The Warrior's Path

by Karim Soliman

  “Your situation?” She glared at him. “What about mine?”

  “You didn't hear the bells, milady?”

  “What bells?”

  “The alarm bells.” Qasem leaned forward. “The walls of Kahora are under attack.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  ZIYAD

  Ziyad had never heard the bells in Kahora before, but he knew what they meant. From the alarmed faces of his Murasen brothers of the gang, he could tell they knew too.

  Half of the gang had gone to sleep early this night. Since their battle with the Ghosts, everything had been quiet. No bandits, no raided caravans. But Ziyad didn't forget the dying Ghost's promise. They're all coming. They must have come already.

  “Wake up, brothers!” Ziyad cried. “Kahora is under attack!”

  Frankil was the first one to rise. “What is happening?”

  “The bells, Captain!” Ziyad pointed at the dark horizon, where the city of Kahora lay. “The Ghosts must have come!”

  Antram rubbed his face, his voice even harsher than it really was when he said, “We can't be sure of that.”

  “We can only be sure if we go there! Come on! Hurry up!” Ziyad urged.

  “Slow down, brother. That is the memluks' job. No one hired us to guard the city walls. We haven't even received our gold from the last fight yet.”

  “Have we turned into mercenaries now?” Frankil's asked.

  “Since we came here? Yes.” Antram shrugged. “Aren't you paid for what you do?”

  “I'm paid for doing the right thing,” Frankil said. “And I'll always do it whether I'm paid or not.”

  “Come on, brothers.” Antram looked between Ziyad and Frankil. “This is not our fight. We don't even know if there's a fight in the first place.”

  “So be it,” Ziyad decided, knowing that arguing was a waste of time. “I'm going. Anyone else coming with me?”

  “We're all coming,” Frankil announced, glancing at Antram.

  “You're supposed to lead us only in paid missions.” Antram shook his head in disapproval. “You're not going to lead me on this ride.”

  “Your choice. I haven't forced anyone to do what I do, and I never will,” said Frankil, rushing off with Ziyad to their horses.

  “This is nonsense,” Antram mumbled. Despite his protests, he would follow them at the end, Ziyad knew.

  “Torches,” Frankil demanded to his knights. “Put on your helms. This is going to be a dusty ride.”

  The Bermanians had fared well with the Murasen summer. Now they had another test with the Poison Wind. Even sons of Murase couldn't stand the evilest sandstorm of autumn. Summer was leaving a bit early this year.

  “Blast!” Bergum, riding behind Ziyad, grumbled. “How do your people live with this?”

  “Stay inside their houses if they want to hide,” replied Ziyad, recalling those days of childhood when his mother wouldn’t allow him to go outside the house in such weather. “Or they put this on if they want to ride.” He held the edge of the turban covering his mouth.

  “That should be part of a song.” Danis sneered.

  Antram caught up with them. “A death song.”

  “You have no idea. The storm hasn't even started.” Ziyad wasn't exaggerating. “Three more days and you will see no more than two feet ahead.”

  The smell of smoke was unmistakable as they approached the eastern gate of the city, the clang of bells getting louder. Ziyad nudged his horse into a gallop.

  “Ziyad! I won't say this every time!” Frankil yelled.

  Ziyad knew what the captain was going to tell him; they had to stay together and attack in the formation. Curse the formation, Frankil, Ziyad wanted to tell him. This was not a battalion in the disciplined Bermanian army, this was the Warriors' Gang.

  Now Ziyad could see the smoke. At first glance, he had thought it could be a building set on fire inside, but it was the gate itself. “Those dogs!” He kicked the flanks of his horse, which was galloping already. Corpses of Murasen soldiers and nomads sprawled on the ground. Ziyad's horse had to step on the corpses to reach the charcoaled gate, the dusty air around him laden with the coppery scent of blood.

  The warriors slowed down as they entered the city. “Looks like this was quite an unfair battle.” Antram let out a deep breath of air. The endless footprints didn't require a tracker to tell the huge difference in numbers between the attackers and the defenders.

  “What we encountered in the desert was just a small part of the horde,” Frankil said impassively, obviously shocked by the sight as his horse stumbled over a few corpses. “Find survivors.”

  “You won't find any.”

  Atop the archers' bridge stood a good-looking Rusakian fellow. He had been a pile of broken bones the last time Ziyad saw him.

  “Blanich?” exclaimed Antram. “Why are you still here? You should be home now.”

  Blanich fluidly descended the bridge. It was hard to believe he was the same badly injured Rusakian Contest fighter. Seriously, Bumar was a sorcerer.

  “Whatever you've come for, you should abandon it now,” said Blanich. “I hope one of you is willing to share a horse with me.”

  Ignoring his request, Ziyad said, “What is happening here?”

  “As you see,” Blanich swept a long arm at the burned gate, “blood and fire.”

  “What did you see?” Frankil asked.

  Blanich sighed. “I was sleeping in that Mercy Temple when I heard the bells. I thought it was prayer time, then when I realized it was still dark outside, I hurried to see where the clamor was coming from. Hundreds of nomads were raiding the city, butchering everyone they saw, women and children no exception. They were burning everything. Even the temple I hid atop was struck with a catapult. A catapult, fellows! Those bastards almost killed me!”

  “Since when have the nomads been using siege weapons?” Ziyad asked in astonishment.

  “I think they have some help,” Blanich said. “I'm not a Murasen, but I can tell that among the horde escorting the catapult, there are a dozen men whose embroidered outfits don't belong to those people who live in the heart of the desert.”

  “Where are they now?” Frankil asked.

  “Everywhere. They're not disciplined troops. They attack and destroy whenever and wherever they like.” Blanich looked over his shoulder. “They can be returning now.”

  Ziyad didn’t believe that was entirely true. Those nomads who had brought a catapult to storm the city hadn't come without a plan. Whether that plan was theirs or belonged to someone else, they were here for something.

  “The royal palace,” Ziyad deduced. “They will attack the royal palace with their catapult. We must stop them.”

  “Were you even listening?” Blanich asked. “I said hundreds of nomads, and you're not even forty. How many nomads are you going to kill? A hundred? Still, they win, and all you will do is add more corpses to the pile behind you.”

  Frankil and Antram were both silent, weighing their decision. Ziyad had to admit that the Rusakian had a point.

  “We don't have to kill all the nomads,” Ziyad suggested. “It's their catapult we want. Without it, the royal guards might have a chance to hold the palace until reinforcements arrive.” He exchanged a look with Frankil and Antram. “What do you think?”

  “We will die before we touch that catapult. It must be heavily guarded,” Antram suggested.

  “Siege weapons usually fall behind at the rearguard.” Frankil was clearly considering the idea. “We may hit and run.” He gazed at the street ahead. “Even if they engage us, their numbers will mean nothing on this narrow street as long as we stand as a steel wall.”

  “You heard him, brothers.” Ziyad didn't want to give them a chance for hesitation. “Let's do what the captain says.”

  “We must stay in the formation this time,” Frankil insisted, looking directly at Ziyad. “Otherwise, you may get us all killed.”

  Ziyad nudged his horse. “You stay here if you want.
I see you don't have a horse,” he said to Blanich as he went past him.

  Reluctantly, the Rusakian rode with one of the Murasen brothers at the end of the line.

  Frankil led the gang through the street, five horses in each row. The closer they came to the Fountain Plaza at the heart of the city, the more dead bodies they found. Houses and shops were still on fire. Even the fountain of the Plaza was broken, water flooding the ground. So much devastation. Ziyad might understand the robbers' motives, but he never got the reason for killing somebody. Except for his own reasons.

  Frankil raised his hand when he spotted a band of nomads ahead. Not more than fifty, Ziyad estimated. A dozen pushed the catapult, seven on horseback, the rest holding javelins and swords. Not the hardest battle for the gang.

  “Charge!” Frankil spurred his horse into a gallop.

  Ziyad roared, digging his heels into the flanks of his horse. Obviously, the stunned nomads were not expecting any resistance after defeating the city guards. While the nomads were still turning to face them, Ziyad and the brothers shocked them with their charge. The seven horsemen fell in less than a minute. The rest of the nomads on foot were easy to reap.

  “The strangers!” Ziyad cried upon spotting those men Blanich had mentioned. “We need one alive!”

  The remaining strangers raised their hands, surrendering. “Please! We're not with them! Don't kill us!”

  “Is that so?” Ziyad snarled as he, Bergum, and Danis backed two strangers into a corner.

  “Do you want to interrogate them this time?” Bergum gave Ziyad a sly smile.

  “Please don't kill me!” cried one prisoner.

  “It's not hard to recognize the eastern accent in your tongue.” Ziyad glared at the prisoner. “I wonder why the men of Shezar would fight alongside the nomads.”

  “Forget him,” Antram urged. “More nomads are coming ahead.”

  “Listen!” Frankil demanded, hundreds of hooves clopping. “They're coming!”

  “We have horsemen behind us!” Blanich announced. Indeed the clopping was coming from everywhere; not just from the front. They were surrounded.

  “Destroy that thing!” Ziyad pointed at the catapult. “We won't die in vain!”

  “Listen, all of you!” Frankil bellowed. “This cursed battle is not over yet! Half of us join Bergum to protect our rear! The rest stay with me to face those bastards at the front! No one dies tonight!”

  Death is not the end, it's a journey, Ziyad's uncle had told him once. His uncle had better be right.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  MASOLON

  Two weeks and a couple of days had passed since Masolon left Kahora. Since he last saw Sania. He missed her, he had to admit. Yes, a battle raged in his head.

  I do not miss her for real. I must wake up.

  All right, I will use more proper words; you would like to see her.

  That is right.

  You want to see her.

  That is also right.

  Then you miss her.

  You got me cornered. Maybe you are right.

  Yes, I am. I am always right! Let us ride to the castle of Arkan.

  But how can I explain my unexpected visit to her? To her brother?

  “Hey you!”

  A yell snapped him back to reality. He was on his way back to Kahora when he saw that caravan at his left by some distance.

  “Something wrong?” Masolon called loudly.

  A horseman left the caravan and approached Masolon. “Are you heading to Kahora?” the man asked nervously.

  “Who are you, and what do you want to know?”

  “Kahora is in total chaos. A thousand nomads have stormed the city, burning it to ashes!”

  Masolon knew he must be gaping at him like a fool. Nomads? Inside Kahora? How did that happen?

  “Unless you have a family to worry about, there is no need to go to the city now,” the man from the caravan said. “Even if you have one, there is nothing you can do.”

  “Where is the army of this kingdom?”

  “We are not sure. But escapees from Kahora confirm that the remaining troops have retreated to protect the royal palace, leaving the whole city in turmoil. Even the king is trapped, unable to do anything for himself or for the princesses who have just arrived from Arkan.”

  Masolon's eyes widened when he heard the name of that castle. What could be the odds that Sania was not among those princesses?

  The man's fellows from the caravan called out for him, urging him to return. “We must leave now before the Oasis gets crowded with other caravans,” said the man.

  “The Oasis?”

  “That's where we replenish our supplies. Not far from here. You should come with us.”

  Masolon paused for a moment. “You say we may meet many caravans there?”

  “Perhaps.” The man was growing impatient.

  “Alright, I am coming with you.” Masolon wheeled his horse and joined the caravan. Along their brief journey, Masolon barely spoke while the other horsemen were babbling about the nomads' raid on Kahora. Some believed they were the Ghosts, who had come to avenge their dead. A few argued that the Ghosts were immortal, so even the Murasen army wouldn't be able to stop them. One suggested fleeing to Bermania, another doubted the idea would work. After they were done with Murase, the Ghosts would unleash their wrath upon the other kingdoms until all Gorania was doomed. It was the Warrior's Gang to blame, the caravan master concluded. Masolon didn't bother convincing him otherwise.

  The Oasis didn't exist on Ramel's map because it wasn't a real oasis. The haven of caravans in their long journeys was a two-story building with a huge store in its backyard. The whole place looked like a garrison with palisade walls surrounding it, and the eight caravans waiting for their turns to get their supplies.

  The man who was yelling and cursing at the merchants seemed to be the master of the Oasis. Masolon wasn't sure if he would reason with that ill-tempered man, and at the same time, he couldn't wait until the master calmed down.

  “We arrived here first. It should be our turn!”

  “We come from Shezar! We still have a long way ahead before we reach Kalensi! These mediocre quantities are not enough.”

  “You are asking too much for this meat! It's too dry!”

  Merchants never stopped complaining and bargaining. The guards of their caravans chattered and ranted in the backyard. Silencing this crowd wouldn't be an easy task, but Masolon had no other choice. He found a barrel at the corner and dragged it near the hustle.

  “Listen to me, people!” Standing over the barrel, Masolon waved with both hands. From the way they looked at him, he knew he had piqued their attention. “Kahora is falling to the nomads, and the only hope to save the city is us! If we all do not move right now together, Kahora will be doomed for good!”

  Most of the audience hummed in disapproval. “We do not have to involve ourselves in this. Let us wait for the Murasen army to come and settle this issue,” suggested one of the merchants.

  “I can assure you that if we wait for that army, there will be no Kahora anymore,” said Masolon. “Those nomads are besieging the royal palace, and we don't know for how long it will stand.”

  “Why should we listen to this man?” the master of the Oasis yelled, pointing at Masolon. “Who's him anyway?”

  “I am Masolon,” he replied. “The leader of the Warrior's Gang.” He saw the impact of his announcement on the horsemen of the caravan he had come with.

  “I don't care about you or your gang,” the master spat. “Listen, son, this is no place for speeches. I have a business to run here, and you are interrupting it.”

  “When Kahora is razed to the ground, you will have no business to run, clever man,” said a voice from behind Masolon. A merchant had just arrived followed by forty guards. A turban hid his face to protect it from the sandy wind, but Masolon could tell that merchant wasn't a Murasen. Actually, he sounded familiar.

  “This man is tryin
g to save your coin,” the merchant said to the owner. “No Kahora means that caravans will take other routes very far away from your lovely Oasis.”

  The owner frowned, realizing the mysterious merchant was right.

  “Why do you all hire these guards?” the merchant continued. “Are you paying them to travel with you and that's it? Those brigands are our nightmares, remember? Now it is our chance to join forces and lay waste to those bastards once and for all.”

  No one protested this time. The mysterious man's words were working so far.

  “Know this, fellow merchants. If we don't crush those devils today, they will hunt our caravans tomorrow, one by one,” the merchant went on. “I can see here around two hundred and fifty men. Led by a gallant warrior, our army can end that nightmare for good.”

  All eyes turned to Masolon when the mysterious man pointed at him. “This man is the most dauntless and ferocious warrior I have ever met. He is the only one who can lead us in this battle.”

  The other merchants hummed, looking between Masolon and the mysterious man.

  “Am I right, Masolon?” the merchant asked, approaching him.

  “You have just come in time.” A smile slipped over Masolon's face when he recognized whose voice it was. “Good to see you again, Galardi.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-NINE

  SANIA

  Dawn was coming, yet the clamoring nomads outside the palace gave Sania's mind more reasons to be restless.

  Sitting by her mother's bed, she watched the healer check her mother's pulse. An hour ago he had given the sick old lady a potion to help her sleep. It had stopped the coughing, yet her mother's chest kept wheezing.

  The healer's furrowed brow worried Sania even more. “What is wrong?” she asked, but she got no answer.

  The healer exhaled. “Emm…I…but…”

  Why was everybody in this damned palace slow and thick-headed? That healer needed remedy himself.