Throne of Ruins

by Karim Soliman

  "The road is not safe at all, Your Majesty. I had no choice but to trespass on Byzont soil to reach Kahora."

  Sania knew about the tension between Byzonta and Bermania. She had also heard about the other king in Augarin. That knight must have had quite a journey to stand right here before her.

  "And where is it? The message?" she asked. When Qasem approached the surrounded knight and extended his arm, the brawny Bermanian shot him a hollow look.

  "I am sorry, Your Majesty." Masolon's knight turned to Sania. "I took an oath to my king."

  "And we took an oath as well." Qasem glared at the messenger. "Now hand your message over."

  "Let him advance." Sania felt foolish the moment she uttered the order. What if it was not Masolon who had sent that fearsome knight with cold eyes?

  "Your Majesty?" Qasem's eyes widened in astonishment. A chance was given to her to change her mind.

  "King Masolon is no enemy," she said.

  Qasem approached her, lowering his voice when he said, "I know he was banished from our lands, Your Majesty."

  You know he was banished? Do you know why? For a second, she could see Masolon's last look at her. A look in which she saw fury and sorrow.

  And she had thought she got over that dreadful moment.

  "I am not going to repeat the order," she firmly said, keeping her voice low. "Let the messenger advance."

  Qasem reluctantly waved to the four guards to make way for the messenger. The brawny Bermanian knight approached and knelt before her, handing her a sealed envelope. He doesn't bite. Impatiently, she broke the seal and unrolled the piece of parchment.

  "From Masolon King of Bermania, to Rasheed the venerable King of Murase."

  Reading silently, she could not understand why she felt a bit irked when she did not find her name in the letter. The Bermanian knight had told her men he must deliver this message only to the Murasen king or his queen, right? What did you expect, silly girl? A love letter? Sania woke herself up as her eyes scanned the rest of the letter. "Merciful Lord!" The Bermanian messenger must have heard her muttering. Rolling the parchment, she raised it before his eyes. "Do you have the slightest idea what this damned letter is about?" she asked him.

  "No, Your Majesty."

  Sania turned to Qasem, pressing the rolled parchment. "His Majesty must read this now."

  "But, Your Majesty, I told you," Qasem looked hesitant, "King Rasheed insisted—"

  "Then I will give him the letter myself," Sania put in, striding to the throne hall door. "Until then, find this man a clean room to have some rest." She pointed backward at the Bermanian knight. "He must wait here until we know how King Rasheed answers King Masolon."

  28. BEN

  "Hurry up, ladies!" Sergeant Colb urged the Herlogan conscripts following him. "The war must have ended while you were dragging your scrawny legs!"

  Ben kept his composure, trying not to react to Colb's provocations. You must get used to that from now on, Ben thought. Welcome to soldiers' life. More than once during this short journey from Herlog to Ramos, Colb had mocked the peasant soldiers. Why had this sergeant bothered recruiting them in the first place? Obviously, the lord of Ramos was desperate to find men to fight King Masolon's war.

  "Do you think we can have better food than we have in the village?" Ted approached from Ben's right side, his voice low.

  "Is that what you have joined the army for?" Edd scoffed, walking on Ben's left side.

  "That's what we all have joined the army for." Ted pointed at the men and lads walking behind them.

  "We may be paid as well. But first we have to stay alive." Ben managed a faint smile. There was no honor in taking part in a war between another two contenders for the throne. But it was better than turning into banditry. Hunger was more convincing than any values or beliefs. Ironically, he and his fellows were escaping from death by starvation to their probable doom in battle.

  "This shouldn't be harder than what we used to do in our night watches, right?" said Edd.

  "Assuming they put us in a night watch." Ben gazed at the walls of Ramos ahead before he turned to the two lads. "Perchance they place us in the front lines when they see our skills."

  "What front lines?" Ted swallowed. "I thought we were recruited to guard the city."

  Ben nodded his chin toward Colb. "I heard the Sergeant murmuring about the march of King Masolon's army to fight the southern rebels."

  "Well, in this case, I don't need to remind you that I have never held a real sword before," Ted lied, looking away from Ben.

  "Me neither." Edd rolled his eyes. "What is a 'sword' in the first place?"

  "Cowards!" Ben laughed. "Don't exaggerate. Otherwise, they will kick you out of Ramos."

  "Laughing?" Colb sneered, looking over his shoulder as they entered the city. "Yes, yes. Laugh as much as you can, peasants. You can never know when your last laugh is."

  Just mind your damned business, bastard! Ben wanted to tell him, but again, he kept his mouth shut, contemplating the soldiers roaming everywhere in hundreds and maybe thousands. He realized how he and his Herlogan folks dwarfed in this barracks. Yes, a great barracks. Today Ramos was a totally different city from the one he had visited many times before.

  "Ben!"

  His thoughts were interrupted when two firm hands pulled him by the arm away from a trotting, enormous, armored warhorse, which matched the size of its huge, heavily armored rider, a horde of knights following him. Ben wondered how this rider could even straighten his back with the massive war axe strapped together with a greatsword to his back.

  "Make way, maggot!" the huge rider spat without looking at him, as if he was just about to squash a bug under his foot. Ben did not see the rider's face, but his voice sounded familiar.

  "Too soon to die, naive!" Colb mocked Ben. "You are lucky Lord Gramus even noticed you."

  "Gramus," Ben muttered, recalling the commander who had tried to storm their village. Masolon's voice calling him General Gramus himself still echoed in Ben's head, as if it had happened yesterday. But many things had changed since yesterday. The Demon had become a king, and the enemy had become an ally.

  What about them, the peasants? Did King Masolon still remember them? Or would he run over them with his horse like Lord Gramus?

  "Who are these men?" Edd gaped at the muscular warriors marching behind the cavalry, silver bull helms covering their heads.

  "Skandivians," Colb answered without snarky remarks this time. "The most deadly infantry in Gorania."

  Ben had heard legendary tales about the undefeatable Skandivians; tales that would impress anybody, but not those who fought alongside the Demon of Herlog. Edd and Ted, however, were petrified as the mighty warriors passed so close to them.

  "The peasants are scared!" Colb taunted.

  Ben wished he could punch Colb in the face. One day. Ben gnashed his teeth before he chided his fellows, "What is the matter with you? You killed men with your own hands, remember?"

  "Yes, Ben." Edd sounded nervous. "But those who we killed were robbers and bandits."

  "I can't imagine I may stand beside one of these men one day." Ted's eyes were still following the Skandivians.

  "You should pray you may stand beside and not against one of them," said Ben.

  "Come on, peasants." Colb waved to them. "We must find Captain Tarling to see where he is going to place you."

  "Let's not give this scum more excuses to mock us," Ben whispered, pressing his friends' shoulders.

  The Herlogan train of recruits resumed its march, following the Ramosi sergeant who had asked more than once about where Captain Tarling was. After half an hour of wandering, the sergeant found him at last. "Don't go anywhere." Colb firmly wagged his finger. Ben watched him approach the balding captain who was surrounded by eight more armored men.

  "The recruits have arrived, Captain," Colb announced.

  Tarling gave Ben and his fellows a careless glance, his hands on his waist, a dark-red band over his left mail
ed arm. "More green soldiers," said the Captain impassively. "Anyway, they've come just in time. Just make sure they know how to hold a sword and find them something to wear from the armory to look like real soldiers."

  "Will they join the march?" Colb asked the Captain.

  "Things have changed in your absence, Sergeant," Tarling replied. "We are not marching to the enemy. It's the enemy who is marching to us."

  While Ted and Edd were humming with incomprehensible words, Captain Tarling judged them with his careful eyes, Ben noticed. The balding captain slowly approached them and said, "Anyone still has the chance to walk away as long as he hasn't donned the armor yet. But once he is clad in chainmail, he can never abandon his post. He who abandons his post is a deserter. And the sanction of desertion is death."

  "They are not worth the chainmail, Captain." Colb shook his head, his hands clasped behind his back. "They are dead anyway."

  "You shut your filthy mouth! You hear me!" Ben snapped. It was a reckless move, he knew, but he could not take Colb's folly anymore.

  The sergeant had not seen that coming. For a second, he looked astonished, but then his eyes glowed in fury. "You peasant scum!" Colb unsheathed his sword.

  "Sergeant! What are you doing?" Tarling chided Colb.

  "But he—"

  "He is green, Sergeant!" Tarling put in. "Now take them to the armory and come back to me. I don't want any dead men before sunset."

  Reluctantly, Colb returned his sword to his scabbard, and without saying a word, he motioned the train of recruits to follow him.

  "Not you." Tarling held Ben by his elbow to stop him. "What's your name, boy?"

  He was not a boy to be called boy, but it would be a bad idea to start another fight, at least for now. Heaving a deep sigh to let his anger evaporate, he replied, "Ben."

  Tarling studied Ben's face. "You look too wise to do such folly, Ben. Tell me, have you ever killed a man before?"

  "Too many," Ben bragged, unable to conceal a faint smile.

  "Too many? Like ten men?"

  Ben squeezed his mind, recalling all his previous encounters in order to be accurate. "Fourteen. Maybe fifteen."

  "That's too many indeed," Tarling arched an eyebrow, his voice impassive though, "for a villager in your age."

  "I was protecting my village when I killed those thugs."

  "You are a brave young man, Ben." Tarling nodded toward a knight standing at his right. "Can you guess how many men he has slain?"

  Ben was hesitant to answer, trying to figure out what Tarling was hinting at. "A hundred?"

  "Hundreds, thousands, nobody knows." Tarling shrugged. "He himself doesn't know. The likes of this man do not count." He held Ben's shoulder, pointing at the knight. "When you become like him, a sergeant would never dare to address you in a tone that displeases you."

  "What do you want to tell me? That I have to kill people to earn respect."

  "No, Ben." Tarling pressed his lips together, shaking his head. "I want to tell you that we have one important rule in the army: obey your superior. Once you accept to become a soldier, you must bear in mind that you will always obey Colb no matter what. Even if you don't like it, I don't care, and no one does. We are about to war an enemy whose forces are twice as strong as ours. Every capable warrior in Kalhom, Ramos, and Paril will be deployed in a battle for an impossible victory. And it will be us who will be watching over the city."

  "If the enemy is able to break our army, how can we stop him on our own?" asked Ben.

  "We are not here to protect the city from the invaders." Tarling leaned toward him. "We are here to prevent its people from tearing their own city apart, from inside. If they feel that we are not in charge, it will be chaos. The city will be lost before an enemy soldier sets foot in it. Do you understand now why obedience is not a questionable matter?"

  Ben exhaled. "I do, Captain."

  "This is my last warning; there will be no turning back, boy." Tarling looked him in the eye. "You still have a chance to help the woodcutters finish the pikes outside before you return to your village with a piece of copper."

  "Thanks for your generous offer, Captain. But I must find an armor to wear." Ben straightened his back, keeping his eyes steady. "I will show Sergeant Colb that I am worth the chainmail."

  29. MASOLON

  Since he led his army outside Paril, Masolon had not stopped questioning his decision of leaving only two hundred soldiers with Rona. The presence of capable warriors like Payton and Ziyad should make him feel reassured, yet his mind was still restless. Although he had given his two trustworthy men strict orders—in front of Rona herself—not to involve the Queen in any matter related to defending the city or the palace, he was worried about his reckless, stubborn sweetheart. Please, Rona, be a good girl.

  "Time is running, Your Grace," Edmond reminded Masolon while he was having a quick tour on horseback in the area facing the eastern gate of Ramos. If his scouts' estimates were right, Daval's horde would be thronging this very field tonight. Thanks to the myth of the last Antram, Lapond had swiftly fallen into the usurper's hands. Now commanding an army fifteen-thousand-man strong, Daval had nothing to deter him from rushing into a decisive head-to-head battle.

  Rubbing his forehead, Masolon weighed the situation one more time. With Jonson and Gramus's troops joining his, he could barely muster nine thousand soldiers; a force that could be enough to repel the invaders if it were not for the four trebuchets Daval had brought. Masolon could foresee hundreds of fireballs raining over the walls, battering rams storming the gate, the garrison retreating inside the city to face the invaders in the streets. It would be a horrendous mess. Too many men would die from both sides before the next sunrise. And however this battle ended, its heat would burn Ramos, like what happened to Subrel. But Ramos was no fort. Ramos is not Subrel.

  Masolon wheeled his warhorse and let his royal mounted guards escort him to the gate of Ramos. “They are all here then,” he muttered when he glimpsed Gramus towering over the other lords standing atop the bulwark.

  Waiting for the king were Jonson, his cousin Norwell, and General Gramus himself, the latter straightening his back to which a massive war axe and a greatsword were strapped. As sturdy as a bull. Masolon had never seen a man recover from such grievous wounds that fast.

  “Good to see you again, milords,” Masolon greeted his vassals, Jonson barely allowing a smile, Gramus nodding silently. “My apologies for keeping you waiting. I was just picking a battlefield.”

  Jonson’s blue eyes widened. “We cannot fight Daval’s army in the open.”

  Masolon was not surprised at all. He knew they were here to discuss their defensive formations, so he was determined to make his stance clear. “Daval’s trebuchets must be destroyed. Otherwise, we will need a miracle to defeat the southern troops swarming into the city through our breached wall.”

  “We will need to defeat those southern troops to reach the trebuchets anyway,” said the same general who had led a foolish cavalry against Di Galio a few months ago. His wounds have made him wiser.

  “That is why we need to launch a ranged assault with our cannons,” Masolon pointed out. “I doubt Daval will wait for the second wave of missiles. He will charge at us with his mightiest forces to stop our cannons, and we will not allow him to do so. At any cost, the southerners shall not come close to the cannons, at least until we destroy their trebuchets.”

  Norwell and Gramus seemed to be considering his impossible plan. Jonson was collecting his thoughts to voice his objections, as usual. As for Edmond, he would obey his king whatever he asked him to do.

  “We still need a miracle to help our men stand on their feet against an army twice as strong as ours,” said Norwell.

  “We need lions, not men.” Masolon turned to Gramus. “How many Skandivians have you brought?”

  Gramus pressed his lips together. “Six hundred.”

  "Only six hundred?" Masolon blustered. "I did not expect you to come to Ramos with less than
two thousand!"

  "I didn't have enough time, Your Grace," Gramus muttered.

  Masolon bit his lower lip, pacing back and forth over the bulwark, his mailed hands clasped behind his back. "So, for tonight's battle, we barely field seventy-five hundred soldiers against Daval's fifteen thousand men. Very well."

  "Fighting them in the open won't be a wise idea," Jonson insisted.

  "I did not say it was wise. But this is what we are going to do anyway." Masolon was glad to shatter the wise lord’s hopes.

  "I hope you think about it again, Your Grace." Jonson leaned forward toward him. "Our chances are better if we defend the city from behind its walls."

  "There will be no walls after Daval's trebuchets raze them to the ground.” The walls of Subrel were stronger, and yet they turned into ruins. “We will defend the city from behind the walls after we destroy those trebuchets.”

  Gazing at the horizon, Masolon spotted one of his scouts galloping back to the city. Daval must have arrived. "We have too little time to waste in arguments, milords." He turned to Jonson and Gramus. "We must make sure that every man knows where he is going to stand and when he is going to move. We will win this battle only if we hit our enemy in the right place at the right time."

  While Masolon was explaining to them how they should position their troops on the battlefield he had just inspected, the returning scout hurried to his king atop the wall. "Speak," Masolon urged the scout before he might kneel and intone those hollow words of courtesy.

  "One hour and they will be here," the panting scout announced. "Three thousand horses, one thousand archers, four trebuchets, and like ten thousand footmen."

  Glancing at Jonson, Masolon noticed the impact of the invaders’ numbers on his wise vassal's face. The cavalry strength of their enemy was worrying, Masolon had to admit. The number of archers had taken his attention as well. We will be slaughtered if that army storms the city.

  "Order the men to finish their work with the pikes at once," Masolon addressed Jonson. "I do not want Daval's scouts to know what we are doing."