes.

“Well.” Jecosta took a moment as they rounded a sharp cliff and the town’s fertile emerald plateau came into view. “Reckon it’s all three.”

“Well I’m the youngest in a family of five and Dad’s still around. They all listen to what I have to say, and for the most part, they do it. Take a guess as to why.”

“Well…” As usual Jecosta just had to open his mouth without taking a moment to think. Even after he took that moment Vespasian was disappointed, but not at all surprised by now. “Dun’ know.”

“Um…” The one to his left had something to say, but he couldn’t hear him.

“Speak up, Elric.”

“If I had to guess, it would be your knowledge.” Vespasian looked at Elric to urge him on. He did so. “You know what motivates them. You know what they’re good at, and you know what they’re bad at. So they trust you to make good decisions for them.”

“Right, right, and right, particularly in the motivation department. My sisters have a heated rivalry and love to compete for my favor. My father was my mentor, and loves to see me succeed. My mother fears for me, and hates to see me fail, which is good in my profession since failure often means death.” Vespasian smiled again. “But most of all, I have to remember every day that leadership is a position of servitude. Failure to understand that axiom is what has gotten Corone to this point, gentlemen. It’s why the Empire’s days are numbered.”

“Speaking of the Empire.” A bulky finger rose to direct the spy’s attention to the road leading to High Point, where a lone horseman clad in Imperial colors approached.

Vespasian stopped at the sight, and then turned to his two candidates. “Wake Zerith and Marcus. They’re at the Mayor’s townhouse. Tell them to gather as many townsfolk as they can in the square in the flying wedge formation, and evacuate everything between the entrance and that point.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be there before the force arrives.”

“The force?”

“GO!”

The two officer candidates ran down the path and into the grey stone veil that was High Point. Vespasian continued his jog, but now he made a change of direction. Not into the town, but towards the front gates.

[Amen]

By the time the sun was just high enough for Marcus to see the mountains beyond High Point, his blade was gleaming and fit to cut lightning. He set the whetstone aside and bit off a chunk of salted horsemeat while he considered oiled steel. He waited until the meat was saliva-softened, and then chewed slowly. The town had begun rationing itself so it could devote more time to military exercise.

The young warrior found sleep hard to come by now. He found some new, strange, and perverse joy in stirring large crowds to violence. He had always been a reserved man, careful to control his primal desires – to hide them. Now it felt like he was regularly exposing and channeling them, the way a mother bird feeds her chicks. He felt vulnerable, and worse, he was beginning to feel like part of himself was in the townspeople now. He did not like the connection. It was easier when he wasn’t involved, when he knew what would happen to them and didn’t care.

He wished he hated V, or even Zerith. If only it had been more personal when V tried to kill him. If only he’d met Zerith on the battlefield before now. If only if only, he would pay for an excuse to cut his ties and be on his way.

Mim woke, fluttered to his shoulder, and sat hunched and unhappy. It was cold. She dug her talons in his skin, maybe for the warmth beneath, and he growled at her. Only when she relaxed did he offer her a bit of his jerky, and she still bit his fingers.

“Bitch,” he grumbled.

“Mine,” she croaked softly.

They heard the horsemen coming before they saw them, perched as they were on the roof of the house since before the sun came up. Horseshoes clapped on stone streets for a good ten minutes before two horsemen appeared atop lathered mounts. Book leaned forward, resting his forearms across his knees.

“Sir!” the first called up. “We spotted riders! V says to gather everyone in the square and put them in a flying wedge.”

“And to evacuate everything between the entrance and the square,” the second added, softer.

Book slid down to the eaves, vaulted over, and dropped to the street, and Mim left his shoulder complaining. He slid the sharpened saber between his sash and hip, naked, and turned toward the south road.

“You, take the north and start banging on doors and raising the alarm. I’ll take the south. You, go wake Zerith, and get him to the square to start forming the ranks, then go west and clear the houses between the entrance and the square as V ordered,” he barked, and never stopped walking.

***

The people of High Point took to it with surprising speed. As he went hollering through the streets, banging on doors and ordering people to the square, Marcus realized they were probably all waiting for this. It explained why some of them seemed relieved instead of scared, when they didn’t sigh with resignation.

Never did he meet tears, and that pleased him, and never did a door remain closed.

When at last he reached the south wall, he turned to watch the sea of pointed sticks and long farm tools flow into the square beyond, and sighed.

They are like to die, he told himself.

And because he cared, now he was too.

It was getting easier to hate the suave swashbuckler that called himself V.

[Zerith]

The halberdier was beyond being exhausted the moment he fell onto the small bed he called his own while he was in High Point. Turning mere farmers into soldier was tiring, both physically and mentally. His patience was constantly tested some of the men struggled to keep up, and for a few moments the halberdier probably seemed like a monster to them. To be fair, Zerith drilled those men into the ground just as Ta’gaz would brutally beat the prince during his hand to hand combat lesson with the legendary fighter. So maybe Zerith was just teaching by example. As although Ta’gaz was known for being harsh and merciless, there was no denying his teaching was effective.

The tiny room Zerith was given was plain and just like any other. A small, worn mattress sat on a small metal frame just underneath the only window in the room. Beside it was a tiny dresser and on the either side of the small room stood a plain, ordinary desk. Both the walls and the floor were wooden, the strong grain and prevalence of knots suggested it was made of some sort of pine. The decor was painfully simple and even though he missed his home and his family, he found that this living arrangement was a nice break from the lavish style he received once he married into nobility. It reminded him of when he was just the boy of a hunter, back was life was simple and every day carried the same routine.

Sleep came easily to the warder and although he had planned to take every minute of it that he could get his hands on, a loud, frantic banging on his bedroom door woke him with a jolt. Groaning in frustration, Zerith slowly climbed out of the bed and trudged his way over to the doorknob. After taking a quick moment to wipe the sleep away from his eyes, he cracked the door open just enough so he could peer his head out into the hallway. “Yeah, what’s is it?”

“I’m sorry for disturbing you, Sir,” was the immediate reply from the young man, probably just a little younger than Zerith himself. His face was reddening, and the effort that came to draw in every single breath suggesting he had been running for some reason that the prince couldn’t have possibly figured out. “Marcus Book ordered me to wake you and tell you that you start forming the ranks in the square?”

“This is nonsense,” Zerith complained as he rubbed his eyes again. “I told him there was no need for another drill today, the men are making decent prog-“

“No sir, you don’t understand. The horsemen are coming.”


***


The amount of time it took for everyone in High Point to assemble was incredibly impressive. Even when Zerith arrived with his halberd in hand, the majority of his fighters were already there and ready for direction. All of the repetition was paying off before the general’s eyes as the ranks were taking shape with surprising speed due to the mere fact that most had apparently memorized who they stood next to and infront of. Most of his newest soldiers looked at the Ixian Knight with fiery determination in their eyes, knowing that they had spent all their effort over the past few days for this moment. The question of if they lived or died was irrelevant to some. Instead the only thing that mattered was that they defended what was rightfully theirs.

The tension only built as every pair of eyes slowly settled on the halberdier, and he knew that they were expecting something from him. They were new to this whole world of warfare, and although they were far from being the terrified community that Zerith first came across a small part of them was still scared and unsure what to do. They wanted direction and maybe even some reassurance that not only were they making the right choice, but that they were going to live to see the next day. They probably wanted him to lie to many of them and make them think that they were immortal.

There were always some things Zerith hated about being a leader. Delivering inspiring speeches was never something he enjoyed, especially when he could already hear Aislinn Orlouge yelling at him for the loss these people would suffer today. Yet regardless of how he felt, he knew he had to deliver something to High Point. They had worked so hard and deserved it.

“I’ve never really told anyone this, but back home I have a pregnant wife who looks like she’s about to burst.” A few of the farmer chuckled to themselves as they watched Zerith’s lips slowly form a smile. “Now my gut tells me it’s a boy, but she says she’s carrying twins even though I don’t know how she could possibly be sure of that. What I do know though is that I can’t afford to die today, simply due to the fact that even if did, I would never hear the end of it from her for not being there when my kids are born.”

“What I’m trying to say is that I’ve watched as you all changed from a group of peasants into your own army. So I know how important your home means to you. Yes, we’ve taught you how to defend your home, but it’s your determination to wake up in your homes tomorrow that will carrying you through today. Just follow the few of us that have come to help, and remember what we tried so hard to drill into your skulls. As long as you do these things, together we’ll crush these and horsemen and tell them that High Point is yours! We will not be moved!”

The thunderous response from the people of High point was overwhelming as they all raised their farm tools and makeshift weapons into the air along and cheered as Zerith raised his halberd. Unable to hide the wide grin on his face now that he was finally seeing what he, Vespassian, and Marcus had achieved, the prince quickly joined the front rank and eagerly waiting for the first signs of the horsemen as they rode into High Point.

He couldn’t wait to see the look on the horsemen as their cavalry crashed into them like a wave upon a cliff.