The Masquerader (Chapter Three)

            The soldier that had been ridiculed by his fellows and given ten extra lashes for being the one to release the arrow that had freed Camden Bartolv slunk out of the castle ground into the frigid evening, dressed in civilian clothing. His prominent, Duritanian nose, dark skin, and black hair made him different from the fair, Maliean peasants who were all given light pigmentation. They were pale skinned with light hair and eyes that were either blue or green. The Terribles hated them. Just like they hated the people of the east, the Condrairians who were clothed in their ebony skin and golden eyes. 

            He walked with a slouch and kept his hands in his trouser pockets, taking some comfort of the sheathed dagger hidden by his cloak. The city was dangerous for Duritanians. Any city was dangerous for the cruel soldiers, but these pale people hid a passion, a rage that was uncontested by any other race the young man had met. He stood at the entrance of an alley and scanned the gloom for any attackers, before continuing into the dark.

            He would be suspected as a traitor now, but he knew how to play the Terribles. He wouldn't recruit him for another month or two, and then he would appear in the little room the soldier paid an elderly inn keeper for. Tonight, he would find a bag of gold resting on his dresser with the next list of possible locations of his wife, a local of one of the countries the Empire had taken.

            A fluttering in a black corner caught his eye. He touched the hilt of his blade, ready for any hostile movement coming from the shadows and approached slowly.

            A cloak covered the body and shadowed the head. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of the corner, seeing empty bottles just beyond the cloaked figure. The soldier overcame his distaste, thinking it was merely a victim of too much drink, and crouched beside the figure. He moved the torso, so the poor man's back was resting, flat against the damp, cold stone of the alleyway. The hood fell back, and he gasped.

            A mask leered up at him with cheeks that could have been pink with the winter and laughing, holes where mocking blue eyes should have looked out of.

            The soldier looked back to the entrance of the alley and picked the Masquerader up, carefully. He moaned quietly and shivered. He felt the warm, thick liquid that had soaked through his tunic and cloak and felt chilling fear. Pulling his hand back, crimson with blood, he paled. The Masquerader could not die. Maliel wouldn't have a chance... and neither would his wife.

            The sun gave up the last bit of sky it had managed to hold onto and let it darken into a deep purple. The pink clouds that still reflected the light not seen were the only things that could remember its warmth. As the clouds forgot as well, the soldier put the hood back in place and moved farther into the shadows of the alley.

            The Masquerader murmured dream soaked nonsense and moved slightly in the soldier's arms.
            He quickened his pace, glancing around to see if anyone was in the shadows to witness him, a Duritanian, aid the Masquerader, and whispered reassuring nothings.

            .           .           .

            Rostoloff smiled largely at Camden and couldn't stop. “I thought you were dead, Camden. I thought you would perish, and all of Maliel would be doomed. The Masquerader, 'e's nothing. All 'e does is kill a few soldiers 'ere and there. You're the true hero, Camden.”

            Camden laughed and replied, “Dear God, man, get a grip on yourself. You sound like some maid with her first lover.” His dark eyes clouded, and he murmured, “I owe that man my life.”

            Rostoloff sighed and went along with the forlorn mood. “Soon, 'e'll owe you 'is country.” He grinned again. “We got a plan, Camden.” He chuckled loudly, as he did most everything else, and rose quickly. He opened a drawer on his desk and took out the documents he and Camden had worked on for the past month. “We have battle strategy. We have weapons. We have men. We have passion. The Duritanians don't have that. Their soldiers don't care. It's a job, a way to get their gold. They want to go home. We want our home back.”

            The volume of his voice intensified with his excitement. His light blue, almost gray eyes burned with zeal for the revolution. “We don't need a masked man. 'E's little more than a coward. The peasants'll forget him when we're wipin' out platoons of men a day.” He scoffed at Camden's frown and slammed his palm against the rough table. “Oh, Camden. I know you've dreamt about it. Damn it, you've been seein' it through the eyes of an awake man! The Masquerader's nothing. 'E'll disappear into myth when the Terribles and the peacekeepers get too close. Ya, ya'll be in the history books. Towns'll be named after ya. Royalty from everywhere'll come to ya for advice, and ya'll be ruler here. Maliel'll flourish under yer watchful eye. That horrid royal family, the Lalreors'll be gone. The queen that gave ya such a hard time, that pushed fer yer execution'll be placed in exile. We'll be more than the power we once were. Can ya see it, Camden? Or am I talking o' nothin'? Don't ya recognize yer own vision?”

            Camden was beginning to smirk at his friend's speech, paling when a sturdy knock sounded on the door. Fear, cursed fear, icy cold, raced through his veins, and he whispered, “My friend, I am a danger to you. Let me leave.”

            “Nonsense! Where'd ya go? Ya'll stay here. Let me chase off the bugger.” He left his kitchen and peered out his front window.

            The soldier banged on the door again and sighed in relief when the door opened. Thank God.

            Rostoloff peered out of the door and blocked it with his considerable girth. “What ya want, Duritanian? I've paid m' taxes.” He studied the mass in the man's arms and frowned.

            The soldier blinked and licked his lips, attempting to recall the few words of Maliean he knew. “Doctor?” He held the Masquerader tighter when he murmured and cried out. “Bartolv no matter.” He held out his cargo. “Take.”

            “And how'd I know this ain't some sneaky Duritanian trick.”

            The soldier sighed in exasperation and shouted, despite his fears of being caught by one of his fellows in the doorway of one of the most infamous Malieans, “Take! Needs doctor. No Duritanian.”

            Rostoloff glanced out at the street and ran a hand over his face. “Fine. But I swear, on m' wife's grave, that if this is a trick, ya won't live past the sunset of tomorrow. Let me see 'is face.” He sighed and shook his head. He had to take in every skinny mutt. He stared when the hood was lowered for a moment. “Bloody 'ell.”

            The soldier stiffened. “Me can't. Needs doctor.”

            “Bloody 'ell,” he repeated and looked up at the soldier. “Why ain't 'e in the dungeons right now?”

            He shrugged. “...Rebel?”

            Rostoloff snorted in disbelief but held out his arms. “I suppose I can take 'im.” He took the Masquerader, shutting the door without a goodbye or a hostile comment and carried him into the kitchen.

            Camden stood and could barely keep his mouth closed. “What is this, Rostoloff?”

            “This, old boy, is the Masquerader."