The Warrior's Path (Tales of Gorania Book 1)

by Karim Soliman

  “I am always on my own. Even on the few days you honor us with your presence in the castle, you are not here, brother.”

  Feras didn't look offended. “I'm talking about Meryem. I'm sending her to her parents in Demask to be taken care of.” He allowed himself a faint smile. “After a few months, you will be an aunt.”

  Sweet Meryem! Losing her only companion in this prison was really bad news. “So, you will feel relieved only because you know she is in safe hands. Is that it?”

  “Meanwhile, I will be riding with my men to the western borders, where I will be joining forces with your uncle.”

  “Are you going to a war?”

  He shushed her, looking right and left. “We don't want to start panic here. We're not sure yet of the Byzonts' intentions, but we've received some news about their movements near our western frontiers. If they dare to come too close, we will simply vanquish those bastards and send them back to their territories.”

  For the first time she felt worried about her brother. Maybe she really cared about him after all. “When will you come back?”

  “Hopefully soon.” He sighed. “Until then I'm asking you to keep your eyes on Mother.” He glanced at her necklace. “Get rid of anything that might harm her. I will tell Dawood to return everything you took from Burdi. “

  She was about to protest, but his eyes betrayed his determination. Whatever she was going to say, he wouldn't allow her to keep everything she took from Nelly's house. But what about one thing?

  “I yield the necklace and the books,” she said.

  “And the bow.”

  “The bow stays here.”

  “It could be cursed, Sania.”

  “And it could be not. I'm sure it's the only bow I can wield.”

  Her brother's silence gave her hope.

  “On one condition,” Feras wagged a firm finger, “the bow stays here. And I mean in this yard.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  MASOLON

  Finally, the moment Masolon had been waiting for had come. Ramel had announced him ready for the Contests. Tonight was Masolon's last night in the Pit, and for this occasion he was having a warm rabbit soup with Ramel in his room.

  “You know nothing about the Tales of Gorania, do you?” Sitting on a stool, Ramel stirred his bowl. “They used to tell us that thousands of years ago a great Bermanian king called Goran had conquered all other kingdoms and united all the realms under his banner to become the first emperor of Gorania. He reigned for forty golden years, during which the great cities of Gorania were built. The Tales say that in the era of Goran, mills had no room to store the grain, and the surplus was fed to the birds.”

  “How true are those Tales?” Masolon asked.

  “They are as true as virgin whores.” Ramel sniggered. “Those Tales were written centuries ago by some drunken clerics. Don't let their appearances and hollow speeches fool you. Those blasted clerics are no different from farmers, carpenters, and blacksmiths. They do what they do because it's their profession. At the end of the day, they're men, young man. Men who need to drink and whore to be ready for another laborious day of their miserable lives.”

  Masolon hadn't encountered a Goranian cleric so far. He assumed they were like the holy monks of his homeland, except that they neither drank nor whored. Becoming one of those monks was a great honor that only a few in Ogono were worthy enough to earn. Here in Gorania, Ramel himself would fare well as a cleric.

  “You do not believe those Tales?” Masolon took a sip of the rabbit soup.

  “Please. Feeding excess grain to the birds? What sort of merchants did they have in those days?”

  “And King Goran?”

  Ramel put down his empty bowl. “If the Tales were right about his army, then why not? Imagine an army of Bermanian cavalry, Skandivian infantry, and Byzont archers. What force can stop that? Give me such an army and I would conquer the six realms.”

  “You would make a horrible king. I have seen enough in the Kingdom of Ramel's Pit,” Masolon teased him.

  “I might be a horrible king, but I'm quite sure I'd be a great emperor.” Ramel grinned. “Some haste, young man! Finish your soup and mount your horse. You shall depart for Durberg tonight.”

  “Durberg? What for?”

  “You thought you would leave my Pit and go back home? You have a Contest to win, and the next one will be held in Durberg in seven days. I want you to catch a caravan that's going to travel tomorrow from Lapond to Maksow. I will catch up with you after I finish some matters.”

  “Of course you will.” Masolon gave him a hard look. “To take your cut.”

  “I will take my cut whether I come or not.” A confident smile lifted the right corner of Ramel's mouth. “It is the moment when the people of Durberg start chanting your name that I don't want to miss.” He pushed to his feet and picked a rolled map from his desk. “I already told them to ready your horse. Do you know the way?”

  Knowing the map of Gorania by heart was one of the skills Ramel had stressed. “I will go north.”

  Ramel seemed to be waiting for more. “That's it? North? That's really promising.” He handed Masolon the rolled map. “Don't lose this, or you'll be lost.”

  Masolon drank what remained in his bowl and took the map from Ramel, spread it out, and tried to locate Durberg on it. “I knew it. I told you I would go north.” He still couldn't read all Goranian words, but he only needed to recognize the drawing of the name of each big city.

  “Northeast,” Ramel corrected. “Going north means heading to the Northern Gulf. And trust me, you don't want to face coastal raiders before your Contest. It will be a deadly practice session. You shall follow the snow to the northeast until you reach Maksow, then north to Durberg.”

  Despite Masolon's absolute failure in recruiting the army Galardi had requested, he couldn't resist the temptation of passing by the merchant in Kalensi to see if there was any news about his caravan. No doubt that would make his journey to Durberg longer, and surely Ramel wouldn't be happy about that.

  “No need to worry,” Masolon reassured Ramel and rose to his feet.

  “I only worry about my gold, Masolon. The little rumor that has reached my ears makes me worried indeed.” Ramel looked at him quizzically. “You were recruiting caravan guards in the Pit, weren't you?”

  Well, not recently, Masolon wanted to tell him. After his early attempts in his first week in the Pit, he had given up the idea. “A plan for the future will not harm.” He tried a careless smile. “I had no idea where my training was going to take me.”

  “Now you do have an idea, right?”

  “I told you, no need to worry.”

  “It is you who will need to worry if you think of messing with my gold. Becoming a caravan guard is not one of the reasons for which I wasted the previous six weeks of my life.” Ramel glared at him.

  “Should I say it for the third time?” Masolon had no doubt Ramel would be upset when he left him, but why start the quarrel now? Two weeks still remained for his appointed time with Galardi.

  “Don't forget your companions. The road is not always safe.” Ramel motioned him toward the corner of his chamber. New “companions” were laid on the floor next to his sword; a steel shield, a bow, and a full quiver.

  “A Rusakian shield can stand a strike by a Skandivian axe,” Ramel explained. “And this Mankol bow combines the balance of power and range.”

  Masolon glided his hand over the tight bowstring. He couldn't wait until he found a chance to try it. “Your gifts are accepted.” He grinned.

  “They cost me a few golden coins, but you're worth it, Champion.”

  “You will not regret it.” Masolon left the chamber with his new companions. “I will see you in Durberg.”

  Masolon's horse was ready as Ramel had promised. To take it out of the Pit, he pulled it by the bridle until he reached the leveled fields of Lapond. The city was only a few hours from the Pit, but who said he needed to catch that caravan departing for Ma
ksow?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  GERVINY

  The ironwood skeleton of the couch creaked as the horses trudged on the heavy snow. The wooden thing was the same age as his father, if not older, but no one could convince the stubborn old man to get rid of this relic. The Lord Marshal of Rusakia deserved a more elegant ride.

  “No foolish acts today.” The blue eyes of his father were fixed on him.

  The old man would never change. Gerviny sighed. I am twenty-one, and he still treats me as if I am his little boy. “Why should I act foolishly?” he asked.

  “You ask me?” His father curled his lip with distaste. “Why don't you ask yourself?”

  Gerviny wondered what his father's harsh tone was about. He knew the old man would never love him like he did his late brother Elov, but usually the Lord Marshal had a justified reason to get angry at his only son.

  “You know what I'm talking about.”

  Old Larovic was in a bad mood today. Like he was every day. Although Gerviny had been a child at his brother's funeral, he still remembered the smile on his father's face in his conversations with Elov.

  “I will be grateful if Lord Larovic clarifies what he is talking about,” Gerviny said.

  “The girl. She is not your bride yet.” His father wagged a finger. “Don't ever forget that.”

  His father was hinting at Gerviny's little…adventure with his former squire's sister. Three years had passed, and still his father rebuked him. Maybe the Lord Marshal was still weeping over the gold he had paid to buy the squire's silence. The whore's curves were worth every coin though.

  “Is that what you are here for?” Gerviny couldn't suppress his mocking smile when he recalled that night in her chamber. “To prevent me from ruining this honorable marriage? I never thought you bore any affection toward Sanislav.” If truth be told, Gerviny never thought his father bore any affection toward anybody at all.

  “You are even naiver than Sanislav's daughter.” His father shook his head, giving him the look that Gerviny always hated. The look that betrayed his disappointment in his sole heir.

  “I'm not naive,” Gerviny snapped. “It's you who never shares his plans with me.”

  “Do you really need me to tell you that this marriage is about Sanislav's castle? Not him or his worthless daughter? With Durberg and Saribev in our hands, our house will be the most powerful house in the North.” His father tsked, looking his son up and down. “After my death, you will be the most powerful lord in Rusakia.”

  “I will.” The moment Gerviny realized how that might sound, he hurriedly said, “May the Lord of Sky and Land bless you with good health.”

  His father gazed through the window at the white terrain. “I talked with Sanislav already about my desire to bind our houses through this marriage, so everything is arranged. However, you will do the talking with him as if nothing has happened between me and him. You will ask for his daughter's hand in marriage, as if it is your own decision, your own desire. I will be watching and say nothing.”

  Not a big task to worry about, Gerviny believed. “Count on me, Father. I know how to handle this.”

  “You do?” his father scoffed. “You only know how to bed lowborn whores.”

  “You underestimate your son, milord. You have never seen how I treat delicate highborn ladies to judge me.”

  “Perhaps I am going to see very soon. The girl may show up today and spend a few moments with us. Show me your best.”

  “Not a problem.” Gerviny tried to look confident. “I’ve made prettier girls fall in love with me.”

  A hint of a smirk barely lifted the right corner of his father's mouth for a second. “I doubt you’ve met a prettier girl.”

  Gerviny wished he could mock his father's standards of beauty, but he would never dare. The last time he saw Halin had been five years ago in a feast in Maksow, but he remembered well that she had never grabbed his attention. The girl was skinnier than a stick, like a skeleton dressed in silk. He had to admit, however, her blonde hair wasn't bad at all.

  Gerviny didn't exchange another word with his father until the coach passed the iron gates of the ancient castle of Sabirev, Rusakia's Last Shield. Gerviny had often heard the tale of the Mankols' invasion that had been broken at the frozen walls of this fort ten centuries ago. When winter came, the Rusakians sallied out of Durberg and Sabirev and ran the barbarians out of their motherland for good. A stupid, frosty piece of stone. His demented father was the naive one here to be that desperate to seize control of such a remote castle. Instead of strengthening his status in the North, the Lord Marshal should rather secure a seat for his house in the King's Council in Maksow, in the capital, in the royal palace, away from this dull monument. Why am I surprised in the first place? To someone who was fond of anything old like his father, this historical castle was a holy place.

  Gerviny and his father put on their fur coats when the coach stopped. Gerviny opened the door and stepped down first, offering his father a hand to help him out.

  “I'm not that old. Get out of my way.” Larovic's answer to his decency was frustrating as usual. Gerviny hoped the guards in their reception from the castle were not paying attention at this moment.

  The captain of the Castle Guard saluted the Lord Marshal and his son before he escorted them inside. As the captain strode through the vestibule ahead of them, Gerviny leaned toward his father. “Where is Sanislav?” he whispered. As a display of respect, the lord of this cursed castle should be in the Lord Marshal's reception the moment he stepped out of the coach.

  His father didn't look bothered. Well, he usually looked bothered for no particular reason. He didn't even appear to be listening to Gerviny's question. When Gerviny dared to repeat his question, his father only gave him a glare, as if saying, 'What did I tell you in the coach?'

  All Gerviny's protests about Sanislav's lack of respect vanished when he entered the great hall and his eyes fell on the blue-eyed girl standing next to her towering, broad-shouldered father. The two gaunt grooves that used to be in Halin's face had become two rounded rosy cheeks, completely changing the way she looked now. Even her long blonde hair looked prettier on her new face. He allowed his eyes to scan her lithe frame, which had acquired a bit of flesh, giving her bosom and hips the perfect size.

  “It's an honor meeting you, Lord Marshal.” Halin gave his father a courtly bow. A statue of stone would melt to this epitome of beauty, but not his father. The proud Lord Marshal barely smiled at her.

  “Lord Gerviny.” She beamed at him. “Welcome to our humble castle.” She hesitantly offered him her hand. Smitten, he was clueless for a moment before he laid a kiss on the back of her hand. The hardest part was letting her hand go.

  “We all know what we are here for.” Sanislav grinned, glancing at Gerviny. “Let the old fellows discuss their boring matters while Hal shows you the castle.”

  What could be interesting in such a castle? Show me something else, Halin, Gerviny thought. All he could do for the time being was let his imagination go wild. A few months of patience and this perfectly sculptured body would be his.

  Delighted, Halin led the way on their tour. He shouldn't ever forget that he could charm any girl, and Halin was no exception.

  “I love your fragrance,” he remarked. “That's purple rose, right?”

  “Oh, thanks. Yes, it is.” She blushed. “Are you interested in books, Lord Gerviny?”

  “Just Gerviny, Halin. And yes, but a certain type of books.”

  “History?”

  “Romance,” he lied, but he could wager that was her favorite kind.

  “Really?” She sounded more glad than surprised. “I thought men were only concerned about war.”

  “I'm like no other man, Hal.” He winked at her, and she giggled. Where are you, old Larovic, to watch your son and learn?

  “So how did you form your opinion about men?” he teased her.

  “It's not what you may think.” She playfully gave him a dismissive g
esture.

  “Are you telling me that you never had victims before?”

  “Victims?” She laughed. “Maybe. Nobody told me though.”

  A flower locked in this prison. Gerviny must be so lucky that the games of destiny led him to her. “You must be bored here in this castle.”

  “My father doesn't let me stay here for long. Since Mother's death, I have become his companion in his travels.”

  “Traveling is fun indeed.” Now Gerviny was quite sure he was lucky that nobody had ever proposed to her. Fools. “Have you ever been to a Contest before?”

  “Father never took me there. What could be interesting about watching men clubbing each other?”

  “Don't judge before you try. Besides, there is a ball after the fights end.”

  “A ball? That sounds interesting.”

  “Very well. You are attending the upcoming Contest with me. It is going to be held in my city, in Durberg.” And she would be in his palace to attend the ball. Accidents might happen when wine played with minds. “Your father won't mind if you go with your betrothed on your own, right?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  MASOLON

  The trees lined the cobblestone road to Kalensi, the rain showering Masolon and his horse for an entire hour. The rain stopped for another hour, allowing the warm sunlight to dry his clothing before the clouds agglomerated to start a new shower. The sun and the clouds kept playing hide and seek until nightfall, the moon taking the sun’s place in the game.

  The rain was much less on the next day. Thanks to the map, Masolon was able to identify the right way at the crossroads, managing to reach the marketplace of Kalensi before dusk. It was so close to the sea he could smell the brine in the cold breeze.

  Ramel considered the Skandivians the finest footmen in Gorania, and Masolon didn’t disagree when he saw them. The Sons of Giants, they called themselves. They weren’t ten feet tall as they claimed their ancestors had been, but still, they were taller than the people he had seen in Murase and Byzonta. They were as tall as him, as his clansmen in Ogono. Masolon found it hard to understand how a short fellow like Galardi belonged to the Sons of Giants. Ramel might be right about the drunken clerics who wrote the Tales of Gorania after all.