I will catch up with you after I'm done with those bastards. From the numbers of torches she spotted in the darkness behind her, she knew that her captain had lied.
10. MASOLON
Masolon knew that Gramus would return. That general with his wounded pride would bring more soldiers and probably siege equipment to breach the palisade wall of Herlog. The next battle would be much tougher.
Leaving a few men at the walls to watch their back, Masolon took most of his army outside the village and split them into two groups: one to collect all reusable items from the battlefield, and another to dig a big hole to bury all dead soldiers. "Do not leave anything," Masolon commanded. "Even their armors."
"We are not going to strip them off their outfits, are we?" one of the villagers protested.
"Feeling shy?" Masolon snapped, pointing to the other group busy digging the hole to bury the dead bodies. "Go and give them a hand."
Masolon wished fervently he would not need to use those armors. It would be a crushing defeat if his pathetic troops fought Gramus's regular soldiers face to face. Those armors had better be used to trade in for some new arrows.
"Why are we concerning ourselves with their dead bodies?" Ben bent to collect an arrow, glancing at the other team of diggers. "Their fellows may come to take them."
"They may come, and they may not." Masolon nodded toward the woods ahead. "When those corpses rot, they will harm no one but us."
Dusk was nearing, and neither of the two groups had finished their task yet. Masolon ordered for torches to light the place. "We have to use arrows more wisely the next time." Masolon curled his lips, frustrated after he had pulled thirty arrows out of the ground. "This is not what I meant when I said: shoot at the masses!"
"It was just the first battle shock." Ben smiled guiltily. "It won't happen again."
Masolon should ask for more than Ben's promise. In the current situation, the lad was one of the most capable soldiers in Masolon's party. The young Herlogan possessed a fearless heart, an iron will, yet he still needed much work to forge a real warrior out of him.
When Masolon eyed Maat, he realized he had not seen the arrogant lad this morning. "Maat!" Masolon called out. "Where have you been?"
Carrying some swords he collected, Maat turned to Masolon. "Me? I. . . I was defending the western side." The hesitation in his tone aroused Masolon's suspicions.
Masolon laid the arrows on the ground and approached the lad. "Listen, Maat." Masolon lowered his voice, still keeping it firm. "You did not come to help last night while we were reinforcing the gate, so I expected to see you on the frontline. I do not know if you joined the battle later, but I am quite sure you were not there when the attack started."
Maat bit his lower lip for a moment. "I stayed awake last night, so I woke up a bit late."
"You were drunk again, were you not?"
Maat let out a deep breath. "I don't know how to say this, Masolon, but I was really nervous. I needed something to calm me down and that's it. I swear it wasn't my intention to miss the fight."
Masolon was surprised. Candidness was not one of Maat's celebrated virtues.
"I hope we do not have to discuss this issue again." Masolon shot Maat a warning a look. "Do I have to remind you that we need all capable arms in this grave situation?"
Maat sighed. "No need to give me a speech. I understand."
Masolon left Maat before he might punch the lad in the face. He could have been my finest soldier in the coming battle, Masolon thought. Both Maat and Ben were tall with muscular arms, yet the former was more agile and ferocious in hand-to-hand combat. Masolon would have trained him to make a real warrior of him, but the irresponsible lad was not worth it.
"Intruders, coming from the forest!" Edd was doing his favorite job, yelling. "Arm yourselves!"
Masolon was expecting another attack, but he did not expect it that soon. Gazing at the woods, he spied a band of about thirty horsemen led by a heavily armored knight.
"Regroup!" Masolon waved to his men. "Stand all together!" His party outnumbered the approaching intruders, but they were on foot against a band of cavalry. That was going to be a tough test for Masolon's army.
"They are not charging," Ben pointed out, not the only one surprised. "Is this a caravan?"
"You fool." Maat curled his lips. "They are bringing carts to carry the dead bodies they recover."
The carts are full already. They are not here for the bodies. Masolon kept his thoughts for himself as he squinted at the approaching horde. He could recognize a few horsemen from their frames, particularly the three at the front. "Hold!" He lifted his arm, turning to the few archers at the wall behind him. "Do not shoot!"
"Masolon! You didn't think you could get rid of us for good, did you?"
That boisterous, ringing voice.
That rough laughter from the other bald fellow.
That Bermanian knight whose helm always hid his face.
"This is unbelievable!" Masolon grinned, shaking his head. Sometimes it was hard to comprehend the arrangements of destiny.
"What's the matter, Masolon?" Ben wondered. "Who are those men?"
Still elated by the sight of his companions, sorely missed for so long, Masolon answered Ben without looking at him, "Previously, you had one demon." He nodded toward the approaching horde. "Now, you have a whole gang of demons."
* * *
For some time, Masolon had thought he would never see them again. Now, they were all sitting around the campfire for warmth, like the good old nights of the hill outside Kahora. Frankil laid his helm on his thigh, revealing his deep-set eyes and his brown hair, which had grown longer than Masolon remembered. Ziyad was clad in a black woolen cloak over a blue embroidered doublet that matched his breeches. His hands were gloved in leather, but that did not prevent him from rubbing them every five seconds.
"You fight with this nice outfit?" Masolon scoffed, nodding toward Ziyad.
"For a whole year, no bandit has dared to interrupt us on the road." Ziyad did not stop rubbing his hands.
"Of course. Bandits worry when they see your fancy doublet." Antram sneered, a black woolen cap covering his bald head. Below his brown leather cloak, he wore a dark-blue woolen shirt and green breeches.
"My fancy doublet won't hinder my movement," Ziyad glanced at Frankil, "like this box of tin."
Antram furrowed his brow, exchanging a look with Frankil, who remained unbothered and untouched by all of this. "Don't mind him." Frankil turned to Masolon. "Where is that lamb you promised us? Herlogans are not renowned for starving their guests."
Masolon chuckled. "You are not the type of guests we were expecting." He gazed at the rest of the men accompanying the caravan. Bergum and the red-haired Danis were negotiating with some Herlogans, probably trying to get a good bargain for their dinner. "What could be the awkward coincidence that might bring you here?" Masolon teased his three brothers.
"Coincidence?" Ziyad curled his forehead. "You really underestimate us."
"What do you think we are?" Antram scowled. "Novices like that Murasen fellow?"
Masolon snickered at their banter. He knew it was not a mere coincidence, and he was curious to know how they found him. "I left no trace to follow," Masolon prompted, his eyes on Frankil. His two other brothers might jest about his question the whole night without giving an answer that made any sense.
"Gorania is too small for you to hide in, my friend." Frankil grinned. "Travelers heading to or passing by Ramos are entertained by tales of the Demon of Herlog whenever they rest in a tavern on the road."
Masolon had thought his tales were only told in Herlog and maybe occasionally in nearby villages. "No one knows who the Demon is." Except for most of the peasants of Herlog.
"I never heard of a demon fighting outlaws."
Ziyad gazed at the palisade wall. "Or turns a village into a fort."
"Maybe demons are not that evil as we were told." Without me, you are nothing but a dull mass of muscl
es, the words rang in Masolon's mind. Was that a memory he recalled or was it his demon talking to him right now?
Two girls carrying a large cooking pot were coming to them. "Need a hand, ladies?" Ziyad pushed to his feet and helped them place the pot over the fire. "Well, well, well. What do we have here?" He examined the pot’s contents, rubbing his hand. Masolon was sure that Ziyad knew exactly what he did have here, but his playful fellow never changed.
"Skinned lamb pieces." One of the girls smiled, looking from Ziyad to her Herlogan sister. "But it's still raw. We will bring you some salt and parsley to cook it."
"Salt and parsley and that's all? No, no, no. Let me show you how you stew a lamb in the Murasen way." Ziyad took the two giggling girls by their hands as he walked away with them. "Tell me: where do you keep your spices?"
"Ziyad!" Masolon gave his fellow a warning look.
"Nothing to worry about, brother." Ziyad chuckled. "I'm just making sure we all have a nice warm meal."
"He won't dare to mess around," Frankil reassured Masolon. "After the time I have spent with Ziyad I can tell you he is nothing but a big mouth."
Masolon glanced at Ziyad and the two girls one last time before the village swallowed them, still he could hear the girls' giggles. Hopefully, I do not have to impale him too, Masolon wished, looking warily at the boiling pot. "That lamb will bring him back, brother." Antram nodded toward the pot. "He knows that my fist will be waiting for his jaw if he ruins my dinner."
"That is more convincing." Masolon laughed and so did Frankil. After that nobody said a word, and for a few moments no sound was heard except the bubbling sounds of the water boiling in the pot. The looks on their faces betrayed their longing for the good old days, when they were the kings of the Murasen desert. "So, you are guarding caravans now." Masolon looked between Frankil and Antram. "What happened to the Gang?"
Antram gave Frankil a lopsided smile, as if inviting him to talk. "The Gang exists no more," said Frankil. "It was dismantled upon the orders of Lord Feras, King Rasheed's brother-in-law."
The King's brother-in-law! Blast! Masolon could not help blowing out a heated breath. He had known about Sania's marriage even before he left the Murasen Kingdom, but still the weight of the news was heavy on his heart.
Frankil and Antram were staring at him, Masolon noticed. Did they know anything about him and Sania? Were they told of his failed attempt to elope with the Queen of Murase?
"How did you receive Feras's order? Did you face any trouble?" Masolon should be ashamed of himself for involving his friends in his own problems. But if truth be told, he was asking not out of guilt; he was eager to know if his tale with his Murasen girl was exposed.
"Don't worry. The Murasen lord made the issue easier for us by leaving us no options," said Frankil, a hint of scorn in his voice. "With five hundred men besieging our hill, we simply agreed to comply with his order. My brothers-in-arms, as well as Antram and Ziyad, traveled to Kalensi. We found your merchant friend Galardi, who seemed glad to hire us as guards for one of his caravans." Frankil glanced at his men who were busy chattering, eating, or trading with the peasants of Herlog. "It's a noble profession after all, and the Skandivian merchant pays well. Everybody is happy."
Nothing in this tale hinted at Masolon or his Murasen girl. Did Frankil tell him everything he knew?
"Are you going to let us understand what on earth has happened?" Antram asked, his wide eyes fixated on Masolon. "We deserve an explanation at least."
They did not know, Masolon reflected, but they knew he was behind Feras's decision somehow. Was it wise to reveal the reason why Masolon was banished from Murase for good? What are you afraid of, Masolon? You are out of Feras's reach. But what about Sania? One wrong word might travel to the wrong ear in Kahora and put the Murasen queen at risk or shame her.
"I can't believe it." Antram frowned, not jesting this time. "Aren't you going to tell us? After all we've been through together, brother?"
Frankil gestured to Antram to stop. "Maybe he is not ready now," said Frankil. "Give him some time."
"Ready my arse!" Antram snapped. "When would he be ready then, Captain? While he knew my glorious past with the bandits who had raised me after my house had been annihilated, I knew nothing about him, and yet one Contest fight alongside him was enough for me to join his gang. You told me and Ziyad about the brother you killed, and I bet you told Masolon as well." When Frankil smiled, Antram went on, "You told him? If you didn't, he knows now anyway. Now I wonder if he told you anything more than that he had come from lands outside Gorania beyond the Great Desert. Did he tell you why he abandoned his homeland? Or why he abandoned us?"
"Discretion was never my intention, brother." Masolon was not sure if he was even lying about that. "Honestly, I never thought that my past would matter to you. You both have joined me for who I am, not who I was in my homeland."
"Among the rest, I'm the last person who would care about your past, Masolon. I joined you because you seemed like a man with some values, values that were, at least, better than mine. I remember how you rebuked me for considering joining a lord as a mercenary. You were determined not to stain your hands with innocents' blood; that's why I trusted you. I trusted the man I was dealing with, so I felt no need to know your past. I was never interested, I'm still not interested, and I will never be. Yet your discretion feels like an insult to me, brother. I need to feel that you trust me, you trust us, like we did you."
Despite Frankil's faint smile, Masolon did not think he had a different opinion. "I never meant to insult any of you, brothers. It was never a matter of trust," said Masolon. "I am just. . . not used to talking about myself. My people were not very fond of talking. I was a child when I watched my father sever someone's head because he simply did not care to return an insult with another. My father refused to sit with the chieftains of the other clans because, to him, talking was something useless. 'We do not blabber. We fight. We win,’ he told me. That was how my father led the fiercest clan in Ogono.” Masolon allowed himself to smile when his eyes met with Antram's. “If compared with my clansmen, the bandits who raised you were monks.”
Frankil nodded, his lips pressed together. “That's a good start, Masolon. Not enough, I must tell you, but it's better than nothing."
Antram rubbed the nape of his neck. "At that pace, we may know why Feras was so upset with him before we die old."
"Patience is a virtue." Frankil shrugged. "We will have all the time we need. . . after we survive the upcoming battle."
Masolon glimpsed Ziyad coming back with a full basket, onions and carrots on the surface. "You know you do not have to. This is not your fight."
"You are right," Antram teased him. "We should let you die here with those peasants."
"No, he is wrong. This is our fight as well." Ziyad put the basket on the ground next to the campfire. "We are starving because of that new queen who locked the gates of Kalhom. If it hadn't been for her rebellion, we could have replenished our food supplies from the city."
"May we have your attention, now?" Frankil was done with Ziyad and Antram's folly. "This village is about to be stormed by an army of seasoned soldiers." The captain turned to Masolon. "How many men did they send last time?"
Masolon could not stop himself from grinning at Ziyad who simply ignored Frankil's request and started chopping onions with his dagger, throwing them into the boiling pot. "A hundred swordsman, thirty knights, twenty archers or more."
"And they failed in taking this village?" Antram furrowed his brow. "I won't be surprised if they bring siege engines next time. Another Kahora is waiting for us."
"With a major difference." Frankil gestured with his forefinger. "We are behind the walls this time."
"Then, all we have to do is keep them outside the walls, whatever the cost." Antram nodded.
"How many arrows do we have?" Frankil asked Masolon.
"I guess you should worry more about the archers rather than the arrows," Antram addressed Franki
l.
"I am afraid we must worry about both." Masolon crossed his fingers. "If that Gramus attacks us one more time, he will bring at least thrice the troops that attacked us today. If I were him, I would ram these brittle walls from different directions to divert our arrows."
"What about the river behind the village?" Frankil asked.
"The riverside there is high and steep. If they come from that side, and I hope they do, we will have all the time in the world to shower them with our arrows while they are still in their boats, if they have boats in the first place."
"Good. Put two lads there to watch our backs, one at each end of the riverside." Frankil stood, gazing at the whole length of the palisade wall. "With the numbers we have, it will be difficult to defend the entire wall at the same time."
"How many archers do you have here in this village, Masolon?" Ziyad asked, his hands busy with the tomatoes he was slicing. "Excluding us."
"Eighteen," replied Masolon in a low voice. "And do not expect much from them."
"Damned!" Antram let out a deep breath of air. "Are you sure that general is coming back? He has a bigger war to fight, right?"
"His dignity will bring him back here sooner or later," said Masolon. "I will be surprised if he dares to lead his soldiers into a real war after they failed in—"
"Eighteen archers, you say, brother?" Ziyad interrupted, chopping parsley into fine pieces with his dagger.
"Yes."
"They are not enough indeed." Ziyad dusted off his gloved hands. "Unless you have tar in this cursed village."
11. GRAMUS
Sitting alone in his pavilion, Gramus contemplated the reflection of his face on the blade of his war axe. That dark-red line running down his forehead just above his left eyebrow was the first scar on his face. No one had ever reached that high with his blade before.
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