Throne of Ruins

by Karim Soliman

  "Three nomads." Qasem was still looking away. "We are followed."

  Despite her concerns about Qasem's manners, Sania did not question his competencies and instincts. He was vigilant, firm, and. . . Wait a minute, did he say nomads?

  She recalled that day when a bunch of those turban-wearing clansmen had stormed the royal palace. The true taste of fear had frozen her legs, knotted her tongue, and nearly stopped her heart. On that dreadful day, she could have saved her mother if it had not been for those savages.

  "Should three of them worry us?" Truth be told, the sight of one nomad unnerved Sania.

  "I'm worried about those waiting for their return." Qasem commanded ten guards to attack those stalking nomads.

  "You should be. They are back," said Viola, but Qasem did not pay heed to her remark as he watched the men he had dispatched chase the three nomads behind the dunes.

  Curious, Sania asked her captive, "Who are back?"

  The right side of Viola's mouth quirked upward when she said, "The Ghosts."

  Though Sania had learnt that those Ghosts were nothing but men of flesh and blood, mentioning their name was enough to send a shiver down her spine. The merciless rulers of the Murasen desert, who allied themselves with darkness, had been the travelers' worst nightmare in the realm. But that had ended after their crushing defeat at the walls of the royal palace. "That's impossible." Sania shook her head. "They are—"

  "Vanquished for good? Is that what were you going to say?" Viola put in. "Then I'm sorry to disappoint you, Your Majesty. The Ghosts are coming. I encountered a few of them in this desert."

  "Then you should be dead now," Sania challenged.

  "Not with those untied." Viola raised her bound hands.

  "Your Majesty, you shouldn't be talking too much to her," said Qasem.

  "You'd better save your orders for somebody else," Sania snapped.

  "I would never dare to order you, Your Majesty." At last, Qasem realized his real position. "I'm just stating my humble opinion."

  "Your humble opinion?" Sania echoed. "You will get us killed in this desert after you have split our forces."

  "I assume we are in a hurry to reach His Majesty before it's too late," Qasem justified.

  "And that's why we should all ignore those few nomads. Either we ride as one. . ." Sania did not finish, distracted by Qasem's wide eyes. Looking over her shoulder, she spied a horde of desert riders swarming from behind the dunes; the very spot where her soldiers had gone. . . for good.

  "Take Her Majesty to our camp! Don't look back!" Wheeling his horse, Qasem's ordered Viola's guard. "I hope you can wield a sword, healer," he told Bumar before he waved to the rest of the soldiers. "Charge!"

  Sania did not argue with him this time, and spurred her horse to a gallop toward the opposite direction. From behind her came the clamor of the battle, horses neighing, swords clashing, men hollering in rage, men howling in agony. As Qasem had just ordered his subordinate, she did not look back, but she hoped it was her guards who were slaying their opponents.

  Sania kicked and kicked, the noise fading away until it disappeared. At this moment, she dared to look behind her, but she could see nothing from this distance except a faraway sand cloud.

  "Are we safe now?" Viola asked her. "I can't look back with that statue sitting behind me."

  "I think so." Sania did not know why she did not just ignore that evil creature.

  "Of course, you think, Your Majesty." Viola simpered. "Your spoilt life behind palaces walls has ruined your natural survival instincts. I'm not surprised I can hear what you can't."

  Sania looked back one more time, and she was sure she saw nothing but the vacant desert behind her.

  "At the horizon, at your left," Viola continued. "I can hear them coming."

  Sania and Bumar turned their heads left. "Do you see anything, Bumar?" Sania squinted.

  "Nothing, Your Majesty," the healer replied.

  "We are doomed, fools! Use your useless eyes before we all die in this desert!" Viola snapped.

  She is not messing with us, is she? Sania would leave her in the desert if she did not need her help to. . .

  The guard's yell coming from her right interrupted her thoughts. Sania did not know how this had happened, but when she looked right, she found that Viola had turned herself, leaning the back of her head against the horse's neck, her free hands gripping the reins to prevent herself from falling into the sand with the guard whom she had probably kicked. Agile like a jaguar, Viola turned once more, taking control of the horse now. "Your guard has broken his arm. You shouldn't leave him here for the Ghosts." Viola spurred her horse to a gallop, turning it to the east, away from Sania, away from the fallen soldier, away from where they should be headed to save Rasheed.

  "Come back here!" Sania cried, though she knew Viola would not stop. "Bumar, take him with you to our camp." She pointed at the injured guard before she wheeled her horse to follow Viola.

  "You can't go after her on your own!" Bumar protested, following her.

  "Rasheed is running out of time!" Sania waved him away. "Do as I say!"

  "She was fooling us to escape. She had no antidote."

  "I said go! Rasheed needs your help!" Inwardly, Sania knew Bumar was most probably right, but she could not let a slight chance to save her husband slip from her hands.

  "This is madness, Your Majesty!" For one rare time, the courteous Bumar lost his manners. "He could be dead already while you're trying hard to kill yourself!"

  "And he couldn't be dead yet!" She did not let Viola's horse get out of her sight. "Now GO!"

  Bumar mumbled, pulling the reins of his horse to wheel it. Now it was only Sania on Viola's tail. She was sure Viola could hear the hooves of her horse behind her, yet Viola did not bother turning her head toward her chaser. "Stop! You gave me your word!" Sania yelled, but Viola ignored her. What if she stops? Sania thought to herself after one mile of galloping. Even if Viola had the antidote for real, how would Sania force her to come? The woman Sania was chasing was barehanded when she managed to untie herself and stun her guard. And even if Sania was given a weapon, she might rather hurt herself. Bumar was right. This is madness.

  And here Viola stopped.

  Sania could hear her pounding heart as if she was galloping instead of her horse. She stopped, and so should you. Now Sania realized it might be her turn to be chased.

  "You made a grave mistake by following me." Viola's cold voice confirmed Sania's fears. Don't be scared, girl. Sania swallowed. Armed or not, you're the Queen of Murase. Anyone in this realm must obey you.

  "We had an agreement," Sania harrumphed.

  "An agreement with a spy?" Viola tilted her head, walking her horse in a circle around Sania. "Or worse; an assassin?"

  Sania took a deep breath, hoping that might calm her a bit. "You never had an antidote, did you?"

  Viola guffawed, still her horse walking around Sania's. "You are more foolish than I thought."

  Sania would not disagree at all. "At least tell me how I can remedy my husband." Yes, she was begging her husband's assassin.

  "Do you love him so much that you are ready to die for him?" Viola asked, a hint of mockery in her voice. Feeling dubious about the point of Viola's question, Sania knew she should weigh her next words.

  "Any loyal wife would do what I do for her husband."

  "Loyal?" Viola wrinkled her nose in disapproval. "That's not the word, girl. One day you were ready to abandon your family and your country for some foreigner. You should know better."

  Sania's mouth opened and closed without uttering a word. She had nothing to answer back.

  "So pathetic!" Viola scorned. "Why would you waste your life for your husband, you fool? You never loved him as you did that bastard."

  An insult from some despicable outlaw hurt like a blade. "How dare you, you loveless beast!" Sania was more aggravated than scared now. "You preach something you know nothing about."

  "I know nothing about lov
e? Is that what you say?" Viola sounded menacing now. "I almost took a life for the man I loved. What about you? What did you do for your love? Hah! Of course you did nothing. To become the Queen of this cursed realm, you willingly put that worthless Masolon behind you and moved along."

  "It was you who ruined everything, and now you dare to blame me?" Sania gnashed her teeth. "The life you brag about almost taking was mine. Should I be impressed?"

  "That makes you indebted," Viola hissed. "One life for another; that's how justice should be served."

  First she lectures me about love, now justice. "What about my justice? I promised you your life for Rasheed's," Sania reminded her.

  "I will give you yours instead."

  Sania shot her an inquiring look.

  "I will not kill you, pathetic girl," Viola continued. "And this is no justice. This is mercy."

  Was Viola toying with her? It was too hard to understand how this wicked outlaw thought.

  "If I see one soldier with the leopard sigil following me, I will return to you to slit your throat," Viola warned. "Understood?"

  Sania could not help swallowing when the fearsome thought crossed her mind. She had seen and heard enough to know what Viola could do with and without a blade. Silently, she watched Viola wheel her horse and gallop away until she vanished in the horizon.

  In the middle of the desert, Sania was on her own, Viola's words aggravating her loneliness. I'm pathetic and foolish, Sania concurred with Viola, gazing at the endless sandy terrain. She had put herself in danger only because she was loyal to her husband. Even the lie of love was too frail to come out of her mouth to answer Viola's question. What did you do for your love? Viola's voice overwhelmed her head. But what should she have done? Kill her brother and husband for banishing Masolon, and run away, looking for him in all corners of Gorania? Viola might have done that if she had been in her place, but Sania would never act like some mean outlaw. You did nothing. Sania wished she could get rid of Viola's torturing voice that reminded her of her helplessness. You should know better. Maybe Viola knew more about love than her. Maybe Sania never knew love in the first place. Yes, that could be what Viola had wanted to tell her. You did nothing because you were not only pathetic but also didn't truly love Masolon.

  Her love for Masolon was a lie. Her loyalty to her husband was a lie. Her life was full of lies.

  She should hurry to catch up with Bumar. Returning to Kahora could be dangerous right now as she had no idea if the battle between her guards and the nomads had ended. After pursuing Viola in the heart of the silent desert, Sania was not sure which direction she should follow to head to the camp of her husband's army.

  A horse's whinny broke the silence of the abandoned desert. And it was not coming from hers. Looking behind, she saw four riders approaching. She did not need to spot the leopard sigil on their outfits to tell whether they were her men or not. The turbans flapping over their heads were enough for her to kick the flanks of her horse. "HELP!" she shrieked, the clopping from behind her getting closer. "No, please, please! Don't get tired now!" She slapped her horse's neck, as if this would help it gallop faster. This can't be happening. She had not survived Viola to fall into the nomads' hands.

  She could not tell what was happening when, suddenly, the world twirled quickly as her horse neighed. The sky went down and up and down before a solid surface— probably a comet—hit her head. In a heartbeat, the sun died, and darkness fell over the desert.

  43. MASOLON

  The fog was so heavy this morning that Masolon could not see beyond a few feet. With careful steps he passed through the thick forest, looking for a way out. He was not sure about the time, but he must have been wandering the woods forever. The silent forest looked abandoned by its birds and crawlers and predators until he spotted that tall broad-shouldered figure. Masolon's hand reached for the hilt of his sword, but a sheath was neither strapped to his belt nor slung across his back. Even his steel shield was not there.

  Squinting as he approached, Masolon recognized a familiar face. "Father?" Like the last time Masolon had seen him in his homeland, he was clad in his brown cloak, his back straightened despite the blood coming out of the gash in his belly.

  "Is this what you disobeyed me for?" His father pointed at a grave, the only mark of which was a greatsword stuck in the grass. "Is that what you let your mother down for?"

  "I did not," Masolon explained.

  "You did!" His father glared at him. "Now you failed us twice!"

  "I am not a murderer!"

  "Yes, you are." From nowhere, Ramel appeared on his left, holding the wooden helm of the Contest, his nose and mouth covered with blood. Suddenly, Masolon found himself tied to a tree trunk. His father was gone, and only Ramel was here next to him.

  "I am not a murderer!" Masolon insisted.

  "A murderer and a thief." Right ahead stood Gerviny holding his Rusakian axe, the very axe Masolon had decapitated him with. I stole nothing. And it was you who tried to kill me, Masolon wanted to say, but his voice was locked in his throat this time. As the young Rusakian lord approached, Masolon tried to yank his arm free, but the ropes were too tight.

  "A murderer and a traitor." The moment Masolon heard Frankil's voice, he found himself in the old quarters of the Warriors' Gang near the walls of Kahora. Standing in front of him, his Bermanian friend held a little boy's hand. Masolon had never seen that child before, but he knew he was Antram's son.

  "You should die, Traitor." Ziyad's hand grabbed him by the shoulder, taking him to the edge of the hill. Masolon was mute and too weak to stop his Murasen fellow. "May you find redemption and peace." Ziyad shoved him. Masolon waved, gasping as he fell.

  And here his eyes opened. Masolon was abed when he raised his head, his heart pounding like a galloping horse. Where had Frankil and Ziyad gone? Where was the hill? It took him a few seconds to realize it was another nightmare. The worst one so far, he believed, though he barely remembered anything he had seen in his previous nightmares.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, he drew a deep breath to calm his throbbing heart down. Too many avengers this time, he thought. A few times before, Wilander and Di Galio had visited him in his dreams, but they had done nothing more than shooting him a blaming look. Though Masolon knew there was a little sense in dreams, the notion that he was killed by his friends was really disturbing. May you find redemption and peace, Ziyad's voice still echoed in his mind, as if Masolon had heard it for real.

  Locking himself in his chamber was not helping. He should find somebody to talk to, otherwise he might be talking to himself, Bumar had told him. Where are you now, Bumar? Among his friends, the healer was the one Masolon missed the most. He needed his wisdom and his calm reassuring voice in these dark times. Perhaps it was time to ask for King Rasheed's permission to let Bumar go to the Bermanian court, if His Majesty. . . and. . . Her Majesty. . . did not mind of course. Rasheed will never agree. Knowledgeable men like Bumar were rare in this world. It might require Masolon's travel to Kahora to persuade Rasheed to change his mind.

  Who are you fooling? We know why you might want to go to Kahora.

  His inner voice was like a slap on the cheek to wake him up from his daydreams. How dare you? He had a war to win and a worried sweetheart to return to. And yet, another girl crossed his mind for a moment. Another girl, who has become someone else's wife, do not forget. Although he was not short of trouble, he was looking for more.

  Redemption and Peace. Masolon needed both. To find them, he should go out of the cell he had imprisoned himself in. As he opened the wooden shutters of the window, he gazed at the cloudy, dark blue sky, the cold air of dawn kissing his bare chest. He turned to his wardrobe and picked black breeches and a black long-sleeved tunic to be worn under his red embroidered tabard. The sight of the lion sigil decorating the tabard made him stare at the crown of six gems; the crown of Bermania. "Not you," he muttered, deciding not to put it over his head this morning.

  Masolon went out of hi
s chamber without waking his snorting squire, who lay on a chair in the corridor. During Masolon's days of seclusion, this lad was the only one allowed to knock on his door. Even the King's general and vassals should take his squire's permission before they entered.

  A few guards were awake while he was making his way out of the palace. They hurried to their destriers when he mounted his. "No." He gestured with his palm to stop them. In this particular ride, he needed some privacy. However, he knew they would be watching from a distance. The streets of Ramos were vacant and quiet, making it easy for him to hear the hooves of the horses following his.

  The main gate of the city was locked when Masolon reached it. The guards stared at him for a moment, obviously surprised to see their king riding alone. "Is everything alright, sire?" one guard dared to ask.

  "Nothing is alright," replied Masolon curtly. "Now open the cursed gate."

  "At once." The guard waved to the rest of his fellows to help him. "Make way for the King!"

  Curse this fool! The whole city knows where I am now! Masolon galloped into the woods as he passed through the gate of the city. In a few minutes he reached the grassy terrain, where he had buried his brother with his own hands. Nothing marked Antram's grave except the spear stuck to the ground. In the nightmare, it was a greatsword. My greatsword.

  Masolon dismounted and sat on his knees beside the spear fixed near Antram's head. "I know you can hear me, brother," Masolon muttered. Death was just a journey to another world, he believed. Looking around him, he spied three Bermanian knights hiding in the forested area behind him. He did not bother dismissing them as long as they stayed out of earshot. They were doing their duty anyway.

  "Maybe I did not stick to our path," Masolon continued, his voice low. For a moment, he imagined Antram frowning at him. "Alright, I. . . betrayed our path." That was the word Antram would expect. But betraying their path had never been Masolon's plan. The Lord of Sky and Earth knew he had never chased that cursed throne. Protecting his love was what he had been seeking, but he never noticed he had drifted away. Those men he had slain in this war were not brigands. Like the majority of his soldiers, they were ordinary men with worried families waiting for their return, ordinary men whose only sin was being born in the South. How many more innocent lives would be lost in King Masolon's war to defend his throne. . . and his love?