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

by Karim Soliman

“We should return to Kahora while we still have time to reach it before nightfall,” Kuslov said after a lengthy ride.

  “We will not return until we finish this mission,” Frankil announced.

  “We can come back tomorrow and resume your mission.”

  “We keep following their tracks until the sun falls to Earth, and tomorrow we resume from where we stop.”

  The tracker didn’t protest, spurring his horse to a trot yet again. Ziyad kept following him, hoping he could spot a horse hoof or a footprint, but he saw nothing on the endless sand. He wondered if the Rusakian was fooling them. Even if there were any tracks, how could he see them in the dim light of dusk?

  The army stopped when night fell.

  “Should we make fire for our camp?” Bergum asked.

  “No,” Antram snapped. “That will expose our location.”

  Frankil looked between Bergum and Antram then he asked Ziyad, “I presume you know better than any of us. What do you suggest?”

  “Those Ghosts can see in the dark,” Ziyad said. “I say we make a fire to see them as well.”

  Antram shook his head in disapproval. “If what you say is true then we are just making their mission easier.”

  “So be it,” Frankil decided. “Instead of making a fire in the center of our camp, we surround our camp with it so that they don’t surprise us.”

  The Bermanian captain split the band into five groups of eight, each group guarding a position in an imaginary wide circle, but not so wide that they couldn’t warn each other if one group spotted any threat.

  Ziyad was the first in his group to take his turn on the night watch. The stars glittered in the clear sky like bright diamonds floating on a quiet, dark-blue ocean. A sight he couldn’t enjoy in Rusakia where the sky was always grayed by heavy cloud cover.

  Yet something was wrong tonight. The desert was too quiet. Usually the wind blew gentle breezes at night, shaking the fronds of those scattered palm trees. It was utter silence; the sound of death.

  “Over here!” Danis cried.

  Ziyad drew his sword, scurrying to Danis. The whole gang held their weapons and hurried to where the cry came from.

  “Where are they?” Antram asked nervously.

  “The thudding footsteps came from that way.” Danis pointed his finger at a dark spot in the desert. Ziyad grabbed a flaming branch from the campfire and cautiously ventured into the darkness.

  “What are you doing, Ziyad? Come back here!” Antram yelled.

  He thought he heard something approaching. Slow thudding feet. This is not wise, Ziyad, he told himself. He should stay behind the campfire with his brothers.

  And then came the roar. All he remembered was his fall on his back, Antram’s growl, and his fellows’ cries.

  “Ziyad! Ziyad!”

  “Talk to me, brother!”

  “Are you hurt?”

  He could hear them, but for a few seconds, he had forgotten how to talk.

  “Blast!” Ziyad raised his head, his heart beating again at last. “What was that?”

  “He is alright!” Danis announced, holding Ziyad’s shoulders. “He is alright, folks!”

  “Merciful Lord,” Frankil muttered. “Thank the Lord Antram was fast enough.”

  Ziyad had heard Antram’s voice amid the clamor. At his left, the corpse of a desert leopard lay in a red pond of blood. Standing in the same pond was Antram, whose face and tabard were splattered with red.

  “I thought you hated me.” Ziyad gave him a tired smile.

  “Now I do.” Blood dripped from Antram’s sword. The gash in the leopard’s neck was so deep it had almost severed its head.

  “Your watch for tonight has ended,” Frankil told Ziyad. “I hope I find you alive when the sun rises.”

  Ziyad hoped so as well. He hadn’t lived all these years to become some leopard’s supper. He knew they were here when he lay on his side, his eyes open. The silent desert felt it. That silent desert had sent that leopard to warn them. It must have warned his father, but he hadn’t listened, and a whole caravan had been slaughtered on a quiet night like this one.

  Frankil’s voice woke him at first light. “Let’s move, brothers. We have a long day ahead.”

  Obviously the Ghosts hadn’t paid them a night visit. Not yet. Maybe tonight.

  Ziyad rode next to Antram, both following Frankil and Kuslov. “I feel sorry for ruining your outfit,” Ziyad said.

  “You will buy me a new one,” said Antram.

  They were moving faster today. Kuslov, who was leading the group with Frankil, didn’t stop to check the tracks as he had done yesterday. Once they had to stop thanks to the exhausted Bermanian brothers of the gang.

  “Curse these lands,” Bergum muttered. “I may kill that Guild Master if he doesn’t pay us fairly this time.”

  The sun was heading west when Kuslov stopped them and dismounted, scrutinizing the ground. “Quicksand,” he announced.

  The Murasens called it the Sand Sea. Ziyad knew it was a sea no one could swim in. A fall in the Sand Sea meant certain death.

  “They are there.” Kuslov nodded toward a hill at the horizon, in the heart of the Sand Sea. “The perfect location for a hideout.”

  “How can they reach it when we can’t?” Frankil asked.

  “There must be a passage.” Holding his horse by the bridle, Kuslov walked, staring at the ground. “It’s here.” He turned to them. “But we can only pass one at a time. The passage is too narrow.”

  Ziyad looked around at his fellows, making sure he was not the only one confused here. The Rusakian tracker was talking about a passage that did not exist. The terrain was nothing but plain sand all around them except for that hill.

  “What are you waiting for?” Kuslov gestured to them to move. The tracker’s honed eyes must have spotted something they couldn’t see.

  “You heard him, fellows.” Ziyad dismounted, urging the rest to do the same. The warriors held their horses by their bridles and walked their beasts as Kuslov did.

  “Stick to the line, everybody. Keep your eyes on the brother in front of you as long as he is still on his feet. One misstep and the quicksand will swallow you,” Kuslov instructed as he led the group. “One more thing; if you see a brother trapped in the sand, don’t try to save him for any reason. The sand will swallow you both.”

  “You heard him, brothers!” Ziyad waved to the horsemen behind him. “Stay close to each other!”

  Normal sand and the Sand Sea looked exactly the same, but somehow Kuslov could spot the difference. They didn’t exaggerate when they said the tracker had the eyes of a hawk.

  “Help!” a cry came from behind Ziyad. The Murasen fellows at the rearguard reached out for the brother whose knees sank below the sand.

  “Leave him!” Kuslov shouted, but he was too late. Two more brothers had stepped into the cursed sands already.

  “Somebody pull them out!” Frankil yelled.

  “No! More men will fall!” Kuslov insisted.

  “We can’t watch them die!”

  “There’s nothing we can do for them! Move forward!”

  The brothers near the three trapped fellows took off their tunics, tying them together to make a chain. But the sand was faster. Before they made a single chain, one head was buried already, and the sand was swallowing the rest of its meal.

  “Keep your feet steady!”

  “Don’t let me die here!”

  “Hold on tight!”

  “We’ll get you out!”

  “There’s nothing you can do! Leave them, you fools!”

  Everyone had lost his mind. Two screams faded away as the sand filled the two drowning fellows’ throats.

  And then, silence. The warriors of the gang were mute, staring at the evil sand that had swallowed their fellows.

  “Wake up!” Kuslov clapped. “They’re gone! Make sure you follow me right this time.”

  Ziyad and Frankil exchanged a look. “I’m afraid he’s right,” said Frankil. “Ther
e’s no good of staying here. Move and they will follow you.”

  The screams of the drowning fellows still echoed in Ziyad’s head as he carefully moved onward, focusing on Frankil’s boots in front of him to make sure he was stepping in the same spot. It would be a shame if he failed now while he was getting so close to those Ghosts.

  “Shields up!” Antram called. “Archers at hilltop!”

  “Blast!” Ziyad unstrapped his shield and raised it in time to catch arrows cracking on the wood. “Kuslov! Have we crossed the quicksand yet?”

  Men cried, horses whinnied. “Kuslov!” Ziyad urged. “Answer me!” It was raining arrows, and deathly sand was on both sides. That wasn’t fair at all.

  “From this point, spread out!” Kuslov instructed. “Don’t spread sooner!”

  Ziyad waited until Frankil made it to Kuslov’s spot, jumped off his horse, and sprinted forward, leaving his horse behind him. His charger would hinder him if he ascended the hill with it. This was a battle he was going to fight on foot.

  The arrows hammered his shield as he went uphill. Glancing over his shoulder, he realized he was leading the attack, Frankil and Antram right behind him.

  Reaching the top, Ziyad drew his saber and slashed an archer’s abdomen. “Bleed, you scum!” Ziyad roared, watching blood pouring out of the dead archer’s belly. So the Ghosts did bleed like men.

  “What are you looking at?” Antram bellowed as he stabbed another archer. “Fight, you fool!” he chided Ziyad.

  Ziyad estimated more than thirty Ghosts atop the sandy hill. Now it was a fair fight. Raising his shield at the right time, he blocked a soaring javelin as he charged at the spearman, and before the spearman could throw another, Ziyad chopped his hand off. The spearman howled in agony until Ziyad drove the curved blade into his chest, cutting off his screams. He picked the javelin from his shield and thrust it into another Ghost’s torso. “DIEEEE!” he roared.

  The fearless brothers vanquished the mortal Ghosts. Ziyad wondered if those bastards still earned their name after they crammed the hilltop with their corpses.

  “Wait!” he yelled at Bergum, who was about to stab a Ghost fallen on his back. “Not yet! Not yet!” Ziyad hurried to the Bermanian before he might kill the last surviving Ghost.

  “Want to finish him yourself?” Bergum panted. “Be my guest.” He took a step back.

  “You! Are there others?” Ziyad laid his blade over the Ghost’s throat. For the first time, he had a chance to contemplate the face of one of them. No dagger-like canines in his jaw. Even his facial features weren’t as ugly as in the tales. He was just a nomad.

  “Speak, you filthy dog!” Ziyad jabbed his neck with his blade. “Where are the rest?”

  The Ghost spat, uttering curses in the Old Murasen Tongue. “I’m not playing, son of a whore!” Ziyad spoke in the same old tongue. He stuck his curved blade in the nomad’s hand and the nomad shrieked in agony. “Speak, or I will make your death slower than you can ever imagine!”

  The fallen nomad was still screaming.

  “That’s not the answer I’m expecting,” snarled Ziyad, plunging his sword into the other wrist.

  “Stop…stop!” the nomad wailed, hardly able to breathe between gasps.

  “Ziyad!” Frankil yelled. “That’s unnecessary!”

  “You should have seen my father’s corpse,” Ziyad snapped at the captain. He turned back to the howling nomad. “Say something useful, or the next spot will be your member!”

  “They are coming.” The nomad grimaced. “All of them.”

  “Coming where?” Ziyad jabbed his chest, but the nomad didn’t talk, his eyes closed. “Don’t pass out now!” Ziyad slapped him. “Blast!”

  “That’s enough, Ziyad.” Frankil glared at him. “Finish him off.”

  “Not before we know what he knows.”

  “He won’t be able to tell you anything.” Bergum flipped the nomad’s body, showing Ziyad the gash in his back. With all this lost blood, the rascal was probably dying now.

  “Come on, brother,” Antram urged him. “It’s over.”

  “Haven’t you heard him?” Ziyad argued. “He said they were coming.”

  “Let them come.” Antram stood tall. “We shall give them another day like this one.”

  Like this one? No. Ziyad wouldn’t be satisfied until he made sure that Ghosts didn’t exist in this world any longer.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-ONE

  SANIA

  Sania let her brother hold her hand as they descended the stairs together. The Bermanian healer was waiting in the vestibule by the order of the Lord of Arkan who wanted to thank him in person for his efforts, and so did she. What the healer had done for her mother was a real miracle. A few weeks earlier the old lady was dying. Today she could even walk on her own.

  “You’re a pride for all Bermanians, Bumar,” said Feras. “I hope my humble reward is up to your expectations.”

  “Serving you is an honor, milord.” Bumar bowed before the lord.

  “Five memluks will escort you back to Kahora,” said Feras. “They are waiting for you outside.”

  “I don’t have enough words to express my gratitude, milord.”

  “You are returning to your gang, aren’t you?” asked Sania. She could see the impact of her question on Feras’s face.

  “I’m not sure what you mean, milady,” Bumar replied. “I’m not a member of the Warrior’s Gang. They’re all valiant heroes, and I’m just a healer.”

  “I thought you were a friend of Masolon’s.” A friend who can tell me more about him.

  “I can’t even tell.” Bumar shrugged. “But I may say there’s a sort of chemistry between us.”

  “Chemistry?” Sania echoed.

  “Yes, milady. When there’s chemistry between souls, they get along with each other swiftly. Some need longer time, and others never get along at all.”

  “What sort of chemistry did you feel, Bumar?” she asked. “You are a man of knowledge and wisdom, and he, I presume, is a ruthless, heartless barbarian.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving, milady. A pure pearl is always hidden in a rough shell.”

  “Well said. Have you read that?” Sania asked.

  “No, milady. This is merely fruit of decades of experience.”

  “We don’t want to hold Bumar, Lady Sania. The noon sun will be harsh today.” Feras harrumphed. Sania could tell from his grim face there was something in the conversation he didn’t like. The healer noticed too. With another courtly bow, he took his leave and went to the door. Sania wanted to hear more from him, but she didn't dare to ask.

  Now alone, Feras looked at her sharply. “Is there something I should know?”

  “Something like what, brother?” she asked innocently.

  Feras took a deep breath. She knew her brother was suspicious of something, but of what? She recalled every word she had just said and found nothing wrong about it. Maybe because she had mentioned Masolon? What could be the problem in that? Nobody had told her she was forbidden to speak his name.

  “Nothing,” said Feras. “I just feel—” He stopped when the portman hurried to him.

  “My apologies, milord.” The portman handed him a sealed scroll. “We have an urgent message from Bigad.”

  Bigad, the region her father ruled. What sort of urgent news might come from there? To Sania’s surprise, she found herself a bit worried.

  Feras dismissed his portman and broke the seal of the scroll. The way his eyes twitched while reading the scroll piqued her curiosity.

  “Is Father alright?” she asked worriedly.

  Feras looked right and left, then took her by the hand and headed to the hall. “Out,” he ordered the guards standing by the door.

  “You’ve scared me, Feras,” she told her brother after the guards closed the door behind them. “What happened to Father?”

  Feras seated her opposite to him. “He’s alive, if that’s what you’re asking. Yet he’s in danger. If truth be told
, we are all in danger. Dehawy is leading a rebellion in the eastern region, while his new allies, the Mankols, have already captured the castle of Kurdisan in the north.”

  Kurdisan was the Murasens’ northern shield. Sania had always heard her brother say that to justify their father’s absence. Its fall meant that the whole region of Bigad was in danger.

  “What about Father? Where is he now?”

  Feras let out a deep breath of air. “He has retreated to the southern bank of the Blue Crescent to defend the city. All he can amass right now is four or five thousand men against an enemy twice these numbers.”

  Sania’s military experience was as good as Feras’s skill in sewing. “Can’t you send him a few thousand of your soldiers to aid him?”

  “Only my uncle can.” He ground his jaw. Obviously, he didn’t like the idea of seeking their uncle’s help. “I need reinforcements to face the Byzonts coming from the northwest.”

  Byzonts, Mankols and a rebellion. May the Lord have mercy. “Coming where?” she asked.

  “Here, to the castle of Arkan. That’s why you and Mother must go to Kahora before it’s too late. It’s not safe here.”

  “That is not going to happen,” she snapped. “Mother can’t stand the sand and dusty air outside.”

  “Can you just use your reason for once instead of blustering like a child?” He glared at her. “This very castle will be besieged in three or four days. A siege is something we can never know when it will end, especially in a situation like this one where our troops are busy engaging the enemy in different fronts. Currently, Kahora is the safest place in the whole Kingdom, and the safest place in Kahora is the royal palace. I’m quite sure Mother will be taken care of better than here.”

  Sania had been to the royal palace once and she had never liked it. Yes, the chambers, the food, and the clothes were much better than here. But the formalities were unbearable. Lots of bows and the ′Your Highness′ and ′Your Majesty′ thing. She had to be dressed in her finest outfits wherever she went as she might run into some lord or even worse, the king himself. Even in her own chamber she should look well to the royal maidservants. Still, she couldn’t deny the royal palace would be more comfortable to her mother Lady Ramia. But what about the journey from Arkan to Kahora? It might not be that long, but not to her sick mother.