Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
THE WARRIOR'S
PATH
By Karim Soliman
THE WARRIOR’S PATH
Copyright © 2017 by Karim Soliman.
All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: October 2017
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
www.limitlesspublishing.com
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1-64034-231-6
ISBN-10: 1-64034-231-1
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For my beautiful wife May, who believed in me more than I did.
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
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PROLOGUE
Whispers of prayers replaced laughter and witty remarks. No one was playing brave now. Since those mountains loomed over the horizon, Noah's gallant companions became pious.
“We rest here,” the old caravan master announced, his voice strong for his age. Ironically, that wrinkled man was the only source of reassurance for a green caravan guard like Noah. Unlike the muscular men in this company, the old caravan master had been keeping his calm since they departed from the city, as if he was leisurely walking his horse by the lake of some shady oasis, not braving the perils of the bleak desert with a caravan that would definitely be tempting for wandering bandits. With the edge of man's world in sight, mortal robbers of flesh and blood should be the least of anyone's concern right now.
All men dismounted, and so did Noah. An order to rest should be an easy one to comply with, if only there was a tree trunk to tie his horse to.
“Open your eyes and watch, boy.” The caravan master must have noticed Noah's perplexity. The old man was still on horseback when he nodded toward the other guards, who took down a few barrels from the cart. The men implanted the barrels in the sand and now they had a few hitch poles for their horses. Holding his horse by its reins, Noah trudged through sand to tie his courser to one of those implanted barrels.
“You have to dust your hands a little bit if you want a barrel, boy,” a muscular guard snapped at Noah when he approached a hitch pole.
“Easy on him.” The caravan master glared at the muscular fellow. “It's his first ride as a guard.”
The guard smirked. “I rode ten times already when I was his age.”
“And that's why you trembled when you saw the demons' mountains, right?” Noah taunted.
The muscular guard shoved him, and suddenly, all other guards were mad at Noah, yelling and cursing and wagging firm fingers. Surprised by their exaggerated fury, Noah stepped back, his hand reaching the hilt of his sword.
“Enough, you fools!” the caravan master bellowed. “Couldn't you make your fuss a little louder?”
“You should teach that boy how to hold his tongue.” The muscular guard pointed his finger at Noah.
“And you should pick an opponent your size,” the caravan master rebuked the muscular guard. He beckoned to Noah. “Come.”
Noah caught up with the old man, who nudged his horse away from the caravan just enough to be out of earshot. Time to teach the green guard a lesson, Noah thought. He wasn't in the mood to hear lessons. However, he should be grateful to the old man who had prevented an upcoming bloody clash. It was needless to say who would have bled if Noah had drawn that sword in front of a dozen furious guards.
“Tell me, boy,” said the caravan master, “what did your parents tell you about demons?”
Noah rubbed his head, trying to recall anything he might have heard from his parents. “They never talked about them.”
&nbs
p; “Exactly.” The old man leaned toward Noah. “The men behind us are not much different from your parents; they never say the name of the dwellers of the Great Desert.” He nodded toward the distant mountains. “Especially when we are so close to the lands in which they reside.”
The notion of being merely a few miles away from some demon unnerved Noah. “You think if we mention them, they may—”
“It doesn't matter what I think, boy.” The old man gestured toward the guards. “I just want you to understand that these men are nervous so that you don't get into trouble again. Because if you do, I won't be there to stop them from killing you.”
The caravan master wheeled his horse, but before he rode away, Noah said, “You are not afraid because you know those demons do not exist, right?”
The old man pulled the reins of his horse and took in a deep breath. “Two days ago I was on my way back to Kahora when I saw that man coming out from the Great Desert on a black stallion. My men, terrified, thought he was a demon chasing them, but when he came closer, we realized he was nothing but a lost traveler who would kill for a sip of water.”
The old man's tale confused Noah a bit. “What are you trying to tell me? That the Great Desert is inhabited by men like you and me?”
The old man turned to him. “I'm trying to tell you that not everything you hear—”
“A leopard! “
While Noah was looking around to find the beast, he heard a roar followed by a grunt, and then a few men hooting. A guard had struck the leopard dead with a thrown spear, Noah deduced after he found the beast's corpse at last. The sight of a dead leopard was much more relieving than a live one. Especially if it was moving toward you.
For some reason, the old man didn't appear impressed at all though. He even looked concerned as he gazed at the vacant desert behind them. “We must leave now, men. Mount your horses,” he urged his guards who had barely gotten a rest. The order made them disgruntled, but no one dared to disobey the veteran caravan master.
Noah dared to approach the old man. “Something wrong?”
“The Ghosts.” The caravan master was still gazing at the horizon. “They have sent an eye, and the eye saw us. Now they know we are here.”
“Ghosts? But I thought you don't believe in—”
“The Ghosts are real, boy. I saw the corpses they left behind.” For the first time, the reserved caravan master sounded nervous. “Now put your arse on a saddle.”
Noah swallowed. He had never wielded his sword in a real fight. “You know how to defeat them, right?”
“No one fights a Ghost, naive. I grew old because I always ran away. Now move or we leave you behind!”
Noah didn't need more persuasion to sprint toward his horse. He hurriedly untied it, but there was that heavy barrel which was still stuck in the sand. He called out to the guards to help him return it to the cart, but no one paid him heed as they were already mounting their horses.
“Forget the damned barrel! You are hindering us, boy!” The caravan master nudged his horse onward, the rest of the guards following him. Noah, jumbled by their rush, struggled with the stirrup before he swung up the saddle.
And then a shriek echoed in the desert.
“Blast!” One of the guards looked back, his jaw dropped. Noah didn't need to be a seasoned guard to know what that shriek was. The terrified look on everybody's faces said it all.
It was the shriek of a Ghost.
CHAPTER ONE
MASOLON
The smells struck Masolon first when he stepped inside. The smell of the sweaty men cramming the tavern, of mutton served to their creaking tables, burnt incense battling the other two smells. The incense was losing the battle, Masolon had no doubt, yet those sweaty men were still devouring and gulping and jabbering. Amazing thing what those men could do with their mouths at the same time.
“Any help, stranger?” The stout tavern keeper glared at him. And Masolon was thinking no one had noticed his arrival. Was it that obvious he didn’t belong to this place?
“I am looking for Kuslov.” He leaned to the wooden counter she was standing behind.
“What for?”
“I was told he might need my services.”
“Is that so?” She arched an eyebrow. “He hasn’t shown up tonight yet.”
Masolon shrugged. “I can wait.”
From the way she looked him up and down, he could see the impression of his ripped tunic. “You’re not going to make trouble with that sword on your belt, huh?”
Unless I have to, Masolon thought. “I will be as still as the chair I am sitting on.”
“We shall see. And one more thing, darlin’, we don’t offer drinks for free here.”
Goranian coin was something he lacked in his first day in the great city of Kahora. And he wasn’t going to trade his shield nor his horse for a tankard of ale. She might be interested in my tunic, though. Well, he would drink from the fountain outside if he must.
Masolon found a vacant chair at the corner and threw himself on it, every muscle in his body crying for sleep after his journey in the Great Desert. ‘Exhausting’ didn’t do justice to describe his passage through the prohibited lands of demons. ‘Deathly’ might be the word. He was still not sure if he had died already and this was the afterlife. At a certain moment, he had felt as if every small part of his soul—if a soul was made of small parts or even big—had abandoned his body. At that certain moment, he had turned into a dead man, or perhaps one of the demons of the Great Desert. Only when his hollow stomach growled did he realize that ‘Masolon’ still existed. Because demons would never get hungry. Even if they did, they didn’t have growling stomachs. But who would ever know?
With the back of his hand, Masolon wiped the beads of sweat that popped on his forehead. Midnight was coming soon, and not even a hint of a gentle breeze entered that damned tavern through the window next to his seat. He should be grateful though. That smelly tavern was paradise compared to the Great Desert. The Goranians called it the Great Desert and his clansmen called it Si’oli. ‘Hell’ in his native tongue.
Masolon had no plans after surviving Hell. Or even before. He had just mounted his horse and headed to the end of his world. Now he had a plan, and that plan was Kuslov. With Kuslov, there would be coin. With coin, there would be mead and bread—no one had mentioned the odorous mutton. And more, a chamber in a tavern. The more the coin you got, the warmer your chamber would be. Anyway, a chamber was the least of Masolon’s concerns, as it should be for any of the Ogono warriors.
His grandfather’s lengthy tongue lessons were paying off so far. Though the Murasens’ accents sounded different from what Masolon used to hear in his sessions, he could follow the boisterous debate at the next table about the sweetest voice in the Murasen realm. The only two meaningless words in their blabber were Abla and Mehra, names of two women, Masolon guessed. Soon his guess became a certainty when the debate turned into a boyish rant about anything in those two women other than their voices. If Masolon’s father was here, he would shorten their tongues with his own blade.
People started to leave the tavern and Masolon was still waiting, his eyelids heavy. Was it possible that Kuslov had already come and gone, and that tavern keeper had simply forgotten to inform him? Masolon gazed at her, but she never looked where he sat, not even by chance. Maybe he should go and ask her, but he was too tired to leave his seat.
“Hey you!” the tavern keeper called to him. “It’s only a couple of hours before dawn! I must shut the place now.”
Masolon realized he had dozed for a while, and now he was the only one in the tavern. “Perhaps I should try my luck another—”
His stallion tied outside the tavern was whinnying. A quiet stallion it was, yet not at this moment. Something, or probably somebody must have enraged it; Masolon could hear the footsteps. Not more than three men. What could be the odds that those fellows were just passersby at this late hour, and they just thought of bothering his horse for no specific re
ason?
Masolon drew his sword and hurried to the door.
“What are you doing?” the stout tavern keeper asked, her eyes wide in alarm. Masolon was already outside in the Fountain Plaza when she finished her question.
The place was abandoned except for three men, two of them armed with falchions, one armed with a sword. The latter held Masolon’s untied horse by its bridle.
“Drop the bloody sword!” The three thugs pointed their blades at Masolon.
Three weeks, and not a soul had he reaped. Fighting three robbers should be enough to stimulate his idle muscles. In each ugly face, Masolon could see the cowards who had burned his mother and his sisters alive. Was it strange they always looked ugly, those brigands?
“Leave the bloody horse first.” Talking to them was useless, yet he wanted to make sure they were eager to die tonight. “My horse.”
“Not anymore,” snarled one of the thugs. “Do you have a problem with that?”
They were leaving Masolon no other option. “You are three.” He sighed. “This is not going to be a fair fight.”
“Life is unfair, you fool.” The same thug smirked.
“For you.” Masolon lunged at him, swinging his sword. The robber tried to block Masolon’s strike with his falchion, howling in agony when his hand took the strike instead. With a backhanded swing, Masolon slashed the abdomen of the second robber. The third thug left the horse and lunged forward. Masolon stepped sideways to avoid his stab, although not fast enough. The edge of the robber's blade did scrape Masolon's skin. Now infuriated more than hurt, Masolon severed the robber’s head from his body with one swing. “To me!” Masolon turned to face the remaining robber who had lost his hand. “I will help you get rid of your pain!” Masolon gnashed his teeth as the thug sprinted away. He hadn’t been there when the cowards had burned his mother’s shack and fled. But not today. Not tomorrow. Not any day else. Masolon had nothing for the likes of those scum but death, whether it was quick or slow.
“No need for this! You’re wounded!” the stout woman yelled at Masolon from behind him. After making sure the way was clear she approached him, checking his arm.
The Warrior's Path (Tales of Gorania Book 1) Page 1