The Masquerader (Chapter 1)

            A force of soldiers marched through Ahunuan and kept a stony silence, broken only by the metallic clang of their boots hitting the cobblestones. They ignored the waifs that begged for gold coins. Many kicked at the young ones who knew no better than to grab at the shining armor, laughing with their fellows when their hard boots hit fragile bodies.
            The youngest recruits jumped at every unexplained sound and tapped the hilts of their swords. Each soldier, no matter how gruff and sturdy, glanced up and studied the shadows for movement. One man leaned over to his comrade and whispered in the Duritanian language with optimism that was not matched by the majority, “Maybe he won't show up this time.”
            The other hissed angrily, “Shut up! Do you want to jinx it?” He fell quiet again under their heavy gaze, as if solemn silence could save them.
            Suddenly black and gold flew, making the air thrum. Complete chaos broke out as the peasants searched the roofs for a glimpse of the infamous vigilante, breaking into an excited buzz, and the soldiers drew their swords with a thunderous ring.
            ...And then silence.
Clanging echoed around the narrow street as the optimistic man fell to his knees, the wooden shaft that seemed to terrify the soldiers more than any sword buried in his throat. His eyes were bulging with horror, and blood trickled down his chin, dribbling onto his bright armor. He fell face down onto the ground.
            He was here.
            The soldiers who had bows pulled them from their tubes immediately, stringing them with adept ease, and scanned the shadow covered roofs for a black figure. Some soldiers frowned at the peasants who burst into cheers but most didn't divert their attention from the measly shadows of noon lurking on the edges of the crowd. Such shadows could barely veil a child, much less a full grown man.
            Suddenly, four men fell with arrows buried in their back, and the soldiers moved into a protective formation, each with their back against another. Shields were drawn and placed to protect the neck and chest, his favorite target. “Come out of the shadows, coward! Face us like a true man,” the commander shouted to the shadows and waited for a reply.
            After moments of nothing, a slight figure dressed in a black tunic and trousers dropped in front of the commander after moments of silence and pulled him close before he could draw his sword. The soldiers raised their bows only to find them useless unless they wished to shoot their own leader in the back. The figure shook the commander almost playfully, in a way bait is waved on a fishing line, and revealed the sparkling blade of a dagger.
            The commander was looking into serious blue eyes, peering out of holes framed with whimsical lashes, belaying the laughable appearance of the mask. He went cold at the porcelain lips that smiled that turned up in a clownish, almost gruesome way. It depicted the face of a woman with pink cheeks and black hair painted in such a way to suggest it had been powdered blue. The hood of a cloak hid the criminal's hair but did nothing to shadow the horrible mask that had become a sign of terror for all Duritanians.
            There was a long, mocking pause, and the vigilante plunged his blade into the man's stomach. He twisted it and watched the pallor come underneath the tan of Duritanian's. He put the porcelain lips to the commander's ear and whispered, “Call me a coward now.” His eyes gleamed at the shock that appeared on the dying man's face and pulled the blade out quickly, letting him fall to the ground in a crumpled pile. He backed away as the few archers fumbled with their bows.
            “Shoot! Shoot, you idiots!” the commander gasped though the blood trickling from his mouth gurgled the message.
            No one was waiting for an order though. Each soldier felt as though they had a personal vendetta against the murderer. Bows twanged in an odd melody as the men fired.
            As the waifs scattered to avoid the rain of arrows, dust thickened the air, hiding the arrows and their target.
            Peasants prayed for the survival of their idol while the soldiers told themselves that he couldn't have possibly survived the volley. Everyone, soldier and civilian alike, waited in dead silence.
            An arrow flew from the dust and lodged itself into yet another soldier.
            The dust cleared to relieve the suspense and revealed emptiness. He had escaped.
            “That is another seven men this bastard has done away with!” one of the soldiers finally yelled to his fellows.
            The beggars quickly disappeared to spare themselves the wrath of the outraged militia and spread the news to others.
            The soldier glanced at the six who had been shot down and cursed as the last arrow faded and was no more, leaving only the bloody gash and death to tell of its presence. He assumed command as highest ranked officer and waved toward the corpses as a signal for the survivors to carry them back to the castle to show the royal advisers.
            The one who had been elected to carry the commander hesitated at the sight of so much blood and nudged him with his boot to see if any life could be awakened. He bit back a startled scream when his boot was grasped and bent down when the commander tried to speak. “What did you say, sir?”
            “G-g-g,” he attempted, his eyes, filled with pain, searching the private's face desperately for some sign of comprehension.
            “Of course, sir” he murmured and smiled gently, pretending to understand the gargled whisper to give the poor man peace.
            Darkness began to crawl over the commander and would not be fought. “Find...” he whispered, and his grip eased on the soldier's boot.
            “Rest in peace, sir,” the man murmured and removed his own cloak to cover the dead man's face. He picked him up with a slightly disgusted grunt and followed his troop to the castle.
            The masked man watched from the alley shadows, undetected, but didn’t draw an arrow. The soldier was too young. He had promised himself he would only kill the ones responsible for Maliel's fall and would be careful not to kill anyone who had just reached the mandatory joining age of eighteen. He looked out on the street when the young boy had left with his victim in his arms and let a second pass for the mourning of the casualties of a revolution that had yet to truly start. He took his quiver off and counted the arrows that were clothed in black feathers with golden stripes racing downward. Smiling, he swung it back onto his shoulder. Fifteen, as many as he had started with. He glanced around the street again and found it empty. He jogged deeper into the alley and melted into the shadows.
.           .           .
            A tavern had closed an hour early. Last month it had been a smithy. Another had been a merchant shop. Next was supposed to be a seamstress' business.
            For all intents and purposes, it was holding no business. The seedy characters that normally haunted its entrance had been chased off. The tables were wiped clean. The chairs were upside down on top of the tables. Only one who knew what to look for would notice the fourth chair was missing from random tables. The candles had been snuffed out and were missing from others.
            What one couldn't see through the dirty front window would be revealed if one followed the man hurrying towards the business.
            He glanced around to see if there was anyone who could witness his doings. He opened the door when he had made sure the street was clear. Weaving through the maze of tables, he made his way to a back room. A faint light made its way under the door. He looked over his shoulder through the window, checking once again for an observer. Quickly, he entered the room, sacrificing his cloak after the door was closed to conceal the light.
            The small room was filled with warm bodies and loud voices as everyone glanced at the front of the room. Four candles sat in the corners of the room, barely illuminating the entire area. The candle light glinted off of sweat covered skin and added their heat to the stifling atmosphere. Whispers came from all over, "Did you hear?"
            "...Six more..."
            "...Actually came into the light..."
            The man made his way to the stairs that led up to a make-shift stage and listened to the conversations around him as some tapered off at the sight of him. Finally, after a grunt from another, he straightened his clothing and strode to the podium. He smiled as silence immediately fell upon the congregation. Clearing his throat, he looked down on the dirty, tired faces of his followers and felt the overpowering need to overthrow the Empire grow as it did every meeting. "I suppose we're all wanting the news on the Masquerader."
            A large man with a red face and beard to match laughed and replied in a thunderous voice with the rough accent of the southern peasantry, "Ever'one already knows. The old boy killed a couple more and actually got his hands a little dirty this time. Let's get this show on the road, Camden."
            Murmuring burst from the room at this statement.
            Camden let the people talk for a few moments, a bit unhappy with the lack of organization but unwilling to do much at the moment with no real plans in place as of yet, before the same red bearded man motioned him to continue. "Quiet!" he shouted and reveled in the complete attention everyone gave him. Not even he was immune to the songs of power, and it scared him late at night when he woke in a cold sweat, dreams of sweet tyranny still clear.
            He studied the familiar faces of his followers and glanced at the list resting on his podium. "The Duritanian armies are moving again. My sources say that Condrair, the country they're invading currently, is giving them a harder time than expected. With most of their focus on the invasion, now may be a good time to attack..." He closed his eyes as his audience again spoke over his next sentence. He sighed and ran a hand over his face. He knew this wasn't going to go over well. With a small, tired smile he motioned toward his right hand man, the bearded man, Rostoloff.
            "'E's not done yet! Quiet down!"
            Everyone immediately quieted except for one especially loud voice. "Are you insane, Camden? We are peasants. We have pitch forks and our grandfather's rusted swords if we're lucky. They have sabers, sharpened every night, and skilled archers. Things we'll give our lives to without a proper fight."
            Gane Shaebor was one of sickly complexion and had hair greased back with oil that that glinted in the candle light. His thin lips, fixed in a constant sneer, and the overall rat like appearance didn't make him a favorite with any of his fellow Malieans. The fact that he had fallen from a high spot with the king and still held enough of his pride to look down on his fellow peasants made it so that he was hated.
            He looked around for support and could only find embarrassed faces averting their gaze. His face twisted into the familiar expression of bitterness that constantly flickered in his eyes. "They've been training for their whole lives, while we've only just started. We'll be destroyed and our fellow countrymen will only suffer more because of our foolish actions. There will be other times. Please, let's not rush into something we can't possibly win."
            Camden stared at him with cold eyes and asked, "What do you suggest, Gane? Shall we wait until we're gray haired and weaker than we are now? Shall we wait until the Duritanians have grown so powerful they own the whole world? Do you really think we'll get those glittering sabers? We need to move now! Waiting will do nothing. People will still die. We'll still have the disadvantage a month, a year, a decade, a century from now." He raised an eyebrow when a hush fell over the room and finally said in mock surprise, "No answer! Have you disagreed without a plan to replace mine?"
            The thin man flinched away from the insult and looked down as to not reveal his anger stricken face. He shook slightly and without warning jumped up as Camden continued. Gane screamed, "This is for the Empire, you scum!" He yelled a Duritanian word three times and smiled nastily as soldiers swarmed into the room.
            They seemed to ignore the many peasants who flew for the many escapes that had been put in for that very purpose. They were intent on one man and one man only, a man that had eluded their grasp until now: the leader of the last revolutionary group, Camden Bartolv.
            Camden Bartolv was stuck on the stage with no way out as soldiers ran toward him. He swallowed and stuck his chin out, realizing his fate as his followers fled, oblivious to inescapable danger their leader faced. He raised his head and met the eyes of the nearest soldier, daring him to approach. He moved down stairs as the soldier approached to receive the challenge and jerked his arm away from the man's grasp. "Let me walk away alone," he hissed and straightened his shoulders as the last of his followers, Rostoloff, stood in the midst of a sea of armor. "And leave the innocent. You have who you want." He nodded at his right hand and walked out of the door without another word to his guard.