“The only thing I was able to do was wield a sword. Fooled by my skin color, the commander of the castle of Kurdisan thought I was a Murasen and hired me as a guard. After spending two years there, I heard of a Mankol lord in desperate need of mercenaries. And mark my words, my friend, mercenaries are very well rewarded in these bloody lands.
“I fled Kurdisan with dreams of endless pouches of Mankol gold. Unfortunately, my lord was vanquished in the first battle. I was lucky enough to survive, and from then on, I thought I had enough trouble in my life. The Contests seemed to be a good alternative. No, the pay is not that good, but the risks of that path are nothing compared to what I’ve been through.”
A confusing fellow, Masolon thought. Despite Antram’s questionable past, Masolon detected some good in him. “Alright then.” Masolon swung up into his saddle. “How can I find you again if I want to?”
Antram grinned. “Just follow the Contests.”
Believing that he could remember the way to Kahora on his own, Masolon rode to the gate of Inabol without looking for a caravan to guide him on the road. The spearmen on duty paid him no heed, busy inspecting all carts going outside. Unlike the Murasens, those Byzonts were suspicious of everything entering or exiting their city.
One coin of copper was all he got from his journey to Inabol. Compared to what he had earned from Kuslov’s job, that was a pittance. If only that bastard stayed on the ground a bit longer…
Masolon was nearing the mountains outside the city of Inabol when he felt he was being followed. Looking over his shoulder, he spied two horsemen on his tail. One of them was a girl actually. A tall, slender, black-haired girl.
The horseman waved to Masolon. “We mean no harm.”
“I mean to harm if I do not like what you say for any reason,” Masolon said menacingly as he wheeled his horse to face his two followers. Only a fool would stop for two strangers on the road. But the man, his beard neatly shaved, clad in a dark gray coat, didn’t look like a brigand.
“No need for any surprising moves,” said the neatly-shaved man. “My name is Ramel and this is Viola, my assistant. I was interested in meeting you after I saw your performance in the arena against Artony.”
“What performance? I was blown at the end.” With an innate instinct, Masolon's hand reached for the hilt of his sword.
“I understand your doubts. However, you have to know that I’m here for the good of both of us.”
“How do you know what is good for me?”
“Don’t you want to be a Contest Champion?” Ramel asked wryly.
Curious to know the end of this gibberish, Masolon let him continue, “I hardly remember anyone who can bear the heavy blows you endured. It’s as if you are made of iron, not flesh. Your muscles are strong, your movements swift, yet you don’t have much skill. I can make you stronger and more agile.”
Ramel paused, as if waiting for Masolon’s response, but all he got was silence.
“I’m not a pretender as you may think.” Ramel grinned. “I used to train elite military troops.”
“You used to train elite military troops and you want to train me?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell it to you on our journey to my pit.”
Their journey? To his pit? What was going on?
“It looks awkward for a big boy like you to be scared.” Viola was pretty until she gave him that crooked smile.
“It is not me who should be scared, young lady,” Masolon said coldly.
“That’s the spirit, Champion!” Ramel hooted. “Come on! Let’s ride away from here!”
“And go where?”
“You don’t believe I can train you, right?”
“My doubts about why are much bigger than about how.”
Looking at Viola, Ramel pointed at Masolon. “Straight and to the point. I like this fellow!” He turned again to Masolon. “I guess you know everything has a price.”
For certain. “I am listening.” Masolon kept his hand near the hilt of his sword.
“I take a cut from your prize, in addition to the bets,” Ramel replied. “Since you are a new fighter here, odds will be high against you. Higher odds mean more gold. Names like Artony and Vaknus are not currently bringing in as much gold as they used to.”
Masolon stared at Ramel, who nodded. “Yes, yes. What were you thinking of? Artony and all other names you might have heard in people’s chants in the previous years were crafted by me. Renowned warriors you now see have come from Ramel’s Pit. They usually step in strong, brave and tough, yet naive when it comes to skills and technique. After a few months, they emerge as legends.”
Masolon recalled how Artony fought. The notion of finding more skillful fighters in Ramel's Pit to recruit was tempting, yet there was something about Ramel that made Masolon skeptical. “It is a nice story you tell. I believe there is only one way to be sure of it.”
Ramel seemed to understand what Masolon meant. “I will be glad if you do so.” Ramel dismounted, handing Viola the reins. Masolon had to admit he was surprised how Ramel simply accepted the challenge.
Keeping an eye on Ramel, Masolon swung down off his saddle, tied his horse to a tree and unsheathed his sword. Ramel looked amused when he did the same, his sword matching the length of Masolon’s. Thanks to Masolon’s height, he would easily outreach Ramel. Not much challenge expected in this duel.
Masolon charged, Ramel simply blocking the strike with his sword. In a blink of an eye, Masolon found his foe turning around before he felt Ramel’s blade scratching his right leg. Had the duel even started?
“I could have cut your knee, but I need you with both legs.” Ramel pointed his sword at Masolon.
“This is nothing but a scratch.”
“It’s a scratch because I wanted it to be so. Do you want to go on?”
For the first time, Masolon found someone who could wield a sword faster than he. In answer, he returned his weapon to his sheath.
“Good.” Grinning, Ramel sheathed his sword as well and returned to his horse. “Now you know why and how. Follow me.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MASOLON
Apparently destiny had a plan for his redemption. He had met Bumar, who in turn had led him to Kuslov, and eventually to Galardi. And only when Masolon thought he had found a starting footstep for his path, he found himself heading somewhere else in the company of Ramel and his dubious assistant Viola. Either Masolon’s journey to the Inabol Contest had changed the course of his destiny, or that had been the plan from the beginning.
“So, Masolon,” Ramel called out, “where did you learn how to fight?”
“My homeland,” Masolon said simply. He didn't want to talk that much about it. All the memories of his early days of sword wielding brought to mind his father's face. “What about you?”
“I learned everywhere. I wandered the six realms of Gorania to acquire the ways of each faction. Now I can tell where a warrior comes from by the methods with which he fights.” Ramel glanced at him, smiling mockingly. “Unless he fights without a method.”
“Maybe he comes from a realm you have never been to.”
“You’re not a Koyan, are you?”
“You can say I am far away from home.”
“You can say I am far away from home too.” Ramel exchanged a quick look with Viola.
Bumar, Kuslov, Galardi, and now Ramel. They were all different, yet they were all the same. They were all far away from home. Was that part of being a Goranian?
Masolon spent the rest of the journey asking about anything that came to his mind related to the six realms Ramel had wandered. He kept asking questions and Ramel kept answering. The veteran trainer didn’t show any sort of boredom, unlike Viola, who shot Masolon a few uncomfortable looks.
Only one mile remained to reach Ramel’s Pit, which was located near a Bermanian village called Shunri. There, Ramel trained two types of warriors: one for warlords for their endless battles, and the other type was for entertainment.
“Unlike what you may be thinking, I always keep my best warriors for the Contests,” said Ramel. “Soldiers die quickly in real battles. It’s a pity to waste time and sweat on them.” He looked at Masolon, wagging his finger. “Don’t tell anybody why you are here. Understood, young man?”
When they arrived, Masolon understood why Ramel’s headquarters was called the ‘Pit’. The whole place was built on a vast land depression. An amphitheater was erected, resembling the arena that Masolon had seen in Inabol. Not far from that amphitheater came horses’ whinnies. There was a stable nearby, Masolon guessed.
“Impressed?” Ramel must have noticed the stunned look on Masolon’s face.
“‘Pit’ is a misleading word, I must say.”
“A clever builder helped me construct the Pit,” said Ramel. “He knew I needed tough conditions for my training field. Here, air is dry and wind is scarce. This makes you tolerate exhaustion better than anybody else.”
Masolon spotted a dozen fighters in the Pit busy with different activities. Some of them were dueling in pairs, others practicing archery. For a moment, all eyes stared at the newcomer, some with curiosity, others with carelessness, before resuming what they were doing.
“Welcome to Ramel’s Pit, Champion.” Ramel patted Masolon on the shoulder. “Ready to begin?”
“Do we not need to have some rest first?”
“We?” Ramel repeated cynically. “Who’s we? I didn’t say I needed rest.”
“Maybe the big boy is tired and wants to lay his back for a while.” Viola sneered.
Masolon shot her a hard look. “I did not ask you to speak on my behalf.”
“Knock it off,” Ramel snapped at both of them. “Viola, go make sure we have a bed ready for Masolon.” Ramel then turned to Masolon. “Get your sword and follow me.”
Viola lingered for a while until she received a glare from Ramel. Masolon watched her drag her feet away from them.
“Don’t stand still like a stupid rock,” Ramel urged Masolon, his voice rough. “When I say ‘follow me,’ you follow me. If you really want to be a champion, then do what Ramel says.”
Masolon took a deep breath. Obeying orders as a subordinate was not something he was good at. It was another thing he might need to learn.
“I thought we were going to this amphitheater,” said Masolon as he followed Ramel, who went past the arena and moved forward.
“Not now. I have a better start for you.”
They were approaching sparring fighters on a dusty field ahead, men's roars blending with the clanging of steel. “Those men are almost ready to shed their blood on the battlefield.” Ramel contemplated his students. Or victims. Masolon felt a bit awkward that his mentor was regarding their lives so lightly. According to Ramel, they would die anyway, and the lords’ wars always needed blood to water their battlefields with.
“Don’t underestimate these dogs,” Ramel said, still not looking at Masolon. “Speaking of skills, they’re not the best, but they’ll tear you apart unless I stop them.”
Masolon would argue later about who would tear whom apart. “Improving my skills is the reason for bringing me to your Pit, right?”
Ramel finally looked at Masolon and held his shoulder. “I’ll ask you something. Forget the previous chattering we had and focus on your training. Can you bear this?”
Ramel looked excited when Masolon nodded. “That’s much better!” He yelled at two sparring fighters to stop, and motioned them to come forward.
“You must stop them from killing you without you killing them,” Ramel said to Masolon in a low voice. “This novice is yours, warriors!” Ramel pushed Masolon forward. “Finish him off!”
“Most probably I will kill you after I am done with them,” Masolon promised.
“Let me see what you got, boy,” Ramel scoffed. “Unleash your wrath!”
***
It was nearing midnight when Masolon dragged his feet to the chamber Ramel had shown him. Beating those two opponents hadn’t been a big task, but the whole day was quite a long one. He hadn’t rested his body since the early morning as Ramel was testing his stamina from the very beginning.
A long day with an awkward turn of events. Instead of returning to Bumar’s house with a sack full of silver, he would spend a night in Ramel’s Pit. And who knew how many more nights he would spend here? He had better deal with Ramel and his nonsense until he recruited the men he needed for his own company.
Lingering at the back of his mind was, what if Ramel's proposal was the best he got? What made him so sure that Galardi would wait for him until he was done recruiting an army? What if Galardi assigned someone else to the job? What if after two months, he simply forgot about him?
Shaking his head, Masolon roused himself from his doubts. How did he consider, even for a second, pursuing Ramel's path? What had happened to his oath to punish every marauder his sword could reach? Apparently the spark of vengeance was fading. The clink of silver had its magic.
Admit it, Masolon! It is all about silver!
He could hear the voice of his mind. Yet what was the shame about that? Was he supposed to let himself starve in the lands of Gorania?
“Hey you, big boy.” Viola’s mocking voice interrupted his self-conversation. “This is not the time or place for daydreaming. You may resume your dreams on your mattress inside.”
Masolon realized he was standing by the door of his chamber, staring at the dusty ground. “Mind your business.”
“You’re thinking of quitting. I can see it in your eyes.”
“Oh really?” Masolon chuckled mockingly. “I did not know you were a soothsayer.”
“I’m not a soothsayer. I'm someone who doesn't need funny accents to sense who doesn’t belong to us.” Despite her pretty brown eyes, she looked like a snake when she hissed, “Like you.”
“And who are us?” Masolon asked. “You and Ramel?”
“We’re bigger than you think.” She raised her chin. “We’re the league that rules all Contests of Gorania. But a foreigner like you will never understand what Contests mean to Goranians. Many peasants may have never heard about their lords, but they can tell you tales about our champions and their heroic victories. They fill their bellies with barrels of ale while chanting our warriors’ names in every tavern in these lands. We’re the true rulers of Gorania, big boy.”
She knew he was not a Goranian, but obviously that didn’t scare her. It would be fun to know what might scare this wicked viper.
“What is a girl like you doing here with a bunch of warriors?”
“Is this your way of flirting?” she countered.
“Flirting? With you? Not in a hundred years!” Masolon hadn’t laughed that loud in a long time. Maybe she was the only girl he had chattered with so far in these lands, but wooing her? The thought had never flashed through his mind.
His scoffing tone had enraged her; he could tell from the glare on her face and the clench of her fists. While it hadn’t happened intentionally, that didn't prevent him from enjoying the moment.
“One day you will regret this,” she said menacingly.
Masolon waited until she walked away before he pushed his chamber door open. At this very moment, his biggest concern was not her menace, it was getting some sleep after quite a full day.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MASOLON
Masolon wondered why he didn’t smell anything cooking.
His stomach growled when he woke in the morning. There must be some kitchen here. Or did he have to hunt his breakfast? Maybe it was part of Ramel’s absurd training.
He wandered the silent Pit, looking for anybody to ask him how he was supposed to get his food. The amphitheater was abandoned, and so was the dusty ring. The only sound he heard was the snorting of horses coming from the stable. Masolon went there, but he found no one, except the horses of course. He must have woken up too early.
His ears caught a humming sound. Behind the stable was a thatched building that Masolon ass
umed was a barn. However, he discovered this barn happened to be the Pit’s dining hall. Already ten brothers-of-the-Pit were there, sitting at the long table in the middle of the hall, devouring their white breakfast.
“What is this?” Masolon asked the nearest brother, nodding toward his bowl.
The brother didn't look at him when he answered, “Milk with wheat grains and black dates.”
“What sort of food is this?” Masolon asked in disapproval.
“Your breakfast.” Holding a similar bowl, Viola came in from the door connecting the dining hall with what appeared to be the kitchen.
“I thought you were Ramel's assistant, not his cook.” Masolon smirked.
“I'm here because our cook doesn't feel well today.” She pushed his bowl over the table toward him. “Finish this. You will need strength for your training.”
“Will it kill me?”
“Not unless a date seed gets stuck in your throat.”
Masolon allowed a wry chuckle. “Why should I believe you?”
“Only because Ramel still wants you alive.”
Masolon dug a spoon into his bowl, and then he lifted the full spoon in front of Viola's lips. “After you.”
A wicked smile lifted the right corner of her mouth. “Worried about your life? Leave now before you involve yourself in this. Leave while you still have a chance. I promise no one will harm you if you do it now.”
Masolon forced the full spoon into her mouth. Viola jerked her head backward, her wide eyes betraying her surprise. She tried to restore her crooked smile and said, “My generous offer is valid until you step into the arena.”
Her back straight, she marched out of the dining hall. Irked by her hollow threats, Masolon wished she was a man so that he could punch her in the face.
To his surprise, the breakfast didn't taste bad at all thanks to the sugary black dates. Recalling Viola's hint, he chewed carefully so as not to swallow a seed. He was the last one to finish his single bowl, which wasn't enough to make him feel full. Hopefully the meal at the end of the day would be more satisfying.
The Warrior's Path (Tales of Gorania Book 1) Page 6