Throne of Ruins

by Karim Soliman

  Rona had heard how a Rusakian winter looked like. "I am talking about the Northern Sea." That was something she had seen for herself. "Braving it in winter is suicide."

  "It was a risk worth taking." Masolon nodded toward the Rusakian, who used a ladle to scoop some black powder from a sack. "Darov made good use of his time aboard."

  Darov dumped the powder into the bore of the cannon. "Your Grace, I mean no interruption to your nice conversation with Masolon. But can we borrow him for a minute?"

  Rona motioned to Masolon to go and see to the Rusakian's demands. "The cannonball." Darov pointed at the round stone. "Load it carefully."

  That cannonball must be heavier than it looked like, Rona thought, her eyes on Masolon and Ziyad who buried that round stone inside the cannon through the bigger hole at the back.

  Glancing over her shoulder, Rona realized that the Rusakian cannon intrigued a curious audience from her camp. Standing in the front line of the crowd were Payton and three of his men to watch over their queen.

  "Find me a torch while I adjust the aim," Darov demanded, Masolon urging Ziyad to hurry to the camp and bring what the Rusakian asked for. "Should we start with the gate, Your Grace?"

  "From here?" Astonished, Rona gazed at the walls, which were too far to strike by a trebuchet, let alone that cannon with small spherical projectiles. And how is it going to hurl that ball without a sling? She scanned the cannon, but she found nothing to settle her doubts.

  Darov elevated the canon a bit and kept adjusting its direction right and left until Ziyad was back with a torch. "Just a few steps back, Your Grace." Masolon gently held Rona by the hand and walked her away from the cannon a few feet.

  "That unfortunate accident to Larovic's son still worries you, huh?" Darov grinned at Masolon as he took the torch from Ziyad. "It was just a clogged vent, and this time I have taken care of it." The Rusakian chemist lit a short rope coming out of the cannon. "If there is something you should be concerned about, it is the sound. I suggest you all cover—"

  BOOM!

  The horrendous crack shook her heart so vigorously it almost moved from its place in her chest. A few seconds later, she felt Masolon's strong arm holding her tight without hurting her. Would it be silly to admit it was his grip that brought her heart back to its place, steady?

  The deafening thunder hushed the crowd behind her. Even the whisper of morning breeze stopped for a while, as if scared by this monstrous craft. She could still feel the cold air kissing her cheeks though. Was there something wrong with her ears?

  "The gate!" a cry broke the eerie silence, the indistinctive murmur behind her growing loud. The only word she could distinguish was "the gate."

  "It is working!" Masolon hooted as he shook Darov by the shoulder. "You are doing it, you Rusakian bastard!"

  Among a thousand cheering men here, Rona was the only one who was not sure what was going on. Had that horrifying explosion muddled her senses? Perhaps it had, or perhaps it was just the fear of premature celebration.

  Leaving the cannon and the clamoring men behind her, she advanced to have a better look at the gate of Paril. No mistake, the Rusakian bastard did hit the bloody gate. Now, only now, she could smile.

  "Master Darov." Rona turned to the Rusakian. "Can your cannon make a few holes in that wall?"

  "That is what I am here for, Your Grace." The right part of Darov's mouth quirked upward. "As I told Masolon: I am expert in all kinds of ranged weapons."

  13. MASOLON

  Her Grace Queen Rona had insisted that Masolon had to look like a true Bermanian lord in the upcoming assault. While he was donning the lion-adorned armor she had commanded to be brought to his tent, the menacing BOOM which shook the whole camp became the sweetest music he might have listened to. Surely, Wilander's soldiers atop the bulwarks of Paril had a different opinion about this music.

  Rona's lords and commanders were still lining their men up into formation when Masolon returned to the front line. "No reserves today," Rona said to them, and none of them disagreed. Actually, no one of little military sense would argue about putting everything and everybody into the battle that mattered the most. "We must crush Wilander's troops while they are still in shock."

  If Masolon and Rona were lucky, the resourceful Lord Di Galio would be among the men "still in shock." He must be watching his broken walls right now, Masolon hoped. He must be wondering what kind of a demonic weapon Rona has brought. Even Masolon himself was impressed by the impact of that small cannonball—small if compared to a trebuchet fireball. He was not the chemist who had built this craft, but he presumed it was the lightning speed of the cannonball that disrupted the stone wall with a force you could only imagine in your nightmares.

  What if we shoot one of those cannonballs at the soldiers crammed behind the wall? Masolon was not sure which part of him raised this devilish idea, but it was too compelling to resist, again. Was he losing control of his own self? Oh, please. Who would travel hundreds of miles into the heart of the frozen kingdom in the winter to find a demented old man, who might have lied about a weapon you never saw?

  "Darov," Masolon needed to speak out loud to dismiss his internal distraction, "spare a few cannonballs for the battle inside the city."

  Holding a wooden pole the head of which wrapped in wool, the Rusakian glanced at the cannonballs in the cart. "We only have three remaining."

  "They will do."

  "You may not have the chance to fire them in some narrow street." Like he did before every time he shot, Darov dipped the pole into a bucket of water and drove it into the cannon breech. He turned the pole several times before he withdrew it. "Why save them while you can make a new breach in the wall?"

  Masolon gazed at the ruined wall of Paril in the distance. "A destroyed gate and four breaches are more than enough."

  "The chemist has a point." Rona joined the conversation. "It is going to be chaos behind the walls, Lord Masolon."

  'Lord' never sounded pleasant in her voice, but that was something he should ignore for the time being. "You both are right." He stepped sideways to change his view angle of the breach ahead of him. "Bring the cannon here when you are done with your safety procedures," he said to Darov.

  Rona came closer to Masolon. "Would you share your plans with me for once?"

  "Sharing my plans with the Queen? That will be my pleasure, Your Grace," Masolon scoffed. "You see those soldiers regrouping behind the walls. I was thinking one cannonball would persuade them to step back, allowing our archers to advance and assume shooting spots atop the wall or what remained of it." He nodded his chin toward Payton, who was conversing with Ziyad. "You inform your Commander of Archers of your plan so that he can give his instructions to his men."

  Rona seemed to be weighing his plan. "I shall inform Duke Foubert as well. He was thinking of a full-scale cavalry charge through the gate and the four breaches at the same time."

  "I would do the same if I were in charge." Masolon nodded. "After the cannonball."

  "Will you lead the Skandivians? Gramus is still unfit to fight."

  It was not the first time she offered him the honor of leading the most ferocious warriors in Gorania in battle. "Gramus will not like that."

  A wry smile played at the corner of her thin lips. "Since when did you start to care about Gramus's feelings?"

  "I never cared. I just wanted to make sure that your decision would infuriate him."

  Despite her obvious attempts to keep her face a mask, she let slip a chuckle. For the first time since his return from Durberg, she looked him in the eye. "You had better outlive your opponents today. I am not done rebuking you, so let's hope we might talk later," she lowered her voice as she added, "bastard."

  Rona was back to her lords and commanders when Darov got help from three soldiers to move the cannon where Masolon asked. Instead of loading the weapon with a cannonball, as Darov was supposed to do, the Rusakian leaned on the bronze cylindrical frame of his masterpiece for a moment. "I don't l
ike this."

  "You do not like what?"

  "I built this weapon to scare men and force them to surrender, not to squash them with it."

  The Rusakian's morals took Masolon off guard. "We are about to start a bloody battle, old man. Too late to become a cleric now."

  Darov did not react, but Masolon felt the contempt in his eyes. "I killed one man by mistake, and still I dream of him every now and then. How about you? Don't you ever feel bad about those you killed?"

  Bad timing to remind me of my nightmares, old man. "You will squash a few to force thousands to surrender. You feel better now?"

  Darov did not seem convinced. "I will try to."

  "Good. While you do so, load the cannon and adjust the aim. Do not shoot until I tell you."

  Masolon strode to Rona, who was having a stand-up meeting with her bunch of trustworthy vassals: the veteran Duke Foubert and his sturdy son Lord Yavier, the Queen's rulers of the East; Lord Norwell, the tactful nephew of Lord Jonson; the loyal Captain Edmond; the witty Captain Payton; and of course the former General Gramus himself who had recently been raised to the rank of Lord. The towering half-Skandivian curved his lips in distaste in return for Masolon's crooked smile. "The cannon will be ready in a minute, Your Grace," Masolon announced. "We await your order to fire."

  Rona shot Foubert a quizzical look.

  "Our knights are ready. Lord Yavier will charge once the cannon is fired," said Foubert flatly, his son glaring at Masolon. Obviously, Gramus was not the only one who loathed his presence here.

  "You have little time to introduce yourself to your warriors." Gramus clenched his jaws when he added, "You had better show them you are worth leading them in battle."

  As I expected, he is irked. "I guess they all know me already." Masolon kept his grin, looking the towering lord straight in the eye. "A lot has happened while you were recovering from your grievous wounds."

  "You may join your battalion now, Lord Masolon," Rona urged Masolon, her eyes glowing. "You as well, milords and captains. I want to capture this city before nightfall."

  So, the stand-up meeting was concluded, but Masolon knew better that his warm conversation with Rona's devoted guardian was far from over. It will only be over when one of us dies. And probably, that one would not be Masolon.

  The Skandivians were positioned behind Yavier's cavalry and ahead of Payton's archers, the disciplined Bermanian footmen flanking them. My soldiers do not know how to stand in ranks, but they know how to slay their opponents better than anyone here, Masolon reflected, contemplating the boisterous Skandivian mercenaries as he walked through their disarrayed rows. His presence quelled their noise somehow, whispers and murmurs following him until he stopped in the center of the Skandivian battalion. They know who I am. That should be easier than I thought.

  "Warriors!"

  Masolon's pause after his roar made the impact he desired. The mercenaries were hushed now.

  "My people call themselves the Korigaidis. To the other clans beyond the Great Desert, our name is a synonym for the word death." Masolon's origin was not a secret he was keen to hide anymore. Let everybody in Gorania know I am the demon. Let them all fear me. "I believe you are the Korigaidis of Gorania."

  His crowd clamored, voicing their approval.

  "Listen up!" Masolon went on. "I do not know about you, but I really want to get done with this war tonight. I am sick of getting myself killed and resurrected." A few guffawed before he continued, "In a minute or two, the knights will storm the city, and so will we. We will enter through the gate, seize the central part of the wall, and deter the enemy's counterattacks." He strode toward the front line of the battalion. "You here, line yourselves up into two ranks." When he did not find a swift response from their side, he bellowed, "Move!"

  The mercenaries, who were not used to be disciplined, reluctantly stood in two loose rows. "Much better." He pointed to the breached wall ahead of them. "Now you see those broken bulwarks? Cleansing them will be your task. Our archers will take over the walls when you are done." He turned to the rest of the Skandivians behind the two loose ranks. "The rest will seize the central ground with me."

  From his spot, Masolon could see Darov talking to Foubert, the current general commander of Rona's army. "Fire!" Foubert cried, warning those standing nearby to cover their ears. Darov's cannon thundered, and this time the silence following the firing lasted a bit longer. What are they waiting for? The cavalry should be charging now. Masolon could not tell from his angle what the cannonball had done to Wilander's troops behind the breach, but this long silence across Rona's host did not bode well.

  "Cavalry!"

  The cry was the song Masolon had been anticipating. When the knights started moving, he boomed, "DEATH!" The Skandivians echoed their commander's roar, a bunch of them howling, "Koragid!" Their accent was really bad, but it did put a smile on his face while he was jogging toward the broken gate of Paril.

  Yavier's galloping knights outpaced all the infantry behind them. The remaining enemy archers atop the ruined bulwarks showered the mounted attackers with arrows and bolts, yet with little impact. They were not exaggerating about the impregnable armors of those eastern knights, Masolon thought, watching Yavier's horsemen storm the city through the gate and the four breaches. If they charged on an open field, as they had done in Ramos, the battle would end in less than an hour.

  Masolon unstrapped his Rusakian shield and raised it as he sprinted into the shooting range of Wilander's archers. Arrows clanked against his shield, but bolts did a bit more than that, almost making him lose grip of that splendid piece of steel. A wooden shield would have become a sieve by now, which was not a mere assumption. The cries of Bermanian footmen falling dead or injured rested Masolon's case. As for the bold Skandivian warriors, well, they never honored wielding shields in battle, so Masolon did not bother estimating the men he lost from his own battalion. Still, the Skandivians who made it to the gate were way more than those who did not.

  Finally, Masolon set foot on Paril.

  Wilander's footmen had retreated to the entrance of the main street of the city. But as they thronged a much narrower field, they managed to hinder Yavier's knights and even unhorse them. On foot, the knights encumbered by their plate armor were too slow to evade the blows aimed at its weak points. "Take down the archers atop the wall!" Masolon reminded the mercenaries of their task. "The rest, chaaarge!"

  Arrows whizzed around Masolon as he led the Skandivians rushing toward Yavier's trapped horsemen to aid them. Growling, Masolon drew his bastard sword and plunged it into the trunk of a soldier about to slay a fallen knight. With his shield he caught the sword of a second soldier before he slashed his chest. A third soldier lunged at him, but Masolon parried him with his shield and stabbed him in the belly. The fourth soldier failed to even swing his sword thanks to a ferocious Skandivian, who hewed off the swordsman's arm at the elbow with a mighty strike. To rid the Bermanian of his pain, Masolon finished him off with one stab.

  With more mercenaries swarming into the battlefield, Rona's army was again winning ground in the city. As the Skandivians pushed onward, Masolon allowed himself a moment to behold the clash behind him atop the breached wall. A bunch of Wilander's archers managed to flee from the Skandivians butchering them, but the majority was not that lucky. Most parts of the broken bulwark were death traps, the only exit of each guarded by the cold blades of merciless warriors. Soon the wall would belong to Payton's archers.

  The battle on the ground was just starting. Rona's army was now in charge of the city entrance, but they were still at the far end of the main street of Paril. The other end was at the gate of the royal palace, and between the two ends were thousands of Wilander soldiers. Four thousand, according to Payton's estimate.

  "Horses!" the footmen ahead of Masolon cried, knights coming from the main street galloping toward them. A cavalry counterattack, Masolon realized.

  "Brace yourselves, men! Hold your ground!" he bellowed, doubting a m
ere order was enough. His warriors could be dispersed anywhere in the city right now, but the Bermanian swordsmen around him responded anyway. Though it was a bit late to stand in a wall-formation, they planted their feet into the ground, holding their shields against their shoulders. Where are the rest of our cavalry? Masolon wondered when he spotted a few knights from Yavier's battalion on horseback among the infantry at the front.

  The men at the frontline grunted as Wilander's knights galloped straight through them. Though there were ten rows of footmen and horsemen in front of Masolon, the soldier in front of him was slammed so hard against the steel shield Masolon himself almost lost his footing. Gripping the man by his soldier, Masolon shoved him away and met a knight's sword swing with his shield. A couple of seconds later, his shield clanked one more time against the blade of another charging knight. Enough of this! I must get a bloody horse!

  Evading two more lethal strikes, Masolon waited until he picked a knight who got hindered by the soldiers he slew on his way. That horse is mine. Masolon strapped his shield to his back, held his bastard sword like a spear, and stabbed the horseman in the trunk. Without waiting for the dead knight to fall, Masolon pulled him down and swung up into his place on the back of the horse. Blast! Where on earth is Yavier? It was true Foubert's son had lost some of his knights in their cavalry raid, but where had the rest of the battalion gone? They had not retreated, had they?

  Wheeling his new horse, Masolon pulled his greatsword to face Wilander's incoming forces. He plunged the hefty weapon through a galloping horse's neck, leaving the Skandivians on the ground to take good care of the fallen knight. More enemy knights were flocking in, but both Rona's swordsmen and the Skandivian mercenaries amassed in the horses' way, forcing them to slow down. And when the odds started to seem in favor of Masolon's men, Wilander's infantry charged to aid their struggling knights. Without our cowardly knights, Rona will lose her entire army, even if she wins this battle.