They began to follow the tracks that were left by the parting members of the slaver caravan. Alban noticed by the light of the greater moon that was now shining, as the clouds that had shrouded it were now dissipating, that the tracks consisted of the desert wagons (judging from the wide wheel markings), two chariots, some horses to pull them, and a few other horses just for single riders that must have been pulling the stolen horses behind them without riders.
“This is a trap!” Alban blurted out before he could stop it.
“What makes you think so?” asked a man nearby.
“To be a slaver and a traveler of this wild desert, Decebal cannot be a mindless simpleton. Yes, he was drunk, but something led him to leave close to darkness, which I have heard that he does not like at all. He must know that we would be forced to follow after him. He has either flown out far beyond our reach, or he must be lying in wait for us to arrive in order to spring his trap. Look how these tracks separate here! The wagons and most of the horses turn and go up over these hills, while the other tracks continue running in a more or less straight line. I wish that I knew what he has planned!” Alban explained . . . and then brought up more questions. He continued, “He will probably have a fire going soon; he is a creature of comfort.”
Just as he was finished stating that last part, the party came over the ridge of the hill up which they were walking and saw fires in the camp that Decebal had made a good way off in the distance. They ducked back behind the large sand dune and worked their way to the far side of the camp before they worked back in towards the fires. As they approached the camp, Alban began to make an account of things in his head. All of the wagons and two chariots traveling with them seemed to be there, at least the ones that had been leaving tracks. The horses had been tied together nearby. It looked to be an easy grab that could be done quickly, and they would be gone.
“There are no guards!” Alban and Garrve stated in such synchronous tones that it later caused an argument between two of the other men. One was adamant that Garrve had said it, the other Alban. It did not matter when they argued, though, and it really does not now.
Alban and Garrve looked at each other with great wide eyes, and then looked around to see if they could figure out what was going on, or from where the trap would be sprung! Alban noticed two sets of tracks in the sand that meandered off behind a clump of brush.
“Keep your weapons at the ready!” Alban whispered only loudly enough for the rest of the men to hear. “Fan out, and move in groups of four. In this darkness, we’ll just have to spring this thing in order to find out what is going on.”
They walked forward softly and silently in the silvery green glittered sand. The camp lay more silent still, as they moved in to investigate the situation. There was the sound of a flap of fabric that occasionally danced in the breeze, a pot that clanged where it was hung on the side of one of the wagons, nothing more. All of a sudden, there was a great rushing of winds, and a great roar was heard throughout the camp. Some of the men froze with fear; others whirled around to see where the sound originated. It was from Decebal’s great wagon.
Alban smiled a big smile and motioned for the men to get some rope and tie the men up that were outside. He then went straight for Decebal’s wagon with his sword raised to strike. He approached cautiously, wanting the element of surprise to be on his side. Upon reaching the door, he quickly unlatched it and swung it open, expecting an attack to be sprung upon him instantly. None came. There was silence. Then came a great big roar louder than the first! Decebal was sound asleep and was snoring like a greater boar. Alban was surprised that he hadn’t wakened the whole camp with that last bellowing snort, but they were all sound asleep as well.
“The flight from your attack yesterday, and the journey back to us, and then the stretch here must have tired them out!” Alban whispered to Garrve.
“Our attack was two days ago!” said Garrve, much more loudly than Alban had wanted, for he gave a look that said as much. “Oh, they are not going to wake up! You said it yourself, exhaustion has overtaken them.”
Alban sent three men into Decebal’s wagon to tie him up, and if they could lift the fat pig, to bring him out where they could keep an eye on him. They did so, and, though the desert nights were quite cool, they were sweating profusely by the time they were done. They even dropped Decebal on his head and did not even wake, which Alban thought to be quite odd.
Then, as the winds subsided, Alban noticed a strong odor in the air. He faintly remembered that it was the same that he had smelled when he was on the supply wagon. It was misery’s sorrow! He looked around to surmise from where the odor emanated. He noticed after a bit of scouring the landscape with his eyes, that there were live plants growing all around the camp.
He ran to Ryan’s wagon to see how Joan fared. She was sleeping soundly but woke when Alban called her name. He climbed up on the wagon and began to give orders.
“Everyone listen up!” Alban bellowed at the top of his lungs. “We have to get all of the animals and all of the men out of this area, NOW! Load them all up and get them out of here! These desert plants with the flowers may be beautiful to look at, but they are poisonous to men when they are exposed to their perfume for extended amounts of time! We have to move now!”
With that, the men all began to gather the horses and pile one or two of the sleeping men on the backs of the steeds, like sacks of grain to be hauled to the mill. Alban noticed another supply wagon (a different one than the one that had carried him before) and went to see what that afforded them in their current predicament. To his disgust, he found more of the misery’s sorrow plants that had been dug up and potted for transplanting elsewhere! Alban could hardly fathom the purpose for which Decebal had been having his men doing such a thing. Perhaps it was to be harnessed as some form of tonic, or for the poison’s sake. For some reason, he knew that there were some of the clans to the south that used it as a tranquilizer on extremely large animals. The thought of weaponry crossed Alban’s mind, but he could not explain it. As it was, there was no time for him to debate it in his mind.
“I need a whole bunch of you to empty this wagon of all of the flowers. Not one must remain! Then we may load some of these men aboard, and get them out of here! Go!”
Seeing that all was accomplished, he took the reins and slapped the horses’ behinds which started them out at a trot. He slapped them again, harder this time, and they took off as fast as their legs would carry them. When they were out of reach of the noxious fumes, Alban let them ease off a bit and slowed their pace to a trot before stopping them completely.
As he turned to see how the evacuation was going, he saw a few of the men coming with a string of horses with their riders slung into heaps upon their backs.
Garrve came riding up and said, “Some of the men are having a hard time getting things done, we may have to leave some of their men behind.”
Alban jumped down from the wagon as he said, “Guard the woman in this wagon with your life, or I’ll have yours!”
“There is no need for such threats!” Garrve responded defensively. “We are not Barbarians, you know!”
“I suppose that I am just used to dealing with such. I do apologize!”
“I accept.”
“May I use your horse to organize the rest of the men?”
“Yes, but be careful, sir. You do not know how powerful these flowers can be,” said Garrve, as he dropped down from his horse.
“I have had experience with them in the past, or I should never have recognized them,” Alban answered back.
“I suppose so.”
With that, Alban grabbed the reins, put one foot in the stirrup, and was in the saddle in a flash. He turned the animal around and galloped back to the encampment. When he arrived, he noticed that some of the men were getting a bit drowsy. They tried to run in place so as to stay awake.
“Men, just get on the horses, and get going! I?
??ll load these last few men onto the carts.” Alban ordered.
He gave his horse to a man that seemed about to pass out cold. When he actually did, Alban slung him up on the back of the stallion and slapped his hind quarters. The horse bolted off toward the others, carrying his unconscious rider to safety. Alban piled the last three men on the supply wagon and climbed up into the driver’s seat. He gave a slap of the reins to the oxen that were yoked to the wagon, and they started to pull but soon quit trying before the wagon had even budged. He gave a harder slap, but the same effect was achieved. He started to wonder if the oxen were being affected by the flowers. If so he was in quite the quandary now. He fought off panic and then remembered to let off the brake. He tried again, and the oxen, though reluctant to try again, seemed grateful that their driver had finally remembered something that basic. Soon they were on their way to join the others.
The oxen were slow, but Alban did not mind in the least. It was a welcome rest. The rescue party had only walked for about three hours, but his wound was giving him fits. The adrenaline had worn off, probably yesterday, and the soreness was setting in and he was bleeding again. It had made the walk much more difficult than Alban had cared to admit. Still, all in all, it may have actually helped to get up and get moving again. It was feeling a bit better as he rode along. At length, he was nearing the place where he had left the others, feeling quite relieved that they had been delivered from their troubles in their time of need. He was not sure if he had done it right before or exactly how a prayer was said, but he offered another one, thanking God for their delivery from being stranded in the desert.
No sooner had he ended his prayer, when he looked up and saw that the men were all asleep on the ground. Well, some were still in the wagons, some hunched over on their horses, but all were asleep. Even two horses had succumbed to the venomous vapors and lie there on the ground motionless, except for their deep, deep breathing.
Alban looked around to find a place to build a fire. He gathered some dried oxen chips that must have come from the same type that pulled the supply wagon because they were quite large. He was about to shred some of it up to make a sort of tinder, when he heard a voice.
“Do not make a fire!” it said in a whisper.
Alban looked around to see who had said it. The light of the moon made it easy to make out the faces of all those who were close enough to have such a whisper to be heard by Alban. No one seemed to be alert enough to have said anything, so Alban went back to the shredding of the tinder.
“Do not make a fire!” came another whisper.
The hair on the back of Alban’s neck stood on end. He wondered if he were dreaming because he did not seem to be very drowsy at all, yet all of the others slept on.
“Who is there?” cried Alban.
No one answered.
“Come on! Who is doing that? Garrve, is it you?”
Again there was no answer. Alban was starting to get a bit . . . out of sorts, to put it mildly. He was in the middle of the desert, basically alone — except that now he had around seventy unconscious patients, by his estimation. Oh yeah, and he was hearing things! Wonderful!!!
Alban was about to laugh out loud, when a great, overwhelming, and immense peace moved upon him, and penetrated his heart, filling every fiber with hope.
“You must not make a fire. I will protect you if you do what I say.” the voice said softly, yet it was as though it shook his very frame as it spoke. “You will need no fire against the creatures of the wild. Now go and ready your camp against the coming storm.”
Alban put down the . . . stuff that he had in his hands, rose to his feet and began to prepare for the coming storm. He found some tarps in the supply wagon and made a makeshift lean-to out of several of the wagons, some of them put together to make larger areas for his patients. He had even driven some of them up right to where a pile of men was lying, so as not to have to move them all. He staked the tarps down to the ground, using more stakes than he normally would. He just had a feeling that the storm would be a huge one. In fact, he could see it in his mind as the voice spoke to him. He knew that he would be lucky to get all of his patients out alive. At the same time, he knew that it would probably not happen that way. He still wanted to give all a fighting chance. When the sides were all staked down, he shoveled sand on all of the edges to further weigh them down against the winds.
He tied the animals up as best he could, thinking that they might fight each other in their panic. Still, it seemed to him that they already knew what was coming and were used to having such things as hobbling done in preparation for a storm. As the storm approached, however, they did start to become uneasy. Alban could not worry about that now. He had made the best preparations that he could. As a last thought, he decided to put a tarp over Decebal’s wagon where Joan was sleeping — just to be safe and afford her any comfort that was possible. He staked the tarp down and threw sand on it, just as he did with the lean-tos. He got up in the wagon with her and sat down in the seat. It had all taken him a couple of hours, but for being the only one that was awake at the time, he felt that he had done a good job. In spite of the lack of water, he had done his best.
Alban could only wonder why he had heard that voice and what was about to befall them as he climbed up in Ryan’s wagon and fell in an exhausted heap on the bed. He shuddered to think of what may lie ahead in the wake of the storm.
Sleep took hold of him, but just before it did, he realized that it was from the loss of blood, and not from the flower’s noxious vapors. He wondered about that as his eyes closed and dreamed the most peaceful dream that he had ever dreamt since he could remember, of course, that was not that long ago.