by Justin Kauer
Alban awoke the next day around noon, confused and still in a lot of pain. How in the world was he still traveling along in the caravan? He looked around to see where he was. He noticed a door in the carriage in which he rode. He opened the carriage door to look out. The sun was high in the sky and the heat of the desert sun was scorching hot. He was obviously not in the slaver’s camp, nor in the foothills of Goff, but in the deserts of the Verdis GranSecas. Alban wondered how he knew the name of the place by merely seeing the sands seemingly rushing by the wagon. The thought that the heat would soon turn the deep green sand to glass arose in his head. Somehow he knew that its color was caused by the breaking down of the green quartz in the area.
Many foreign travelers that were ignorant to the fame of this valley would come over the ridge of one of the mountains that surrounded this desert and think that they were about to be saved from the dry, river-less valleys that approach the summit passes on either side of the low desert basin valley. As they would look down, all that they could see were lush, green fields of green grass growing on the valley floor far below. After they had traveled down the mountain slopes about halfway, the heat would begin to give telltale signs that something was amiss. Still, it would be necessary to press on, because even though they could feel the terrible heat growing, the thought of water would coax them further. Soon the weary travelers would find themselves stumbling along the deep green dust of the desert floor until they tumbled their last tumble. From the southeast pass, however, they could see a small lake below if the sun hit it just right. It was an even more cruel deception. If they should ever reach the lake that was surrounded by all kinds of obstacles, their journey would also end in powerful disappointment, as the waters were unfit to drink, unless distilled, of course.
As the company traveled along, Alban just sat there looking at the sand streak as he passed it by. The green dust seemed to form figures that moved. For a moment, he thought he saw a castle with great, tall towers and a great gate. He felt a strong yearning deep inside, but he didn’t know why. He felt almost like crying — almost. It was peculiar to him that such a thing should come about out of the blue like that. Still, something was there, locked deep inside of his mind. It was something of great worth to him, obviously. It was an unwelcome mystery to him. He sat and puzzled over that as the wagon veered to the side of the well-worn trail and came to a complete stop.
He noticed another wagon pulled up just ahead of the one in which he rode. It also stopped. Alban watched a familiar figure that was silhouetted in the dust get out and come towards him.
“What are you doing out of bed?” asked the figure in Joan’s voice.
“I am sitting here watching the . . . dust . . . I guess.” said Alban.
“Don’t you have any sense in your head?” asked Joan, as she neared the wagon closely enough for Alban to make out her face in the dust.
After thinking it over for a split second, Alban returned, “I might have some sense in my head if you would quit coming and robbing me of it with your breathtaking beauty!”
Some of the men riding by began to laugh. Joan feigned anger, but Alban knew that it was just for show because he could see her face blush with shy pleasure and, though her scowl stayed in place, her eyes shone bright and the corners of her mouth turned upwards with happiness as she heard the remark.
“You should be resting, or you’ll never get those wounds healed!”
“The wounds of my heart cannot he healed if I sit still any longer, fair maiden!” continued Alban.
Just as Alban was finished, an angry, red-faced man came riding up in a great, big, huge wagon. Alban had thought that Ryan’s wagon was the largest possible. This man’s wagon was nearly twice as big. Alban thought to himself that there must be a full kitchen and cleaning staff traveling in there.
“What is this dog doing here in the desert and in Ryan’s wagon?” he asked between clenched teeth. “He should have been given over to CoAgulon! There will be the vargonsbane to pay!”
“Father, he is still weak from his wounds and the blow to his head. He lost a lot of blood when we were moving him from the supply wagon and I . . .” began Joan, before being cut off by the man.
“You ought to keep to your wagon, as I have told you to do these many times! Uh . . . what if . . . raiders were to come upon us and catch us unawares? We would be unable to defend you! I told you that you would only be allowed on this trip if you obeyed all of my orders with utmost strictness!”
“Yes, Dec . . . Father, I know. You know that I always obey, but this man was in need of help, so I came to help. I think that you will like him, Father. He reminds me of you in so many ways.”
“Do not change the subject!” the slaver boss roared. “You dare to disobey me!? How could you? I do not want the whole caravan murmuring that Decebal can’t even control a single little wen . . . my own daughter.”
“Father, I am sorry. I was just doing my duty in helping the men and tending to their wounds. Those were also part of your orders.”
“I said nothing of tending to slave’s wounds, however, and . . . I can’t abide disobedience especially from . . . from my own daughter! Disobedience can . . .”
“It can sometimes save lives if . . .” began Alban.
“SILENCE!” roared Decebal. “You insolent s . . .”
“Forgive me my impertinence, but in your . . . zeal you have overlooked that light green cloud of dust just over the dune there. It could be some of those very raiders that you were mentioning.”
“What are you talking about?”
Alban just pointed over to the distant hill from behind which the dust was rising.
“To arms!” yelled Ryan, who had sidled up on his horse beside Decebal as he had been barking orders from his chariot.
Decebal was startled at the exclamation, so much so that he let out a small, high-pitched yelp. When he recovered from the shock, he joined in with, “To arms! Ryan, you take your company, and . . .”
“No. Circle the Wagons and chariots on the top of that plateaued hill over there. We should be able to do quite nicely from there, but we may need to hold them off until the wagons can get there,” said Alban — it was out of his mouth before he knew that it was he that was speaking.
Ryan gave him a quizzing glance and looked back at Decebal, whose face was still redder with anger. Ryan knew that he must act quickly, so he got between Alban and Decebal and said, “It is a very sound plan, and perhaps our only option, sir.”
Decebal thought for a moment and then agreed. He told the driver of his chariot to drive, glaring the whole time at Alban. Alban just shook his head and looked back to Ryan.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he asked with noted concern. “Just stay clear of Decebal!”
Alban calmed him a bit by saying “If I had, we would be riding right up into this trap ahead. He’ll understand.”
“No! He won’t! He hates it when slaves . . . I mean, he loves his daughter more than anything.”
“Then why did he leave me behind?” asked Joan.
“Joan! What are you doing?” asked Ryan, who had barely noticed her.
“Get on the wagon with me. The one in which you were riding has gone.” Alban ordered by way of explanation. “I will see you clear of this bit of trouble.”
“No!” began Ryan as she ran for the wagon door. “Decebal will be furious!”
“If we live through this, I will welcome the chastisement!” returned Alban. “Besides, we cannot just leave her here! Go on. Get the men ready!”
With that, Ryan turned his horse and said, “Take good care of her . . . and my coach!”
“You know that I will or you wouldn’t even think of leaving her with me,” alleged Alban to Ryan as the later rode off. Then to Joan, he stated, “Be careful on those steps.”
He held out his hand and helped the young maiden up the ladder steps and into the wagon. She shut the door behind
her and locked it with the iron bar that was there for that purpose. Alban looked out the small opening in the top of the door to see what was going on. He could see no immediate danger, so he yelled for the driver to move on. When the driver started the horses out quickly, Alban turned to see how Joan was holding up. She was shaking with fear and when she saw Alban’s eyes meet hers, she let out a whimper in fright. Alban sat on the bed beside Joan.
Alban debated inside of himself as far as what to do to reassure her. He still did not know exactly where she was from but did know from her accent that she was not from this area, though her “father” seemed to sport the same dialect as the rest of the crew. He did not know what the customs were in her part of the world. He wanted to put his arms around her and say that everything was going to be alright. However, he also knew that in some cultures, that would mean marriage, so he just looked into her eyes. She hugged him instead. Feeling that he was in the clear, he put his arms around her and said that he would protect her at all costs. She hugged tighter at hearing that, but she still trembled.
The coach started to move in one direction, went only a few wagon lengths, and then stopped completely. Then, it started off with a jolt. It turned almost completely around and whisked off as fast as the horses would carry them. Alban let go of Joan, but she kept hanging on, even as he looked out the opening again to see what had happened. He saw armed riders with clothes that were dyed in green streaks surrounding the wagon. Alban saw one with a cocked crossbow. As he aimed it at the wagon, Alban shut the thick wooden shutters on the windows. No sooner than they were shut, an arrowhead pierced the thick wood with a twanging thud. They rode for about a minute or two and then they came to a halt. Joan clung even tighter, which didn’t help Alban’s side that much.
Suddenly, Alban saw a red robe hanging by Joan just to the side of the bed and a plan began to develop inside of his mind.
“Give me that robe . . . and that shirt!” he demanded.
Joan let go of him, turned, and grabbed the clothes for him. He cut his tied arm loose with a knife he had found and put the clothes on as quickly as he could. Just then they heard the men outside beginning to try the door. The wagon was well made, but it wouldn’t hold forever.
“Look, Joan. I am going to do my best to keep them from getting in here, but if I don’t go out there now, they are just going to put fire to the whole of the wagon with us in it. Do you understand?”
“Don’t go!” she pleaded.
“You know that I must . . . See. Did you hear that?”
“They called for a torch.” they said at the same time, surprised that the other understood the thieves’ language.
Joan asked, eyes wide with fear, “What are you going to do?”
“I am going to pray like all depends on God, and mouth off like all depends on what they do next!” Alban said with a smile.
Alban’s trembling hand lifted the bar that locked the door, opened the door slowly, and began to step out of the door. A sword was thrust at him, which he instinctively dodged while he stepped toward his attacker and stole the blade by grabbing the lead arm by the wrist which he twisted with his right hand, and locking the elbow in a hyperextended fashion with his left. The sword flew from the clutches of the bandit that had been wielding it. The sword crashed to the floor of the carriage with a metallic thud. Alban kicked the bandit away from the entrance and grabbed the sword, the point of which he put to the throat of the bandit. Slowly, Alban forced him out of the way as he stepped down from the carriage.
“Joan, lock the door!” Alban said calmly. Then he gruffly barked out, “I wish to speak to the leader of you bandits, or I’ll slit this man’s throat!”
Most of the men just stood there in a stupor. Finally, Alban realized that he was speaking the wrong language, and repeated his demands in their tongue.
One of the men that were standing behind Alban’s hostage kicked him in the back, sending him towards Alban in order to distract him. Alban pulled the sword back from the man’s neck and swung it in time to block the aggressor’s blow from above. He moved in and grabbed the very end of the hilt and, pulling it towards himself, loosed the man’s grip on the sword which wounded its owner as it flew back toward him and cut his shoulder badly. Because this made the attacker let go of the sword in an unsuccessful attempt to dodge the oncoming blow, Alban now had two swords with which to work.
Work he did, for five or six men came at him just then, though not all at once, due to Alban’s quick footwork which he used to make sure that he kept some of the men between him and the rest of the murderous lot. That made it impossible for them to come at him in any way in which they could make use of their advantage in number. Though Alban had no choice but to defend himself and Joan from this vicious onslaught, he tried not to kill any of them, just wound them enough that they would stop their advance.
A second smaller wave came at him. They met with the same result. A third and much larger wave than the first was readying itself with talk of their chief not letting them live if they should fail, anyway. Just then, their chief rode up. As they did not wish to be seen as weak before their leader, they began to attack.
“Wait!” yelled the chief, as he saw Alban. “He is not to be touched!”
The members of the third wave looked around in both surprise and relief. There was some confused mumbling among them, but none had really wanted to advance.
“Do you not see how he is dressed? And yet he also wears a slave’s armband! Is this not the slave king that I told you about who has haunted my dreams? I told you that he would be wearing a blue shirt and a red robe!” stated the chief. Then he added, “That robe was red before all of this started, right?”
“Yes. It definitely was,” replied Alban, who looked first at the chief and then at his own surroundings for the first time with any real detail.
The chief looked shocked as he offered, “I did not know that you could speak our language. I find that out of sorts with the dream. In the dream that I had, you were a foreigner.”
“I am not from these parts, dear sir.” responded Alban.
“And yet you speak the language very well, including the accent, the manners long lost to these men, and fine pleasantries.” The chief thought for a moment and then remembered something, “If you are the slave king, there will be a lovely maiden with you!”
“Neither shall you touch her, nor the coach! I have sworn an oath to protect them both and I am bound to that promise!”
“Ah! There it is. This is the man from my dream! Those are the exact words that I heard him utter as I dreamt these many nights, and I have told no man of this. Put away your weapons, he will do you no harm. Well, no further harm, anyway.” the chief said to his men. Then he said to Alban, “You may bring her out. If we should want to do you harm we could not, as you have seen. We all have seen that. We are your servants; we will do whatever you see fit with us. According to legend, you are protected by the unknown God of your people.”
As the bandit leader said those last words, Alban's heart felt something strangely powerful. He didn’t know if he had felt that way before, but it entered into his very core and seemed to brighten every corner of his being. He felt a peaceful fire burning in his heart that seemed inextinguishable. In the entire bandit’s deception, this was the truth that might have made the rest of the ruse seem right. However, Alban still knew that he must do something to get free of this predicament.
“Call off your raid on the caravan. Then we will talk.”
The chief nodded to a nearby soldier (the one who tried to kill his fellow soldier to gain the advantage over Alban). The soldier nodded back, then ran to his horse and mounted it.
Alban called to him as he was about to sink spur, “Bring Ryan to me alive, and I may spare you all.”
The rider went off in a cloud of dust. Alban watched him intently as he rode out of the bowl-shaped rock formation. Ther
e were steep cliff walls carved out by the wind against the deep green sandstone. It ran all the way around them except for the narrow entrance whose floor sloped up and around the corner from view. There was no sign of vegetation, and there was just a skiff of sand lining the stone floor. Alban looked up around the whole formation at the top of the walls and then back at the chief. The chief had a flash of nerves come across his face that only confirmed what Alban had suspected. Suddenly, Alban realized that there was more that needed to be done in order to get Joan and the wagon free from this trouble.
“Please . . . let us make you more comfortable!” dissimulated the leader, as he walked toward Alban. “Put away your swords. You are among friends now.”
“I should like that your men draw back a few paces, and then we can talk.”
“Ah, yes.” the chief said, as he motioned for all to withdraw. Those that could did. “Now, we have shown our good intentions toward you. Now, please, put down your swords that we may speak.”
Alban’s newly acquired swords stayed at the ready, pointing right at the chief’s throat, but the desert dweller kept walking toward him. Alban kept one sword up but pulled it in closer to his body in order to give the chief some room to advance. Finally, Alban slowly let that sword turn downward toward the ground as he dropped the one in his left hand.
As he did, the desert bandit made a quick motion with his hand. Alban instinctively stepped in with his left and caught the bandit’s hand as it grabbed the hilt of his sword. In the meantime, Alban had brought the sword in his right hand back to the throat of the bandit. His opponent grabbed at the blade, but Alban twisted it in his hand. Even through his thick leather gloves, the man’s hand was cut quite badly. Then he put his sword’s point right up to and, in fact, slightly into the neck of his artificial ally. Blood began to trickle out from the area, and onto the white silk shirt that the bandit had obviously stolen.
“Call off your men, please.” Alban requested softly.
“But I already had!”
Alban gave a look that showed how funny he thought that comment was.
“All of you leave us now!” yelled the bandit at the top of his lungs, at which his men began to mount up.
“You know that I am not talking about them! Keep them where they are!” growled Alban, in deep, murderous tones.
It wasn’t until this point that the chief’s eyes showed any flicker of fear, but at that display by Alban, they grew so wide that they nearly touched each other. Then, Alban noticed something peculiar. Those wide eyes cast about and turned down to the ground.
“You’re not the man that I thought you were.” said the bandit, thinking that Alban would not understand Effulgian.
“Then, whom did you expect?” answered Alban back, in Effulgian as well, nearly sending the bandit into shock.
Alban continued, “Leave those men down here where they are! I want you to bring each and every man down from those cliffs, or you’ll have howled your last desert yelp, you boarve!”
“Get down here now!” screamed the leader in horror. “Just do it!” Then, in another tongue which Alban again understood, he whispered, “You are not the ones that I thought you were.”
Alban heard some scuffling of stone on stone and the occasional clamor of pebbles falling down the stone walls. Soon five men filed through the narrow opening in the rock face, their weapons abandoned.
“Do you think me a fool?” raved Alban. “I want all of them down here before I count to ten, or I’ll cut through you all like wet parchment . . . NOW!”
A second volley of clamors and pebble strike rose from all around them. This time, around twelve to fifteen men filtered through the narrow passage.
“Now, all of you will kindly drop your remaining weapons, and remove yourselves to the wall opposite the entrance.”
Alban looked up at the walls on either side of the entrance and saw that on the left side there was a large pillar. The side looked relatively flat on top.
Taking the chief by the collar, Alban turned him so that the bandits could all see the woefulness on their leader’s face, as well as the blood trickling down his chest. It had just the effect that was necessary to keep them at bay. With the sword at the man’s throat, Alban urged him up the side of the carriage and into the carriage’s seat, where he joined his captured foe. He had made sure that the left-hand seat was open for him so that he would be sitting there as they exited the narrow passage.
“You shall drive, but I warn you that if there is any hint of trouble, this sword will tickle your ribs quite nicely.” counseled Alban.
“I suppose that I should not laugh at the prospect!” the captive stated with his voice trembling like that of a goat.
“Oh, you’ll squeal! It will just not be in delight!” cautioned Alban further. “Drive!”
“Yes, of course.” offered the bandit, as he picked up the reins, and urged the wagon forward.
He began to turn the rig about. He tried his best to avoid causing any more damage to those that had already been wounded by Alban’s skilled blade. He did run over one man’s finger. The man began to scream from the shock until he grasped that the soft sands of the desert floor and the wide rims of the wheels had saved his digit from severance or breakage by distributing the weight of the carriage over a large area. Finally, with the wagon turned fully about, the chief coaxed the team of horses forward and toward the opening between the bowl’s stone walls.
“Incidentally, I think that you should know that the man that you sent to stop the raid on the caravan will be hiding on the wall to the right with a bow. If you should like to live, you should call to him. Otherwise, he will put an arrow through your skull.”
“OoftHall?” the bandit protested. “He would never do a thing like that to me . . . Oh! Right! He might think that it should be you driving the carriage . . . OoftHall! It is I . . . errr . . . uhhh . . . Don’t shoot! I’m coming out with the wagon.”
Chapter Six - The Fires of Hope