Feras put on his helm and walked to his foe, his back straightened. He was eager for such a meeting to conclude this war, but he kept his steps reserved, not showing any sort of hurry. It was them who should be that eager for the king's mercy.
Memot had had a few tufts of gray hair, but now he was bald, slimmer than the last time Feras saw him. “Lord Memot,” Feras curtly greeted him.
“I was a father of four sons when I was your age.” Memot looked him up and down.
“When I grow old like you, I won't let a lord half my age defeat me.”
Memot smiled. “You talk as if you won the war already.”
“The war is over, the rebellion is over, and you know that,” said Feras. “If you still think you are a true lord, you shall not let the commoners pay the price for your treason.”
Memot stared at him for a moment. “Do you really mean any single word of what you said?”
“You heard what I said.”
Memot nodded. “You're your father's son indeed. You're even greener than him when he was your age. You lucky bastard, Munzir.”
“You'd better watch your mouth.”
“You have no idea what this game is about, son.” Memot gave Feras a crooked grin.
“I'm not your son,” Feras spat.
“Of course not.” Memot laughed. “You are the son of Lord Ahmet, the bastion of loyalty and dedication. And like your father, you will do whatever your king commands whatever the cost is because it's your duty. You will have no problem dedicating your whole life to an endless war, and in return, you will earn some hollow titles, like the Guardian of Kahora or the Hammer of the Mankols, and you will be satisfied with that. That's why Rasheed and his successors would rely on the likes of you to fight their battles and engage his enemies. But who would Rasheed listen to at the end? Your father? Or your uncle? His soldier? Or his advisor? His vassal? Or his father-in-law?”
Feras was determined to ignore Memot's desperate attempts to provoke him, but he had to admit the last part had piqued his curiosity.
“Whose father-in-law?” he asked.
“You still don't get it.” Memot chuckled. “What is really interesting is that the Guardian of Kahora is not aware of what is happening in Kahora. Do you have any idea what Munzir is doing in your city, in the royal palace these days?”
Feras didn't know about his uncle's presence in Kahora in the first place. “It doesn't matter. We defeated the Mankols and we won the war anyway,” he reminded Memot.
“Why didn't your father return with him?” Memot asked. “Ah, right! Because the Mankols may strike again, so the Hammer shall stay there. And you, boy, after you are done here, will return to watch over Kahora again.”
“That's an honor you can never dream of.”
Memot sighed. “Haven't you asked yourself what on Earth is Rasheed so busy with that he can't see to the very city he resides in?”
It struck Feras that he never had thought of that. “We are done with this gibberish,” he snapped. “Now it is time to discuss your surrender terms.”
“This is not gibberish, boy,” Memot argued. “There is a big game about that throne in Kahora, and still, you don't even want to listen. You didn't win, boy. The likes of you never win. Perchance you understand when the wedding ceremony begins.”
Wedding ceremony? Father-in-law? His uncle in Kahora? Could that be the truth?
“Did you get it at last, boy?” Memot chuckled mockingly. “That's why your uncle is a worthy foe. Unfortunately, I don't have any daughters.”
But Munzir did. Shatha, a widow, and not even thirty.
“A king with no sons or brothers, and then you provoke his only legitimate heir,” Memot said. “That's what Munzir did with Dehawy. You can't but admire your uncle's patience. He has been trying to convince His Majesty with a second marriage, but Rasheed always honored his late wife, may the Lord rest her soul in peace. Now the way is paved after those sad events of Kahora.”
Feras balled his hand into a fist, doing his best not to punch that rascal in the face. “My mother died in the sad events of Kahora.” He glared at Memot. “Why shouldn't I kill you right now?”
Memot kept his head up, but his eyes averted. “You want to kill a lord under the banner of peace? Do you understand what trouble you will bring to your king, and consequently, yourself?”
Calm down now, Feras. The war is about to end. Don't start another one.
That was exactly what Memot had mentioned, right? The likes of Feras would do whatever their king commanded whatever the cost was because it was their duty. He wouldn't avenge his mother because of his damned duty.
Only now he understood why Sania loathed their father. Strangely enough, it had never been so clear as today.
“Lord Memot, you have come out from your city to tell me something,” Feras said. “If it is your surrender terms, I will be glad to listen to them.”
“There is no surrender. But I have an offer for you.”
More of the wicked lord's games. “What offer?”
“Join us before it is too late. I know your father won't. He is too stubborn to see what is coming in the near future. But you see it now, don't you?”
“This meeting is a waste of time.” Feras turned his back to him, walking away to return to his camp.
“It's a game, boy!” Memot yelled after him. “You and your father's turn will come soon.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
GERVINY
Gerviny was surprised when Sergi told him that Lord Larovic was already in Durberg and was now on his way to the palace. Because of the eminent war with the Mankols, the Lord Marshal was supposed to be leading the troops camping at the southern Rusakian borders.
There was nothing to worry about. In fact, Gerviny was glad his father was back to see for himself what his son had done in the city in just a couple of weeks of ruling. The treasury now had more coin thanks to the taxes he had collected from the merchants, who had been bribing the officers to skip their payments. The streets were safer now after he had doubled the night patrols. Only two weeks, and he proved his worth as the future Lord of Durberg. Wait, he was the Lord of Durberg already. His father should see him on the Lord's seat when he arrived.
Gerviny headed to the great hall and ordered his guards to line up in front of him, then took his seat. That's how the Lord of Durberg should look, he thought, his eyes on the door in anticipation of his father's arrival. It was about time for the old man to stop grieving for Elov and remember he had another son. It was about time for the old man to take back his insults and start regarding Gerviny as his worthy heir.
The portman announced the arrival of Lord Larovic. For no obvious reason, Gerviny felt his belly twitching as the echoing footsteps approached. In an attempt to appear at ease, he leaned back in his seat, resting his cheek on his fist. It might seem rude, but he didn't mind. For many years he had been treating his father with respect. How many times had Gerviny had the same treatment in return? Not even once. The thought infuriated him so much that his fist trembled beneath his cheek.
There was nothing unusual about his father's entrance; the guards surrounding him, and the customary frown on his face. What was new about his entrance this time was Gerviny himself sitting on the Lord's chair. From the glare on the Lord Marshal's face, Gerviny could tell his father wasn't pleased with this sight. However, Gerviny was determined not to adjust his posture.
“Leave us,” Larovic demanded. Nobody dared to disobey, Gerviny's guards included. In less than a minute, nobody stood between the Lord Marshal and his son.
“Why don't you have a seat, Father?” Gerviny nodded toward him, still keeping his posture.
“What have you done?” his father growled.
“I have made this city wealthier and safer in your absence. Why do you ask?”
“You are holding a Murasen commander in the dungeon.”
“I didn't know that when I captured him.”
“Now you know!”
�
��How do you expect me to act, milord? That commander was caught sneaking into Lady Halin's bedchamber.”
“I am done with your folly!” His father glared at him. “Do you think that I'm not aware of your ridiculous plot?”
“What plot?”
“Shut up!” His father wagged a firm finger at him. “Your obsession with Halin has driven you mad. Your childish pursuit makes you forget that you are the elder son of Lord Larovic, Marshal of all Rusakian armies. You forget that you are a lord yourself who should be responsible for his own acts.”
“I'm responsible for my own acts and all their consequences,” Gerviny stated firmly.
“No, you are not. You are too pathetic to understand those consequences! You are about to start a war between two realms, simply for the sake of your lust! Do you understand that we are recently allied with the Murasens to keep the Mankols surrounded from their northern and southern borders?”
“You should blame the commander who sneaked into a foreign castle, not me.”
“Enough! This farce must end. That imprisoned commander shall be outside Durberg at once.”
“He is imprisoned by order of the Lord of Durberg.” Gerviny leaned toward his father, their eyes meeting.
“You have lost your mind.” His father turned and headed to the door.
“What do you think you are doing?” Gerviny pushed to his feet and hurried after his father. No one should break an order from the Lord of Durberg, even the Lord Marshal himself.
“What do you think you are doing, boy?” His father stopped, glowering at him. “Two weeks on this seat and you think you can stop me?”
“I captured that bastard! He shall not be released unless I decide otherwise!”
His father shook his head. “You still don't get that I am saving your blasted hide. Keep your prisoner in your dungeon, and I assure you that King Bechov will strip you of your title as a lord.”
“Curse him and the title!” Gerviny snapped. “That commander is my prisoner! That's my dignity you're treading on! No one shall humiliate me again!”
“I really regret the day I had a son like you.” His father turned to the door. “Guards!” The guards hurried to his father.
“What are you doing?” Gerviny asked.
“Escort Lord Gerviny to his chamber and keep him there until I return from the dungeon. Make sure no one follows me.”
Gerviny was lost for words as the guards surrounded him. His father had devastated him with one simple blow. The lord became a prisoner, and the prisoner became a free man. How unfair was that!
Fuming, Gerviny let the guards usher him to his chamber, the shock still muddling his mind. He realized that his nightmare was real when he saw the guards standing at his doorstep. Yes, the door was open, but Gerviny knew for sure that no one would allow him to step outside until receiving further orders from the true Lord of Durberg. The lord that everybody here obeyed no matter what. The lord that nobody would ever dare to lock up in his chamber. How would those guards listen to anything Gerviny said in the future? How would he ever rule his subjects after his humiliation turned into a song in the taverns? Now instead of singing about The Lady Who Had Fallen for the Warrior, they would sing for The Warrior Who Locked the False Lord. That would make the perfect tale for those drunken wretches.
Unless Gerviny changed the end of the tale.
“Sergi!” he called out to his squire, who was standing outside the chamber. When the guards stopped the squire from entering, Gerviny snapped at them, “What's your problem? Will you prohibit my squire from coming to me?”
The guards reluctantly let the squire in. Gerviny took the lad away from the door to be out of earshot. “Listen carefully to me, Sergi. I will get out of here the moment my father returns. Until then I need you to ready my horse and my war axe.”
The squire looked skeptical at the mention of the war axe. “Where are we going, milord?”
“Not far at all.” Gerviny sighed. “And it's only me, not us.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
MASOLON
Masolon heard the creak of the dungeon door, followed by many footsteps. Leaning his back against the wall of his cell, he couldn't see who entered the dungeon, but he saw Darov's widened eyes. Masolon shot his mate an inquisitive look.
“Larovic,” Darov mouthed.
Masolon rose and leaned against the ice-cold bars for a better view. Now he remembered he had seen that lord before in the feast of Durberg.
“We meet again, Masolon,” Larovic said gruffly. “Or shall I say Commander Masolon?”
Scanning the lord's face, Masolon now knew from whom Gerviny had gotten his blue eyes. “Tides have changed as you see, Lord Larovic,” Masolon replied.
“I am not sure about those tides that brought you here, Commander. But I hope we can avoid this from happening again in the future.”
Larovic gestured to his guards to open the cell and unchain Masolon. Although he had waited for that moment, Masolon was still suspicious about Larovic's intentions. Had the veteran lord come to release him, or to weave another scheme?
“We will consider that your journey to Durberg has never happened, and I think you should do the same,” said Larovic.
Masolon stepped outside the cell and stood just before Larovic. “That would be hard, I am afraid,” Masolon said. “I still can feel the cold steel on my wrists and feet. How do you expect me to forget that?”
“Do you want to start a war between two kingdoms because of a boyish contest for a girl?”
“That contest exists only in your son's sick mind.”
“Watch your mouth, Commander.” Larovic glared. “I might say harsh words to my son, but I would kill you if you touch him.”
“Your son owes me a lot,” Masolon ground out.
“And I pay his debt by setting you free. It's done once you set foot outside this dungeon. But I swear I will kill you if I see you here again.”
“We shall see about that.” Masolon smirked. He went a few steps toward the dungeon door then remembered his promise to take Darov out with him. When he looked over his shoulder, the old man made a slight wave.
“We will meet again, son.” Darov grinned. “Probably in the afterlife.”
***
Masolon found his horse tied outside the dungeon in the falling snow, his greatsword, Mankol bow, and steel shield on the ground beside the stallion's hooves. The generous gesture from the Rusakian lord surprised Masolon, but his doubts never faded.
“You must be cold, my friend.” Masolon brushed his horse's hair. The castle guards were glaring at him as if hurrying him to leave.
“Enjoy the weather, bastards,” he muttered, mounting his stallion. He left the dungeon, his eyes and ears alert to his surroundings. That malicious lord should have waited until morning to release him. Maybe he set Masolon free at night to let the snow kill him without staining his lordly hands with a commoner's blood.
Masolon hadn't seen one random Rusakian citizen in the streets since he left the dungeon. In addition to the lovely weather of Durberg at night, the heavy clouds hid the sky with a dark-gray curtain that didn't even let the moonlight pass through it. From now on, he would never complain about sweaty Murasen nights.
“Masolon!”
He was one mile away from reaching the city main gate when he heard Gerviny's voice. Ahorse, the bastard was charging at him from his right flank. Larovic might go to hell with his threats; Masolon had to defend himself.
He pulled the reins to the right and kicked his horse's flanks, spurring it to charge at Gerviny, but he was a bit late. Gerviny closed up on him before his stallion reached its full gallop. The Rusakian prince swung his massive war axe toward him, but Masolon received the shock of the hit on his steel shield; a shock that was enough to crush any wooden shield. It flexed Masolon's shield-carrying arm, causing him to lose his balance. He clutched the reins with his left hand, trying to prevent himself from slipping off the saddle, but it did not work, it only eased his fa
ll.
Masolon rolled on the ground and rose on his feet in a second, his eyes on Gerviny's horse. He held his greatsword with both hands, waiting for Gerviny to wheel his horse and charge once more. By any means, Masolon must stop the coming strike before its happening. The momentum acquired by the huge war axe in a cavalry charge would make it deadly if it was intercepted on foot.
Gerviny rushed toward him as Masolon raised his greatsword above his head with both hands. “I'll crush you!” Gerviny screamed, stretching his arm, ready to swing his war axe.
Masolon's eyes were fixed on Gerviny's horse that came a few feet away from him. Just before the Rusakian started swinging, Masolon surprised his opponent by throwing his heavy sword right at the horse's big neck. Gerviny's horse neighed out of pain, raising its forelimbs, throwing its rider from its back. Masolon rushed toward Gerviny's horse and pulled his sword from its neck. The wounded horse whickered again.
Gerviny grabbed his axe and raised it with both hands to block a high charge from Masolon, then lowered it vertically to stop another low blow from him. After testing each other in that brief clash, both stepped a couple of steps away from each other without turning their backs.
“Not bad for a Contest clown,” said Gerviny.
“And you are not bad for a pathetic little lord.” Masolon smirked.
“I was trained by the best, not by some sort of clowns like those who trained you!”
Gerviny bored in with three consecutive swings of his war axe, each strike met by Masolon's shield. After parrying the third blow, Masolon stabbed Gerviny at his left thigh. The Rusakian lord tried to evade the sword point, but the sharp blade cut through his skin.
“Surprised?” said Masolon with a gloating smile. Gerviny looked more astonished than pained, perhaps wondering how Masolon was wielding his heavy sword with one hand. Did Gerviny notice that Masolon's maneuvers were Rusakian? Thank you, Ramel!
“By the way, I was not trained by clowns.” Masolon lunged forward with a mighty blow.
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