Masolon pushed the door open without stepping inside, arrows coming to receive the unwelcome visitors. “Stay here,” he said to his fellows. Moving adjacent to the wall of the granary, he turned around it until he spotted another window. The wooden granary wouldn’t be harder to climb than the slippery rocky hills of his homeland.
Masolon pulled himself atop the wooden windowsill. He warily watched the two archers, making sure they were still aiming at the door in anticipation of any attempt to storm the granary. Knowing he could only take one of them by surprise, he rushed into the first floor through the window, stabbed the nearest archer in the back, and blocked an arrow from the other archer with his shield. With the same shield, he hit the archer in the face, then sliced his belly with his blade. When the archer fell, Masolon realized he had just locked himself up with ten swordsmen in this cursed granary.
“To me, fellows!” Masolon yelled, ten blades shining by the sunlight streaming through the open windows. He could hear his fellows’ hasty footsteps crack on the wooden stairs. They should be here to aid him in a few moments, but he had to survive those few moments.
Masolon stepped back to evade a deadly blade. Lunging forward, he stabbed his nearest opponent. With his shield in the other hand, he blocked a strike by a second attacker then swung his sword, slashing his opponent’s chest.
The remaining eight nomads turned their sights for a moment to face Kuslov and his men, and a moment was all Masolon needed to plunge his sword into the back of a third nomad. He swung his blade at a fourth one, the nomad managing to save his chest from the blow, but not his arm. Masolon didn’t give the wounded bastard a chance to be tortured by his pain and sliced his neck with another strike.
Kuslov, who was now engaging the nomads with his fellows, displayed his good skills in swordplay. No doubt he was unmatched as a tracker, but as a warrior, he was just fine. He roared with his men, whose fighting skills weren’t much better than their ability to growl, whether in fury or in agony. Either way, the mess they had created was enough to get the job done. The clash ended with ten dead nomads and two from Masolon’s party.
“Here is our bounty.” Masolon pointed at a young, good-looking man tied up to a beam at the corner. “I hope they did not hurt him.” He watched one of his fellows untie the kidnapped man.
“You have come to the right place, Masolon.” Kuslov nodded his chin toward Masolon. “Welcome to Gorania.”
Masolon nodded in acknowledgment. Now the tracker addressed him without that usual tone of arrogance. Masolon could even feel a sense of recognition in Kuslov’s voice.
One of Kuslov’s companions was counting the corpses. “You said fourteen, Kuslov. We only killed twelve,” he pointed out.
“Are you sure we killed twelve?” Kuslov made a tour in the bloody granary, kicking the bodies as he passed by them. A grunting nomad happened to be still alive. Without hesitation, Kuslov drove his sword into his chest, silencing him for good. “They are twelve now.”
The same companion stared at Kuslov, his jaw dropped for a moment. “What about the other two?”
“May they burn in hell. Who cares if they have gone to fetch food or to piss in the desert?” Kuslov glanced at the rescued young man. “We got what we came for. If you want to wait for them, then it’s your choice.”
The Murasen fellow didn’t argue.
Kuslov turned to Masolon. “Take us out of here.”
Masolon led the way outside the granary, looking around for any hiding nomads. After making sure the way was clear, he motioned the rest to follow him with the rescued young fellow. As they got away from the granary, the rescued man approached Masolon. “Meeting you is such an honor, good sir. I’m Galardi, and I believe we shall meet again when we go back to Kahora.”
Not knowing what to say, Masolon nodded as he went to his horse. If it hadn’t been for silver, that Galardi might have grown old in his capture.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MASOLON
It was Masolon’s third night in Bumar’s house, the only place in Kahora for him to return to. Yes, the mission was done, but he was still broke. Silver was yet to come in one day or two, Kuslov had promised.
Masolon’s bed was a cotton carpet in the hall. It was way more comfortable than the Great Desert burning sand, but it never stopped his nightmares. This night his father was paying him another visit, red-eyed, blood covering his tunic and his huge sword. Masolon wanted to call him, but his voice didn’t come out.
“Traitor,” his father spat, swinging his sword at his head.
“Masolon.”
Bumar’s voice woke him just at the right moment. His father was about to crush his skull.
“Someone called Galardi has sent for you,” the healer said. “He’s waiting for you at the tavern.”
Masolon was surprised. It had never crossed his mind that Galardi was serious about meeting him again.
“You’re not in trouble are you, young man?”
Masolon rose to his feet. “It is the man I rescued from the nomads.”
“You must have left quite an impression.”
Masolon strode to the door. “Do not sleep and leave me outside. I will not be late,” he promised, stepping outside the house.
Those who hid from the blazing sun during the day thronged the streets at night. Passing by the market, Masolon listened to the clamorous chorus of yelling merchants, bargaining buyers, whinnying horses, and striking blacksmiths’ hammers. Going to the tavern on foot was much easier than on horseback.
The stout tavern keeper greeted Masolon with a genuine smile when he stepped inside. “Kuslov is there, darlin’.” She nodded toward the table at the farthest corner of the tavern, where both Kuslov and Galardi were sitting.
“Bring me my ale there. Kuslov is paying tonight,” Masolon told the stout woman, then left her to join the two awaiting men.
“Your cut, young man.” Kuslov produced a clinking purse when Masolon sat. Masolon glanced at Galardi, feeling the scene a bit queer to be witnessed by the man he had rescued.
“No shame, Masolon. We all knew it was a matter of business. Please take your silver.” The handsome fellow grinned as if he could sense Masolon’s concerns. Those concerns vanished the moment the full pouch landed in Masolon’s hand.
A serving girl brought Masolon's drink to the table, Kuslov following her with his eyes until she disappeared in the crammed tavern. “What I hate about this city, besides its weather, is the brothels.”
Galardi narrowed his eyes. “There are no brothels in Kahora, Kuslov.”
“That's why I hate it.” Kuslov took a big gulp of his drink.
“You may travel to Demask if the matter is urgent,” Galardi suggested.
“Oh, please!” Kuslov snorted. “The whores in that brothel were uglier than me.”
Masolon drank his ale while the two men recalled their memories in the Demask brothel. Despite his grim face, Kuslov had the ability to make you smile. In fact, it was his grim face that did the trick so well that you could not stand the sight of a grin on it. On the other hand, Galardi was nothing like Kuslov. His smile was pleasant, his voice honeyed, his black hair combed, his cloak elegant and neat. The only thing he had in common with his Rusakian friend was his height.
“What is your story, Masolon?” Galardi asked. “You came from some faraway place, I was told.”
“Yes.” Kuslov took another gulp and mocked Masolon's accent when he said, “A faraway rural place.”
“Don't mind my Rusakian friend. He was never renowned for his mannerly behavior,” said Galardi to Masolon. “I'm just curious to know why you left your home and made your long journey here.”
Masolon had no doubt that Galardi or anyone else would loathe him if they knew his story. The first Goranians who had found Masolon stranded in the Murasen desert almost killed him because they believed he was a demon. “What difference would that make?” he asked. “Would you take your silver back?”
“No.” Galardi tittered.
“I want to know because I'm a merchant. You see, everyone has a gift. You wield swords, I make deals. Trading is what I'm gifted in, Masolon. And a trade is what I want to make with you. My father is a reputable merchant in Kalensi and I have been working for him for a decade. Currently, I'm about to start my own business, and to do that, I need my own men. I have Kuslov, the most gifted tracker in Gorania, to guide me through the lands of Gorania. And I want to have you to lead my army.”
“Your army?”
“The roads are ruled by bandits, Masolon. Caravans need guards for protection, and guards need a true warrior to lead them, not some mercenary who would undertake that role as a profession.” Galardi took a sip from his tankard, giving Masolon a studying look. “So what do you think?”
A cure for my restless soul, Masolon thought. His sin would never be undone, but he could do more good than the harm he had made. He still could earn his salvation, his peace.
“I will lead your army,” Masolon announced. “But I will never be your assassin.”
“Understood.” Galardi grinned. “I’m traveling back to Kalensi today. Once my caravan is ready I will summon you. Meanwhile, you have two months to recruit your men.”
“Two months?” Masolon echoed in disapproval.
“Do you need more time to recruit your men?”
“I need less.” Before I starve. Masolon didn't know if the silver in his purse would suffice him that long.
Galardi shot him an inquiring look.
“Alright.” Masolon tapped his fingers on the table, smiling nervously. “What am I supposed to do in those two months?”
“I told you. Recruit.”
“Curse you, Galardi! That's not what he's asking about.” Kuslov slammed his tankard on the table. “He's asking about the silver.”
“Ah, I see.” Galardi's smile was back. “You have enough silver already as long as you stay away from whores and gambling.”
“Gambling. The Contests.” Kuslov stared at Masolon. “That is exactly what you need, young man.”
“Drunk again, Kuslov?” Galardi taunted.
“That is where you will find your recruits.” Ignoring the young merchant, Kuslov wagged a finger at Masolon. “Some of the fighters there are well trained, even tougher than the lords' regular soldiers. Besides, you may earn some silver if you do well in the fights.”
“Too much silver even.” Galardi nodded. “If he comes from a faraway place as he says, then he is unknown.”
“High odds.” Kuslov’s eyes were still fixed on Masolon.
“Alright then.” Masolon gestured to them with both hands. “Anyone want to tell me what you both are talking about?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
MASOLON
According to Galardi and Kuslov, the Contest was a Goranian tradition where contenders fought for the title of City Champion. Every few months, a Contest was held in a different city, and the next one was going to be held in Inabol, the capital of the Byzonts. To Masolon, the whole thing was nothing but absolute absurdity. Fighting in Ogono was always a serious issue, a matter of life and death, not some stupid sport for a hollow title.
The only part that mattered about those Contests was the fighters. He might encounter a few fine ones to recruit for his army. And the silver, Masolon thought, glancing at the purse of silver coins he had received from Galardi. He had no way of knowing whether this purse would carry him through the coming two months or not.
Bumar advised him to follow a caravan heading to Inabol unless he wanted to travel in circles in the lands of Gorania. The best place to find a caravan was the Dusty Plaza, where all caravans gathered to drop or collect their goods.
Masolon didn’t find the Dusty Plaza much dustier than the rest of the city. Perchance it had earned its name from the travelers who got dusty on the road to this city in the heart of the desert. Masolon still remembered his miserable condition the day he had arrived in Kahora.
After asking a few men, likely merchants, Masolon found the caravan he was looking for. One cart was already loaded with carpets and cloth of various colors, the other still half-packed with barrels. A black-haired man clad in a gray tunic and black breeches was overseeing the lads carrying the barrels to the second cart. He appeared to be the one in charge of this caravan.
The black-haired man glanced warily at Masolon when he saw him coming ahorse. “Need help, young man?” he asked.
“I was told you are heading to Inabol.” Masolon stopped his black stallion in front of the caravan master. “I hope you do not mind showing me the way.”
The caravan master looked him up and down. “I wonder what a Mankol is doing in Murase, and why he would be heading to Byzonta.”
To be mistaken for a Mankol was safer than being known as an Outsider. “We are all taking care of our business, are we not?”
Chewing on his lip, the caravan master nodded. “How much are you going to pay?”
“Pay?” Masolon didn’t see that coming. “For what?”
“For protecting you on the road.”
Masolon chuckled mockingly. “With what? Those barrels?”
Apparently the caravan master didn’t have a sense of humor. “I have an army to take care of my business, Mankol man. So if you don’t want the Ghosts to rip your heart out, you will need my protection.”
Ghosts and demons, the people of Gorania believed so much in them. Masolon should think twice before mocking that man again.
“Let me worry about myself,” Masolon said in a serious tone this time. “I will keep my distance, neither too close to burden you with my protection nor too far to lose your track on the road.”
“Make no mistake then. I will ignore your screams for help.”
The agreement sounded fair to Masolon. After the lads were done loading the second cart, the black-haired man sent one of them to summon his army. Shortly after, ten horsemen made their way through the plaza and joined the caravan. To Masolon’s surprise, the caravan master mounted his horse and ordered his men to move. For real? Ten horsemen were his “army?”
The caravan headed west, Masolon keeping himself one mile or less behind it. Whenever they moved, he spurred his horse onward. Whenever they stopped, he took his rest. When darkness fell, they camped, leaving Masolon no other option except doing the same. Worried that those men would leave him behind once they woke up, Masolon found himself waking up every hour to make sure they were still in his sight. After dawn, Masolon couldn’t sleep at all. He waited until every man in the caravan woke up and mounted his horse. They were ready to move now.
When Masolon resumed his journey, the sandy terrain disappeared from the horizon, and the sun’s heat was much milder. The caravan turned around the mountains of Sergrad in order to reach Inabol on the third day. The mountainous area surrounding the city reminded him of the mountains of Ogono, his homeland.
When he reached the walls of Inabol, he could estimate thirty Byzont archers atop the bulwark. The spearmen at the gate stopped all carts to inspect every barrel and every box. Since Masolon had nothing but his horse, they let him in without delay. While the caravan was still searched, he couldn’t conceal his gloating smile as he went past the black-haired caravan master.
“Where can I find the arena?” Masolon asked one of the spearmen standing at the gate.
The spearman gave him a studying look that made Masolon regret the question. “We call it the amphitheater, foreigner,” the spearmen said gruffly. He nodded over his shoulder. “Just follow the crowd.”
Masolon followed the crowd swarming toward the same direction like bees returning to their hive, which was too large to miss. The “hive” was a huge, round, stone structure with no roof, and from inside came out a massive buzz of bees that had arrived already. An audience he had never had in Ogono for his raids.
Masolon dismounted and tied his horse to a hitching post outside the amphitheater. He strode to the thronged entrance, which was guarded by three tall, beefy men, even larger than those spearmen guarding
the city gate. One of them stopped Masolon with his massive arm. “The pass first.”
“Pass?”
“Hmm. Another foreigner.” The doorman nodded toward the people showing a piece of paper to the other doormen. “You see that thing? Only those who have it are allowed to watch the Contest.”
“I am here to be watched, not to watch.”
“For real?” The doorman looked at him quizzically then called over his shoulder to a short, slender lad standing behind him. “Risto! Take this last minute champion to Admastos. If there is no room for him, make sure you bring him back to me.”
The lad hurried to Masolon and ushered him inside through a narrow corridor that led to a wider hall thronged with a boisterous crowd who were apparently waiting for their turn to enter one particular chamber.
Taking Masolon by the arm, the slender lad made his way through the masses. “It’s Risto!” he bellowed, banging the door with his fist. When the door was slightly opened, the crowd grew mad. “No one enters, or we take no more bets today!” he hollered at them. To Masolon’s surprise, the angry mob calmed. No one dared to follow him as the lad took him inside the chamber.
The chamber itself was crowded and noisy. More than twenty men surrounded the mustached fellow sitting behind a desk, piles of papers on its top. “Master Admastos!” cried the lad. “Can you enlist this fighter?”
Admastos was too busy to even look at him. With one hand he was writing, with the other he was taking coins from those men surrounding him. Risto repeated his question two more times before Admastos replied without turning to him, “Put him on Antram’s team. He can take one more fighter as far as I remember.”
Team? Since Kuslov and Galardi hadn’t told Masolon anything about teams, he had assumed he would be fighting on his own. The Contest was more complicated than he thought.
The Warrior's Path Page 4
