The moment Masolon stepped out of the thatched hall, he saw Ramel coming to him. “You're late.” Ramel stopped, motioning him to hurry.
Masolon caught up with him and both men headed to the amphitheater.
“Did you sleep well after yesterday's fight?” Ramel asked.
“That fight; what was the point of it?” Masolon asked.
“You can't just do what I say without asking questions, right?”
“Forgive me for my rudeness,” Masolon said. “I am sure you have a point and I want to know it.”
“You are lying. And you know what? You are bad at lying.” Ramel shook his head. “Why do you see yesterday's fight as pointless? You believe you have done it perfectly, don't you?”
“You asked me to beat those two without killing them and I did.”
Except for two sparring fighters, the amphitheater was empty when they entered. Not much space was allocated for spectators in this arena, but the field itself was as vast as the one Masolon had seen in Inabol.
“That fight revealed the flaws in your swordplay,” said Ramel. “You took too much time to end that encounter.”
“I thought this would be more entertaining to the crowd.”
“It's not common to meet a muscular man who has any sort of reason at all.” Ramel arched an eyebrow. Masolon wasn't sure whether his mentor agreed with him or not.
“You have a point, but you miss what the whole thing is all about,” Ramel continued.
The sparring trainees stopped when they saw their master standing at the edge of the ring. Ramel gestured to them to resume what they were doing.
“The Pit, the arena, those fighters and you; is it all about entertainment?” Ramel looked around. “Of course not. It's all about gold and silver. And you only earn gold and silver by winning Contests, not by entertaining the crowd.”
“It is all about gold and silver,” Masolon echoed.
“Why do you feel ashamed when you say so?” Ramel looked at him curiously. “Yes, it's about gold and silver. You see, every Goranian has a profession, so choose your own. But I really wonder what you want to be. A farmer? A carpenter? A blacksmith perhaps?”
Ramel always had a rationale behind his argument. Still, Masolon had his doubts about his mentor's motives. His intuition told him Ramel was hiding something.
“Make sure you win those Contests,” Ramel advised, “and both of us will enjoy his life. All I ask is to keep your attention in this Pit to what I tell you, and later you will get drunk with whores whenever you please.”
“When will I be done here in the Pit?” Masolon asked.
“When I say you're ready.” Ramel picked up a wooden pole from a long wooden counter at the corner of the arena. “New students usually need six weeks.”
“What about almost ready students?”
“You still don't want to understand.” Ramel regarded Masolon with amusement, and Masolon knew what it meant. But he was unarmed at the moment, and to grab a weapon, he must first pass Ramel to reach the counter.
Roaring, Ramel lunged forward with his pole. Masolon dove to evade his charge, rolling his body on the ground toward the wooden counter, and snatched a pole. Still lying on his back, Masolon used the length of his pole to block a smashing strike from Ramel, and in a heartbeat he kicked Ramel in the legs.
“Not bad.” Ramel curled his lip in disdain. “Still not ready though.”
“You cannot be serious.” Masolon pushed to his feet.
“I am serious about my business, Masolon.” Ramel looked him in the eye. “I always earn a lot from the Contests and I always will. Do you know why? Because I know what it takes to run this business. The way you fight might have worked before, but not in my Pit, not in my Contests. I don't care about the thousand ways you have learned to defeat your enemy with a steel sword. I care only about one way to knock out your opponent with your wooden pole. My way.”
That bastard thinks so much of himself. “What is this all about?” Masolon asked in disapproval. “I was about to defeat you a few moments ago, if only you did not suddenly stop the fight.”
Ramel patted Masolon's leg with his pole. “Your hit here won't cause as much harm as here.” He slid the pole up to Masolon's knee.
“Not if I hit you harder.”
“Power is not everything. It is the place of your strike that makes the difference between a decisive victory and a clear defeat. You will find yourself surrounded by four or even more opponents who have beaten all your fellow fighters. For each foe, you will have only one chance to knock him out. If one of your strikes fails, you are out. That's what makes winning a fight with wood harder than with steel.” Ramel threw his pole and held Masolon's arm. “Your blow doesn't start from here.” He pointed at his eyes. “It starts from here. Eyes drive arms, Masolon. Keep them open, and don't let anything distract them.”
“Eyes drive arms,” muttered Masolon.
Ramel let Masolon go when Viola came in. She handed Ramel an envelope, glancing at Masolon. “You're still here, big boy,” she said with fake enthusiasm.
“Why would I not be?”
“What is the matter, Viola?” Ramel asked.
“Nothing.” She shrugged. “I wonder for how long this big boy will stand the rough life of obeying your orders.”
“Rough life? You're underestimating this fellow.” Ramel tittered, holding Masolon's shoulder. “He will fare well against Skandivian wenches.”
Viola stared at Masolon. “A bird hates its cage, even if it is made of gold.”
“Come on, Viola.” Ramel patted her shoulder. “This poetry doesn't make any sense here.” He then addressed Masolon cynically. “You don't want to join the mercenaries' training, do you? Their life is a sure way to die young if you ask me.”
“I will be waiting for you,” Viola said to Ramel. She turned her back to them and left.
“Not a bad skirt, huh?” Ramel smiled wickedly when he caught Masolon following Viola with his eyes. “But she's better than nothing.”
Masolon harrumphed. “I am sure she is a capable assistant.”
“Capable? Yes, she is. She assists me very well!” Ramel guffawed, and so did Masolon. Although he never felt comfortable toward Ramel, he had to admit that his company was entertaining, to say the least.
“Why do you not participate in those Contests yourself?” Masolon asked.
“Why should I?” Ramel shrugged. “To earn gold and potter with women? I am enjoying all these pleasures already without a drop of sweat. That's why I train men like you, Vaknus, Artony, Edson, Tharmen, and others.” He picked the thrown pole and spun it fluidly. “Time to teach you some combinations. Defend yourself, boy!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MASOLON
Masolon's first week in the Pit didn't go as planned.
Unlike how easy the idea appeared, recruiting brothers-of-the-Pit to his army was futile, and after a few attempts he learned why. It was the gold. Since warlords would always pay higher than merchants, only a moron—like Masolon—would join him.
Though Masolon didn't care about Ramel's Contests, he still expected his mentor to teach him some of his fluid moves, including the one he had beaten Masolon with in their first encounter. That never happened. All Ramel had been doing for seven days was watching Masolon spar barehanded with two opponents, and saying 'again' every time Masolon beat them. If there was something Masolon had mastered in his first week, it was how to pronounce the word 'again' in a perfect Bermanian accent.
“Let's make things more interesting.” That was Ramel starting a new week. And indeed he made things more interesting by surrounding the sparring field with a ring of fire, sparing a couple of feet as an exit. “If you push your opponents into the fire, you will follow them,” Ramel warned him, but his opponents didn't receive the same warning. Much more interesting now.
Day after day, the ring was getting narrower, and yet Ramel didn't seem to have had enough fun. By the end of the sixth day of the second week, Ramel
let in one more opponent. Still, Masolon was winning, but after receiving a few more punches in his face. Every day one more opponent joined the ring of fire, adding more bruises, but the result never changed, and 'again' never stopped. Near the end of the third week, Masolon found himself facing eight opponents, the fire already consuming the thin air of the Pit. It took an eternity to persuade those eight opponents to lie on the ground and stop fighting. Masolon would have been more convincing with his sword.
“Again.” The word rang in the Pit. Masolon wanted to crush Ramel's neck.
“NO!” Masolon bellowed.
Standing outside the ring, Ramel glared at Masolon. “I said ‘again.’” Ramel's voice was menacing.
“This is insane.” Masolon stepped outside the ring through the two-foot exit.
“Masolon!” Ramel shouted. “You cannot leave the ring before I tell you!”
But Masolon had enough of that cursed ring. “You are a sick man. The whole matter is nothing but a game to you.”
“Oh really?” Ramel smirked. “Are you even listening to yourself?”
Yes, Masolon was listening, and he knew it wasn't true. It was all about gold and silver. And no one would mess with his gold and silver, especially if he was someone like Ramel. “This stupid ring of fire has nothing to do with what I saw in the Contest,” said Masolon.
“Are you questioning my methods?” Ramel snarled.
“Yes.” Masolon didn't flinch. An awkward silence followed his curt reply. Apparently Ramel hadn't seen that coming.
“Come,” Ramel said as he strode away from the fire ring. For a moment, Masolon had thought of leaving that Pit for good, but found himself following Ramel to a chamber he hadn't entered before.
“This is where we should have started.” Masolon gazed at the five rows of racks full of all sorts of weapons, all crafted in wood.
“It is not that simple,” said Ramel, his face still grim. “You cannot master all these weapons without heavy sparring. And you cannot endure heavy sparring without improving your stamina.”
So all the madness about the blasted fire rings revolved around stamina. “Why do I need to master all those weapons?” Masolon asked.
Ramel smiled in amusement. “What is your favorite weapon? A sword or a spear?”
Ramel was back to his games. Masolon mused for a moment then he said, “If I say 'sword', you will give me a spear, right?”
“No, I will give you this.” Ramel grabbed a war axe. “Do you have any idea how to block an axe strike? The best way to know is to learn how to use the axe itself.”
“I did not know we could use axes in Contests.”
“Wooden axes, wooden swords, and in some Bermanian Contests they give you a horse and a lance. Horsemanship is something highly regarded in Bermania.”
Not more than it was in his homeland. There, a man who couldn't mount a horse was not a real man. And they never used saddles, bridles, or reins to steer their horses, only hands and thighs. Masolon couldn't wait to test how any of those Bermanians would fare against him on horseback. “Alright then. I am ready to start,” he said.
“Do you know what this means?” Ramel asked.
“For certain.” Masolon knew it meant more weeks of mounting horses and endless sparring with axes, swords, and poles. “No more fire rings.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SANIA
Sania sat by her mother's bed, watching the healer's potion work at last. The old lady had stopped coughing, and now she was falling asleep. She needed a truce after one long sleepless night.
The sun must have risen already. Sania had seen the effect of the potion a dozen times before, and she knew that the coming few hours could be her only chance in the whole day to get some sleep. When she returned to her bedchamber, which was next to her mother's, she took Nelly's bow instead of going to bed. Now could be the best time to try her new bow. Only half an hour, and then she would hurry to her bed. Half an hour wouldn't harm anybody, right?
She strapped the quiver she had borrowed to her back. Pushing the door of her chamber open, she found her maidservant Fadeela at the corridor.
“Milady.” Fadeela scurried to Sania. “Let me carry this for you.”
“Quiet,” Sania whispered. “I can handle myself. You stay here in case Mother…I mean Lady Ramia wakes up. I will be in the backyard in case you want to find me.”
Sania left Fadeela behind, skipping down the faintly lit stone stairs to the vestibule of the castle. Guards at the main door stared at her as she approached them. Yes, bastards. Who said that only men can wield a bow and arrow? She glared at them, forcing them to avert their eyes and give her a courtly nod. As she traversed the courtyard, she felt that every guard was following her with his eyes and wanted to yell at them to mind their own damned business.
The palm trees crammed the backyard of the castle. Here she had plenty of targets to shoot at. Recalling how she saw the archers do this, she drew an arrow from her quiver and nocked it onto the bowstring. Before she made a full pull back, the bowstring slipped from her hand. Startled, she screamed, realizing she dropped the arrow from her hand before letting loose the bowstring. Flying an arrow came out to be harder than it looked.
Sania didn't look around to know if the guards were watching this; she was quite sure they were. They must be laughing at her foolishness, and that made her more determined to make this happen, to shoot an arrow at one of those palm trees.
She picked the arrow from the ground and nocked it one more time. Straining her wrist, she pulled the bowstring and loosed the arrow. The arrow struck the ground twenty feet away from her. A longer journey this time, but not higher. What was she doing wrong? Perhaps she should raise the bow when she shot.
Sania drew another arrow from the quiver. Raising her bow arm, she shot the arrow and watched it soar in the air. To her amazement, the arrow missed all those trunks and hit the stone wall behind them.
“Nice shot!”
Her brother's voice came from behind her. If he had seen her first shot, then he wasn't mocking her.
“Lord Feras.” She turned to him, giving the Lord of Arkan a sarcastic greeting. The creamy doublet he wore contoured his broad shoulders and slender waist, his black beard cleanly trimmed as usual.
He came closer. “I assume from your presence here that Mother is alright.”
“She is asleep. I'm afraid that once she is awake she will choke again.” Sania sighed. “I'm really worried, Feras. Three weeks, and her condition is only getting worse.”
“Nineteen days,” Feras corrected, his eyes on her diamond necklace. “Since you returned from Burdi.”
“That's nothing but a coincidence.”
“There is no coincidence, Sania,” Feras said firmly. “When your grandfather sent Nelly to Burdi, it was no coincidence.”
“I thought she went there by her own choice.”
“Well, he sent her, and she agreed.”
Feras always knew more than she did about anything, but why would that surprise her? The heir of Lord Ahmet must be well readied for that day when he assumed his father's seat.
“You saw her?” she asked him.
“I never did. I was a babe when she left. We were all forbidden from visiting her in Burdi.”
“Because she was a sorceress?”
“She was more than a sorceress, Sania,” Feras said with a shiver. “She was…evil.”
Sania waited, but he said nothing more, as if she was supposed to understand what he was hinting at.
“What kind of evil?”
“A kind any man would have exterminated.” Feras tilted his head. “If it hadn't been for love.”
“Grandma?” Sania chuckled mockingly. “I never thought there were real love stories, especially in our glorious house.”
Feras gave her a studying look. “I know what you are hinting at, sly girl. One day you may understand that love does exist in your glorious house. You will find it, but not in the sweet words you read and hear
in your poetry lessons. You will find it deep in the simplest deeds you might not appreciate.”
Good heavens! Sania had lived long enough to witness a moment to remember; when her elder brother, the valorous Lord Feras Ahmet, gave her a lesson about love.
“Simplest deeds, huh?” Sania snorted. “Tell that to the sick lady upstairs. I'm sure she appreciates Father's simplest deeds.”
Feras curled his nose. “Don't you feel you are harsh about Father?”
“I hope he proves me wrong when he receives the news of his wife's sickness.”
“You really disappoint me, Sania. I thought you became a woman with reason, but you still think like a child. What do you expect him to do? Father is battling the Mankols to defend the northern borders of our kingdom, to make people like you safe in their homes.”
“Ah, I understand now. Mother should be grateful then. I will tell her when she wakes up.”
“I don't ask you to thank him, but don't blame him for doing his duty for his faction.”
“What about his wife? Isn't she part of his bloody faction?”
“She is,” Feras said. “But he knows she is in safe hands. Don't you agree?”
“Who are you fooling? He never cared about her. Her mission was done after she gave him his children.”
“What is this folly?” Feras snapped.
“The truth, brother.” She glared at him. “I'm not a child as you think. I understand the game I'm part of. It is only a matter of time until I become a pawn like Mother and Meryem.”
Feras shook his head. “I hope you only lost your mind. Worse things could have happened to you in that cursed house.”
“Rest assured, Feras,” she said, “I'm not haunted by a demon, and I didn't lose my mind.”
“You had better be sure of that.” Feras exhaled again. “Mother needs care, and you will be on your own in the coming days.”
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