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

by Karim Soliman

  “What is this?” The girl arched one fine eyebrow. “A sort of poetry? You don't look like a poet.”

  “I am not a poet for sure.” He chuckled again. “I am Masolon. Lord Feras sent for me to meet him.”

  “I'm Sania, his sister.”

  Masolon didn't know whether it was good or bad news. From now on, he had to carefully pick his words.

  “Are you surprised all the time?” asked Sania.

  Masolon laughed at the way she teased him. “Forgive my candidness, Lady Sania, but you do not look like the Murasens I see every day.”

  Sania blushed for a moment. “There is a reason for that. My grandmother was a Rusakian.” She pointed at the bow strapped to his back. “Do you mind if I see this?”

  Masolon handed her the bow, and she looked impressed, holding it with both hands. “That's quite a heavy bow.” She gave the bowstring her best attempt to pull it, but failed. “Curse that!” She burst into laughter, her sweet voice evoking a brief twitch in his chest. “Where did you get your bow? From the Mankols?”

  “It is a Mankol bow indeed. You must be an expert in archery.”

  “Of course I am.” She chuckled, then her hazel eyes widened. “Wait. You are not a Mankol, are you?”

  “I am afraid I am not.”

  “Not a Byzont, I presume?”

  Masolon hoped that Ziyad wasn't raving when he told him that girls liked to hear about places they didn't know. “I am not from anywhere in Gorania.”

  “Better for you.” Sania chuckled cheerfully. “Now seriously, where do you come from?”

  “Ogono. It is behind what you call the Great Desert.”

  Sania's large eyes betrayed her astonishment, or most probably her fear. “What we call? Alright, you scare me for real now.”

  “I am not trying to scare you. I am just telling you the truth.”

  Sania shook her head. “No one lives outside Gorania. I mean no human.”

  “I am not surprised to hear so, milady. Yet I can assure you there is a whole world behind the Great Desert.”

  “A whole world of…” Sania didn't dare to say it. Like Kuslov had told him before, Murasens didn't like to talk about the residents of the Other Side.

  “A whole world of men and women of flesh and blood, like here,” said Masolon. “Except that the men there have forgotten their humanity and live like beasts, the strong feasting on the flesh of the weak.”

  “Interesting. I thought that Outsiders only existed in legends. Everyone in Gorania believes so.” She kept studying his face as if she was making sure he was a real man. “But here I am, talking to one of them right now.”

  “I do not bite.”

  “So far.” A smile lit up her pretty face. “Alright, you deserted your…people because of their brutality. Have you found it any different here?”

  “Not really, milady. If truth be told, Gorania is no less brutal than my homeland.”

  “You must be regretting coming here.”

  “Not yet.” He grinned. “I have met many good people so far.”

  “Are they as lousy poets as you are?”

  He didn't remember the last time he had enjoyed chattering with someone like he was at the moment. “I do good poetry with my sword.” He pointed at his shiny blade, and she giggled. And how lovely she looked and sounded when she giggled.

  “So you have a new home now,” she said. “Do you feel any sort of belongingness?”

  “I am starting to. Faster than I thought.”

  “I can't tell whether it's good or bad not to belong to one particular faction for your whole life.” Sania glanced at the Mankol bow she was still holding. “A free wanderer like you has the luxury of picking what fits him best, not fitting himself to what he picks. My brother doesn't have the blessing you have. He must choose from Murasen swords, Murasen armors, Murasen horses, and of course a Murasen princess.”

  “Your brother loves his homeland, milady. Nothing bad in this.”

  “Don't get me wrong. I love my homeland as well. What I mean is that wielding a Mankol bow, for instance, shouldn't deny my pride of being a Murasen, right?”

  “Absolutely, milady.” He glanced at Sania's maid, who approached her mistress and whispered to her. Sania dismissed her with a hand gesture.

  “You are an interesting person to meet, foreigner.” Sania returned his bow to him. “I believe there is more to hear from you. Unfortunately, I must go now. We may continue our conversation another time.”

  Another time? He could only wish…

  Sania hurried after her maid, Masolon following her with his eyes until she was out of sight. He should thank her lord brother for choosing such a perfect timing to ramble with those engineers.

  “Evading that arrow wasn't easy at all, I have to say.”

  Masolon turned when he heard that familiar, soothing voice. What on earth was the beefy healer doing here? And most importantly, how long had he been standing and watching?

  “That was just a reflex.” Masolon shrugged.

  “Your reflex wasn't fast enough.”

  “What are you talking about? It did not hit me.”

  “Really?” Bumar shot him a mocking smile. “You're badly hit, good friend.”

  Masolon tried to ignore the joke, but his smile betrayed him. “What are you doing here? I sent you a friend of mine to take care of.”

  “You mean the pile of broken bones your friend Ziyad brought with him? His case was a desperate one, but not to me. I restored his bones to their normal positions, and when he left my house on his feet, he walked with a limp. In a few months, he will walk normally.

  “After that Lord Feras sent for me to take care of Lady Ramia's health.” Bumar made sure they would not be overheard before he spoke again in a lowered voice. “Your great news has reached the lord of this castle. Somehow he knows I know you. Yesterday he asked me a few questions about the man called Masolon.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “What I know about you.” Bumar shrugged.

  That was reassuring. Bumar knew a little about him anyway. “So I am not in trouble.”

  Bumar glanced at the wooden target Sania was shooting. “Not yet.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-NINE

  MASOLON

  It was morning when the page ushered Masolon to a small room on the ground floor. A few minutes later Feras showed up, the faintest of smiles on his long face. He was younger than Masolon had thought, but still, he was a lord.

  Feras stared at Masolon for a while. “You seem not to be at ease. Was my hospitality not enough for you?”

  “Pardon me, milord,” Masolon said. “I just cannot help wondering why I have earned the honor of your hospitality.”

  “If I had any suspicions about you, you would be standing before me in your chains.” Feras leaned toward him. “Besides, I assume you did nothing wrong to be worried about.”

  “I am sure about myself, but not about you, milord.”

  “I admire your frankness,” Feras said in surprise. “But be careful. There’s a fine thread between honesty and rudeness.”

  “I did not mean to offend you, milord.”

  “I know you didn’t.” Feras sighed. “The easiest decision for a lord is to jail any suspect. But I trust what I see and hear with my own eyes and ears more than what I’m told by others. That’s why I brought you here. I want to listen to you.”

  “What do you want to listen to, milord?”

  “Your aspirations, Masolon. A man like you seems to have a vision.”

  “My vision is a simple one, milord. A peaceful land for the weak.”

  “That's the lords’ duty, Masolon,” Feras argued. “Do you want to be a lord some day?”

  Masolon imagined how different his first conversation with Halin could have been if he had been a lord. And for certain his brief encounter with Gerviny would have been way different. “If I understand lordship right, it is earned by birth, not chosen by whim.”

 
“What about being a governor? Is that fine to you?”

  “I prefer leading warriors in a battlefield.”

  “For what? Glory? Or gold?”

  “For the helpless.”

  “But you’re paid for that, aren’t you?”

  “I need some gold for food and shelter, yes.”

  “If you ask me, you earn too much for a hero.”

  “I never claimed to be a hero.”

  “But the people say so.”

  “Is there something wrong about that?”

  “No. But you don’t have the authority to recruit troops and wage war in my lands.”

  “Is your authority more important than your subjects’ security?”

  Feras arched an eyebrow. “If I let everyone recruit mercenaries to have his own army, it will end up with a civil war between a bunch of struggling parties under the claim of protecting the peasants’ rights.” He paused for a moment. “Especially, when one of those armies is led by a foreigner who recruits warriors from different kingdoms.”

  “The decision is yours, milord.” Masolon shrugged. “I am sure you are going to choose what is right for your subjects.”

  Feras nodded. “You can leave now, Masolon. But you have to bear in mind that my duty to my people obliges me to keep my eyes on you. If I know that you or your gang are threatening our kingdom, I won’t hesitate to execute you all.”

  Masolon had already packed for his journey to Paril. As he stepped outside into the courtyard, the sunlight hit his eyes. He walked toward his horse, hiding his face with his hand. He was sure he heard that whizzing coming from the backyard, and it was obvious there was some activity in the practice range.

  He left his horse and found his feet taking him to the same palm tree of the previous night. He could hear his horse neighing as if he was calling him to come back.

  And there she was with her light bow. His heart pounded when she smiled upon seeing him coming. Blast! She looked even prettier than last night.

  “Here you are again, foreigner,” Sania teased him.

  Masolon smiled without saying a word. He was totally stunned.

  “Are you alright?” she asked. “It seems you didn’t sleep well.”

  Masolon realized he had been absent minded for a few seconds and wondered if she might think him awkward.

  “I never felt better, milady,” he replied. “In fact, I am thankful for sunlight that reveals to us the beauty of…things.”

  “Beauty of things? What things? Perhaps you mean those palm trees scattered in the yard?”

  “No, not the palm trees. I mean you…your face.”

  Sania blushed when she laughed. “No doubt you’re a warrior. You’re horrible at flirting!”

  “I did not mean to.” Masolon swallowed. “I am just saying what I think.”

  “You mean I was ugly last night?” she asked playfully.

  “Of course not! Last night you looked…good. But today, you are…I mean sunlight makes us see better.”

  Sania giggled and he couldn’t blame her for that. Surely he looked like a fool.

  He harrumphed. “I heard the arrows hissing. I wonder how you can practice in this bright sunlight. It must be confusing to your vision.”

  “I am a Murasen, foreigner. Murasens are accustomed to this sun.” She smiled again and asked, “You are not leaving so soon, are you?”

  “I have some matters to take care of in Paril before I go back to Kahora.”

  “Paril? That’s a long way to the northwest of Gorania. I thought your gang wanders only around Kahora.”

  Masolon’s eyebrows rose. She knew already who he was.

  “My maid told me you are the leader of the Warriors’ Gang the people have been gossiping about. But it seems my brother didn’t arrest you.”

  “Arrest me?”

  “Don’t bother. You know rumors go.”

  “Do you think I deserve to be arrested?”

  “Of course not. It’s a noble mission to dedicate yourself to helpless people.”

  “What if one day I have to disband this gang by your brother’s order, milady?”

  “Why would he give such an order?”

  “To protect his subjects from a possible threat.”

  “You are protecting his subjects. So your gang is not a threat. It’s the name that might be a threat though.”

  “That name cannot be changed,” he jested, but she didn’t seem to be listening to him. His heartbeats rushed madly when Sania looked at him.

  “You don’t look like a threat to me.” She smiled sweetly.

  “Uhh…thanks, milady.” Masolon had no idea what he was thanking her for. The heat in his head was fogging his thoughts.

  “I think I’m done practicing today.” She glanced at a patrol guard approaching them. “Good journeys to you, Masolon.”

  ′Masolon′ sounded sweeter than ′foreigner’. Even all the barrels of ale in the tavern of Kahora wouldn’t make him more drunk than he felt right now.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  ZIYAD

  Those Bermanians would never stop complaining about the weather. Ziyad should tell them what summer was like last year. They could have cooked their potatoes without using fire in the heat of the noonday sun.

  The new leader had gathered the whole gang in their new nest, a hill near the western walls of Kahora. Forty warriors were listening to Frankil’s instructions about their formations in their next fight. Forty! Still, without Masolon, a big stone of the fort was missing. Yes, Frankil was a good man, who could be too mean with the wicked. Ziyad had seen how the Bermanian captain slaughtered those nomads with no mercy at all. He was always serious about the task at hand, but he wasn’t Masolon. Masolon’s strength wasn’t only in his muscular arms, it was also in his eyes and voice. It was something that would force anyone to look at and listen to him when he spoke, something that even most of the lords lacked. But lords became lords because their titles were their right by birth, not because they deserved them. It was never Ziyad’s concern as long as he didn’t run out of coin. With coin in his pouch, he was a lord in his own fief, even if his fiefdom was only a tavern.

  Ziyad wasn’t sure about Antram, who had looked gloomy since Masolon announced Frankil their leader. Antram must have assumed he would be the second-in-command in this gang, and was quite disappointed to discover he had been deluded.

  Their next target was going to be the Ghosts. It was about time for Ziyad to face the fears of his childhood and manhood, the slayers of his loved ones. The reason for which he had begged his uncle to teach him how to wield a sword when he was a boy of six. Since then he had never had a chance to raise his blade against any of them.

  “Who is that fellow?” Ziyad nudged Antram, pointing at the sulky man with heavy black hair ascending the hill on horseback. Ziyad had already guessed who he was, but he wanted to take Antram out of his silence.

  Antram exhaled. “That must be Kuslov who Masolon told us about. A Rusakian tracker who has the eyes of a hawk and the nose of a hound.”

  The tracker looked a bit surprised when he joined them. “I thought they were exaggerating when they said that Masolon had an army,” he said.

  “Was it hard to find us?” Ziyad teased him.

  “That’s what I do for a living, young man.” The tracker looked at Frankil. “You must be Captain Frankil, the leader. I’m Kuslov. Masolon left me a brief note about your quest. Are your men ready?”

  “When do you want us to start?” Frankil asked.

  “We had better finish this before sunset, so I say we start now. At night we will be sitting ducks for those Ghosts, and I must tell you, I’m not ready to die today, young men.”

  “You heard him, warriors,” Frankil addressed his men. “To your horses.” The captain fluidly mounted his horse and asked Kuslov. “Where will we start?”

  “Where they were last seen,” Kuslov replied. “The Northern Road.”

  The Warriors of the Gang were too quiet today. Quieter than the
silent desert, which wouldn’t remain dormant for long. Autumn was coming soon. And autumn in Murase didn’t mean fallen dry leaves—trees barely existed in these lands—it meant sandstorms.

  The eerie silence made their brief ride longer than it really was. Leaving the vanguard for Frankil and Kuslov, Ziyad fell behind with the nervous Murasen fellows. Some were nervous out of fear, others out of fury. Apparently he wasn’t the only man today who wanted to avenge his loved ones.

  The small army stopped where the massacre had happened yesterday. When Kuslov dismounted and crouched, Ziyad trotted forward to watch the Rusakian work from a close range. The terrain was so plain he didn’t understand what Kuslov might find in these sands.

  “They didn’t leave any tracks as usual,” Ziyad commented, teasing the tracker to speak.

  Kuslov turned his head, obviously not happy to be interrupted. “Young man,” he said, “do you trust your eyes?”

  Ziyad wasn’t sure what Kuslov hinted at. “Maybe not as you trust yours.”

  “For certain.”

  “You tell me, Kuslov, what did you find?” Frankil asked, focusing on the task at hand.

  “A real Ghost doesn’t leave tracks behind nor try hard to hide them, Captain,” Kuslov remarked.

  “Those we are tracking are not the Ghosts then,” Frankil concluded.

  “Or the Ghosts are just men of flesh and blood.” Ziyad recalled what he had heard about those poor travelers. What sort of men who could slaughter women and children so mercilessly?

  “They are headed northwest.” Kuslov mounted his horse and nudged it to a trot, eyeing the ground with caution.

  Ziyad wondered how long it would take to find those bastards at this pace. But no one should ask the Rusakian to rush. If he lost their trail, Ziyad and his fellows would wander the desert for eternity…if they could survive that long. In reality, the Bermanians wouldn’t survive a single day without water.

  Ziyad rode for hours next to Kuslov, trotting when he trotted, stopping when he stopped. He waited for a word from the Rusakian, but the tracker said nothing until it was nearing dusk.