Masks

He went out dressed in his full Lord Malice regalia with a backpack full of supplies, despite the simplicity of the mission. The world didn't know his true face yet. Best to hide it behind the mask of Malice. My true face, or the one that really matters, anyway. When people saw him, they wouldn't want to see the round-faced fourteen-year old boy. They'd want to see the legacy of House Malice, the power and terror that had plagued the world for generations. Lords may rise and fall, but Malice was forever. My legacy. A legacy of terror and power. Power above all. 'Power through terror, terror through malice'. The family motto. It was engraved over the stone archway framing the double doors of Malice Tower. Curtis saw them every day, each day a reminder to what his name represented. They were his inspiration, his drive to be greater than the two Lord Malices before him and rise above his family's blood-soaked history, to not be merely great, but legendary.

Curtis found himself wishing, once again, that he'd been left something beside Malice Tower, old science equipment and a bunch of blueprints. If only his family had left him an automobile or even a horse, this would be so much easier. Well, Henry Malice had rebuilt the family legacy with nothing, and so too would Curtis Clairmont Malice the Third. So Curtis checked the settings on his weapons again, brushed down the front of his robes and adjusted his mask, and walked on.

Malice Tower was situated on the highest peak of the southern mountains in Yoreland, so far north and so high up that snow lingered on the ground through the spring and drifted down in early autumn. Old trees crowded around its stony base, pressing against the tower walls. The forest continued on down one side of the mountain, down and down almost to the cliffs that marked the southern edge of the country. Beyond there the sea licked the white cliffs, hungry and murmuring, stretching south to the First Union where lay the Mighty Men and the First United Army. To the north lay Yoreland proper. The mountains were largely uninhabitable and whether they were officially part of Yoreland was a constant question, at least until the arrival of the Malice family, seeking asylum from Mordania. After that it became quite clear that the mountains, conveniently including Malice Tower, was not under Yorish control. Now Curtis sought to breech the neutrality of that diplomatic blind eye through theft, subterfuge, and abduction. All out of necessity, of course. He'd have to survive the brutal Taltale Mountains first and then make it to something resembling a town. Then the real work would begin.

Curtis spent most of the first day walking winding, half-faded trails through trees so thick they formed a near-solid wall around him. His labored breath fogged up in front of him. God, it was cold. At least the snows had melted, but it was still too cold. By the time the sun began to set Malice Tower's crenelations and crumbling roof were still peeking over the treetops. Curtis cursed his small, weak body, his chubby legs, his ancestors for putting a tower on top of a mountain, his father for blowing up the family car in a demonstrative fireball. But cursing never did any good, so he contented himself with jerky and hard biscuits warmed on a fire created with a portable flame-ray device (patent pending), curled up beneath his cape on a pile of pine needles and went to sleep.

He dreamed of his father, but it was his father as a six-year old Curtis remembered, face unlined and hair still mostly black, eyes a-twinkle and a snap in his step as he danced around the tower, cape flowing behind him. “You and I, Curtis, we're gonna take over the world!” He lifted Curtis up and spun around the grand sitting room with him, laughing. Curtis reached out and touched his father's face. It fell, slipping to the ground where it clanked and rolled away, and Curtis found himself looking into the Malice mask where his father's face had been. The eye sockets stared at Curtis, black and empty. The nose was long and thin, the lips stern, the slashed cheekbones harsh. Curtis's own face was reflected weirdly back at him in the polished silver surface.

“Dad?”

“What is it?” the mask said with his father's voice, but the lips didn't move. His father's kind face lay unmoving on the ground, dusty with neglect. The portraits of the family members hanging around the room, of bald, bespectacled Grampy Curtis and bearded, long-haired Henry Malice, stared back at Curtis through the same mask.

The room caught fire. The hardwood floor with its elaborate Inoori rug, the walls hung with priceless treasures from the world over, the wide glass windows, all of it burned. The portraits became blackened and melted in their frames. Curtis spun around the room, still in his father's hold. The thick smoke stung his eyes and choked him with its acrid taste. “Dad, you're on fire!” he yelled. But his father didn't seem to feel the flames consuming his clothes and skin. He did not cry out. The mask remained untouched. Through the destroyed windows Curtis saw men and women in capes flying towards the tower.

“Avenge us,” the mask whispered over the roar of the fire. “The world is your birthright. Kill them all.”

The superheroes burst through the walls, eyes livid and hands extended towards the elder Lord Malice and his son. Their fingers were like claws. They dug into Curtis's skin, into his face, tearing and pulling. “Your face, your face!” they said, “show us your face!” He screamed.

He awoke with a stiff back, his cloak damp and cold. The fire had gone out long ago. Feeling miserable, he got up, brushed the needles and dirt from his clothes, and began to walk again. The weight of the guns at his hips comforted him, but when he remembered the silver mask in his backpack he removed his hands from the straps, sudden as if he'd touched a snake.

The day wore on. The air became warmer the further down the mountain Curtis went and by the time the ground leveled out Curtis had taken off his cloak and stuffed it into his pack. He wiped the sweat from his brow, pushed his hair away from his brow, and walked on. The first Yorish town should be just past the mountains at the forest's edge. I'll demand an automobile from them, or a truck. Yes, a truck. Then I'll drive to one of the big cities. Moors, perhaps. They'll already know that I'm coming after the car theft. I'll go for the banks first, load up on gold. Then I'll demand to see the top scientists. There weren't many famous or exceptional scientists or engineers in Yoreland, but it was a start. What Curtis wanted most was someone from the First Union's top universities, or one of the Emperor's own engineers. He wondered what it would take to get Dr. Gavril Kazarian. He'd be able to interpret my father's blueprints. In time. It would take a lot to convince or capture Dr. Kazarian.

As Curtis stepped out into a clearing where a trail became more clearly defined, he heard a low hum. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and he turned around. Nothing. The sensation continued, setting his teeth to vibrate. He glanced up. With a thrill of horror he realized that three caped superheroes were descending down on him. And will the rest of my dream come true too? They could only be here to fight him. Curtis struggled to get his backpack off, then fumbled around in its depths for his cloak and mask. In one motion he flung the black cloak around his shoulders and fastened it with the silver chain, then shoved the mask onto his face. The world became a narrow thing, cold against his skin and hot where his breath billowed up against the silver. He turned back to the mages, now close enough for him to make out the emblems on their chest. The Mighty Men. Curtis reached for the two guns at his belt and cried out, “Come no further, mages!” They came further. “Stop, I'm warning you!” He drew the guns and aimed them at the mages.  He hoped that his hands weren't shaking.

The three of them landed feet away from Curtis. Despite the fact that they had guns aimed at their hearts, they didn't seem at all intimidated. They didn't shrink away in fear or fall to their knees and beg for mercy. Did they care nothing for the face of Malice? Curtis had seen people throw themselves at his father and grandfather's feet when they strode through ruined cities wearing the mask. But not these three. Well, why would they cower from a fourteen-year old?

The youngest of the three spoke. “Lord Malice, I presume?” He spoke with an air of sobriety; appropriate, given the situation. His clothing was dark, the typical uniform of a First Union mage, with the silver buttons running down one side of the jacket, black boots and white epaulettes. The gold-trimmed white cape and the double-M emblem on his chest identified him as a member of the prestigious superhero group. The others were similarly dressed, though the woman wore a skirt in place of trousers and her jacket had short sleeves, and the other man had dark skin and ink-black hair, though his eyes were pale in contrast. “We've been ordered to ask you to cease with your current course of action. By the authority of the President of the First Union and-”

“You have no authority here!” Curtis yelled. “This is Yoreland, not the Union. So piss off.” I shouldn't have said that. Lord Malice should use stronger phrases, not 'piss off'.

The woman took a step forward, gloved hands at her side. She reminded Curtis of a housewife. “We're not here to do anything bad, Lord Malice. You haven't committed any crimes yet.”

“Then leave. You don't know what I'm going to do and you can't do anything to me.”

The dark man chuckled. “Dressed and armed like that, you can only have one thing in mind.” His voice was flavored with the tang of the southern regions. “We're just giving you a warning, kid.”

“I am Lord Malice,” said Lord Malice, “and you will address me as such!” He tried to put the same steel into his voice that Grampy had once had.

“We have no ill intentions,” the woman said. “We just want to make sure you don't do anything you'll regret later.”

Curtis was sick of bandying words with these mages. He shouldn't have even done that. They were the enemy. These were the people that had defeated his father and brought his family to ruin. Well, maybe not these people in particular; they looked too young. But it had been the Mighty Men. And that, surely, was enough.

He aimed his guns and fired. A stream of fire burst out of the portable flame-ray towards the dark man, a stream of bullets from the pistol towards the younger man. He was outnumbered but, he hoped, not outclassed. “Die, super scum!” he shouted. His father had used that one before.

None of them moved. The dark man held out his hands and embraced the flames as they rushed at him, roaring. The light and heat drained from the fire as it touched him, turning into a black-and-white photo of itself, and then it vanished. Curtis kept his finger on the trigger, pumping more magical energy into the sparks to feed the flames, but the mage absorbed it all. His other attack did little better. The young mage ducked and swerved, gestured with his hand. The bullets exploded before they hit him. The dark mage flicked his hand at Curtis, a casual gesture as if he were warding off a fly. A rippling beam of fire-colored light lanced from his hand and struck Curtis in the chest. It didn't hurt, no more than being punched, but it knocked him onto his back. He's holding back. Growling, he scrambled back up, his feet getting tangled in the cloak. He glanced at each of the three mages in turn, stepped towards the dark mage (still glowing with magical energy), but then turned and fired on the other two. As before, the bullets exploded in midair. The woman leaped into the air and arced gracefully over the flames. The energy mage hit him between the shoulders, and Curtis stumbled forward. It had been no more than a light, playful tap.

“Stop toying with me!” Curtis yelled, and turned on the woman. He imagined his cloak flaring out behind him, light reflecting off his silver mask. Dramatic and awe-inspiring. Before he could pull the triggers he realized that the guns each weighed a few hundred pounds, or his hands did. His arms couldn't support their new weight, and they slammed down to the ground, unmoving. The woman approached him, one hand extended towards him.

“That wasn't necessary,” she said.

“Ready to surrender?” the dark man asked. The fire's energy he'd absorbed flickered between his fingers, orange and crackling. “We'll ignore the unprovoked attack.”

“Release me,” Curtis spat, doing his best to be contemptuous while pinned to the ground by the weight of his own hands.

“Will you shoot at us again?” the younger mage asked.

“No.” Not that he had many options.

The woman dropped her hand, and Curtis felt his hands return to their normal weight. Guns still on the ground, he shook his hands out to free them of the lingering pins-and-needles sensation. “You don't have to fight us just because your father did,” she said. “There doesn't have to be a grudge. Oh. My name is Vectoress. This is Ray,” she said, indicating the younger mage, “and the Living Battery,” with a nod at the dark-skinned one.

“I will remember those names”, he said, eying Vectoress back through the slots in his mask. “But what if I don't care about that? About grudges.” It wasn't true, of course. “Maybe I just want to fight tyranny.”

“Is that it?” Ray said. “Ever consider joining up with the Mighty Men?”

The Living Battery shot his companion a warning look. “Ray...”

“We might have use for a brainiac like you. Always good to get some fresh blood in the team too.”

Curtis decided not to disprove the braniac theory. If they had no idea about his current problems, he wasn't going to enlighten them. “I meant you.”

Vectoress seemed genuinely shocked. “Us?”

“You. What right do the Mighty Men have to patrol the world and stop whatever they deem as a crime? What right does the First Union have to stick its nose into everyone's business? Just because you're the biggest power on the planet doesn't mean you can do whatever you want. I want no part in your little controlling ways. So, no.”

Vectoress looked, if anything, saddened, but the Living Battery shrugged and said, “If that's how you feel.” He snapped his hand shut. “I think we've made our point. I hope this is the last time we have to see you, Lord Malice. But if you threaten the citizens of Yoreland again, we'll have to take further actions.” Vague and idle threats.

“It will be no concern of yours,” Curtis snapped. “If I bother the First Union, you can deal with me then.”

The Living Battery looked unimpressed. “Right.” He turned to Vectoress. “Let's go.” Vectoress lifted her arms. The air around the mages hummed. They drifted slowly upwards, inches above the ground, then shot into the sky, as if they were falling up. Then they were gone.

Once he was sure that they had gone, Curtis picked up his guns and holstered them. It wasn't the sound defeat that stung. It was the way they'd treated him. They'd spoken to him like he was a child, not a force to be reckoned with. No respect at all.

Curtis slipped off the mask and turned it over in his hand. The carved face stared back at him. My true face. But they didn't even see it.

Maybe I'm not supposed to be doing this. Maybe this isn't the right career path for me. As if there could ever be another option.

Sighing, Curtis put the mask back into his backpack, turned around, and headed back for Malice Tower.