by Justin Kauer
Wafflestonks was arguing with OoftHall when they got back. As their backs were to them, Alban translated for Ryan. OoftHall was saying that the fight between Wafflestonks and Alban couldn’t count because Alban had not been a thief before the fight. He said that it was like getting caught by a town constable and then making him the leader of the clan. Wafflestonks defended his position by saying that he had been given no choice. He could only choose between relinquishing his position or dying and leaving the clan leaderless.
“I think that you let him win!” sneered OoftHall. “I mean, a couple of quick moves, and you were bested, sword at your throat and all.”
“There. You’ve said it. I was bested. If you think it was a sham, then by all means (should we ever get out of this alive) try him. But, I tell you this. Even if you were to set a trap for him, this man cannot be killed so easily. Not by the likes of you!”
OoftHall snorted out, “Don’t be so sure about that! Why was he a slave if he cannot be taken?”
“Look. Even if you were to best him, you know how that there is a great division in the clansmen. Some would follow you, and some would follow Garrve. Garrve may not be the best of tacticians, but he is a most excellent fighter. You, OoftHall are not, though you are cunning. That wit may even make it possible for you to gain the advantage over Garrve, but the whole clan has been hoping for the slightest chance to find an excuse, small or great, for a full out civil war to determine things. You know this to be true. Bracktan said as much before our duel, and this in front of the whole clan. He was leader of the whole clan, not the few. That is why and how he held on to his position for as long as he did, which I understand to be only a short while. You cannot dispute that point. He said (and you heard him, OoftHall) that while he thought that he would win handily, he was glad that it was I that was challenging him; he did not want a war raging within the clan.” Wafflestonks rebutted in a sound manner.
“We will see!” grunted OoftHall.
“Only one of us is seeing, my friend.” replied Wafflestonks sadly.
With that, OoftHall was at Wafflestonks’ throat. It gave Alban a perfect opportunity.
“Separate them!” he yelled to the men standing guard over them.
It was easier said than done, for it took three of them to accomplish said separation. One held Wafflestonks down, two pulled OoftHall off of his victim and then one of the two held OoftHall, while the other stood between the two thieves.
“Bring this one with me to the gate,” ordered Alban. “We have no need for him now. I think I might just put him back in his place.”
The guard that held OoftHall and the one which had formed the human barrier each grabbed an arm and began to drag OoftHall to the gate at the head of the basin. OoftHall noticed Alban walking ahead of them toward the gate and quickly devised a plan. He feigned tripping. When the guards began to lift him up again, he kicked one in the stomach and pushed the other towards the ground, grabbing his counterpart’s sword as he fell back away from him to the ground. He then ran as fast as he could at Alban, sword raised to slaughter on the downswing.
“Alban! Alban!” shouted Joan hoarsely from the carriage. “NOOOO!” she screamed when he made no motion to heed.
Just then, OoftHall reached Alban and let the sword fall. Alban went down to the ground in front of OoftHall whose momentum sent him crashing toward earth as well.
“NOOOO!!!” screamed Joan, followed by uncontrollable wailing.
The guards finally reached the two, ready to slay the thief. They were surprised, however, to see the point of a sword protruding from the back of OoftHall’s already bloodied shirt.
“Ha! He fell on his own sword!” said one guard.
“Galandetra’s Whistle!” said the other.
Then they noticed a rustling from underneath OoftHall’s fallen body.
“This brute is heavy!” groaned Alban under the weight.
“Here, let us help you up.” said the first guard.
“No. I must be seen to do it myself,” replied Alban. “However, I do thank you for the offer.”
Alban struggled for a second and finally threw the soldier off of him. He stood, extracted his sword, and raised it above his head, shouting in victory. He began to jog back to the wagon but decided that it would be better to walk since stars began to appear in midafternoon. When he reached the wagon, he barely had the strength to climb up into it. He saw Joan on the bed, crying her eyes out.
“I’m sorry that you had to see that.” began Alban. “It must have been horrible to see such a thing!”
Joan sprang from the bed and yelled, “How could you have done such a thing to me?”
“What do you mean?”
“I have already apologized to you.”
“That’s the best you can come up with?” Joan returned.
“Yep.” volleyed Alban, which was quite out of character for him.
Joan’s eyes got bigger and then narrowed as her brow furrowed in anger as hot tears of frustration gushed from her eyes. Alban thought it was a bit funny, and cracked a weakening smile. Joan’s hand came smashing into Alban’s cheek, and he went down like a felled tree into the bed.
Ryan, who had come to see the spectacle, began to laugh and said, “Galandetra’s Whistle! You can sure pack a wallop!”
“Too bad he didn’t feel it!” grumbled Joan.
“Oh, I’m sure he felt that!” said Ryan.
“He was out before it got there.” Joan offered, though she was saddened that she had not let him feel her wrath. That feeling gave way to the gladness that began to swell within her that Alban was spared.
“Well, I’m sure that he’ll feel it when he wakes up! At any rate, you had better stitch that wound up soon, or he’ll bleed out, and won’t have felt a thing!”
“Oh!” Joan sighed. “That wound is opened again?”
“No! That’s that thief’s doing. It’s lucky that it was in the lower back where the skin is so thick, or that blow could have been fatal. Still, that’s a nasty wound. I’ll leave you to it!”
“Get out!” snarled Joan.
Ryan left, slamming the door as he did. The sound woke Alban and he sat up with a start.
“Are you alright?” he groggily asked Joan.
The look in her eyes gave him to know that he was the one in trouble, so he conveniently passed out again. He fell in such a position that Joan could see the depth of the wound as the skin separated enough to reveal the tissue below the skin’s surface just before more blood came oozing out. She immediately grabbed a towel, since there was no bandage or handkerchief handy. She had been using it to dry her tears and now held it against the gash.
“I’ll need bandages, boiled water, and a needle and thread if I am to sew this up! Guard!” ordered Joan.
One of the guards opened the door to the wagon door with the necessary items in hand.
“That was quick!” gasped Joan.
“We jest done finished with the prisoner that Alban stitched up . . . and jest killed. Wasted effort, now I’d say.” explained the guard. “The stitching, I mean, not the killing. He’d had it comin’, runnin’ up on a man like that and ambushin’ ‘im from behind like that! That’s a dog’s move I tell you. Why, it’s lower!”
“Here, you hold this towel against his wound while I prepare the needle and thread!” Joan urgently ordered. “No! Wash your hands first! Do you want to kill the man?”
The guard washed his hands, then grabbed the towel and held it tight against the wound, which made Alban moan in pain. Joan smiled to herself and slightly chuckled. She threaded the needle and pulled on the thread to test its strength. Finding it to her liking, she approached her patient. She stuck the needle deep into the flesh on one side of the wound. When it had no effect as far as afflicting pain, she just got busy and stitched it up, having the guard wipe the wound clean with the towel from time to time. At length, Joan stopped to admire her handiwork.
“How is that?” she asked the guard.
“It’ll do, but it ain’t narly as purdy as Alban’s work!” the guard replied. When he saw the surprised look on Joan’s face, he added by way of distraction, “That Alban has eyes in the back of his head, I tell you, and the reflexes of a cat. He’s . . . he’s an owlcat!”
“An owlcat? There is no such thing!” Joan laughed a laugh that came so deep from within her that she didn’t detect its imminence until it was already out. She was a bit upset that she was no longer angry at Alban because she had so wanted to keep it up.
“Wull, there is an owlcat right there, I tells yuh! He sees in all directions, and reacts to his circum . . . his sichiation better than a cat.”
“Well, he can’t see behind him very well, obviously, or he wouldn’t be wounded.” Joan offered, as a potential way to gain back some of the steam to her mood.
“I think he done it on purpose!”
“What?”
“Yep. I sez he done it on purpose.”
“I heard that, but why would he do such a thing?” asked Joan in all earnest.
“Well, there was talk that they wasn’t gonna let him be the leader. Somethin’ about that there wasn’t any resol . . . that things wasn’t like they should for a takeover. I only know a bit of the thieves’ speech, but that OoftHall says that errr . . . no! It was Wafflesgonks. He says that there was problems on two sides of the clan . . .”
“So Alban decided to get involved, is that it?”
“It seems so.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Wull, If you went from a slave to a free man and the chance to lead an army was given to ya, wouldn’t you give ‘er a try?”
“That would make sense,” admitted Joan. “But, I just don’t see him as being the ambitious type.”
“Ambishes?”
“No, ambitious. It means to seek out that which one doesn’t have.”
“So, if I wanted a drink of water . . . and I didn’t have one, I would be . . . ambi . . . tious?”
Joan smiled and said, “No. Ambition usually has to do with money and power, not everyday needs. It is a form of greed, sometimes.”
“What if I didn’t need the water, or maybe it’s my water to start with?!” asked the guard almost accusingly.
“I suppose that you might be correct!” laughed Joan. “But Alban does need rest, so . . . That will be all, for now. Thank you.”
“You are most welcome, young Joan. If you need anythin’ else we’ll be right here outside.” the guard assured her as he left and closed the door.
“Joan! Joan!” moaned Alban from the bed.
Joan felt good to be needed by him. She felt a bit of fulfillment at the prospect. Maybe that is why she had nursed him back to near health before. But to hear him moan her name like that nearly made her cry for joy.
“Are you going to stitch me up or not?” mumbled Alban.
The tears never came and she remembered the reason that she had been crying before. She wanted another crack at him, now that he was awake, but restrained herself.
“I already stitched you up, you marlrat!” she said.
Well, she had tried for restraint.
“Marlrat? What do you . . .”
“You know full and well what I mean!” scolded Joan with great fervor. “Why else would you go seeking the leadership of a clan of thieves?”
“I sought after nothing; it came running up on me. I’ll remind you that it was in your defense that I earned that title, as well.”
“Then why did you let that Oof . . . thall come running up on you and take such a risk like that? You could be dead right now!” cried Joan.
“First of all, his name is pronounced Ooft-Hall. Secondly, he had planned to kill me, anyway; it was better to know approximately when he should attack, while he was wounded. And thirdly, I may well already have died and an angel has attended to my wounds, and though she scolds, she speaks to me now.”
Joan melted and sat on the bed beside Alban. She grabbed a washcloth and began to clean the blood from around the bandaged wound.
“I am sorry. I just wanted to . . .”
“No, you still wish it otherwise, but you love me, and it hurt to think that you might lose me.” Alban returned in interruption, quite to the shock of Joan. “Nobody wants to be a loser!” laughed Alban.
Joan feigned as if she were upset, but the nurse could not fool her patient.
“It is something that we need out of the way. I have feelings for you and you for me. To pretend otherwise is to waste precious time that neither of us has. You would never have screamed out in warning like that for Nordholst or maybe even Ryan. You may have warned them, but it would not sound as if you were being murdered in cold blood as you watched.” continued Alban, as Joan finished washing the wound.
“I guess that some good has come out of you . . . getting stuck like a pig.” laughed Joan.
“Pigs squeal more!” returned Alban, as he turned from his stomach to his side.
Both laughed.
“Why do you have blood all over your face?” quizzed Joan. “Is it scarred?”
“No. I don’t think so. Why, would that change things?”
Joan laughed, “It might ruin the most handsome face that I have ever seen . . . Oh! I did not want you to know that.” She blushed a nice, bright red and tried to think of a way to cover her overt slip of the tongue, but there was really no remedy.
Alban couldn’t decide what it was that he should think about the current situation. After quick self-deliberation, he decided to ignore the accidental compliment. After all, it was obviously an accident, and therefore subject to further scrutiny. Besides, he did not want to embarrass Joan any further.
“Well, we could get the blood off of my face, and that would tell a whole lot. You have me curious now. I just realized that neither do I have any idea as to what I look like, nor do I know what my normal appearance should be. I have to admit that I am curious to see my face!” Alban regaled.
“What?” asked Joan.
“Really.” Alban offered.
“You have to remember what you look like!”
“No.”
“What do you mean, 'no'?” Joan asked, shocked at the idea. “You really have to know what you look like. I mean, everyone has to look in the mirror every day just to see how their hair looks!”
“Slaves have no such luxury.” Alban teased. “Besides, I have hardly had the time to do such things, as I have been a bit busy saving your neck.”
“I have been saving yours as well!” returned Joan.
“I suppose that you have, Joan.” Alban agreed softly.
“I guess that I just thought that you would remember something as important as that!”
“Well, I do not,” Alban stated. Then in a fun, teasing sort of way, he added, “You are the one that always goes around looking in the mirror.”
“Oh, do I?” Joan returned in feigned gasping tones of surprise.
“I believe that you do. There is no other way that you could look so gorgeous all the time! You tempt the very angels to covet your beauty.”
Tears welled up in the eyes of the object of his compliment. It was not at all that she had never heard that type of thing said about her. It was more the fact that it was eloquently stated and, more importantly, that he had deeply meant to say it and not simply to flatter her; he meant to show her a kindness. Kindness seemed a rarer commodity than even water in those parts. Joan, visibly affected by his kind words, began to see Alban as more than a patient, though she had feelings for him before. He was also more than a protector or a friend. Now, she saw him as a great man that was obviously far from his world, but still able to thrive in spite of his lack of memory and former enslavement. She felt suddenly small and insignificant compared to him. But at the same time, and though she could not understand why, he made her feel so much more special than ever befor
e. He was able to easily find things deep inside of her that she had not known were there. It scared her to think of someone having that much influence on her; she completely trusted him with her life.
Noticing the tears, Alban asked softly, “I am sorry. Have I offended you?”
“Not at all,” whispered Joan with a lump in her throat.
She felt the wet washcloth in her hands and realized that she had not cleaned the dried blood streaks from his face. She got right to work scrubbing as fast as she could.
“What’s the hurry?” sputtered out Alban between barrages of cleaning and wiping. When Joan stopped scrubbing, he asked her, “Well, did you scar it with your scrubbing?”
“Let me see.” she said softly, as she moved closer to look.
She planted a great big kiss right on his lips.
“There, you’re all done!” she exclaimed and gathered things up to leave him to rest.
“Oh, I’m not done yet!” Alban bellowed.
But he was done, because when he tried to stand, he fell back into the bed, out cold. That is how the legend began of the young maiden that was of such powerful beauty that her kiss could render the man that she kissed unconscious. Given the fact that Alban was already weak from loss of blood, that legend was maybe only half true. Still, it is not clear if Alban would have fallen on his own or if that kiss weakened him further, causing his downfall.
Joan pondered on those events. She wondered how she was going to let Alban know of her secret past — letting him know might ruin everything. She knew that however she did it, that it would not be easy.
Chapter Ten – A Falling Out