The Battle of the Masques

November 16, this year
Venice, Italy
8:01 pm CEST

“Gentlemen, gentle ladies,” Marcus Rearden says to the twenty or more sword bearing immortals in the center of the ballroom. “You are frightening our witnesses.” He speaks to the audience of revelers—many are still uncertain as to the drama unfolding before them, others are clustering and huddling together in fear. “Please, there is no reason to panic. The Board has assumed control. Many of you are quite cognizant of some of the fantastical elements to the endeavor before us, and some of you may still be nonbelievers. Nevertheless, I assure you, The Board and myself—the Human contingent—and, my dear peoples, you and your governments and companies will control Basil Fenn’s work from this day forward, and we will also control,” he points a finger, “Dr. Loche Newirth, Poet extraordinaire—the author of the play before you. What you are about to witness is the denouement—which I have taken great pains in crafting.

“There in the spotlight with swords in hand are the effigies of a bygone epoch no longer needed by us. The gods of old are dead, now, so too should the guardians of that Old Law, pass away. You are here to witness, for all of Humanity, the end of the ancient immortals.”

To The Board soldiers Rearden says, “Bring me Newirth.”

Loche reaches for Julia’s hand. “I love you,” he says.

She watches her fingers interlace with his. “I love you,” she tells him.

Three handguns report to Loche’s left. Three immortals drop.

“Close distance,” William commands. “Take their firearms.”

Like a spreading firework, the Itonalya explode outward and cut their way into the Board’s ranks. Loche and Julia find each other’s eyes just before their swords connect with their enemies. More gunfire echoes in the hall. Several pistols clatter to the wood floor. Many hands are still attached to them.

To Loche’s right, William disarms two soldiers. Another Board soldier behind him fires a bullet through his chest. Albion, extends a steadying hand to William and thrusts his blade through the forearm of the shooter. He then kicks forward with his right leg and breaks the man’s knee. William presses his hand to his wound and laughs companionably to Albion, “How I loathe firearms.”

Two men roughly grasp Loche’s shoulders. He feels another set of arms seize his throat. With a sidestep, Loche stabs one soldier. Julia’s sword hacks across the face of the second. Loche twists his body and punches into the abdomen of the third. He breaks free. Julia is then pushed away, and the battle flows between them. She looks back. He reaches for her.

William is suddenly at his side. Pain is in his voice, but joy, too. “Son, we will win this battle.” He points to another group of Itonalya entering the chamber from the eastern door. “But I believe the war shall be theirs. We are outnumbered.” A stray sword juts toward his face but misses. He bats it away and dispatches its owner. “An escape has been planned—we can move many of Basil’s works, but not all. After tonight, we will be forced to make a peace, or we shall forever be hunted.”

Loche faces his father.

William nods over his son’s shoulder. “Cut the head from the snake. For Edwin. For all of us. Show no mercy.”

Turning, Loche can see Marcus Rearden on the other side of the paintings, maybe ten yards away across a storm of steel. His old mentor’s eyes are red with fury and he is trained on Loche. He carries a broadsword. Loche pushes toward him.

But Rearden’s ardent fixation is suddenly interrupted. Loche watches the man turn away from him and affix to something near the west exit. Standing alone beside the gothic arches leading to the canal is a woman wearing a disheveled burgundy gown. Her mask is dangling from its leather strap around her neck. Purple and black bruises crowd around her terrified eyes. She is staring at Rearden. In her hand is the Red Notebook.

She turns to the door, pulls it open and rushes out into the cold.

When Loche swivels back to Rearden, he sees the man bashing his way to the perimeter of the battle, running toward the exit in pursuit of the woman.

Loche finds Julia. She has already been watching him. “Go, Loche. End this!”