Wars of the Aoten Read online

  Chapter III

  Wyllem, thin Wyllem; Artur never would have heard him coming except Wyllem wanted him to. Second in command of the Rufoux, he was a trusted confidant, a valuable counselor. Cautious to a fault, he never settled upon an opinion until he had thoroughly weighed every opposing thought, and sometimes not even then.

  A typical Rufoux in height, Wyllem was nonetheless a slight man, not filling his armor out as well as his clansmen. His features from his pointed nose to his boney toes appeared stretched and lean. All the better for stalking, for Wyllem could squeeze his way through the tightest spots, and move silent as a ghost. Though he looked as if he would have trouble lifting even a fork, he was one of the clan’s most accomplished spear throwers, and never left the camp without a lance strapped upon his back, its point waving jauntily high over his head.

  With never enough information, a question always burned upon his lips. Often as Wyllem quizzed Artur over a matter, the Rufoux chief would come to a conclusion before him — Wyllem served like a road map, not the destination itself but the way to get there, or to get lost. The more trees Wyllem saw, the deeper the forest he explored, and the deeper his disorientation. But Wyllem did learn, and became something of a clan historian as he referred to lessons of the past. Indeed, the favor he won with his chief came in part for his repeated tellings of Artur’s exploits.

  He had married the impetuous, fiery Arielle, who towered over him and the rest of the Rufoux. Her report he delivered now as he approached Artur among the trees.

  “On the far edge of the wooded lands, north of where the scaled ones dwell,” he continued.

  “Well?” said Artur.

  “No numbers, though I asked. Arielle did not know.”

  “And?”

  “Some twelve kronyn tall.”

  “Oh?”

  “Stop it,” Wyllem protested, with a put-upon smile. He knew Artur’s game, using single words to prevent him from turning his conversation into questions. “They are here; we can no longer dismiss them as just children’s imaginings.”

  “Very well, then,” said Artur. “You’re quite sure?”

  “Would I doubt Arielle? Not if I valued my health.”

  “Nor I.”

  “What would you have us do?” asked Wyllem.

  “We will protect our lands,” Artur replied. “We will protect our families. When they come upon us, then perhaps they will hear Kylie sing,” and he rested his hand upon his sword.

  “What good will our weapons be at such distance? Twelve kronyn! We will never reach them with sabers.”

  “True, that. But isn’t that a long spear you have whacking away at the leaves? Perhaps we’ll put you at the front lines.”

  “Can you be serious?” Wyllem winced.

  “Yes, I suppose so. From what you say, these certainly can not be handled like Koinoni. If we do not make a peace, these will require fighting. These are Aoten.”

  “Twelve kronyn, and broad. Would that not be a messy suicide?”

  “How long have you been Rufoux? Are we not the greatest warriors of Medialia?” Artur stretched himself to his full height to emphasize his irritation with Wyllem.

  “What would you have me do?” said Wyllem, flustered. “Shall I muster the knights? Every man will turn out, and every woman will be a widow. You can’t shrug this off like a raid on some Bedoua camp. Are you prepared for all-out war?”

  “Not at the moment.” Artur finally grasped Wyllem’s solemnity. “Perhaps a border could be drawn. Perhaps a peace could be worked out, something acceptable to all.”

  “What if we were to make a peace offering? They have come to Medialia for a reason — what they will want first are the fields. I am sure of it. Are you willing to sacrifice any of the fields?”

  “It is not the Rufoux nature to make peace,” said Artur, bristling, “for that very reason. There are no grounds to give up anything of ours.”

  “Do you think it likely Aoten nature? What will you do when they take what they want?”

  “Two natures collide. Twelve kronyn?” Artur looked at a nearby tree and tried to imagine the height. “Perhaps we should think about compromise.”

  “Perhaps. But can you convince Geoffrey, or Jakke of that? Or Arielle?” Wyllem shuddered.

  “Arielle I leave to you, and Father longs to die,” and Artur swatted at a hummingbird.

  “Yes, but the point, the point is, it is not Rufoux nature to make peace. You know the clan will follow you into war, but will it follow you away from war?”

  “Why shouldn’t they?”

  “Will a leader survive if he shows no confidence in his people? Will he survive if his people have no confidence in him?”

  “To sue for peace is to surrender, then, you say, to barter away our pride and my authority.”

  “Yes, you speak truth. If a people must pay tribute for security, how secure is it? If a chief chooses his own comfort over sacrifice for his nation, will he remain chief for long?”

  “I have shown time and again I will not betray the clan.”

  “Yes. But Rufoux require action and love battle. Will they forgive you if you betray them this once?”

  “And why should they?”

  “Well said. Why should they?” replied Wyllem.

  “I wouldn’t. So my only choice is — ” said Artur, looking for help.

  “Will Rufoux stand for weakness this once? Fight, and we will fight your enemies; give up, and we will fight you.”

  “So the prudent approach is — ”

  “Will you attack the Aoten?”

  “My instincts say no. Not at twelve kronyn,” said Artur cautiously.

  “Will you make them a pact?”

  “Not if I want to stay chief. A cowardly Rufoux holds no value for anyone.”

  “What then?”

  Artur looked toward the north. He didn’t see any of the Aoten, nor did he expect to, but at least now he knew they really lurked about out there somewhere. “We will wait. If we can keep our distance, that is what we will do, but we do not run. Perhaps they will stick to their territory. The other clans know to; perhaps they will.”

  “Perhaps they won’t?”

  “Then we will act. But not before.”

  “And what of their size? How can we fight them?”

  “That remains an issue, but not to decide now. We must know their numbers first. Then we can talk among the fires; within the circle we can devise a plan. It is best.” Artur was pleased with the course of the conversation, thinking he had decided what Wyllem believed was right. He did not want to risk making another decision just yet.

  “Will you be returning to camp now?” asked Wyllem.

  “Always questions with you.” Artur jabbed him harshly in the ribs with his elbow, and they walked back together.

  The pulpy undergrowth gave way easily against their leather leggings, and the wind played gently before the setting sun. Medialia had abided in peace for years now, an uneasy peace to be sure, but still warfare had been largely unknown among the clans for a generation. The Rufoux, the Bedoua, the Melics and especially the Raspars, each had kept to its particular domain. Without contact, the clans avoided competition, and no reason for conflict ever arose. Their different ways remained a mystery, and therefore gave rise to no judgment. The Koinoni — well, the Koinoni, nobody trusted them, and each clan contently kept them at a wise distance as much as possible. In the midst of the clans’ accommodation of each other, the intrusion of the Aoten indeed made for a worrisome event. Artur and Wyllem did not speak again until they arrived home.

  Arielle stalked about at the edges of the camp, a scowl on her face. A longbow and a quiver rested from her shoulders, so muscular that they made her unusual height even more imposing. The gap between her skirt and leggings revealed thighs all the more powerful. Long, bright red hair cascaded down her back, and a shock that would not be tamed fell into her eyes. Ruby lips brightened into a smile as she spied Wyllem emerge from the wood.

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nbsp; “Wyllem! It comes time to bed down!”

  “Yes, Arielle.”

  “Did you tell Artur? I saw them, Artur. Twelve kronyn! Twelve kronyn tall, or I’m a Koinoni trader!”

  “Yes, Arielle, he told me. Wyllem did well,” and Artur clapped him upon the back.

  “What shall we do? I say fall upon them tonight, as they sleep! Relieve their necks of their heads, I say!” Arielle without doubt stood fully prepared to go that very moment.

  “Now, Arielle —” began Wyllem.

  “Don’t tell me you think not!” Arielle blurted out. “We must cut this weed out of the land before it takes over the field! We cannot let these intruders get a foothold in our homeland!” She was clearly disappointed that her husband hinted restraint, and that she might have nothing to do.

  Wyllem fell silent and stared blankly. He wasn’t sure why Arielle had fallen so downcast; this disagreement was nothing new. They almost never agreed, her fire setting a perfect balance to his ice.

  “That’s just what Wyllem said,” Artur suggested. “I had to talk him out of it.”

  Wyllem looked at Artur, as did Arielle. “You, Artur? You would wait?” she asked.

  Artur continued. “Yes, it took some effort, but I finally made Wyllem see that any foe that tall would make a difficult fight, even if we attacked at night. You, Arielle, you stand a head taller than most of the rest of us, but even at that you’d have trouble getting in close to fight. You excel at the bow, but you know to finish a battle we must get in close.”

  “But —”

  “Yes, you make an excellent point, but we must settle on a battle plan if we are to succeed against these Aoten. And in this you must help, Arielle. You and I must go out early, before the sun rises, we must go to their camp and spy them out. You know where they camp, so you must take me. We must get a headcount, and we must see the lay of the land, and how we might strike when the time comes.” Artur would not be called the most brilliant Rufoux, but he was clever.

  Arielle took encouragement at hearing this, and knowing that the morning dawn would bring with it a mission made her heart leap. “Very well, Artur. You have weighed the matter well, I see that now. Fortunately, you made Wyllem see the wisdom of your ways.” Her shoulders softened some, and she again smiled gently in Wyllem’s direction.

  Artur stretched. “Besides, as you say, it is time to bed down. We must be rested for our morning adventure.” He nudged Wyllem and pointed the couple in the direction of their hut. Wyllem’s eyes twinkled as he turned and led Arielle away.

  Artur ambled off toward his tent, a small structure, where he climbed upon his rumidont-skin pallet. There he lay alone, as he did every night, but he did not sleep, he did not close his eyes.