Throne of Ruins

by Karim Soliman

  "You can defeat Rusakians, but not their winter, you know." Olago handed Polapopolos his goblet for one more round. "Besides, the offer the Rusakians have received from the Bermanian king is too hard to refuse."

  "Which king?" Polapopolos scoffed, filling Olago's flagon. "The one in Paril or the other in Augarin?"

  Olago took the flagon. "The one in Augarin. He offers an alliance for the castle of Karun."

  "To defeat the king in Paril," Polapopolos concluded. "An interesting move from a Bermanian. It has been a long time since the Bermanians surrendered a piece of their lands."

  "The Rusakians do not see it so." Olago shrugged. "It had been their castle before the Bermanians stole it."

  Polapopolos did not wish to waste his time in a pointless debate. Sometimes he envied the shunned Koyans who lived on their own island without border disputes with their neighbors.

  "Back to your war. Where do you want to start it, then?"

  Olago finished his drink before he returned his empty goblet to Polapopolos. "The Green Crescent." The Mankol's eyes widened.

  He is not involving his father or any of his elder brothers in his war. The twenty-two-year-old lord wanted to prove his worth not only to the Great Kaan, but also to the whole Mankol faction. "You need a huge army to realize what your ancestors have failed in."

  "That's why I traveled all that distance to Inabol," said Olago. "I want from Byzonta to attack the Murasens from the west while we attack them from the north. You take Kahora, we take Kurdisan."

  "We don't need Kahora." Polapopolos shrugged, folding his arms.

  "Maybe. But I know that Master Polapopolos, the High Counselor of the Byzont court, can persuade the King of Byzonta to do anything."

  "You have to persuade me first." Polapopolos smiled crookedly.

  "You know we are not short of gold."

  Polapopolos rubbed his chin, weighing Olago's desperate plot to make his own glory. Killing his elder brothers would be easier than this madness.

  "We did something like that, but it didn't work in the end." Polapopolos recalled the Byzont-Murasen-Mankol war that had occurred two years ago. The Murasen capital had almost fallen, if it had not been for that group of mercenaries who called themselves the Warriors' Gang.

  "Kahora would have fallen if the king had fallen." Olago used his arm to suppress his belch. "Can you imagine what might happen to a kingdom if its heirless king dies?"

  Did Polapopolos understand Olago's suggestion right? "Assassination may make things easier, I agree," the High Counselor mused.

  "It will make things easier. I know you will find the right man for the task."

  Either Olago was the Mankols' next Kaan or their biggest fool, Polapopolos reflected. "A good plan with too much risk, milord." He pressed his lips together. "That's why I need to see my gold first before I make my move."

  "I will ready your gold while you find your man." Olago pushed to his feet.

  "Leaving now? You've just arrived." Polapopolos stood in Olago's way. "Stay here tonight to have some rest."

  "No one must know I was here." Olago held Polapopolos's shoulder, moving past him. "I will find a room in the tavern where no one knows me."

  "This is not going to happen." Polapopolos followed him to the door. "What will the Kaan think of me when he knows that I didn't entertain his son well in my house?"

  Olago stood at the doorstep and turned to face Polapopolos, glaring at him. "My father has nothing to do with this business. This is my war. Don't forget that."

  For a second, Polapopolos was scared of Olago. Through the furious eyes of the young lord, he could see a tamed beast that was eager to be unleashed.

  "I won't, milord." Polapopolos managed the slightest of smiles, yet he was sure he looked nervous. He watched Olago mount his horse and leave, pondering every word he had heard from him. Too much blood would be shed for the sake of the young Kaan's son. Anyway, only gold mattered. As long as the Mankol lord paid, the world could burn in hell.

  He shut the door and returned to the terrace. "Anything to help you with, sir?" The page came to see to his demands. Like Polapopolos had taught him, a good page should always stay around his master.

  "Yes." Polapopolos pointed at the almost empty pitcher as he leaned back to his seat. "Firstly, you fill this. Secondly, you bring my lunch here. And after you are done, you go and find Viola. You remember her, don't you?"

  "Yes, sir." The page nodded. "The lady with the daggers."

  "Lady? Of course, she is!" Polapopolos guffawed. "Anyway, find the lady, and tell her that we need to talk in my place."

  21. MASOLON

  "Open the gates for the King!"

  Masolon could hear the watchmen's yell from a distance as he approached the walls of Paril with his retinue. The heavy iron gates creaked open, letting in a hundred of knights rattling in their grey Bermanian armors, the lion sigil decorating their breastplates.

  The repair works at the walls were not over yet. "We should have put that into consideration before we turn the wall into ruins," Masolon muttered, Edmond riding next to him. “Do you not think so, General?”

  The new general would seem duller than a mule, but he was more loyal than a dog, Masolon would give him that. “We lost hundreds of good men while breaching this wall, Your Grace. Repairing it was the last thing we might worry about at that time."

  Curious citizens stood on both sides of the road to watch the King's horde, their eyes betraying a mixed feeling of fear and hope. The thunder of Masolon's cannon bombarding their walls must be still echoing in their ears. The cobblestone of the main plaza was still stained with Wilander and Di Galio's blood. But Masolon knew his subjects were concerned about feeding their children more than the fate of their late king. He could see the marks of their struggle with hunger carved in their frail faces because of his siege that had made their lives miserable. Despite his orders to reopen the markets, merchants were still a bit worried about their trade. Even farmers were reluctant to sell their crops to the city. These days, nothing was louder than the gossips of the nearing battle between Paril and Augarin. And everybody knew this; the war would eat everything they had. They had better save some grain and coin for those coming bloody days.

  "The guards in my palace are more than the soldiers patrolling the city," Masolon remarked as his horde entered the royal residence.

  "It's not only Daval's army that we protect you from, Your Grace," Edmond pointed out. Those hundred knights escorting Masolon were to protect him from the desperate mob. In his own palace, he was a prisoner with his gorgeous bride; a deal that was not bad at all. But with all the duties falling on his shoulders, he could barely enjoy the sweet taste of love with his queen.

  Ziyad was in Masolon’s reception in the courtyard. "Your Grace." The Murasen sketched a bow.

  "Where is Queen Rona?" Masolon dismounted.

  "In the throne hall, Your Grace."

  Masolon leaned forward toward Ziyad. "Did I not tell you before to stop this gibberish?" he whispered, teasing his Murasen fellow. It was true Ziyad was now his advisor, but he would always be the warrior who had fought side by side with him in the sandy lands of Murase. His Murasen brother sounded awkward every time he said 'Your Grace'.

  "I don't remember that, but I will take care in the next times, Your Grace." Ziyad grinned. "How was your ride to the villages?"

  "I think I have persuaded them to produce more grain in the coming period." Masolon ascended the marble steps that led to the fifteen-foot-high door, Ziyad following him.

  "Persuaded?" Ziyad echoed. "You are the King, Masolon. You could just order them to do whatever you will."

  "The peasants are still scared of us." Masolon strode toward the throne hall. "To them, we are brigands who would not miss a chance to plunder their villages. It will take us some time before we earn their trust. Has our messenger returned from Augarin yet?"

  "He will be knocking on your door by tomorrow, I presume," said Ziyad.

  The guard
s of the throne hall opened the door for Masolon and his retinue. A smile slipped over his face when his eyes met those two emeralds of his pretty bride sitting on the throne seat. Gorgeous she looked with her loose blonde hair falling down on a light-blue dress. After a few moments of staring at her, he noticed the other men in the hall standing on both sides. "Your Grace." They bowed. Some of them looked familiar to Masolon, but he could not remember who they were. He shot Ziyad an inquiring look.

  "Merchants from Ramos," Ziyad explained.

  Now? It was dusk, and Masolon had been outside the walls of his palace since sunrise. Rona had been asleep when he had left her in their bedchamber. "Anything I can do for the merchants?" Masolon managed a smile, glancing at his queen who stood with arms folded.

  "It was us who had sent for them, Your Grace," Ziyad whispered in Masolon’s ear. "I told you two days ago I would summon them on your behalf."

  Had he done that? Anyway, that was why Masolon had appointed Ziyad as his advisor. "I will join you in a minute." Nodding to the merchants, Masolon patted Ziyad's shoulder. "I have not greeted Her Grace yet."

  He left them behind, stepping toward Rona. "Good to see you back, love." She gave him an alluring look, her voice low.

  "You look prettier today." He lifted her soft hands to his lips.

  "I see you are busy tonight." She glanced at the merchants behind him.

  Unfortunately, she was right, and blast! He missed her badly. "Not for long," he promised.

  "Good," she stroked his chest, "because we have an urgent matter to discuss. I will be waiting upstairs in our chamber."

  His eyes followed her as she left the hall. An urgent matter? He could hardly wait to discuss it with her in bed.

  Sitting on his throne, Masolon beckoned for Ziyad and the merchants to come forward. "At your service, Your Grace," a merchant said.

  "The news of your unfair prices upsets the royal court." Ziyad took the lead. "We were determined to punish you for your greed; however, His Grace has decided to summon you to negotiate."

  "We are all grateful for the generosity of His Grace." Another merchant bowed.

  "Then, I expect you to meet my generosity with some compliance," said Masolon curtly.

  "We will do whatever pleases you, Your Grace," the first merchant said. Now it was Masolon's turn to dictate whatever would please him.

  He rose up from the throne he had barely sat on for a minute. I must be looking like a fool now, but curse them all. "Master Ziyad represents the King in this meeting. He will tell you what to do." Meeting with you was his idea in the first place, he thought, peering at Ziyad who confidently nodded. Now reassured his clever Murasen advisor would handle those merchants, Masolon could leave to see to the urgent matter waiting for him in his bedchamber.

  "Your Grace,” came the voice of Payton from behind Masolon as he reached the doorstep of the throne hall.

  "Captain?" Masolon looked over his shoulder.

  Payton approached him. "May I have a word with you?"

  Masolon wondered what the new Captain of the Royal Guard would want from him now. It had better be urgent, Payton. "Sure thing."

  The two men strolled outside the hall. "I know I am only a Guard Captain," Payton said. "But you also know that I would never miss a chance to advise you."

  Masolon would not disagree with that. Payton had taught him a lot about Bermanian history and traditions. The coronation night had passed well thanks to his captain's advice. "What is it, Payton?"

  "Your advisor."

  "What about him?"

  "I know how loyal he is to you. You are friends after all. Yet you should consider other alternatives."

  "Why should I?" Masolon was surprised. "Did he do anything wrong?"

  "I am not questioning his capabilities." Payton shook his head. "On the contrary, I believe he is a shrewd advisor. Yet he is still a Murasen."

  "I do not know we have problems with Murasens."

  "We don't. But he is a foreigner in the Bermanian court."

  "As well as me."

  "As well as you, Your Grace," Payton confirmed. "And that's why you shouldn't feed the nobles' hatred to you. Let's be frank, most of them are still trying to grasp the fact that you are their king."

  Jealousy and envy might drive a man to say what Payton said. But Masolon always followed his instincts, and his instincts told him two things. First, he should not doubt Payton's sincerity. Second, he had to hurry to his pressing matter upstairs.

  "I truly appreciate your advice, Payton." Masolon forced a smile. "Now if you do not mind, I have to go."

  "There is one more thing you should know about."

  Masolon was growing impatient. "What else?"

  "It's Darov. The Rusakian cannon maker was really upset when the guards did not allow him to leave the palace."

  "Tell him that the city is not a safe place for the time being.”

  "I suggest you talk to him, Your Grace," said Payton. "He needs to understand why you keep him in the royal palace."

  "Thanks for the advice, Captain." Masolon patted Payton's shoulder. "Just make sure the old Rusakian does not go past the gate of the royal palace."

  Leaving Payton behind, Masolon ascended the stairs in a hurry. Darov could wait for tomorrow, but the urgent matter upstairs would not.

  With quick steps, he passed through the corridor, his mind busy imaging what Rona might be wearing right now. The door of their chamber was locked when he tried to open it. "It is me." He knocked on the door. In a few moments, he heard that crack coming from inside. Someone was unlocking the door right now. The knob turned in his second attempt, and slowly, he pushed the door open. The chamber was lit by faint candlelight, the air packed with a strong scent coming from the golden pitcher on the bedside table, which was dragged to the middle of the chamber.

  "Did you think I could not see you in the dark?" Masolon scoffed as he spotted Rona standing at the corner, clad in a black cloak he did not remember he had seen before. He never knew all the items she had in her wardrobe anyway.

  "Doesn't this remind you of something?" She tilted her head.

  "I know this scent." Masolon pointed at the pitcher as he approached the table, sniffing. "This is chamomile."

  "Mixed with wine." She seductively bit her lower lip. "You remember the last time you drank that mixture?"

  Oh Lord! “Herlog?”

  "That's right." She let the cloak fall down, revealing one familiar purple dress, twisting tightly around her graceful curves, short enough to show her perfect legs.

  "Curse me." He grinned. "How did you find that dress?"

  "I didn’t. I described it to the tailor and he made it for me." She slowly approached him, surrounding his neck with her arms. "I remember how you loved it on me that night."

  "Even in a rag, you are irresistible." He squeezed below her waist.

  "Slow down, rascal." She playfully slapped him. "I will not let you rush toward the end." She glanced at the pitcher. "Tonight we will revive every moment."

  "My patience has limits."

  "I said: every moment," she insisted. "Do you want to have a drink?"

  "You know you will get drunk before I do," Masolon teased her.

  "We shall see now, Your Grace." She arched an eyebrow. "Will you start?"

  "After you." Masolon poured from the pitcher into the only flagon next to it. He handed her the full flagon and watched her drain it in a few seconds. "That is my queen!" he hooted.

  "Your turn." She filled the flagon. "I will make sure it is full this time."

  "What are you hinting at?" He took the flagon from her hand.

  "I doubt you were cheating that night to set me up. You let me drink more than you."

  "You cannot be serious." He chuckled, shaking his head. "Watch me." He tried to finish the flagon in one gulp, but the sting of the mixture in his throat was too painful to stand.

  "Show me the flagon, bastard." She took it from his hand after he finished his drink on two rounds.


  "I told you I was not cheating." He showed her the empty flagon.

  "We shall see." She tilted her head. "My turn."

  "No." He snatched the flagon from her hand and put it on the table.

  "What are you doing?" she asked. "Too early to walk away from the battlefield, Your Grace."

  "You win, then." He swept her off her feet, her tunic lifted up revealing a pair of delicious thighs.

  "You shouldn't carry me now!" she playfully protested. "I knew you would rush toward the end like an animal!"

  "I will not let that drink confuse your senses like that night in Herlog." He walked toward the bed, Rona in his arms. "Tonight I will make sure you feel and remember every moment."

  22. ANTRAM

  For three weeks, he had been allowed to wander wherever he wanted, as long as he did not go past the gates of the Augarin. Sometimes, Elesandre, Daval's youngest son, escorted him. Sometimes a bunch of guards followed him, especially when he came near the fortified walls of the greatest city in the South. Truth be told, Antram had never imagined Augarin more than a fortress to deter the Byzonts from trespassing on the southern Bermanian territory. But the city he was currently touring its bustling market seemed more flourishing than Ramos and even Paril. Yet with the gossips of the upcoming war with Queen Rona and her puppet king, Antram doubted Augarin could maintain its current 'prosperity.' Yes, in these dark times, those who could provide their families with the bare necessities every day should consider their lives prosperous.

  Elesandre, the nineteen-year-old lord, was escorted by three swordsmen when he found Antram in the market. "About time to return to the castle." Daval's son motioned to Antram to follow him.

  "What is the hurry today?"

  "His Grace has returned. The moment he arrived he asked to see you."

  Since Antram came here, he had never had the honor of meeting the King of the South. According to Elesandre, His Grace had been overseeing the fortification works of his castle in Taloda, just in case Charlwood's daughter decided to stun him from the coastal side.