His Name

It had been more than an hour since the Ranger had left, and the boy was getting a little antsy. So much of what happened today was still so foreign to him. The Reus Turbas, Clan Benvul, a Ranger, now the Prince of Codror? He’d gotten himself in a deep hole, and this time he couldn’t think of a way out.

He sat atop a wooden crate. He didn’t know what was in it, but it smelled awful. It reminded him of when he was young when he’d stolen some fish from the market. It was so bad that he returned it, bite and all. The two guards stood on either side of him. They were brothers, he gathered. The one on his left was Leyton, and the one on his right was Lorrie. Equally stupid, but both highly entertaining. In front of him paced the ever-uptight Captain Niklaas. The boy couldn’t see his face, but he guessed he always wore a scowl.

“What’s taking the Ranger so long,” he started, still pacing back and forth. “Surely this boy isn’t that important.”

The boy clenched his fists momentarily and then returned to ease. He’d endured worse living on the streets of Port Durn, he wasn’t going to allow some stuck-up Captain to beat him down.

“Niklaas,” he said, trying to get the Captain’s attention. “How come I haven’t seen you around the city, it’s not like I’ve been staying out of trouble.”

“I’ve only been here a few weeks, I was one of the top Guards in Relica, and before that-”

He was cut off by Leyton going into a coughing fit. The boy thought he caught a hint of mockery in his eyes behind that faceless mask.

“Anyways,” Niklaas continued. “It’s not really your concern. You obviously wouldn’t understand anything of what I would have said. I mean, look at you.”

The boy did indeed glance at himself. His arms and legs were tanned and grimy from staying outside far too long. His hands were calloused and fingernails were as black as the sea. He wasn’t wearing any shoes, and he didn’t really like wearing them, so his feet were as if someone had made him step in tar. His pants and shirt could’ve been worse. Definitely not up to par with the other boys his age, but he’d made sure that they were washed occasionally. He couldn’t see his face, but he’d imagined it didn’t look that spectacular either.

“Looks can be deceiving,” he finally muttered under his breath, as he stretched back his arms and yawned. Although he did his best to present himself as fearless, in reality, he was trembling.

Right on cue, a group of burly men clad in warm fur clothing, Vulflanders he thought, lumbered down the steps.

“Guards,” the stout one on the left with a patchy beard, and an acne-riddled face said in an almost guttural voice. “We’ll take the boy now.”

“Nonsense,” Niklaas retorted. “I demand I take him personally to the Ranger.”

Right as he said that, the boy saw his opportunity. During the initial conversation, Lorrie and Leyton had shifted a ways away from his crate, leaving him relatively isolated. He leaped up from the crate and headed for the cargo door that had now been closed. He tried to push it open, but it was way too heavy, plus the men had realized what he was doing and hurried after him.

My only way out is up, he thought. With that, he slid between Lorrie and Leyton, who both made incredibly unathletic attempts to apprehend him, and attempted to push aside Niklaas, who promptly absorbed the contact and used it against the boy by grabbing his arms and flipping him over his shoulder.

Instantly, pain shot up through his left shoulder and he gave out a yelp in pain. It was fair to say that although Niklaas was a stubborn and uptight weasel of a man (although he probably was a good half a head taller than the boy), he certainly wasn’t an ordinary guard. Which made sense, since the man was the Captain of all of them.

“As I was saying,” Niklaas sneered. “I will accompany the boy to the Ranger. I was under strict orders from Relica to discern any possible threat to the Commander and Prince, and the Ranger tasked me to subdue the boy.”

The Vulflanders all stood in the same spot in front of the steps, unfazed by both the boy's escape attempt and Niklaas’ speech.

“Suit yourself,” Acne-face said. “Vik,” he said, facing the biggest of his already huge group of comrades. “Help the Guard Captain-”

“Captain of the Guard,” Niklaas interjected

“Help the Captain of the Guard with the boy,” Acne-face corrected himself, looking incredibly annoyed.

The big Vulflander lumbered over and picked the boy up by his collar, which wasn’t a good decision, considering he hadn’t worn a different shirt in weeks. The fabric gave way, and he used his hands to stop himself from falling on his back. Another bad decision, as pain immediately shot up his left arm again, and he wailed in agony.

Vik, whose expression remained unchanged, grabbed the boy's now bare torso using one hand and slung him over his shoulder. He was still feeling the effects of the recent incident when he was carried up the stairs, but he did notice Niklaas direct Lorrie and Leyton back to the dock for more guard duty.

Good luck with that, the boy thought. Those two were not the brightest bunch. How they were chosen to guard such an esteemed vessel, he had no idea.

He couldn’t see much, as his face was buried in Vik’s sweaty back. He thought he heard Niklaas ask one of the Vulflanders something, probably to Acne-face, but he couldn’t quite make out what he said. He heard gruff voices all around him speaking a language he didn’t understand.

It seemed like the stairs to the upper deck were infinite. The stairs were so creaky that with each step, he thought Acne-Face would come crashing down to the deck below. Growing up in Port Durn, he’d always seen massive ships like this docked, but he’d never been on one before. Boys like him aren’t meant to be in places like these.

He’d known many people that went on to become sailors. They all were honest and strong, nothing like him. He’d never amounted to anything in his short life, and in the back of his mind, he believed he never would. He silently cursed himself. Although he had many faults, he’s survived all this time just by himself, that’s gotta count for something.

Finally, they stopped at a floor belowdecks. Acne-face led the way, zig-zagging through hallways until they all ended up in front of a plain wooden door. Acne-face opened it, instantly knelt, and said, “Honored guests, the spy has arrived.”

As soon as the door opened, the aura of the room changed completely. At a table across the room sat three men. The boy recognized them from before, it was the two masked riders and Ranger T’chuur. The man with the silver mask sat in the middle, with T’chuur on his right, and the burly masked man on his left.

“Why thank you, Torvax,” the man behind the silver mask said. “You may leave. And do tell Prince Aedrovulf I will meet with him in a little while, I must first deal with this boy.”

Silver-mask emphasized the word ‘boy’ as if it annoyed him in some way. His words were elegant, almost arrogant, and seemed to flow in unnatural ways. Acne-face (who the boy now knew as Torvax) stood up and turned towards his men quizzically. He stood there for a second, then quickly whipped back around.

“And who will stay to watch the boy?” he asked.

“I will,” Captain Niklaas said without hesitation. “He is my responsibility after all. My prince, allow me to stay.”

Silver mask is the prince? The boy's mind began to race. He’d messed up and gotten in trouble a lot in his short life, but nothing came close to this.

“That will not be necessary, Captain...”

“Niklaas, sire,” the Captain responded. “And I must plead, this boy is an insurmountable nuisance, surely a man of your status should not be the least perturbed by his actions.”

“I am already perturbed, man,” the prince responded agitatedly. “Everyone leaves except the boy. Shut the door on the way out, please.”

The men around the boy were dumbfounded. Even though he could tell that they all possessed brute strength and skill, even Niklaas, they were at a loss for words. After a few seconds, they came to their senses and scurried out as politely and respectfully as possible, bowing and clasping their hands together in rapid succession.

Just like that, the door closed behind the boy, and he was alone except for the three men at the table, all of whom seemed the opposite of benign.

“Skarvin-,” T’chuur started but was cut off by the prince.

“Do you know who I am, boy?” the prince questioned again in his near-arrogant tone.

“You-you’re Prince Garrick Skarvin,” the boy stammered.

“I am Prince Garrick Skarvin of what,” Skarvin said, annoyed even more.

“Of all of Codror.”

“And where are we now?”

He could feel Skarvin's eyes glaring at him from under his silver mask and imagined a sly smile on his thin pompous face.

“We’re in Codror, sire,” the boy again stammered. The words seemed to fall out of his mouth like he had no control over his actions.

“Good job, lad, you know basic geography. Tell me, how old are you, thirteen, fourteen?”

The boy's mind was now in shambles, it felt like the two other men were gone, and it was just him and the prince going back and forth. Except they weren’t going back and forth, Skarvin was obliterating him.

It took him several seconds to respond. “I dunno sire.”

“I see, is that why you joined the Clan?”

He could feel the weight of his stare now on every inch of his body. There was no escape, what had he gotten himself into?

“No, no!” the boy yelled almost immediately. He cringed at his words but was surprised he found them at all. “I mean no, sire. I don’t have anything to do with any clan!”

Then the boy heard the prince give a slight chuckle. Skarvin then asked, “If you have nothing to do with them, why were you found approaching my man?” he stopped and pointed at T’chuur. “Why were you seen in contact with Reus Turbas, and finally, why were you seen conversing with a known Benvul operative?”

The boy's mind spun again in circles. How they knew, he had no idea. He was deep in a hole with no way out. His eyes scanned the room as he backed slowly towards the door to his rear.

“Don’t think about it, kid,” the Ranger said from behind his cloak. “If you move one more inch, Commander Crouton here will whack ya between the eyes. Isn’t that right Commander?”

The burly man turned his head towards T’chuur, paused for a second, and almost mechanically turned it back.

“Mm,” he grunted.

The boy almost burst out laughing. The Ranger had guts poking fun at the big man.

“I know!” T’chuur continued excitedly, noticing the boy's complexion. “See, his name is pronounced Cru-tus, but for some reason, it’s spelled C-R-U-A-T-”

“Enough!” the prince yelled. “I’ve been listening to you talk and talk all the way from Relica, I’ve had enough!”

He turned his gaze back to the boy. “Sorry, I didn’t ever catch your name.”

“I-I don-,” the boy began.

“You don't have one? Well at least it isn't Cruatas!”

Both men burst out laughing. The commander on the left of the prince looked over again, almost mechanically, and sighed. The tone shifted from utter peril to a lighthearted night at the local tavern in an instant. What a bunch of loonies, the boy thought, gradually feeling the pressure loosen off him.

After what seemed like ages, the two laughing men finally stopped.

“Sorry, sorry,” chuckled Skarvin. “You can call me Garrick, the man to my right who you’ve already met is Ranger T’chuur. And this grumpy old fellow to my left is Commander Cruatas. We're here on important business, and we believe you may be of use to us.”

The boy stood there awkwardly, shifting his weight from side to side.

"Pardon my rudeness," the prince said after some time. "I shouldn't have poked fun at it, your name that is."

He paused again, looking the frightened boy up and down. "But if we're to work together, I can't just call you 'boy'. It would feel strange. Tell me, what should I call you?"

The boy stopped shifting his feet and immediately started rubbing his hands together nervously. No one ever cared enough to ask him his name, let alone a prince. And what did he mean by "work together"?

"Would you give me one, sire?" the boy asked nervously after some time.

"Very well," the prince confirmed, putting his hand to his chin. "It shall be a good name, not just some commoner's title."

"Ichagrut!" the Ranger joked from behind his cowl. "I've always liked that one!"

"Let me think," Skarvin said, ignoring T'chuur's words. He genuinely seemed like he was giving it some thought, which surprised the boy.

"Your name shall be Rulan," Skarvin stated after a little while. "After an old friend of mine."

As Skarvin spoke the name, the boy noticed the gruff man Cruatas flinch ever so slightly, as if the word was taboo.

"Thank you, sire," the boy said after noticing he was staring. "I-I like the sound of it."

"You should!" Skarvin agreed. "It is an admirable one. And I shall hold you to it, Rulan."

The boy struggled to process his situation. At first, he thought that he was being interrogated, now the prince of Codror had given him a name, Rulan. Rulan. He liked the sound of it. That day, he quietly promised himself that he would try his best to live up to it.

"Enough games, Garrick," Cruatas said, speaking in a surprisingly ordinary voice. "We have no time to waste, something is arising."

"You're completely right," Skarvin agreed. He subsequently directed his attention towards Rulan. "Rulan, tell us about the man you met earlier today."

Rulan gulped nervously, he sensed that the time of the prince's lightheartedness had passed. The air in the room was heavy, and he could feel his heart beating rapidly from behind his tattered shirt.

"He said his name was Conor," he squeaked. "He seemed to make a deal with some pirates, 'Reus Turbas' he called them. He also wanted me to join his family, b-but I declined."

He added that last part in hopes that the three men would take pity on him. After all, he was in way over his head and they had to know it.

This time, it was the Ranger T'chuur's turn to speak in a grave tone, "This family, Clan Benvul. It is a very dangerous organization. They don't make moves like this without serious measures. Are you sure you're telling us everything, Rulan?"

"Y-yeah. They caught me spying and the next thing I knew Conor recruited me to give you a message!"

"Tell us about this Conor fellow," Skarvin requested.

"He seemed normal. Young, confident, I dunno..."

"Did he say where he was from? What he wanted?"

"Mindalur, he said he was from Mindalur. All he said he wanted was to give the Ranger that envelope!"

Rulan pointed frantically at the letter in the hand of T'chuur. He noticed that it had been opened and that the Ranger knew its contents.

"What did it say?" Rulan asked. "I-I think I deserve to know at this point?"

T'chuur looked over at Skarvin. The prince then nodded in approval for the letter to be read aloud. Before doing so, however, T'chuur pulled back the hood of his cloak. Without thinking, Rulan gasped in horror. What lay under the mottled cloak appeared nothing short of a monster. His face was a milky white color that cracked like a desert. His nose was little more than two vertical slits, and his lips were a thin black line that was curved into a slight smile. To make things worse, his eyes resembled those of a serpent's and seemed to stare into Rulan's soul.

"Do not be scared, Rulan," Skarvin comforted. "T'chuur's appearance at first glance can seem, well, a little terrifying if I must say so myself. But know this, a Ranger's work is very much reliant on secrecy, and to reveal his identity to you is the utmost sense of trust."

"Nod if you understand, Rulan"

Rulan nodded. Right when he thought his day couldn't get any weirder, a snake man stood in front of him.

"I am a member of the race called Scorch," T'chuur said at last. "I come from the lands of the Ven'Ziel in the south. We are the original inhabitants of the lands you call Skazia and Peurotsiil. We don't usually come this far north, which is why I take it this is the first time you're seeing one of us. We're cold-blooded you see. Well, that and there aren't many of us left."

Rulan noticed that he still wore a look of shock and that his mouth had been wide open the whole time. He quickly closed it in an attempt to compose himself.

T'chuur continued. "There's a lot more about my situation to be said, but the gist of it is that I serve the nation you reside in as a Ranger, a gatherer of intelligence, among other things."

"Get on with the letter, T'chuur..." Cruatas urged impatiently.

"Okay, okay... The letter you 'delivered' to me, if you can call it that, is signed by the man you confirmed was Conor. To summarize for my impatient friend here, this man was an orphan recruited from Mindalur into the organization known as Clan Benvul."

He looked back at Rulan. "Got this so far?"

"S-sure..."

"Well then," he continued. "Some things happened, disagreements and whatnot... This Conor fellow seems to have had a falling out with their leader, Chucala Benvul. In hopes to bring down this organization that he believes is hypocritical, he provided us with the name of a certain Vulflander contact that plays a very integral part in said organization."

"A Vulflander!" exclaimed Rulan. "What business would a Vulflander have with Clan Benvul?"

"That is precisely what our question is, my boy," Skarvin said, breaking his silence. He then directed his attention back at T'chuur.

"Is it who you thought it was, my esteemed Ranger?" he said with a hint of sarcasm.

"It is, sire," T'chuur answered, matching the prince's tone. "It is Prince Skoth Aedrovulf, heir to the throne of Vulfland."

All of a sudden there was a loud knock at the door, causing Rulan to jump.

"Yes?" Skarvin inquired.

"The captain humbly asks if you would like to join him for a feast, Prince Skarvin," a gruff voice answered.

"Very well, man. Tell him we will be there shortly."

"Right away, Prince Skarvin."

Rulan then sensed a sense of weight in the air, and he quickly returned his attention to the three men from Codror. They were all glaring at each other, holding a silent conversation on a subject that Rulan wasn't aware of.

"Wh-what's going on?" he asked, finally breaking the silence.

The prince laughed, not taking his eyes off of his two companions. "The captain of this vessel is none other than Skoth Aedrovulf himself."