Queen of Rebels Read online

  "No, no, I don't believe so." The innkeeper shook his head.

  "Good. Better you hurry and bring me all the food you keep in your store."

  The balding man swallowed. "I beg your pardon, sir? Are you robbing me?"

  "Fortunately, not." He produced a clinking pouch from the bag slung across his shoulder and laid it on the counter separating him from the innkeeper. When he sensed the balding man's hesitation to take his pay, he added, "This is your gold. Unless you are giving up your food for free."

  Now convinced, the innkeeper grabbed the pouch and shook it, as if making sure it was packed with coins. "You are not from the rebel army, then."

  "I'm not from any army. I'm just a caravan guard who needs to get supplies for a long journey."

  The balding man sighed, looking a bit relieved now. He opened the pouch in his hand and had a good look at the gold in it, a nervous smile slipping over his red face. "You ask for too much food, good sir. My store is not that big, mind you."

  Of course, it was not that big. Located on the road, only four miles from the great city of Kalhom, this inn would never be a destination for a desperate traveler running short in supplies. "Give me everything you can supply me with. Meat, bread, eggs, cheese. Make sure your store’s shelves are left empty and clean."

  "Sure thing, good sir." The innkeeper nodded, his smile growing wider. He called someone called Welliem, and shortly a freckle-faced lad emerged from the kitchen behind him. The innkeeper ordered him to stop whatever he was doing and to take everything in the store outside. "How many horses do you have, good sir?" he asked the caravan guard.

  "Enough."

  Though the answer should not be satisfying, the innkeeper nodded and turned back to his lad, urging him to see to everything this "good sir" requested. "A long journey, you say." The innkeeper was back to the caravan guard. "Where to?"

  The caravan guard leaned forward. "Would your friends on the road be concerned about our destination?"

  "Friends?" the innkeeper mouthed, his eyes betraying his confusion. "Ah! No, no, no. I'm not one of those innkeepers! I'm not whom you might think. I'm an honest man, who would never deal with brigands and outlaws."

  "We shall see." The caravan guard peered at him. "South is where I'm heading. But I promise you, I will go back north to find you if I encounter any of your friends."

  "Oh, please. You misunderstand me, good sir." The balding man gestured with his hand to calm him down. "I just wanted to reassure you that you would find more food in Kalhom, in case you were heading north of course."

  "The rebel army is taking over Kalhom as we speak right now," said the caravan guard. "There is no way to enter or leave the city, not for a while at least."

  "Merciful Lord!" the innkeeper exclaimed. "The word of their victory at Neldon just came yesterday."

  Irked by the balding man's blabber, the caravan guard picked up his helm. "I will be waiting for your boy outside."

  "Why, good sir? Have a seat and wait here," the innkeeper offered. "Wine or ale?"

  "Neither." The caravan guard gave it a second thought. A refreshing drink wouldn't harm, right? "You got any fresh juice?"

  The surprised innkeeper thought for a moment. "Will honeyed lemon do?"

  "Just lemon is fine." The caravan guard took a seat at a vacant table, a few remaining attendants peering at him. One cold stare from him was enough to persuade them to mind their own business and look away.

  The innkeeper served the lemon juice himself. "Thank you," the caravan guard curtly acknowledged. The innkeeper did not leave though, and instead he seated himself on the opposite side of the table.

  "Listen. About coming back to me in case you, you know, encounter any of those bands of outlaws infesting the road—"

  "The juice is fine." The caravan guard downed his glass in one gulp and pushed to his feet.

  "I have no business with them, trust me," the innkeeper hurriedly said. "Listen. Avoid the main road and stick to the periphery one between the villages. The Demon himself takes care of that road."

  The demon. The innkeeper was now entertaining, to say the least.

  "You had better do what he tells you." One of the few remaining attendants addressed Frankil.

  "I beg your pardon?" The caravan guard peered at the mustached man joining the conversation.

  "That Demon he tells you about," the mustached man pointed at the innkeeper behind him, "he is real. He saved my life once on the road between Verling and Herlog. Now everybody knows it's his territory. And no outlaw would dare to trespass his territory."

  "A demon saved you?" the caravan guard scoffed. "How did he look like?"

  He looked like. . . like. . . like a shadow to me," the mustached fellow stammered. "It was too dark to tell."

  Of course, too dark for him to tell, but not too dark for that demon to find him and save him. "You are lucky that demons see in the dark," the caravan guard scoffed again before he went on his way to the door.

  Two of his fellows were outside the inn watering the horses after their long ride from Kalensi. Ahead of their caravan, the three of them were supposed to get the supplies for their journey until the rest of their mates joined them in this inn. With the turmoil in the northern region of Bermania, it would be better to keep a distance from those rebels. Especially, when you rode with a caravan.

  "Did it go well?" one of his fellows asked him.

  "What are you talking about?" the other fellow teased. "We could buy the entire inn with the gold we carry."

  The first fellow was still concerned. "Is everything alright? You seem too preoccupied."

  Resting his hands on his waist, the caravan guard pondered every word of the little tale he was just listening to. "In your mothers' wildest bed tales, was there ever a demon known for doing good deeds?"

  4. MASOLON

  Despite his sleeveless shirt, Masolon did not feel cold on this windy night. Carrying these heavy stones to the wooden cart heated the blood in his distended veins. He was already done with four rocks, and only one remained.

  "Masolon? Are you still in the yard?" Doly called out to him. Clad in a blue tunic, his pretty wife approached, her arms folded over her chest. "What are you doing here in this cold?" She smiled when she shivered. "You'll miss the dinner I've prepared for you, my love."

  Her love? For certain. He was the only man in the life of this innocent girl, but she never knew she was not the first in his. One month of marriage, and he was still not sure if this eighteen-year-old girl could handle the truth.

  "Just one more rock." Masolon had barely caught his breath as he resumed his little journey toward the cart, which was only a few feet away. Rolling these rocks on the ground was the easiest part. The real deal was lifting them up to the tilted cart.

  "What are these rocks for?" she asked. "Are you selling them?"

  "These rocks are for practice," he lied. He was hoping that exhausting his body might grant him a dreamless night. "I have to keep my muscles toned, my love." The last two words were another lie he had to say every day. Because that was his duty as a husband toward his wife.

  "Worried about those bandits? They haven't been seen around for two months. You gave them a lesson hard to forget, sweetheart. And if they show up again, the Brave Lads will deal with them."

  She had no idea. He had trained those boys, and he knew how bad they were as fighters. "Whether the bandits come or not, I shall not leave my muscles idle for long."

  "If you're in bad need for exercise, you can carry me instead of this rock," she said playfully.

  "You are too light to bother my arm." He smiled tiredly before he turned all his focus to the heavy stone.

  "This rock can wait. I can't stand this cold anymore." She laid her hands on his sweaty arm. Her touch was gentle, but his body and mind were so immersed in his task that he was startled by her warm hand. The rock slipped and missed his toes by a hair.

  "Blast!" he yelled. "What is your problem?"

  "Oh Lord!" Alar
med, she covered her mouth with her hands. "Are you all right?"

  "No, I am not!" he blustered. His terrified wife stepped back and turned, hurrying back inside.

  "Blast!" Masolon bit his lower lip, leaning forward with both arms to the cart shafts. What is your problem, Masolon? The poor girl did nothing wrong except trying to flirt with him.

  "This is your doing," he whispered. His demon had been silent since their first encounter last year. But who else would bring Sania's face in Masolon's dreams every night?

  Masolon dragged his legs until he reached the open door of his house. Doly, sitting by the small dining table, looked away when he entered. He should reconcile with her. . . because that was also his duty.

  "I did not mean to quarrel," he said in a low voice, engulfing her shoulders with his arms. "I was just exhausted and I had no idea what I was doing."

  "You never yelled at me before." She shook her head, still not looking at him.

  "I was not yelling at you." Smiling, Masolon cupped her chin and turned her face gently toward his. "It was that stupid stone that made me mad." He sniffed, staring at the covered pot on the table. "What is this delicious smell?"

  She sighed before she tried a smile. "Stewed potatoes with meat."

  What he liked more than the Bermanian fine weather was Doly's cooking. There was no way to compare her warm meals with the plain deer meat he used to cook on the road in his previous life of endless wandering.

  Masolon uncovered the pot and gave the red-sauced potatoes a long look before dipping his spoon into it. Hungry like a horse, Masolon devoured half the contents in a few minutes. "Why do you not try what you have crafted?" he asked his wife, who sat on the opposite side of the table, gazing at him.

  "I'm not hungry. I just want to make sure you like your dinner." Her sweetness was worsening his guilt.

  "I do not like my dinner. I love it."

  "Do you love it more than me?" Her smile widened.

  "I love nothing more than you." Liar! But what else could he tell her?

  "I will be waiting for you inside until you clean yourself up." Doly rose up from her chair. "Will you join me in bed, or you still have more to do with your rock?"

  Masolon knew it was not a yes-or-no question. "I am done with the rock. But I must have a bath before that warm ride." He winked at her.

  She laughed. "I will get the tub ready."

  Having a private bath in the house was not something common in his village. But thanks to a golden Murasen coin he had spared, he managed to get himself and his wife a wooden bathing tub placed in a vacant chamber.

  Masolon joined Doly in the bathing room when she beckoned to him to come. He stripped off his tunic and breeches and stepped inside the full wooden tub, the warmth of the water starting to soothe his tired legs as he sat on his haunches. Doly's soft hands on his shoulders evoked a twitch in his heart as she gently pulled him back to lean to the side of the tub.

  "So, on your head like every time?" she asked.

  "Please." He was more relaxed now. "And slowly." He closed his eyes, enjoying the shower of warm water falling over his head and shoulders. "One more time. Slower," he whispered, his eyes still closed, his mind out of this world. Everything was black now. Black was better. Black was nothingness. Emptying his mind was a blessing beyond his reach.

  "Is it true that Murasens use water with jasmine in their baths?"

  Doly's voice disrupted his black vacuum. Hearing 'Murasens' summoned a face he wished he could forget one day; a fair-skinned face with a cheerful smile he had loved the most, auburn hair tumbling over her shoulders.

  "I have no idea," he curtly said, hoping that might discourage her from asking more questions.

  "But you spent a year in Murase. You should have known."

  "I was a mercenary, Doly." He had never told his wife more than that about his previous life. "I never settled down in one city. I never owned a house in the first place." Bumar's house was my only place in Kahora.

  "No more wandering, my love." She smoothly rubbed his shoulders, her fingers expertly tapping on the aching spots after the stones exercise. "You are with me now, forever."

  Forever, yes! Unfortunately, Masolon had no idea how long 'forever' would last.

  "So, you abandoned your life as a mercenary to settle down?" Doly asked.

  "Yes."

  "Then, why didn't you stay there in Murase?"

  Enough, Doly! Masolon did his best to keep his calm. "To meet you here, my love."

  "Seriously, Masolon. What would make anybody travel hundreds of miles to start a new life?"

  "I do not know." Masolon was running out of patience. "You tell me."

  "Is it wrong of me to ask?"

  Masolon exhaled. "We are wasting a lovely night in such idle chattering." He tried to smile as he took her hands into his, raising them to his lips. "Why do we not resume our serious conversation in bed?"

  She pulled her hands from his lips. "I wonder why you hide your past from me."

  "I hide nothing."

  "You hide everything about your past. I could accept that, but not after we have become husband and wife."

  "Why do you care about the past? What matters is the present, with you."

  "I wouldn't care about the past if it didn't affect my present."

  "Affect your present? What are you talking about?"

  Leaning her back against the wall, Doly stared at the ceiling for a while before turning to him. "I'm not sure how to phrase this Masolon. Since the first day we met, I've never felt you really want to talk to me. I'm always the one asking, and you just reply curtly and sometimes you don't. You rarely start a conversation with me, and when you do, it's because you want to bed me."

  So, the innocent girl had spoken at last. Masolon knew that would happen one day, but not that soon.

  "Maybe I am just not a talkative person," he said.

  "I really don't know if that's the real reason. All I know is that you're here with me, but your mind is somewhere else." She sighed. "Maybe you're longing for your Murasen life, which I know nothing about."

  Masolon rose from the tub and grabbed a piece of cloth to dry his body. "Believe me, Doly. I hide nothing worth mentioning about my past."

  "Fine. I must feel all right, then."

  When she left him in the bath chamber, he knew she was not feeling all right at all. Blast! What did I say wrong? Probably, this time it was something he did not say.

  Masolon tossed the wet piece of cloth away and put on a dry tunic and pair of breeches. Doly was not in the sitting room when he came out. He stood by the door of their bedchamber and found her covered with the woolen blanket. She was pretending to be asleep, just to avoid him, he knew. I must say something to reconcile with her. But what could he tell her? That he had proposed to her, hoping marriage might help him go on with his miserable life and get over his deep pain? That he would never be able to love her as he did Sania?

  What have I done? Masolon thought as he walked away from the bedchamber and left the house. All he was seeking was peace of mind, but all he found was just more restlessness. Instead of ruining one life, he was now ruining two.

  Masolon glanced at the remaining rock waiting beside the cart. Since he was no longer in the mood to practice for the time being, especially that he had taken a bath, he found himself ambling toward the hitch pole, where his black stallion was tied. "Still awake?" Masolon caressed the long neck of his horse, which nickered in answer. "Yes, I should be asleep at such an hour, but I had a little quarrel with Doly. No, my friend, marriage is not as easy as you may think. You have to think twice about Smit's mare, you see?"

  His horse was now busy with the pile of grass in front of him. Masolon left him with his dinner and scrutinized the terrain around the chamomile flowers. Weeds. His honed eyes had not lost their touch in the dark. Without a torch, he started trimming the weeds he spotted.

  Shortly after, he heard those thudding hurried steps. Someone was jogging toward his house.
His swords were inside the house, too late to get them now.

  "Ben?" Masolon recognized his tall frame. The lad was well-built for his age.

  "Masolon? Thank the Lord, you are awake." Ben puffed as he came closer.

  "Something wrong?"

  "A girl was murdered in the woods." Ben drew in a deep breath of air. "I hope you don't mind summoning the Demon one more time."

  * * *

  With Ben on the saddle behind him, Masolon stopped his horse after they ventured one mile into the forest outside the village. A few Brave Lads held their torches as they stood by the dead body of a girl he could not recognize. Not far from them was Maat sitting next to a weeping girl.

  Masolon and Ben dismounted, leaving the horse to one of the lads to tie it. "Who are these girls?" Masolon asked.

  "They are Maat's cousins," Ben answered, nodding toward the black-haired girl Maat was calming down. "We found her running outside our wall."

  "I wonder what might bring two girls into the woods here at such an hour." Masolon bent over, inspecting the body of the dead girl whose dress was brutally ripped off. "This was no robbery." Masolon stared at the silver bracelet on the victim's hand. "This was about pigs quenching their lust."

  "Oh Lord!" Ben muttered. "May they burn in hell a thousand times!"

  "One time will do." Masolon examined the gash in the dead girl's abdomen. She was stabbed, he deduced. From the size of the cut, he could tell it was made with the blade of a sword.

  "Let us hope this girl could tell us anything of help," Masolon said as he approached Maat, who shot a cold look at him.

  "There was no need to call him, Ben," Maat rebuked his friend. "We found the body ourselves."

  "We still need to find the barbarian who did that," Ben justified.

  Masolon was never sure about the reason why Maat resented him, but he knew exactly why he loathed that cocky lad. "Drunk again while on duty, Maat?" Masolon sniffed as he stood so close to Maat that he could smell the stench of wine on his breath.