"Rebuild it, you mean. My intention is to double its size and construct more towers."
"So, you do have the stone."
"We will." After defeating Daval, Masolon thought. The news of the southern army pillaging the Ramosi villages on its way back to Augarin was a clear statement to everybody; Daval would not bend the knee unless he was forced to.
"What is more important than the stone is the garrison behind it," said Ziyad. "How many men will Her Grace give you?"
"Her Grace," Masolon resisted a smile from slipping over his face, "has a city to conquer and a hostile army lurking near her fiefs. Until then, all the troops are under her command."
The rain forced them to end their inspection and ride with their guards back to the city of Ramos. Masolon did not like the way they looked at him and his Murasen fellow out of the corners of their eyes. Even after the funny games of destiny led him to lordship, the contempt Masolon felt from Goranians barely changed. Though Her Grace had named him Lord of Subrel, he was still to everybody the low-born foreigner whose veins lacked the noble blood. Princesses are for princes. Commoners are for commoners, the words echoed in his mind in Halin's voice. Well, he had tried his luck with a princess and a commoner and he had failed with both.
"You think Antram has returned to Kalensi?" Masolon asked Ziyad as they rode with their mounted escorts.
"Who knows what is going in his head?" Ziyad shrugged, his voice void of his usual snarky tone. "He has nobody else to go to though. He will eventually come back."
"Would he join me if I asked him?"
Ziyad allowed a faint chuckle. "He is more likely to join you than Frankil. Our bald brother has a weakness for coin, you know."
"Who does not?" Except for Frankil, who had insisted on returning to his stupid caravan, denying all Masolon and Ziyad's attempts to persuade him to stay in Ramos with them? "But would that weakness be enough to overcome the hatred toward the man who destroyed his family?"
"Ah, Charlwood's daughter!" Ziyad's voice was loud enough to pique the Bermanian knights' attention. Masolon knew they were eavesdropping after they heard their queen's name. "I can't tell if Antram bears grudge against her, but I'm quite sure the song of clinking pouches would heal his soul."
That song never healed mine. Nothing has healed my soul.
"Is it all about coin to you, Ziyad?"
Ziyad chortled. "Will you be offended if I tell you that I'm not here for your great fated mission?"
"No, I will not." In fact, Masolon did not expect anybody to understand the notion of his fated mission, the mission he himself was clueless about. All he had said to Ziyad and Frankil did come from his demon, not him. Masolon was just a horn his demon blew.
"Having said that, I still believe in fate, brother," said Ziyad. "Somehow, I believe we were fated to meet again to bring me back to the life I was yearning for.
"You know, the day the Gang was disbanded, I was thinking that I had enough to go back to my festive life. I had my revenge already, so why not spend the rest of my life in feasts playing music to highborn ladies instead of wandering the desert, battling nomads?
"I was about to see Antram and Frankil off when they came to tell me we were traveling to Kalensi to find Galardi and join him. For a cursed reason I still don't know, I didn't reveal my intentions, and instead I found myself following them to Skandivia.
"After a year of riding with the brothers across the realms, I gave up the idea of returning to my earlier life. And then, you showed up again, asking us to join you. That time I was determined to not ignore my fate again. I would never ignore an invitation from a lord."
"I did not invite you to a feast, mind you," Masolon scoffed.
"The feasts will come sooner or later, brother. We stain our hands with blood to earn peace in the end, right?"
"I hope so, brother." Masolon nodded, two Goranian years of bloodshed flashing through his mind. "I hope so."
The rain stopped by the time they reached the quiet city of Ramos. The sight of a caravan emerging from the market and the children chasing each other in the street revived the hope that peace might prevail one day.
Too soon for you to understand.
Upon their arrival in the palace, the guards' captain informed Masolon that Lord Jonson was waiting for him in the big hall. "Only you, milord." The captain glanced at Ziyad.
"Mind your business, Captain." Masolon glared at the Bermanian captain as he and his Murasen fellow strode toward the hall.
The blue-eyed lord was listening to Captain Tarling when the lord of Subrel and his Murasen advisor entered the hall. "Glad you are back, Lord Masolon," said Jonson, a hint of disapproval on his face upon seeing Ziyad. "An urgent task is waiting for you."
Jonson had surely been a lord for long, but now he and Masolon were equals. "What task would you need a lord for?"
"A task that Queen Rona commands you to undertake." Jonson peered at him. "She wants you to lead the battalion marching to Paril."
"Daval's army is not far away from here while we only have five hundred soldiers to defend ourselves," Masolon reminded him. "How many more can we spare?"
"If it was up to me, I would keep five thousand men here, son. But that's a queen's order. No matter the situation is, we must obey."
"She has ten thousand men at the walls of Paril under her command. What does she expect from a hundred or even two hundred additional soldiers?"
Jonson allowed a faint smile. "They are reinforcements. They are to guard the engineers going from Ramos to her camp."
"A battalion to guard the engineers?" The lord of Subrel had a dozen knights to guard him when he had gone to inspect his fort.
"You heard of what happened to our trebuchets at the Green Hills. Her Grace doesn't want that to happen again. Those two engineers must make it to the camp whatever the cost is."
"You only have two engineers in this city?" Ziyad asked Jonson, who seemed a bit surprised that the Murasen commoner dared to address him.
"Yes," the bald lord curtly replied.
"You tell me the fate of the siege of Paril rests on the shoulders of those two?" Masolon peered at Jonson.
"Di Galio didn't leave us many options. Before we capture Ramos, he took every skillful hand with him to Paril."
"We hardly found those two," Tarling added. "We brought them with their families here in the palace after we were informed of the threats they received if they joined us."
The Fox was not just alive; he was in charge of Jonson's city. While everybody thought it was a foolish move from Di Galio's side, the Fox proved them all wrong. Even his retreat to Paril was a work of military art. Masolon could not help admiring his enemy's resourcefulness.
"The sun will fall in less than an hour," said Masolon. "I will take those engineers for a ride tomorrow morning." He turned to Tarling. "Find them armors to wear. You have a whole night to make them look and march like soldiers."
Jonson and Tarling gaped at him. What was it they did not understand?
"Now if you do not mind," Masolon simpered at Jonson, "we will go find something to fill our hollow bellies with."
He motioned for Ziyad to follow him. As the two men headed to the door, Jonson snapped behind them, "Are you simply ignoring the orders of Her Grace?"
Masolon stomped, took a breath, and slowly turned to face the blue-eyed lord. He still addresses me as if I am his underling. "Is there a problem I am not told of?" He looked Jonson in the eye.
"Weren't you listening? Her Grace is in urgent need of those engineers. We lose men with every hour we waste here."
"Then find a servant of yours to comply with that urgent need," Masolon spat. "I am not going anywhere before I get some rest and sate my hunger."
Without waiting for Jonson's response, Masolon turned and stalked out, Ziyad hurrying after him through the corridor. "That was harsh, if you ask me, brother," the Murasen said.
"I know it was."
Ziyad waited until they went past a guard posted at
the end of the corridor. "You are the newest lord among them, brother. If you can't befriend them, don't make them your enemies."
"I would rather be their enemy than be their servant."
"Come on, Masolon. Aren't you going too far with this?"
Masolon stopped and faced Ziyad. "You do not understand. The likes of Jonson still regard me as an intruder. If I let him get away with his arrogance, he will always treat me as one of his minions."
Ziyad sighed before he patted Masolon's shoulder. "You really need to get some rest, Masolon."
"You do not agree with me, do you?"
"You should listen to yourself, brother. If my opinion means anything to you, you were the only arrogant one in that hall."
Masolon wanted to argue about that, but part of him believed his Murasen friend; the only person in the palace who had no reason to lie to him. "I hope you are right," he scoffed, "I left a better impact than I thought, did I not?"
* * *
Having dinner with Ziyad in the palace of Ramos had been Masolon's favorite part of the day for the last few days. Usually none of the noble residents of the palace would join the two foreigners, giving the two friends a splendid chance to chatter on their own. Last night Ziyad had told him about the sparrow that had pissed on Antram while they were on their way to Gatengard. Their bald brother had almost emptied his quiver in failed attempts to avenge his ruined shirt, his fury growing worse with every arrow missing its flying target.
But tonight, Ziyad was quiet as he went through all the courses of his dinner. When all the plates in front of him were empty, he stared at Masolon. "We are going tomorrow to Paril, aren't we?"
His Murasen friend was actually reminding him of the Queen's order, Masolon knew. "If they dress the engineers as I asked? Yes." He resumed devouring what remained of the roasted chicken in his platter.
Pushing to his feet, Ziyad leaned on the table toward Masolon. "Listen, brother. You could be on a fated mission or not. Either way, I beg you, don't ruin this." He waved his hand, gesturing at the ruby walls enclosing them. "This rare chance happens only in the bards' songs. My songs."
Of course, Ziyad would regard their current situation as a chance; Masolon would have the same belief if he were his Murasen fellow. But Masolon knew better that someone else or something was taking good care of the doors in his way.
Too soon for you to understand.
Ziyad must have already fallen asleep in his bed when Masolon headed to his own chamber. He let his body sink in his soft bed, and shortly after, he was mounting his horse, watching the troops rushing to scale the walls of Paril. Suddenly, huge flames rose from the ground beneath his soldiers' boots, swallowing the screaming men in a heartbeat. "Fall back!" Ziyad's voice rang in the battlefield, but Masolon could not find him anywhere.
Behind him he found Rona. Clad in a blood-stained white gown, she mounted her brown destrier, her knights and footmen retreating in a hurry. "Rona! You must flee now!" Masolon waved her away, but she did not even look at him. "Rona! Go, I say!" he barked, but the stubborn girl did not move. No, that was not stubbornness. She was in a shock.
He nudged his horse toward the petrified queen, and right before he reached her, the monstrous fire engulfed her and her horse, the flames roaring so loud he could not hear her screams. "RONA! NO!"
"Fire is faster than man. You need something faster than fire."
Masolon recognized that calm voice. On his left, the round-faced lord mounted a grey horse that matched the color of his beard. How did he just appear from nowhere, Masolon did not know.
"Darrison? What are you doing here?"
The grey-bearded lord pointed upward to the sky thick with dark clouds. "A storm is coming."
That traitor should not be here. Hauling his greatsword, Masolon spurred his horse to charge at Darrison who did not seem concerned at all. Startled by the booming thunder, the galloping horse raised its forelimbs, throwing Masolon off its back. He fell on his shoulder, but somehow he was not hurt. "Curse you, cowardly horse!" Masolon reached for the sword he dropped, his eyes seeking Darrison on the blasted field, but Darrison and his horse were gone. "Where are you?" He looked around as he pushed to his feet, the heat making him sweat from head to toe.
And then the lightning flashed across the sky, so bright it blinded Masolon for a couple of seconds. This does not make any sense. The lightning always comes first, Masolon thought as he shielded his eyes with his arm. This is a nightmare. Wake up, Masolon.
"Open your eyes," Masolon heard his own voice, but he knew who was talking to him right now.
With caution, Masolon removed his arm and beheld the clear field around him. No fire, no corpses. . . no Rona. Only the dark ashen trees of the Parilian woods. . . and the ruins of the wall of the city.
Masolon gasped, and after a few moments, he was relieved to find himself in his bedchamber. "Thunder," he muttered. "Thunder is faster than fire."
He grabbed a cloak to cover his bare chest as he hurried outside his room and headed to Ziyad's room. Only one awake guard encountered him on his way. "Something wrong, milord?"
But Masolon did not stop or even try to order him to step aside. He just shouldered the guard as he went on his way until he made it to Ziyad's room. When the locked door denied Masolon's attempts to force it open, he hammered it with his fist. "Open, Ziyad!"
A few armed guards warily approached Masolon while he was banging on the door. "What is it, milord?"
"Just stay away." Masolon glared at the intrusive guards. One of them was wise enough to urge his fellows to halt.
"Masolon?" Ziyad's sleepy voice came from behind the shut door.
"Open, Ziyad. Let me in," Masolon demanded, glancing at the wise guards standing their ground.
His Murasen friend was slowly opening the door when Masolon rushed inside and slammed it shut behind him.
"Merciful Lord!" Ziyad exclaimed. "What on earth is going on, Masolon?"
"I want you to write a letter on my behalf. You can write, can you not?"
Ziyad rubbed his face as if he was still trying to wake himself up. "A letter? Now?"
"Can you write or not?" Masolon snapped.
"Yes, yes, I can. But, but. . . come on!" Ziyad gave his face and hair a few more rubs. "We are in the middle of the night, Masolon! What is this cursed letter that can't wait until the morning?"
"A letter to Rona. . . Queen Rona," Masolon caught a glimpse of that awkward look on Ziyad's face, "informing her of our departure for an urgent task."
"Departure?" Ziyad's face was not sleepy anymore. "Wait, wait, wait. She already expects us in Paril. Why would you write a damned letter to inform her of your damned coming?"
"Because we are not traveling to Paril, brother." Masolon went to the window, gazing at the dark-grey clouds scattered in the black sky of midnight. "You think one fur coat would be enough to help me survive the Rusakian winter?"
8. RONA
Rona hurried outside her pavilion when Payton announced the arrival of General Gramus with the Ramosi troops escorting the engineers. "Can't be true," she muttered as she eyed her burly towering guardian riding a huge white warhorse. Two soldiers scurried to him as he carefully dismounted, but he harshly dismissed them. He is still not recovered, but he doesn't want to show it, she thought as he approached her, his pace slower than usual.
"What a surprise, General." Rona would embrace him if it were not for the audience. "The healers said you would need much longer time to mount a horse."
"The healers know nothing." Gramus put his hands on his waist, nodding toward his Ramosi troops. "Your engineer is under your disposal."
"Engineer?" Rona echoed in disapproval. "Is there no one else?"
Gramus heaved a sigh. "Jonson only sent two with me. I lost one on the road."
Not again. "Were you ambushed at the Green Hills?"
"Ambushed, yes. But not at the Green Hills." Gramus should know it would not console Rona if the venue of the ambush was different. "I was to
ld of what happened to the trebuchets, so I decided to turn around the woods to avoid those hills, but somehow, Wilander's men were aware of our new route. Do you know that the Byzonts are aiding him? Because I encountered a hundred Byzont archers shielded by Byzont spearmen. Their arrows shower was so heavy that it deterred us from pursuing them. We lost enough men already."
Byzonts? Near Paril? They have never gone past Augarin in the South. She might swallow the notion of accepting a former enemy's friendship for the sake of common interests, but not if the enemy was a Byzont. If she was obliged to, she might even ally herself to Mankols—they were barbarians, but oath breaking was something they were not renowned for. The Byzonts, however, were liars, tricksters, and thieves. The most infamous thieves in Gorania. Was not their entire kingdom founded by some thief?
"How did the Byzonts reach Paril and the Green Hills before us?" Rona voiced her concerns.
"Through Lizabona, Your Grace." She almost forgot that Payton, the captain of her guards, was one step behind her. "Good to see you again in the field, General."
Gramus barely moved his lips as a gesture of acknowledgment.
"Who is in charge of Lizabona?" Rona asked Payton. "The lord of Ramos or the King in Paril?"
"Lizabona is run by smugglers, and most of them used to work for Aberto, Di Galio's late brother. The Byzont troops must have entered our lands from the port of that town."
The young captain's knowledge impressed Rona. "You sure of that?"
"Of course, he is," Gramus grunted. "He must have heard one thing or two while he was at Lord Di Galio's service."
Rona wondered if Gramus still questioned Payton's loyalty. Somehow Wilander's men were aware of our new route, she recalled her guardian's words. Did he plainly accuse Payton of betraying her?
"Where is Masolon? How can't he be here despite my orders?" She glared at Gramus, having no doubt he would do anything to keep Masolon away from her.
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