by Justin Kauer
“That is what the ‘Legend of the Slave King’ is all about,” said Wafflestonks, the ex-chieftain of the bandits, after reciting and sometimes even singing the words to the ancient song. He continued, “When I saw you step out of that carriage dressed just like the king from the legend, I thought at first that it may be some sort of practical joke. However, I did take particular notice when you made my best men look like imp monkeys. Still, I thought that it could be part of a deception and that perhaps you had set up the whole scene ahead of time so as to fool us all into believing in the legend. Not all of my thieves are constructed of the highest moral fiber, and there have been a great many that have gone to elaborate means to mislead the masses, I am told. I thought that perhaps this was another attempt to assume control of the band. That is why I had to test you.”
“Let me tell you, you surely do play the part of a bandit quite convincingly!” offered Alban. “I was quite sure that you were a sly bandit trying to mask murderous intentions as you sauntered up to me.”
“Well, such was indeed my intent to portray. It was, indeed my job to do so. I meant only to lead the whole band into a trap that I would have set later on. It is actually quite convenient that you stumbled upon us like you did, and were able to lock us in like that.”
“Well, now it falls to us to explore the possibilities that concern what we should like to do with this band. Your story seems legitimate; but, then again, (and by your own admission) you have been in the practice of lying in order to lead these men into a trap. With all due respect, how are we to know that you are not doing so now with us? It seems to me that a tactician of any worth at all should have had a better plan than to take all of the men in his command and put them in the same location during a battle. There must be more of you that are hidden somewhere. Where are they?” asked Alban.
“Yeah!” Ryan agreed. “Or did you, in your dream, have men that appeared out of nowhere?”
“Amazing!” Wafflestonks howled as Alban began to laugh with Ryan. “I thought that we had become great friends in this short while — and I have been quite forthcoming in this whole matter. Now you mock me with your laughter? You are also good at masking your true intent, Alban.” returned Wafflestonks.
“You’re wrong! I do truly appreciate Ryan’s good humor. However, I do not appreciate your attempt to divide our unity. In spite of our differences and, even while I was unconscious for a few days, Ryan has shown himself to be quite trustworthy. That is what I like the most about him. In fact, I like all that is good within a person. I also should not like to fall into another of your traps. ‘Trust is an earned commodity, my friend; it cannot be stolen if one gives it solely upon merits of true virtue. Said virtue cannot go against the commands of God.’ So it is written by the prophet.”
“You supposedly cannot remember your own identity, and yet you can quote from the Holy Writ?” grilled Wafflestonks. Then he added sarcastically, “How credible is that?”
“I believe him. That is enough for me and for any man within this slaver company,” reported Ryan.
“You believe him?”
“Yes, I do! His word is better than that of a thief, especially the ring leader. You go on about some legend that, quite frankly, you had to sing to remember some of the words, and even then, they didn’t rhyme. You probably made up half of it — especially the part about being kind to the great bandit chieftain! Your voice got lower, and you might as well have been speaking cow because I couldn’t understand you.” explained Ryan again to Alban’s laughter.
“I was translating!” claimed the bandit. “Alban, tell him that it can be hard to translate poems and songs into another language!”
“Indeed it is!” began Alban. “Words and phrases that convey deep and powerful meanings in one culture can seem drivel to the next. Sometimes a known historical event must be known in order to understand the speaker. Other times it could be slang or jargon had among a certain trade or way of life that confuses the issue. Literature can have a deep impact on language, as well. An idea expressed by an author in one language may have been built upon one or more of the devices that I have just mentioned, which when taken further, conveys still another and even deeper meaning. Plays on words, puns, and the like make it even more difficult to translate. It then becomes nearly impossible to get the pure meaning of certain phrases and idioms.
“That part of your story does ring true, Wafflestonks. Ryan, I still do not know what we shall do with this man and his band, but he is not telling the whole truth. He has changed parts of the story. For one thing, in the song, the Slave King personally beheads the Chief of Thieves. There were other major flaws in his summary of the legend. Certain things were added and others were taken away, probably more for the purpose of convenience than anything else.”
Ryan began, “Then, you can rest assured that there is foul play afoot! Well, maybe not rest . . .”
“We can all be sure that there is foul play at hand?” Alban suggested.
“Yes! Precisely! Now we’re getting somewhere.” Ryan recovered.
Alban laughed, growing more serious as he spoke, “Not really. We are still in the middle of the desert with very little supplies or water. We also have to decide what it is that we should do with these bandits. I do not believe that this could be the whole of their forces. We must set a trap. We can use this man as the bait.”
“As bait for whom?” asked Wafflestonks. “I have told you the truth. There are no others coming to rescue us.”
Alban sat looking at the man. His look showed how much he trusted him.
“Bring us the one that they call OoftHall. We shall see if this man is telling the truth.” Alban said at length.
Ryan got up and went to send for the man. For the second time, he realized that Alban was the one giving the orders. He didn’t mind this time in the least. That struck him as extremely odd, but he kept going on his errand. Soon OoftHall was before the three.
“Set him down right by Wafflestonks,” he said to the guards that carried him.
They put him down but found that he just flopped in a heap, unconscious.
“That wasn’t the thing that you wanted to happen, was it?” teased Ryan.
“Bring us some water!” Alban ordered one of the guards.
The guard looked at Ryan who nodded in turn. So, the guard went to fetch some water.
“Oh! There is some here in my wagon!” Ryan chimed. “We’ll just use some of it.”
“Never mind,” yelled Alban to the guard. Then to the other guard, he said, “You’re dismissed.”
This guard didn’t even look at Ryan; he just left. Ryan noticed it but said nothing.
When both guards were out of range of hearing, Alban took the canteen from Ryan and walked over to OoftHall. He gave him a small sip of water. It was just enough to make him want more. It had the desired effect, for soon OoftHall’s eyes were open as he looked about for more water.
“You’ll receive more water when you answer my questions.” began Alban. “First of all, why did you try to kill Wafflestonks as we left the basin?”
“Who?” asked OoftHall.
“You don’t need to worry, OoftHall. I have told them my real name!” dissimulated Wafflestonks.
“Huh? Oh, right,” replied OoftHall, thinking to continue a deception, but covering most badly. “Good . . . errr, uhhh . . . Waffles . . . gonks!”
“I will only repeat myself this last time, and then I will have you killed most slowly. Why did you try to kill this man?”
“Uhhh . . . I was trying to kill you,” he replied.
“That may be the case, but you were willing to go through him to attempt it. Why? Did you think to make yourself the leader of this band?”
“What? That’s not how a leader is chosen in our culture!”
“Then just how is it done?” asked Ryan impatiently. When no answer could be invented, Alban continued, “For whom was Waffl
estonks waiting?”
OoftHall looked over at Wafflestonks as if his eyes could tell him some elaborate scheme to get them out of the predicament in which they found themselves; he looked in vain. Wafflestonks’ face displayed the epitome of full amazement. If OoftHall had hoped for any encouragement, that hope was dashed to powder. At that, OoftHall’s eyes widened a bit more and a look of self-pity came over his face. Alban thought that he saw his upper lip quiver a bit, but decided that it could also just be from the pain in his upper chest or lower shoulder as the debate might be. The arrow had been pulled, but the wound was only bandaged, and would have to be cauterized because it was still bleeding quite profusely. It was lucky that no major vessels were ruptured, or the man would already be dead.
“This man must have his wound dressed properly or he will bleed out!” suggested Alban.
“Do you know how to do it?” asked Ryan.
“I guess that I do. We need to send this Wafflestonks back with the other thieves, get a fire going, and find some iron of some sorts to use . . . a poker or the likes. We will also need to heat the poker up enough to burn out all impurities and stop the bleeding. In the meantime, we need to make sure that he get plenty of fluids and that he rest.” began Alban. “If not done correctly, the burn alone can kill a man. He will need his strength to endure the pain and hardship on his body.”
“True.” Ryan agreed. “I have seen greater men with lesser wounds die from the shock of it all.”
“Perhaps, but it is usually because the cure was worse than the ailment. If the poker be left too long in the wound, the effect that it should leave can destroy good flesh or eventually get infected and cause greater problems for a victim. Such infection can kill a man. It can also leave him without the use of the muscles underneath. The heat kills them and there is no remedy. On the other hand, if the wound is not burnt enough, the whole treatment can be in vain, as the man will bleed out and die in more pain. However, when all goes well, the wound heals in a nice scar, and the man should have full use of his faculties again.”
At hearing the part about the burn doing more harm at times, OoftHall had gone out cold. That was fine with Alban. As he had stated, his patient needed his rest. If they could get the poker hot enough before he should wake, it would be easier to perform the operation. Squirming and thrashing could cause that the wound be missed entirely for a nice brand somewhere else, or that the poker should go in too deeply, causing the problems that had already been addressed by Alban.
When the fire was prepared and the poker glowing red, Alban had some men tear the shirt away from the wound and hold his legs and arms, just in case the patient should awaken as the procedure was under way. There was also the off chance that OoftHall was simply playing fang squirrel. You know, acting as if he were dead, only to spring on its prey in a surprise attack. In either case, they would be prepared.
Alban grabbed the poker from the fire and walked over to the men. He hesitated only to make sure of proper alignment. He decided to forget the poker.
“Since there is not all that much blood coming out of the wound now, it should be able to hold with a stitch or two.” he thought to himself.
He called for a needle and thread to be brought. He was quite surprised when he quickly had the wound closed and bandaged. He was also very pleased with his handy work.
“Why, that would do nicely on any quilt!” Ryan quipped to the laughter of all of the men present.
“Indeed it would!” Alban agreed. “Next, I’ll mend your sweater.”
“What do you mean?” asked Ryan.
“There is a hole in that sweater that you always wear under that vest. Maybe an arrow got too close. Anyway, I’ll mend it.”
The men roared. You see, they all knew that there were men with hair, hairy men, and then again, there was Ryan; he put sheep to shame. Ryan kept asking, “What sweater?” as if he had no idea at what they were laughing. He even scratched his chest as he asked it a few times. This only coaxed out the men’s total loss of control over their laughter. So, it took a while for the laughter to die down.
As the final chuckles were being chucked, Alban suggested that they talk in private and that two or three guards be set about the wagon to guard Joan against harm. Ryan sent four. When they were alone Alban said, “We do need to decide what to do about the prisoners, as night will be upon us shortly.”
“Yes.” Ryan approved. “Whatever we do, Decebal likely has a greater lead on us by now, and without supplies. . . That Waffletonks has me baffled, though.”
“How so?” Alban inquired.
“Well, it’s like you said. He has either made a grave mistake in sending all of his men into the trap, or he has a bigger trap that is to be sprung later. It could easily be that he had planned on the whole caravan to turn and be trapped in the basin, but it’s doubtful.”
“It could be that he was telling the truth, that he is some sort of Effulgian spy who is trying to infiltrate the band, and was catapulted to the top by a series of events, fortunate or otherwise. Is there any reason to believe that we may have been mistaken for a different party, perhaps one from Effulgia or more likely Darvania?”
“That would make more perfect sense.” affirmed Ryan.
“That would explain why he was so surprised that I spoke Effulgian, even though I was not the man he expected, and why I took his sword so easily.”
“By the look of those men you took, you probably could have done that anyway. That must have been some phenomenal fighting! However, I do see your point. If we stay here too long, the real party may get here, if it exists.”
Alban looked at him earnestly and said, “I believe that it does. When I had captured Wafflestonks, he said under his breath (in Effulgian) that I was not the one he thought I was. Having said that, would we have anything to fear from the Effulgians?”
“Well, slavery is illegal in their land, but we have no slaves here . . . except you.”
“Ah. I had forgotten. I am still not used to it.”
“I have a shirt with sleeves that would cover that armband, though. And you were never branded because Decebal didn’t even think that you would make it through your injuries. If we keep the band covered and tell the men not to let on, we may be able to pull it off.”
“No. The men are to be told that the Effulgians detest the barbaric tongues and should be most offended by their speaking to them (which is . . . partly true.) Some Effulgians are that way. At any rate, I saw Nordholst among the men that came with you. His mind moves as slowly as the rest of him. He wouldn’t be able to keep up the ruse. I also believe that this may have been planned by Decebal and perhaps some of the men were in on it.”
“You think that Decebal was helping the Effulgians to catch . . . ?”
“No, no, no.” Alban interrupted. “I mean that he saw that Joan was with me, and he did not escort the wagon back to the rest of the train. I know that she is not his daughter, even though she did not tell me, nor will she tell me what is going on now. A real man would naturally escort any young woman during an attack to ensure her safety, and give his life if needed. A father would do much more for his own daughter.”
“Take care how you speak of the head of this caravan!” began Ryan.
“He is not here, and he left you for dead, too! Think on that a while.”
Ryan did just that. His face wore a serious shroud, but at length, it turned to an acknowledging grimace.
“I suppose that you’re right to some extent. Until we catch up with them, we are on our own, and, again, without much along the way of water or supplies.” Ryan said.
Chapter Eight - Legend Begins
