The Warrior's Path

by Karim Soliman

  “Why do they refer to him as the Rusakian noble, Duke Antram?” Masolon teased.

  “Because he is.” Antram leaned back in his seat. “He was.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  MASOLON

  The rumors about the arrival of King Bechov proved to be true. The four fighters of the semi-final were ready in the arena, but the Contest master himself had warned them not to swing a pole before His Majesty found his seat and gave them his royal permission to start.

  The snowfall had stopped that morning, but the air was still cold, making Masolon feel a slight numbness in his fingers and toes. He flexed them, swinging his leg forward and backward a few times. The draw put him on foot in this round next to his mounted fellow fighter, a handsome horseman with blue eyes and dark hair.

  “Are you really a noble as they say?” asked Masolon.

  “I’m not here to prattle,” Blanich replied curtly. “I’m here to beat these two. Then it is between me and you in the final.”

  Masolon didn’t like his tone. “You,” he stepped toward Blanich, glaring at him. “This arena knows neither nobles nor lords. I will win this fight just to make sure that I beat you hard in the coming round.”

  Drums and trumpets interrupted the tension, declaring the king’s arrival. The royal party entered with a cheering from the crowd. A forced cheering, Masolon believed. The king waved to his subjects and gave the fighters the permission they had been waiting for.

  Both mounted, Blanich and Artony hauled their poles and spurred their horses to a gallop. Without any previous agreement, Masolon and Vaknus stood still in anticipation for the outcome of the coming clash. Each horseman thrust his pole toward his opponent, but only one fell off his horse, and that one was the good-looking Rusakian noble.

  Masolon ran toward his fellow fighter to aid him, but Vaknus intercepted. Their wooden poles collided, seeking a vulnerable spot to hit. Masolon hit Vaknus’s leg, and the veteran fighter fell on his back.

  Scurrying toward Blanich to help him, Masolon saw Artony run over the young Rusakian with his galloping horse. The crowd thundered, plainly shocked by the brutal attack. “It’s your turn now!” Artony howled, wheeling his horse to face Masolon.

  “You coward!” Masolon blasted, sprinting toward the galloping horse. At the last moment, he stepped left before jumping to Artony’s right, striking him with fury in his chest. The surprising charge made the champion of Inabol Contest fall on his shoulder. Masolon could hear Artony’s bones crack.

  It wasn’t over yet. Vaknus rose and lunged at him, hitting his torso with a heavy strike. Masolon fell on the ground, his pole still in his grasp. He rolled to evade a blow from Vaknus, sweeping his foe’s legs with his pole. Masolon was quickly up on his feet, kicking Vaknus’s weapon from his hand. When Masolon laid the tip of his pole on Vaknus’s forehead, the crowd roared, urging him to give his fallen opponent the finishing strike.

  Masolon wanted to smash that head, but that was Vaknus under his feet; not Artony. He could not punish someone for the guilt of someone else. Those had been his own words to his father. He couldn’t break them now to quench the fire of his fury, or to please those people.

  Masolon let his pole fall beside Vaknus, and the whole arena hushed. Even Vaknus didn’t try to rise to his feet, staring at Masolon in anticipation. The veteran warrior seemed to be waiting for Masolon’s next move, but Masolon was done for this round.

  A clap coming from the royal balcony echoed in the silent arena. King Bechov himself. Then a storm of applause shook the whole place. Those sheep needed their shepherd’s approval before hailing the winner of this round.

  The Contest master was checking Blanich when Masolon strode to him. “He’s alive,” announced the Contest master. “But I doubt if he’s ready to fight you in the final.”

  “What does this mean?” Masolon asked.

  “Don’t you get it?” the Contest master grinned. “You’re the new Champion of Durberg.”

  ***

  A long time had passed since he heard the music of clinking silver.

  Masolon came out of the Contest master’s room after he had received his prize. Down the corridor, a man clad in a fine gray coat was waiting for him. Masolon wasn’t surprised at all.

  “I was wondering when you would appear,” said Masolon, opening his clinking pouch.

  “I was never to miss your chant.” Ramel grinned, taking his cut from Masolon’s prize. “Why were you late?”

  “I made it to the fights, and that is all that matters to you,” replied Masolon.

  “Masolon, don’t ever dare to risk my gold and silver,” Ramel warned, holding Masolon’s shoulder with a firm hand. “You heard that?”

  Masolon pushed Ramel’s hand. Both men glowered at each other until a bald man approached them, clad in a white coat decorated with the white bear sigil of the Rusakian Kingdom.

  “Congratulations, Champion,” the bald man addressed Masolon. “You are requested to attend the feast held tonight at the palace of Durberg.”

  Ramel didn’t look surprised, unlike Masolon. “Requested? By whom?” Masolon asked.

  “King Bechov. Find a clean outfit, and don’t be late.”

  King? Masolon’s jaw dropped as he watched the bald man leave the chamber. He said ‘king’, right? The king will have the honor to meet me!

  “Lucky bastard! You owe me for that,” said Ramel. For a moment, Masolon had forgotten that his mentor was still here.

  “I might owe you for training me, but that does not make me your slave.”

  “Slave? You’re going too far, Masolon, and the whole matter is quite simple. All I request is that you make sure you participate in every Contest.”

  “For how long?”

  Ramel peered at him. “Are you still recruiting for your caravan? Or do you have other plans that I don’t know? What are you thinking of, Masolon? You want to be a mercenary and join an infantry squad of some lord, and live every day as if it is your last? I am offering you a life you wouldn’t even dare to dream of. A life of wealth and fame. How can you refuse that?”

  Antram arrived at that moment.

  “Something wrong, brother?” asked Antram, eyeing Ramel suspiciously.

  “Everything is fine,” said Ramel. “I will be waiting in Kahora for you in seven weeks, Champion. Don’t disappoint me.”

  Antram followed Ramel with his eyes until he left. “Who is this man and what does he want from you?” he asked.

  “It is a long story I may tell you later. Right now I want you to do something for me.” Masolon handed Antram a purse of a few golden coins. “A guard at the gate is expecting his prize. I would give it to him myself if it were not for tonight’s feast.”

  “Someone has bet on you?” Antram chuckled.

  “He did not.” Masolon winked. “But I did.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  MASOLON

  The big hall inside Durberg Palace was boisterous. Music played by the band to entertain the guests was mixed with people’s clamor. Standing near the door of the hall, Masolon gazed at the gigantic golden chandelier that hung from the high ceiling. Most probably, he was the only common guest in this place.

  At the dais at the end of the hall sat King Bechov with his retinue, his golden crown shining above his gray head. His face was grim, and so were the faces of the men chattering with him. Away from the dais, the hall was more delightful; men and ladies drinking, laughing, and dancing. Masolon couldn’t help staring at three pretty girls standing on his left. One of them noticed him peeking.

  She approached him, smiling. Masolon swallowed.

  “You must be the city champion,” said the young lady. “I’m Halin, daughter of Lord Sanislav.”

  “My name is Masolon, milady.” Masolon’s eyes were fixed on her gorgeous fair-skinned face and her blue eyes. “It is such a pleasure.”

  “You are not a demon as they say.” She looked him up and down.

  “No, milady.” He smiled. “I do not know why
they say so.”

  “Mayhap it’s losers who say so to justify their loss to you.” Halin nodded toward him. “No doubt your strength and skill are unmatched, but what you did to your opponent was really noble. That sort of chivalry has become rare these days.” She sighed. “Even demons can be chivalrous.”

  “Thank you, milady.”

  “Enjoy the feast.”

  His heart drummed hard when Halin smiled to him before she returned to her friends. Masolon wasn’t sure of what he exactly felt, but he surely felt good. Halin was the prettiest girl he had ever talked to.

  “Welcome, Champion.” The same bald man from the amphitheater interrupted a stream of dreamy thoughts in Masolon’s mind. “Are you having a good time?”

  Masolon nodded.

  “Good.” The bald man gave him a brief smile. “In a few minutes you will be standing before His Majesty King Bechov. You will not say a word. Just smile and bow to His Majesty when he honors you. And after you are done, you step back while still facing him. We do not turn our backs to His Majesty. Understood?”

  Masolon nodded, having no problems with those rituals of respect. Still, they were a bit exaggerated to him. Everybody in Ogono always honored his chiefs, but that never prohibited anyone from speaking up before them.

  “Good.” The bald man kept his artificial smile. “Come with me.”

  Masolon followed the bald man to the dais. The hall grew hushed when King Bechov stood.

  “The last Contest I attended was forty years ago.” The old man's voice was surprisingly strong. “I know I am renowned for my low opinion of those games. I have always believed that the Rusakian soldier who sacrifices his life for his motherland is the real champion of this nation.”

  Masolon wouldn't disagree with that, but he felt that old Bechov had chosen the wrong time to share his low opinion of the Contests. This man was supposed to honor him, right?

  “However,” Bechov added, “I saw today a true warrior. A man who had not only the strength and mettle of a Rusakian warrior, but also his nobility and honor. Although he doesn't belong to any of the noble houses I know of, he has earned his presence among us tonight. He may advance now to be recognized.”

  “Move on, Champion,” the bald man urged in a low voice. Recalling the bald man's instructions, Masolon stepped forward toward King Bechov and tried to give him a bow like the one he saw the others do.

  “Lord Marshal, please,” Bechov gestured to the lord standing beside him. The Lord Marshal handed Masolon a full clinking pouch. “From now on, you will be addressed as Masolon, the Champion of Durberg.” The guests clapped when Bechov hung a medallion over Masolon’s neck. Masolon gave the king another bow and stepped away without turning his back. Music was played again and the guests were back to their babble.

  Nothing changed after the King’s recognition. All these fine people, including Lady Halin, had forgotten about Masolon’s existence in this hall. Although he doesn't belong to any of the noble houses…The king had said it so bluntly. This was no place for a commoner.

  Masolon felt like leaving, but it was hard not to follow the gorgeous Halin with his eyes. She was his age or a bit younger, he presumed. Surely she belonged to some lucky lord who belonged to one of the noble houses. A lucky lord of blond hair and blue eyes like hers, like that young fellow standing at his right.

  “I see you’ve got a good taste, Champion,” the young lord said, the scorn obvious in his voice. He nodded toward Halin. “I wonder who might resist those pretty eyes, or that artfully sculptured body.” He turned to Masolon, a wry smile twisting his lips. “But there are a few things the likes of you must know before you step into such a place. Being here among the finest people in Rusakia doesn't necessarily mean you are one of them. Take a look. You see those pages, servants, and musicians? They are also here, like you, for a certain purpose, not because they belong here. If Lady Halin calls a serving boy to bring her a drink, it doesn't mean he may have a chance with her.”

  A mocking smile came over Masolon's face when he saw Halin giggling with another lord. “What about your chances among the likes of you?”

  The wry smile on the lordly scum faded. He grabbed Masolon by his coat. “How dare—”

  Masolon's hand was faster than his mind when it gripped the lord's wrist and pushed it away. The lord's grab had started a fire in Masolon's nerves, and for a moment, he wasn't aware where he was when he balled his hands into fists.

  No, Masolon. Not here. Not now. His mind stopped him before smashing the bastard’s pretty face.

  “You heap of filth!” cried Gerviny.

  People had stopped blabbering and players ceased their music. Bechov and everyone at the feast stared in astonishment and curiosity at where the cry came from. The silence made Masolon come to his senses. He was not in Ogono. The best thing he could do now was leave this feast at once.

  “Halt! Halt if you are man enough!” Gerviny yelled when Masolon left him behind. Ignoring the blustering lord, he continued his way to the hall door to leave. Before he reached the doorstep, Gerviny grabbed him by the shoulder and punched him in the face. The hit was more surprising than painful. After making sure his nose wasn’t bleeding, Masolon felt the heat back again in his nerves. Not here. Not now.

  “This is not the place for scum like you!” Gerviny spat.

  Masolon could have taught the spoiled lord a lesson if he had stood against him toe-to-toe in a different venue. “One day you will not be hiding behind your title.” Masolon smirked and left the hall, the heat inside him overcoming the cold air of the white gardens outside. Enraged for not answering Gerviny’s hit, he wanted to punch the nearest tree with his bare hands. When Halin’s charming smile crossed his mind, his tension faded. The feast wasn’t totally bad, was it?

  Someone was following him. Quick thudding footsteps. Without hesitation, Masolon drew his sword and swung it toward his follower, his blade clanking against another curved blade.

  “Hey! Hey! Stop! I’m no enemy!” the follower cried, his voice attracting the guards’ attention. “Nothing to worry about, brothers. It’s all right.” He waved to them to stand down.

  Masolon contemplated the stranger clad in a brown woolen coat, matching the color of his skin. He was a bit shorter than Masolon, yet his shoulders were well framed. Or did they look so because of the layers of wool he was wearing?

  “What is the matter with you?” said the stranger, his look and accent not Rusakian at all. “Is this your way of greeting someone?”

  “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “Slow down a bit, brother.” The stranger gestured with both hands. “No need for such hostility. I’m Ziyad. Don’t you remember me?”

  “I know no Ziyad.”

  “You don’t know my name, but you must have seen me inside.” Ziyad nodded toward the palace door. “I came here for the feast with the band.”

  “You are too agile for a musician.” Masolon recalled Ziyad’s quick sword block, and thought Gerviny might have sent him.

  “And you are too dignified for a Contest fighter.”

  “I will take that as a compliment.”

  “I saw all that happened inside the hall. I was playing with the band of course, but I saw what was going on. You must admit you’ve earned Lord Gerviny’s rage, especially after King Bechov scolded him in front of everyone. Shame you missed that part.”

  “Good for him,” Masolon gloated. “He was the one who started it.”

  Ziyad winked. “She was the one who started.”

  “She?”

  “His betrothed. Come on, brother, it was obvious. You grabbed too much attention at that feast. You should have seen how she followed you with her charming blue eyes. If I were Gerviny, I would kill you.”

  She did? “It is me who will kill you if you fool me,” Masolon warned.

  “Is it too hard to believe? Because she is a princess and you are…nobody?”

  “Enough.” Masolon held Ziyad’s arm, looking around to
make sure no one was listening to this. “This is not the right place for such a conversation.”

  “Exactly! This conversation needs ale!” Ziyad grabbed Masolon by the arm. “Come on. I know where you can drink the best ale in this city.”

  Masolon found himself walking with Ziyad to the horses. “Are you used to sitting with people you do not know?”

  “Now you sound like my late mother, may the Lord of Sky and Earth have mercy upon her soul.” Ziyad nodded to the stable boy when they found their horses. “You tell me about the Contests, and I tell you how you charm a girl.”

  “You?” Masolon couldn’t hide his mocking smile.

  “Don’t underestimate my skills, brother.” Ziyad held the reins of his horse. “You’re handsome and strong, and that might work. But if you want to occupy any girl’s mind and heart, you should have a sweet tongue. Do you know how to tell a story? Girls love stories. They love listening to them, and they love telling them too. You see? You should do both; telling and listening. Telling comes first. If they love what you tell, they will tell you their own stories, and you must listen.”

  “I am good at listening, I guess.” Masolon patted his horse.

  “There will be nothing for you to listen to if you don’t make her talk. And she won’t talk if she feels you’re boring and gloomy. Got the idea?”

  Wooing a girl was a way simpler task in his village. “What do you suggest I should start talking about?”

  Ziyad looked amused that Masolon was seeking his advice. “Most of them will ask you ‘where do you come from?’ You’re more likely than anybody else to hear that question because both your look and accent are so confusing. Girls love to hear about places they haven’t been to. You should see their faces when I start telling them about the majestic Murasen desert and its legendary immortal Ghosts, the bandits I faced in my journeys, the feasts I attended in the different corners of Gorania.”

  “You faced bandits, you say?”

  “From the nomads of Murase to the axemen of Skandivia.”