TWENTY-FOUR
MASOLON
“The sun is blazing like hell,” Frankil complained as Masolon led his company to Bumar's house through the streets of Kahora.
“You have not seen hell yet.” Masolon chuckled. According to his experience with Murasen weather, it was just another normal day. Summer was yet to come.
Antram spurred his horse onward to be next to Masolon's. “We will be in big trouble if your Murasen friend doesn't find that cursed Guild Master.”
“You may have no reason to trust him, but you have no reason to doubt him either,” Masolon said.
“I just have a bad feeling about him.” Antram shrugged. “I hope I'm wrong though.”
“I hope you are wrong too.” Masolon dismounted when they reached the house that looked abandoned. He knocked on the door ten times, but not a sound came from inside.
Antram exhaled impatiently. “That's not promising.”
“We do not need Bumar to find Ziyad. I know where we can find him.” Masolon swung up into his saddle and kicked the flanks of his horse. “Follow me.”
Thanks to the blazing sun of Murase, the streets of Kahora were almost abandoned. Soon Masolon and his small army made it to the Fountain Plaza, where the sweaty tavern lay. Masolon hoped they were not serving mutton today.
His Murasen fellow was chattering with the stout tavern keeper when he arrived. “Masolon! You're back!” Ziyad received him with open arms.
“I did my part,” said Masolon as his company entered the tavern. “What about you?”
“Wow!” Ziyad exclaimed. “You've brought a whole army of brothers!”
“An army? Are you waging war here, darlin'?” the tavern keeper said.
Masolon nodded toward a vacant long table and the men headed for it.
“There's no war, so don't worry,” Ziyad said to the tavern keeper. “We'll resume our talk later, beautiful.”
Now twelve men were sitting at the long table, Masolon at its head, Antram at his right, Frankil at his left. Determined not to give Ziyad a chance to brag about his inglorious conquests in bedchambers, Masolon made sure his introduction to Captain Frankil and his knights was a brief one.
“Now tell us,” Masolon said, “how was your meeting with the Guild Master?”
“You mean Master Sayeb? It wasn't hard to find him. I told you, Kahora is my mother.” Ziyad winked.
“Be specific,” Antram said gruffly. “Did you persuade him to hire us to fight the Ghosts?”
“Hire us, yes,” replied Ziyad. “But not for the Ghosts.”
“Why not?” Masolon asked, frustration creeping into him.
“I told you I had a bad feeling about him.” Antram slammed his massive hand on the table.
“Brothers, brothers, listen.” Ziyad waved to them. “He likes our notion of attacking the brigands in their dens instead of waiting for them to defend the caravans. But he says he is not ready to send a bunch of brave men to their doom.”
“So?” Masolon prompted.
“Four of his caravans were raided at the Northern Road by a group of nomads in the previous two months. Nobody knows the exact location of their den or their exact number. According to a few survivors from those raids, they are between twenty and twenty-five.”
“All mounted, of course,” said Antram.
Ziyad nodded. “Exactly.”
“Blast!” Antram turned to Masolon. “We must find more men to join us.”
“If we're going to do that, we must do it soon,” Ziyad said. “Sayeb has been waiting for long already.”
“Captain,” Masolon said to Frankil, “do we need more men to face those nomads?”
“Assuming those nomads are lightly armored, then no, we don't.”
“Bermanians are the best horsemen in Gorania, my friend.” Bergum winked at Masolon.
Ziyad grinned. “We can never know until they face Murasen memluks.”
“And I hope we never know,” Masolon concluded. “Ziyad, go to that man called Sayeb and tell him we are ready for his mission. Make sure you come back here once you finish with him. We have some arrangements to make.”
“As you wish, Commander.” Ziyad saluted him and rose to his feet. “I will see you soon, brothers.” Only Danis greeted him back, Antram shaking his head.
“We will get some rest for today,” Frankil announced when Ziyad was gone. “At first light we scout the Northern Road to find those nomads.”
Masolon leaned back in his seat, his hands clasped behind his head. “What if we make them find us?”
***
The plan was simple. A caravan of four carts on the Northern Road loaded with empty boxes and barrels, each cart ridden by two men who appeared to be unarmed, thanks to the cloaks they wore over their heavy armors. Four of Frankil's knights surrounded the caravan, pretending to be its guards.
“What if they don't come today?” Frankil was next to Masolon on the first cart, sweat pouring down his face. He, as well as everyone else, must be melting under their cloaks. The sun this morning was even harsher than yesterday.
“They will, Captain,” Masolon replied.
Frankil gazed at the horizon for a while then asked, “Isn't it strange that I still don't know anything about you, Masolon?”
“What do you want to know?”
Frankil chuckled. “I'm not sure where to start. You defeated eight Skandivians on your own. Eight Skandivians. I wonder where you learned how to fight. I'd say Skandivia, but you were lost in the Northern Gulf when we first met. And of course, your accent is anything but Bermanian. Actually, your accent is nothing I've heard before.”
“Have I not told you yet? I am from what you call the Other Side.”
“The other what?”
“East! We are being followed!” Danis called out urgently.
The moment they had been waiting for had arrived. A cloud of dust approached, hoots and screams echoing in the endless desert.
“What are those fools doing?” Frankil curled his lip. “Warning us before they attack?”
The nomads evoked memories of Masolon's past. That was what his clansmen did in their raids. Fear was the weapon they drove into the hearts of their enemies before striking with steel.
“The horses! Now!” Both Masolon and Frankil threw their cloaks away and cut all straps tying their horses to the cart.
Ziyad ripped off his cloak and spurred his horse to a gallop. “Death to you, scum!”
“Ziyad, wait!” Frankil yelled. “We must attack in a formation!”
But it was unlikely that Ziyad would wait. The Murasen bard was already closer to the nomads than to Masolon's company. “The bastard is going to get himself killed.” Masolon kicked the flanks of his stallion and galloped, trying to catch up with his reckless fellow.
“No, Masolon!” Frankil's cry came from behind him. “Antram, wait! Blast! This is a mess! Danis! Bergum! Wedge!”
It was indeed a mess. It was a mess like it had been in the old days. Masolon and his clansmen had never attacked in a formation. They simply attacked, their swords swinging, reaping their enemies' souls.
Ziyad had already chopped a head off with his saber before Masolon slashed the chest of another nomad. At his right, Antram struck a third nomad dead. But that wasn't the end of it. The bloody event was just starting.
“Ziyad! Antram! Together this time!” Masolon wheeled his horse, and so did his fellows, facing the nomads' rearguard. The Bermanian knights charged from the other side, Frankil at the head of the wedge, roaring. Steel clashed with steel, thrust through flesh, smashing the bone beneath. The Bermanian wedge shattered the nomads' band.
“Chaaaarge!” Masolon ordered, Ziyad and Antram galloping with him. Half of the remaining nomads engaged Frankil's knights, the other half starting to flee. Today wasn't another plundering day. Today the predator was the prey.
“Regroup! Regroup!” Masolon commanded. He didn't want his band to be scattered in this vast desert without knowing what might be waiting
for them. He had the victory he had wanted, and that was what mattered.
“Those bastards don't deserve to live, Masolon!” Ziyad protested.
“Let them spread fear among the rest,” said Masolon. “Let them know that the Northern Road is not theirs anymore.”
“We should talk before we make another raid together, fellows.” Frankil didn't seem glad despite the victory. “That chaos mustn't happen again.”
Masolon nodded, not wishing to argue with the Bermanian captain. That chaos had brought them a crushing victory.
“What are we going to do with those two?” Antram nodded toward Frankil's knights. At the hooves of their horses, two nomads were down on their knees.
“Tie them to your horses,” said Masolon. “We need something to sweep the Northern Road with.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
MASOLON
Their entrance to the Fountain Plaza had brought an audience this time. People dared to abandon the shade inside their houses and gather around Masolon and his fellows as they tied the two nomads to two erected poles. Even the attendants of the smelly tavern abandoned their mutton and ale to watch. None interfered, only watched, murmuring among themselves.
“This is an unnecessary fuss, Masolon,” Antram muttered, looking around. “We could just take our gold and leave.”
For Masolon, it wasn't all about gold. Every nomad reminded him of those savages who had set every house in his village on fire, with his mother and sisters inside one of them. Every nomad reminded him of what his father had wanted him to be, of why he had driven a blade into his father's abdomen.
Pretending he was tightening a knot around the nomad's foot, Antram said, “At your left, four footmen wearing the leopard, the sigil of the Murasen Kingdom. Those are memluks, Masolon. We are in trouble.”
“Everything is going to be alright, brother.” Masolon patted his friend on the shoulder, not even looking at the soldiers. He and his fellows were heroes today. Why should they be worried?
The sight of Bermanian knights piqued some curiosity, teasing the imagination of the throng. Masolon heard them talking about an alliance between the two great kingdoms of Murase and Bermania. Others mumbled about the incapability of their King's memluks, who were supposed to protect them instead of waiting for the help of a bunch of foreigners. Fury crept into the crowd's murmuring, and an angry mob wasn't something Masolon desired.
“Good people of Kahora!” Masolon waved to them, glancing at the four footmen standing silently among the throng. “Behold your vengeance!”
Not many reacted to his display.
“What is the matter with all of you? Can you not recognize the filthy faces of those who have given themselves the right to steal your coin?”
Nods, voices of approval, and curses.
“Can you not recognize the filthy faces of those who have given themselves the right to kill your loved ones?” With every word, the clamor grew louder.
“Here they stand before you! What would you like to tell them?” Masolon extended his arm toward the two nomads. The Fountain Plaza rang with curses, the sound of it lovelier than the Contest chants to Masolon's ears.
“Today every bandit has learned a lesson!” Masolon said. “There will be a price for their crimes. And that price will be their heads! Today we wage war on these scum!”
“War! War! War!” the crowd roared with him. Masolon opened his arms, a shiver running down his spine.
“You! Stop this farce!” the memluks cried as they approached Masolon, a moment he had been anticipating.
“The King's memluks have arrived!” Masolon addressed his crowd. To the footmen he said, “Those bastards are ready to be served the King's justice!”
The crowd cheered for the memluks as Masolon had wanted, knowing it would be hard for the footmen to ignore that.
“The King's justice doesn't include dragging men on the ground for a hundred miles and humiliating them in the plaza of the King's city without even the King's permission,” one of the footmen spoke gruffly.
“It was only thirty miles, soldier.” Masolon gave him a sided smile, the plaza ringing with laughter.
“You and your gang are not entitled to implement the King's law.” Surrounded, the memluk did his best to keep his composure.
“Gang?” Frankil frowned.
“Yes, my friend,” Masolon said, “we are a gang.” He turned to the memluks. “An honorable gang of warriors.”
“Leave the brave men alone!” someone in the crowd demanded. “You'd better help them, you worthless memluks!”
The memluk pressed his lips together. He must have realized who was in charge here.
“I told you, they are yours. Do whatever the King's justice dictates.” Masolon nodded toward the nomads and turned to his fellows. “Let us go, brothers.” Leaving the Fountain Plaza as hailed champions was much better than being dragged from it as prisoners.
“I told you it was unnecessary,” Antram rebuked Masolon after they got away from the plaza. “What were you thinking?”
“It went well, brother,” Ziyad said. “Calm down.”
“It went well thanks to the crowd,” Antram corrected. “Next time we will be arrested.”
“There will be no next time,” Masolon announced. “What do you think, Captain?” he asked Frankil, whose face had been stern since their return from the Northern Road.
Frankil shook his head, a smile creeping over his face. “You are reckless.”
“You should have known better,” Masolon teased him. “What did you expect from someone who passed through the Northern Gulf on his own?”
Frankil chuckled and Masolon couldn't ask for more. A laugh wouldn't suit the Bermanian captain.
“We should find a meeting place other than the tavern,” Antram suggested. “We don't want to attract any attention for a couple of weeks at least.”
Masolon couldn't disagree. The smell of the tavern wasn't something he would miss. The rest voiced their approval, and Ziyad mentioned an abandoned hill only one mile away from the western walls of Kahora. While the Murasen fellow was suggesting going now to the hill to have a look at it, Masolon was busy with the slim frame of a woman standing in his way.
“Missing me, big boy?” She tilted her head, a crooked smile on her face. He knew she would be looking for him, and he would be seeing her. Still, he hated it. The anticipation didn't make it any better.
“Oh, big boy!” Ziyad hooted. “We should leave you now!”
“You should indeed.” Masolon sighed. “I will catch up with you soon.”
Viola waited until his fellows went past her, a slight smile on her face. A smile of a viper who had found her prey. “You have new friends now,” she stated, her eyes fixed on him.
“What do you want?”
“That's a good question. What do I want? What do I want?” She tapped her chin as if she was thinking of an answer. “What about slitting your throat?”
He smirked. “You can try.”
“You were wondering what I was doing in the Pit. Well, arranging bets and enlisting the contenders are part of my duties, but that wasn't what Ramel hired me for in the first place. Did anybody tell what it was?”
“Was it anything other than warming his bed?”
Surprisingly, she kept her composure. Her chest rose and fell as she took in a deep breath of air, her cheeks a bit red. “My first task was to kill one of his fighters,” she said. “One who decided on his own to break his agreement with Ramel. The fool thought he could simply flee, and he did…for three days.”
“Are you threatening me?” Masolon leaned forward. “I can crush your neck with my bare hands.”
“You would be dead already if it were not for Ramel,” she hissed. “The only reason you are still breathing is that he believes he still can earn gold from you. I can't wait to see his face when he knows about the Contest you missed.”
Those cursed Contests!
Masolon had been busy training
peasants in Horstad, recruiting warriors for his gang, and slaying nomads in the desert. “What Contest?”
“The Contest of this very city.” Her smile returned. “Unfortunately you arrived one day late. I'm sure he will understand you were too occupied to remember.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
FERAS
The king’s portman ushered Feras to the small hall of the royal palace. The letter he had received in Arkan didn’t say who was going to attend this meeting with King Rasheed, but from the chosen venue, he could tell there wouldn’t be much of an audience today.
Only his lord uncle was waiting in the hall when he entered. They hadn’t seen each other since their victory at the mountains of Sergrad.
“Lord Munzir,” Feras curtly greeted his lord uncle who silently nodded.
The king’s portman closed the door of the small hall, leaving the two relatives alone. Feras picked his seat on the same side of the table to find something else to look at other than his uncle’s face. The place was so quiet their heavy breaths sounded too loud. As time passed, Feras found himself growing uneasy, his eyes on the closed door, impatiently waiting for anyone else to join this gathering. Lord Munzir was nervous too. Feras could tell from the way he rocked his legs.
“His Majesty, King Rasheed,” announced the king’s portman from the door. Munzir and Feras rose to their feet when the king stepped inside. About five or six years younger than Feras's father, the king looked as young as Feras with his thick black hair and flat belly.
The door of the hall was shut, and that meant no one else would attend this meeting. Now Feras had a clue what this meeting was all about. He couldn't wait for his uncle to start talking about the glorious battle of Sergrad.
King Rasheed gestured to them to be seated. “Honorable lords.” His Majesty’s voice was cold and firm. “We have a traitor among us.”
Even Lord Munzir looked surprised at how the king started the meeting.
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