Wars of the Aoten Read online

  Chapter XVI

  Osewold rushed into the village from his outpost upon the ridge. “All is lost! All is lost! The Melics have won!” he cried out breathlessly, beating his chest, grasping the shoulders of each man he found, wailing his lamentation.

  “What!? What do you mean?” each asked in a panic.

  “They approach the village! They hold Artur captive, and their leader has Kylie!”

  The aghast Rufoux clansmen clambered to the rise and saw Osewold’s report to be true. But something else seemed amiss: The Melic with Kylie marched in the lead, the sword stuck awkwardly in his belt, and Artur behind him seemed completely at ease, even gregarious. Many of the Rufoux had grabbed weapons on their way, but Osewold stood empty-handed, arms and shoulders drooping. The clansmen prepared not to believe their chief’s explanation, whatever it might be.

  “Osewold!” shouted Artur. “Faithful messenger! Arouse the town for council!”

  As the small parade approached, the crowd divided into two long groups, opening a path in their midst for the party to enter the village. Still silent and confused, they filed in behind Artur as he led the caravan into the ceremonial building.

  “Lay aside your weapons! No weapons will enter the longhouse! The Rufoux way will continue,” he ordered.

  “Artur! How could you?” whispered Arielle with much urgency. “You’re bringing foreigners into the longhouse! Did Wyllem talk you into this?”

  “You had more to do with it than Wyllem. Lay down your bow.”

  “Never! Melics have entered the camp! The Rufoux won’t have it!” Livid Arielle’s flush face glowed a deeper shade of red.

  “Do you see Kylie? She rests within another hand. And yet I can still snap you apart, tall one,” said Artur gently. “Lay down your bow!” In truth he had no more confidence in the future than Arielle, but now his authority lay at stake.

  “No!”

  “Then you force me into this,” said Artur, firmly taking her by the wrist. His great hand wrapped around her arm almost twice, and he pulled her toward the Melic Pepin. “Take it,” he commanded.

  Though Arielle struggled, Pepin took hold of the bow as if examining a porcelain vase, and Artur directed his eyes back to Arielle. His knowing gaze stole her power to resist, and she grudgingly relinquished her weapon. Pepin carefully inspected the device, almost as tall as him, and planted one end into the ground. Then, manipulating its tension with one hand and plucking the string with the other, he played a simple tune, as Artur and Arielle’s jaws hung open. Then he gently laid it aside.

  The Melics stood behind the hearth at the head of the building, along with Artur, Wyllem and Geoffrey. A fire crackled, and corn added to the flame.

  “Oh Mog, high and exalted god of the Rufoux, defeater of the Emim, wrathful, powerful, vengeful Mog! Oh Mog, defender of the mighty and aggressive, strength of the angry and violent, pour out your fury upon us today to strike the heads of our enemies!”

  Artur’s words stumbled as he listened to his rote incantation. “Oh Mog, accept this sacrifice now to your hunger for justice, this sacrifice to your greatness and ferocity. Fill us with your bloodlust, wrap us in your enmity, kindle your own fire and brimstone through us and bring to us today a great victory!” His voice became almost too small to hear as he finished the prayer. He turned to address his clansmen.

  “Today we do not pray over battle. We pray over alliance. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

  The gathered Rufoux murmured slightly, but Artur proceeded. Arielle stood defiant in the corner and glared at Wyllem.

  “Three times have we battled the Aoten, and three times we have failed. I have failed. Mog has failed. All the strength of our arms and legs and anger has fallen short. We have nothing more within us to defeat this enemy.

  “But fire falls from the sky, does it not? From the uninhabitable mountains, where men take comfort in lunacy, the peaks spew fire, and it falls to earth. Sometimes destruction falls from the sky, and sometimes wisdom comes from the sky as well.

  “We have always tolerated the Melics, living above us in their treetops, and they have tolerated us. Never have we fought, for as long as any can remember. They are not stinking herders like the Bedoua, nor cheating traders like the Koinoni, nor murderous, sneaking villains like the Raspars. Melics clothe themselves in honor and peace.”

  At this point the low hum of unison chanting, every voice as if one, wafted into the air, and Artur took it as inspiration.

  “No, the Melics behave not like the other clans. They do not share Rufoux values, certainly, but they are not so bad. We can do business with the Melics, and they can help us defend our village. They can help us defeat the Aoten. With our bravery, and strength, and rage, and weaponry, and fire, and with their counsel, we can defeat the Aoten!”

  The chant grew stronger now as the Rufoux entered into the religious rite of affirming their chief. Every voice lifted, and the handful of Melics felt the tide of emotion and support coming from the crowd. Soon they added their voices in harmony, in thirds, in minor thirds, and fifths, adding rich depths that Rufoux chanting had never before attained, like a thousand brooks singing over the smooth pebbles of their beds.

  Artur stopped short and listened. After several moments he asked Theodoric, “How do you do that?” over the singing.

  “I can teach you,” he said. “Put your finger in your ear and hum the tones of your clansmen.”

  Artur felt ridiculous but stuck his index finger in his ear and began to chant the traditional song. “Now, be sure to hold that tone,” and Theodoric leaned in and hummed the notes a third higher. Artur involuntarily bent his voice to match Theodoric’s.

  “No, no, you must continue to sing your tone,” Theodoric said.

  “I did.”

  “No, you changed to my tone.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Very well, then, let’s try again. Now, be sure to stay on your tone.”

  “I did.”

  Artur again joined the tune he grew up singing, and again Theodoric came in close so Artur could hear him. Theodoric sang a fifth higher this time, and again Artur lifted his voice to match.

  “You’ve done it again,” Theodoric said.

  “Done what?”

  “Changed your note.”

  “No, I didn’t”

  “Yes, you changed your tone again.”

  “No, I didn’t do it again, because I didn’t do it the first time.”

  Theodoric recognized that color in Artur’s face, and decided against sacrificing the newborn peace between the two clans. “Perhaps we can work on this again later,” he suggested.

  Artur turned his attention back to the gathered men and women, and raised his hands.

  “Enough ceremony! Now games!” he yelled, and a great cheer arose: “Hoo-rah!” The Rufoux ran from the building and into the open plains, each finding a mock weapon to brandish. Jakke walked up to Pepin. “Fight?” he asked.

  Pepin looked the huge, greasy man up and down and said, “The grass does well to die before the therium hungers.” Jakke could make nothing of this answer, but since Pepin did not raise his fists, he took it as a no.

  According to their fashion, the Rufoux separated into groups, each one dedicated to a different weapon. Arielle stood to the side, having found Wyllem and emptied her patriot’s heart out upon him. Tears and passion poured from her as Wyllem weakly offered a hand upon her shoulder. But before long she wrapped her arms around him, lifting his feet off the ground, and ran off to compete at the beam and staff. Reason does little to vent frustration, but battle can send it to the grave.

  The Melics joined Artur and Geoffrey, satisfied to remove themselves from the games in order to play host, and watched the spectacle unfold.

  “I have seen this. Wonderful extravaganza — Rufoux music,” said Theodoric.

  Carolingia walked about behind the men, from side to side, observing the activities from one end of the group and then the other. At one poin
t she paused behind Artur and artfully wrapped her arms over his shoulder. He felt her breasts press against his back, and turned to look into her tired, pale eyes. Her wan face held no attraction for him; he pushed her away silently, so as to prevent disturbance. She turned as if to leave, but caught his hand and placed it upon her buttocks, wedged slightly between her hips, as she moved away. Artur could not help but watch her go, but he held his hand awkwardly withdrawn, filled with loathing.

  The games proceeded and wound down with the sun until each contest found its champion. Then the winning contestants gathered to do battle with their respective weapons, to declare an overall champion, of warriors and weapons. Perhaps because of fury, or as a sign of new things to come, for the first time ever a Rufoux woman won.

  The sun settled in, and hunger as well. Back in the ceremonial hall, the Melics sat at the head with Artur, Theodoric to one side, Geoffrey to the other, flat upon the ground, with bowls of food before them. Theodoric picked up a bit of bread.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “Bread,” said Geoffrey. “We make it of grain and fire.”

  “I have heard of it,” replied Theodoric. “They say Drueed made a gift of it.”

  “Not Drueed,” corrected Geoffrey. “Skratti gave it to Mog.”

  “Indeed,” said Theodoric thoughtfully.

  After the meal, the Melics pulled out their instruments, the items hanging from their belts, and played intricate melodies for the Rufoux. For hours music filled the hall, along with clumsy Rufoux dancing, and when the melodies stopped all could hear them echoing still in the far reaches of the wood. The Melic village celebrated as well.

  Artur and Theodoric walked together as the Rufoux families began to bed down, and Theodoric handed Kylie back to Artur.

  “I see you often in our wood, alone at about this hour,” he remarked.

  “To be alone can offer comfort when one is truly alone.”

  “I too have no one to bed down with, but by choice.”

  “Not I.”

  “You have not one dear to you?”

  “Our ways disallow her to me. But our ways are our ways.”

  “But this one you speak of, did she not get hurt in the battle?”

  “Did you see again? Yes, she still suffers from her injuries.”

  “Aachen knows some healing ways. Let us visit her.”

  The two turned back toward the village, and Theodoric changed the subject.

  “Very fine words tonight, Artur of the Rufoux, you spoke very graciously of the Melics. We are not at all like the Bedoua, or Raspars, or Koinoni. High praise, high praise indeed.”

  “Yes,” agreed Artur, remembering his rhetoric. “I’m proud to say we should join with the Melics.”

  “Yes,” said Theodoric, turning over his mind. “But you know those stinking Bedoua, and cheating Koinoni, and murderous Raspars? You will need to join with them as well.”