Throne of Ruins

by Karim Soliman

  Viola approached the page who writhed on the ground. "Your master had a swift death and he didn't deserve it. You tell me where he hides his gold, and I'll let you join him without delay."

  "I. . . swear. . . I don't. . ."

  "I swear I'll make you drink from his poison if you don't tell me," she put in.

  Wailing, he did not give her the answer she wanted.

  "You think you're in pain?" She knelt next to him, lifting his chin up to make him look at her. "Let me tell you something about your poison. One sip stiffens your arms and legs and even your cock. All your body muscles will be squeezed, as if you're pressing a wet cloth to dry it, until your heart explodes."

  The lad's eyes widened in horror. Maybe it was the pain as well.

  "But you know the best part?" Viola cupped his chin, almost crushing his lower jaw. "It starts with your tongue and throat. Can you imagine worse torture? Your body killing you from inside while you can't utter a single cry of pain. That's why Bermanians call it Green Silence. But your people call it Kingsbane after the Bermanian king they killed."

  54. MASOLON

  Clad in his royal Bermanian armor, Masolon arrived with his escort near the walls of Augarin. From the few yells he heard coming from his camp, Masolon surmised that half of his host was asleep at this hour of the night.

  One last battle, Masolon hoped, and after that, he would return to his sweetheart and the mother of his coming child. He had to admit he was becoming like Jonson who rode next to him; growing impatient for the end of this war. Maybe that was part of being a king. Because a king would prefer his padded throne chair to the saddle of a warhorse. Even if he was born to conquer, not to rule.

  Mounting his horse away from castles and palaces was supposed to lift his mood. But after Ben's shocking act, nothing seemed likely to make Masolon feel better. Even if he won his war against the southerners—and he would—he had lost his last battle with himself. All men fell. All men gave up what they believed in for the sake of love, power, fortune, or vengeance. His father had been ready to murder women and children to avenge his wife and daughters. Frankil had murdered his brother because of some girl. Antram had allied himself with a usurper to claim lordship. And what about Masolon himself? He was sinking in an endless sea of blood to defend his throne. . . if it was rightfully his. Despite his attempts to move past his only conversation with the ousted Wilander, the notion that Rona might have been a usurper herself still pestered him. Masolon and his sweetheart could not be any different from Daval who proclaimed himself King of Augarin.

  With steady steps, Edmond approached to receive the royal company, a bunch of soldiers hurrying to hold the bridles of Masolon and Jonson's warhorses. "Good to see you, Your Grace," Edmond greeted Masolon with his usual stern face. "Lord Jonson." He acknowledged the bald lord's presence, and then he turned back to Masolon. "We have readied your pavilion so that you can get some rest, Your Grace."

  Masolon dismounted. "Let me have a look at the walls first." He strode forward, his soldiers saluting him as he passed through. "And someone informs Lord Gramus that I need to see him." Edmond followed him while Jonson must be struggling to catch up with the two younger men.

  The walls of Augarin were lighted with torches, a hundred of southern archers atop the bulwark ready to shoot on sight. A battalion of spearmen was positioned behind each breach. "No gates at this side?" Masolon did not expect that.

  "The main gate of Augarin is at the western side facing Limetop Mountains," Edmond clarified.

  The rocky passage between the mountains and the western side of the wall was a death trap for invaders. "So, if you come uninvited to knock on their door, their archers will make sure you get a warm welcome reception," Masolon deduced. Whoever had built that fortress, Masolon needed him to build another one to defend Paril the Jewel.

  Along their journey from Ramos to Paril, Jonson had been telling Masolon about the failed attempts to capture the greatest stronghold of the South. After three days of bombarding the walls, the cannons made two gaps that would barely allow three men to walk abreast. On the fourth day, Gramus and Edmond had led the infantry in an attempt to cross to the other side of the wall through the two narrow breaches, but Daval's archers had laid waste to the forces of the two capable commanders. On the fifth day, Foubert had suggested a double cavalry charge to break the southerners' defensive line, but the uneven terrain around the fortress encumbered the horses. He should have known better. Masolon's lords had been desperate, it seemed. And their desperation had nearly cost them a hundred of their knights, let alone Foubert himself.

  For the hope of widening the two gaps, the cannoneers had resumed bombarding the walls, but it seemed they would run out of cannonballs before making any significant impact. That was when Gramus had started building siege towers; to be ready when the thundermakers—a name the soldiers loved and so did Masolon— became silent.

  "Do they not ever go to sleep?" Masolon gazed at Daval's great fortress.

  "The frontline is always guarded." Edmond nodded toward the wall. "Those will warn the rest when we attack."

  And more archers would hurry to aid their fellows. With his troops stuck on the wrong side of the wall, Masolon could imagine the inevitable tragedy. He might lose half of his army before he set foot on Augarinian soil.

  "Your Grace, you sent for me," Gramus's cold voice came from behind Masolon.

  "Not even a greeting to your king?" Masolon teased Rona's loyal guardian. Love him or hate him, the towering lord was now Masolon's most valuable asset in this war. "Tell me, how many siege towers are ready?"

  "Three. Yet we still have enough cannonballs for one more day."

  Masolon had hoped for more siege towers. "Very well. You take your Skandivians to take over the walls while we engage Daval's infantry at the gaps. Hopefully, we reunite at the other side of the wall."

  "So, you're going to lead the cavalry charge, Your Grace?" Edmond wondered.

  "This is not a fight for horses. Tonight we fight on foot. Now go and order the men to ready the cannons." He turned to Gramus. "You too, Gramus. You must hurry to your men."

  "You'll march with the infantry, Your Grace?" That was not a question. That was his general telling him that only a reckless king would lead the vanguard to such a heavily-guarded fortress.

  "No," Masolon answered Edmond. "They will march with me. Now go."

  Both Gramus and Edmond complied. "And tell them to make some noise with horns and drums," Masolon continued. "I want those southerners to be pretty sure that tonight we will be dining in the great hall of their castle."

  Masolon observed the smile that lifted the corner of Jonson's mouth. "Perhaps you need to steal a few moments of rest before we start the bloody business." Masolon glanced at his old vassal.

  "Don't let my age fool you, Your Grace." Jonson allowed a light chuckle. "I fought three consecutive nights without a moment of sleep when I was your age."

  Masolon could picture Jonson anything but a capable warrior. "You must have slain a good bunch of Rusakians."

  The bald lord heaved a sigh. "The Rusakians were too many when they besieged us in Karun, so I guess you are right. Every Bermanian who survived that battle must have killed a good bunch of Rusakians. I fought next to King Handry at the frontline; his usual spot in all the battles he fought. A spot his son Charlwood inherited with the throne."

  "I did not know you were that ancient, Lord Jonson," Masolon scoffed.

  Jonson tittered, but the smile on his face gradually faded away. "All the lords who witnessed that great victory are dead now. All of them, except me and Darrison. We were younger and stronger. And braver. Even that bastard fought bravely on the Day of Karun. Aurel was there too; a young lad of fifteen, too strong for his age. The three of us were acknowledged by King Handry himself for our valor as we were the youngest lords in the Bermanian army." Jonson sighed, and then he continued, "Strange how life has treated us so differently. Yesterday's friends can be today's enemies." />
  Who could have imagined indeed? Masolon thought. Jonson sounded as if he was telling Masolon's tale with Antram and Frankil.

  The drums rolled and the horns were blown as the cannoneers pushed the wheeled thundermakers forward. The soldiers hooted, raising their swords. Their clamor must have reached the walls of Augarin. "They're liking it." Jonson grinned. "I told you: your presence is crucial."

  Masolon judged the elevation of the land on which the fortress was constructed. Such an elevation should boost the range of the archers on the walls; not enough to outrange his cannons, but enough to rain down arrows on invaders for a decent time. Too many would bleed tonight, Masolon reflected.

  "You will stay with the archers and the reserve," Masolon told Jonson.

  "You still doubt my prowess in battle, Your Grace." Jonson did not seem to be bothered though.

  "Someone must lead the army in case, you know, something happens." In case my cursed guardian lets me die today. Masolon had not heard his voice in a while; something Masolon would not complain about. But that meant he had to be a bit more careful today if he did not want to return to Rona in a coffin.

  "May the Lord of Sky and Earth protect you, Your Grace."

  Nodding silently, Masolon patted Jonson on the shoulder. He motioned the bald lord to hurry to his spot before he joined the cannoneers at the front.

  "Lord Gramus is ready with the siege towers," Edmond announced. "Shall we start bombarding the walls?"

  "I will see to the cannons myself." Masolon joined the cannoneers. Standing right behind each thundermaker, Masolon judged the angle to hit those southerners waiting at the two narrow gaps. Aiming at Daval's soldiers in their first encounter in Ramos had been much easier thanks to the elevated position Masolon had been firing from. Tonight his enemy deprived him of that advantage.

  Masolon hated to stop the drums and the horns, but what sound could stand a chance against thunder? "Fire!" he hollered. The massive BOOM sent a shiver down his spine, his heart pounding faster than a galloping stallion on an open field. If he saw a southerner right now, he would tear him apart with his bare hands.

  Looking right and left, he did not spot one scared face. On the contrary, his soldiers hooted after every BOOM. They had become demons playing a death song with their thundermakers. But so far it was just noise without any blood. Only broken stones and clouds of dust.

  "Hold your fire! All of you!" Masolon demanded. "You, a little bit higher! You too, a little bit higher! We need to break the formation of their infantry, not their bloody wall!"

  Lots of adjustments, little impact. The cannons kept thundering, but the men behind Masolon stopped roaring, anticipation silencing them. The thundermakers would soon stop sending thunderbolts, and yet not a southerner was dead. A perfect night to die, Masolon.

  The men roared again. At last, one cannonball landed where Masolon wanted. "That is it!" Masolon yelled. "Keep this angle! And you, a bit lower!"

  Masolon nodded to Gramus to march with his siege towers. "Follow me, lions!" Masolon hollered at his battalion of swordsmen. "Stay away from the cannonballs!"

  Keeping an eye on the archers atop the walls of Augarin, Masolon held his shield as he marched forward. They were waiting for his men to come close enough to shower them with their welcome arrows. At his left by some distance, Edmond led another battalion of swordsmen to storm the fortress from the other gap. Both battalions were going to reach the walls before the three siege towers. A storm of arrows would be falling upon his head and his general's.

  "Shields up!" Masolon howled. It was raining now. And may the Lord have mercy, it was raining arrows.

  The cracking on Masolon's shield was only interrupted by thundering cannonballs and cries of fallen soldiers. "Faster! Faster! Faster!" He sprinted forward, not looking right or left. Not looking anywhere except under his feet so as not to stumble on this cursed rocky terrain. He could not stumble now. A stumble meant certain death.

  The cannons stopped, and it was only the endless crackling and hissing of arrows. Masolon must be so close now. "Chaaarge!" he bellowed, his men roaring with him. With the edge of his shield, he struck the nearest southerner in the neck before he let his shield fall. Masolon drew his two swords and swung right and left, pushing his way forward through the southerners. His eyes were at nothing beyond the next soldier to slay, but he believed that the cannonballs had thinned the southerners' defensive line. Sill swinging with both swords, Masolon found himself at the other side of the wall, arrows hissing everywhere around him, men crying in agony, others roaring with fury.

  "To the stairs!" Masolon spotted the stone steps leading up to the bulwark. Moving adjacent to the wall to stay out of the archers' sight, he slew everyone standing between him and the stone steps. A bunch of his soldiers outran him and ascended the wall, but they were too few to defeat all those archers. "Hurry up! To me!" He waved to his soldiers who were swarming into the fortress, most of them engaging southern swordsmen. If he vanquished those archers, nothing would hinder his troops from capturing this fortress before dawn.

  Leaping over dead bodies, Masolon ascended the stone steps and joined his outnumbered men atop the bulwark. But numbers would mean nothing in such a narrow passage if his men stood their ground like lions.

  The archers of Augarin fell on the bulwark and from the wall. Too many died. Too many were still alive. And from behind Masolon came southern swordsmen to trap him between them and the archers. Masolon and half of his men gave their backs to the other half of their fellows—who were already busy with archers—and charged at the southerners. Masolon slashed one's belly and drove the other sword into another soldier's chest. More southerners came. More of his soldiers came as well. Obviously, his presence attracted blades from both sides.

  "Siege towers!" Masolon heard the warning he had been waiting for. "Burn them!" Now Gramus's siege towers were taking most of the archers' attention, allowing more of Masolon's army to flock to the southerners' greatest city. With his men forming a wall between him and the enemy soldiers, Masolon stole a moment to quickly ponder the battle situation. Two more battalions had arrived to aid his troops fighting down the wall, but the southern swordsmen were still holding their ground. As for the siege towers, two of them almost reached the wall, the third one starting to catch fire. If it did not touch the parapets in a few minutes, it would collapse. "Abandon the tower!" Masolon waved to the soldiers pushing the burning tower. "To Edmond now!"

  Masolon heard the southern archers hooting from the distant side of the wall. Hasty celebrations for setting an empty siege tower on fire. Those fools had no clue what grave mistake they had done. They had just provoked the Skandivian beast. Those who had abandoned their destroyed siege tower rushed like their raging sea toward the southerners. The tides of the fight on the ground turned in Masolon's favor.

  "KILL!" Gramus hollered as he came out of his siege tower, smashing two archers with his massive war axe. The southerners atop the bulwarks were now crushed between Gramus and his Skandivians from one side, and half of Masolon's battalion from the other. A few archers even jumped from the wall, trying their luck from that height. Well, their chances were not bad if compared to the taste of cold Skandivian axes.

  Daval's wavering swordsmen fell back, Masolon's soldiers chasing them. "Regroup!" Masolon bellowed. Still standing atop the bulwark, he could see Daval's retreating soldiers dragging his men toward the walled castle in the heart of the city. A castle surrounded by a wall, surrounded by another fortified wall. I must find that damned builder.

  "To me! REGROUP!" Masolon repeated as a bunch of southern archers took shooting position atop the walls of the castle before they started hunting his impetuous men. "Those fools!" Masolon was aggravated. It was true he had lost much more men at the beginning of tonight's attack, but those dozen men were lost so cheaply. "All of you, regroup here!" he heard Edmond yell.

  Masolon scanned the yard until he found his general. "Edmond! Summon the archers to take over the wall!
" Masolon demanded. "And bring Jonson with the cannons and the cavalry and the reserve. We must regroup before we launch another attack." They were slowly winning the battle, but it was not over yet, Masolon knew. Any miscalculated move might cost him a victory in hand.

  "You fought bravely, lions." Masolon patted his men on their bleeding arms and shoulders until he reached Gramus. "I must admit your entrance was decisive."

  Gramus's silent nod was his unspoken 'thank you.' Was it that hard to say those two simple words? "Kings of these days win their wars from their great halls," said Gramus. "Only a true warrior leads the vanguard."

  Both of them were warriors. Both of them were not born to be kings or lords. But destiny had its own arrangements.

  "You're wounded. You should let me lead the vanguard in the next attack," Gramus continued. Until this moment, Masolon had thought it was only sweat that flooded his body, but he realized he was covered with blood from chin to foot. "This blood is not mine." He eyed the cut in his arm, not recalling how and when he had got that wound in the heat of the battle. "Well, most of it."

  Gramus gave him a slight smile. It was the first one if Masolon recalled right.

  Edmond was down at the yard regrouping the men; Skandivians in the center, Bermanian swordsmen on both wings. By placing his archers atop the bulwark behind his troops, Masolon would be having his own fort inside Augarin.

  Masolon descended the stone steps and joined his general. "We shall send the cavalry to surround the castle before we lunch another attack. I want to make sure Daval doesn't flee."

  "We will look for any postern gates." Edmond agreed. "He won't escape unless he already did."

  Jonson, who was supposed to be with the reserves at the rearguard, arrived on horseback sooner than Masolon had expected. "Your Grace." Despite their unmistakable victory at the walls, Jonson looked concerned when he dismounted and hurried to Masolon. "I don't want to mess with our soldiers' morale." His voice was low. "But we have an urgent message from Ramos."