Throne of Ruins

by Karim Soliman

  "Onward!" Masolon ordered his knights.

  "Daval is running away!" Jonson protested. "We must stop him!"

  "Our men need our help!" Masolon dug his heels into the flanks of his horse a hundred times. "Charge with me!"

  Masolon did not need to look back one more time to repeat his orders. Roaring with him, his knights galloped, the hooves of their horses thundering in the plains of Ramos. In the dim light of dawn, he could recognize a familiar bald head. His old friend was regrouping the southern horsemen as he spotted Masolon and his knights. Curse you, Antram! Why did you not flee with your king?

  Their eyes met when they charged at each other. The last time they had met in a combat had been in their sparring at the hill outside Kahora, at the old quarters of the Warriors' Gang. At those days, they had been heroes, the uncrowned kings of the commoners. Today they were not much different from the likes of Wilander and Charlwood. Today they would do anything right or wrong to defend their authority. Today, in this bloody struggle, brotherhood would not stand a chance against the lust for power.

  The two horses were getting closer to each other. The two foes swung their swords, but the reach of Masolon's greatsword was longer than Antram's weapon. The huge blade slashed the right flank of Antram's horse, the poor beast neighing in agony. Looking over his shoulder, Masolon watched Antram get up on his feet after he had fallen from his horse.

  But the cost of Masolon's look was his destrier. The warhorse suddenly raised its forelimbs when a southern lance pierced through its armor into its neck. Realizing he could not keep his balance, Masolon let the greatsword slip from his right hand as he landed on his left arm, his elbows and knees bent. As he pushed to his feet, Masolon felt his left shoulder numbed, but he forgot all about it when a southern knight swung his longsword toward him. With his left arm, Masolon pulled his steel shield from his back to block the southern blade, his very numbed shoulder taking the shock of the strike. The moment he spotted another knight charging at him, he rolled on the ground to evade the blow. As Masolon drew the bastard sword from the sheath slung to his belt, he threw his weapon, striking the horse of a third horseman before he came close enough to hit him with his long sword. Rushing toward the dismounted knight, Masolon smashed his jaw with his steel shield before he pulled his sword from the horse's neck and stabbed the southerner in his chest.

  Masolon looked right and left, making sure the whole southern cavalry band had charged past him at his knights. Hundreds of blades clanged together. Hundreds of blades cut through flesh and bones. Scanning the field with his eyes, Masolon found his greatsword on the grass next to his dead destrier.

  But Antram was closer than him to it.

  The two former fellows exchanged a look before they knew what to do next. Howling like wolves, they sprinted toward each other. Antram grabbed the greatsword from the ground and drove it two-handedly toward Masolon, the huge blade clanking against the steel shield. The bald monk swung the greatsword three more times, but his strikes did not go beyond Masolon's shield.

  "The sword you have picked is too heavy for you, brother." Masolon smirked.

  "Do you think you are the only one who can wield this thing?" Antram bent his knees, striking low. Masolon stepped back, meeting the blade with the edge of his shield, forcing it down to the ground, following it with a vertical swing of his sword. Pulling the greatsword, Antram rolled to the left and dodged Masolon's blow.

  "Not your weapon." Masolon kept his eyes fixed on Antram who rose up to his feet. "Not your war."

  Growling, Antram lunged forward. Masolon waited for the right moment to turn around to evade the massive stab. Pivoted on his left foot, Masolon leaped, going for a smashing strike. The bald fellow bent himself sideways in impressive agility, swinging the greatsword toward Masolon. Taken off guard by Antram's swift counterattack, Masolon could not prevent the huge blade tip from scratching his thigh.

  "You speak as if this is your land in the first place," said Antram. "Did you forget where you were born?"

  "It does not matter," Masolon insisted, defying the line of fire running over his thigh. "Even if I was born in hell, I rule this land."

  "By a disgraceful marriage to some tyrant's daughter."

  "You mean the disgraceful marriage your master was running after?" Masolon hit back.

  Antram looked stunned for a moment. "What are you raving about?"

  He does not know, Masolon realized. "I am sure your master told you about his future plans for his new family, did he?"

  "You are not fooling me with this nonsense."

  Masolon gave him a crooked grin. "I may let you live today to return to your master and ask him yourself."

  "Your leg hurts you, it seems." Antram nodded his chin toward his scratched thigh.

  A little bit, Masolon would say. "Look him in the eye when you ask him about his meeting with Rona at the Four Wells. Ask him how he had ever thought of proposing to the daughter of the tyrant who had murdered your family."

  Antram silently shook his head in disbelief.

  "I am sure he had his reasons when he did so," Masolon continued. "The throne of Bermania must have tempted him to commit a few mischievous deeds, like that disgraceful proposal, using you to conquer the East without any losses."

  "Liar!" Antram growled, tearing the air with his huge blade as Masolon stepped aside. Antram swung again, and this time Masolon used his shield to block and parry the blow. From the way the greatsword took Antram's arms backward, it was obvious the bald fellow was getting weary.

  "Are you so foolish that you cannot see the truth?" Masolon spat. "Do you really believe that Daval cares about avenging your family's death? Where was he all those years? Why did he not lead the South to stand against Charlwood's tyranny many years ago?"

  "Pointless questions that do not change the situation," said Antram. "In the end, you are the one who stands in my way to restore my family's fiefs."

  "I owe your family nothing to grant you a single acre of my kingdom."

  "Grant me? I'm the rightful heir of Lapond. What Charlwood has done to my family doesn't change this fact."

  "Then, you should go to Charlwood in his grave and ask him for your lost legacy. But I am afraid he is in a too bad condition to see to your demands."

  "Are you mocking me?" Antram snarled, driving the greatsword toward Masolon's chest. The huge blade and the steel shield clanged together for the sixth time before Masolon found an opening and thrust his sword into Antram's thigh. The bald fellow grunted.

  "Yes, I am." Masolon glared at his friend, who struggled to keep his feet steady on the ground. "Which makes me no exception." He smacked Antram's face with his shield. The bald fellow fell on his back, unwillingly dropping the greatsword. "What do you think Daval was doing when he persuaded you to join him?" Masolon cautiously approached his fallen foe as he noticed the sword still in its scabbard. "Antram the Monk! Have you not realized yet that you were mocked by the entire South and the East?"

  Antram wiped the blood below his nose with the back of his hand. "The lords of Lapond followed me because they knew I was their rightful ruler."

  He is drowned in his delusion. "Maybe they were as foolish as you. Or maybe they thought of sparing their lives by joining a winning side."

  Antram winced as he struggled to get himself up.

  "What are you doing, Antram?" Masolon tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. "There is nothing heroic in dying in such a battle."

  "I die for my family." Antram unsheathed his sword, his pace slower than it had been at the beginning of their duel. Before he could even swing his weapon, Masolon lunged at him with his steel shield, toppling Antram's sword with a mighty strike. His old friend limped backward, balling his fists. That fool is determined to die today!

  "What family? Your family is gone!" Masolon cried. "Can you not understand? Gone! Dead! Nothing will bring them back!"

  "My family is in Augarin."

  "I swear my horse has more wits than you!
How many times should I tell you that Daval was using you? He is no family, imbecile!"

  "His daughter is now my wife and mother of my children one day." Antram raised his clenched fists. "I will do whatever it takes to protect them."

  Aggravated by his friend's folly, Masolon could not help hitting him one more time with his shield. "His daughter?" Masolon bellowed. "Curse you! How can you be so blind? This is what he wants! He wants you to fight until death to take over your family's legacy."

  Antram grunted like a wild boar. "Lapond is mine." Blood came from his mouth as he spat. "Neither you nor Daval will take it from me or my bloodline."

  Lapond would be taken sooner than Antram thought, Masolon wanted to tell him. For how long would his friend stay deluded?

  "Look!" Masolon grabbed his wounded fellow by the arm to make him watch what was happening on the battlefield. Antram's horsemen were vanquished as the rest of Edmond's knights joined the fight. The southerners were forced to choose between death and surrender.

  "Can you see what you have wasted yourself for?" Masolon shook his friend. "You lost the war and the lands you claimed."

  "My. . . family. . ." Antram bit his lower lip, his eyes closed. Obviously, his stabbed thigh was killing him.

  "Daval's daughter is not and will never be your family." Masolon held his friend's head with both hands. "She is just another soldier in her father's army, and to them, you are nothing but the gate of Lapond. Please, tell me you understand one word I say!"

  "My son." Antram flinched. "I will not. . . leave my. . . son."

  Masolon let his friend lie on the ground on his buttocks. "Listen." Masolon ripped Antram's mantle off to wrap a bandage around the bleeding thigh. "If Daval does not yield, I will bring a dozen cannons to raze Augarin to the ground." He looked Antram in the eye as he tightened the bandage. "Do you understand what this means? Daval's daughter may not survive to bring you a child, Antram."

  "No," Antram whimpered.

  Masolon helped him get on his feet. "I am not going to say this again. Forget about Lapond and your family's cursed legacy. Return to Galardi in Kalensi. Join Frankil and the Gang in their journeys to ward off bandits. This is what you want, do you hear me?"

  "There is no Gang." Antram stared at him, as if he was blaming him for that. "Frankil might have returned to Horstad in the Northern Gulf. Ziyad is with you."

  "Then, go and find Frankil at Horstad," Masolon demanded, gripping Antram's shoulders. "If I see you again in my way to Lapond or Augarin, you will have nothing from me except a blade in your neck."

  Antram was still weighing Masolon's words. "We will talk about this later."

  "We had our last conversation already." Masolon pushed him away. "Now go before I change my mind and give you a blade in the neck sooner than I promised."

  Suddenly, Antram growled when a spearhead came out of his gut. With both hands he touched the pointed tip, staring at it in utter astonishment. Blood poured off his mouth as he gasped for air. NOOO! The scream was stuck in Masolon's throat as he watched in stunned silence his friend fall to the knees. Like Masolon had said a few moments ago, it was their last conversation.

  Standing behind Antram, the tall lad was still gripping the spear shaft. With the last breath coming out of the bald fellow, he fell on his face after the lad kicked him in the back. "This one is for Ted, bastard!" Ben spat on the corpse.

  37. SANIA

  Sania watched the squires help Rasheed don his armor, the Murasen desert leopard decorating his breastplate. This morning his face was still grim, like it had been for the last four days since the arrival of Masolon's messenger with the shocking news. They had barely talked about it, but she had learned from her brother about her husband's intention to lead the Murasen troops that would ride west to face the Byzonts.

  The King of Murase took his crowned helm from his squires and put it over his head. Sania waited until he dismissed the lads to ready his horse before she slowly approached him. Not sure how she should start, she asked, "Why, Your Majesty?"

  "Why what?" There was not much warmth in his tone.

  "The Byzonts are still closer to their fort in Sergrad than to Arkan. Why are we assembling our army to fight them?"

  "Should I wait until they invade our lands?" Rasheed arched an eyebrow.

  She felt a bit foolish. "Of course not," she hurriedly denied. "I mean. . . this time you are leading your soldiers yourself."

  Rasheed shot her a studying look. "Our scouts have confirmed King Masolon's warning. The Byzonts have amassed their largest army ever, and definitely they have a good reason to do that. We don't know when they will start a war, but we are sure they will. And it will be the greatest in the history of Murasen-Byzont wars—a decisive one for the destiny of the two kingdoms. In such a critical hour, soldiers and commanders should see their king among them at the front, not enjoying his warm bed and jasmine-scented bath in the magnificent palace of Kahora."

  Sania had a queer feeling when Rasheed casually uttered Masolon's name. King Masolon. As if the warrior her husband had banished one day was somebody else. What are the odds that Rasheed never knew about me and Masolon? She never had a clue. But even if her husband chose to ignore the past, would Masolon forget the insult that had hurt his pride? The wound that had torn his heart apart? Her heart was wounded as well, yet she had nothing to do but to be an obedient wife who would take care of her husband, a good daughter who would honor the name of her family.

  To be fair, she must admit that Rasheed was kind and mannerly. Though she was discontented that he had prohibited her from archery, she knew he had done so out of honoring her as his queen. Her delicate hands should never come close to sharp blades and arrowheads, he insisted. What was guards recruited for, then?

  Her late mother had told her once that lasting emotions grew after marriage. That was why she loved Rasheed, or she tried to. But the return of Masolon's shadow had confused her thoughts and feelings. What if it was him, not his messenger? Imagining the sight of Masolon stepping into the throne hall sent a shudder down her spine.

  "What are we going to do with the Mankols?" She knew the answer already when she asked, yet it was an attempt to dismiss the intrusive thoughts.

  "Our scouts assure that they haven't crossed the Blue Crescent yet. Anyway, I'm sending your father to lead a force heading to Kurdisan. He is our Mankols' expert."

  She should say something lovely now to her departing husband. "Stay safe." She managed a grin, laying her hands over his shoulder.

  An awkward smile slipped over his face. "I didn't think you would be worried about me for real."

  Startled, Sania pulled her arms. "Why do you say so?"

  Rasheed let out a deep breath of air. "Please, Sania, this is not the right time to talk about it."

  "Talk about what?"

  He stared at her for a moment. "It's true you didn't choose to become my wife, but I thought you would be happy about it. Obviously, I was wrong."

  His voice was steady and calm, yet she could see the disappointment in his eyes. Her husband was actually reproaching her, and she doubted if there could be a kinder way to do that. He was like wondering, 'What did I do wrong for you to have no feelings toward me?' He did not say it, but the words echoed in her mind. And worse, he could be wondering if she still loved the foreign warrior.

  "Rasheed, your words hurt me," said Sania.

  "Truth hurts sometimes."

  "No, no. Don't say that. I'm the luckiest girl in Murase to have a husband like you."

  "A husband," he echoed before he looked her in the eye. "Not a lover."

  Sania's eyes could not stand a confrontation with Rasheed's. She needed a lie to spare her the embarrassment, but words had fled her head.

  "Listen." He cleared his throat. "I have no time to write a reply to King Masolon. Will you do this on my behalf?"

  By Rasheed's orders, Masolon's messenger had been staying in the palace until the news he had brought were confirmed. Yet Sania wondered why
Rasheed would involve her in one of his affairs. Her husband barely discussed the kingdom matters with her. Everything has its first time, she tried to convince herself. But was it a mere coincidence that Masolon was somehow involved in her very first task?

  "What do you want me to tell him?" She collected her thoughts, hoping she would not sound anxious when she asked.

  "Thank him for warning us. Tell him we will never forget his help," Rasheed told her, his armor rattled as he stepped outside the room.

  Still she did not believe Rasheed's excuse of having no time to write such a letter. Was he testing her? Blast! It could be a test. I should have insisted on refusing this task. Or maybe he wanted to see what she would write to her. . . first love. He knows. No, he doesn't. Doubt and confusion were tearing up her head.

  Anyway, she should comply with the King's order. A reply must be written to. . . King Masolon. I wonder why he warned us, she thought as she fetched a feather and a few scrolls, placed them on the marble desk, and sat on the oak embroidered seat. That warning was not for us, it was for me. He wouldn't write to Rasheed if his wife was NOT me. She stared at her face in the mirror in front of her. He still thinks of me. He still. . . The thought both gladdened and scared her, making her feel like a sinner. You're someone else's wife now, Sania. Now hold the feather and write the cursed letter.

  38. VIOLA

  Viola knew she had to get her job done as fast as possible. For two days she had been unnoticed amid the army of maidservants in the Murasen royal palace. But soon the new maidservant would pique the curiosity of guards, and more probably, other servants, or worse, their chief. She hoped she could avoid unnecessary kills. One head was all she was after.