The Warrior's Path

by Karim Soliman

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  MASOLON

  After ten long days, the band of horsemen coming from Kahora approached their destination.

  The Champion of Durberg, as King Bechov had called him once, was back in Rusakia after more than six months. As Blanich had warned him, the weather in Sabirev was colder than it had been during his previous visit to Durberg. Although Masolon wore a fur hood, he felt his head freezing.

  “Hide it well,” said Holga. “We might run into someone who still remembers you.”

  Masolon’s lungs were aching from the frosty air he breathed. He couldn’t wait to reach his destination; Sabirev, the castle that belonged to Lord Sanislav, Halin’s father.

  “Here we are.” Holga nodded toward the castle, whose white gates became visible.

  “How do you plan to get me in?” Masolon asked.

  “Leave it to me,” she replied confidently.

  Upon seeing the Prime Maid of Lady Halin, the guards opened the gates without posing any questions. Holga apparently had meant what she had just said. As the escort reached the big yard, the four Rusakian knights split, and only Holga and Masolon remained.

  “Wait here and don’t enter until I return for you,” Holga said to Masolon. “If anyone asks you what you are doing here, just tell him that you are waiting for Holga.”

  Holga went inside, leaving Masolon alone in the big snowy yard. It didn't feel right to be here, but he had no choice except following Holga’s instructions. For the thousandth time, he wondered if he had made the right decision by answering Halin’s call for help. Guessing what a gorgeous princess would want from him required a wild imagination. Wilder than his.

  Masolon rubbed his gloved hands together against the chill. Perhaps he could distract his senses by sinking in his memories from that feast. It was true that he had seen Halin only once, but her pretty face was a hard one to forgot. He wasn’t sure about his feelings after that feast, but he remembered very well how she had allured him with her charming smile. Ziyad had told him that her eyes had been fixed on him. Ramel hadn’t blabbered about the “lovely lady who was charmed by Masolon” for no reason.

  “I hope I’m not late, Commander.” Holga returned to him in the courtyard. “Lady Halin is ready to meet you.”

  The side door they entered the palace from seemed to be the one for servants. The way ahead was clear, and nobody interrupted them until they reached the stairs. Holga kept her head on a swivel as she ascended, Masolon following her. The Prime Maid stopped in front of a white door with a golden knob.

  She opened the door for Masolon and ushered him inside. “She will join you shortly. Stay there until she comes.”

  Masolon reluctantly entered. The room inside was a bit warm thanks to the fireplace. Much better than waiting in the snowy yard. A wide dressing mirror ahead rested on a huge wooden desk, all drawers knobs in gold. What stunned him was the bed at his right. Yes, he was in a…bedchamber. What kind of help did the lady need here?

  Light footsteps came from behind the other door next to the bed. The door creaked when Lady Halin pushed it open, clad in a red woolen robe. Gorgeous she was with her golden hair and blue eyes, but her charming smile was absent. Actually, she looked startled when she saw him.

  “What is this?” she almost screamed. “What are you…No way! Masolon, that Contest Champion?”

  “Yes, milady.” Masolon nodded. “I came to answer your message.”

  “Message?” She looked confused. “What message?”

  What message! That didn’t sound promising at all. “Holga came to me and—”

  “Holga?” Halin interrupted. “Message? What is going on? Who sent you here?”

  That whore! Masolon raged internally. “I think there is a mistake, Lady Halin. I must leave.” He walked toward the door.

  “You are not leaving.” She blocked his way. “I need some answers.”

  Masolon didn’t dare to move her from her place though he knew he must. “Your Prime Maid, Holga, found me in Kahora and told me you asked for my presence.”

  “Your presence? In my chamber? Tell me the truth before I call the guards!”

  Blast! More trouble was brewing. That was going to be way worse than what happened to him with Sania at Burdi.

  “I am telling the truth!” Masolon snapped. “Ask Holga yourself.”

  “Ask her about what? About her journey to Kahora? Holga has not left me for months!”

  That liar whore! Like a fool, he had let himself fall into the trap.

  “It must be you who spread those foolish tales about our relationship,” Halin accused. “Why did you do that? Because I praised your chivalry with a smile on my face? Then I am sorry! I didn’t notice that I was smiling so nicely! You shouldn’t have forgotten who you are, Champion. Tales will be nothing more than tales, but reality never changes! Princesses are for princes. Commoners are for commoners. You may feel this unfair or humiliating, but this is the norm of life. Some are destined to be kings and others are destined to live and die in oblivion.”

  “I never spoke of foolish tales, and I had nothing to do with all you said.” Masolon frowned. “I beg your pardon, milady. I have to go.”

  Suddenly, the door was slammed open, and Masolon wasn’t at all surprised to see that lordly bastard from the very cursed feast standing there. He should have known there was something wrong the moment he stepped into a noblewoman’s bedchamber.

  Backed by guards filling the corridor, Gerviny stood on the doorstep. “Well, well! I hope I’m not interrupting a private moment!” he said when he found Masolon and Halin standing so close to each other.

  “Shut up!” cried Halin. “It was you who set this up!”

  “What did I set up, Lady Halin?” said Gerviny in the same cynical tone. “I was here to discuss an important issue with your lord father when one of my guards spotted an intruder who broke into your bedchamber.” He turned to Masolon. “And look what a familiar intruder we have here! What a coincidence!”

  Masolon clenched his teeth, his fist grasping the hilt of his sword.

  “That will be very stupid on your part,” said Gerviny. “You are surrounded, Champion of Durberg, and you may also hurt your lovely princess.”

  “You have no right to break into my chamber like this!” Halin screamed at Gerviny. “Leave!”

  “I will surely leave, Princess.” Gerviny gave her a mocking smile. “But I can’t leave that intruder here in your bedchamber…unless he is not an intruder.”

  “You are such a vile creature!” she cried. “I was right when I refused to marry you. I knew there was something wrong in your sick mind.”

  “And I knew there was something wrong about Lady Halin who refused Lord Gerviny, the Marshal’s son, for some nameless Contest fighter. You brought shame to my house with those songs about you and the Conte—”

  Halin slapped Gerviny on his face.

  “You dare to slap me!” Gerviny hollered. “You could have done yourself a favor and screamed out loud calling for help the first moment you found that wretch in your room! You could have ended all the rumors and the gibberish forever! But you insist on entrenching them!”

  Masolon surreptitiously checked his surroundings to find a possible way out, and only a terrace with a locked door was there. Apparently the lady trickster who called herself Holga had taken care of her measures very well.

  “The moment I saw you, I knew you were despicable, but I never thought you could be that despicable.” Masolon curled his lip. “If you want to defeat me, fight me like a man, one-on-one.”

  “Fight you? You don’t even deserve the honor of my sword.” Gerviny looked Masolon up and down. “If I had wanted you dead, my knights could have slain you in the desert.”

  Gerviny gestured to his men behind him, and in a few seconds, Masolon found himself surrounded by fifteen soldiers pointing their swords and spears at him.

  “You will be an example for all your slavish likes. You should never aim at what is o
ut of your reach,” Gerviny said, a gloating smile on his face. That coward was hiding behind his men.

  “Take this prisoner to my dungeon,” Gerviny ordered the guards. “I want him under my careful watch.”

  “I will kill you, Gerviny!” Masolon snarled while the soldiers dragged him outside the chamber.

  “I don’t think so, Champion,” said Gerviny. “Your fairytale ends here.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  MASOLON

  Princesses are for princes.

  Commoners are for commoners.

  Some are destined to be kings.

  Others are destined to live and die in oblivion.

  This is the norm of life.

  Masolon was dragged to the dungeon in Durberg, Halin’s words echoing in his mind. The snow was falling vigorously on the whole city, yet his mind was too busy to think about the freezing weather. Pondering how his journey had ended was driving him mad. The worst part of this ride was his encounter with Halin, especially what he had heard from her.

  Her words were painful.

  Her words were simply the truth.

  “Looks like old Darov will have company at last,”

  The Rusakian guards guffawed as they opened the door to the dungeon. Masolon was taken downstairs until they reached his cell. He looked at the cell opposite to his to find an old man lying on the floor, his back to the wall. His mustache and beard were as gray as his long hair.

  “Wake up, old man!” One of the guards laughed while hitting the bars of Darov’s cell.

  “I am awake, you fool,” Darov grunted.

  “We brought you a neighbor,” said the guard. “Now you have someone to fill his ears with your folly.” He shoved Masolon to the opposite vacant cell.

  The guards left him shackled in the dungeon, which was only lit by a single torch. Leaning his forehead against the cold wall, he closed his eyes and recalled how naive he had been when he believed that Halin would even think of him. Ramel, Bumar, Ziyad, himself; all of them were wrong. But Halin was right. Gerviny was right too. Only men of noble origins had the right to aim at what was beyond his reach.

  “Son, are you all right?”

  Darov’s voice broke the silence of the dungeon, rousing Masolon from his gloomy thoughts.

  “I am fine,” Masolon replied, his forehead still against the cold wall.

  “How often do those demons bug your mind? Trust me, they can never stand this cold.”

  “I am fine, old man.”

  “Who did you mess with then? Lord Larovic, or his spoiled son?”

  Masolon didn’t feel like talking, but that garrulous old man could be his only friend in this freezing dungeon for some time. “Who is Larovic?”

  “Nobody,” Darov said, “just the second-in-command to King Bechov, in case the name King Bechov means anything to you.”

  The second-in-command? That explained the arrogance of his son. No wonder Gerviny felt he was immune.

  “Was messing with one of them the reason behind your residence here?” asked Masolon.

  “Hah! I messed with both actually.” Darov gazed at the ceiling. “That ended me up here nine years ago.”

  “You have been here for nine years? You have grievously hurt them indeed.”

  “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to kill his son.”

  “Who did you mean to kill? His father?”

  “Nooo.” Darov waved the suggestion away. “I'm not an assassin, young man, I'm a chemist. If you are too ignorant to understand what that means, you can call me a sorcerer.”

  “I am that ignorant.” Masolon liked how that gray-haired man kept his spirits up despite his long imprisonment. “How did you kill the poor fellow, sorcerer?”

  Darov grinned, obviously amused by Masolon's interest in his story. “Twelve years ago, I was summoned to serve the royal Rusakian court to improve our siege weapons. After a couple of years, I was almost done with a new craft that could destroy fortified walls in minutes and from a very far range.” He paused for effect. “A weapon that would force your enemy to kneel to you before you move one soldier forward. I'm not exaggerating; the sound it makes is so horrifying that one strike is enough to convince the garrison of any fort you besiege that the battle is over. Can you imagine that? Probably, you can't.”

  Of course, Masolon could. Darov's weapon reminded him of the weapon he captured from the Ghosts in the battle of Kahora. “Is it different from a catapult?” he asked.

  Darov looked impressed. “Of course, it is so different. My weapon hurls its projectiles with a force so massive that you can never see them coming. Like a thunderbolt, son.

  “I told Larovic I was ready to test the new weapon. Excited about the notion of possessing the most destructive weapon in Gorania, Larovic brought his elder and favorite son, Elov, to witness the test. Unfortunately, things went bad and the weapon itself burst into flames. And guess who was blown up with the weapon?”

  “Elov?”

  “Yes, the son Larovic had been preparing to be his successor, unlike that spoiled fool Gerviny. Larovic's fury was beyond imagination, and he ordered me to be burned alive. But King Bechov intervened and persuaded Larovic to imprison me for life instead.”

  “What about your thunder maker?”

  “Thundermaker? I like that name,” Darov said. “Even implying more dread than the cannon Larovic wanted.”

  The way the old man jumped from one topic to another was a bit exhausting. “The weapon, Darov. What happened to it?”

  “Destroyed. The weapon and its maker are lost in oblivion, son. Larovic will never let me out of here until I die. Don't give me that look. I'm still not that old.”

  Masolon scanned the place with his eyes, hoping he could come up with a way out from this dungeon. “I am not going to die old here, Darov. I will get out, and you will get out with me.”

  The words were easy to say. Masolon realized that after two days of trying his luck with his shackles and the door of his cell. Everything was well-locked and there was nothing he could do. One more fact he realized in those two cursed days was that his suffering in the Murasen summer had been nothing compared to his struggle with the Rusakian winter.

  “There were others,” Darov told Masolon about his memories behind the cold bars, “but they died one after another in this tomb. I never saw anybody walking out that door at the end of the corridor. All of them were carried out.”

  Masolon wondered how the old man had survived this frozen tomb. The stale air in the dungeon was the least of Masolon’s troubles. Over time, his nose became accustomed to the dungeon air, but the extreme chill remained his main problem. His cold chains were killing his limbs.

  “I cannot feel my toes.” Masolon shivered to the bone.

  “Before they die, the first thing the others whimpered about was numbness.” Darov stood in the opposite cell. “The key is to keep your limbs mobile.”

  “It is easy to say so without these metal bands.” Masolon raised his chained hands and shook them, clanking the metal.

  “I have been shackled for months before.”

  “Any suggestions?”

  “Keep jumping until your limbs warm.”

  Jumping? No wonder this clever old fellow had survived all those years in the frozen tomb.

  Day after day, Masolon was trying to discover more tricks to protect his limbs from being frozen. Once he tried putting his cuffed palms to the ground while raising his shackled legs and leaning his feet to the wall.

  “I am too old to do this, I’m afraid,” Darov said, watching him. “You are pushing more blood into your arms, but don’t stay like this for long. Your legs will yowl.”

  Masolon let his legs slip down and stood upright again. “How do those guards outside stand the chill?”

  “Hah! They are Rusakians, son!” said Darov. “We are molded by the snow!”

  “I do not know for how long I can live like this.”

  “You don’t have to live if you don’t want to,” Darov said
dismissively.

  “Those who died in this dungeon; had they suffered much before their death?” Masolon winced as the bitter thought crossed his mind. Death didn’t worry him as much as the pain before it.

  “The hardest part is the first one,” said Darov. “After that, you don’t feel anything. It’s like sleeping, or that’s what it seems like.”

  “Not as bad as I thought.” Masolon gave him a faint smile.

  “I figured a warrior like you would fight.”

  “You are the real warrior, Darov, to survive this dungeon. Just pondering the notion that I may grow old here drives me insane.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  FERAS

  Shezar would fall to his siege. Feras knew it was only a matter of time until Dehawy ran out of supplies. Deep inside, Feras loathed the notion of starving a Murasen city to force his foe to surrender, but it was not as bad as turning the greatest city in the east into a battlefield. The last sight Feras wanted to see was a Murasen soldier clashing his saber against his brother's.

  “White flag, milord!” one of the officers standing outside Feras's pavilion announced. Every day he expected a messenger with a white flag coming out from the city gate. His father and his uncle had restored the northern fort of Kurdisan, forcing the Mankols to retreat to their lands. Now Dehawy and his eastern vassals were on their own.

  “A messenger at last?” Feras stepped outside.

  “No, milord. It's Lord Memot.”

  Munzir would pay to witness this moment. Feras smiled as he gazed at the old lord who stood midway between Feras's camp and the walls of the city. Nothing would make his dear uncle happier than gloating over his old rival. But once again, Feras was there to steal his joy.

  “Should I ready your horse, milord?” his officer asked.

  “For this distance?” Feras pointed at the old lord. “He made it on foot, and he is twice my age.”