“We stayed up a bit late last night while you were snoring like a pig.”
“This is nonsense. I wasn't able to sleep in the first place.”
“But you did snore,” Antram insisted.
Ignoring his friend's humorous notice, Ziyad gazed back at the sleeping brothers. “Shouldn't we wake them up and make a brief announcement?”
“That's the captain's job, brother.” Antram shrugged. “Let him have all the sleep he needs, and he will inform them himself of our most recent news.”
A cloud of dust rose at the horizon. That wasn't Poison Wind. That was a horde of horsemen.
And they were riding toward their hill.
Ziyad and Antram exchanged a quick look before they hurried to their sleeping fellows to wake them up.
“To arms!” Ziyad bellowed. “Intruders coming!”
The alarmed fellows didn't even have enough time to don their light armors. Everyone grabbed the nearest sword to him and hurried to the edge.
“Bows!” Frankil shouted. “Make way for archers!”
Frankil motioned all the men capable of wielding a bow and arrow to spread out and take shooting positions, commanding the rest to line up and be ready to attack by his order. The first mission in the captain's reign was starting sooner than Ziyad had expected.
Ziyad estimated the intruders to be around two hundred…memluks? Yes, they were. As they approached, he wouldn't mistake their decorated heavy armors nor their honorable leader. The great Lord Feras, son of the renowned Lord Ahmet, was here himself, and Ziyad wondered what grave reason might be behind this unexpected visit. The lord's presence at the hill right after Masolon's escape could not be a mere coincidence. And what were all those memluks for? Not Lord Feras's guards?
“Don't shoot!” Frankil raised his hand as he ordered the archers, and all of them lowered their bows at once.
Lord Feras and his horde stopped at the foot of the hill. Still ahorse, the young lord advanced, gazing at the archers spread out atop the hill, ready to shoot at any intruder. “I demand an audience with your captains!”
“Did you hear that?” Ziyad turned to both Frankil and Antram. “He knows that Masolon has left us.”
“This is not promising.” Frankil stood, looking out at the large group. “For someone coming simply to talk, our lord has brought too many men.”
“Do you think he is looking for Masolon?” Antram asked the two of them.
“I'm sure Masolon has a hand in this somehow,” Ziyad told them, wondering whether he should feel pity for the fleeing commander or blame that fool for whatever mistake he had committed.
“I'm sure it's not a wise idea to leave that lord waiting too long. Come on. Let's see what he wants.” Frankil motioned Ziyad and Antram to follow him as he moved away from the edge. “No reckless moves, brothers.”
As the three fellows descended the hill on foot, Antram asked, “What if he is here to arrest us?”
“For doing what?” Ziyad asked. “Anyway, he will do that if he wants to. We are outnumbered here.”
Thanks to one of Masolon's previous ventures outside Murase, Ziyad had had the chance to meet Feras in person once. A young lord, a few years older than Ziyad perhaps, yet a man of reason when he spoke. Ziyad knew he would need that reason the moment he saw the grim look on Feras's face.
“You know why I'm here, don't you?” Feras asked the three of them.
“We wonder if there is something we can help you with, Lord Feras.” Frankil stood straight. Perhaps not the best timing to worry about his pride, Ziyad believed.
“Captain,” Feras tilted his head, “did you happen to lead a Murasen soldier when you were in Ramos?”
Ziyad didn't like the question or Feras's tone. Frankil must watch out for his next words.
“No,” Frankil answered.
“I am quite sure of that.” Feras nodded. “Because it simply doesn't make any sense. I doubt that any lord from any part of Gorania would commit our folly.”
“I would never consider fighting banditry as an act of folly, Lord Feras.”
“Fighting banditry is an act of bravery that we thank you for, Captain.” Feras's impassive voice didn't betray any sort of appreciation. “I think it is time for the sons of this realm to undertake this duty.”
Ziyad knew what that meant, yet Frankil kept his stone face when he asked, “Are you dismissing me, Lord Feras?”
“I'm dismissing all of you, Captain,” Feras announced. “From now on, there will be no gangs or bands of warriors in Murase. If any of you want to fight banditry, then you're welcome to join the Murasen army. But I'm afraid that you must be a Murasen if you want to fight under the leopard banner.”
Now Frankil wasn't able to hide his scowl. “Is this how you thank us, milord?”
Feras leaned toward Frankil. “You and all your men have already been rewarded for your services. What else do you want?”
Frankil looked frustrated when he shook his head. “Nothing. May I leave with my men now?”
“You inform them of my orders first. After that you are free to go wherever you want in Murase as long as you don't raise a blade.”
“I assure you that will never happen, milord.” Frankil nodded. “We are not staying here anymore.”
Frankil left, returning uphill. For a moment, Antram looked not sure of what he should do before he realized he had better follow the Bermanian captain. Ziyad could understand Antram's puzzlement. He was confused himself, still not able to digest the lord's harsh decision. He wished he could persuade Feras to change his mind, but lords were not to be advised unless they asked you for that. And Feras didn't seem to be waiting for anyone's advice.
“This is not right.” Ziyad couldn't keep his mouth shut any longer. He knew he might regret that, but nevertheless voiced his opinion. He wasn't a soldier in the Murasen army to obey Feras's orders; he was a brother of the gang, and he could speak his mind whenever he wanted.
“Of course it is not.” Feras stared at him. “A bunch of foreigners leading a gang of mercenaries in our realm. That's nonsense if you ask me.”
The way Feras referred to his brothers irked him. “Those foreigners saved the realm when its soldiers failed it.”
“What if one day we enter a war with Bermania or Rusakia? Which side will they stand for do you think? Can you entrust them with your family’s safety?”
Ziyad grinned. “I have no family, milord. Those foreigners are my family now.”
“Then you had better catch up to them.” Feras wheeled his horse.
“What happened to Masolon?” Ziyad couldn’t help asking. When Feras turned to him, he realized how foolish that question was. I should have left when I had the chance. I made him hear enough from me today, he thought.
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Feras asked.
“I would if I knew where he was.”
A wry smile twisted Feras’s lips. “If you are telling the truth, then he is wiser than he seems.”
The lord wheeled his horse again and trotted off, Ziyad letting him go this time. That almost went well. Time to get out of here.
Masolon knew what was going to happen, Ziyad reflected as he ascended the hill. But why hadn’t he warned them? That hill could have witnessed a massacre this morning if only one archer had lost his composure and loosed an arrow. Probably Masolon wasn't sure about it, but he must have heard something that made him see that happening soon. Though always mysterious with his own plans, he was nevertheless a fearless commander with a vision. Ziyad wouldn’t deny he felt indebted to Masolon for taking him in that journey.
Where should he go now? Ziyad had his revenge, in addition to an adequate sum of gold and silver to live on after dismantling the gang. Maybe that was the right time to stop fighting and return to his harp, to his festive world where he did what he loved and loved what he did. That path of blood would be pointless if it had no end.
Frankil was announcing Lord Feras’s shocking decision to the brothers of the
gang when Ziyad returned to them. Astounded, most of them argued with Frankil as if it was his own decision. No one could see any reason behind this absurd move from the Murasen lord's side, even the Murasen brothers themselves. Some spat harsh words about the lord and the king, others asking where Masolon had gone. Too many unexplained incidents for one morning. Ziyad wished Feras was here now to see for himself what the gang meant to the brothers. Maybe they were mercenaries as the young lord said, but that was only part of the truth. Those men had bled, won battles, and buried their departed brothers together. Their loyalty would always be to themselves, not to any other banner.
The brothers needed some time to realize that their prattle was futile. After Frankil was done with his brief speech, they dragged their feet away to gather their gear. The camp was never as silent and gloomy as it was today.
While Frankil and his fellow knights were getting rid of their Murasen armor and donning their old Bermanian ones, Antram was doing nothing. Sitting on his buttocks, he leaned his back to a big rock, his fingers crossed. If there was something Ziyad would miss for real, it would be teasing this fellow.
“You.” Ziyad tossed a stone at Antram's feet, startling the huge fellow. “That lord down the hill won't wait for long.”
“He dismissed me from his service, but he didn't dismiss me from here.”
As Ziyad approached him, he eyed the brothers who were almost ready to move. “Everybody is leaving, Antram. I don't think you want to stay here on your own.”
Antram leaned his head to the rock, letting out a deep breath of air. “I feel I'm lost, brother.” For one rare moment, the Duke admitted he was vulnerable. “I can't imagine myself returning to those arenas, running from one Contest to another. Not after I've become who I am now.”
“And what have you become? A captain?” Ziyad stood right in front of Antram. “What would losing that mean to someone who had lost his lordship status before?”
Antram made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “I barely remember two or three years of my childhood in my father's house, so I don't have much to yearn for. My lordship was nothing more than an amusing tale I used for the Contests to earn some fame.”
“No more Contests for an honorable warrior like you.” Frankil's heavy armor rattled as he came to join them. “We are returning to Horstad,” he jabbed Antram in the shoulder, “and this time, it's your turn to come with us.”
Antram turned to Frankil giving him a nervous titter. “No, Captain. As I loathe the notion of returning to the arenas, I cannot stand risking my life without a reward. I might at least earn some silver from those Contests.” He rose to his feet, gazing at the camp as if he was looking for something. “Ask Blanich and he will tell you the same.”
“Blanich was the first one to leave the camp,” Frankil pointed out. “The moment I returned, he took his leave and off he went.”
“Without seeing us off?” Antram was surprised, but Ziyad was not. He knew the Rusakian was never truly one of the brothers.
“Forget about him,” Ziyad told Antram. “I have a better alternative that would suit both of you and Frankil. Galardi.”
Both Frankil and Antram shot Ziyad inquiring looks. “The Skandivian merchant? What about him?” asked Frankil.
“He always needs strong men to guard his caravans,” said Ziyad. “A profession not much different from what we used to do here in Murase.”
Antram nodded in approval. “That is better than the Contests for sure.”
Frankil seemed to be weighing Ziyad's idea in his head. “Not bad, I must admit. Still, we have a long way ahead until we reach the crossroads where we will have to decide if we should head to Horstad or to Kalensi.” He turned to Ziyad and Antram. “You had better ready yourselves faster. The sooner I leave these lands, the more relieved I will become.”
Ziyad wanted to tell them that he was just offering one last sincere piece of advice to his brothers. Fighting was no longer among his plans, which only included highborn ladies, music, and banquets. Fighting would just be part of his new songs and tales in the coming feasts to entertain his audience, especially the gorgeous ones among the crowd.
“Ziyad?” Frankil tilted his head. “Are you coming or not?”
The Bermanian captain apparently sensed Ziyad's hesitation. Before Ziyad said a word, Antram answered on his behalf, “It's his suggestion, Frankil. Of course he is coming.”
Now Ziyad wondered if one day he would regret his silence.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
MASOLON
The castle of Arkan had become a mere dot behind Masolon, and still, those forty memluks surrounded him as they rode on the Northern Road. The travelers going past him must be thinking that the fearless commander was just doing another patrol with his soldiers. For the commoners, even those who had never seen him, he was their champion, Bane of the Ghosts, the Demon of the Desert. Unfortunately, all those names didn’t mean that much to their king. The Demon of the Desert was leaving Murase, stripped of his title, prohibited from setting foot on Murasen soil. Masolon should be grateful that he was allowed to keep his armor on him.
Dusk had fallen already when the memluks left him in the middle of nowhere. He must be near the Byzont lands, if he wasn’t there already. Not the right place to visit wearing Murasen armor.
His map was in his saddlebag, but he didn’t take it out to check his directions. He let his horse move onward, having no idea where he should go. It didn’t matter now.
Let destiny take me where I am supposed to go. He mocked the idea. It was destiny that had deceived him with its absurd games; destiny that had lifted him up high in the sky only to make his bone-crushing fall. Today he returned to the very point he had started from. Today he was the same empty-handed man who had miraculously made it to Gorania; a man with no title, no gang, no friends…and no Sania.
All was lost, but not for nothing, for the sake of the stupid games of destiny.
You did not lose everything, Masolon. You still have me.
The voice of his mind was back after a long absence, and it picked the right time to return. Only the Lord of Sky and Land knew how long Masolon would stay alone.
You have never been alone since you came out of the Great Desert.
His restless mind had always muddled him with its intruding thoughts, as if someone else inside Masolon's head was talking to him. But Masolon wouldn't bother talking to…
Because I am someone else, you fool.
Masolon pulled the reins of his horse, looking around. He was alone for real. From where he stopped to the reddish horizon ahead, he couldn't see a single shadow of a man or a beast. Had he lost his mind?
No, you did not. We met in Si'oli, but you never remember me.
Now Masolon was sure he was hallucinating. One year had passed since his dreadful passage through the Great Desert, but still he could remember his loneliness in that desolate place. Even the demons rumored to reside there did not exist.
Demons do exist, Masolon. You yourself have encountered one.
“Enough!” Masolon held his temples, trying to rouse himself from his disturbing thoughts. Those Murasen bastards had broken his heart this morning. He wouldn't let them get to his mind as well.
I am the one who keeps your mind sound, Masolon. Without me, you are nothing but a dull mass of muscles.
“What are you?”
Your sins. Your salvation.
“My salvation was in the path I forged.”
What if you have chosen the wrong path?
“I did not. I fought for the helpless. I fought for a cause”
The nomads fight for a cause as well. What makes you different from them?
“How am I even compared to them? I do not kill innocent people!”
And where did you end up with that? An outcast, who would be wanted for justice like any brigand. Can you not see it yet? You slew hundreds of nomads with your blade, but you only became a murderer when you shed noble blood. You are now a thief because you
tried to 'steal' what you are not allowed to dream of. But what if you tried to run away with a girl from the commoners?
“The problem lies in the lords, not in the path. My path.”
Why would you have a path in the first place? Why do you not just let it go and live the life an invincible warrior like you deserve?
“What do you want me to become? An outlaw?”
You are almost one. But you would not believe me if I did not let you see for yourself.
Masolon must kill this voice, and this time for good. Yelling to stop it for a while wouldn't do. Yelling wouldn't dismiss a demon. What he needed was belief. He would never again be vulnerable like today, and his demon knew that. His demon had been patient enough to take his best shot and start turning Masolon to what he had wanted him to be.
You cannot silence me forever.
“Then I shall simply ignore you. Keep talking, bastard.”
Masolon listened, and all he heard for a couple of minutes was the gust of autumn wind, no voices coming from his mind, or the demon occupying it. He felt it was his restless mind that had created his non-existent demon. His boon, as his grandfather had described his mind. But no, his grandfather had been wrong. Masolon's mind had always been his pain. A curse that could never be undone unless the dead could be brought back. Yes, it was the curse of bloodshed. Masolon could see that gloating smile on the face of the thief of the Salvation Tree. If that thief had been a thief in the first place…
His ears caught some movement not far away from him. While he was lost in his thoughts, seven horsemen ringed him from quite a distance. He didn't make any move as he watched them gradually come closer. They didn't look like nomads or even Murasen. Those men came probably from Bermania.
“A wise man,” said the horseman, who seemed to be their leader. “I promise, you will never regret your wisdom.”
They were robbers, and they had just shown up at the right time. Masolon was having a bad day already, and he doubted if they could make it any worse.
“There is no good for us in taking your life.” The robbers’ leader approached with his men, closing the ring around Masolon. “Just drop your sword, yield your horse, and we will let you live.”
The Warrior's Path (Tales of Gorania Book 1) Page 31