The Warrior's Path

by Karim Soliman

  “I need a howdah,” she told her brother.

  “Of course,” Feras agreed. “Now pack as fast as possible. I want you to leave before dusk.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-TWO

  MASOLON

  There were two big differences between Ramos and Kahora; the looks of their people and their weather. To someone who had spent a few months in Murase, summer in Ramos was like a paradise.

  The sight of ripe red apples in the marketplace piqued his attention. “I hope you can pay for this,” said the merchant dryly when Masolon picked one apple from the box. With the other hand, Masolon took a silver coin out of his pocket and made it visible to the merchant's eyes, still not looking at him. He didn't want anything to distract him from enjoying the sweet juicy fruit.

  “Murasen silver!” exclaimed the merchant. “You don't look like a Murasen, stranger.”

  “I am not from Gorania. Are you feeling better now?” Masolon picked another apple.

  “That's another silver coin,” said the merchant.

  Masolon glared at the merchant. “Hey, I said I am a stranger, not a fool.”

  “I'm sure of that. Is it your first Contest?”

  “No.”

  “I mean in Paril.”

  “Yes.” Masolon was bored of the curious merchant. If it weren't for his irresistible apples…

  “Then I wish you a good fight.” The merchant paused for a moment then said, “Nobody told you what really goes on there, huh?”

  “Is there something I should know beside knocking my opponents out?” Masolon bit into the third apple.

  “The bets.”

  “There are bets in every Contest.”

  “The bets in Paril are something else,” the merchant said in a low voice, “Lords and elites are involved in this Contest, which means an unbelievable amount of gold is at stake. Those men don't let anything happen by chance. Do you understand what I mean? Someone may simply ask you to let your opponent win. Trust me, son, you'd better do what he says. If you want to return to your family, you must not earn the enmity of those people.”

  “Excellent.” Masolon tossed the apple core onto the street. “Because I do not have a family to return to.”

  “Then make one. Buy a house, meet a girl and get married, have children. Even soldiers do that.”

  Masolon laughed. That merchant must be feeling so lonely that he wanted to talk to anybody about anything.

  “What makes you laugh?” the merchant asked, confused.

  “Nothing. I think it is the apples. Those were the best apples I have ever tasted.”

  Masolon left the marketplace. Before nightfall, he found a vacant chamber in a tavern to spend the night in. This time he wasn't in a hurry. He still had one day before the beginning of the next and last Contest. The only window in his room was so small he could hardly get his head out to breathe some cool fresh air from outside. In Murase, the windows were huge, yet there was no breeze to let it in.

  Just before dawn, Masolon woke. He left the sleeping city on his horse, trotting in the green fields outside its walls. Since he set foot on the Bermanian soil, he didn't remember he had seen that yellow color except in the lemon farms. Even the hills were curtained in green. According to the map Ramel had given him, Masolon was now passing by the Green Hills. He wondered if there were other hills with different colors in the Bermanian realm.

  The Green Hills were ten miles out from Paril. The notion of spending the night at the hilltop was tempting, but he was afraid his horse might get injured while ascending that steep hill. The wind at the hill foot was just right. Cooler than in Murase, yet warmer than in Rusakia. Murase and Rusakia. Halin and Sania, two highborn ladies from two different kingdoms. He remembered how hard his heart beat when he saw Halin, but his heart pounded harder when he met Sania. There was something he liked about her company. The way she teased him without much reservation, the way she was being herself, not acting according to what her title dictated. What might be his chances with…? No! He wouldn't allow his mind to even ponder the possibility.

  In less than a couple of hours, he reached Paril, the Jewel of Gorania. What caught his attention were the building colors that seemed to be following a certain order. The first quarter he passed by was all blue, the next green, the third red. The streets were wider than those of any city he had ever visited. The towers of the royal palace of King Wilander touched the sky of Paril so high that they could be seen from anywhere in the city.

  Follow the noise. That piece of advice worked here too. Finding the majestic amphitheater wasn't hard at all. And what an amphitheater it was. Quite fitting for the biggest Contest in all Gorania.

  Masolon wasn't a bit surprised to find his name listed in the contenders' roster. Viola was here no doubt, yet he couldn't spot her in that crammed venue. Having no time to check his fellow fighters' names, he hurried to the fighters' chambers to gear himself up. One of the arena boys was still there.

  “You are too late, sir,” said the boy. “All contenders of the first round are out to the stage and they will be starting at any moment.”

  “Forgive me.” Masolon grabbed a wooden pole and shield. “I am not so clever when it comes to roads.” Noticing that his wooden gear was heavier than any of those of the previous Contests, Masolon swung his pole to feel its weight with both arms.

  “It's a Lignum Vitae,” the boy explained. “It's the heaviest wood in Gorania.”

  Masolon contemplated his wooden weapon. With a well-driven blow, that pole could do some damage.

  “Wait,” said the boy, leaving the chambers. “You will need this.” He threw a wooden helm to Masolon.

  Masolon wasn't used to wearing anything on his face, especially when he fought. While putting it on, he could feel his breath blowing in his face. He wondered how Frankil's Bermanian knights fought with their iron helms.

  “Hurry up, sir,” the boy urged.

  Masolon dashed through the corridor which led at its end to the field. Once he stepped into the arena, his ribs were shaken by the crowd's roar. Why was he nervous this time? Was it because of the packed stage with excited spectators? He was the Champion of Durberg. The Contest of Paril would be his second and last accomplishment to release himself from Ramel's pledge. The Contest of Paril would cover the “fair price” of his training.

  “You! Hurry up! You are about to be eliminated!” a fighter with a familiar voice cried.

  Masolon strode toward his fellow fighter to confirm his suspicions about the face hiding behind the helm.

  “You still don't recognize me, do you?” the fighter asked mockingly.

  “What are you doing here, Artony?” Masolon asked dryly.

  “Doing what you are supposed to do. Now get your arse here on my right.”

  The notion of fighting alongside Artony was hard to digest. What was harder was Artony's presence in this Contest in the first place. Would he let Masolon beat him when they met in the final round? That made sense as an explanation. As usual, Ramel didn't leave anything to chance.

  The horns were blown, announcing the start of the first fight in the Contest of Paril. Masolon wasn't sure if he was allowed to hit his own fellow fighters. The temptation of smashing Artony's face was hard to resist.

  “Even if Ramel wants you to win, I won't make it easy,” Artony said, determined to provoke him. “It will be the most painful victory you will ever earn.”

  “Curse you both,” Masolon muttered, looking at their two opponents who charged at them. He gripped his heavy pole from the middle with both hands and rushed toward the attackers, roaring in fury. Before their swung poles reached him, he struck the two opponents in their bellies with two consecutive hits from both edges of his pole. Without delaying his finishing blow, he raised his pole from its end and hit his opponents with the full length of his wooden weapon, knocking them out. The battle ended as soon as it started, the crowd roaring in utter excitement.

  “A good start, Champion,” Artony said sa
rcastically, clapping. “I thought you might need to warm up.”

  “I cannot wait for the final round to crush you.” Masolon smirked. “May the Contest draw bring you to me in the next round.”

  “Hey, you! Move over! We have a fight to start!” a fighter from the next contending team cried.

  Vaknus. Masolon recognized his voice. Ramel had taken every measure to ensure he would come back to him with his gold. The two fighters Masolon had just beaten could be Ramel's men as well. Probably, all fighters of this Contest had come from, or even passed by the Pit.

  Unlike what Masolon had expected, the draw of the following round resulted in an encounter between Vaknus and Artony. It would make sense if they met in the last round before the final. Maybe Ramel was not in control of everything as Masolon had suspected.

  The two veteran fighters showed much rivalry in their duel, making it hard to predict who was going to win. As Masolon had no real harsh feelings toward Vaknus, he wished good luck for Artony. This Contest will be your last as well, you bastard. The two former champions parried each other with their poles crossed. When Vaknus's weapon flew away, Artony flipped his pole, sweeping his opponent's leg, and then he raised his weapon with both hands to give Vaknus, who was on his back, a high blow. That is right, bastard. Win this to face me.

  But the finishing blow never came. Artony lowered his weapon and Vaknus raised his hand declaring his surrender. The bastard was copying what Masolon had done in the Contest of Durberg, and it worked. The throng burst in cheering and clapping to the “chivalrous” winner, who stood, raising both arms toward his crowd greeting them back. Nothing but a stupid show, yet the bastard was enjoying it.

  The next rounds barely brought any challenge for Masolon. In every fight Masolon finished his opponents with a few strikes, and every time he left the field he met Artony entering his next fight. The bastard was still winning. Masolon couldn't wait for the final fight to come.

  After beating his opponent in the semi-final round, Masolon lay on a wooden seat at the corner of the arena waiting for Artony to win his fight to face him in the final.

  “You're fighting well today.” Looking over his shoulder, he saw Viola holding the bars which separated the crowd from the fighting arena.

  “I have not started yet.”

  “That's what I thought.” Viola nodded. “You know pretty well how bad I want you to win.” She was threatening him, Masolon knew.

  “You know, I never hit a woman in my life, but there are always exceptions.”

  The crowd behind her roared. It must be Artony beating his opponent.

  “His name was Theronghar,” said Viola. “A huge Skandivian, taller and bigger than you. Ramel's plans for him were even bigger. After winning five Contests, the Skandivian decided to settle in his homeland as a fisherman.” She chuckled mockingly. “Skandivians love the sea, you know, and Theronghar was no exception. He wished he could spend the rest of his life beside his love, and I made sure his wish was fulfilled.”

  The throng shook the amphitheater with their roar. They cheered for the winner, who was…not Artony. What had happened while Masolon wasn't watching?

  “Best of luck, big boy,” said Viola. “I will be waiting for you.”

  Masolon ignored her, trying to understand what was going on. The point of Artony's participation was to make sure that Masolon fought one of Ramel's men in the final. Obviously the plan didn't work after Artony's loss to some unknown contender. Still, Masolon would vanquish his opponent and pay his debt to Ramel. The sad part was that he wouldn't be able to break Artony's bones in the arena as he wanted.

  Putting on his helm, Masolon's foe waved to the herald that he was ready for the fight. Masolon himself was impatient to start. Gripping his pole from the middle with one hand, his helm in the other, Masolon pushed to his feet and stepped into the arena.

  “You fought well with the helms,” said the opponent. “Although you haven't tried them before in the Pit.”

  Masolon's jaw dropped. That voice sounded like…no, it didn't sound like him. It was him. His mentor wasn't among the crowd today.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-THREE

  MASOLON

  “This is not possible!” Masolon exclaimed. What on earth was Ramel doing here?

  Ramel took off his helm, revealing his well-shaved face. His presence here in this ring didn't make any sense.

  “Why?” Masolon wondered.

  “This is the duel you were looking for, isn't it?”

  “What brought you here, Ramel?”

  “You, Masolon. You brought us all here.”

  Masolon's mind was in a twirl. “What happened to your fair price? Did you decide to give up your gold?”

  Ramel kept his crooked smile.

  “There was no bet in the first place, was there?”

  “That's not true,” said Ramel. “The big bet is there, and I will get my gold. But no one said that the bet would be on you.”

  The heat burnt Masolon's head. The bet was on Ramel?

  “The idea of bringing you to this Contest was based on your low odds,” said Ramel. “You are still less renowned than Artony and Vaknus, and this makes betting on you more risky, hence more profitable. After second thoughts, I asked myself the same question you asked me before: why don't I participate in the Contest? What if I make one huge bet on the most unlikely winner of two unlikely finalists? You have no idea how much I'm going to earn today.”

  “What about Artony and Vaknus? Why did they join this Contest?”

  “Some distraction won't harm. As usual, you made it late to Paril. I knew that your busy mind wouldn't notice my name in the contenders' list. I was pretty sure that I would be invisible as long as Artony and Vaknus were here.” Ramel waved with his helm to Masolon. “That piece of wood helped a lot not to ruin the surprise I was preparing for you. You don't know how I am going to enjoy this fight!”

  Four lads from the arena entered the field, two of them pulling a horse, the other two carrying a lance for each contender.

  “Put on your helm, Masolon. You will need it.” Ramel put on his own helm and mounted his horse.

  Masolon stood frozen as a statue, gazing at the helm in his hands.

  “Come on!” Ramel cried. “Or I shall pierce your head with my lance!”

  Pulling himself together, Masolon covered his head with the helm and mounted his horse. Ramel waited at the other end of the arena for the horns to be blown.

  The final round of the Contest started. Ramel was the first to spur his horse onward, while Masolon, still muddled by Ramel’s appearance, needed two more seconds to get himself into the fight.

  Both riders held their lances as the two horses galloped toward each other. Masolon's eyes were fixed on Ramel's trunk. He waited for the right moment to drive his lance into Ramel's torso to finish that matter once and for all. But just before that right moment, his horse whinnied out of pain when Ramel's lance hit it. The stallion swayed and was about to lose balance and fall, but managed to keep its four hooves on the ground, making its way to the end of the arena field.

  Masolon wheeled his horse to face Ramel, who reached the other side of the field. His trainer knew exactly what he was doing. First, it was Masolon's horse; next time it would be Masolon himself.

  From the way Masolon's horse galloped, it was obvious it was seriously hurt by Ramel's hit. “Come on,” Masolon patted his horse's neck as if he was encouraging it to summon all the power he could. Most probably this would be the last charge of the brave horse. Masolon had to finish the duel in this very charge. In a few seconds, a clash of wooden lances was going to happen.

  And indeed it happened; a painful one. Hit in his left shoulder, Masolon fell off his horse, the earth and the sky twirling as he rolled several times on the dusty arena. Frustration hurt him more than his shoulder pain. Covered by dust, he rose to his feet, watching Ramel parading with his horse in front of the crowd. Was that the dance of victory?

  “What is t
his, Masolon?” Ramel trotted toward him. “This crowd deserves a better show than this pathetic display. After all, I wasn't that bad as a trainer. I am sure I have taught you something that makes you fight better than an old lady.” To Masolon's amazement, Ramel dismounted, threw his lance, and grabbed the wooden pole strapped to his back.

  “Come on!” Ramel shouted. “Show me your best moves!”

  Masolon grabbed his pole as well and made a combination of a few swings, an attack he had learned from Ramel.

  “So predictable,” said Ramel while the two poles were crossing. He roared when he charged, his swings fast and relentless. Masolon blocked them all, gasping as if he was climbing a mountain. On the other hand, Ramel, who could be the fastest foe he had ever encountered, looked tireless. “That's what I call a fight!”

  “Eyes drive arms,” Masolon muttered, catching his breath.

  Ramel charged again, his pole tearing the air in different directions. Masolon felt as if he was facing five opponents at the same time. So far his pole was always in the right place at the right moment.

  Until Ramel's pole struck his stomach.

  Masolon grunted, bending his back. Ramel followed the first hit with another massive strike on his already hurt shoulder. Masolon growled, yet still standing his ground.

  “Why have you done this to yourself, Masolon?” Ramel groused. He swung his weapon thrice at him. Masolon blocked only one blow, but he failed to do the same with the other two. Again he growled.

  “You could have become the greatest Contest fighter of all times of Gorania,” Ramel snarled. “But you always insisted on following your sick mind!”

  Masolon found it hard to cope with Ramel's unbelievably fast pace. He received three more strikes, followed by a fourth one on his head. The helm saved him from losing his consciousness, but the shock of the heavy blow worsened his confusion. He felt as if a whirlpool had swallowed him.