The Warrior's Path

by Karim Soliman

  Her voice wasn’t harsh anymore. He should have been wounded earlier to earn her pity. A glance at the fountain of the plaza made him realize how thirsty he was. Usually, after the blood work, Masolon felt as if he wanted to drink a whole river, but this time a river of water wasn’t what he wanted.

  “Before I go anywhere,” he grinned tiredly, “can I have a drink first?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  MASOLON

  Only the scent of lavender reigned over the torchlit hall of Bumar’s house. Masolon was relieved to realize that not all places in Kahora smelled like its tavern.

  A servant ushered Masolon to a wooden seat and disappeared inside the house. Right in front of Masolon was a desk on which piles of books and scrolls were stacked up. If only his grandfather had taught him how to read the Goranian tongue…

  Clad in a loose cotton tunic, a beefy, round-faced man dragged forth a wooden table, placing it at Masolon’s left. “They say you defeated three men on your own,” the beefy man said, his voice deep and calm. His accent was nothing like what Masolon had heard in the boisterous tavern.

  “They were maggots, not men,” Masolon spat.

  “The tools, boy!” the beefy man demanded, giving Masolon a studying look. According to the tavern keeper, that was Bumar, the most skillful healer in the city, if not in the entire kingdom. “The sand and dust that cover your hair and clothes made me think at the beginning that you came from a neighboring Murasen village. Now I’m quite sure you are far away from home.”

  Masolon stared into Bumar’s silver eyes, which were no less soothing than his hypnotic voice. “I have not met many people here, but to me, you seem far away from home too.” From his brief experience with Murasen skin, Masolon had seen all grades of yellow and brown, but not red.

  “Impressive.” Bumar grinned. “You have more than your muscles to reason with.”

  Masolon shrugged. “It was not hard to notice that.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” said Bumar. The servant returned with a rattling metal box and laid it on the table next to Masolon. “I was born in the Kingdom of Bermania, but I spent most of my life here among the Murasens. They consider me as one of them.”

  The table beside Masolon was now full of bandages, metallic tools he had never seen before, and bottles with pungent odors.

  “I hope you know what you are doing,” he said.

  “Of course I do.” Bumar chuckled. “I have been a healer for three decades, young man.” He bent over Masolon’s arm to check it. “Your wound is not very deep, so don’t worry.” Grinning, he nodded toward his shiny tools. “I won’t need them.”

  “These things? I have watched uglier blades cutting into my flesh.”

  “I don’t need any ugly blades tonight. It’s just this to cleanse your wound.” Bumar raised a piece of cloth soaked in a potion in front of Masolon’s face. “But I have to warn you; it may hurt you much more than you think.”

  Masolon could feel the sting when the piece of cloth touched his wounded skin. It was not the worst pain he had suffered from, yet it was unexpected.

  “Don’t you have a story to tell me?” Bumar asked. “Something about you? About where you come from? What you do here?”

  A story to tell? Masolon did have one, but where should he start? From the first horse he had ridden at the age of four? From his night watches around the mountain foot to chase and hunt down those bastards who were used to raiding his village? From his last quarrel with his father? Masolon could see his square face now. Tall and broad-shouldered, his father stood clad in his brown woolen tunic.

  We cannot be like them, Father!

  We must be, or they kill us all!

  We cannot punish someone for the guilt of someone else. You taught me so.

  Do not remind me of what I taught you, Masolon. They killed your mother and your sisters! With or without you, I am taking the men at first light to burn the bastards’ village to ashes!

  I cannot let you do so.

  Stop me if you dare, then.

  His father drew his sword, his glowing eyes betraying his determination to slay anyone standing in his way. Anyone. Even his own son.

  “Hey.”

  A gentle slap on Masolon’s cheek brought him back to reality.

  “A bad dream?” Bumar asked.

  A bad memory, Masolon thought. “Did I talk in my sleep?”

  “You’re not only in dire need of sleep, young man.” Bumar wrapped a bandage around Masolon’s arm. “You need someone with whom you share the load you bear in your chest. Otherwise it will be your mind talking to you.”

  “My mind?” Masolon sighed. “At least we can understand each other.”

  “Nothing is as confusing as a voice coming from your head.” Bumar tied the bandage tightly. “We are done.”

  “This is it? No red hot blades?” Masolon stared at his wrapped arm.

  “The stinging mixture will do. Just cover your wound and it will heal. No water on it.”

  “Thank you.” Masolon rose up to his feet. “How can I…repay your services?” He had nothing to reward the healer with, yet he felt he should offer anyway. Even the healer received his offer with a grin, a mix of mockery and pity.

  “You don’t belong to these lands, do you? I mean the lands of Gorania, not just the Murasen Kingdom.” Bumar looked him in the eye. Escaping the healer’s silver eyes was impossible.

  No one believed Masolon. And if someone did, he wouldn’t like the truth. Only demons lived behind the Great Desert, the people of Gorania said. “I do not belong anywhere in Gorania.”

  “I knew it! The Outsiders do exist!” Bumar didn’t look scared like the others who had heard the truth before. His smile even got wider, his eyes betraying his excitement as he contemplated Masolon’s face. “Despite your strange accent, your silky black hair is Mankol, your facial features are Byzont, your fair skin is Bermanian, and your muscular body is Skandivian. This is how our ancient ancestors looked.”

  Bermanian, Byzont, Skandivian. Too many new words for one day. Obviously Masolon’s grandfather hadn’t told him everything about Gorania, however, the good news was that Masolon was not a demon.

  “I’ll help you repay my services,” Bumar said. “I happen to know someone in urgent need of a skillful swordsman like you. You can spend the night here if you want, and tomorrow I will take you to him.”

  A night under a roof. The healer’s munificent offer aroused Masolon’s doubts. A few hours earlier, he had been denied a drink. “Now you make my debt heavier,” he said cautiously.

  “The price I demand is nothing you can’t pay. After we meet Kuslov tomorrow, you will tell me everything about your homeland and your faction.” Bumar glanced at the piles of scrolls and books. “I had better make sure I have enough ink.”

  Had Masolon heard that right? “The man we are meeting tomorrow is called Kuslov?”

  “Yes.” Bumar furrowed his brow. “Do you know him?”

  “No.” Masolon couldn’t help laughing. Like his grandfather had told him once, the games of destiny were hard to understand sometimes.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MASOLON

  A night in Kahora was hot, a morning was hell. Though not like the hell Masolon had survived in the Great Desert, of course. In Si’oli, the sun curtained the sky with its blaze so white he couldn’t see the sun itself. The sun of Kahora was not that mean, though mean enough to force the good people of this city to abandon its streets for a while.

  “Kuslov is a foreigner, like me…and you,” said Bumar as they walked through the vacant streets, heading to the smelly tavern. “Born in the frozen kingdom of Rusakia, kidnapped by Mankol bandits when he was seven, and sold as a slave to a merchant from Eahor. When I first met him a few months ago, his wound was much worse than yours.”

  Masolon chuckled. “Is this how you always make new acquaintances?”

  “How am I supposed to make them? I’m a healer, young man. Soldiers and mercenaries hurry to me when they’
re wounded. That’s why someone like Kuslov comes to me when he seeks new recruits.”

  Recruits? “What is he? A commander?”

  “No, he is something else. The best tracker who has ever lived in Gorania. I swear he sees and hears what we can’t. The ground that looks plain to you has many stories buried in it, and only his eyes can read those stories.”

  Masolon wasn’t impressed at all. His clansmen had the eyes of hawks and the ears of owls. “I do not understand,” he said. “Why would a tracker seek a recruit?”

  “Because of Kuslov’s profession, he has connections with many merchants. Most of the time he seeks guards for the caravans of his wealthy friends.”

  When they reached the vacant plaza, Masolon gazed at the sulky man inspecting the ground in front of the shut tavern. His head looked like a fur ball with his heavy black hair.

  “Kuslov!” Bumar called out cheerfully. “What are you up to?”

  “You see these two dead bodies?” Kuslov kept his eyes fixed on the thugs’ corpses. “A fight happened here. A horse robbery, I presume.” He pointed at the ground next to the tavern doorstep. “This is where they untied the horse and dragged him, but…”

  “But what, master of all trackers?” Bumar glanced at Masolon, winking.

  “It doesn’t make any sense.” Kuslov rubbed his heavy hair and knelt, scanning the terrain around the two dead bodies. “These two were slain by the same blade. From the direction of these tracks, I can tell they had a third partner who fled this way.” Kuslov pointed at the street ahead. “He was badly wounded.”

  “So?” Bumar grinned. “What’s the odd thing about that?”

  Kuslov rose and looked at Bumar at last. “Their opponent was only one man, Bumar. And he defeated them.” He stared at Masolon, pointing his forefinger at him. “What is this?”

  Masolon looked Kuslov up and down. He wouldn’t even need his blade to tear that arrogant tracker apart. “This is Masolon,” Bumar replied on his behalf, holding Masolon’s arm. “He’s what you’ve been looking for.”

  “I’ve been looking for four warriors, and this is only one.” Kuslov scanned Masolon. “He looks fine. Six feet three inches is not a bad height for a warrior.”

  Not a bad height? Come on! You need to stand on your toes to reach my chin! Masolon suppressed a mocking smile.

  “Tell me, young man,” Kuslov addressed Masolon, “how many men have you killed before?”

  “How high can you count?”

  “What on earth is this accent?” Kuslov turned to Bumar. “Is he right in the head?”

  “He is fine.” Bumar chuckled, glancing at Masolon. “He is just coming from a very faraway rural place.”

  “Nobody knows him here then. Interesting,” Kuslov mused. “When was the last time you used your sword?” He nodded toward the sheath strapped to Masolon's belt.

  “Last night.” Masolon unsheathed his sword, raising its stained blade before the tracker’s eyes. “To retrieve my horse from three outlaws.” He gave Kuslov a lopsided grin. He could swear he spotted a smile that lasted for a heartbeat on the Rusakian’s face.

  “Is your horse wounded?” asked the tracker.

  “No.”

  “You’re in. Tomorrow after sunrise at the northern gates.”

  “I am in for what?”

  Kuslov glanced at the keeper who arrived to open the tavern for its customers, a different keeper from the stout one Masolon had met last night. “Don’t forget the time and place. There’ll be some good silver waiting for you,” said Kuslov, his voice low. “Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have to get my morning ale.”

  The tracker followed the keeper into the tavern, leaving Masolon and Bumar outside. Not sure about the outcome of that encounter, Masolon asked the healer. “What just happened?”

  “You have earned a place on one of Kuslov’s jobs.” Bumar grinned. “No need to thank me.”

  Kuslov himself didn’t look much different from the thugs Masolon had slain last night. What if the job was simply a raid or a murder?

  “What do you think you are doing?” Bumar extended his arm, stopping Masolon from following Kuslov inside the tavern. “When Kuslov says ‘tomorrow’, then it’s only tomorrow.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “I knew him before I knew you, stranger. Come on. Let’s go back to my place.” Bumar took Masolon by the hand, walking away from the plaza. “I cannot wait to listen to everything you know about your world. As a start, what do you call your homeland?”

  “Ogono.”

  “Ogono,” Bumar echoed, his eyes wide with excitement. “What does it mean?”

  “I do not know.” Masolon shrugged. “Do you know the meaning of Gorania?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SANIA

  Sania knew their howdah slowed the caravan. If the decision was up to her, she would mount a horse instead of that stupid camel. But who was she to object to her lord father's order? When her father said the howdah was more honoring to her as a noble lady, then it must be honoring. Still, a question irked her. What was the point of teaching a child something she wouldn't be allowed to do when she grew up?

  “Are we sure we can make it to Burdi and return before nightfall?” Meryem fidgeted on the seat opposite to Sania's.

  “You don't miss my brother, do you?” Sania teased, leaning forward toward Meryem.

  Meryem gave her a dismissive wave then she let slip a guilty smile.

  “Someone is shy here.” Sania held Meryem's knees and shook them playfully.

  “Stop being silly!” Meryem pushed her hands away. “I shouldn't have come with you in the first place.”

  “I'm doing you a favor, foolish girl. Unless you haven't had enough of your prison.”

  Meryem wanted to say something but she looked hesitant. She let out a deep sigh, gazing at the desert through the window of the howdah. “At least he is in Arkan these days. Who knows how many days he is going to spend in his castle this time?”

  Sania felt a bit guilty for taking the poor girl away from her husband. “I'm sorry for not taking that into consideration, Meryem. I just thought you might be bored of poetry lessons and sewing.”

  “You don't have to apologize, sweet.” Meryem gave her a grateful smile. “I've joined you of my own will because I really feel bored, especially of poetry lessons.”

  “I don't hate all poetry if truth be told. Some of those love poems are—”

  “Nonsense. All those love poems are nothing but nonsense, Sania. I didn't marry my champion, and neither would you. It's your lord father who decides who your worthy husband will be. I will be surprised if he hasn't decided already.”

  Sania's worthy husband had to be a lord of a great house like hers. To the likes of her father and Meryem's, marriage was nothing but a move in the power game. Sania and that poor girl were mere pawns.

  “You might be luckier than me,” said Sania. “You were wed to a good man.”

  “A good man that I barely know.” Meryem gazed through the window, her arms folded. “Do you know who your lucky suitor is?”

  “I know nothing. It's too soon.”

  “Too soon for what?” Meryem asked. “You're seventeen, pretty girl.”

  “So what? You were nineteen when you were wed to Feras, old girl!”

  Meryem laughed. “It was your brother who showed up late. Father was waiting for him.”

  Sania giggled. She loved the company of her sweet sister-in-law, a flower that was slowly withering thanks to some absurd lordly plans. Sometimes Sania envied the commoners who didn't have so many rules to abide by in their lives. It was hard to imagine, for instance, that a carpenter would only accept a carpenter as a husband for his daughter. They didn't have to take anyone's permission before going anywhere. They would ride horses in the streets whenever they liked to.

  A crazy idea crossed Sania’s mind. “Meryem, do you know how to ride a horse?”

  “Yes, my father taught me when I was ten.”

&nb
sp; Of course, to ride it only within the walls of your manor, Sania thought. “Very well.” From the window of the howdah, she yelled, “STOP!”

  Captain Dawood commanded his memluks to halt. Mounting his horse, he approached the howdah. “Is everything alright, milady?”

  “We want to get down, Captain.”

  “In case you may want to know, we are only two miles away from Burdi, milady.”

  “Great. That's exactly where we want to get down.”

  The camel master responded to Sania's request after he got Dawood's approval. With a few incomprehensible words, the master ordered the camel to sit back down. She wondered if camel masters knew the tongue of those beasts for real as the Tales said.

  Sania stepped down, Meryem following her. “Dismount! Yes, both of you!” She gestured to two memluks, who in turn exchanged a look with their confused captain.

  “Milady?” Dawood turned to Sania.

  “I said dismount,” Sania snapped at the two men, ignoring Dawood. “We will take your horses.”

  “Sania, what are you doing?” Meryem asked, her voice low.

  “Just follow me,” Sania told her before she shouted at the two men, “How dare you ignore an order from your lady? Get down now!”

  Reluctantly, the two memluks dismounted. Sania held the reins of one horse with one hand, using the other hand to grab the pommel of the saddle.

  “Sania!” Meryem hurried to her. “You are not properly dressed for this!”

  “I wear breeches under my skirt. What about you?”

  Meryem exhaled. “I do as well, but—”

  “Then do as I do.”

  Carefully, Sania put her left foot in the stirrup. Still holding the reins, she stood on her left foot, swung the right leg over the horse's back, and landed smoothly in the saddle.

  “Your turn.” Sania tilted her head at Meryem, who looked impressed.