“I believe destiny has sent you to me for some good reason.” Masolon grinned as he mounted his horse. “Now tell me about the majestic Murasen desert and its legendary immortal Ghosts.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
MASOLON
The tavern was noisy and crowded when Masolon entered with Ziyad. Even among this throng, Antram’s bald head was unmistakable.
Masolon introduced them to each other. “Ziyad, a wandering musician and bard from Murase. Antram, a veteran Contest fighter from Bermania.”
“A veteran Contest fighter?” Ziyad grinned. “The whores of Durberg will love that!”
Masolon noticed the awkward look on Antram’s face. “My friend has a different taste in women.” He squeezed Antram’s shoulder, trying to lighten the atmosphere a little bit.
“No way!” Ziyad teased. “Who can resist Rusakian blondes?”
“I’m sure they can resist you,” Antram said.
“Interested in earning some gold, Antram?” Masolon said. It was time to get to the main subject.
Antram was interested, no doubt. Masolon could see that in his anticipating eyes. “Gold, you said?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Kahora.”
Antram glanced at Ziyad. “What did he tell you?”
Masolon nodded toward Ziyad. “He knows someone who needs capable warriors to protect his caravans.”
“The Master of the Merchants’ Guild,” Ziyad added. “I didn’t say I knew him in person. But I know how to reach him.”
Antram looked skeptical, chewing his lip in thought. “Gold is worth the risk,” he said after a moment. “I’m in.”
“I do not think this can be worse than following the Contests,” Masolon teased the bald fellow.
Antram grinned. “When will we travel?”
“As soon as we finish our business in Horstad,” said Masolon. “Someone there might be interested in joining us.”
“Horstad? Are you bringing Skandivians?” Ziyad asked curiously. “They could be the finest footmen in Gorania, but they won’t be useful in the Murasen desert. We need horsemen, brother.”
“Exactly. That is why they are not Skandivians, brother.” Masolon winked. “At first light, you depart for Kahora. By the time we join you there, you will have arranged with that Guild Master.”
“First light?” Ziyad tapped his fingers on the table. “It’s time to have some sleep then.”
“We should all get some rest,” Masolon agreed. “Let us go.”
The three fellows headed upstairs to their chambers. Masolon stopped in the corridor when he found two men helping a severely injured man enter his room, bandages wrapped around his shoulders, arms, left leg, and most of his face.
“What is it?” Ziyad asked.
“I think I know this fellow.” Masolon followed the two men with his eyes through the open chamber door, watching them lay the injured man on his bed. After they had left the room, Masolon entered to confirm his doubts.
“Blanich?” Masolon asked in a low voice. “Can you hear me?”
The injured fellow turned his covered face toward him. “Masolon?” Blanich said weakly. “We didn’t have our duel after all.”
“Maybe in another tournament.”
“This is not what the healer told me. My limbs will never again be the same as before.”
“That is not his decision.” Masolon shook his head disapprovingly. “I know a veteran healer in Kahora. He must see you.”
Although most of Blanich’s face was hidden, despair was obvious in his eyes. “I appreciate your concern, Masolon,” Blanich sighed, “but I am afraid it’s of no use now.”
“You have nothing to lose if you go.” Masolon glanced at Ziyad and Antram, who stood by the doorstep. “I will send you with my friend Ziyad. He is leaving to Kahora tomorrow.”
Blanich paused for a moment before his eyes betrayed his surrender. “I don’t know what I could do to return the favor.”
“Nothing.” Masolon tightened his jaw and left the room.
Once the door was closed behind him Ziyad said, “Our plans didn’t include your broken friend.”
“Now it does,” Masolon stated. “Will you be able to find Bumar the healer?”
“Kahora is my mother, Masolon. Now I must run away before you give me another task.” Ziyad grinned and headed to his chamber. “See you in Kahora, brothers.” His voice rang in the quiet corridor before he slammed the door of his room shut.
“I don’t know why you brought this fellow with you,” said Antram, staring at Ziyad’s closed chamber door.
“Do not let his rants deceive you. His swordplay is lethal, and his mind is sharper than his blade.”
Antram shook his head with a nervous smile. “You always have a point, Masolon. But sometimes I feel I’m not quite sure I understand your plans.”
“There are no plans,” Masolon replied. “We just do what we are destined to do.”
“Destined? Don’t we have a choice in what we do?”
“Of course we have a choice.”
“No, we don’t. Can I choose to become a merchant like your friend Galardi?”
“No, you cannot.” Masolon unsheathed his sword, raising its blade before Antram’s eyes. “Men like you and I know no way to make a living except with this blade. But we choose not to be outlaws, and we are comfortable with that.” Masolon studied his friend’s face. “Unless you still miss your old friends who raised you up.”
“You’re not serious.” Antram wrinkled his forehead. “Now what are you going to do with that fighters’ master Ramel?”
Ramel wouldn’t be happy about the whole notion, Masolon knew. Not after those months in the Pit. “I will tell him. But not before we make sure we have—”
“Are you done blabbering, you two?” an angry voice came out of one of the rooms. A resident open his door and yelled, “We’re trying to get some sleep here, you—”
The angry man froze the moment he saw Masolon and Antram, two towering men blocking the corridor. “Never mind.” He retreated to his chamber, slamming the door behind him.
“Speaking of choice,” Masolon chuckled, nodding toward the door of the angry man’s room, “that fellow has just done the right thing.” He patted Antram on the shoulder. “We shall move at dawn to Horstad. Sleep well.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
MASOLON
Except for a few dogs barking every now and then, no one was about when Masolon and Antram arrived in Horstad. All doors and windows were shut. The whole village appeared to be asleep until four armored men appeared from four directions to surround the two unexpected guests.
“Stand down, fellows.” Masolon gestured with open hands. “I am Masolon, and this is my friend Antram. We are looking for Frankil.”
“You came back, Masolon.” Clad in his plated armor, Frankil approached from behind him. “And you brought someone else with you to join us.”
Masolon gave Frankil a wide grin. “Actually, it is you and your friends who will join us.”
Frankil arched an eyebrow. “I’m curious now. Come with me.”
Masolon and Antram followed Frankil until they reached another group of four knights sitting by a campfire.
“I remember this fellow.” A black-haired knight pointed his finger at Masolon. But Masolon didn’t remember him. The only one he had talked to was Frankil.
“I told you he would come back, Bergum.” Frankil motioned Masolon and Antram to join the ring. “I’m listening,” he told Masolon, who sat next to him.
“Alright then,” said Masolon. “You and your friends have chosen to desert your home for a noble cause. Would it matter if you fulfill your mission somewhere else? Away from Horstad?”
Frankil seemed to be weighing Masolon’s words. “Horstad needs us,” he said.
“How many people live in this village? A hundred? I know thousands of people who need your help. Our help.”
“Thousands? Counting you and your friend, we are barely a dozen.”
“The strength of our enemy is not in the numbers. It is in the reputation. No one dares to raise a blade against them, but we will.”
“Our enemy? We will?” Bergum chuckled mockingly. “Are we one band already?”
“Bergum, not now please,” Frankil rebuked his friend.
“Listen, brother. I’m not ready for another journey to fight for some people I don’t know,” Bergum announced. “The people of Horstad know us, and they are kind enough to give us the food they can spare.”
“The people we will go to pay in gold,” Masolon addressed Bergum, glancing at Frankil. Gold had persuaded Ziyad and Antram. Gold would persuade anybody.
“I may change my mind.” The right side of Bergum’s mouth quirked upward.
“We are not mercenaries.” Frankil glared at Bergum then turned to Masolon. “I will never let anyone dictate who I should kill because he pays me, Masolon. I told you I would never spill an innocent’s blood with my blade.”
“You can refuse the gold if you want,” said Masolon. “But do you have a problem in slaying some Ghosts?”
Frankil shot Masolon an inquiring look.
“You don’t mean the Ghosts of the Murasen deserts, do you?” a red-haired knight next to Bergum asked.
“Don’t be a fool, Danis,” Bergum teased. “Ghosts only exist in your nightmares.”
“Obviously, someone in Kahora disagrees with you,” Antram spoke at last, addressing Bergum. “And he’s ready to pay in gold for those who would kill the Ghosts that don’t exist.”
“I heard you can’t see them when they attack because they attack in the dark,” said Danis. “And the beasts they ride don’t leave tracks on the ground because they don’t gallop, they fly, for real.”
Masolon’s eyes were on Frankil. The captain wasn’t happy about what he was hearing. “Those Ghosts could be demonic or men of flesh and blood like us,” said Masolon. “But the fact we know is that they do exist, and no one has even dared to face them. We can. And we will defeat them.”
“Don’t they have competent fighters in Murase?” Frankil asked doubtfully.
“Don’t they have competent fighters in Skandivia to protect this village?” Masolon countered.
“The lords might have abandoned their subjects, but I won’t.”
“I am not asking you to abandon anybody.”
“You’re asking me to leave Horstad.”
“They are Skandivians, Captain!” Masolon chuckled. “Peasants or not, fighting runs in their blood. I am sure we can teach them how to defend themselves.”
Frankil gazed at the fire for a moment then said, “You seemed reluctant when I asked you to join us. Now you’re determined to travel to the end of Gorania to do exactly what I asked you to do here. Does gold matter that much to you?”
“I have seen what hunger does to good men, Frankil.” Masolon glanced at Bergum. “If that gold prevents me from turning into an outlaw, then yes, it matters that much to me.”
Frankil exchanged a look with his fellow knights. “We’ve sworn to stay as one party. So either we all stay here in Horstad or we all ride to Kahora. What do you say, brothers?”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
FERAS
On horseback, Feras glanced at the thousands of Murasen troops that had followed him and his lord uncle to the mountains of Sergrad at the eastern borders of the Byzont Kingdom.
“I believe we should stop here, Lord Munzir,” Feras suggested.
“Why should we?” Munzir asked. “According to our scouts, those scared Byzonts are trembling behind the walls of the castle of Sergrad.”
Deep inside, Feras cursed the day King Rasheed had sent him with his uncle to deter the advancing Byzont troops. He hadn’t felt good about the news of the enemy marching toward Kahora. “Still hard for me to believe that Byzonts would dare to venture into our lands,” he said, his full armor rattling with his horse’s trot. “They haven’t raised enough cavalry since their glorious defeat against the Bermanians. They know their swordsmen will be crushed under the hooves of our memluks’ horses.”
“We are marching by the King’s orders,” Munzir snarled.
Feras exhaled, trying not to react to his uncle’s aggressive tone. “The king gave his orders based on Lord Memot’s information.” He knew how Memot's name could boil the blood in his uncle’s veins; the fruit of three decades of rivalry between the two veteran lords. “Besides,” Feras pulled the reins of his warhorse, gazing at the mountains ahead, “our orders were to stop the advancing enemy troops, not invade their lands. We have reached the mountains of Sergrad, and no sight of a Byzont helm.”
Thousands of hooves and boots halted. Feras could see the fury in his uncle’s eyes.
“I didn’t give you the permission to stop, Feras!” Munzir growled.
“If I were the Byzonts’ leader, I would ambush the memluks in the bumpy terrain at the foot of these mountains. It will be the best battlefield to slaughter the Murasen cavalry.”
Munzir wheeled his horse, facing Feras’s. “This is my army. I am the one who says march, I am the one who says halt!”
“As you say, milord.” Feras gritted his teeth.
Munzir wheeled his horse toward the mountains once more, the horde resuming their march following their leader. Feras spurred his stallion onward as well, keeping his eyes on the mountaintops. He glimpsed a figure up there, didn’t he?
“Take cover!” Feras screamed when the figures became too many. One moment later, hundreds of arrows were falling upon his troops.
The Byzont archers positioned up the last mountain were hunting his men. Deprived of a leveled terrain to deploy powerful cavalry charges, the weakened Murasen army engaged six thousand Byzont swordsmen, Feras estimated. The Byzont heavy infantry was crushing the crippled Murasen memluks.
Noticing the muddle of his uncle, who was desperate to find a way out of this trap, Feras took the lead of the outnumbered Murasen infantry and tried to boost their morale. His remaining troops would be completely vanquished if he didn’t wipe out those Byzont sharpshooters. And to do so, he should isolate the Byzonts’ infantry at the mountain foot from their archers at the top.
“Spearmen! Wall formation! No one shall pass!” Feras ordered, his spearmen standing in front of him shoulder to shoulder, their weapons and shields held toward the Byzont swordsmen. With no rush the spearmen advanced together, maintaining their defensive formation. The Byzont infantry charged, their swords clanging against Murasen shields. “Stab!” As one unit, the aligned Murasens thrust their spears through the attackers’ trunks and limbs. Swiftly they restored their wall positioning, their shields blocking the Byzont blades from breaking the Murasen line. The Byzonts didn’t give up and charged more than once, but the spearmen didn’t falter. Shield then stab; that was what they were trained to do.
After making sure his spearmen were holding their ground, Feras hollered to his swordsmen, “Follow me! Let’s slaughter those dogs!”
Slaughtering those dogs meant facing a heavy shower of arrows before reaching the top of the mountain they were scaling. Cries of his shot soldiers reached his ears, but he didn’t stop or even turn his eyes toward those cries until he reached his destination.
“Finish them off!” he growled, charging at the closest archer to him. As his men thronged the mountaintop, the enemy’s archers were crushed. But the cost was heavy. After one hour of fighting, and less than another half-hour of climbing, Feras realized he had lost nearly one-third of his swordsmen in that raid.
He still had eighty Murasen archers at the rearguard at the mountain foot. “To the top!” he yelled. His archers hurried up the mountain to take their positions and impede the Byzonts’ advance.
“Shoot at will!” Tides of the battle were changing. The Murasen archers at the top were not numerous, yet they were sufficient to hold more Byzonts from advancing. Feras and his remaining swordsmen
hastened down the mountain to aid their spearmen, where the wall they had formed was starting to fall apart and wouldn’t be able to hold their ground much longer. As he charged with his infantry, the Byzonts fell back. They retreated even more, to get away from his archers’ range.
“Stand your ground!” Feras commanded. His men were too exhausted to pursue the Byzonts behind the mountain. Another trap might be waiting for them there.
Looking back, Feras contemplated the battlefield crammed with thousands of corpses from both sides. It was hard to say who had won today. The Byzonts wouldn't come out of their defensive position behind the mountain, and his broken army wouldn't be able to advance beyond this point. “Bury the dead and take the wounded out of here,” he ordered his men. “We are returning to Kahora.”
“You cannot give such an order without my permission, Lord Feras,” his lord uncle dared to say.
“We are done here.”
“We are done only when we achieve victory.”
Feras took off his helm and tossed it on the ground at his uncle's feet. “Then go and achieve this victory yourself.” He stalked past his stunned uncle.
“Feras! I didn’t give you my permission to leave the battlefield!”
Feras ignored him and swung up into his saddle.
“Feras! You can’t ignore an order from a senior lord! There will be consequences for that!”
Consequences? Like what? Telling King Rasheed? So be it. Let him tell King Rasheed that his nephew had ignored him in front of his men. In return, Feras would tell the king about his uncle’s “leadership” on the battlefield that had almost led them to a massacre. Maybe Feras had gone a bit far in showing disrespect to his lord uncle, but nothing would make him regret it. From now on, he would never obey a fool on a battlefield. Especially if it was Lord Munzir.
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