by Justin Kauer
Alban stayed behind the bandit just in case the chief’s words had fallen on deaf ears, or in the off chance that there were further intricacies involved in the trap that had been sprung on the passing caravan. He could see the man’s left shoulder and head silhouette the sky as they entered into the passage. He caught the shimmer of light gleam off of the bow that he had fully drawn in anticipation of the possible shot. Alban decided not to give him any such chance; he leaned back a bit, so as to use his prisoner as a meat shield. He knew that an arrow shot from that type of bow (he couldn’t remember the name of the type of bow at the time) could easily penetrate far enough to get him in the process. It could at least wound him. He was just hoping that the would-be assassin valued the life of his leader enough that no shot be risked.
Alban kept the chief between this OoftHall and himself as they rode through the narrow path and his blade at the back of the chief. An arrow did come, but not in any way that threatened Alban. As the sun was no longer in his eyes, Alban saw it plainly as it flew straight at his captive. With a flick of his wrist, Alban knocked the projectile away, sending it to shatter upon the rock wall behind them.
“OoftHall, if I ever get out of this alive, I’ll have your head!” yelled the chief. He was about to embellish his threat when he felt the blade right back at his lower ribs.
“I will cut your lungs out if you don’t pick up the pace!” Alban informed as they pulled out the other side of the passageway and out of OoftHall’s range of fire.
“But, of course!” said the desert thug. “We have a saying that goes, ‘One threat deserves another until all are dead.’ It’s just desert humor.”
“You mean it is extremely dry but dangerous?” Alban bantered.
“Oh! We usually just say that it is extremely dry, but I like the addition of the word ‘dangerous’.” laughed the man, possibly in truthful tones.
“Well, I thought about going somewhere with heat, but I decided that the whole encounter would only seem hot from my end; so, I went with dangerous.”
“You just saved my life!” said the bandit, pausing his words afterward for about thirty seconds in deep thought. “You didn’t really need to do that. You could have let it hit me, grab the reins, and head out of the gate. Yes, there is a gate. It is just well hidden. Anyway, I guess that I am trying to figure out the proper way of thanking you.”
“Well, we are not totally clear yet!” replied Alban. “Let’s get through this last bit, and then we can talk.”
“Right! There should be a remnant of fighters returning from the train. It was a decoy to make the caravan think that we were weak, but since the wagon needed rescue, they would feel safe to come and regain control of it. You saw our setup in the bowl there. How did you know, by the way? I mean, about the archers?”
“It is how I would have used the landscape, were I a thief or captain of an army, for that matter. It does rely on subterfuge, but it could work much better if the supply wagon were to be taken first.”
“That was the original plan. I think that we were discovered too soon for it to work. Was that your doing, as well?”
“I guess it was,” admitted Alban. “We were stopped and arguing about . . . something . . . and I saw the dust stirred up from the other side of the dune. But, you are dissimulating. How is it that you knew about the girl? Oh! You must have been watching us.”
“No! That was really part of a recurring dream I have had since about two months ago. I saw . . .”
Ryan rode up just then with a sizable force accompanying him. He saw Alban with the sword at the chief’s back coming to meet them. His jaw dropped wide open in awe.
“We thought that this was some sort of elaborate scheme designed to fool us into some type of trap,” explained Ryan, until he saw the blood covering Alban’s clothes and face. “You look like you have been in some epic battle!”
“If I may be so bold . . .” began the thief in their language, though in a heavy accent, “It was epic, indeed! This young man took on around nine of my best men, in what must have been different waves . . . I’d imagine! I guess that I only saw the end of the battle. I have only seen fighting like that once in all my life, and I have seen a great many battles in my time. He even managed to capture me! The best fighter of the group is the one that takes charge and, until now, I was the best fighter in this desert.”
“The bulk of them are in the bowl-shaped formation on the other side of this passageway. There is no exit, but through here, unless ropes or ladders have been lowered. There is at least one archer with a steel bow that is on the rock walls above. Some came into the bowl disarmed, but most that remain inside, if not all, have weapons.” reported Alban.
“Galandetra’s Whistle! You continue to amaze me, Alban,” replied Ryan. “I suppose that we should block off the entrance first.”
“As I was telling . . . Alban, is it?”
Both Ryan and Alban shrugged their shoulders.
“Well . . .” continued the thief, uncertain as to why they had shrugged, “As I was telling this young man, there is a gate that can be shut to keep them in there. As it was made to shut victims in, it should prove a good device to keep thieves as well.”
“Who . . . ? What . . . ? Never mind! Show us how to lock them in!” ordered Ryan.
The bandit got down from the wagon and ran over to Ryan.
“Do you see that tree over there? There is a lever behind it which causes the door to fall. The only way to open it is with a team of oxen or greater pulling the reset rope from the outside pulley system. Once we trap them in there, we can take the pathway that runs up to the rock walls, and they will surrender there or die.”
Ryan looked at Alban, who nodded approval of the plan. He seemed so sure of himself that Ryan decided to risk it. He gave the order to have a man with a crossbow accompany the thief, and make sure that the entrance was secured. Soon after, there was a huge thud as the door slammed to the ground. A man could be heard to scream in pain briefly and then all fell silent. Ryan threw Alban a crossbow and a quiver of bolts. He was about to ask him if he knew how to use one, but the blood that was all over his new friend made his question seem ridiculous, so, he decided again to trust Alban.
They wound their way around the steep path and soon found themselves at the top of the rock wall. OoftHall was not there anymore, which sent the hairs on the back of Alban’s neck to stand on end, but he proceeded to lead the party. Just ahead, he could see the opening of the bowl below, and that at the top was OoftHall, aiming that same metal bow at the trail in anticipation of a victim. Alban stopped and tried to get Ryan’s attention, but he did not catch on. Just as the arrow was loosed, Alban darted in front of Ryan and pushed him to the ground. The arrow let out a loud “TWANG!”, as it struck the crossbow that Alban was holding. The two scrambled to take cover behind a boulder along the path. OoftHall sent another arrow that smashed against the rock. It was obviously in an attempt to suppress any advance by the party. It worked wonders on Ryan who was discombobulated, to say the least.
Alban peeked around the boulder almost immediately. He saw OoftHall holding a rope down for others to climb up. Alban aimed and let a bolt fly. It sailed high of his mark, which was the hand with the rope, but it hit OoftHall in the upper left portion of his chest. He teetered for a moment and then fell skidding down the green sandstone wall as he neared the bottom. As the party drew nearer, they could see that the rope that OoftHall was about to pull up, was fastened to the end of a rope ladder. Ryan gave the order for his men to all to spread out along the rock wall. As the men below realized that they were trapped, they began to put their weapons down.
Alban asked their chief, “Do you have any type of physician that could see to their wounds?”
“Just Whillhold. He sets bones and pulls teeth, but that’s about it.”
“Ryan, do you think that Decebal would allow the use of his surgeon?”
“You
could try.” was the response.
“I will be right back.” offered Alban to the chief.
Soon, Alban had slipped back down the trail to the wagon where Joan waited nervously in the cabin. Alban tried to open the carriage door, but it was locked from the inside.
“Joan? Are you alright?” asked Alban softly.
“Yes.” said a soft, crackly voice.
“Good. I will have you back to your . . . father in no time. I just need to check the wheels first.”
Alban slowly circled the wagon, kicking each wheel as he went, more to make noise than to actually test anything. He wound his way to the other side of the wagon and quickly snuck a peek through the other window. He almost expected to find someone there with Joan, but she seemed to be the only one there.
“Are you sure that you’re alright?” he asked again.
“Yes. I just seem to have screamed myself hoarse.” she half whisper-screamed.
“Well, hang on.”
She nodded.
Alban climbed up to the wagon seat and grabbed the reins. He gently slapped the horses with the reins to start them forward. They strained for a moment and then stopped pulling when the wagon wouldn’t move. Alban slapped the reins harder. He could hear Joan trying to say something, but it was lost in the wind. Finally, Alban carefully moved the brake lever so as to make no noise. It creaked a lot louder than he had wanted. The horses obviously heard it, because all four lit out at a trot, sending Alban reeling back a bit. He recovered, and they were on their way.
He was a bit unsure about where to go, but he saw a cloud of green dust rising from the desert floor about a half mile up the dunes. Soon he was on the tracks that the wagon had made on the descent during their detention. It took some coaxing to get the horses to pull the wagon back up the dune, but at last Alban found himself right at the spot where the wagon was initially seized. He looked to the peak of the high dune where the caravan was to have encircled about, but there were not even tracks that led to or from it. In fact, the great width of the brass wheels which were designed for the specific use of passing over sand had left tracks that were visible for a much greater distance than normal wheels’ tracks. To Alban’s dismay, the tracks led down the slopes of the dunes to the valley floor below.
The caravan was miles ahead. They had made good time. Alban stopped the wagon and got down from the driver’s seat. He went to the door of the carriage and knocked on it, hearing sobs coming from the inside but no answer.
“Joan . . . Joan!” Alban called as he continued knocking. “Joan, let me in.”
“Go away!” she screeched.
“Joan, I am not angry. You did what you had to do. You lured me into the trap that others had set for me. I understand.” Alban said in a soft, kind voice.
“What?!” came the screech from Joan’s mouth, as she flung the door open in anger. “You think that I had something to do with that?”
“Of course not, my dear lady. I know that you could never stoop to doing something so devious, but it got you to open the door,” said Alban, smiling slyly.
Joan looked at Alban in disbelief. Great big tears welled up in her eyes and streamed down her delicate cheeks.
“There! You did it again!” she sobbed. “How do you do that? My whole world seems shattered. My father has run off and left me to die in the desert, you instantly believe my word (though everything would appear to be a lie), and then you smile with those eyes, and . . . and everything is even better than before!”
“I hope that it comforts you, dear lady. I mean only to do so.”
“Perhaps, but you still have an eternal friend in me.”
“That is precisely how I was able to do it. There is an old adage that goes, ‘That which is given out in kindness soon returns to the soul as strength.’ You are my friend and a true one at that. I only wish to repay the kindness and devotion that you have shown to me.” Alban admitted.
“Well, what do you think that we should do now?” asked the hoarse whisperer.
“We’ll continue on and get help for Ryan and the physician for the wounded.”
Joan sat down in the doorway of Ryan’s wagon. A shadow of darkness wavered from her eyes. Alban didn’t know from where it came, but he recognized it, just the same.
“Look, I know that he’s not your father. I could tell by the way he looked at you when he saw you tending to me. It wasn’t a look that a father gives his daughter whom he loves, but is worried that she may be making a mistake in getting close to someone like me; it was one that showed that he was unhappy with how circumstances may reflect upon him. What is going on? Really . . . I want to help.”
“I can’t tell you. I am sorry. You will have to trust me.”
“Oh, Joan, it is he whom I do not trust,” Alban said in a kind, hushed tone. “When you trust me fully, I will be waiting to help you. Apparently, I am one with whom to be reckoned.” Then, after a good pause, he added, “Do you suppose that the bandit chief was right, that I am protected by my people’s god? I guess it would help to know who my people are.”
“I’ve got to tell you; I have never seen anyone fight like that in my life! It was as though you knew what to do even before it happened. You would dodge and block blows that seemed to come too slowly for you. It was as though . . . I once saw a play in which there was a battle scene. The lead actor was playing the role of Perfecles, a fictional character that was perfect in war. That actor knew his role really well, and he continually had to wait for the others to attack him so that he could defend their blows. You did the same thing . . . waited for them to make their moves.”
“Yes. That’s what I mean. How could I have ever known what was going to happen? Yet I did! I could see every move before it should play out even down to the treachery that the bandit chief tried to pull. It was as though I had dreamed it all before, but remembered it just before it should happen. I found my limbs all working in a coordinated manner that was almost . . . frightening.”
“Well, it sure gave them a good fright!” laughed Joan.
“True.” chuckled Alban. He continued in a sort of daze, “But as the fighting started, I was a fit of nerves. I said a small prayer in my heart, and I was as calm as the waters of Lake HePing. I knew that everything was going to turn out absolutely fine! I knew it, and it filled me with a hope that gave way to joy. I felt so alive! I could feel the unmistakable sensation that I was preserved for something more.”
“By the way, how is it that I woke up in the wagon, instead of in . . . CoAgulon? Was that his name? Why was I not in his camp?”
“Why would you be?” asked Joan.
“He talked about a slave that was lost. I have only been with you for a short time. Plus, there was the fact that the slave in question knew how to cook. I figured that it was I for whom he searched.”
“Yes. To tell the truth, so had I. I tried to distract everyone from searching in Ryan’s . . . or this wagon, but when they had shoved me aside and searched in the cab, they came back out, shaking their heads. CoAgulon said that he knew the young man from his youth and he knew that this was not the man for whom they were searching, as he was much too well built. Then he threatened Decebal with his life for losing the slave. He just bartered money for the same.”
“Decebal bought his life back from CoAgulon?” Alban asked in earnest.
“Yes,” Joan replied, a bit upset at having to clarify her statements, as she thought that she had been clear enough.
“I just wanted to be sure,” Alban explained any contention away (he hoped). “What reason did they give for leaving me there in the cab, then?”
“Like I said, CoAgulon mentioned that he knew the lost prince and that you were definitely not he!” Joan replied. “Either you are not the man for whom they were looking, or you were again spared by Divinity.”
Alban turned then, looked Joan right in the eye, and said, “And you. You, to
o, were preserved for a reason! Even though Decebal had left you to die, you were saved alive for a purpose. What that purpose is, I do not know. Perhaps you do.”
Joan’s head slunk down at those last words of Alban. Tears began to well up in her eyes.
“Joan, you must know by now that you can trust me. If you can trust anyone, it is I. What is going on? Who is Decebal to you, and why have you put on this big ruse?”
“Alright, Alban, of all people, you deserve to know. The reason that I have . . .” Joan grew quiet again as she looked past Alban.
Just then, Ryan came riding up. “I forgot to tell you that the company moved on. Decebal has this policy: that if we are attacked by thieves in these desert plains, then it is every man for himself. He doesn’t think that it is a good idea to stand our ground and fight them on our terms. He never fights, just runs. What a coward!”
“Well, actually, he may be correct in that line of thinking. If the company outruns them, they get nothing. If not, then perhaps, they may pick off a few stragglers.” Alban offered.
“True, but if we were to stop as you suggested, we could make a better stand than to be picked off or headed and slaughtered down the road a ways. If it came down to it, we could even arm the slaves.”
“Now, Ryan, I do not know Decebal very well, but it now occurs to me that a pack of thieves that should like to take the whole of a slaver company would only need to sell loyal slaves to that same company. Then they would have eyes and ears on the inside, as well as a way to slow the train down. They could cause all sorts of problems for the slavers. And then, should they arm them, how do you suppose that they could reclaim those weapons after the battle without loss of men and merchandise? Your heart is obviously not in slaving. What are you doing working for Decebal?”
Ryan shifted in his saddle. He looked about as if to think a while.
“It’s a woman, isn’t it?” teased Joan. “You’re trying to earn enough to impress a woman and marry her!”
Ryan’s face flashed bright red and his gaze fell to the dust. He stared for a brief while. Finally, he looked up.
“I guess that it shows.” Ryan began. “I just think that the whole venture has been a total loss. The woman that I love has no feelings for me. I must have thought that there was something between us that never was, for she doesn’t seem to listen to me now.”
“I am sure that can’t be true!” said Joan. “I’m sure that if she would just get to know . . .”
“She loves another man!” interrupted Ryan in forcefully subdued tones. “I have tried to catch her eye, but I could be but feet from her and still she would speak to my conversation, but never my heart. My will goes out to her, only to receive her ‘won’t’. It’s just one of life’s magical ironies, I guess.”
“That was most eloquently put, my heartbroken friend,” stated Alban. Then, to change the subject he added, “If what you say is true about Decebal’s orders, and I know that you always speak the truth however painful it may be, I suppose that the company will not stop for a good, long while.”
“No. It could take better than a half day to reach them. What do you think that we should do?” asked Ryan.
“Well, we had better get back to the men and decide what to do with the bandits. Their leader seemed a bit . . . accommodating. Maybe we should have a good talk with him.” remarked Alban.
They rode back to the area where the trap had been sprung. Well, technically, Alban drove the wagon as Ryan rode beside him. They took their time because they knew that it was useless to try catching the traveling train, until such time that Decebal were confident that the bandits had given up trying to follow them. As they neared the gate of the natural pen, there was a clamor that arose. Alban climbed down from the carriage and ran to the gate. Another skirmish had broken out. Arrows and stones were being hurled in all directions. From above, the men that had been left in order to keep the bandits in captivity were able to pick men off with ease. The bandits, however, had a tougher time of it. They had been reduced significantly in number.
“Enough!” yelled Alban in a voice like thunder. Said “thunder” was reinforced and amplified by the shape of the basin. All that could see him stopped and turned to see Alban standing there. “Lower your weapons!” he continued.
All men from both sides lowered their weapons and waited for further instruction.
“Bring us the bandit leader!” Ryan commanded.
“Yes, sir!” answered a nearby guard. “Bring us the bandit leader!”
Ryan just looked at him. It was an expression that told all exactly what he was thinking of the guard, so much so as to make the guard shift about in uneasiness.
“Why don’t I just go and get him?” the guard suggested.
“No. I want a competent man to go and get him!” Ryan snapped back.
“I’ll go.” Alban offered.
Ryan returned, “No. I think that you should be staying right at that gate to keep things calm. I’ll go and fetch him round. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
Ryan walked toward the trail that led to the flat ledges overlooking the basin. He asked a man something who, in turn, pointed to two men bringing the bandit leader down the slope of the trail. Ryan nodded in approval. Soon the men were at the gate.
Before anyone could say anything, the thief blurted out, “Tell the men to put down their arms and no harm will come to them.”
Ryan laughed, “I will do no such thing! You are in my hands now.”
“I wasn’t talking to you.” said the prisoner. “I was talking to the Slave King!” Then he looked right at Alban and, in a voice of humble seriousness, said, “I thought once that the legend was a tale told by slaves to give themselves some kind of hope for freedom, that they were recounting the words to the ancient songs sung by the wandering tribes. Yet something deep inside had always wanted to believe that the songs were true . . . that the warring states should be given unity to last a hundred years . . . I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you get out of that carriage, dressed just like the song said . . .”
“You believe that he is some sort of king?” asked Ryan.
“I guess that I do. It is just as the song said, that ‘the prince shall rise from a slave to a king; he shall conquer all foes, thieves, and armies alike’! ”
Alban had an idea. “If you lay down your arms, no further harm will come to you,” he said to the bandits, who complied with his request. Then he said to Ryan, “Tell the men to leave off killing them until we figure this whole thing out.”
Ryan nodded to the guards that had brought the bandit to them. Those guards turned and went back up the trail to where the men had the thieves surrounded.
“When are we leaving for Eff . . .” one of them began to ask as they left.
“We never were going to . . .” started Ryan, but trailed off mid-sentence.
“Now.” began Alban. “Let us all calmly talk this whole thing over.”
“Yes, but let’s do it in the shade of the canopy of my carriage.” suggested Ryan.
“Agreed!” stated Alban. “Come. We should all go where we may discuss things more privately.”
The three of them turned and walked toward the wagon so as to be out of earshot of the rest of the men. Ryan rolled out a long piece of fabric which he attached to two sticks to hold the fabric stiff and then placed brackets between the sticks and the side of the carriage; it really did make quite an impressive canopy for shade. Then Ryan pulled a blanket down from the top of the carriage, spread it out on the ground, and asked his guests to sit and talk.
“I am Wafflestonks!” began the bandit chief.
“Wafflestonks?!” Alban and Ryan questioned simultaneously.
“Yes, though my . . . uhh . . . the men call me Cefús.”
“Cefús?” laughed Alban. “That means . . .”
“It means one who wears a disguise. It is Effulgian. How did you know its m
eaning?”
“You just told us that!” Ryan chuckled.
“Yes, but he laughed before I told you. How did you know?”
Alban thought as hard as he could, but nothing came to mind. To break the silence, Ryan offered, “He speaks every language that we have come across. In these parts, that’s a handful or more.” Then he started chuckling.
“Anyway, as I was saying, Wafflestonks is my name . . .” continued the bandit, while Ryan continued chuckling in the background . . . “just as it was my father’s before me. It is a name that may seem strange to these parts, but in my land, it is a very renowned name to be had. My father first made it so, and I try to follow in his footsteps. I am, indeed, your humble servant.”
Ryan’s laughter built to a frolicking roar. “Alban speaks a handful of languages! That’s like . . . Oh! I had it a minute ago. It was obviously very humorous! How did it go?” He looked at Alban as if he should know. When he only got raised eyebrows and shrugging shoulders, Ryan turned on him and in a playful manner said, “I guess you’re not so smart after all!”
All three started to laugh uncontrollably until tears came out of their eyes. One would be about to quit laughing and see that the others were still out of control, and the whole thing was back on again.
Alban was the first to gain control of himself. “Why are you not upset at having lost your leadership of this band?” he asked Wafflestonks.
“Well, I guess that the best answer that I could give you is that I am not really a thief.” began Wafflestonks. “I am actually an officer of the Court of Efffulgia. I was sent to infiltrate this band and spy on their movements. I became their leader quite by accident, as I was accused by their old leader of sending delicate information to the Darvanian Emperor. As I had sent no information (to them, at least) I proclaimed my innocence and was granted a Trial by Battle, which I won. I accidentally slew him, and I became the leader. As you have surmised, by my having told you, the greatest warrior is he who retains leadership. Normally, from what I gather, there would be an open challenge for anyone to seek the chieftain position where you did not slay me, but, under the circumstances, that must wait for a future opportunity since captivity hardly affords such protocol.”
“Wait! You mean to tell me that . . . Alban is now the leader of the Thieves of Verdis GranSecas? Impossible! He is a slave!”
“You will find, sir, that the majority of the ranks are led by escaped slaves, and some of them you will probably recognize!” replied Wafflestonks. “They have been found to love their freedom a whole lot more than the run of the mill thief. At least, the ones that were ever free before being enslaved are so. Many born into slavery have such a hard time wrapping their minds around the idea that they can and must think for themselves; it makes it nearly impossible for them to truly enjoy freedom. Since most slaves cannot read nor write, it is a hard sale. They know nothing of history or government. Without such notions, how can they govern themselves?
“You, however . . . Alban, is it? You have obviously tasted great freedom. You are skilled with a blade, speak a handful of languages, and you are quick to understand people and circumstance within a strange culture. All of these denote a great freedom that has been taken from you. But there is a quiet reserve of strength that eludes even the majority of freemen. I thought that I should never find it in any that were not from Effulgia. Have you ever been there?”
“He would not know the answer to that question. He can’t even remember anything past . . . oh . . . about a week and a half ago.” Ryan chimed in.
Wafflestonks had a deeply amazed look flash on his face at hearing that last bit of information. He began to tell a story, “There was an ancient story that told of a wandering young man troubled with memories of things far away. There was a song sung for centuries about this man who would be pivotal in the grand scheme of the world and its history. Some said that it was written by a holy man of old. Others believed that it was merely an old wives’ tale put to music by some traveling muse. Anyway, as the story goes . . .”
Chapter Seven - Legend