Throne of Ruins

by Karim Soliman

  "I'm sorry, Ben. But you're a bit late," she said. "Edd met my father a few days ago, and my father said yes."

  EDD? No, Ben must have misunderstood her. His friend knew he was interested in this girl. They were like brothers, and a brother would never stab his brother in the back.

  Or had Edd stabbed him already?

  "Yes to what?" Ben warily asked.

  "To our marriage." She sighed. "We will wed right after the end of this war."

  51. MASOLON

  "Your Grace," a maidservant called out while Masolon, clad in a crimson doublet, was getting out of his chamber. Looking over his shoulder he saw his practice breeches in her hands. "Should I send them to be sewed?"

  "No, keep them in my wardrobe," Masolon demanded. She would never understand why he would feel relieved every time he looked at the cut in his breeches. It would always remind him that he had raised a true warrior; a warrior whose sword would only be raised to protect the weak. Now his mind might enjoy little peace. Even if Ben decided not to travel to Frankil and stayed here in Bermania, Masolon was sure the lad would never disappoint him. There was a lot of work to do with banditry in Ramos and its villages, especially after the Demon's disappearance. The rats had come out of their holes, and it was time for a new demon to cleanse the Bermanian soil of those vile beings.

  Jonson was waiting at the small hall. The slightest of hopes that the lord of Ramos might be bearing good news vanished the moment he greeted Masolon with a stern look. "What is it, Lord Jonson?" Masolon gestured to his vassal to have a seat at the oak table. "Your presence here makes me presume that Augarin has not fallen yet."

  Jonson let out a deep breath, sitting opposite to Masolon. "No. Conquering Augarin is going to be harder than we thought."

  "The walls should have fallen by now, Lord Jonson."

  "Augarin is not Ramos or Paril, or even another castle like Subrel. It was built to deter the Byzonts from raiding our southern region," Jonson pointed out. "The fortified walls there are higher and stronger. We could barely make two breaches with the cannons, and the southerners are ferociously defending those two breaches."

  "Are we still outside the fortress?" The news infuriated Masolon. "You have four cannons against an enemy with broken morale. Those two breaches should be enough for our troops to decide the battle."

  "Unfortunately, that's not what happened, Your Grace." Jonson pressed his lips together. "The gaps the cannons made in the walls were too narrow to make a decisive attack. We almost lost Lord Foubert in a cavalry charge at one of those gaps."

  The news was only getting worse. "How bad his wounds are?"

  "He will live. But I doubt he can resume fighting."

  Masolon pondered Jonson's hidden suggestion. "You could have sent a messenger with the news, but instead you came yourself." He leaned his elbows on the table, looking him in the eye. "I wonder why."

  "Let me get to this straight," said Jonson. "Your army needs you in this battle."

  "You say that? What happened to your advice to me when I was a lord?" Truth be told, Masolon was enjoying teasing his vassal. "What happened to getting things done through others?"

  "I still remember what I said to you, Your Grace. But I don't see Augarin being conquered, at least in the near future."

  "Why so? What happened to my general Edmond? Where are Lord Gramus and his Skandivians?"

  Jonson exhaled and paused for a moment, as if he was weighing his next words. "Edmond inspires his men with bravery, Gramus with ferocity. But neither has your vision, King Masolon. I saw what you could do on a battlefield, how your eyes could spot a way out of the most desperate odds. You were born to conquer on horseback, not to rule on a throne seat."

  Masolon would never disagree with the last statement, yet it did not sound right to come from his subaltern. "Should I consider this a compliment?"

  "Forgive my rudeness, Your Grace. All I want to say is that your presence has become crucial to ending this bloody war."

  Why not? Masolon thought. Maybe it was time to mount his warhorse and pay Daval a visit. "You miss your new palace in Ramos, do you not?" Masolon scoffed. In fact, he doubted the old lord's intentions behind such a visit.

  "We all miss our warm chambers and soft beds, Your Grace." Jonson's lips made a smile. "Our exhausted troops have emerged victorious from a war against Wilander to start a new one against Daval. They are eager to go home, and they have your promise they will be back to their families in two weeks, remember? They will be frustrated if they spend one more day after the second week at the walls of Augarin."

  They would spend more than one day after the second week there in the South, even if Masolon mounted his horse right now. "Is that why you are here, Lord Jonson? To make the soldiers see their relaxed king soil his magnificent outfit on the battlefield?" He peered at the blue-eyed lord. "Do they think they are the only ones who are away from their families?"

  Jonson evaded Masolon's gaze. "I'm sure Her Grace is in good hands."

  Masolon doubted if Rona was still sticking to his instructions after the cannon workshop accident. He would not be surprised if she returned to the throne hall. She would not listen to Ziyad or Payton—if they dared to stop her in the first place—until his return to the royal palace. And for his return to happen, the war must end.

  "We ride to Augarin at first light," Masolon concluded his meeting with Jonson and headed to his chamber. As the idea of writing a personal message to Rona overwhelmed his mind, he wondered why he had not done that earlier. His horrible handwriting could be a reason—because, simply, he would not allow someone else to write such a letter on his behalf.

  On a wooden desk in his chamber, he spread a blank scroll and inked his quill, but the words fled his mind. Voicing his thoughts, especially the personal ones, was not the best thing he could do. Writing them came out to be much harder. For a moment, he thought of giving up, but imagining her face upon receiving this letter made him change his mind. Girls always want us to tell them we love them, not because they're not sure of our love; they just love to hear it, Ziyad had told him once. His Murasen fellow had been writing to a Skandivian lady he had met once in one of the feasts he had attended. Regardless of Masolon's doubts about a few details in Ziyad's story, writing worked well with women.

  To Rona, he wrote before he put the quill on the desk. Not quite the start for such a letter. He should show more emotions to his sweetheart.

  He balled the scroll in his hands and picked up a new one. To the love of my life, he started. That was much better, right? No, that did not sound like Masolon. That was someone else. He should write something that would convey his voice.

  Masolon spread the third scroll. To my stubborn sweetheart. That would sound natural. He could imagine her chuckle when she read this. Yes, your eyes are not playing tricks on you. It is me who is writing this. I know you will recognize my horrible handwriting. It is my grandfather to blame because he taught me how to speak the Goranian Tongue, but not how to write in it.

  Ziyad would disapprove this start if he was here, but Masolon knew Rona better. She knew him better.

  Tonight could be my last night in Ramos. I am marching at first light to the South to conquer Augarin. They say the southerners are too stubborn to yield—more stubborn than you. Well, I will see how far their stubbornness can go.

  His hand stopped writing. Was it hard to say why he was writing this letter in the first place?

  I miss you. He rubbed his forehead, trying to find a better phrase. What if he made it your smile? A bit better? He kept rubbing his forehead. What did her smile do to him? He should add that.

  . . . that shines brighter than a thousand suns. A thousand suns? That would be burning to the eye. One sun would be enough. But he would not start the letter all over again now. Not until he came up with the most refined letter he could write.

  She should know how miserable he felt without her by his side. My heart is a dark gloomy cave with that distance between us. Leaving you
in Paril was not something I wanted; it was something I had to do for your safety and for our babe's safety. I hope I did the right thing.

  I do not want you to write back to tell me news of Paril. That is Ziyad's job. Tell me your news. How many times did you oversee the city walls in my absence? Are you feeding our little demon well? I want him to be as strong as his father if it is a boy. And if it is a girl, well, we know how she will look like.

  Masolon.

  That was not the worst letter ever, Masolon hoped. He read it one more time, looking for any parts that needed improvement. The only thing he thought of changing was the message structure. Should he move the second part to the end of the letter?

  One of his guards knocked, announcing Captain Tarling's desire to meet him. "Let him in," Masolon commanded, still sitting at his desk.

  Tarling greeted his king, his lips pressed together. More bad news coming, Masolon guessed. "I apologize for interrupting. . ."

  "You are not interrupting anything," Masolon said. "What is it?"

  "Ben, your squire, Your Grace. Is it true he is sent for a secret mission outside the city?"

  Masolon tried to understand that right. "I released him off service. The lad has my permission to leave the city." But he was supposed to go to the Ramosi girl to reveal his feelings to her. Obviously, the end of Ben's brief love story was so bad he could not stand staying in the city one more night. Masolon had thought his former squire had more composure than that though.

  "He has your permission," Tarling slowly repeated what Masolon had told him. "But he doesn't have a royal order to leave the city in a hurry for a secret mission."

  "A permission, a royal order; what difference would that make?" Masolon was irked. He did not let the captain into his chamber to have this futile discussion about some cursed terms.

  "A big difference, Your Grace. We have a dead soldier stabbed in the back. Edd, they call him; a Herlogan like Ben. And as we are told, they are friends. Or they used to be until they fell for the same girl."

  Masolon rose to his feet. "You must be sure of what you say, Captain," he firmly said. "I know Ben, and he is not a murderer."

  "Most of murders happen in moments of foolishness. Fury is blind."

  "No." Shocked, Masolon did not know what to say. His apprentice, the warrior he had been preparing for the path he had failed, his only hope to live in peace with his restless mind, had become a murderer. Had Masolon put his faith in the wrong person?

  "Do you have witnesses?" Masolon leaned to the desk, staring at the unsealed letter.

  "No, but we asked Colb. And he confirmed that Ben had come to talk to his daughter."

  "Did you hear from the girl?"

  "She wasn't in a good state of mind to talk, Colb told us. But we know she informed Ben of her choice, which was not him."

  Blast! Masolon balled his fists, gritting his teeth. Even without a single witness, all signs led to Ben, especially with his rush to run away from the city. If it were not for Edd's murder, Masolon would convince himself that Ben had lied just because he did not want to reveal his new path to anybody. Was there any little probability that all those events had occurred on the same day by some awkward coincidence?

  "Shall I send our horsemen to find him?" Tarling asked.

  The air coming out of Masolon's lungs was heavy, laden with frustration. "Do it." He nodded, biting his lower lip. "But make sure no one hurts him until you bring him to me. If he is the one who did it, I will chop his head with my own greatsword."

  52. SANIA

  "Where are we now?" Sania asked for the hundredth time in the last eight days. In the first twenty times, the answer had been a bit specific: near the northern borders of Murase; around sixty miles away from Eahor; ten miles away from Bahna, but we shall head north after that. But now his answer would be: still on our way. He was tired of answering, and she was tired of asking. Surely, he was taking the right route so as not to be captured. After two days of traveling in circles in the Murasen desert to lose their Byzont chasers, he had ventured north into the Mankol steppes, avoiding any cities, towns, or villages in their way to stay away from Mankol soldiers. But that would bring them closer to the hands of Mankol brigands, and if those barbarians spotted them, he would have no option but to fight them. No one could outrun a Mankol rider who mounted the fastest horse in Gorania.

  "A few miles from the castle of Festburg." His answer was different this time when he spurred their horse onward.

  "Really?" She could not hide her joy. At last she could have a bed other than sand or grass, and if she was lucky, she might find a noble lady who would give her a chamber to rest in; warm water to bathe her smelly body and wash her dusty hair, black hands and feet; and a dress other than the soiled one on her. She did not need a mirror to realize that, after this exhausting journey, it would be easier for the lords of that castle to believe she was a beggar. Hopefully, they would believe her nameless knight when he introduced her.

  And that reminded her of asking him, "Don't you have a name?"

  "I presumed you didn't need it because you never asked." He gazed at the towers of the castle ahead for a moment. "My father named me Blayd. When I joined the cavalry, it was easily changed into Blade."

  "Alright, Sir Blade. I must thank you for all your trouble. You shall be rewarded when I return to my palace."

  "Too soon to thank and give promises," he impassively said. "We still have a longer journey than the one we had."

  "I thought we arrived in Bermania."

  "The eastern borders of Bermania," Blayd corrected. "Tonight we rest in the castle, and tomorrow we resume our ride to Paril. We may pass by Lapond in our way to get you a carriage."

  A carriage; that sounded like a good idea, but Paril? "Are you taking me to King Masolon?" she asked.

  "You are a queen. You shall be hosted in the royal place until he decides something else."

  Sania did not know how she felt about going to Masolon. It was something she wanted. It was something she was afraid of. And meeting his wife? She was not sure she could stand that.

  "I'll stay in Festburg while you deliver the message you bear."

  "Forgive me, Your Grace. But I serve King Masolon, not you," he firmly said. "My duty as a Bermanian knight dictates my actions."

  "But I don't want to go to Paril," she protested.

  "Please, don't make me do my duty by force."

  Sir Blade was leaving no room for discussion. It was true he had saved her life, but after all, he was a soldier. Seriously, Masolon had chosen the right man for the mission.

  She could not help holding tight to Blade when the horse stopped all of a sudden. "What is it?" she wondered, gazing at the castle archers who aimed their bows at them.

  "They must be wondering why a Bermanian knight would come from the Mankol borders," he replied, raising his left hand to the archers.

  Sania did not understand his calmness. "Tell them not to shoot us!" She sought shelter behind his massive back.

  "Only Bermanian soldiers know this sign. Stay calm and don't get us killed."

  The castle gate was opened. A band of eight knights rode to them, the Bermanian lion decorating their breastplates. Masolon's soldiers. Thank the Lord of Sky and Earth. But wait. Did the southern usurper have a different sigil? The thought made her stomach butterflies flutter.

  "Present yourself, soldier," one of the knights demanded.

  "I'm Sir Blayd," he curtly said. "And you?"

  "I'm the one who asks here." The knight glared at Blade before he nodded his chin toward her. "Who is she?"

  Before she opened her mouth, Blade replied, "We will only speak before the lord of the castle."

  "You think this is clever?" The knight leaned forward. "Do you know the lord you want to speak to? Because I presume you mean the one in the dungeon."

  Blade looked right and left at the knights surrounding them. "What happened here?" he firmly asked.

  "He will tell you when you meet him." The kn
ight smirked. "Now dismount, you and your wench."

  "Mind your manners," Sania snapped, trying to hide her fear. "I'm Sania Ahmet, Queen of Murase, and I demand an audience with the lord of this castle, whoever who is now."

  The knight chuckled, but his smile soon faded as she kept the hard look on her face. "Do you approve that?" he asked Blade.

  "You heard her." Blade's voice was as cold as ice.

  The knight looked from Sania to Blade and back. "Very well. You shall follow us to Lord Odworth, and he will decide what to be done with you, Your Grace."

  Circled by those eight knights, Blade spurred his horse into a walk as they entered the castle. It was not as great as the castle of Arkan, where she had spent most of her life. The courtyard was not that vast, the castle towers cracked and not that high. She wondered how Bermanians relied on this fort to defend their eastern borders from the Mankol raids. If they ever raided Bermanian soil in the first place. Sometimes she believed that Mankols existed in this world only to fight Murasens.

  Dismounted, Sania and her guardian followed their escorts into the castle. From the way Blade glanced at her, she could tell he was hoping she knew what she was doing. But in fact, she had no idea how this was going to end. It was the fear of being chained in a dark dungeon that was driving her actions.

  Guards opened the great hall. In their reception was the man she presumed to be Lord Odworth, clad in Bermanian armor, black tufts still existing amid his grey hair, eyes brown and narrow, chin broad. "Milord." The knight greeted his master before he approached and talked to him in a low voice, surely telling him about the beggar who claimed to be the Queen of Murase. The lord wrinkled his forehead while listening.

  "Can you imagine the sanction of such a lie?" the lord addressed both of her and Blade, his hands behind his back.

  "Don't let my appearance fool you," said Sania. "We had an exhausting journey to reach your castle."