Chapter Twelve – The Masked Unmasked
Alban had left in a hurry with Decebal’s chariot. He had a great task to perform before he should be able to renew his journey back to the place that he had once called home. As he drove the chariot, Alban wondered to himself if the return of his memory to him was indeed a blessing because it had a distinct smack of foul curse to it; his brother’s betrayal of his father was still hard to swallow.
His father was thoroughly convinced that it had been his brothers that had led to all of the turmoil in his kingdom, but Alban was sure that his brothers were much too lazy to undertake anything that had any hard work linked to it. Besides, they were his flesh and blood, after all. They might have gotten into mischief once in a while . . . well, actually, they lived in it, sometimes more so than not. But sneaking out to chew yonderweed was hardly akin to overthrowing the bastion nation of Effulgia. Besides, it had to be Darvania that was behind all of this.
Probably due to the fact that he was deeply involved in this line of thinking, Alban had not noticed that he was on the trail of a couple of camels. The tracks left by them, had he been privy to their existence, would have led him to know that there was a trap set ahead for any passersby as they turned in opposite directions and wound behind the two dunes that hemmed in the narrow rock-walled passageway ahead in the trail. The fact that the tracks were poorly covered would have given greater alarm to Alban, due to the fact that the riders had not wanted any sign to be seen of their fairly apparent attempt at hiding. Thoughts of home made him even less aware of his surroundings, and a flood of feelings began to overwhelm him upon remembrance of his origins.
“Where are you going with my chariot?” said a voice gruff as gravel on steel.
It was Decebal’s.
Alban awoke from his daydream with a start and without looking up said, “Decebal! I did not expect to find you here! You remind me of a tale that I heard as a small boy of a man given five lives to live. What number are you on now?”
“Just stay where you are! I have two men with crossbows trained on you.”
“Well, they had better be really good, given the range at which they must be! I am too far from any cover for them to be effective. There are few that have the skill to make that kind of shot. Either I have surprised you, or your men know me and are now wondering . . .”
“Oh, we knew that you would be by this way! We were expecting you.” Decebal growled.
“Then it is the latter of the two. Your men are out of range due to fear . . . I mean to say, out of respect for their intended victim. It is too bad for you, Decebal, that you are not.”
“Don’t try anything, slave!” Decebal roared.
“I will not try anything slave. As I am not a slave, why should I behave as one?”
“You have been twice a slave, you insolent pup!”
“How do you know of my former enslavement?” Alban asked curiously.
“Kill him!” bellowed Decebal.
Alban dove over the front of the framework of the chariot, grabbing his crossbow as he went, and waited for the bolts to come from his enemy’s bows. When none came he decided to look for the archers. He quickly popped his head up and back down on the off chance that they were just waiting for such an opportunity. He saw that there were two men there, but they had both passed out.
“Amazing sort of trap, Decebal!” Alban laughed and stood up.
“What?” Decebal began. When he saw his two men passed out, all he could say by way of finishing was, “Oh.”
“It seems that you have underestimated me again.” Alban laughed.
“No. I overestimated these two.” Decebal explained.
Alban laughed as he said, “Well, let’s get going!”
“Not so fast!” Decebal said as he raised a sword.
Alban raised his crossbow and said, “You are correct. You are not so fast. Drop your sword, and we’ll be on our way.”
“Come and fight me like a man, if you dare!”
Knowing that Decebal knew full and well of his prowess with a sword, Alban began to think that the full breadth of the trap had not been sprung. As he knew of his former enslavement, he should know of his championship at the Goff Tournament, where he won his freedom. Had he not known that, there was still the fact that he bested the men back at the sandstone basin. Decebal should definitely have heard of that.
Alban jumped back into the chariot and slapped the reins on the horses’ rumps, yelling, “H’ya!” They started forward with a lurch, and began to fly forward, but it was too late. A troop of horsemen and charioteers came along and blocked the two exits from the canyon, one leading back down the dried up river bed, and the other up the slope of a great dune. Their reddish armor showed great contrast against the green sand. It was a Darvanian troop!
Alban’s first thought was to fight his way through the trap. He grabbed for a spear in the quiver on the side of the chariot and said a prayer in his heart. As he did, he felt a strong urge that he should stop fighting, along with a feeling of deep peace. He wondered why things had to be like this, but he decided that he could not fight God and the Darvanians at the same time, and he did not wish to fight God at all. So, he let his hand off of the spear, pulled back on the reins, and brought the chariot to a stop half-way up to the top of the nearby dune. He looked around himself, wondering at the fact that the soldiers did not all rush him at once.
“Seize him!” barked the man in charge.
“Oh.” thought Alban to himself, “They were awaiting orders. Well, here it comes.”
He was completely surprised when the men went straight to Decebal, spears at the ready. Decebal dropped his sword and kneeled down on the ground.
“Please, I beg you, spare my life and I shall explain.” he politely surrendered, which surprised Alban, due to the very fact that he was capable of doing anything politely.
“Take out your daggers and leave them on the ground in front of you where we may see them.”
Decebal thought for a split second, and then retrieved a dagger from his belt line, and placed it on the ground as directed.
“I did say daggers, not a dagger. I know you, Decebal, and you know me as well. Am I a man with whom to be trifled?”
“No, Reginald! I suppose not.” Decebal agreed.
At hearing that name, Alban looked up to see the man that Decebal had called Reginald. Alban suddenly recognized him as being one of the sons of the Emperor of Darvania.
“Well?” Reginald prodded.
“Well, what?” asked Decebal.
Reginald nodded to one of the men behind his new captive. The soldier took his spear and smacked him soundly on the back of the neck with the blunt end. Decebal went out cold. The soldier then began to search the body of the prisoner. He took another dagger from the inside of his cloak and one from each of his boots.
“Don’t forget to search his sleeves. He always has one or more up them!” Reginald reminded.
The soldier retrieved another dagger from his left forearm and began to pat him down from head to foot. Satisfied that all weapons were safely recovered, he turned to his superior officer and saluted in the way of the Darvanians.
Now, the way that a Darvanian would salute was to point to his temple as one would when gesturing to another when they thought that they were not thinking so clearly, then the hand would come down in a sweeping motion, parallel to the ground. It was supposedly meant to signify that thinking, reasoning, or concocting could place all in its order. As the verb “dasrazoniest” in the Darvanian tongue, according to the Darvanians, is not easily translated. Therefore, those three verbs are necessary to convey the meaning. It was argued by the Effulgians that such a language was altogether too lacking in anything remotely precise, and it was no wonder that they could not spread their realm any further. This very idea was conveyed in jest by Alban’s father to the Emperor of Darvania. At the time, they had a good laugh about it; l
ater it would be a sore spot to their sons.
“Did you check for a knife around his neck?” Reginald asked the soldier.
“Yes, sir!” came the reply.
“Then why does he still have his pretty necklace?”
“Well, to each his own, I figure, sir! If he wants to look all pretty for the dungeons, let him have it!”
A roar of rough laughter came from the men that surrounded the little hollow on one side of the canyon. The one in charge did not laugh. Noting this, many of the men quickly quieted. As the laughter quickly died, Reginald began to speak.
“I tell you that if you were to sleep in the same cell as he, you would not last the night. He has (concealed in that fancy, frilly medallion that hangs around his neck) a knife that has claimed the life of more than one man, and possibly a few women and children.”
“There was no proof of that, or I’d have hanged!” protested Decebal waking from his brief slumber and rubbing his neck.
“True. However, most men that are innocent usually point out the fact that they are innocent, rather than merely poking holes in the evidence.” Seeing that Decebal had drawn breath and was on the verge of another protest, Reginald added, “Or the lack thereof.”
Decebal seemed satisfied at the correction, so the subject was dropped.
“Private?”
“Yes, Your Highness?”
“What are you waiting for?”
The soldier looked around at all the other men, shifted sheepishly in his boots, and leaned on the spear in his hand. Suddenly an idea flashed in his eyes. “Orders!” he blurted out.
“Have you not heard the order that I just gave you?” Reginald said, growing more impatient with every syllable.
“Uhhh . . . the men were laughing, perhaps, sir!”
All grew singly silent as a man dismounted. Alban recognized him as his most bitter rival from his days in the Royal Games . The Royal Games were fighting games had among royal families exclusively. They were designed specifically to show the strength and honor of competing homelands. “CoAgulon has strength” Alban would always state. There was no need to even allude to the fact that his nemesis had no honor, as he was infamously cruel and bloodthirsty (which had led to his being banned from those games at the early age of seventeen). CoAgulon sprung off of his horse and went straight to Decebal. He grabbed the medallion from ‘round his prisoner’s neck and gave it a good tug. Instead of wrenching the medallion loose from its owner’s neck, it just pulled him up a bit and sent him sputtering and gasping for air.
“Maybe you’ll hang, after all, Decebal!” Reginald suggested, again to the forcedly polite laughter of the men.
CoAgulon simply took the loop and pulled it free over his captive’s head as he walked over to the private. “Let this be a lesson to all who dare defy Darvania!” he continued. “Neither will we be mocked, abused, nor disobeyed.” he finished.
Then he took Decebal’s knife from its hiding place in the medallion, and slit the throat of the young soldier, hitting the jugular. Blood first erupted from the wound and then oozed out in slower spurts as the man fell to the ground and died. Many of even the hardest men gasped aloud at the spectacle. It was not that they, as soldiers, had never seen a man killed. It was the reasoning behind it and the coldly calculated manner in which it was carried out. Deathly stares flooded the dry desert air with despair.
“Your Eminence, if I may, I should like to suggest that you allow me to do all of your killing; it may not be seen as a duty fit for the Emporer.” the fancily dressed warrior suggested.
“CoAgulon, I will take you up on that offer and you, Joven, shall plead my cause with the people. We must weed out any that should like to think for themselves . . . to the point that they are useless to me.” Reginald turned and looked straight at Decebal. “You can start . . . or, I guess, continue . . . with him.” he added calmly.
“Wait one minute! I was promised explicitly that if I were to find the lost prince of Effulgia, that I would be granted my freedom, and returned to my old slaver company!” Decebal plead.
“Yes.” Reginald agreed. “I returned you to your old company, and you did, from reports that I have heard, find the young lad. The problem is that, after I had been so gracious as to give you your life, your freedom, and your company in exchange for the prince, you lost both your company and the prince!”
“The company was not all lost; just the caravan was, and that to the misery’s sorrow that you wanted for your . . .”
“Silence!” bellowed Reginald.
“When your father hears of this, Reginald, you will have more trouble than you will be able to handle!” said Alban.
Reginald began to say, “Who is this insolent bas . . .”
“He is the lost prince of Effulgia!” Decebal exclaimed.
“What? No. This is not the lost prince. I met him a few years back, and he is a scrawny little scrapper of a lad.” CoAgulon hissed.
“That has grown and filled out quite considerably.” continued Alban, looking up at the men that surrounded him to note their reactions to his contribution to the conversation. “You missed me back at the caravan, CoAgulon! How you did, I’ll never know. I was out cold in the wagon!”
“How is it that you have your memory back?” quizzed Reginald and CoAgulon at once.
“How about we agree that it is enough to say that I do!” Alban shot back. “Though, I do appreciate the attempts to rob me of my identity! We have met, Reginald, and I know your father, Darvanus II. He is a fine man, and he will not stand for you or CoAgulon going around murdering your own soldiers. He will have you to pay dearly for this!”
Alban saw that the men’s eyes had been fixed on him as he spoke. He saw their eyes fall to the earth when he mentioned Darvanus and the deepening dismay when punishment was mentioned.
“There will be no punishment for this, will there? You have slain your own father!?”
Reginald just stared at the ground in shame.
Chapter Thirteen- The Trappings of an Escape?