5. MASOLON
“What am I doing here?” asked Masolon after he stopped pacing across the chamber. The new lord of Ramos, Duke Jonson the Bold, was busy writing and sealing the envelopes over his desk. They were not too many; it was the lord of the city who was too slow. More than once he balled up a piece of parchment and tossed it away before restarting its writing, the servant behind the desk collecting it from the floor every single time.
“Just a minute and I will be with you, Lord Masolon,” said Jonson casually, his eyes scanning another scroll.
“Ah, forgive me. I do not mean to rush you.” Masolon smirked. “Just do what you do and let me do what I am supposed to do.”
Jonson laid the piece of parchment on the desk and peered at him. “And what are you supposed to do, may I ask?”
“Well, repair the walls of Subrel and raise a decent garrison as a start.”
“And how are you going to raise a garrison without filling the bellies of its soldiers?”
Masolon shrugged, his arms folded. “I presume Subrel used to get its supplies from the city and the neighboring villages.”
“And that is what I am doing, Lord Masolon. I have trade routes to open, granaries to fill, and taxes to collect." Jonson showed his bare hands. "I am short of hands to undertake these tasks myself, but I can issue orders to command others to do that; something you need to learn and practice from now on. You must get used to getting things done through others."
Like winning battles through your soldiers. For certain, that notion suited Lord Jonson the Bold.
The thought brought Rona's face to Masolon's mind. She had insisted on mounting her warhorse alongside her marching troops, ignoring all the opinions urging her to stay in the palace of Ramos. She should be fine with Foubert and Payton guarding her with their men, Masolon tried to reassure himself, but still it was not easy for him to swallow the idea of not being around her while she was riding for battle. He was concerned about her. For real.
A large map of Bermania was spread on the oaken table in the middle of the hall. Masolon found the Green Hills, the strategic spot Rona wanted to deprive Daval of. Fighting the southerners would exhaust her army before her final march to Paril, Masolon reflected as he traced the path to the Jewel on the map with his finger. The city lay on the northwest coast of the realm, surrounded by fiefs Masolon had never been to before, but he could tell from their designated symbols, which looked different from that of Subrel, that none of them was a castle. "Is it not strange that the nearest fortress to a great city like Paril is Subrel?" Masolon asked the busy lord.
Jonson heaved a sigh. "We, Bermanians, have never believed that war can come any way close to the Jewel. If you want to enter Paril, you have one of two options: either through Ramos, which is defended by Subrel, or through Augarin from the south, and it is defended by the castle of Taloda."
Masolon scrutinized the map until he located the places Jonson was mentioning. No, old man. There is a third option. "What about the sea?"
"The sea?" Jonson wrinkled his forehead.
"Yes, the sea. What can stop an invader from entering Paril from its coast?"
"The port of the city is in a gulf well-protected by guard and ballista towers. Invaders will be slaughtered the moment they disembark." Jonson studied Masolon's face for a moment before he asked, "What do you have in mind?"
A stupid idea. "Nothing." Masolon kept his gaze on the map. "Let us wait and see how our battle with Daval ends first."
Jonson allowed a rare smile. It must be 'our battle,' Masolon deduced. No matter how the battles he fought by their side or the titles he was granted, he would always be an intruder to those Bermanians. A foreigner. An outlier. The Demon from the Great Desert.
The lord of Ramos was back to his parchments, leaving Masolon studying the map on his own. From Herlog, his finger tracked backward the path of one particular journey he had started and ended two years ago. It must have been Augarin. He recalled the guard towers looming behind the fortified walls of a great city in the South. At that moment, Masolon had had no map to tell where he had been, but he had been determined to get as far as possible from Murase, and that Bermanian city in the South was not far enough. He was not afraid that Feras's memluks might follow him there. He was afraid of himself, of not being able to resist the temptation to return to his Murasen girl. Except she had never been his; it had always been a dream at its best. A nightmare.
For eight days, he had ventured north, hoping he would make it to Skandivia without trespassing on Rusakian soil by mistake. Exhausted and hungry, he found himself coming by that village called Herlog, and that was when he realized he had been moving in circles in the heart of the Ramosi woods. He had stayed with those peasants for a couple of days to replenish his strength as well as his horse's. The days turned into weeks, the stranger becoming a resident. And all to blame was. . .
A knock on the door brought Masolon back to the hall. "Come in." Jonson granted his permission without removing his eyes from his bloody documents. A balding, armored officer wearing a ruby band over his left arm stepped inside. "What is it, Captain Tarling?"
"I'm sorry for the interruption, Duke Jonson." Captain Tarling cleared his throat before he turned to Masolon. "Milord, we have just caught two men that we think you might be interested to meet."
Masolon was more astonished than curious. That was Jonson's palace in Jonson's city. Why would the captain bring those men to Masolon? "What makes you think so, Captain?"
"They claim they have come to ransom you."
Now the captain had Masolon's full attention. "Who are those men?"
"A deserter from the army," the captain straightened his back, "and a Murasen."
* * *
While he was already striding across the hallway, Masolon realized he had not taken leave of Lord Jonson. It was too late to do that now anyway.
A deserter and a Murasen. Masolon wondered if Antram was hiding nearby, waiting for the right time to commit something stupid. And that reminded Masolon to ask the balding captain, "What did you arrest them for?"
"Perhaps they did nothing today." The captain, who must have sensed Masolon's hurry, quickly descended a flight of stairs ahead of him. "But the return of a deserter in the company of a foreigner in such a critical hour should be suspicious. No?"
A foreigner. Masolon could not let the captain get away with that lovely remark. "What if he returned without the foreigner? Would that be less suspicious?"
Now aware of his tongue slip, the captain taking the lead to the dungeon lowered his head. "He is a deserter anyway, milord. . ."
Masolon waited for him to elaborate, but obviously, the captain was evading answering his question. Masolon did not press on him though, and silently followed the hurried captain downstairs and through a maze of narrow corridors until they reached the heavy door of the dungeon. The cells inside were locked by solid doors of steel, not just bars like in Subrel and Durberg—two years in Gorania, and Masolon was already a dungeons expert. I should throw that captain in their cell, he thought as he inhaled the stale air in the corridor.
The moment the guard with the clinking keychain unlocked the door, Masolon rushed inside, ignoring the sincere warnings of Tarling and his dutiful guard. A mix of fury and self-blame overwhelmed him when he beheld his shaggy brothers sitting on the dusty floor. Frankil was clad in his usual heavy armor, Ziyad in a leather jacket over his woolen tunic. "Masolon?" they both said in unison, Frankil's sounding less excited though. While Ziyad was embracing Masolon, the former captain warily looked him up and down, probably wondering how he got his new embroidered doublet.
"You look good, brother." Ziyad scanned Masolon's outfit as well.
"Better than we thought," Frankil curtly added, his voice dripping with subtle rebuke, reminding Masolon of their agreement to come back to Subrel to take him with them to Kalensi in the Skandivian lands. Blast! Why did you follow me here?
"There is a lot to explain, brothers." Masolo
n offered Frankil a hand to help him up. "Are any of you hurt?"
Ziyad smirked, peering at the two men standing by the open door. "We were not the ones who bled at least."
"Milord, they brag of resisting our soldiers while doing their duty." Tarling scowled.
"Milord?" Ziyad's eyebrows rose in astonishment.
"I told you there was a lot to explain. Let us get out of here and talk somewhere else." Masolon walked his fellows outside. Tarling was reluctant to make way for them in the beginning, but he acquiesced when Masolon tilted his head, glowering at him.
Masolon commanded the first guard he encountered to escort him and his brothers to the nearest meeting chamber lest he got lost in the palace he barely spent a day in. "I don't get it. The Herlogan lad said—" Ziyad muttered behind Masolon before Frankil shushed him. Keeping the Murasen fellow quiet for five minutes was no mean feat.
Tarling was following them on the winding stairs when Masolon stopped, looking over his shoulder. "I presume from your band that you have tasks of more import than escorting me, Captain."
The balding captain seemed perplexed. "I cannot tell Duke Jonson that I left you on your own with two outlaws."
Masolon turned to Tarling, peering at him. "These men are my brothers, Captain. You had better go back to the streets to arrest some real outlaws."
The captain clenched his fists and lips before he descended the stairs, depriving Masolon and his brothers of his warm company. "I never thought he bore so much hatred for me," Frankil muttered as they resumed their ascent up the stairs.
"You knew him?" Masolon asked.
"He was the youngest youth to join my cavalry squad. After five days I sent him back to the barracks because he was not ready. Obviously, he has not forgotten that."
The guard ushered Masolon and his brothers into a small room—if compared to the halls Masolon had seen in this palace so far—a roundtable occupying its center surrounded by a couch and three armchairs. "Leave us." He motioned the guard toward the door.
Ziyad sank in his seat, grunting as he stretched his back. "Lord Masolon!" he hooted. "We leave you a few days, and you get this big house!"
"I wonder how you got it though." Frankil's face was stern as he sat, leaning his elbow on the armrest. "We were told you left Herlog as a hero."
They came back to the village indeed, and the lads have told them everything. Should Masolon tell them that he had totally forgotten about their agreement? "It is confusing, right?" He grinned as he seated himself opposite to Frankil, looking for a point to start his tale from. I am sorry, brothers. But I had to join that girl because I loved her. A simple explanation he could not simply reveal like that. "Would you believe me if I told you that I am still confused myself?"
All he got for his jape, his poor attempt to jape, was a brief silent smile from Ziyad and a stern gaze from Frankil. An explanation for this queer situation was what they were expecting, not some ridiculous jests to entertain them after their arduous journey to rescue him.
"Alright then." Masolon heaved a breath. "I made a hard choice. For the greater good, it was."
"For the greater good of your arse," snapped Frankil. "Oh, please! Spare us the blether and tell us about your warm nights in Herlog with the pretty queen, Lord Masolon!"
The Bermanian captain was more infuriated than any time Masolon could remember. After a few seconds of silence and lip biting while absorbing his brother's insults, he said, "I understand how frustrating a night in a cell can be, Frankil. Yet, a man of reason, like you, should never let his fury drag his—"
"You know what my fury is for? It is for my foolishness," Frankil put in, leaning forward. "Our brotherhood, my brotherhood, is almost torn apart because of you, because I am the only fool who still has faith in you. Had." He shook his head as he let out a deep breath. "Haven't you wondered where Antram is? He traveled with me and Ziyad all the way from Lapond until he decided to leave us in Herlog, after he learned about your heroic surrender to the gorgeous young queen. I can only hope he is on his way back to the caravan to rejoin the brothers. I will never dare to blame him or anybody else deserting the band led by the fool."
That was a nice try to make Masolon feel guilty. "Look who is blethering now." He smirked. "Seriously, Frankil, only a fool would blame you for my dreadful sins. You are a fool indeed if you believe you deserve the blame. Whether you approve or loathe my choice, I have made it on my own, brother, and I am totally satisfied with it." Not that much in the beginning, if truth be told. "There was nothing you or anybody else could do to change my mind. Nobody is obliged to. You both understand?"
Frankil gaped at him before a nervous chuckle slipped from him. "I cannot believe you are the same man who came to me in Horstad, asking for me to join him in his noble path."
Masolon could not believe that too. His journey with Antram to that village in Skandivia was now a faint memory. "Noble path? What is the nobility in getting paid for our noble deeds? We were not heroes, Captain. We were mercenaries. What once used to be called a path was just our way to make a living."
Even Ziyad stared at Masolon, his smile fading now. Was he shocked to hear the truth? No, that was not the whole truth when I started it, Masolon reminded himself. His path of redemption had been a truth once. Thanks to his demon, he realized how naive he had been. That delusion of a path had been meant for something greater, more important than his salvation—he presumed from where his choices were taking him. What exactly that greater "something" was, he could not tell so far. Too soon for you to understand.
"We were not mercenaries the day we vanquished the Ghosts in Kahora." Ziyad looked Masolon in the eye. "Or did your new title make you forget?"
The name of the Murasen city evoked memories Masolon had been trying to put behind him. Sweet memories, mind you. "No, it did not." He heaved a deep sigh, dismissing the sight of Sania in his arms from his head. "But we all change, brother, do we not?" He peered at Ziyad. "What were you before we met in Durberg, huh? A wandering bard whose most glorious victories were in bedchambers." He turned to Frankil, both exchanging cold stares for a moment. "And you, Captain? You used to serve the lords you now loathe until you slew your brother while being drunk."
Reminding the former captain of his dreadful sin did not aggravate him as Masolon expected. "At least we try to become something better. Can you tell me what you have become, Masolon?"
"You miss the whole point, Frankil. This is not about becoming better. There is nothing better or worse in the first place! It is all about fate, the games of destiny. We are all meant to serve a purpose, even if you cannot see it right now."
Frankil grimaced. "What is this nonsense?"
Masolon knew how he might sound right now, but he was compelled to voice his crude thoughts the way they flowed across his mind. "I could have died in one of my countless encounters in my homeland, but somehow, I survived all my battles. I survived Si'oli, the Great Desert, the cursed land of demons. I am quite certain you both evaded death in numerous instances as well before we cross paths together. And after we met; how many times were we badly outnumbered and we won nonetheless? Even after we were forced to split, the games of destiny brought us back together."
"We were forced to split because of your foolish acts," Frankil put in.
"My foolish acts led me to the seat of the lord of Subrel, brother. Think of it. I would not be a lord were it not for Rona. And I would not meet Rona if Feras did not exile me from Murase." Masolon glanced at Ziyad, who stared at him, as if he was watching a lunatic. "It was even arranged earlier than that: Bumar, Kuslov, Galardi, even Ramel and Viola, Gerviny and Halin; all those people somehow brought us together, not to fight some ragged nomads in the Murasen desert. No, brothers, I do not think so! We are fated for a greater hidden mission, which I hope we can figure out soon."
Frankil shook his head in disapproval, his lip curled in disdain. "Are you even listening to yourself? Who filled your head with this gibberish?" He turned to Ziyad, but the Mur
asen was still gaping at Masolon. "Is this how you justify your new way of living?"
"I justify nothing." Masolon knew it would sound strange, but it was too late now. "If you ponder all I have said, you will realize that I am actually asking you both to join me."
"Join you? In what? The glorious rebellion that has shattered this kingdom? Have you really lost your mind?"
Masolon felt obliged to reveal to them what he had been through, but for a moment he hesitated. Are we still brothers to share something like that? "Maybe I have, Frank. After I returned from the dead, I am not sure whether I have lost my mind or I have a new one now."
Frankil rolled his eyes. "Very well. What happens to us after we refuse your generous invitation? Will you return us to our cell in the dungeon?" That was not a question, Masolon knew. The captain was rebuking his former brother.
A moment of heavy silence reigned over the chamber. "You really think I may keep any of you in a cell?" Now was Masolon's turn to ask in disapproval. "You insult me, brother."
"We are free to go then." Frankil pushed to his feet, glancing at Ziyad, who did not abandon his seat. "Coming with me?"
Still seated, Ziyad leaned his elbows on his knees, his head facing the floor. He is giving it a thought, Masolon hoped.
"I'm not in a hurry, Captain. I need to get some rest after our long exhausting journey." Ziyad lifted his head up, his eyes studying Frankil's. "I'm quite sure you need some rest too."
6. RONA
Rona was sitting alone in her pavilion when she allowed Payton to come in. For an instant, the handsome captain reminded her of Masolon, making her wish he had been here, in this very pavilion. I miss the bastard, she admitted to herself. She had a lot to say to Masolon, and definitely, he had much more than she did. The bastard barely reveals anything. It was one trait among many she hated about him. Every time she expected him to say something that mattered, something about his feelings toward her, she only got snarky comments. Their last few conversations were brief ones, but at certain moments, she felt he was going to stun her with a sweet word. If only his talk was half as good as his swordplay. . .
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