The Warrior's Path

by Karim Soliman

  After he had asked about them Masolon realized the merchants knew Galardi and his father well. It was the son he was looking for, and the son wasn’t there.

  “Most probably he is one day from Themus as we speak,” a merchant told Masolon. “He will spend some time in Byzonta, so he will not be back sooner than two months later.”

  Themus? Two months later! Masolon spread the map to find the city, which lay there in the far southwest of Gorania. Blast! All those days he had spent in Ramel's cursed Pit were for nothing. Masolon's fret about finding new recruits, his arguments with Ramel, his wrangles with Viola; all were for nothing.

  Calm down and come to reason. It is not over. Those two months could yet be gifts from destiny to grant him more time to find the men he was looking for.

  Wake up, Masolon. The merchant must have traveled to Themus with his own army. He does not need you now.

  Now he had to deal with the current situation. Galardi was gone, and only Ramel remained. He should catch up with that Rusakian Contest to give any meaning to his ridiculous training in the Pit.

  Without having any rest, Masolon left Kalensi and followed the road to Durberg. A bunch of travelers told him he had no other alternative than going by the coast if he wanted to take part in that Contest. But he must be cautious in order not to attract the coastal raiders’ attention.

  “There are two ways to pass through the deadly coast of the Northern Gulf,” said one of the travelers. “You go there with an army that no one dares to follow. Or you go there on your own and pray the bastards don’t notice you.”

  Days went by too fast. As Masolon approached a village called Horstad near the Skandivian coast, he was sure he wouldn’t reach his destination on time. Only two days remained.

  The thick smell of brine saturated his nose, making him feel nervous as he was passing through the coast of the Northern Gulf, yet his dire need of sleep was stronger. Half an hour later, he gave in when he reached the coast. He hid himself and his horse behind the trees to have some rest.

  It hadn’t been too long before his eyes suddenly opened. He was sure he had heard something. When he pushed himself to his feet to hurry to his horse, a thrown axe intercepted his way, missing his nose by a hair. He dodged two more thrown axes, accompanied by roars of attackers coming from the woods. Raising his head, Masolon saw two raiders sprinting toward his hideout. They were getting so close that he shot only one of them dead with his bow before he slew the second with his sword. He looked behind the trees to make sure it was over, but it was not. Four more men were charging at him.

  “A deadly practice session indeed, Ramel,” Masolon muttered.

  He charged ferociously, swinging both his sword and shield, felling two of his opponents; one dead and the other with a broken jaw. With his blade, he blocked the axe of the third raider while hitting the fourth attacker in his nose with the edge of his shield. He returned to the third raider, hammering his head with the same shield and finishing him with his sword. Masolon then faced the raider with the broken jaw and slashed his neck. Only the one with the blown nose remained.

  “Come on, scum!” Masolon growled.

  The last opponent bellowed with fury and lunged forward. Masolon fluidly parried him with his shield before he struck him dead in the heart.

  “Does anyone else wish to die tonight?” Masolon roared at the vast valley ahead of him. His arm was slightly wounded after that encounter.

  “Crush him!” a cry came from behind. Masolon found a dozen men sprinting toward him, blocking his way back to his tied horse. If they ringed him, he would definitely be doomed. In two heartbeats, he shot two men dead, and before he nocked the third arrow onto the bowstring, he heard the whinnies of horses coming from behind the raiders. Masolon eyed the nine horsemen galloping toward him.

  To his surprise, the horsemen charged at the raiders, sweeping them out of their path. Nine blades reaped twelve wicked souls, not a single strike wasted. Those horsemen must have done that thousands of times before.

  Masolon’s rescuers were not Skandivians. From what he had learned in the Pit about Goranian kingdoms, he could tell from the lion sigil on their breastplates that they were Bermanian knights. One of them approached Masolon and took off his helm, revealing his short brown hair and deep set brown eyes.

  “It’s unwise to make noise in a deadly place like this one,” said the knight. “However, this helped us hear you. What do they call you?”

  “They call me Masolon.” And sometimes the Foreigner. “I am grateful for your coming.”

  “We are the coast watchmen, and I’m Frankil.” The knight turned his eyes toward the corpses of the raiders Masolon had slain. “You defeated eight men on your own.” Frankil looked impressed. “We may need someone like you.”

  “Someone like me to do what?”

  “To protect the helpless people of these lands and punish the likes of those bastards who attacked you,” said Frankil.

  “That is the job of the lord of these lands, not mine.”

  Frankil grinned and exchanged a quick look with the nearest knight to him. “The lord of these lands is a bit occupied these days. In fact, he has been so for a year, leaving his subjects barehanded against outlaws. That’s why we decided to stand for those helpless people. Currently, we are short of men. I’ll be glad if I find a capable warrior to join us as we have lost two fine knights already in this noble mission.”

  Masolon glanced at the lion sigil on Frankil’s Bermanian armor. “You and your men are far from home. May I know what brought you here?”

  Frankil exchanged another look with the same knight before responding. “I used to be a cavalry captain in Ramos.” Frankil sighed. “I lost that in a moment of foolishness. There is nothing to stay home for.”

  “Losing your title is not worth abandoning your home.”

  “Losing your title is nothing when compared to losing your brother.” Frankil’s eyes didn’t evade Masolon’s. “When I saw his blood flooding the floor, I realized that I lost myself as well.”

  Memories of a burned out house crossed Masolon’s mind for a moment. He knew how it felt to lose his loved ones while standing helpless, watching them meet their destiny. “Blaming yourself will not bring him back.”

  “It could be easy to stop blaming myself,” Frankil said, “if it wasn't me who slew my brother with his own blade.”

  Another kinslayer seeking redemption from the worst sin of all. Masolon did his best to hide his smile as he nodded. “I see now. This is your exile.”

  “I’m not exiled,” Frankil explained. “Nobody knew it was me. But I never dared to face my family after that rainy night. I was drunk, but the sight of his corpse roused me. At that very night, I decided to leave Ramos and all Bermania for good. I swore I would never spill an innocent’s blood with my blade.”

  Another wanderer, another tale. Staying away from home was part of being Goranian, it was too plain now.

  “So, are you with us or not?” Frankil asked.

  “I will think about it later. For the time being, I have some matters to take care of.” After mounting his horse, Masolon turned to Frankil and his knights. “Why do you not do those peasants a favor and teach them how to defend themselves? You nine are seasoned warriors.”

  Frankil rubbed his head for a moment. “Sounds like a good idea. It would sound better if you helped us in this.”

  Masolon’s answer was a smile and a head shake.

  “Don’t you have any debts you wish to release your soul from?” Frankil asked.

  “I will be indebted to someone if I do not leave now.” Masolon held the reins of his horse, kicking its flanks to start cantering.

  “We will meet again, Masolon,” Frankil’s voice came from behind Masolon.

  I know we will. We must.

  Masolon’s horse galloped, the trees around him becoming shorter and more scattered as he was getting away from the bloody coast. To avoid falling into ambush one more time, his eyes kept scanning t
he field ahead, his mind still there with Frankil and his knights. Their path was similar to what he was seeking. No, it was what he was seeking.

  If only he had met them earlier…

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  MASOLON

  Masolon shivered as he reached Durberg, the City of Ice that lay in the north of the Rusakian Kingdom. His shoulders were freezing as if the snow was falling on his bare skin, not on the woolen coat Ramel had given him. He had never seen snow in his village, unlike the Rusakians who seemed to be very familiar with snow much more than sunlight.

  There was no need to ask where the amphitheater was. Like the Byzont bees, the Rusakians were heading toward the same destination. But those Rusakians bees were hindering him in the narrow streets of Durberg, and he was running out of time.

  “Out of the way!” Masolon demanded, yet not a single person bothered to make way for him. When he spurred his black horse into a canter, they realized he wasn’t messing with them. Ignoring their insults and protests, he kept moving until he saw the magnificent amphitheater ahead. His ride was almost over.

  A spearman suddenly appeared in his way. “You! Halt!” The Rusakian guard advanced, holding his spear toward the cantering stallion.

  Masolon pulled the reins, stopping his horse just in front of the reckless guard.

  “Are you insane?” the guard exclaimed. “You could have killed somebody!”

  “Forgive my foolishness, sir. I am a stranger who needs to catch the Contest.” Masolon kept his tone as quiet as he could, not seeking trouble at the moment.

  “If you are telling the truth, then you are late.” The guard pointed the spearhead at Masolon’s chest. “You will hardly find a spot to watch from. People are filling the arena already.”

  “I am here to participate, not to watch.”

  “I should arrest you for your foolishness.” The guard lowered his spear, looking around. “Listen, I’ll let you go, but you must do me a favor.” He produced three silver coins from his pocket. “I am not allowed to enter the arena on duty. Take this silver and put a bet for me on Vaknus. If you don't find me at the gates, ask where Androvsky is.”

  Masolon was hesitant to take this fool’s silver. “Is the reward worth the risk of giving your silver to someone you just met?”

  “It is worth killing you if you think of fooling me.” The guard pushed the silver coins into Masolon’s hand. “Make no mistake; the guards at the gates will never let you leave the city until they know that Androvsky's debt is paid.”

  “I travelled hundreds of miles to win this.” Masolon winked as he slapped his horse to move, the guard making way for him. “I guess you will kill me anyway.”

  The remaining distance was short, but the street leading to the amphitheater was getting more crowded as Masolon approached his destination. Blast! Ramel could be there already. What should he tell him if Ramel saw him just arriving?

  Masolon dismounted when he spotted a tavern opposite the amphitheater. He tied his horse to the wooden fence and sprinted toward the arena. Inside the arena was a mess. The corridors were too narrow to accommodate all those bees, everyone yelling and cursing and pushing. Two men started a quarrel that escalated into a fight with fists and kicks. The flock stopped moving forward as more men hurried to separate the two angry men. After a few minutes, the throng resumed their slow march until Masolon found himself in the open seats area. Now he had to move in the opposite direction of this crowd to find the damned master of this Contest. “Where do you think you are going, you fool?” Masolon ignored harsher statements as he pushed his way back through the endless masses. A slender hand grabbed him by the arm.

  “The first corridor to the right, second chamber downstairs.” The young woman leaned toward him, and it took him a moment to realize it was Viola.

  “I did not enlist my—”

  “I did. Go now.”

  Masolon didn’t like the glare she gave him, but he had no time to waste with her. Following her directions, he went downstairs and found his seven fellow fighters in the second chamber. A team of eight men would be battling another team of the same size. That was going to be a real mess.

  A lad called them to move out to the ring. Masolon and his fellow fighters went through a dimly lit tunnel that took them upward to the center of the show. The herald approached them, followed by two lads pulling an unsaddled horse by its reins.

  “Line up,” the herald demanded, then he counted them. “You,” he gestured to Masolon, “on horseback.”

  An unsaddled horse as in the old days of Ogono was presented; Masolon wouldn’t ask for more.

  The lads handed Masolon a lance after he mounted the horse. “Don’t start before the horns!” the herald warned as he scurried to the opposite side of the ring where their adversary team lined up. Another horse was brought to them.

  “No need to remind you, fellows.” Masolon’s eyes were fixed on the herald, who was still giving the other team his instructions. “Their horseman is mine.”

  The herald and his lads left the ring, and after one minute, the horns were blown.

  “Charge!” Masolon shouted, spurring his horse onward toward his counterpart. As Ramel had taught him, Masolon hauled the lance and waited for the right moment to drive the wooden thing into his opponent’s chest. Howling with pain, the horseman fell to the ground.

  Masolon wheeled his horse and helped his fellows finish their opponents. “Out of my way!” he yelled at his men so as not to hit them with his horse or his hefty weapon. He knocked down four more men, his fellow fighters defeating the remaining three. A crushing victory for Masolon’s team.

  The crowd hailed the winners of this round as they were leaving the field. “They love you, foreigner.” A fellow fighter nudged Masolon, nodding toward the clamoring spectators who waved to him. Some of them even rose to their feet, yelling incomprehensible words.

  “What do they say?” Masolon asked.

  “Prava, neznakomits.” His fellow fighter grinned. “They still stick to their ancient tongue in some parts of Rusakia.”

  Whatever 'prava nenzakomits' meant. Those maggots were taking these stupid fights more seriously than they should. Masolon had slain hundreds of men in real fights in his homeland, but no one had cheered for him. In Ogono, fighting was a bloody duty, not a silly game.

  Round after round, whether on foot or on horseback, Masolon knocked down whoever stood in his way, earning the crowd's applause at the end of each fight. When dusk came, the herald announced the end of today's fights. All those people should come the next morning if they wanted to know who would become the Champion of Durberg. More chants for you tomorrow, Masolon. He had to admit to himself that he was starting to like those chants.

  While exiting the amphitheater, he found Viola waiting for him outside. “That was a good performance,” she said. “Survive the coming fight and reach the final round.”

  “Survive?” Masolon smirked. “What were you watching exactly?”

  “Ah! I didn’t tell you?” Viola smiled wickedly. “Your next encounter is against Artony and Vaknus. Together.”

  ***

  The sky was clear that evening when Masolon went to the tavern for a drink. There, he found a familiar bald head.

  “Antram!” Masolon called. “I was wondering when I would see you.”

  “I told you before, just follow the Contests.” Antram gestured to Masolon to join him at his table.

  “How did things go with you in this one?” Masolon asked after taking a seat.

  “I lost to a lucky bastard last round. My lance was so greasy it slipped from my hand.” That bald fellow would never admit that someone else had outdone him. “He is your fellow fighter in the next round. I heard you will be facing Vaknus and Artony.” Antram took a gulp of ale. “I heard also that you crushed every opponent you faced.”

  “It was my lucky day.” Masolon smiled, leaning back to his seat.

  Antram looked around cautiously before he spoke. “I have news
from Bermania. They say Lord Di Galio is recruiting volunteers for his army. What do you think?”

  “I am not sure, Antram.” Masolon recalled his conversation with Frankil. “I hope he is a worthy lord as you have been seeking.”

  “In Gorania, a lord who pays in gold is a worthy one to join. Gold is good.”

  “Does he deserve you to die for him?”

  “I don’t care how noble the cause he fights for is. A mercenary follows his lord as long as he pays.” Antram drank half of his drink in a gulp. “What is your problem, Masolon? I didn’t know you were a cleric.”

  “I am no cleric, Antram. I am just a man who wants to earn his gold without staining his blade with forbidden blood. Those knights who followed their lord’s orders and burnt your family alive did not care how noble the cause they were fighting for.” He looked at Antram beseechingly. “Because their lord was a worthy one to follow.”

  Antram bent his head down at that part. After moments of silence, he looked at Masolon. “You may have a point, but what do you suggest? Run for a Contest after the other? Is that it?”

  “Listen, my friend, this land is plagued with outlaws everywhere. Those bastards are who we should raise our blades against,” said Masolon, recalling Frankil’s invitation. “We can do this together, Antram. We will find someone who will reward our services for that.”

  “Forget this blabber for now.” Antram drained the remaining half of his cup with another gulp. “You have a Contest to win tomorrow. I heard that King Bechov will be there and he may honor the winner himself.”

  “And my fellow fighter? The lucky bastard who defeated you, what is his name?”

  “Blanich. I heard somebody in the arena referring to him as the Rusakian noble.”