V: Strategos

[The International]

Strategos

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Set in the Corone Civil War. Sequel to V: The Jagged Masquerade.

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It echoed…

I smother lights out
‘Till it is bright out,
On just another deadly night.
Are you willing to sacrifice your life?

That song was all too familiar to Bartholomew Atkins of High Point, Corone. Who would have thought a little holiday chant to scare the children would be the driving force behind an entire army? Yet here he stood with his fellow townsmen on a field outside the town of Idleworth – a town very much like his own save for one very big difference. Idleworth was in the hands of Corone’s Empire. High Point was free.

The sky was a muted grey today as if the Thayne mocked the mere mortals from above with a mirror to the Anti-Firmament. The soft ground muffled the steps of Bart and his compatriots as they scrambled to get into formation. The musty scent of sweat stuffed his nose as he bumped shoulder pads of boiled leather with other soldiers. He made it to his position – the front line, where he saw what lay ahead of them. A beautiful field of grass whipped in the almost absent wind like a single emerald flag. Idleworth stood as nothing more than a small cluster of brick and mortar that peeked above the horizon with fear. Little did she know; these soldiers came to liberate her from the Empire, from the Rangers, from everything. As usual what stood between them were several walls of stainless steel provided by the island nation’s young Empire. Bart saw all of this through a mask that transformed him.

During the planting season Bartholomew was nothing more than a simple potato farmer from High Point, a town of no more than eleven thousand on a little plateau in Corone’s Jagged Mountains. He could barely read, he had five children, and a wife that made him laugh more than any jester ever could. But here as he stood in a uniform of boiled black leather, as he held a fifteen foot long pike made of well seasoned ash and Akashiman forged steel, and as he wore that mask… that bronze drama mask that exuded a sinister crazed smile, he was a monster willing to kill any that stood in his way. He and eight thousand of his companions donned these sadistic façades to form The Masquerade.

“Mon-ster… Mon-ster… Mon-ster… Mon-ster.” That chant began to carry through the army, and Bart remembered the words of one of the army’s creators, the young man simply known as V. This begins the Ephodos phase, when you begin your march towards your enemy slowly increasing in pace.

And so Bart’s left leg stomped forward to the ‘Mon’, and his right leg stomped forward to the ‘Ster’ as if each leg had a mind of its own. It seemed as though his heart was in league with his legs for it too seemed to pulsate with the chant. His hands began to sweat inside his leather gloves, and for some unknown reason the muscles on his face began to curve up until he was smiling that same sadistic smile that was on his mask. The living wall of opposition was not oblivious to this. How could they be? Although the Empire’s knights feigned fearlessness behind their full suits of armor, their mounts did not lie. They budged about until one knight finally began to trot forward. Another followed. Then another. Then some more. Finally they united in a charge, and thus began the second stage of battle.

The second stage of battle, Krousis, is when the opposing forces meet each other along a mutual front. Those who occupy the front lines must by physically and psychologically fit to sustain much of the clash, and the outcome of the battle can almost always be traced back to how well this phase is handled.

The call for halt came, and the chant ended. Bart stopped as if frozen by the Berevar winds. Another command came, and he entered his battle stance: left side to the enemy, right side away, right hand holding the pike over, left hand holding the pike under. And then another command specifically meant for the charge of cavalry. He looked up at the shimmering oversized spearhead of his pike, and then looked at the other side, the butt, which was nothing more than a wooden stake, but it was enough for the purpose of this tactic. With a grunt he stabbed the soft ground with the butt of the pike and got on his knees. A fellow soldier stood behind him in battle stance offering his pike to the opposition as well. A quick glance down the line and it was obvious that the Masquerade met the Empire with a wall of its own, and this one had the lion’s share of spikes.

The knights’ shimmering thunder approached and met the Masquerade with deadly consequences. Bart lay his eyes on the knight destined to clash with him. Through the limited sight of his mask he could see the amber steed moving earth beneath it as its flanks of ruby and gold fluttered about its sides. The quatrain of bass like thuds became louder and louder, and the knight atop the mount finally lowered his lance. Bart almost crossed his eyes looking at the lance as it was aimed so precisely. The knight came closer and closer, ever increasing in speed until they met… and the knight hung himself on the bladed noose that was Bart’s pike. All along the front line horsemen’s feet flew up to where their heads once were. A crimson cloud of emerged from fountains of life’s blood. The vast majority of that cloud came from the knights. Screams of agony and choking last breaths echoed along the countryside for only a moment. Bart’s heart slammed at his ribcage as he rid his pike of a knight’s body. He looked to his left. No knights. He looked to his right. A Masquerade soldier was carried off. He knew that multicolored mask anywhere. It was one of his close friends, but it was just a broken leg.

Back to Ephodos. “Mon-ster. Mon-ster. Mon-ster. Mon-ster.”

I truly am one, Bart thought to himself as they marched forward to tear down Idleworth’s second wall. This was a wall of tempered ash topped with tarnished steel spikes. Pikes… Like ours? Bart thought. In addition to that the men that wielded them were uncoordinated and hesitant, donning a motley mix-match of helmets and personal armor. With a shout barely audible to Bart’s ears they moved forward like molasses. This was a tactic befitting the Empire, and Bart and his fellow Masks were warned this day would come. The Empire had drafted some of the townsmen of Idleworth and did their best to mirror the image of the Masquerade in a psychological move. They were posing a question to them. Would you dare fight your own people? Bart had an answer. So long as he had that mask on… Yes!

Doratismos, the third phase of battle, is when it comes time to engage in the enemies before you on an individual basis. Make use of repeated and rapid pike strikes in order disrupt the enemy’s formation.

The Empire had done them a favor this time around. These helmets and metal bonnets hid the eyes and faces that were surely petrified in fear. Their hesitation showed that as they neared the Maskquerade’s front line. The first clash against this uncoordinated cluster was clearly one sided. Bart managed to get five kills in with only a few fell swoops as Idleworth’s pikes were at least three feet shorter than the Masquerade’s. Bart parried a thrust, and slid the blade of his pike down the shaft until it met the enemy’s arm and nearly severed it. They joined their brothers in a chorus of screams. He took down two men in a horizontal swing that he was quite proud of. Ruby waterfalls preceded a sausage dish of intestines.

A new order rang in Bart’s ears. Soil! He rose his pike as an ode to the sky then dropped it down as if to dig into his land at home. His pike hit nothing but soil, but all around him heads and arms were nearly severed and the coppery smell of blood mixed with the musk of sweat. Wheat! He swung his pike from left to right catching several pieces of flesh in its path. Plow! His favorite, a direct and plain thrust forward to make a skewer. It all worked without fail like an Aleraran clockwork. Finally light began to shine through the cracks of this makeshift wall thus it was time for the next phase.

Othismos, the fourth and hopefully final phase of battle, is when you see holes in the enemy’s lines. Find them and push through them as a unit. This way the still fresh soldiers in the center and rear guard will be able to engage directly with the enemy as you pour through and attack from the inside.

The command came from behind a cadence of clashing arms and a strong shoulder dug into the small of Bart’s back. He had no choice but to run forward despite an enemy pike pointing forward to meet him. He used the shaft of his own pike to push the spearhead aside, and with the velocity of countless men behind him he ran headfirst into the opposing soldier before him. The enemy flew back and knocked others over in a domino effect, and Bart proceeded to truly plow the fields sewing the cold steel of his pike and reaping the blood of his enemies. He didn’t stop moving forward. He couldn’t. His boots were now covered in a foul mixture of mud and blood thus he could no longer hear himself marching, but it didn’t matter anymore. They had broken through the line of draftees and the trend of retreat began.

The poor draftees of Idleworth were but a curtain, and as that curtain drew it revealed the Empire’s last stand – a brand new wall of short swords and buckler shields that numbered in the thousands. While the sun had been blotted out by the low lying clouds, each agile soldier in this regiment seemed to carry piece of the sun on his circular shield. With the Masquerade almost completely out of formation, they charged. The swordsmen maneuvered in between the pikes and engaged in extreme close quarters. Many of the Masks attempted a futile defense with the butts of their poles. Bart’s friends fell quickly around him, and his heart began to beat hard again. The Empire’s sword and buckler fighters met the Masquerade with surgical precision – slashes were between leather plating, stabs met necks and collars. One charged for him. The chorus of screams came from the Masquerade now. He lunged backwards doing his best to keep his distance but to no avail. The warrior was closing in on him! In a grunt of desperation he swung at the Imperial pawn, but he easily ducked under the attack and lunged forward.

The short sword found its way into Bart’s stomach just below the leather breastplate. Bart fell back wide eyed as a stinging sensation spread about his lungs. Soon they refused to breathe, and he began to jerk and choke for the air that was clearly present. After a few moments of panic a tingling sensation overcame his entire body, and finally…

… he slept.

[The International]

Roderick


Daily walks were routine for Roderick Thatcher, come sun, rain, snow or… war. Even if his muscles burned from a battle three days passed, even if wounds stitched back together by his wife still stung like a thousand bees, and even if his eyes still yearned to close from a severe lack of tears that had fallen for his fellow brothers in arms, he walked. As tired as he was this was more than exercise. A fit man in his mid thirties could easily handle more than this if the purpose was exercise. This was meditation. The crisp mountain air of Corone’s Jagged Peaks worked like a bag of ice on his bruised pride. He looked above the azure mountains and saw the multicolored sky of evening’s dusk as a quilt of warm colors that fended against the cold fever of weariness. Finally the coppery taste of homemade ale was like the nourishing milk of a mother’s tit. He cocked his head back and suckled once more. When he lowered his tan bottle of beer, seven men stood before him waist deep in amber highland wheat. Walks on Tuesdays always ended with a downer like this. Their superficial smiles didn’t help the matter.

“Ho there, Thatcher!” The tallest of them, a man by the name of Ben Barnes, spoke in a voice that crashed deep like the waves of the Am’aleh seas. At a stunning seven feet tall, his jovial ways failed to quell the fears of many. Roderick admired the lovable oaf’s almost militant optimism. He needed it tonight. They all needed it tonight.

“Ho there, Barnes.” Thatcher was noticeably quieter as he approached the circle, his free hand gliding along the furry wheat stocks along his waist. “Please continue.”

“Ye’ just in time. We were just startin’.” He was hoping to just miss the numbers out of pity for the man that just happily greeted him. He didn't want to watch Ben have to smile through it. It would just remind him of what, correction: who they had lost.

“The battle for Idleworth was successful. The town has been liberated and several of the native males have decided to join the ranks of the Masquerade – nine-hundred and thirty-seven so far. However,” Asamil, whose muscles seemed to be inflated like an Aleraran balloon hesitated to continue. “We lost one-thousand four-hundred and fifty-two men in the process.”

Carlton Mathis, Mayor of High Point and Commander of The Masquerade let the weight of the revelation take him over for a moment as he adjusted his spectacles. He cleared his throat keeping his steely grey eyes to the steely grey mountains in the distance. “Which guard suffered the most loss?”

“Mine.” Barnes spoke up, bold but sullen. “My Vanguard took north of eleven-hundred deaths, Mayor. The blade & buckler soldiers were wily in their maneuvers. Chaotic they were. The Hedgehog formation was finally found to be an effective defense until the Mainguard dominated with numbers, but by then we had suffered much of the toll. There was almost no Vanguard to return home with.”

“We were all there, Officer Barnes.” Kirin, a scant boy of twenty seven said with wild bangs covering his eyes. Thatcher scoffed at his weakness, but then scolded himself on the inside for being such a hypocrite. Did he not intentionally arrive late and halfway intoxicated for the same reasons Kirin attempted to move on? Miserable. The boy continued. “Shall we get to our next operation?”

“So be it. I nominate Willowtown.” The Mayor spoke quickly as he crossed his hands over the chest of his velvet doublet. “It is a few hundred miles directly south of here at the northern plains. We control Idleworth to the northwest, Concordia is to the south and east. It would be only natural to round out our sphere of influence. Any objections?”

As usual all complied. Roderick couldn’t blame them. They couldn’t help that they were all simpletons without knowledge of the world around them. All they knew was High Point, Radasanth, and anything that lay in between. They simply trusted in the wisdom of their Mayor and Commander, whom not-so-foolishly made the choice. Fool or not, he made the wrong one. Roderick raised his hand in objection, and all eyes fell on him in confusion, except for the Mayor’s. Carlton failed to veil the steel daggers that were his eyes aimed at Roderick. They had argued about this in private several times. Roderick had promised not to bring the issue to the top officers, but the lives of his fellow townspeople depended on it.

“We keep going southwest, ever closer to Radasanth and into ever more dire battles. Our losses are becoming ever steeper.” He paused to let the officers think a moment. No matter how intimidating the Masquerade was as rumors of its might spread about the countryside, the men who donned those masks were still simple farmers. “Instead of going south, let us head directly west to Oreville.”

“West? Thatcher, look at me. I stand here facing you and looking directly south. Behind you is our fair High Point. To my left, mountains. To my back, more mountains, and to my right…”

“Mountians.” Ben gushed.

“Yes. Mountains, terrain that we have yet to encounter or train for. If we attack Oreville, we face that distinct disadvantage. Now… All in favor of Willowtown?”

“Oreville boasts the island’s most productive mines. If we take that town over we’ll be able to improve our weapons, replace that flimsy boiled leather excuse for armor, and the Empire won’t be able to send as many reinforcements due to the town’s lack of accessibility.”

“The Empire will send reinforcements regardless of where we attack. What they lack in reinforcements they will make up for in local drafts.” Carlton’s voice became a quiet blow dart whenever he got angry. Roderick wasn’t the only to notice that. The other officers became tense at the realization that this wasn’t a typical democratic debate. This was a real argument. “Would you have Imperial soldiers, who chose to risk their lives die at your pike’s end, or would you rather slaughter men like yourselves because that’s what we will result in doing if we advance on Oreville.”

“You know as well as I do that it does not matter who the Empire puts in our way.” Roderick’s eyes were wide with anger. “As long as we have that mask on, we kill whoever that is.”

“Let’s put it to the vote then.”

“Stop!” The mountains mocked Roderick’s show of anger, sending his screeching voice back at him and through the grey stone town behind him. He didn’t have to look to see heads popping out of windows and around corners. He could even hear a wooden door here and there squeaking open. Embarrassment be damned. Despite this being a war, they had suffered too many needless deaths. He had suffered one too great. This was for Bart Atkins. “You tell them why you don’t want Oreville or I will. Tell them like you told me, old friend.”

Old friend. Those words stung the tongue like bad whiskey, perhaps because this marked the end of the friendship between him and the Mayor. Carlton sighed as he looked down at the wheat stocks at his knees. “This is simply one of many reasons… The Rangers depend on that town’s iron to be shipped through Aka…”

"You see?" Roderick said as he looked upon his compatriots with fire in his eyes. "You see how he gives us to the Empire on the Ranger's behalf? We're nothing but bottom barrel whores in his brothel."

“Eat shit!” Carlton’s voice echoed now as he took a belligerent step forward. “Last I remember, the man who taught us how to hold those weapons was a member of the Rangers.”

“One of them!” Thatcher stuck an angry finger up. “The other had just finished working for the Empire and Thayne knows the third one didn’t care for either. We don’t owe anything to anyone, and yet here you are bending over and spreading your cheeks…”

A knuckle cracked on the corner of Thatcher’s left jaw sending a raw bolt of pain through his head as he stumbled back. Without thinking he dug his foot into the ground and prepared to launch himself at the Mayor as the other officers yelled in objection and began to move to intervene. With a thrust, his feet left the ground and his right fist coiled back like a copperhead. Nothing would stop him… save for the massive forearm of Ben Barnes, who hooked him at the abdomen and sent him in the opposite direction. His feet and hands fluttered like a banner in the wind until his ass hit the ground with a great thud.

The officer of the Vanguard waited until the others managed to calm Carlton down to speak. His eyes didn’t laugh anymore. His face was strawberry red. “If anyone should be angry…” His breathing became shallow as his eyebrows cringed. “It was proclaimed by V that the officer of the guard must inform the next of kin of the soldier’s death. Kirin has to inform forty. Roderick you have to inform near a hundred. I have to inform eleven hundred. We have been at this for three months, and I do not recognize one face from the beginning. Not one! The women of High Point fear me. Nay, they hate me! Because they know that when I knock on their doors… The vote goes to every soldier in a week. They will choose.”

Ben sauntered back towards the town, his sullen steps sinking into the ground. One would have mistaken him for the direling who had to hold the sky up. Roderick felt the vibration of one of his feet as it hit the ground just ahead of him, and he could have sworn the giant man stepped clear over him even as he began to stand. Ben spoke one more time with his back to them all. “And V is on his way. We got the word today. We shall see what he has to say about this.”

[The International]

Maelle

Maelle Villeneuve loved her little brother. He was the most intellectually gifted member of their family. His unconventional way of thinking made him entertaining to be around especially when he thought aloud or paced back and forth. She chuckled at the thought as she turned the corner of a building. She glanced up at the colossal bronze statue of Radasanth the Savior, for whom this busy, loud, and stinky city was named, and all she could think of was the first time Vespasian had seen that statue. Back in the day, when she and her sister were bickering teenagers and he was a stinky mass of unfocused energy, it was up to them to take care of him. Now he was taking care of not just her, but the entire family. She smiled at the towering elf as her feet left the sidewalk and crunched on the gravel street. Merchants and carriage drivers cursed at her for slowing them down. T’was the tradition of Radasanth. Pride compelled her to straighten her back and raise her chin at these men, but it all popped and deflated at the sight of Vespasian leaning on the carriage he had ordered with his hands shading his eyes from the afternoon sun and his pale face clumped up with extreme discomfort. He was hung over, and to make matters worse…

“Why isn’t there an issue of the Radasanth Reader in your drinking hand?” Maelle pointed at the clear glass of imported Salvic whisky as it seemed to glow in the morning light. She stood frozen in time for a moment.

“Um… I think that question just answered itself.” Vespasian stood straight up and invited her into the wooden box on wheels beside him. “And you can relax. I already put the latest copy in the carriage, mother.”

“Don’t call me that.” Maelle growled through clenched teeth as she stepped into the carriage. She had always been picked on for having a motherly nature. “I hate it when you do that.”

“Then quit acting like one.” Surely Vespasian knew he was striking a nerve. Why he saw the need to persist was beyond her. “Although you do beat Mom in the nurturing and coddling department. That’s a good thing for when you have kids.” Such a futile attempt at making amends. “What did you want to show me in there anyways?”

“Page four.” Maelle reached outside the circular hole that served as a window and hit the carriage twice. With an abrupt jolt the it began to move forward, and the shops and inns of Radasanth began to pass by. She occupied herself with the view as she waited for Vespasian to finish reading Peabody Polk’s latest editorial. He was a slow reader so she didn’t bother to look to see if he had finished the article.

The pat of the half worn fold of papers upon the hard wooden seat between them let her know he was done. “Good for them…” Vespasian muttered quietly as he took a sip of his whiskey. Maelle could see that he was trying to hide his smile behind it.

Maelle crossed her arms and smiled. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say? Fine! I’ll recite it.” Vespasian shot daggers at her through his pure amber eyes. That was the benefit of reading slow. He remembered every word of a piece of literature on the first go round and made sure everyone knew. “Okay. I’ll paraphrase, you uppity little…”

“I learned it from you.” Vespasian took a sip again and mumbled “The uppity part.”

“The eight to ten thousand men who call themselves The Masquerade have been sweeping the island’s northern highlands. For the last six months this force of masked pike men has descended from the Jagged Mountains and invaded every town in its sight. No one knows for sure where they came from, but some investigations are pointing to a few towns on the limited plateaus of the mountains. What seems to be more intimidating to citizens than the sadistic masks or the deadly pikes is the distinct lack of a banner. This force does not fight for the Empire, as evidenced by their frequent clashes with our army. Nor do they fight for the Rangers, who have come to the aid of several hamlets closer to the forest. Just as the people of the countryside were adjusting to the sight of the two main combatants, a third, unknown fighter enters the fray and disrupts their notion of the conflict…” She looked over at Vespasian, who had squeezed the lower half of his face out of the tiny window. Her frustration got the best of her. “What in the Great Pyre are you doing!? Were you even listening to me?”

“My ears are still inside the carriage, Maelle.” Vespasian’s muffled voice resonated through the wooden frame as his leather laden ass poked out at her. She leaned away at the sight of it. “Before you ask I’m trying to see how many smells I can get out of Radasanth before we pass the northern wall. It really is a world class city. Fallien spices put to use at the restaurants. Aleraran coals burning in the smithies. Fruits of Dheathain drying in the sun. There’s only the slightest hint of native horseshit.”

“That goes to show how highly you think of this city. I like Radasanth this time of year. It’s not too hot, not to cold. All the harvest of the farms around the island comes in and all the cafes have such a diverse menu. It’s nice to know this civil war only resulted in a slight rise in food prices.” She edged her nose out to the edge of the window. The aroma graced her nose, filled her head, settled to the back of her tongue, fell to the pit of her stomach, and finally triggered her gag reflex. “Just the slightest hit of horseshit? Really?” Maelle pinched her nose and turned into the cabin to see that trademark Villeneuve grin upon her brother’s face.

“We’re in a carriage behind two horses, Sister! Did I just succeed in deceiving you?” Vespasian cackled like a hyena. “You, the con artist of our family?”

“Stop.” Maelle cried in a whiny voice as she gave Vespasian a playful slap on the shoulder. She suddenly realized that his distinct lack of ability to focus was contagious. It was time to get back to the subject. She snapped a finger in his face as the smile quickly disappeared from her own. “So brief me on the situation.”

“Simple. Just a routine check up on my investment.”

...The Masquerade.

“And I need you to get a good read on the civilians.”

...Spy on them.

“And tell me how they’re feeling about things.”

...Snitch. got it. They made sure not to explicitly state any entities or actions sensitive to the situation. Good covert operatives spoke in riddles for they never knew who was listening, and although they had plausible deniability reading a newspaper before, this was different.

“You don’t trust your own judgment?” She could feel the smile cropping up on her face.

“I’m good at reading people, but you’re better.” He rolled up the sleeves of his white tunic surely to avoid watching her bask in her own glory. Suddenly an eyebrow rose as he looked back up. “And you have nothing better to do.”

“Thanks. I feel so needed.” She tilted her head and gave him a sour smile. “You know I don’t see why you don’t just take the helm yourself.”

“We’ve been through this.” He rolled his eyes and turned away. “I’m not a citizen.”

“You might as well be an honorary citizen.” Maelle moved forward as she quieted her voice. “Those brigands were stealing their crops, killing their men, raping their women, and you helped them. You taught them how to fend for themselves and look at them now. Both the Empire and the Rangers tremble at the mention of them.”

“Correction – I and two others taught them…” Vespasian looked over his shoulder as he tapped the silver cats head pommel on the end of his sheathed schiavona. A sign of anxiety. Maelle knew this. She would push a bit more. Maybe this was a reason for him to avoid the role he was destined to play with them, but it wasn’t the reason.

“But it was your idea!” She put her hands on his shoulders. “And if you’re thinking you’d be tied down to Corone you could take them anywhere you wanted to after this whole civil war fiasco is over.”

“Have you forgotten the banner on our family crest?” He slid further over until he touched the opposite wall of the carriage. He was retreating. If he could leave he would have. Maelle was sure of it. She could still push. “The invisible hand…”

“From age to age. I know.” She followed him. “But that makes this perfect.” She motioned her hands around her face miming the anonymity of a mask.

“So what? Someone smart enough.” Vespasian turned and faced her dead on. “Determined enough, and resourceful enough will find out.” He leaned forward and locked eyes with her. “And what would we do then, big sis?”

Maelle averted her gaze to the floor. “I don’t know.” She did know, but now wasn’t the time to reveal it. He was beginning to push back, and it wouldn’t matter what she had to say after that point. Maelle believed in personal glory, and she believed that Vespasian deserved to bask in its light. Every member of their family had their niche and a reputation behind it… except for him. He was the mastermind, and while everyone was damn good at what they did, he knew what they could do as a unit. As the man behind the curtain he was never given credit for his deeds. That wasn’t fair, and convincing him to claim the credit he deserved would take time and patience. She had both. “…So. Where will we be stopping for the night?”

Maelle would let him win this battle.

[The International]

Vespasian

“The town of High Point is in sight.” The driver’s voice pushed through the wood of the carriage.

“Oh thank the Six Faces of Thayne.” Maelle blurted out as she slumped in her seat with relief.

“Thank the Six Faces of Thayne indeed.” Vespasian said as he rolled his eyes at his prissy older sister. “After seven days of hearing you bitching and moaning about being cramped and bored, the end is finally in sight.”

“Spending every hour of sunlight for those seven days in this thing is a pain in the ass, and you know it.” Maelle covered her mouth much to Vespasian’s amusement. He caught a slap in the shoulder. “See? You’re rubbing off on me.”

Vespasian smiled and slapped the top of the carriage. “No offense.” He yelled. A chuckle came from up top as he opened the door to his right and looked out. His heart punched at his chest a few times as he watched the large timbre wheel behind him kiss the edge of the rocky mountain trail. They were only inches away from falling through a layer of whipped cream clouds and into the main valley of the Jagged Mountains. The trail followed a curving mountain edge until it ended at a silver limestone wall that spat out a hissing waterfall at its base. Vespasian envisioned that white tower of water joining the little stream at the main valley’s floor and eventually becoming the Niema River, the unimpressive but useful waterway the country’s capital so desperately depended on. Or was it so high that all the water evaporated before it hit the bottom? Or did it combine with a stream that led elsewhere? No mind. Vespasian turned to his sister. “Don’t say anything bad about what you see or I’ll push you out.”

With a scowl Maelle replaced him as he sat back in his seat. A moment passed. “It’s my lucky day. I have nothing to say about a wall.”

“It’s what’s behind that wall that matters.” Vespasian helped her back to her seat and closed the door. He knew she was going to say that. “Thirty two square miles of the most fertile land on the island, a wall of mountains on three sides, and that leaping waterfall on the fourth. They call it the Hanging Valley. There’s a narrow pass leading north to Oreville, another one leading south to Concordia, a secret cave spelunking expedition that leads southeast to Akashima, and this one. All of them make High Point easy to deploy from because they’re downhill, but difficult to attack because that would be going uphill. The earth has made this little town almost impregnable. It’s a wonder they let those brigands beat them up the way they did before we came along…” A grin from Maelle stopped him. “What?” he quieted his voice “Did I say too much?”

“Did you realize you were smiling from ear to ear?” Maelle crossed her arms in front of her chest as she leaned towards him with that all too common dominant body language that came from being the eldest Villeneuve child.

He replaced that smile that he now felt with a rebellious scowl as he leaned away from her. He didn’t need to give her more ammunition for her eventual case of him taking over the Masquerade. Best to change the subject. “That ‘salt of the earth’ look suits you. Trying to find common ground with the people of High Point?” He directed her attention to her attire, a simple white blouse lined with lamb’s wool and black leather trousers. Her pale brown hair was done into a wreath of braids that met in the back as a few stray bangs draped over her teal eyes. “Decided to keep your wizard’s hat, though?”

“It’s the most inconspicuous one in the world.” Maelle’s smile turned sly as she tapped her braid with her index finger and a tiny spark flew off of it. She winked. “No one would ever know.”

The sound of squeaking metal let him know that they were at High Point’s tall rusty gates. The click clack of the horses’ shoes came to a halt, as did the rattling of the carriage. That was his queue, so he took a deep breath and stepped into the sliver stone haven that was High Point. The crisp but thin mountain air greeted him with a refreshing breeze as the stone edifices stood to honor his arrival. Several townspeople stopped and waved with exuberance. A chorus of welcome backs and we missed yous serenaded his ears, but it almost faded when he felt the presence of his sister beside him. It was natural for them to wonder who that was. They would find out soon enough. Directly in front of them stood a man with well kept auburn hair, pale skin, and steel grey eyes that matched the mountainous backdrop of the town.

“Carlton.” Vespasian said with a welcoming gesture as he approached. They locked forearms with one hand and gave a masculine embrace with another. “It’s good to see you.” He said in the ear of the Mayor of High Point.

“It’s good to see you too, V, but before we go any further.” Carlton intercepted a familiar face as he passed by and kindly asked that he assist the carriage driver with their luggage, two brown chests, one three times the size of the other. Of course, that one belonged to Maelle. He then handed the man a coin purse and asked him to escort the carriage man to the inn. The Mayor mumbled through his smile. “We’re well versed at keeping the town secret nowadays. Do you know how many people had to fall off those cliffs before we learned our lesson?” Vespasian couldn’t help but laugh at that. “I know. I know. For someone like yourself that’s a source of comedy, but everyone learned, and quick. Everyone will keep their mouths shut for his sake. Not ours.”

They waited until the driver was out of earshot. Vespasian suddenly dropped to the ground with a sigh of relief. “Oh to finally be able to talk openly about the Masquerade is liberating.” The clouds in the pale blue afternoon sky seemed to mimic his happiness as they swept by. He swung his arms and feet along the ground until he made an angel out of the gravel as he chanted. “Masquerade Masquerade Masquerade Masquerade. It’s like music to my ears. And not that pansy Raiaeran sing song garbage either. I’m talking Aleraran brass symphony with a drum line from Gisela… Ow!” A shot to his rib brought him back to reality as Maelle got between him and his view of the sky. “You’re blocking my view, Sis.”

“Ah, so this is your sister? The eligible women of the town need not worry then.” Carlton said as he bowed and flashed a courteous smile. He held a hand up to keep her from talking. “No. No. Let me guess… A. That’s a feminine letter. Shall we call you A?”

Maelle shook her head with a smile.

“Or is it… Y?”

She giggled and shrugged her shoulders.

“ J?”

“Let me spare you the time, Mayor.” Maelle curtsied holding up an invisible skirt. “Call me M. Our mother would be A, although you probably won’t have the pleasure of meeting her.”

“Tell me, M. Does your brother’s formidability come from your mother? And is she as pretty as you?” Vespasian had to laugh at the Mayor as he got up and dusted his black doublet off. Such a feeble attempt at flattery would get him nowhere.

“To answer each of those questions in order: yes and no.” Maelle snapped her gaze at Vespasian. He stumbled back in fear from the deadly teal rays she shot at him. “Don’t you dare tell her I said that. I have enough on you to make her beat you twenty times over.”

“Hey, we all have our secrets.” Vespasian held his hands up as he looked at the Mayor. “The Harpies are afraid of our mother.”

“Hahaha…” Carlton stopped laughing as fast as he started. He surely realized Vespasian and Maelle weren’t laughing. “You don’t jest?”

“Oh it’s funny.” Vespasian smiled. They all laughed for a moment before he snapped them back to reality as his face went cold as ice in an instant. “But it’s true. We’ve actually seen Harpies fly away from her in fear when we were in Fallien a year back.”

An awkward silence filled only with the ambient noise of human activity all around them followed until Carlton finally broke the trend. “So you are both staying with me while in High Point, and you are both having tea with me. Are you hungry as well? I have potato soup brewing.”

“That’s quite alright, Mayor.” Maelle said with an apologetic look on his face. “I’ll let you boys have your time. I’m sure you have a lot of catching up to do. It’s been half a year, hasn’t it?”

“I insist.” Carlton smiled. “I brought the good tea out just for this occasion and I have more than enough for three. I can also brew you some coffee if that’s what you prefer.”

“Thank you.” Maelle said. “But I’d much rather explore the success story that is the town of High Point.”

Carlton looked to Vespasian with what seemed to be a slightly troubled smile. He wished he were in Maelle’s head right now. She had probably been reading him like a book from the moment she saw him. If he merely sensed this discomfort, she probably knew exactly what it was about. He flashed the Mayor an equally uncomfortable smile as he shrugged his shoulder. “Don’t look at me. She’s my older sister. She has seniority over me.”

…Bullshit… but Carlton didn’t know that.

The Mayor stepped aside and opened a hand to the busy town behind him. “Be our guest. So long as you are here you will be treated as one of us. Nay, better than one of us for word of V’s sister, M, has surely made it to the furthest reaches of the town by now.”

Maelle curtsied once again and went on her way.