The Warrior's Path

by Karim Soliman

  “How can you be so ungrateful?” Ramel hit him once more in the torso. Masolon stepped back, still refusing to fall down. “I offered you a life that every Goranian dreams of. Wealth, fame, pleasure; what else do you want? Is death what you seek? You can die when your hair is grayed. But if you are so eager to die young, I can fulfill this wish for you!”

  With the most rage he had displayed thus far, Ramel struck Masolon with his pole in an unmatched speed. Masolon blocked a few hits before his own weapon flew away from his hands.

  “Isn't that painful?” Ramel smirked as Masolon shielded himself with his bare arms. “Maybe to a normal person, but not for the great Masolon!”

  Masolon crossed his arms to prevent Ramel's pole from reaching his body or head, and his trainer seemed to be enjoying that, torturing his reluctant apprentice.

  “Masolon the Brave!” a cry came out of the crowd. Cheers hailing his name grew louder.

  “You like it?” Ramel asked nervously. “The crowd is hailing for you. Is that what you want? I can bring you more if you wish.”

  Ramel wasn't enjoying the show anymore, Masolon could tell. The crowd's reaction had ruined his amusement. With the edge of his pole, Ramel struck Masolon in his left knee, but Masolon didn't fall. “Ah! I forgot! You are the man with iron flesh, aren't you?” Hitting Masolon in the other knee, Ramel's tone sounded more nervous than cynical. Masolon dropped to his knees, his hands on the ground.

  With the tip of his pole, Ramel removed Masolon's helm from his head, the wooden weapon scraping his forehead. “Do you still want to release yourself from your commitment? I shall grant you what you want.” Ramel looked exhausted when he took his breath. “You won't see any Contest again in your life. I will lock you in the Pit until the worms eat your bones.” He put the edge of his pole beneath Masolon's chin to raise his head. “Don't ever think it's easy for me to destroy something I crafted.”

  “I am not your craft,” Masolon said weakly.

  “You still can talk. That is really impressive.”

  “Eyes drive arms,” Masolon muttered. He threw himself on Ramel's legs and fell with him on the ground. Ramel, who lay on his back, kicked Masolon in the face and rolled his body fluidly away from him.

  “Nice try.” Ramel was again on his feet, Masolon lying on the ground. Masolon desperately dove again, but his trainer was out of his reach when he jumped.

  “Give up, you fool,” Ramel snarled. “I will hurt you more if you don't stop.”

  Ramel dragged Masolon by the neck of his tunic and kicked him at the back of his head. Masolon fell on his face, his senses in disarray. He could barely hear Ramel's faint voice saying, “You foolish bastard! Look at yourself! Are you happy now?”

  With his crumpled body, Masolon felt like sleeping when his eyes closed. Ramel's voice was gone, and the last thing he recalled was the faint voice of the Contest herald announcing, “We have a new champion for the Jewel.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FOUR

  VIOLA

  Viola had never been interested in those stupid fights like the crowd she was sitting among. But today's fight was an exception. For the first time she watched the whole encounter without missing a move. She had been sure Ramel would teach that arrogant scum a lesson. Masolon had thought he was invincible, but today he discovered the truth the hard way. Ramel wasn't going easy on him at all. Her favorite part was when Ramel dismounted to face Masolon on foot, an utter humiliation for the supposedly invincible fighter.

  While she wanted to keep watching Ramel laying waste to Masolon, she couldn't wait for the fight to end, for the moment she could look Masolon in the eye after his disgraceful defeat and let him know that she had been watching and enjoying every second of it. She would tell him so every day until he rotted in the Pit. Knowing Masolon, he would either try to kill himself or escape, and she wished he could escape. She would even help him do that just to be able to hunt him down with her daggers. He wouldn't be a harder target than Theronghar.

  “Artony!” She waved to Ramel's fighter who was looking for her among the throng.

  “Your big boy is not doing well,” said Artony as he found a spot for himself beside her.

  “My big boy?” Viola pursed her lips. “I don't think he deserves the honor.”

  “Look, Viola. I don't like that fellow, but I don't understand the reason behind your deep hatred toward him.”

  “He doesn't belong to us.”

  Artony snickered. “Did he turn you down?”

  “What are you talking about? Are you out of your mind?”

  “No, I am not. But I see you hate him without any obvious reason…to us.”

  “From the moment I saw him, I knew he didn't belong to us.” She turned her face away from Artony, watching the duel. “I warned Ramel more than once about Masolon. I was sure he would not succumb easily.”

  “Ramel doesn't listen to anybody. What made you think he would listen to you?” Artony chuckled scornfully.

  “What do you mean, Artony?”

  “What I mean is that you are thinking so much of yourself. You are deluded, Viola. Do you really believe you are anything special to Ramel? He has known as many as a hundred women.”

  She frowned. “This is not true.”

  “Wake up, Viola.” He snapped his fingers. “Everyone in the Pit has a role to play. I understand my role and I am satisfied with it. I guess you understand your role too.”

  “I take care of all of his arrangements. Without me, he wouldn't be able to collect his gold.”

  “Taking care of his gold is one of your roles.” Again, Artony smiled wickedly. The way he glanced at her reminded her of Masolon's disdainful looks. Actually, he looked like Masolon right now.

  “You want to know why I hate Masolon?” She glowered at him. “It is that look in his eyes,” Viola hissed, stabbing Artony in the abdomen, her free hand on his mouth to suppress his cry. The mocking smile disappeared from his face. Forever.

  Viola looked around, making sure nobody noticed what had happened thanks to the heat of the encounter between Masolon and Ramel. She rose up from her seat, leaving Artony dead in a pond of blood. The panic started when she heard the thud of his body falling to the ground, dead.

  “Murderer! Stop that wench!” cried one of the spectators, pointing at her.

  She had to move quickly. The way to the main door was too crowded to consider as an escape, so she dashed up the amphitheater to reach the fence at the top. When a chaser blocked her way, she bellowed, “Get out of my way!” Without hesitation, she threw a dagger at her chaser's throat. She climbed the fence and looked at the other side of it. The height was deadly, she realized.

  “What is she doing? She will fall to her death if she jumps!” one man from the crowd cried.

  Viola clutched at the fence, looking at both sides. Chasers were approaching her, and it was time to decide whether she would let herself caught, or try her luck from that height. She wished she had enough daggers to slay all her followers, and after that, she would go to Masolon and even Ramel and slaughter them both.

  Gazing again at the outer side, she let herself go.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FIVE

  MASOLON

  “Not yet.”

  Awakened by the herald's voice, Masolon propped himself up on his palms. His vision was not quite clear, yet he could see Ramel standing in front of him at some distance. Looking over his shoulder, Masolon spotted the weapon he had lost early in this damnable fight.

  His lance.

  “Now what, Masolon? What are you trying to do?” Ramel's tired voice came from behind as Masolon crawled toward the weapon, doing what his warrior's instinct told him.

  “Do you have any idea what you are doing now?” Ramel spat. “Even an amateur knows that you can't use that thing on foot, you fool!” His trainer was absolutely right. Any lance would be too long and too heavy to maneuver. “Put your hand on that lance and I'll smash it on your head!” Despite Ramel's menaci
ng tone, he sounded weary.

  Masolon reached the lance and grasped it with both hands. He started to get himself up on his feet again, looking at his exhausted opponent. A moment of eerie silence reigned over the arena. Everyone was stunned, including Ramel himself.

  “You really think you can hit me with that thing?” Ramel snorted. “Not even in your best form.”

  Masolon could barely hear Ramel's faint voice, his vision blurred thanks to the hits he had received on his head. Every inch of his body ached. His mind didn't recall anything he had learned at the Pit. Anything, except one word.

  “Again.”

  Masolon's eyes were only fixed on his opponent. His hammered arms could feel nothing but the weight of the lance. Stretching his heavily bruised knees, he uttered a roar. A last one perhaps.

  Masolon charged, driving his heavy Lignum Vitae lance into Ramel's stomach. The strike bent Ramel's back and almost knocked him over. Masolon threw the heavy weapon and punched Ramel with his right fist squarely in the nose. Revived by the sight of blood on Ramel's face, Masolon gave his stunned trainer another punch in the same spot on his nose. Ramel blocked Masolon's third punch, but he couldn't dodge Masolon's headbutt that smashed his nose for the third time. Without giving Ramel a chance to spit the blood out of his mouth, Masolon swung, breaking his foe's jaw. While Ramel swayed backward from Masolon's successive blows, Masolon threw himself on his opponent, falling with him to the ground. While sitting over Ramel's chest, Masolon hammered his trainer's face with both fists. He hammered and hammered nonstop, until he lost the count of his punches.

  Ramel wasn't responding anymore, yet Masolon didn't stop. Blood covered Ramel's face as well as Masolon's hands. If it were not for the arena boys who hurried to pull Masolon away, he would hammer Ramel's head until eternity.

  Masolon didn't resist the arena lads, letting them drag him away. He kept his eyes on Ramel, who didn't move a muscle. He watched the herald scurry to the fallen contender, calling for a healer.

  “There's no pulse!” cried the herald.

  Many people yelled, but Masolon couldn't decipher what they said. He didn't bother. What mattered now was that his nightmare was over. No more debts. No more Contests. It was time to bid farewell to every arena in Gorania.

  Six armored swordsmen stood in Masolon's way as he headed to the exit of the arena. One of them advanced. “Halt, Champion,” he commanded.

  “I waive my prize.” Masolon stopped. “Just let me through.”

  “One more step and you will be the first champion to die in the arena.”

  “Am I arrested?”

  “That is not my decision, Champion. We shall know soon.”

  “Whose decision is it?”

  “Mine.” A man clad in a blue embroidered doublet and sky-blue mantle came from behind the guards, the black mask he wore only showing his brown eyes. The swordsmen made way for him, slightly lowering their heads in respect.

  “Who on Earth are you?”

  “I wear this for a bloody reason, naïve one.” He pointed at his black mask. “It's me who demands answers here. Now tell me, who pays you?”

  Masolon could barely hold his head upright. “Pays me for what?”

  The masked man sighed, rubbing his hands together. “Let me tell you a few things about me. When someone lies to me, I know. When I know, I get angry. And when I get angry, believe me, you will regret the day you were born. Is there anything I said you didn't understand?”

  That man was one of the blue-blooded highborn, Masolon realized. He must have lost a fortune today.

  Masolon nodded. “Everything is clear.”

  “Good. I need a name, and I promise I will not hurt you.”

  “What name?”

  “The name of the mastermind behind today's mess. The man who destroyed Ramel's empire for good.”

  “Destroying Ramel's empire is none of my concern. Winning this Contest was all I was thinking of. Ramel's death wasn't anybody's plan.”

  “Ramel's death wasn't anybody's plan?” the masked man echoed. “What about the murder of his finest fighter? Or do you want me to believe that by some bloody coincidence his assistant decided to kill him at the same time?”

  The murder of his finest fighter? Did the masked man mean Artony? The good news kept coming. “I cannot talk about others' deeds and intentions,” Masolon replied.

  The masked man glared at Masolon, his eyes betraying his dissatisfaction.

  “Get out of my sight.” He motioned Masolon outside with a chin nod. Without delay, Masolon strode past the masked man and his six swordsmen before the masked man might change his mind.

  “I wouldn't participate in any more Contests if I were you,” the blue-blooded man's called from behind him.

  Masolon looked over his shoulder. “No one would.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-SIX

  SANIA

  Poison Wind was coming early this year in Murase; Sania had seen the harbingers already in her journey to Kahora. The dreadful dust storm usually blew in the first week of autumn. Two weeks still remained for summer so far.

  Although the windows were shut, the dust found a way to invade the air inside her mother's chamber.

  “You!” Sania cried at two maidservants. “Find me something to stick to the trims! I want to seal all gaps between them and the wall!” Her mother was coughing and sometimes gasping for every breath of air she took. “The door as well! Seal all those stupid gaps!”

  Sania hurried outside to make sure all the windows of the corridor were locked. “Where is this air coming from?” The air in the corridor was laden with dust, which was entering her mother's chamber from inside and outside the damned palace.

  “Where is everybody?”

  A few moments later the one who had introduced herself as the First Maid of the women's wing hurried to her. “What's the matter, milady?”

  “What was your name again?”

  “Fadwa, milady. I'm the—”

  “First Maid,” Sania cut in. “Yes, yes, I remember. It's just the name that I don't remember. The air is too dusty in this wing, and I want you to see to this issue urgently.”

  The First Maid managed a fake smile. “It's Poison Wind, milady. Even with all doors and windows shut, some dust will enter.”

  “Then take your girls and seal all the windows,” Sania demanded. “Use cloth, cut the curtains—I don't care. But you must do what I say. Now!”

  Fadwa pressed her lips together. “I'll see what I can do, milady.”

  Sania wagged a firm finger at the maid. “If you can't do it, I'll do it myself. This is my mother. Do you understand? I'll do whatever it takes to save her.”

  “I understand your worries, milady. Please, calm down. We'll do our best to help Lady Ramia.”

  Sania doubted she might see any good from the thick First Maid. She must talk to the king himself. Poison Wind generally blew for a whole week. Her mother wouldn't stand the storm until its end.

  Bumar, Sania thought when the First Maid was leaving her. “Wait, you…you told me your name already, I know. Yes, Fadwa. Fadwa, I need someone to find Bumar the healer. He's the only one who can take care of her.”

  “Where can we find him?” the thickheaded woman asked. “He's not a Murasen, is he?”

  “No, he's not.” Sania ground her teeth. “He lives here in Kahora. Ask any of the guards and they will know what to do.”

  “I'll see to that, milady. Rest assured.” She nodded with her fake smile and left.

  I shouldn't have listened to him. Obeying her brother's orders had put her in that delicate situation with those slow servants. She knew that journey wouldn't go well.

  Her mother's gasp reached Sania in the corridor.

  “Merciful Lord!” She scurried back to the chamber and rushed to her mother's bedside. “Mother, a healer is coming soon.” She held her mother's hand with both hands, her mother giving her the faintest smile she had ever seen. Her sick mother could hear her, but she must
fight to talk with her locked lungs.

  “Ahmet.” Her mother coughed a few times just to utter his name. “See him.”

  “You want to see Father?”

  “Am leaving.” Her mother coughed again and again. “See him.”

  “No, Mother. You're going to stay!” Sania couldn't hold her tears from falling. After all this time and her mother still thought of him.

  “See him. Leaving…”

  “You!” Sania shouted at one of the two maidservants she had ordered to seal the windows. “Find me Fadwa and tell her to come at once. No, wait. Keep working on those windows. I'll go find her myself.”

  Sania hurried back to the corridor. “FADWA!” she called out more than once. Everybody in the palace must have heard her yells. In a few minutes, Thickhead returned.

  “I'm really sorry, milady.” Fadwa looked down. “I told them Lady Ramia needed your healer's urgent help, but they said they had a healer in the palace already.”

  “What is this nonsense?” Sania blustered. “How dare they refuse my request?”

  The maidservant looked a bit hesitant then asked, “Shall I let that healer come?”

  “No.” Sania gave it another thought. “Yes, bring him. Until I talk to His Majesty.” She left Thickhead behind her and strode across the corridor until she reached the stairs. Downstairs she asked the guards to take her to King Rasheed. The guards looked nervous when they told her he was occupied at the moment.

  “What is it, Lady Sania?” asked Qasem, the captain of His Majesty's Royal Memluks.

  “I need to talk to His Majesty.” Sania stomped her foot, infuriated. “Now.”

  “I'm afraid that's not possible now, milady.” Qasem shrugged his wide shoulders. “As for the healer, we've sent one for Lady Ramia already.”

  “I must see him now!” Sania bellowed.

  “Please, milady,” Qasem pleaded. “I hope you understand the situation we are facing.”