Encounter With the Rebel

The sun was slipping beneath the horizon when the strangers came to the village. As golden rays of light set the skies ablaze, three men rode into the settlement  astride tall horses, two of them armed as if for war and all coming one after the other. Their shadows stretched across the sandy streets, as tall as the men who gave them shape. 

The first man wore a hauberk of riveted maille, covered by a surcoat emblazoned with the sigil of a winged serpent in flight. A forest green cloak hung at his shoulders. Slung across his back was a bow and a quiver full of arrows. At his side, a curved blade hung, the sheath adorned with brass. Atop his head sat a helmet that sloped up into a cone, a bright ribbon streaming from the tip. Blue eyes swept his surrounding, tanned face grim. Beneath him, an ebony stallion snorted, saddlebags swaying with each step. 

The second man was clad entirely in metal, great steel plates wrapping around his body and forming a shell of iron around the man. Beneath the gaps he wore a mail hauberk as well. A great helm hung at the man’s belt, displaying a head of golden hair and bright gray eyes set in a sunburned face. A simple brown cloak was draped across his back. Clutched in one hand was a mighty spear, while slung across the side of the saddle was a heater shield bearing the insignia of a dancing horse, bronze, on a green field. At the rider’s waist, a longsword was belted, bearing little adornment aside from some copper lettering along the crossguard and along the hilt. His chestnut steed was draped in cloth of red and green. 

The final horseman was the most different from the others. Instead of riding steel clad, he wore instead a leather coat the color of mud, with a wide brimmed hat the same shade shielding his head from the sun. In his off hand, he carried a tall staff of carved oak, an orb of quartz set at the tip. A checkered scarf looped around his neck and lower face, leaving only hazel eyes framed by obsidian curls peering out into the settlement. His cream colored mount let out a low whinnie as they finally entered the village proper. 

From the east came a chill wind, haunting and eerie, blowing sand and dirt across the cobbled street. On either side sat rundown buildings, crumbling and in great disrepair; storehouses, inns, and taverns; tailors, carpenters, and smithies; marketplaces and bazaars thinly peopled, withmany  stalls covered and boarded up; butchers and grocers; several houses and a small temple set at the edge of the village next to a meeting hall. In the distance a squat  fort of russet brick could be seen flying the quartered banner of the King of Umanar, two oceans and a continent away. Finally, the lead horseman turned his mount towards one such tavern, as dilapidated as the others. Hanging lopsidedly from the roof was a sign bearing in a tankard of ale overflowing. Silently, the three men swiftly dismounted and tied the reins of their steeds to the stands in front of the tavern. Then, without further ado, they passed the opened doorway of the tavern into a room full of dim candlelight, cheap beer, and murmuring voices. All talk ceased as the occupants eyed the strangers with suspicion and no small amount of hostility. The travelers permitted the dirty looks of the locals to wash over them, instead striding through the room over to the bar.

The barkeeper looked up from where she was wiping down the counter with a damp rag, irritation rolling off of her. Beneath a black vest, she wore a white blouse, both of which had seen better days. Beneath the right sleeve of her blouse, the faint outline of a tattoo could be seen. At the sight of the three men she rolled her brown eyes, her mane of gray hair lending her a world weary mien. 

“Oh great, what next, an army of geese coming to steal all our cheese?” Her sarcasm laced voice rang out in the silent room. She immediately raised a hand and pointed it at the far corner of the room. “Don’t answer that Fernando, I know what you were about to say.” A loud smack! Soon followed as the man’s friends kept him quiet. The traveler in plated maille snorted. His companion with the cone helmet remained as serious as ever, as did the man with the hat. With movements filled with surety, the leather clad man reached into his coat and retrieved a rolled up parchment scroll. Unrolling it, he read out in a baritone voice: 

“In the name of His Grace King  Alexandros Romulus Umanaros the Third, King of Umanar, the one known as Juliet of Capetia is to surrender herself into the custody of the King’s Agents, on charges of sedition, high treason, conspiracy, murder, and tax evasion. Failure to do this will result in all of her associates being found guilty and executed.” His words were thickly accented and slow, and several times he stumbled over a word or two. When he was finished he looked the barkeeper in the eye as he leveled his staff at her. 

“Juliet of Capetia, you are under arrest.” For a moment, no one spoke. The barkeeper just looked at him with one hand on her waist, a lone eyebrow inching upwards on her forehead. Without warning, her head jerked back with a mad cackle as she leaned back, chest heaving. Her laughter was soon joined by that of the locals, their combined humor spilling out into the street. All too soon, it ended as the woman suddenly ducked beneath the bar just as several throwing knives and axes sailed through the air. The two armored men ducked, the green cloaked man drawing his sword and the other raising his spear in time to deal with the impromptu mob of armed tavern patrons. The leather clad man merely pointed his staff at the bar and growled out a curse. Crash! Splinters and stakes flew through the air, joined by broken glass and sprayed spirits. Cries of “Mage!” soon filled the room as the two armored men carved a bloody swathe to victory. Already, several bodies lay piled on either side of them, blood pooling beneath them. 

“That hypocrite!” A burst of fire lanced through the newly made gap, causing the Mage to dance to the side. Juliet rose from behind the bar, a yew wand clutched in one hand. A snarl of hatred curled on her lips. 

“When it’s his own people, it is illegal to practice magic, but when it’s foreigners, suddenly its okay?” She twirled her wand, sending a small cyclone at the Mage. With a slash of his staff, he dissipated it. He stared at Juliet. 

“I am not being paid to ask questions,” he stated. He dodged another fireball, the projectile fading away into nothing as it did so. Juliet sneered. 

“Of course not, it's always about how much wealth you can get, and never about how oppressive your rulers are.” Her eyes hardened, and her grip on her wand tightened. “While you were most likely being groomed to become some Lord’s pet wizard in some backwater in Taridia or Karlheim, I and my family were being hunted for our gifts because we refused to be used as glorified shock troopers in one of his many needless wars.” The Mage shrugged.

“I was hired to bring you back to Umanagrad alive so you can face justice.” He slammed his staff against the floor in time to catch a blast of pure kinetic force aimed at his heart. 

“Justice? Justice!?!? JUSTICE!!!!” She roared, apoplectic. Her body vibrated with fury. “How DARE you speak of justice to me, you don’t know the meaning of the word! If you were to enact justice, you would have killed that murderous bastard the moment you had the chance. What do you know about justice?” She pointed her wand at him. “Is justice standing by and doing nothing while you are hunted down like wild animals because you want to use your gifts to heal instead of hurt? Is it justice to sit there and take hurt and abuse for the crime of speaking out against forced conscription of children and oppressive taxation on the common people of the realm? Is it justice to do nothing while you and your family are arranged to be publicly killed because you refuse to fight for the Imperial ambitions of one man?” Her passionate words did not sway the lawman. 

“I have my orders, I will see them done,” he spoke, eyes narrowed. Juliet adopted a duelists’ stance. 

“Then you will die, just like the Tyrant’s own pet enforcer,” she declared. Immediately, the King’s Agent was placed on the defensive as Juliet sent a jet of lightning at him. He leapt to the side, the lance of energy striking the doorway and blasting apart with a roar. While debris fell all over the outside, the two magic users continued the fight, blasting fire, wind, lightning, and kinetic force at each other. After dodging yet another fireball, the leather clad Mage leveled an impressed gaze at his opponent. 

“For an untrained rebel, you’re a good fighter,” he observed. A smirk flashed across Juliet’s face before disappearing. 

“Time and experience are good teachers when all else fails,” she replied. There duel was interrupted when the green cloaked warrior grabbed the Mage by the arm and yanked him towards the door, where their compatriot stood fending off three men armed with hand axes. 

“Boris, we are leaving!” A burst of wind knocked his helmet off his head, exposing a shock of bright red hair. Boris immediately turned and dashed out of the tavern, throwing his broken spear shaft aside as he did so. The Mage struggled, but could not break the ironclad hold of his fellow. 

“Vladislaus, what are you doing?” He growled. “I almost had her!” Vladislaus cast a gimlet stare at him as they marched past the broken doorway and towards their horses. 

“Don’t lie to yourself Luca, we’ve been had. The woman is more dangerous than we were told:  she clearly has built up a powerbase here. We’ll go to the fort and requisition troops, then bring her in.” Luca stared at Vladislaus from beneath his hat. With a frustrated snarl, he finally wrenched his arm free and strode to his horse. Once the three of them were all mounted, they took off for the fort, Boris in the lead. The twang of bowstrings heralded a slew of arrows coming from either side of the road. With a swing of his staff, Luca knocked several arrows off course and harmlessly onto the ground; the rest glanced  harmlessly off of his companions’ armor. Sheathing his sword, Vladislaus unslung his bow and in one movement began nocking arrows and loosing wherever he saw movement. Boris meanwhile drew his sword and rode to intercept another dozen villagers armed with various farm tools coming down the road with murderous intent. Luca meant to ride off and let his fellow lawmen take care of things, but a mighty gust of air knocked him off his steed. Fortunately, repetition had him turning his landing into a roll, ending with him on one knee and his staff pointing in the direction of the  sneak attack. His hat sat on the ground a few feet away; his black hair hung low on his face. He glared at a grinning Juliet, who stood once more in a duelists’ stance. 

“If you talk such a good game, why are you leaving?” She mocked. Their duel resumed, although this time both pirates had room to maneuver, dancing around each other's attacks before riposting with their own. Dodge, parry, attack, dodge, dodge, deflect.  As the fight dragged on and more bodies lay piled around them, a nagging suspicion grew in the back of Luca’s mind. Luca’s skill with battle magic had developed as part of his apprenticeship to the Archmage of Cantwaeraburg in the Kearlic County of Fryska. Unless you were an Arcanian or Vantazian, only by apprenticing to court Wizards, Magi, or the  local Guild of Sorcerers could you learn such deadly skills. A jolt of realization lanced through Luca. 

“You were trained by an Arcanian.” Luca took a step back, keeping his eyes focused on Juliet and his ears on the skirmish around him. In the background he could hear Boris screaming. Juliet merely shrugged, never taking her eyes off him. 

“A Vantazian, actually,” she admitted. Luca jerked back as if one of her spells had struck him. “He came across me while I was bartering for  passage to Aktura and offered to pay the toll. Afterwards, he offered to teach me how to fight if I would do something for him.” Luca tilted his head, possibilities flitting through his thoughts. 

“And that would be?” he questioned. Juliet gave a humorless smile. “If I would join the Order he belonged to, or rather, the Grand Order.”  The  tattoo outline beneath her sleeve began to glow, a dirty violet hue, the world seeming to dim as it did so. All breath left Luca’s lungs. 

“Foolish woman, what have you done?” he whispered. Juliet’s eyes met eyes, brown being overtaken by sickly purple. 

“I have done what must be done to secure true freedom and justice for my people,” she announced, “And it begins with your death!” The final two words were distorted, as if they were spoken by many. A dark aura permeated the air as Juliet raised her wand and fired off a violet beam of light towards him. With a muttered curse, Luca slammed his staff on the ground, causing several blocks to rise up in time to block the blast. By the time the stone blocks and dirt were melted or vaporized, Luca had turned tail and dashed back to his horse. Looking for his allies, he saw Vladislaus laying on the ground, surrounded by corpses. A wood ax appeared to be buried in his skull, unfortunately. Leaping onto the saddle of his steed, he grasped the reins with one hand and swiveled his head around, scanning the area for Boris. He spied his head on a pitchfork, being waved about by the mob that had clearly overwhelmed him. Luca shrugged, internally staving off disappointment. None of them had been friends, but they at least respect each other. Alas, there was no time to waste. No doubt the local garrison had been either corrupted or bribed, that was the only way Juliet of Capetia could have opened a tavern in her name with both an active warrant for her arrest and a bounty on her. And if the Vantazians were involved, then the Arcanian Empire would need to be informed via their embassy in Umanagard. But all that would come later. First,  he needed to escape. 

“Hyah!” with two sharp kicks, his horse leapt past the remnants of the mob, away from Juliet. In minutes they had left the town entirely, and were on their way to the fort when Luca wheeled his horse eastwards towards the coast. Oh, he would return, but not without an army at his back. He rode away, into the wall of night as the crescent moon shone down from above.