The Warrior's Path (Tales of Gorania Book 1)

by Karim Soliman

  Team? Since Kuslov and Galardi hadn’t told Masolon anything about teams, he had assumed he would be fighting on his own. The Contest was more complicated than he thought.

  Masolon followed Risto outside the chamber, back to the hall, then the narrow corridor. As they descended the stairs to an underground floor, Masolon said, “I thought only one fighter could win the Contest, not a bunch of them.”

  “The point of fighting in groups in the first tier is to eliminate as many contenders as we can before we start the following ones.” Risto glanced at him. “Survive this round, and then you are on your own.”

  “Survive?” Masolon echoed in disapproval. “Do I have to kill to entertain the crowd?”

  “Blast!” Laughing, the lad stopped and turned to Masolon. “Although you look like a capable warrior, you are but a novice. You haven’t even watched one single fight before.”

  Risto ushered Masolon to a dusty, sweaty room where his three fellow fighters were waiting for him, wooden poles lying over the floor. Assuming they were to be the weapons used, Masolon picked up one of them, testing its weight.

  A bald, dark-skinned, mustached fighter approached Masolon, his height matching his. “Your first time?” he asked.

  Masolon nodded.

  “A strong fellow like you shouldn’t be worried. Make the best of the muscle in your arm to give your opponent the heaviest blow with this wooden thing. Whatever happens, don’t turn your back to an opponent unless he surrenders or passes out.”

  Masolon felt much better after he made sure he wouldn’t need to kill anybody today. “We shall see.” Masolon smiled as he watched the other two fellow fighters swing their wooden toys. He doubted if they had held a real blade in their lives, unlike the bald fellow, who looked like a real warrior with his sleeveless tunic that revealed his muscular arms.

  “My name is Antram,” said the bald fellow. “I participated in a few Contests, and I can tell you it’s too unlucky to face Artony at such an early stage.”

  “Who is Artony?” Masolon asked.

  “Who is he?” Antram’s raised eyebrows betrayed his astonishment. “He is a veteran champion of the Contest, but not this time. This time, I am going to beat him.” He pointed his finger at Masolon and the other two as if he was the man in charge of this small band. “You three will keep the others off me. Today it should be me and Artony alone.”

  “We shall see,” Masolon said.

  The veteran fighter was expecting some cooperation, it seemed. “Listen, I will not let you ruin this fight with any sort of recklessness. This fight is the Contest, novice. Let’s win it first, and then you can do whatever you want to do. Until then you will listen to what I say. Do you have a problem with that?”

  “With fingers of command?” Masolon glanced at Antram’s finger then back at his face. “For certain.”

  Antram lowered his finger. “I need the silver, novice. I assume you need it too.”

  A horn was blown outside the chamber. “You hear that?” Antram asked. “One calling for us to enter the arena, another one to start the fight. Don’t ever stop fighting until the herald announces a winner.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  VIOLA

  To Viola, it was just another day in one of those regular Contests. All she had to do was give Admastos the gold she wanted to bet on Artony before she joined Ramel in the amphitheater to watch the fights.

  That slender lad Risto hurried to her when he saw her entering the amphitheater. “Lady Viola.” His wide grin revealed his missing tooth. “Please.” He ushered her through the corridor she knew very well. Despite his slender frame, he always managed to make his way swiftly through the throng. She felt the sweaty men following her with their hungry eyes, but she ignored them. She hadn’t brought enough daggers for all those bastards.

  When Risto took her by the hand into Admastos’s chamber, she pushed a coin of copper in his pocket. The lad thanked her with another grin, so ugly that she almost changed her mind about the coin. A frown would suit him more.

  As usual before the start of the fights, Admastos’s chamber was nothing but a barn. The bettors besieged Admastos’s desk, all of them talking at the same time. Those couldn’t be men; those were cattle. Even cattle wouldn’t produce such noise.

  “Busy, Admastos?” she asked, raising her voice to make herself heard over the din.

  “Viola herself is here!” Admastos rose up from his seat, his arms open, ignoring the mob around him. “Risto, show those gentlemen their way out. I have more pressing matters now!”

  The furious men protested and cursed when Risto shooed them away. One of them shoved the slender lad into the wall.

  “What on earth are you doing?” Admastos bellowed at the reckless man who lost his temper. “Get out of here, or I swear I’m not accepting any more bets today!”

  The mob directed its fury at the reckless man and sent him outside the room, a few of them even apologizing to Admastos and his lad. In seconds, the chamber was amazingly peaceful.

  “You too, Risto.” Nodding toward the door, Admastos motioned his lad outside. Risto groaned as he left the room, his hand on his back.

  When they were alone in his chamber, Admastos grinned at Viola. “Aren’t you pretty this morning?”

  She was used to his flirtation. The Byzont fellow wasn’t bad looking with his short black hair and mustache, but she preferred the company of someone else.

  “Your gold.” She handed him a pouch of golden coins, knowing she would collect ten other pouches instead of that one. “You’d better prepare our gold because we’re in a hurry today. We leave the moment the last fight is over.”

  “One day someone will beat Artony, and Ramel will lose his gold.” His hand slid over her arm. He had never dared to touch her before.

  “Touch me one more time and I’ll break your hand.” She twisted his wrist with a two-handed firm grip.

  “Alright, alright! I understand!” he wailed. He rubbed his wrist after she let him go. “Blast! What is your problem?”

  “If you can’t run away with something, don’t snatch it,” she hissed.

  “Your master has an awkward taste in women.” He frowned.

  Viola glared at him. “I have no master.”

  “Really? Then what is Ramel to you? A lover mayhap?”

  The bastard had gone too far. She drew a dagger hidden in her clothes and threw it, barely missing his neck on purpose. The Byzont stared in terror at the dagger stuck in the wall right behind him.

  “You’re lucky Ramel still needs you.” Viola stabbed her finger at him. “Otherwise, you’re a dead man.”

  Stunned, Admastos didn’t dare to answer back. Obviously, he had learned the lesson.

  “Make sure our gold is ready, dear.” She tilted her head, her voice softened. Feeling excited, she stepped outside the master’s room. I should have done that long time ago! It was nice to break the routine of those Contests from time to time. Making bets, watching Artony win, collecting her booty and, sometimes, returning with Ramel. Ramel didn’t attend all Contests, but that part of her routine, returning with him, was her favorite part.

  “He is available for you, boys.” She casually stepped past the bettors waiting for their turn outside Admastos’s room. After passing through the masses of people who thronged the corridor and tiered seats in the open-air area, she found Ramel in his usual place, among the crowd. Spotting him wasn’t hard with the dark gray coat he wore over his black tunic.

  “I wonder when you will decide to watch the fights from a balcony, as all elites do.” She contemplated his well-groomed black beard when she sat next to him, breathing in his scent of lavender.

  “You cannot feel the thrill of the Contest with the company of those hypocrites.” He nodded toward the balcony to their right. “Look at the crowd here.” He spread his arms, like a lord standing before his underlings. “They will shake the arena with their roar. They will chant the name of their champion. Isn’t it beautiful to share those mome
nts with your subjects?”

  Sometimes she was irked by Ramel’s delusions of ruling the crowd. To him, the matter was much bigger than just winning some gold from his bets on warriors he had trained himself. He never forgot he could have been a commander one day if it hadn’t been for those bastards who had released him from service. Bastards, who were just a bunch of lords.

  “It would be more beautiful,” her fingers slid over his coat, “if we shared those moments with—”

  “Here he comes,” he interrupted her, pointing at Artony, the brawny blond who stepped confidently into the arena, followed by his fellow fighters. “The Champion.” He remained seated while everyone else rose, cheering for their favored fighter.

  “The Champion.” Viola nodded, turning her hollow eyes toward the field.

  The other two groups entered the arena. Now the three groups formed an imaginary triangle on the field while they waited for the horns to be blown. In anticipation of the start of the first round of the Contest, the whole amphitheater was silent.

  The clamor started when that dull DAAAAAA came out.

  A storm of dust arose when two groups charged at each other. Artony’s group was one of them. “Duke Antram has become a bit wiser now,” said Ramel, a hint of mockery in his voice.

  “Who’s Duke Antram?”

  “The bald man with the mustache.” Ramel pointed him out of the third group who held their ground, leaving the other two groups to crush each other. “Duke or not, he is a good fighter, though not good enough to stand a chance against Artony. Artony crushed him three times before.”

  “What about the others?” She gazed at the other fighters listening to Antram’s instructions.

  Ramel shrugged. “They are nobodies.” Amid the mixed yells of fighters, Antram bellowed at his men, “As one unit!” They rushed together toward a fighter from the second group, a lone fighter who foolishly decided to charge at the nobodies on his own. Maybe he wanted to flee from being thumped by Artony’s group.

  A muscular nobody outran his fellows in this short sprint and reached the reckless fighter before them. With both hands grasping his pole, the nobody swung his wooden weapon, smashing his foe’s nose. The unfortunate fool swayed for an instant before Antram knocked him down with another blow.

  “Stay together, champions!” Antram cried. Accompanied by two fellow fighters, Artony was hurrying with his wooden pole and shield toward the nobodies.

  When the muscular nobody charged at Artony, the veteran champion swiftly evaded his hit and struck him hard on his back. The nobody fell to the ground, and now Artony had only Antram to deal with as his mates had knocked the other nobodies already. This fight was almost over.

  But wait, the muscular nobody rose. Roaring, he drove his pole into the belly of one of Artony’s mates, whose back was sharply bent by the massive blow. Without waiting for his opponent to recoil, the raging nobody pulled him by his hair, whacking his head against the wooden pole to which he was still pinned by the abdomen. The nobody turned to the second mate, who was the first to strike, and hit the nobody in his shoulder. Howling like a wolf, the nobody toppled the pole from his foe’s hands by a mighty strike and followed it with a final blow to the face.

  “What is this fellow made of?” Ramel’s mocking smile was gone. Was he worried about his gold?

  “He’s just a novice,” she muttered. “Artony will easily beat him.”

  Artony was nearly done with Antram, who looked exhausted by Artony’s consecutive blows. The Champion gave the Duke one final strike in the jaw before he turned to face that stubborn novice.

  The two remaining fighters advanced toward each other. With a high blow, the novice swung his pole to hit Artony’s head. Artony swung his wooden shield to intercept the pole, the sharp edge of the wooden shield splitting the novice’s pole into two. Surprisingly, the unarmed novice lunged toward Artony, giving him a ferocious headbutt. Artony flew in the air, landing hard on his back.

  The astounded crowd gave an Oooh, and then silence reigned over the arena. Viola herself was shocked when she saw Artony rise with the lower part of his face flooded in red. Was it a broken jaw or nose? She couldn’t tell.

  “Interesting.” Intrigued, Ramel leaned forward. Viola did not know what was interesting about losing his bet.

  The fates smiled upon Ramel when one of Artony’s fellow fighters rose, grabbing his weapon. The novice was now outnumbered and unarmed.

  Artony’s returning mate charged at the novice. The novice rolled his body on the ground, evading a horizontal swing. In a heartbeat, the novice pivoted on his left foot and lunged at his opponent, falling with him on the dusty arena, showering him with rapid punches until his foe collapsed.

  The novice grabbed his fallen foe’s weapon and turned to face Artony, but the Champion didn’t give him a chance, surprising him with a mighty blow with his wooden shield. The novice lost his balance, as well as the weapon he had just procured.

  With hurt pride, the Champion didn’t wait for his opponent to rise, and swung his wooden pole to smash the novice’s face. The novice rolled away and Artony’s pole hit the ground. Roaring with fury, Artony unleashed another combination of strikes with his shield and pole, slapping the novice’s face and hitting his elbow. The novice tottered, trying hard to keep his feet on the ground until Artony gave him a decisive blow on his head. At last, the novice lost his consciousness.

  “We have a winner!” the Contest herald announced.

  The spectators hailed their champion. Their bleeding champion. Artony looked so furious that he left the arena without greeting his crowd. It was his hardest win ever. Viola doubted if any of the coming rounds would be that tough. As expected, Artony would eventually win this Contest, and she would return with Ramel with their gold.

  “Behold the Champion of the coming Contests,” Ramel muttered, staring at the muscular novice who restored his consciousness and dragged his feet until he exited the dusty arena.

  “You can’t be serious, Ramel,” she said in disapproval.

  “Agile like a jaguar, hard like a rock,” said Ramel as if he wasn’t listening to her.

  “His moves are too naive.”

  “And ferocious.” Ramel looked at her. “He fights like a bloodthirsty savage.”

  “Such a savage can do nothing more than hurting your well-trained fighters. Eventually, he will lose to them.”

  “You are right.” Ramel rubbed his chin. “If he is trained, he will be invincible.”

  Viola studied Ramel’s face. He was thinking of something, she knew it. “You are not bringing him to the Pit, are you?”

  He grinned. “I am.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  MASOLON

  Masolon left the amphitheater with a few bruises. Not bad as a start. He could have won that fight against Artony if he hadn’t been distracted by that bastard who had unexpectedly risen.

  Antram ambled next to him, his face gloomy. “It is alright, Antram,” Masolon said. “We fought well.”

  “Quite an opportunity to miss,” Antram grumbled. “I’ve never been that close to defeating him.”

  Masolon gaped. What? He did not even touch Artony! He kept his thoughts to himself since he didn’t want to argue with Antram, who was serious about the Contest and particularly his supposed rivalry with Artony. “Forget about it for now. When is the next Contest?”

  “The herald told me there would be another one in five weeks in Paril,” Antram replied, “the Jewel of Gorania.”

  “How can Paril be more pleasant than here in Inabol?” Masolon asked curiously.

  “Inabol is a pleasant place to the eye, but Paril is something else. It’s surrounded by green fields from all sides, except for the one facing the blue sea. The air is not flaming like the hell of the Murasen lands, not freezing like that of Rusakia, not dry as in the Mankol lands. Bermanians believe they’re the rightful heir to the broken Goranian Empire, hence they consider Paril the capital of Gorania, not just the Kingdom of Bermania.”r />
  They reached the hitching post, and surprisingly, Masolon’s horse was still there. Maybe the thieves in Byzonta were not that interested in horses.

  Masolon began untying his horse. “You are a Bermanian yourself, are you not?” he asked.

  “I’m not just a Bermanian,” Antram said with a self-mocking chuckle. “They didn’t call me Duke Antram for nothing.”

  Masolon turned to him, holding his horse by the bridle. “I never knew they called you Duke.”

  “You can mock me like the others, I’m used to that. But that’s the truth. I’m the third of my name in House Antram, the house that used to rule Lapond.”

  Masolon laughed, his horse nickering as if it shared his opinion of this farce.

  “I told you I’m used to that.” Indeed Antram didn’t appear bothered.

  “Forgive me, milord.” Masolon jeered at him. “May I just ask what on Earth you are doing in this amphitheater, away from your castle?”

  Antram peered at him. “Are you serious this time? My house does not exist any longer. Not after that tyrant Charlwood sentenced all my family to death.”

  The hits Antram had received in today’s fight must have harmed him deep in the head, yet his tale seemed to be an amusing one. “Why?” Masolon asked. “What happened?”

  “My father, Lord Aurel, disputed with that bastard on lands that had belonged to our house for decades. I still remember the clopping hooves of the Bermanian horses coming from the horizon. Bermanian knights were everywhere, killing and burning anything alive. I was a boy when I fled the massacre. I ran like a fool in the forests until bandits found me.” Antram shook his head. “How ironic! My mother used to scare me and my brothers about bandits when we were children, yet they were the ones who raised me.”

  “Bandits raised you?” Masolon had thought of asking Antram to join Galardi’s caravan with him. However, after Antram’s little tale, Masolon cautioned himself to slow down.

  “Don’t give me that look,” said Antram. “They taught me how to defend myself and survive. I may have committed some bad deeds, but I had no choice. After ten years of living with outlaws, I abandoned them and started wandering the realms of Gorania.