The Warrior's Path

by Karim Soliman

  “It is alright. I am taking you out of here.” Masolon scooped her up into his arms and carefully descended the stone steps. He wasn't dreaming; she was so close to him her warm breath kissed his neck. An awkward feeling overwhelmed his heart. Awkward yet thrilling. Masolon almost forgot the clashing blades, the neighing horses, the fireballs, the blood; everything. With only him and her, he was just starting a new day now.

  Not knowing where he should go, he stepped down into the yard, Sania still in his arms.

  “Mother!” Her hazel eyes flew open and she pulled herself up. “I must find her!”

  Masolon let her down, making sure she could stand on her own. The moment her feet touched the ground, she scurried toward the palace. “Wait!” He hurried after her and caught her by the hand. “You cannot go anywhere on your own until we make sure the palace is safe.”

  Sania pulled her hand away. “Get off! I must find my mother!” The stubborn girl ignored his warning and dashed away.

  “Not without me.” Masolon drew his sword and followed her to the palace. He kept his eyes and ears open as the reckless girl raced up the stairs and strode through corridors and hallways without taking into consideration that armed nomads might be still lurking here. When she stopped at one particular chamber, she banged the door with her fist. “It's me! Open the door!”

  A gray-haired man opened the door, casting down his eyes.

  “What is it?” She nervously gripped his arms.

  “I am so sorry, milady,” the gray-haired man said quietly. “There was nothing I could do for her.”

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-THREE

  FERAS

  Silence reigned over the cemetery when the two coffins arrived. The body of Her Majesty was the first to reside in its final destination below the sand. Rasheed stood stoically, but the moment the men took Lady Ramia out of her coffin, Sania rushed toward her, wailing. The men carrying the body urged Feras to take his sister away when she insisted on holding her mother’s hands and kissing her face, but Feras wouldn’t dare go near Sania, especially today. She must be blaming him for their mother’s death. Perhaps she was right. If it hadn’t been for him, their mother could have been in Arkan instead of her grave. But no, that was blasphemy. No one could change his fate. His mother was destined to die in that place at that time, may the Lord rest her soul. Would that convince his sister to forgive him? She had never forgiven her father, and she never would. Especially after he had missed his wife’s burial.

  The shovels rained sand over their mother, the clerics intoning prayers for mercy to the dead. Even after the men were done with the grave, Sania kept staring at the ground where their mother lay beneath. Perchance he could approach her now.

  “Stay away from me!” she snapped the moment he laid his hand on her shoulder. “I don’t want to see any of you, ever!”

  Without saying a word he turned and stayed away like she wanted. Now wasn’t the right time to talk.

  With careful steps, King Rasheed approached, his retinue trailing him. “I understand your grief, Feras, but we need to make some decisions today. Come to the palace when you feel ready.”

  Feras wondered what the king’s version of grief would look like. Rasheed’s eyes betrayed nothing but fury. “I am ready whenever you will, sire,” said Feras.

  “You should see to your sister first,” said Rasheed.

  People were leaving the cemetery and still Sania stood in the same spot. It is over now, Feras wanted to tell her. His sister was gazing at nothing but sand. When would she realize there was no good staying here? This was how she always had been; emotional and a bit childish. Too childish to understand her father’s dedication to his country. She blamed him for doing his duty to his homeland instead of appreciating his sacrifice. Did she even think for an instant how her father felt about being away from his family? He learned about his wife's death from a messenger, and he wasn’t able to see her off before she went to her grave.

  Everybody had left except for the memluks guarding him and his sister. “Let's go now,” he said softly to her, but she didn’t look at him. “Sania, please.”

  “Go where?” Her eyes were still wet.

  “Wherever you want. We may rest for a while in the royal palace before we return to Arkan.”

  “I hate this bloody palace. I’m not going there ever.”

  “I just want you to rest before you travel. You’re exhausted.”

  “I'm not going to Arkan either. I won't be able to stand the sight of Mother’s vacant chamber. Just leave me be.” Sania gave him a dismissive gesture.

  “Leave you here?”

  “I can take care of myself.” She went past him, leaving him in his astonishment. “And don’t send your soldiers to follow me.”

  “What is this folly? Tell me where you are going.”

  Sania didn’t reply.

  “It's not to the old house of Burdi, is it?” he asked.

  She stopped, letting out a deep breath of air. “It is.” She resumed her walk away from him.

  Maybe it was better for her to be on her own for a while. “My guards will escort you.”

  From the thousand soldiers he had brought from Arkan, Feras ordered two hundred to escort his sister to the town of Burdi. Too many for such a short journey, he knew, but there could be remnants of nomads seeking revenge for their crushing defeat. Feras hadn't witnessed the battle, but from the ruined city he found, he couldn't tell who might have won. Yes, hundreds of Ghosts died on that day, but the cost was huge. The cost was the city itself. In a morning that would be ever remembered in the Tales of Gorania, everyone in Kahora was either carrying or following a coffin.

  It was hard to believe that the nomads had set foot in the royal palace, and a fight had actually happened on the very courtyard Feras stepped over. Compared to the ruined city, the palace looked untouched, as if it was thousands of miles away from the havoc.

  The king joined him in the small hall. “You came earlier than I thought.”

  “It didn't take that long,” Feras said curtly, waiting for His Majesty to tell him what he wanted.

  Leaning his elbows on the table, Rasheed sighed. “You know, Feras, I thought I was a man of composure until what I saw yesterday.”

  Feras didn't say a word, waiting for Rasheed to go on.

  “What I saw had never crossed my mind in my worst nightmares.” Rasheed smiled nervously. “Part of me still can't digest the sight. Can you imagine? A thousand nomads burning and killing in your great city, and chanting outside your palace before breaking into it. A whole kingdom almost fell to the filthiest dogs of the desert.”

  At the beginning, Feras had thought Rasheed was wistful because of his wife’s death. Good thing Feras remained silent before expressing his condolences.

  “She died because I gave that order.” Rasheed's eyes were fixed on the empty table. “I couldn’t stand the idea that one of those filthy dogs might have laid a finger on her.”

  “You tried to save her, sire, and you were right. They broke into the palace at the end, I was told.”

  “No one fools destiny.” Rasheed gave him another brief nervous smile. “Bring that map.”

  Feras grabbed a map from a desk behind him and spread it over the table. “I must say I underestimated the game Dehawy is playing. I never expected him or anyone else to use the Ghosts.”

  The desert clansmen had their own code. It was hard to believe that anyone from 'outside' could reach any agreement with those barbarians.

  “Sire, do you think he really arranged that attack with them, or he just made the best of their raid?”

  “It doesn't make much difference; the result is the same.” Rasheed looked at the map. “While we are busy with the Mankols at Kurdisan and the Byzonts at Arkan, we clear the way for the Ghosts to sack Kahora. And afterward, he will march with his troops from the east to save the broken kingdom. A well-woven plot by my dear cousin.”

  “The Byzonts never came close to Arkan, sire.”
Feras felt the bitterness of regret. His mother's tragedy had started from the news he had received about the Byzonts' march.

  “The Byzonts' role in Dehawy's game was to distract us, I told you. They will never send an army outside their lands because of the Bermanians crouching at their northern borders.”

  “But the Mankols are not just for distraction.”

  “The Mankols' threat is real. Dehawy must have sold Kurdisan to them. That's why I sent your uncle Lord Munzir to aid your father.” Rasheed moved his finger on the map from Demask to Bigad. “While Dehawy might consider marching to Bigad to surround Ahmet and Munzir, you will take his battle to his own ground, to Shezar.”

  Stunning Dehawy would be better than waiting for his next strike. Still, something was missing. “What about the nomads?” Feras asked.

  “Unleash that Masolon on them.” Rasheed had thought about that already, it seemed. “He knows how to lead men on a battlefield better than our green commanders.”

  “He is a mercenary,” Feras said, not sure about the idea.

  “Not anymore. Bring me my seal, and I shall raise him to the rank of commander. He will be reporting to you.”

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-FOUR

  MASOLON

  “All hail, Commander Masolon!”

  Ziyad will never change, Masolon thought. He should have considered the consequences of accepting the king's generous offer. But who was he fooling? It was an order, no question, not an offer.

  Burning the tavern during the Ghosts' raid didn't stop the gang from celebrating the new commander and his new captains. Masolon had no idea where they had obtained it, but a barrel of ale was in the gang's den.

  “This is a day when you should drink, pious brother!” Ziyad teased Frankil. The way Frankil curled his lips with distaste made Masolon and Antram laugh.

  “Do not push on him, Ziyad,” said Masolon.

  “What did you call me, Commander?” Ziyad held his ear. “Yesterday there was just Ziyad. Today I am called Captain Ziyad.”

  “You know what?” Antram said. “I prefer just Ziyad the Serious to Captain Ziyad the Ridiculous.” Everyone guffawed.

  “Where will we be patrolling tomorrow, Masolon?” asked Frankil.

  According to Lord Feras, protecting the whole western region of the kingdom had become Masolon's responsibility, and he now led a battalion of five hundred men, most of them memluks camping in Arkan and Kahora. And still, he could accept volunteers from the Murasen youths who were eager to join the gang, a name Feras loathed, but there were a few things even a lord could never change.

  “Arkan. The location of this fort makes it our most important area in the region.” Yes, the most important in the world.

  “I thought our mission was to wipe the nomads out of this region,” said Ziyad. “Not to watch over Arkan from the Byzonts.”

  “Exactly, brother. We cannot undertake our mission without making sure that our back is well protected.”

  “Masolon has a point,” Antram seconded.

  Ziyad wrinkled his forehead in confusion.” The Byzonts have retreated already.”

  While Ziyad and Antram were busy in their argument, Frankil leaned closer so only Masolon could hear him. “We are still on our path, Masolon, aren't we?”

  “What are you worried about, Frankil?”

  “Four months ago when you came to me in Horstad, I joined you to help the helpless, not to serve lords.”

  “We are still helping the helpless with our new assignment.”

  “But now we're Feras's soldiers. We have to obey his orders whatever they are.”

  “Feras is a man of honor. He will never involve us in dishonorable deeds.”

  “Power turns men mad. You can't trust a man with power for long.”

  “Nobody on Earth can impose his will upon us. We will use this new authority to serve our mission, and we will never comply blindly with orders we receive.”

  “I really hope so, Masolon.” Frankil looked doubtful.

  “Hope? You must be sure, Frankil. We are neither soldiers nor mercenaries. Whatever the banner we fight under, we will remain the Warriors' Gang.”

  “That is reassuring.” Frankil smiled at last. “I hope I won't need to remind you of this conversation one day.”

  Had Frankil forgotten? It was Masolon who had started that path.

  The path, the path, the path. The path is in a safe place, Commander. You have to worry about your girl.

  “Are you alright, Masolon?” Frankil inquired, noticing the look on his face.

  “I am fine. Just a stupid headache.” Masolon smiled faintly. “Have you ever felt that someone in your head is talking to you?”

  Masolon left his brothers to their chattering and ranting and found a quiet spot on the hill to get some sleep. But it seemed a Rusakian fellow had claimed it first.

  “I see you have become one of us now,” he said to Blanich.

  “They never told you, huh?” Blanich chuckled. “I was leaving the city if it were not for your friends. And yes, I think I'm going to stay for a while. I will never return to Rusakia with empty pockets.”

  Many were here for the coin, and who could blame them for that? It was just another profession.

  “I wonder what may have happened to the highborn Rusakian,” Masolon commented.

  Blanich rolled his eyes. “Life has been a bit harsh to me since my father's death.”

  “A bit?”

  “Yes, a bit.” Blanich grinned. “Because they called me a bastard and kicked me out of my father's house; a bear attacked me once in the woods; a horse ran over me and broke my bones; a catapult struck the building I was hiding in, and yet I was lucky enough to survive all of that.”

  “The gang will make use of your luck.” Masolon lay on the ground. “Tomorrow you shall ride next to me.”

  After sunrise, Masolon took his new captains to the royal palace to get their new armors. No surprise, Ziyad was excited. Antram wouldn't bother as long as he would get paid. Frankil was too reluctant to take off his Bermanian armor, but at last he came to reason and understood that he couldn't lead Murasen soldiers while the Bermanian lion decorated his breastplate.

  The king’s portman told Masolon that Feras wanted to have a word with him. Clad in his new brown armor, Masolon followed the king’s portman to a chamber where Feras was waiting for him.

  “Now you look like a Murasen commander.” Feras gave him the faintest of smiles. “Be seated.”

  Masolon sat opposite Feras, listening to his instructions about making outposts at the eastern side of the region to alert the city keep to any surprising nomads' raids. The lord also stressed the importance of securing the Northern Road for all travelers, and especially trade caravans.

  “I will be leaving in two days after I'm done assembling the army marching to the east,” said Feras. “Until my return, you have my permission to cleanse our deserts of those nomads. Uproot them before they grow again.”

  “That will be my pleasure.”

  “Do you know where Burdi is, Commander?” Feras asked.

  “Yes, a small town a few miles away from Kahora, milord.”

  “Good.” Feras looked satisfied. “One particular house in that town concerns me a lot. My sister Lady Sania is staying there for a while. Do I have to say more?”

  Sania! Masolon tried to keep his face impassive when he heard her name. “Rest assured, milord. I will do whatever it takes to secure that house.”

  Feras nodded. “One more thing. Lady Sania has refused to have any guards. Please make sure the house is protected while she doesn't notice. Is that clear, Masolon?”

  “Quite clear, milord.” Beautiful, Masolon would say.

  Feras concluded the meeting, and Masolon was impatient to undertake his new mission. Sometimes destiny's arrangements were better than his.

  His captains were waiting for him in the courtyard.

  Ziyad winked. “Someone here is as delighted as a bridegroom,” he said when h
e saw Masolon's face.

  Ignoring Ziyad's teasing, Masolon tried to wear a stern face. “We have some rearrangements, brothers. I mean captains. We will split our forces into four groups to cover Kahora from all sides.”

  “But we are stronger together,” Antram protested.

  “We have nomads to chase, trade routes to keep safe, and a fort in the west to watch over. We cannot be everywhere at the same time,” said Masolon. “Frankil will lead our men on the Northern Road, Antram around Arkan in the west, Ziyad in Kahora itself and its south, and I will be patrolling the east.”

  “Yes, my city.” Ziyad looked excited. “I thought for a moment you would keep the big city for yourself.”

  “You should have kept the big city for you, Masolon,” said Antram, then he nodded toward Ziyad. “You must keep him away from taverns. Put him in those eastern towns and villages.”

  “Hey! What's your problem?” Ziyad nudged Antram.

  Masolon smiled at their bantering. “If one day the Ghosts think of coming back, the eastern towns and villages will be the nearest places they can reach. So as you see, their location obliges me to watch over them. Obliges us, I mean.”

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-FIVE

  MASOLON

  Before leaving Kahora, Masolon thought he should pass by Bumar to make sure he was all right after the Ghosts' attack. To his surprise, he found new windows and a new door on the healer's house.

  “Look at you,” Bumar said when he opened the door for Masolon, staring at the sigil decorating his breastplate. “The leopard fits you so well.”

  “I am one of Lord Feras's commanders now.” Masolon stepped inside, contemplating the newly painted walls. “I see you waste no time. Your house is recovering.”

  “What matters is that the scrolls are safe, especially those in which I wrote what I learned from you about the Outsiders. When the havoc started, I hid them under the bed.”