Queen of Rebels

by Karim Soliman

  "Are you sure you are taking enough arrows with you?" Rona asked Masolon.

  "I only need one to set Di Galio's camp on fire." Masolon watched the men carrying the sedan on which the grievously wounded General Gramus lay. "I understand what he means to you," he jerked his chin toward the men carefully putting Gramus onto one of the carts, "but he may become the reason why we might all die, I am afraid."

  "That man has been protecting me since I was a child. He has been doing that without expecting anything in return, without any ambitions." Rona simpered. "I wouldn't leave you behind if it were you either."

  Their last conversation still upset her, Masolon realized. "I see you are leaving nobody behind. Which reminds me: did Darrison take his wounded with him?"

  "Those men will be loyal to me when they recover."

  "If you manage to outpace Di Galio's troops with your carts, of course."

  Rona tilted her head. "I have no doubts that you and Payton are capable of hindering them. Otherwise, I wouldn't have approved your reckless idea. No queen would like to lose her two finest commanders."

  She was worried he might not come back, he realized. But because of his previous unguarded talks with her, with probably the most girl who cared about him, she kept that immovable face, her voice barely betraying any emotion.

  "Well then." She shrugged, her emerald eyes fixed on his. "We shall meet at Kalhom."

  "We will," was all he said.

  She walked away toward the carts, Masolon regretting his foolishness. Regardless of his gloomy past, the norms of life, the games royalties and noblemen play for thrones; that thing between him and Rona was real—obviously, everybody noticed it. It was the mere affection between man and woman no matter where it was headed, no matter what or who they were.

  "Rona."

  She turned to him, giving him a rebuking look. "Something wrong, Commander?"

  Blast those formalities for now! He strode toward her. "I lied."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Standing before her, Masolon took in a deep breath. "I do not fight alongside you because of my ambitions. I have none in the first place."

  Rona slowly nodded. "Why then, may I ask?"

  Should he worry about the consequences of his answer? He might not survive the coming hour.

  "Your Grace! He is awake! General Gramus is awake!"

  "What?" Rona sprinted toward the maidservant who chose the right moment to make such a great announcement.

  Masolon dragged his feet as he headed to the nearest gap in the wall. "Commander!" he heard a lad calling out to him. When Masolon turned, he found two squires hurrying to him. One of them was carrying his greatsword on both arms, the other his steel shield and Mankol bow. "Her Grace told us you were looking for those."

  "Indeed." Masolon had missed his gear, especially the greatsword. He was not short of swords though, and his back was loaded already "Take this." He handed them the bow he had borrowed from Payton and took his own stronger Mankol bow. "I will take the shield later, so keep it with you. Now can you help me strap the sword to my back without tearing up my bags?"

  While the squires were seeing to their tasks, Masolon could not help gazing at Rona from a distance. She stood by the cart, where Gramus had awakened from his sleep and had risen to sit up as best as he could. Every time her hand touched his shoulder or his chest, Masolon found himself clenching his fingers. Yes, somehow he envied that man who could barely straighten his back.

  After the lads were done, Masolon gave Rona one last look, hoping she might remember that they had not finished their conversation and look back at him. But Rona was still busy with her dear guardian, and Masolon had an enemy camp to burn. It was time to leave Rona, probably for one last time.

  Masolon found Payton waiting for him when he went beyond the wall. "More items on your back?" Payton nodded toward Masolon's greatsword.

  "Just in case the plan does not go as we hope." Masolon smiled crookedly. "Time to split, my friend. I will drag them to the left side of their camp, and thus thinning their lines on their right flank. That is where you should start sniping them."

  "If you mean by dragging them setting their camp on fire, then I believe they will take their lords away from the blazing left side, probably toward me."

  Masolon liked how quickly Payton grasped the idea. "You are more likely to shoot Di Galio than I do. Try not to be caught tonight, at least until you kill him first."

  "How thoughtful," Payton scoffed, his hands on his waist. "So, when and where shall we meet again?"

  "We shall not. Once your quivers are empty, you shall run away from here without leading them to our fleeing army."

  "What about you?" Payton peered at him. "You are staying for a while, aren't you?"

  Masolon allowed a smile as he sighed. "We had better move."

  * * *

  The walk in the dark woods reminded Masolon of one particular night seven years ago; the raid he had made on his own to impress his father, to prove his worth as the next chieftain of his clan.

  The remnants of the other clans had joined forces to defeat his father, the great Golson, the wielder of Erloss. Young Masolon, without informing his father, believed he could stun their opponents in the dark, depriving them of sleep before the upcoming battle next morning. That night, young Masolon was a ghost. A nightmare for his father’s enemies, who never knew who was hunting them down in the dark.

  His father was not impressed when Masolon returned to him with the news. He curtly praised his son’s fearlessness, harshly rebuking him for making such a move without the chief’s permission. "Your men must know that if they disobey you, they will regret the day they were born," Golson had told him. From what Masolon had heard about Charlwood, he wondered if that man had not taught his daughter his notion of leadership, which was not much different from that of the great Golson.

  The moist grass crunched beneath Masolon's boots despite his attempts to tread as lightly as possible. Wait a minute. Those are not my steps, Masolon realized when he stopped moving, the grass still crunching.

  It was too soon to waste an arrow now, but that bastard approaching him was leaving him no choice. He is not looking for me, Masolon could tell from the hurried footsteps. That must be some wandering watchman, whose luck had brought him in Masolon's way.

  Masolon stood behind a tree and knelt, waiting for that wanderer to show himself, or at least the flickers of a torchlight. Because if you were not a Korigaidi like Masolon and his clansmen, you would need more than moonlight to walk in the dark.

  Masolon waited behind the tree until the unaware watchman stalked beyond it. Before the soldier went farther, Masolon drew the bastard sword from his scabbard—the lighter weapon for a quicker strike—and lunged toward the wanderer, plunging the blade into his back, Masolon's free hand pressing on the soldier's mouth. A quiet death that was.

  For half an hour, Masolon resumed his careful march through the woods, following the faint light flickering at the end of his line of sight. Again, the memories of his solo raid in his homeland insisted on haunting him, flooding his mind, but why now? Perhaps it was the very incident that had started ill feelings from Masolon toward his father. It was not the humiliation or the lack of appreciation that had appalled Masolon; it was the bitter taste of prejudice. His father would have never blamed Sethorel if it had been him. Because the great Golson had always favored his younger son, the one who had his father’s looks and stature more than Masolon, the rightful successor to their great chieftain.

  He hated me because of Grandfather, Masolon thought, recalling the scowl on his father’s face every time he saw Masolon with his grandfather, Obeira. "The demented old man," Masolon had heard his father say about Obeira, who had been known among all people of Ogono as the Honorable One. The day Obeira had chosen Masolon to teach him the Goranian Tongue, Sethorel had become Golson's favorite son.

  "Everybody wake up!" the cry roused Masolon from his thoughts, numerous torches lighting the camp
now. "We are under attack!"

  Payton must have started sooner than they had agreed. Maybe he had run into another watchman on the other side of the camp, and obviously, his encounter was not as quiet as Masolon's. Now Payton was dragging Di Galio's men to him, clearing the way for Masolon to lay waste to this camp. It was not quite the plan they had agreed upon, but Masolon had more flexibility than his late father.

  From behind a tree, Masolon watched the soldiers grab torches and hurry to the other side of the camp. Fools, he thought. Shooting them should be an easier task now for Payton.

  The tents were not unattended; Masolon spotted nine scattered soldiers so far, two of them carrying crossbows. Now knowing who he should start with, Masolon drew an arrow from his quiver, nocked it onto the string of his strong Mankol bow, aimed at the chest of one bowman, and loosed. The moment the arrow struck the soldier dead, Masolon was already shooting the other bowman.

  Panicked, the remaining seven soldiers unsheathed their swords, looking around in confusion. "Here!" one of them cried, pointing actually at nowhere. Masolon picked the two farthest swordsmen and hunted them down before he changed his shooting spot one more time. While the remaining five soldiers were advancing toward his previous shooting position, Masolon sniped four of them before he dropped his bow, drew his bastard sword, and charged. The last soldier turned to face Masolon, but he was not fast enough to evade the stab of the bastard sword.

  Masolon picked his bow, wrenched his arrows out of the corpses, and tucked them back into his quiver. More soldiers were coming; he could hear their thudding boots. "Mike! Pete! Where is everybody here?" the cries echoed in the almost abandoned side of the camp. "Find a torch! Fast!"

  Fourteen men, Masolon counted. The soldier who hurried to fetch that torch was the first one Masolon shot. "Behind the trees!" Fortunately, they were not too specific about which tree, and Masolon did not wait for them to know where the arrows came from. He sniped two soldiers and scurried to another tree. “There! Did you hear that?” They were arguing where the mysterious shooter was when he drew three new arrows and shot three more men standing close to each other. “Blast! Somebody bring a bloody torch! And spread out! Find those bastards!”

  Masolon watched the remaining swordsmen search the woods in different directions, two of them already approaching his spot. He nocked an arrow and aimed at the farther soldier, waiting for the nearer one to come close enough to his tree. When Masolon felt it was the right moment, he released the arrow, letting the bow fall to the ground as he lunged at the nearer swordsman. Already startled by the arrow shot at his mate, the soldier only saw Masolon when the blade was already stuck into his belly.

  “There!” With light hurried steps, Masolon picked up his bow and returned to his previous spot, his clueless chasers now going the wrong way to look for him. He sheathed his sword, pulled an arrow, and nocked it onto the bowstring, waiting for Di Galio’s soldiers to come into his range. “Where are they? I am sure they are here!”

  Masolon had a clear shot for one soldier, yet he did not release the arrow until more men joined their mates. Having four targets now in his range, Masolon loosed four consecutive arrows. Four whizzes followed by four groans.

  “We are outnumbered here! Retreat!”

  Before they ran away to warn their brothers-in-arms, Masolon spared five arrows from his quiver, each arrow striking a soldier in the back. He slung the Mankol bow across his shoulder and hurriedly collected his arrows from the dead bodies, leaving the few soldiers who were still alive with their arrows stuck to their bodies. The fire will devour them anyway, Masolon thought as he opened one of the two bags he carried. Walking through the dark side of the camp, he carefully poured flax oil on the grass and the vacant tents, when he realized that not all of them were vacant; some of them were crammed with supplies and luggage. Since Payton was keeping Di Galio's men busy on the opposite side of the camp, Masolon had enough time to empty one bag of flax oil and start pouring from the second one. Too much to do with ninety arrows, my friend.

  The second bag of oil was almost empty when Masolon noticed some approaching torches. They came just at the right time. All Masolon needed was one torch to blaze this side of Di Galio's camp. "Search the area first!" a harsh voice cried out, and Masolon could only guess why they would do so. If his guess was right, then he had better save one good arrow for the serpent's head.

  Masolon climbed the nearest tree before the coming men could see him. "Spread out and make sure it is clear!" an armored swordsman commanded, the two dozen soldiers following him complying at once. Holding a torch, the commander looked into a vacant tent. "Here, milord." He waved his torch at another group of soldiers. They did not carry any torches when they hurried toward that tent, yet Masolon could distinguish the frames of the two men the soldiers were escorting. The slim Di Galio and his fat brother Aberto, Masolon realized.

  The huge lord was an easier target than his slender brother, who was totally shielded by his soldiers. But Masolon was here for the Fox, not the Bear, so he waited until the two lords entered the tent and the soldiers spread around it. I oiled that tent, did I not? Masolon tried to remember. There was one way to remember anyway.

  Locking his legs around the trunk, Masolon drew an arrow and aimed at the commander who was still standing by the tent. The commander with the torch. . .

  He was about to step away from the tent when Masolon released the arrow. The arrow struck the commander in the chest, his torch falling to the grass. Then it was all fire.

  Masolon had an arrow in his hand already when the two lords hurried outside their burning tent. Before the guards shielded their lords again, Masolon swiftly nocked his arrow and loosed. With a grunt Masolon could hear from his post, the Fox dropped to his knees. "NO!" the huge brother yelled, holding his brother in his arms. You do not deserve to outlive him, Masolon thought as he drew another arrow for Aberto and shot him in the back. The huge Bear must have crushed his brother's bones when he fell upon him.

  Now was Masolon's chance to run away while the panicked soldiers were distracted by their burning lords, brothers-in-arms, and tents. But Masolon, relieved by the sight of flames, kept clinging to the trunk to feast his eyes. In each tent on fire, he could see his mother's burning shack. Only now did he notice how his fondness of fire had grown over the years. Previously, it had been his worst nightmare that reminded him how helpless he had been while watching his mother and sisters die. Now it was his deadliest weapon to punish his enemies.

  "Up there!" a soldier bellowed. The moment Masolon let himself slip down the tree trunk, two arrows hissed right over his head. "He is here! He is here!"

  Lighter now after he had ditched the two oil bags, Masolon sprinted toward the darker side of the woods. More whizzing arrows soared close to him as he outran his chasers. Masolon stopped behind a tree trunk and shot the nearest three soldiers to him before he resumed his run. "Kill the bastard! Light the bloody woods up!"

  Masolon did not stop running, and neither did his chasers nor their arrows. Can they see me? Or do they just try their luck in the dark? It was a big waste of arrows, but he certainly could not complain.

  All he could see ahead was the dark forest. He was not sure where he was heading to, but he hoped he was dragging Di Galio's men away from Subrel. Glancing over his shoulder, he glimpsed the dozens of torches held by his chasers. There were horses too; he heard their thudding hooves. And they were not coming from behind him.

  Two horsemen; Masolon squinted at their frames. He quickly drew two arrows and shot the two horses, their riders falling off their backs. Poor beasts. He bit his lower lip, listening to the whinnying the horses. . .

  And then that arrow hit his thigh.

  Masolon grunted when he broke the arrow shaft, the pain shooting up his leg. There was no way could he outrun his chasers now. He had no idea how many arrows were still there in the quiver, but surely they would not suffice for all those soldiers.

  Unleash me now before you die.


  Masolon ignored his demon's voice and let his hands do their work. Nock, aim, loose. Now it was even: nock, loose.

  You can never defeat all these men if you are unharmed, let alone wounded. Unleash me before they kill you, fool!

  His hand found nothing but air when he reached for an arrow to shoot. All he could do now was take a few men with him to the afterlife.

  "Masolon! Jump on!"

  Mounting a galloping brown horse, Payton came out of the dark woods. Masolon pivoted on his sound leg and clutched the horse, his thigh made him cry out in agony when he tried to swing the other leg over the beast's top. He was falling, but at the last second, Payton's hand gripped his arm. "Come on! What is wrong with you?" The archers’ commander pulled him up, Masolon holding to him with both arms until he made sure he was steady atop the running horse.

  "You were not supposed to be here." Masolon grimaced, pressing with his hand over his hurt thigh.

  "I had to improvise when I saw the number of soldiers flocking toward the fire you made." Payton urged the horse to go faster. "I thought you might need a little help, and indeed you did."

  "I am not certain if I would have done what you did." Masolon did not know why he was telling him that. "I mean, in these dark woods, I might spend two nights here without any success finding you."

  "I just followed Di Galio's men and they led me to you." Payton glanced over his shoulder. "Seriously, you wouldn't have come for me?"

  "Forget what I said. I was just—"

  Their horse neighed and lost its balance the moment an arrow hit its trunk. Masolon fell with the horse, his right arm taking the worst of the collision with the ground. With his already wounded thigh, Masolon's right side was totally devastated.

  Payton was the first to rise. "Get up." He brought Masolon to his feet. "Run!"

  "I cannot." Masolon pointed at his wounded thigh. "You go. I shall delay them."