Even Lord Munzir looked surprised at how the king started the meeting.
“Feras, you have proven yourself as a worthy leader in battle,” Rasheed said, his voice still cold despite the praise. “Tell me, if you were the Murasen king who had lost half of his western army, what would be your next move?”
First, there was that announcement of the traitor among them, and now the king referred to the battle of Sergrad. A connection between the two topics was hard to find. To answer the king's question, Feras should weigh his words carefully. Nothing could be more dangerous than an enraged king who might make a harsh decision because of an ill-chosen word.
“I wouldn’t leave my western borders vulnerable to the Byzonts, sire.” Feras tried to look confident. “The day the battle ended, I would send for reinforcements from the central region of Demask.”
His Majesty gave Feras a long, studying look. “That is exactly what I did not wish to hear.”
Feras’s heart pounded vigorously.
“Byzonts rarely fight outside their lands,” Rasheed said, his eyes fixed on Feras. “You should refer to the history of your enemy to understand him. For a century, they have been at war with the Bermanians. They know very well if they blink while guarding their northern borders, they will wake up to find Bermanian knights besieging Themus.”
Rasheed glanced at Munzir. “The Byzonts' attack was a decoy. As we speak, Dehawy is taking an army of Murasens and Mankol mercenaries to our northern regions. If I did what Feras said, the northern front would be thin against those assaults.”
“Dehawy?” asked Munzir. “But why?”
Feras didn’t find anything surprising in that. Dehawy was not the first of the king’s cousins to betray him. What Feras worried about was his father, Lord Ahmet.
“Who can possibly be helping him?” asked Feras.
“I don’t want to accuse anyone by name right now, but you are the only lords I can trust in this realm,” Rasheed replied.
Feras noticed the concerned look on Munzir’s face. Speaking of a traitor from inside brought to his mind a familiar name he had discussed with his uncle before.
“We need to keep our eyes and ears open these days,” said Rasheed. “We have Mankols in the north, Byzonts in the west, and Dehawy in the east. Who knows who else is involved in this plot? While Lord Ahmet is already leading our northern army in Bigad, Lord Munzir will command our reinforcements in the central region of Demask.”
The scowl on Lord Munzir's face was unmistakable. He had always been the king’s spearhead. Removing the veteran lord from the western region of the capital meant he was no longer the man of the hour.
“I don’t recommend moving our troops between regions right now,” said Rasheed. “Feras, your mission is to replenish our western army as fast as you can. The safety and security of Kahora citizens are now your responsibility.”
Kahora! The king’s trust was thrilling. Munzir must be mad with rage at the moment.
“You may leave now, honorable lords.” Rasheed gestured to his vassals.
Feras saw the glow in his uncle’s eyes. Without saying a word, he let Munzir stride in front of him toward the door of the hall.
“And Feras,” Rasheed called out, “I have received some obscure news about a warriors’ gang.”
Feras nodded. “It’s nothing but a band of mercenaries, sire. Sayeb the Merchants’ Guild Master hired them one month ago.”
“It is not a band of mercenaries anymore. Our youths join this band with every battle they win.” The king rubbed his chin. “In such a critical situation, and as a guardian of Kahora, you must be fully aware of every single event that happens in your city. A wicked conspiracy is threatening our realm, and as you see, we are not sure yet how many other realms are involved in it. Amidst all of this, a band of mercenaries appears from nowhere at this particular time. Coincidence must be your last assumption to interpret what goes on, Feras.”
“You are absolutely right, sire.”
Rasheed looked Feras directly in the eye. “I know you will do what is right for your people. Now go.”
Feras didn’t find his uncle when he left the hall. He must have gone past the gates of Kahora already. Surely, Lord Munzir didn’t like the consequences of his nephew’s actions that had exposed the veteran lord’s incompetence as a military commander. And regions like Kahora in the west and Bigad in the north needed real commanders like his father, and him, of course. His lord uncle should admit the king had put him in the right place, in Demask, away from all the trouble of the frontiers.
Feras shook the thoughts away. Munzir shouldn’t be occupying his mind now. He had an assignment to prove to his king he was right about putting his trust in him. The Warriors’ Gang would be the start.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
MASOLON
Neither the columns of marble inside Sayeb’s house nor the two silver chandeliers impressed Masolon, but the platter of mutton did. Flavored with garlic, olive oil, thyme, and pepper, it tasted nothing like the mutton of the smelly tavern. He considered if perhaps Sayeb’s cook wasn’t that good, it was the tavern cook who was that bad.
“Are you done?” asked the round-faced Guild Master.
“Almost.” Masolon licked his greasy fingers. Nothing remained of the mutton, though there were the bowls of red potatoes and yellow grapes.
“The Ghosts struck last night,” Sayeb announced calmly as if he was saying ‘good morning’.
“Are we sure it was them?”
“They slaughtered a whole caravan on the Northern Road, sparing only one man after chopping off his hands.” Sayeb’s face was as still as a mountain. “He couldn’t see them in the darkness, but he heard their horrifying voices.”
One survivor. “And they sent a message, did they not?”
“A straightforward message to the Murasens: the desert is their kingdom. If we attack their kingdom again, they will attack ours.”
“You Murasens have been exaggerating about those Ghosts,” Masolon said. “They are just another band of nomads.”
“Nomads or demons, I have never seen one in my life, thank the Lord of Sky and Earth. But I know they have been ruling the Murasen desert since the beginning of time. And obviously, they have earned their name for some reason.” Sayeb leaned forward. “The question is, what are we going to do? Their message has had quite an impact this morning. Every merchant and traveler is scared of stepping outside the walls of Kahora. If the news flies away from here into nearby and distant cities, our trade will be ruined for good. Especially with those rumors of a coming war with the Byzonts.”
“I guess you know what I am going to do.” He wants me to tell him I am going to fight those Ghosts. Why does he not just ask directly?
“Masolon, if anything happens to you and your good friends, I won’t be able to live with that.”
“We vanquished the nomads in their nests before. We can do it again.”
“With a band of thirty fighters?”
“They are true warriors.”
“Even the new recruits?”
“I train the new recruits myself.” Masolon exhaled. “They are ready.”
“Very well.” Sayeb nodded. “I hope they fare well without you.”
What is he blabbering about? “Humor was never one of your qualities, Master Sayeb.”
“I’m a humorous man indeed, Masolon, but not when it comes to my gold.” He spread his hands open. “How do you think I’ve become the Merchants’ Guild Master?”
“What is it then?”
“You are summoned by Lord Feras,” Sayeb said at last. “He invites you to come to the castle of Arkan.”
“Invites?” Masolon echoed in astonishment.
“You are his guest,” Sayeb confirmed. “Don’t let this fact fool you. You must arrive at the castle before tomorrow’s sunrise.”
“What would a lord want from me?”
“I don’t know. His messenger said nothing more than I told you.�
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The notion of Lord Feras’s invitation was hard to digest. The chance of any good coming from it was too small.
“This is farce,” Masolon mumbled. “He must wait until we are done with the Ghost—.”
“He must nothing,” Sayeb cut in. “He’s a lord, young man. When he says you come, you do so without a question. Any other action will bring nothing but trouble. And trust me, no one can help you if you fall in trouble with the likes of him. You’d better save your recklessness for the outlaws you butcher. Now tell me: who’s going to lead the band until your return?”
“I do not know. I never thought of that.”
“You should make up your mind fast if you don’t want to arrive late at Arkan.”
Masolon had better decide before someone else made the decision. If the leader in his absence wasn’t Antram, Ziyad, or Frankil, who else could be?
“It will be Frankil.” The Bermanian captain seemed to be a better option than the other two. He wasn’t only the most seasoned warrior in the gang, he was also more self-possessed than the quick-tempered Antram and the raving Ziyad.
With an occupied mind, Masolon left Sayeb’s house. He should mount his stallion and hurry to his fellows to inform them with the news. But someone was mounting his tied horse. Masolon’s hand went to the hilt of his sword…although he knew he was no robber.
“Come on, Masolon. Is this how you greet a friend?” Ramel swung down off the saddle.
“What do you want, Ramel?”
“It has been a while.” Ramel shrugged. “I thought I should I pay you a visit.”
“I’m grateful.” Masolon smirked. “Anything else?”
“Is this your way to welcome me?” Ramel asked. “I always wonder what I sowed to reap this hatred. You are now what you are because of me. Despite being a commoner, you had the chance to stand one foot away from the Rusakian king himself and charm a lovely princess because of me. Travelers to Kahora tell tales about the mysterious Masolon and his gang of warriors because of me. Because of what I taught you.”
A grin must have slipped over his face when remembering Halin’s smile overwhelmed his thoughts.
“You taught me to fill your coffers,” said Masolon after restoring his composure.
“I’m not saying I'm a cleric, Masolon. But I’m sure I didn’t do anything wrong to you.” Ramel shrugged. “Training is my profession, and I see no shame in naming a price for my profession. You already name a price for your profession, just like me. What makes you different?”
“I see a big difference, Ramel. Gold is my horse, but to you, it is a destination. This is something you will never understand. You trained me to be a Contest champion, but this is the path you chose for me, not what I chose.”
“I didn’t fool you. The first time we met outside Inabol, I made myself clear to you regarding your path, and you agreed to take this path of your own will. A fair agreement it was.”
“It is not fair to tie me for eternity.” Masolon shook his head. “I am not against the notion of you being rewarded for your efforts. But not this way, Ramel. We can agree and name a price, for once and for all.”
“It will be a huge price.” Ramel rubbed his chin. “Considering my loss because of the Contest you missed in Kahora, considering what you are earning now and what you are going to earn in the future thanks to my drills, it won’t be less than a few thousand golden coins.”
“We cannot reach an agreement like this,” said Masolon. “You know I cannot afford that sum.”
“I am not deceiving you, Masolon. I really want to end this,” said Ramel. “I am tired of arguing with you before every Contest, of worrying about my gold and silver. Gold and silver are all I seek, and I will find them. I will make new champions—I am an expert in this. Yet I am not going to release you from your pledge before you pay for it.”
Masolon twisted his mind looking for an egress. Ramel tarried a bit, watching Masolon in his puzzlement.
“I have a way out for you,” Ramel offered. “One last Contest. Only one Contest to win, and you shall never see me again.”
“That is it?” Masolon said doubtfully. “What happened to the fair price?”
“That Contest will do,” said Ramel. “It's the Contest of Paril. You are completely unknown to that city, even to the whole kingdom of Bermania. Your odds will be extremely low, and as I have told you before, lower odds mean more gold.”
Afraid Ramel was omitting something important, Masolon kept his eyes fixed on his trainer’s face, trying to detect any hidden intentions.
“All right I’ll tell you.” Ramel looked irked. “Betting is a sort of entertainment for any city, but in Paril it’s an enormous business. I knew men who grew wealthy after winning extremely risky bets. However, losses are disastrous. Anyone from Paril should think twice before putting his gold on you. Anyone but me of course. I can get my fair price if I arrange a number of big bets with the help of my friends in Paril. It will be one bet with a colossal return.”
“Is that it all?”
“Yes.” Ramel nodded. “But beware. This can be done only once. Losing this Contest will ruin me and you as well. The Blue-Blooded will be involved in this, and you surely don’t want to mess with their gold. Even if you survive them, you will be mine forever.”
“The Blue-Blooded?” Masolon echoed.
“The highborn, Masolon. The lords and nobles of Bermania.” Ramel paused until two passersby were out of earshot. “Each one of them commands an army. Despite their wealth, they still care about the gold they earn from those Contests. I promise you, they will get mad at you if you make them lose a coin of silver.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
MASOLON
The sweat poured out of every inch of Masolon's body, though the sun was a bit gentler today. A storm of thoughts overwhelmed his mind as he followed the tar-paved road between Kahora and Arkan. A poorly paved road, but without it, everything looked the same in this desert. Every now and then he came upon a bunch of palm trees, and again it was only the damned yellow.
Curiosity and worry consumed his mind. Curiosity about Feras's invitation, which Masolon started to believe was a real invitation. Otherwise, the lord would have sent memluks to take him with them, not just a messenger with a scroll.
The notion that concerned Masolon was the gang. His meeting with his brothers had been a brief one when he told them the news, but Antram's grim face was worrying. He hoped his ill-tempered fellow wouldn't be a source of trouble for the new leader.
And there was also Ziyad. A tough warrior, but a troublesome fellow because of his unleashed tongue. Masolon's presence had prevented many small conflicts from snowballing into big clashes. He wondered what might happen in his absence.
“…charmed a lovely princess…”
Masolon tried to pretend he hadn't heard those words of Ramel, but he couldn't. They imposed themselves on the rest of his thoughts. The faces of Frankil, Antram, and Ramel faded away, and only Halin's face with that pretty smile was the one his mind wanted to remember. A daydream that Masolon wished would never end. Part of his mind had its reasons to believe it. The rumor reached Ramel. You can see fire from the ashes remained. But the other part insisted that it was nothing but a delusion. She was a lady and he was…well, he was Masolon, and that meant everything to him. But he must be frank with himself, none of the Blue-Blooded would care.
The Murasen sun was magnificent only when it fell down. When it became just hot instead of too hot. It was falling in the west where the castle of Arkan appeared, its towers looming over the horizon. As Masolon approached, he spotted the archers atop the bulwark ready with their bows. Slowing his stallion to a trot, he identified himself to them. Shortly, the portcullis was raised, four spearmen and a page at his reception.
“Welcome to the castle of Arkan, Masolon.” The page grinned. “Lord Feras wanted to meet you tonight. Unfortunately, he is still busy with the engineers at the towers. He will meet you tomorrow earl
y in the morning. Until then he asks you to make yourself at home.”
That was a good start, better than his expectations. “Send him my greetings.” Masolon managed a smile. “I will have a walk in the courtyard to enjoy the night breeze.”
Masolon dismounted, letting the spearmen take his horse. It was true he hadn't entered a castle before in Gorania, yet he felt the guards and archers were more than there should be. The rumors of war seemed to be right.
Torches were scattered in the castle yard, making it impossible for any intruder to remain unseen. It looked as if the sun had risen over Arkan at night. In the backyard, Masolon could see the redness of the palm dates despite the darkness. Looking down the palm trunk he could recognize a big round wooden plate fixed on the trunk itself. He thought he saw circles drawn on that plate and one arrow hanging to it. Out of curiosity, he walked toward the palm tree until he was one foot away from it to inspect that wooden plate.
His ears caught that whizzing sound. Instinctively, he bent his head back to evade the arrow that would have hit. Alarmed, since he hadn't expected a hostile action in this place, his eyes sought the shooter.
And what a pretty shooter she was, he had to say.
Although she didn't wear a tiara or a diadem over her loose auburn hair, he could tell from her embroidered white dress and the maid standing beside her that she was a princess.
“I am so sorry! I didn't mean to scare you!” Looking alarmed, she dropped her bow and hurried to him. Then her alarmed face turned into an infuriated one and she snapped, “What are you doing here in the first place?”
Masolon couldn't help chuckling at the abrupt change of her tone.
“I noticed you are blind for not recognizing my practice range, but I didn't think you were deaf as well,” the girl continued, her childish manner masking her offending words. Masolon liked her spirit.
“I thought I was sighted, but I have just realized how blind I have been,” he said.
The Warrior's Path (Tales of Gorania Book 1) Page 13
