The Fat Lady Sings

     From stage left, a figure clad in the purple armour of the Citadel entered, moving stiffly from a mixture of good acting and resistance in the painted cardboard that made up his costume. An elaborate mask that exaggerated the features of a Darigan Eyrie to the point where his head plumage looked like purple flames obscured the Neopet’s true species, the only feature that could be seen were his eyes, to which heavy red makeup had been applied to try and make him look demonic in nature.

     The would-be Eyrie let out a dramatic cackle and drew a sword.

     “It is done!” he declared to the boos of the crowd. “Meridell has fallen! The Kass Citadel reigns supreme!”

     A trumpeter from backstage announced a new arrival to the show from stage right, bounding on stage in cardboard armour that had been painted the best approximation of silver that a budget production could afford. He wore the mask of a blue Lupe, with chiselled features that looked slightly abnormal but nevertheless suggested something to the audience that they recognised as several cheers rang out at the sight of him.

     “Not so fast, Lord Kass!” the not-Lupe shouted. “Meridell does not fall so easily! Why, as long as there is a sword in the hand of a single Neopet, this fair land shall never be beaten! The Meridell spirit is eternal! And I, Sir Jeran Borodere, will vanquish you this day and rid the world of your terrible scourge!”

     The cheers from the audience came again as Jeran drew his own sword and the two actors performed a stilted mock-duel. The pair danced back and forth before Jeran eventually made a big show of disarming Kass. Jeran plunged his sword into Kass, neatly fitting between his middle and his arm for the illusion, and another chorus of cheers came up.

     Not-Kass made a great play of his death, coughing and spluttering, falling to his knees and begging for mercy, gurgling and writhing. Eventually, a low cough from not-Jeran signalled that they were starting to lose the audience’s attention and not-Kass finally permitted himself to expire.

     Not-Jeran put his foot lightly on the fallen Eyrie’s chest.

     “Meridell has won the day!” he declared. “Lord Kass has fallen! As will all who challenge the might of this blessed land!”

     The curtain fell again the cheers and applause rose up from the audience to greet it.

     ***

     “Well,” the yellow Gelert said, removing the Jeran mask and starting to disassemble his armour. “That was a much bigger crowd than Cogham, at least.”

     “Bound to be,” the gruff blue Skeith that had been playing Kass replied. “Hope River is closer to the Citadel. The threat of war is bigger here. People up in the mountains don’t really believe that war would ever reach them even if it was declared. Down here, people fear it.”

     “Who cares why they come?” a purple Acara said as she lugged about the set pieces to return them to storage ahead of the next performance. “As long as there are bums on seats, we’re getting paid.”

     A little yellow Korbat wearing a beret at an angle scoffed at that idea.

     “As if getting paid is the most important part,” he said. “Some of us are artists, Marla. The scripts I write are a craft, poetry in literal motion. Or at least they would be, if I wasn’t being forced to sell this tripe on the Meridell border towns.”

     “No one is forcing you to stay, Jacob,” the Acara shot back acidly. “I’m certain you’d find a market for your high-class theater in Brightvale. But I care about putting food on the table. That’s why I am here, so I do care about getting paid.”

     “I would if the Brightvale borders weren’t closed,” Jacob replied.

     “Perhaps that’s a sign that King Hagan thinks war is coming?” the Skeith suggested. “You know, Hagan the Wise? Probably better to trust the likes of him and do your part.”

     “Exactly,” came the booming voice of their troop master, a blue Grarrl who had been playing King Skarl in the production. “We are all here doing our part. It’s easy to dismiss this kind of play as meaningless, but we are doing important work here, Jacob. The people here in Hope River are scared. Really, truly scared. If Kass invades, it will be their farms that burn first. If our play can make them feel a little less terrified, a little braver. If it can entertain them, even for a moment, to forget the terror of these days, surely it is important? Just as important as any avant-garde production in Brightvale.”

     “Propaganda,” Jacob muttered. “What we’re selling is propaganda, Mr. Horton.”

     “Yes,” Horton agreed. “Unless you missed the posters the Citadel has been airdropping on the villages below, Kass is doing just the same. If we can beat them at their own game, we should certainly try. Speaking of which, do you have any rewrites for our next show?”

     “As a matter of fact, I do,” Jacob replied pointedly, handing fresh scripts out to the cast.

     “Have you given any thought to expanding my part?” an elderly Yurble piped up from the corner. “It’s not that I am not happy to be involved, just that being cast in bit parts like the palace cook isn’t really making the best use of my talents. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you I am a classically trained opera singer.”

     “You don’t have to remind me, Mrs. Featherscotch,” Jacob said firmly, as the Yurble took any opportunity to remind them going. “But we don’t really have much call for a soprano number in this piece. I’ll keep you in mind, of course.”

     Mostly by thinking about ways to avoid including her notoriously ear-puncturing singing voice in his work.

     “Thank you, dear,” she replied in a tone that made it clear there was to be absolutely no thanks conveyed at all. “Of course, if you can’t give me a singing part I will make do with whatever is on offer. As Mr. Horton rightly says, we are doing good work here. My son… I lost him in the first war, you know. If we can help prevent a second, however slim the chances, then I will do everything I can to help.”

     Jacob’s scowl softened a little at that, but only a little. She had told that sob story over a dozen times on the road to Hope Village. While he wasn’t without sympathy for her loss, frankly his patience with her was beginning to wear thin.

     ***

     As the weeks passed, the troupe continued to put on their shows, Jacob gradually refining the play to get the most from the audience, and as word spread to the villages that surrounded Hope River, the numbers in their audience blossomed.

     It was no coincidence that the people flocked to them as the world outside grew darker. Leaflet drops from the Citadel, proclaiming the divine right to rule of the newly minted Lord Kass, became daily. Darigan scouts were often sighted in daylight hours, weaving in between the clouds about the farmlands. Meridell’s own scouts were sometimes said to mysteriously disappear at night, their dirigibles reappearing at dawn, drifting aimlessly. Brightvale’s closed borders had become an official policy, and they had withdrawn their diplomats from Meridell Castle.

     It seemed like war was only a matter of when rather than if, and as the world closed in around the farmers and peasants of Hope River, the play became a beacon to them. Light in the darkness.

     Jacob watched the number grow, and came to understand the effect they were having on the locals. They left the play looking a little less deflated than they did before they emptied. As much as he hated it, he came to think that perhaps Mr. Horton was right. Maybe there was value in what they were doing. He was so buoyed by what they were doing that he even wrote in a small singing part for Mrs. Featherscotch.

     “Lo!” Mr. Horton was saying, in the part of King Skarl. “The forces of the Citadel approach!”

     The blue Skeith - George - entered from stage left, wearing his Kass mask again. Marla had stayed up to the early hours one night remodelling it to look like a more cartoonish version of the imposing figure the farmers now saw every day on the airdropped fliers.

     “Your gates have fallen!” Kass proclaimed. “Your city is sacked! Your soldiers, scattered to the four winds! Your reign is at an end, Skarl!”

     The chorus of boos came as usual, but Jacob had begun to notice that the audiences lacked the conviction they once did. Lord Kass was no longer a pantomime villain. Now he was a real and present threat on their doorstep.

     “You fiend!” Skarl bellowed. “I shall never submit!”

     He drew his sword and made to duel Kass, but was quickly cast down to another round of boos from the audience.

     “Can it be?” Skarl lamented to the audience. “Can this blessed land of Meridell truly have fallen? Even now, I hear their forces crawling and scurrying around the castle. Oh! The crackle of fires! Oh! The terror of mine subjects! Lo! I can hear a soft melody on the wind! Hark, do mine eyes deceive me? A Valkyrie? Has mine time come? Am I undone?”

     Mrs. Featherscotch entered from stage right, dressed in the full armoured regalia of a Valkyrie, spear and shield in hand, hair braided and with a horned helmet.

     She opened her mouth to blast the audience with a sample from her titanic lungs, but before the first note could emerge, someone else burst into the makeshift theatre.

     “It’s happening!” a Techo, one of the farmers the locals had appointed as a scout. “Ground forces from the Citadel, made landfall a mile away. The Meridell garrison is responding. It’s happening! We are at war!”

     All eyes returned to the stage, where Skarl still sat fallen on the floor. An omen if ever there was one.

     ***

     The local Meridell garrison was hopelessly overwhelmed by the force of the Citadel assault. It was pointless, even lost in the throes of patriotism, to believe it would have ended otherwise. The brunt of the Citadel military moved on the village to establish a forward camp and fortify their position. The locals, and the theatre troupe with them, did the only sensible thing.

     They evacuated.

     Maelstroms of dark novas and other horrible spells were raining down the main roads out of the area, the work of the vile witch Morguss, so they said. It meant following the roads impossible. Instead, the actors and the farmers trekked across the fields. They passed a secondary garrison of Meridell soldiers moving to fortify the front lines on the way. Sir Jeran himself was at the head, and the sight of him boosted their spirits. The muttering of the other soldiers that followed him did not.

     Reinforcements would not be coming.

     Something terrible had happened at Meridell castle. The King himself had been compromised somehow. No orders for mobilisation had been made and the heads of the army in the castle had fallen similarly silent. Jeran’s forces would not last long against the entire Citadel army. Not without help.

     A day later in the distance their group caught sight of a second front making landfall to the east. The area around Hope River was caught in the pincers of Lord Kass. There would be no escape. No last-minute flight to the safety of the castle courtyard.

     They found an abandoned barn and tried to reinforce it as best they could. Some of the farmers had brought improvised weapons with them, but they would do little against Citadel soldiers. Gathered around a lone camp light, they huddled close as the darkness encroached from all sides.

     Jacob looked around at the tired and frightened faces and knew he had to do something. For all the talk when they had first arrived in Hope River, he had come to care for these people. Scribbling madly, he began to write something on his spare parchment which he then handed to Mr. Horton. The Grarrl gave a toothy smile and a satisfied nod, and cleared his throat.

     “It was a night, not so different from this one, long, long ago,” he read in a soft, but commanding voice. “When the world was young. In the joy following the fall of Jahbal, people once more ventured out from the few safe bastions that remained. With them, came the bandits, who preyed on the travellers on the new roads. It was a time where legends were forged, and kingdoms founded. One such group left the then Neopia City and headed southeast to the old ruins there to try and rebuild. They cleared the jungle from the valley and set about reinforcing the old castle foundations, hoping to raise a great city on the site. They were full of joy, even when they set out, so much so that those they had left in Neopia City had called them the Merry Band.”

     The farmers were lifting their heads to listen to the story. Some, Jacob thought, would have heard the tale before, but by the looks of it, not all had.

     “As the night fell, terrible howls filled their new camp,” Horton continued. “Monsters that they had thought had left when the ruins had been liberated instead had only hidden in the deeper levels. They hid in the darkness of the night, clawing and scraping at the walls, but afraid to step into the safety of the firelight. The settlers were afraid, but their leaders rallied their spirits by telling stories and singing songs. Throughout those first few haunted nights, the sounds of laughter and joy echoed for miles around. The settlers persevered, and over time founded a great kingdom in that valley. A place that was known as a valley of joy. A Merry Dell. That place became Meridell, and the Meridellian spirit has never been vanquished. Even in the darkest hours, the joy of its citizens will shine through.”

     Jacob saw the light of hope on the farmer’s faces. And he couldn’t help but feel a little bit of it himself.

     But hope is a fleeting illusion, as Jacob had always maintained, and it wasn’t long before the sounds of marching and swords being drawn could be heard outside. The Citadel forces had found them.

     The gathered souls exchanged knowing, resigned looks. There was an unspoken decision. They were Meridellians. They would not sit and wait for the end in the dark. Like Jeran in the play Jacob had written. They would fight. They would never surrender.

     ***

     The unit of Citadel soldiers must have been twenty strong. Skeiths and Moehogs, Grarrls and Eyries. Heavily armoured and heavily armed. Flaming torches, the lot.

     They had tracked the fleeing farmers by their footprints. They knew they were hiding in the barn. All they had to do was surround it and move in. Meridell was falling so easily, it was laughable.

     But as they moved into position, the doors to the barn exploded outward.

     Mrs. Featherscotch, dressed in her full valkyrie getup and with a prop battle-axe in either hand, launched herself out of the entrance while blaring out a song with her lungs that could shatter mirrors. She planted one axe firmly in the neck of the nearest Skeith. Its blunted axe did no damage, but the sheer weight the Yurble put behind it coupled with the weight of the Skeith’s own armour caused the hulk to fall backwards and remain stranded there like an upside down Turtum. Mrs. Featherscotch was already moving, like a possessed banshee, seeking out her next target.

     With cries and screeches, the other actors and the farmers were following in her wake, picking out their targets with rakes and poles, and taking those few they reached to the floor with shock more than anything.

     About five of the Citadel soldiers had fallen by the time the remaining ones figured out what was going on and solidified their defences. The improvised Meridellian weapons suddenly struck hardened metal. Mrs. Featherscotch’s axes snapped clean in two. Rather embarrassed, they stood before the invaders, realising how futile it was.

     But then the eyes of the Citadel soldiers went wide. Fear spread across their faces, and they looked to each other in the same way the natives had back in the barn.

     They turned tail and fled.

     Bemused, the farmers still celebrated their victory. Jacob turned towards the barn, to see what the Citadel soldiers had been looking at.

     There was a glow growing on the horizon. Flags blowing on the breeze. The little Korbat could make out the colours - Meridell red and blue.

     Reinforcements. Whatever had bewitched the soldiers at the castle had been dispatched.

     The Meridell Army was back. The war was not yet over.

     And the Meridell spirit would never be broken.

     The End.