The Warrior's Path

by Karim Soliman

  “You wench!” the other nomad growled.

  Terrified, she continued her way up until she reached the top. “No!” she screamed. The stairs led her to the top of a keep tower. It was a dead end.

  The last nomad reached the top as well. He drew his sword, scanning her with his eyes like a predator that had cornered his prey. With parapets behind her, the only way out was going past that pig.

  “I don't need this.” He threw his sword aside and carefully approached her. “There is no pleasure in a dead body.”

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-TWO

  MASOLON

  As Blanich had told them, too many nomads were still there in the city, making long columns of their men in the narrow street leading to the palace. Yet Masolon was relieved when he saw they were still outside the palace. Sania was safe so far, and that was the only thing that mattered.

  The archers atop the walls of the palace kept the nomads away by some distance, only a plaza separating them from the main gate. If Masolon pushed the nomads to the plaza, they would be in the archers' range.

  Masolon raised his hand to stop his men. “We're giving them a chance to regroup,” Ziyad snapped. A fearless warrior, but sometimes a bit rushed.

  “Look at their numbers,” said Masolon. “In this street, we can only stun a bunch of them before they rally the rest of their men.”

  “So what are we going to do?” Antram asked. “Wait for them to attack us?”

  “We are in no hurry for the time being.” As long as Sania is safe inside the palace. “And Danis has not arrived yet.” Masolon looked back again, but not a sign of the catapult yet.

  A nomad advanced ahead of his horde, gazing at Masolon's army. That was probably their leader, assessing Masolon's troops. The nomad must be wondering what Masolon's army was waiting for too.

  “You brought that from Paril?” Frankil glanced at the new greatsword strapped to Masolon's back.

  “I like its weight and length.” In fact, it reminded Masolon of his father's huge sword, which he had always been eager to wield. Because it could swiftly take a man's life, it was called Erloss; which meant “mercy” in Masolon's native tongue.

  “Most of the Bermanian infantry use it two-handed in their encounters. It will be much more difficult for you to make swift maneuvers with such a hefty blade.”

  “Do not worry, my friend.” Masolon gave Frankil a side-smile. “Just mind your distance when I swing that thing. I do not want to hurt you or your horse with its long blade.”

  The nomad leader roared, hundreds of his men howling, raising their swords behind him.

  “It is happening, brothers!” Masolon bellowed. “Give them nothing but the taste of your steel!” He unstrapped his greatsword, hauling it with one hand, his army answering the nomads with a louder noise. The clash was just starting with a battle of roars. Both sides showed their guts, but no one wanted to be the first to strike. Masolon had his reasons, but he wondered about those nomads. Did they hope that Masolon's army would fall back upon seeing the nomads' numbers? Those fools had no idea.

  “Come on, Masolon,” Ziyad urged. “We can win this, even without that catapult.”

  “I have no doubt,” Masolon said. “But if we have a chance to lay more waste on our enemy, why not do it?”

  The nomads moved at last.

  “Blood and steel!” Masolon spurred his horse onward. “Chaaarge!”

  He held the greatsword horizontally as if he held a lance, kicking his stallion's flanks repeatedly, urging him to gallop before he collided with his first opponent. With this speed, his sword would tear a horse apart with a single strike.

  The nomads' leader rushed toward him. Masolon drove his greatsword right into his chest without touching his horse. With a backhanded swing, he slashed a horse and chopped a nomad's leg. Yes, the weapon was heavy, but with its long reach, Masolon's opponents had no chance to clash swords with him. His greatsword reached them first while they were still extending their arms to make a swing.

  “Catapult!” Cries from behind him announced Danis's arrival. The creaks of the wooden arm reached Masolon's ears when the catapult started hurling flaming stones in the middle of the long column of nomads. In this narrow street, there was no escape for those dogs. The flying fireballs always found at least one nomad to land on. Masolon wondered what those screeches were for. A nomad shouldn't find time to screech before the fireball crushed him. Perhaps it was those who survived the horrible fate.

  “Hold your ground!” Masolon commanded as he slashed a neck with the tip of his blade.

  “We need to push them to the archers at the walls!” Frankil yelled.

  “Not yet!” Masolon wanted to keep his men away from the zone toward which the flying fireballs plummeted with too much eagerness. The nomads were trapped. If they advanced, the swords of Masolon's horsemen would be waiting for them. If they retreated, they would be in the archers' range. If they remained where they were, the fireballs would crush their bones. The nomads' only way out was to push Masolon and his fellows toward the catapult.

  The gang was like a wall of steel. With their blades stabbing and swinging nonstop, Masolon and the brothers at the vanguard were breaking the nomads' lines one after the other.

  “Not yet!” Masolon bellowed every time he spotted his troops pushing forward too much toward the fireballs’ range.

  Even for his muscular arm, the greatsword was still heavy. His swings were now a bit slower as the hefty blade started to exhaust his arm. No horseman from either side dared to come close to him as long as he kept swinging that magnificent steel craft.

  “We're out of stones!”

  Masolon heard the announcement repeated from the lines behind him until it reached him. Now was the time to punch those nomads.

  “Atttaaack!” Masolon bellowed. The nomads must have fallen back until their rearguard became in the archers' range; Masolon could tell from the sweet whizzing of arrows.

  Frankil and his knights went past him, keeping him behind them. Moving onward together, the Bermanians formed an iron fist pushing the nomads backward at a faster pace.

  “If you don't mind, you're hindering us with your huge sword.” Ziyad nudged his horse toward the frontline to join the Bermanians. Maybe his Murasen fellow was right. His greatsword wasn't the right blade for such a narrow battlefield. But it had done some damage, hadn't it?

  Masolon's army was getting closer to the palace walls when the gates were open. The archers stopped firing and heavily armored knights came out. They were not numerous, yet they shattered the nomads when they charged at their rearguard. It was about time to end the legend of the Ghosts for good.

  The street was now a river of fresh, warm corpses, the crows cawing in the sky above the city, waiting impatiently for the battle to end so they could feast on the flesh of the dead.

  Masolon's men, Bermanians and Murasens alike, roared, celebrating their victory. The Murasen knights of the royal palace, as well as the archers, raised their hands in the air joining the celebration.

  Hauling his greatsword, Masolon saluted the caravan guards, who had followed him from the Oasis. They raised their swords, hailing him. If truth be told, his brothers were the ones who had done most of the fighting. Still, acknowledging those mercenaries wouldn't hurt.

  Making his way through the clamoring crowd, Galardi approached Masolon on horseback. “I see you have your own army at last.” The merchant grinned. “Still interested in joining me?”

  Masolon wanted to tell him all he had been through to get the job done; his consuming training in the Pit; his vain journey to Kalensi to meet him; his encounter with Rusakian raiders; his rides in the snow and through the rainy woods. Different paths that eventually took Masolon to what he had been looking for.

  “I know we shall make a trade one day,” Masolon said.

  Galardi acknowledged with a nod. “You know where you find me.” He wheeled his horse and returned to the crowd, motioning his men to move on with
him.

  “Who leads this horde?” a royal knight cried.

  Masolon passed through the celebrating warriors until he reached the plaza in front of the gates. “That is me, Masolon.” The brown color of the Murasen knight’s armor matched that of his eyes, a leopard decorating his breastplate. “And those are the Warriors' Gang.” He extended his arm toward his brothers.

  “You and your gang fought well today,” said the Murasen knight. “I'm Qasem, Captain of the Royal Guard of His Majesty.” He nodded toward a man standing atop the bulwark, his hands on his waist.

  Masolon gazed at the same man clad in a golden cloak. The only one who still kept his calm in this bustle, and now he was nodding. He was nodding to Masolon.

  “Well, greeting His Majesty for sending his royal knights would be a nice gesture.” Masolon simpered. A nice gesture indeed. Sending his valiant knights after victory became a possibility.

  Masolon nudged his horse to a trot, going past Qasem. Greeting that king was none of his concern. All he wanted was to make sure Sania was here and safe. She was the only reason to fight for this city.

  Sinking in his thoughts, he barely noticed he had already crossed the open palace gates, and now he was ascending the stone steps to salute Rasheed, King of Murase. “We are grateful to you, brave warrior.” Rasheed smiled. “Or shall I call you Masolon?”

  “It is an honor for me, sire.” Masolon nodded. “It was your wisdom that concluded the battle by sending your brave knights,” he lied.

  “You show too much nobility for a foreigner who comes from nowhere,” Rasheed said, “as far as I know.”

  Masolon wouldn't deny he felt flattered. “I come from nowhere indeed. But from where I come, we always honor our chief.”

  “You speak like a lord, yet you fight like a barbarian. I wish all my commanders were like you.” Rasheed glanced at an armored man standing next to him, the Murasen leopard sigil decorating his breastplate. The man, who seemed to be one of the king's commanders, looked down.

  “You and your gang of warriors should be rewarded for your bravery,” Rasheed stated.

  “This is too generous of you, sire.” Masolon grinned, recalling his last meeting with Lord Feras who had doubts about the gang. Now, the same gang was recognized by the king himself. Could things go better?

  “Nomads!”

  A cry from the king's commander brought Masolon back to reality. All of a sudden, nomads were up the bulwark, slaughtering Murasen archers who were obviously not competent hand-to-hand fighters as their fierce opponents. They fell like young trees blown away by heavy, sandy desert wind.

  The warning urged the Murasen knights standing outside the palace to return, but it was too late. The nomads had locked and barricaded the gate already.

  “Those dogs!” the commander growled. “We are trapped here!” He drew his sword and hurried to aid the archers at the left flank.

  Masolon stared after him. Where was the fool going? Wasn't he going to protect his king? Masolon found himself alone, standing against six nomads. All archers at his flank were slain.

  “I am not afraid of you bastards!” cried Rasheed, unsheathing his golden-hilted saber from its jeweled scabbard. “Come on, you filthy pigs!”

  The king impressed Masolon with his swordplay. In return, Masolon drew his sword with his right hand and held his steel shield with his left. The nomads must have thought they had cornered him. “He who wants to die first advances!” With his steel shield, Masolon received a strike from a nomad before lunging forward, stabbing his opponent in the stomach. He swiftly swung his hard shield, breaking the jaw of another attacker, following it with a deadly blow with his sword. Two nomads fell in two seconds.

  Rasheed wasn't an easy prey. His sword blocked an attacking blade before turning it fluidly, opening a way for his dagger to dive into the nomad's throat.

  There was not much space for maneuvers on that narrow bulwark. Masolon slew a nomad, whose blade was locked with Rasheed’s, and at the same time used his shield to block two deadly nomadic swords. Roaring, Masolon charged, holding his shield, edging one of his two foes off the bulwark. The remaining opponent didn't live long enough to hear his fellow's bones crushed by the fall. With a high charge, Masolon smashed his skull. The nomads' attack at Masolon's flank was thwarted at last.

  On the other flank, the case was different.

  When Masolon spotted the king's commander struggling against two opponents, he sprinted to aid him. The commander managed to slay one of his adversaries, but unfortunately a deadly strike from the other nomad ended his story.

  “I am ending your filthy bloodline now!” Masolon threw his heavy shield and gripped the greatsword with both hands.

  “This is not your fight, foreigner. This is between us and them.” The last nomad approached with caution, probably weighing the range of Masolon’s blade. “You shouldn’t be fighting alongside those bastards.”

  Masolon kept his eyes on his opponent, watching for any sudden moves, his ears attentive to all sounds around him to warn him of any attacks from the back. “The only bastard I see right now is you.”

  “I’m not surprised,” the nomad said. “You are nobody but a mercenary who kills for gold, no matter the side he fights for.”

  Masolon curled his lip in disdain. “I kill thieves like you for nothing.”

  “Thieves?” The nomad scowled. “What do you know, foreigner, to say so? What do you know? Those spoiled lords whom you are serving are the real thieves. We are the rightful lords of the Murasen lands.”

  “Your lordship ends today.”

  Both of them could hear the Murasen memluks banging the barricaded palace gate. Rasheed was on his way down the wall to open the gates from inside and let his forces in.

  “Can you hear that, desert scum?” Masolon nodded toward the gate. “You are alone here. After I am done with you I will hunt every remaining nomad in this desert!”

  “The desert you’re talking about belongs to us!” The nomad lunged forward with his blade toward Masolon, trying to take him by surprise, but Masolon swiftly blocked the strike with his sword. The nomad growled, swinging his blade over his head, but again, the two swords locked together for two seconds. Kicking the nomad below his belly, Masolon forced him to step back.

  “Where were you when our ancestors were slaughtered while defending their water wells?” cried the frenzied nomad. “Every town and village is built on the corpses of our great grandfathers! How much glory do you find in that?”

  “Nonsense!” Masolon glared at the nomad, waiting for him to attack. “What was the sin of the innocent people you killed?”

  “What was the sin of our ancestors?” the nomad countered.

  “Being born as a son to a murderer does not make you a murderer. You cannot punish someone for the guilt of someone else.” I killed the last one I told him that.

  “Yes, I can! That someone lives in my house, which was built on my land! Those trade caravans that you are guarding do not offer the fair price for that!”

  “You want a fair price? Here it is!” Masolon charged, the nomad managing to block his strikes. With Masolon's heavy sword, it wasn't easy to outpace the agile nomad. After a few clashes of the two blades, the nomad was the one in the attacking stance now, displaying more skill than Masolon had expected.

  Masolon bent down to evade the nomad's blade before he chopped the nomad's right leg with one massive swing. Howling in agony, the nomad squirmed on the ground. Masolon stood at the head of his fallen foe, watching him die slowly. If the pain didn't kill him, the copious bleeding would. Maybe he deserved a more merciful death, and maybe not. He could be no different from the savages who had reduced Masolon's village to ashes.

  We cannot be like them.

  Masolon had promised he wouldn't be his father. “You do not deserve mercy, scum.” He gave the tortured nomad one last look. Holding his greatsword—his own Erloss—upside down, he thrust it right into the nomad's heart to end his screaming and suffe
ring forever.

  Rasheed was still struggling to unbar the barricaded gate on his own. Masolon strapped his greatsword to his back, picked up his steel shield, and headed to the stone steps to give the king a hand. Before he made one step downstairs, he heard that feminine shriek.

  “Sania!” Masolon recognized her terrified voice. He turned his head, scanning the whole area with his eyes until he found her trapped at the top of a distant keep tower. His blood boiled when he saw a nomad approaching her. Without thinking twice, Masolon nocked an arrow and aimed, pulling the bowstring. He had never shot from such a distance, but by any means, that pig must not lay a finger on her. Tightening his grip on his bow to keep it steady, he loosed the arrow and followed it with another. The first arrow got the job done, the second hitting the bastard's shoulder.

  Masolon hurried downstairs and sprinted toward the tower.

  “Masolon?” Rasheed called out to him.

  Heedless, Masolon left the king behind him and dashed across the abandoned yard.

  Sania was still up there when he reached the stone steps leading up to the tower. He hurried up the stairs and found her sitting on her haunches staring at the dead pig sprawled on the ground at her feet.

  “Sania!” A few seconds later, he realized he hadn’t addressed her with her title, dispensing with the absurd courtesy. “It is alright, Sania.” He carefully approached her, his voice low. “It is only me…Masolon…the foreigner.” He took her cold hand to help her up. His first time to touch her, and she wasn't even looking at him.

  Sania's legs trembled as she tried to stand with Masolon's help. “Is he dead?” Her voice was tremulous, still staring at the nomad's corpse.

  “He is. It is over now, Sania.” Masolon had his arm around her waist, trying to help her walk. But the shocked girl couldn't make one step forward, not with those shaky legs.

  “I can't…” Her eyes welled up with tears.