

Wars of the Aoten

By Craig Davis

Published by St. Celibart Press at Smashwords

23 Castlerock Cv. Jackson TN 38305

Copyright © 2006 Harry Craig Davis

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ISBN: 978-0-9829567-2-4

Davis, Craig, **Wars of the Aoten**

StCelibartPress@yahoo.com

www.StCelibart.com

Wars of the Aoten

By Craig Davis
Chapter I

Artur could see nothing but the snapping fangs and roiling tongue. Claws dug deeply into his flesh, tearing great shreds even through his tough tunic. With his left arm bearing up all the beast's weight, he could do no more than fumble blindly with his right hand. Surely Kylie lay somewhere close by; for now, Artur could offer back only his own gnashing teeth. A flailing fury of activity and spittle buffeted his face, and none of his companions could provide any aid. Once again, Artur stood alone.

"What has brought me to this?" he wondered. "And to what end? How much striving must I spend to simply gain a future? Mog's goblins!"

***

The damp thump of a dew drop hit his helmet. He'd slept again under the canopy of leaves.

The tribes of Medialia had lived together peaceably, within reason, for generations. And what generations! The years of the people advanced into decades, then to scores and perhaps then on into centuries as lifetimes went from birth to Earth to eternity.

The land and its animals and plants had been husbanded for years upon years by a long procession of worn and calloused hands. The peoples of Medialia built their cultures with equal attention, preserving their traditions and distinctions with meticulous care. Tens of thousands of cycles of dawn to dusk then dawn again left the ancient peoples performing lives of unquestioned ritual, not knowing why and not caring; it just was. Anything different would be a threat to the continuity of life, and untrustworthy, and sacrilege. The Rufoux, the Bedoua, each in its own land; the Melics of the trees, and the Raspars hidden away in their city; even the Koinoni — they all staked out their part in the world. To maintain the purity of the culture, each clan expected its men and women to fulfill their roles, to serve the clan as a whole, to defend it against anything unusual or unknown. If a man were to break himself away from his customs, his clan quickly disowned him, ostracized and banished to find his survival on his own. Only a few such pariahs had stained Medialia's history, living or perhaps dying in exile; even now there was believed to be one, a lunatic camped high in the mountains, rumored to talk to animals. In isolation he toiled away, unknown to anyone but the skies. Or perhaps not; regardless, he lived as a cautionary tale: To invite the influence of another clan or strange ideas would be no better than opening the gate to the thylak, or worse yet, the deviltooth. So each clan drew its defenses, each culture folded in upon itself, in a self-assured attempt to maintain the familiar safety of tradition. Allow the others to exist, yes, but at a distance — only as they remained at a safe distance.

Even as the people threw down their vague borders, the rivers Alluvia and Gravidas embraced Medialia within a firm but tender grasp, and deep, beautiful pools of mirrored water, fed by underground springs, dotted the land. To look directly into their gentle, hypnotic folds, a man of Medialia would see first himself and the clear sky above reflected in the glassy surface, then beyond to the crystalline shallows, then the deep blue of the dense, pure solution, and finally into the blackest mystery of its very depths. Fish and eels, newts and mollusks — even a fleeting glimpse of the dreaded scaled draughgon — all found a place of sanctuary and sustenance in the rich womb of mother water. Her loving touch spread throughout the land, even to the edge of the sandy desert in the north, and life flourished within her reach.

The land rose up round about in grand rock formations and proud stands of trees, thick and distinguished, waiting like wizened men advanced in years yet always ready for brisk walk and conversation. Great giants towered over the landscape in perpetual greenery, for even what we would call the deciduous strains never lost their leaves to cold weather and dim light. Grand oaks and hickory stood tall, dogwood and birch, cottonseed and cypress, cherry and persimmon, gopherwood and maple, sittlebark and scrattum, ketchipa and peah — the black dirt gave rise to more varieties than could be named in any book. Like locks of twisting hair, mossy strands hung limply from the branches, teasing the undergrowth: Moss dripped from the trees, and dew dripped from the moss. These elegant titans relented only occasionally as the forested glades gave way first to the mossy undergrowth and then to gentle meadows of waving grasses and dancing flowers. Exotic, kaleidoscopic colors bloomed beyond dictionaries or palettes. Colors existed in Medialia that we have no English word for, and indeed some of the leaves and flowers across the land appeared to be two colors at once. A blink could reveal a whole new perspective on the beauty of a petal, as a kind of crimson/gold/jade might transform into a violet/bronze/burgundy. The soil brought forth fruits and berries, roots and vegetables in abundance, enough for all the living beings that tramped the ground or soared the air.

To this world Artur of the Rufoux opened his eyes this and every morning.

The times of the Rufoux arched backward to the dawn of tools, when mankind first learned to till the ground and fill their stomachs by the sweat of the brow. The Rufoux ancients mastered the toil most basic to civilization: bronze working, kiln-firing, blacksmithing. Anything that required heat and brute strength suited their bodies and character well.

A squat, powerful people, they took their name from the ruddy complexion that in turn gave witness to their fiery trades and temperaments. Most grew to no more than seven kronyn tall, about five and a half of our feet, but the men boasted massive shoulders and chests. Their midsections were solid and legs stout, with hands immensely large. In their idle time a man might grasp another's head by one hand and try to lift him off the ground. A wild shock of golden or red hair topped their crowns, adding a bright accent to their dark skin and demeanor.

Born of fire and violent work, the Rufoux had become an aggressive people. In ages past they learned to go about always in armor of thick, tough leather, and so it became their customary attire. As metal workers, they had also become expert in weaponry, agile in wielding swords and pikes, maces and axes with great abandon. Indeed, it seemed the only joy they took came from their games, at which they would lay upon each other with tremendous gusto, somewhat disappointed to use only blunted weapons.

So let no surprise regale you that the legends of their god, Mog, celebrated him strong and warlike as well. Mog had been a man once, so they said, and fought great battles against monstrous, mystical creatures that directed the fates of the people of Medialia. From Mog, too, the Rufoux had come to tame fire, for use in the forge and the oven, to bake his gift of bread born of their great fields of grain. The Rufoux came to him with sacrifice whenever they went into battle, small or large, seeking to allay his wrath, to gain his blessing, that he might increase their aggression and add to them his mighty victory.

Artur could not claim to be the greatest of the Rufoux, not the tallest, nor strongest, nor smartest. But perhaps he could boast as most typical. And he was clever and an accomplished story-teller; this very talent led to his appointment as chieftain.

He was Artur, son of Geoffrey. In spite of his audacity and headstrong ways, he displayed a spirit of self-denial and duty to his people. This selflessness showed itself in the daring and reckless manner he threw himself into battle. His hair unruly — redder than most and cut as if a bowl had been placed over his head — but balding in back, betrayed his encroaching triple digits. He spoke in short blasts, his talk filled with bluster and sometimes spittle. When in conversation his arms often waved wildly about his head, sometimes as he made a point. Sometimes, notably when he wasn't talking, he waved to fend off hummingbirds, which entertained themselves by coming at his rusty locks with extreme prejudice. He kept his beard shorter than most, close-cropped, almost to only two- or three-days' growth. Artur handled the sword as well as any warrior among the Rufoux and always kept his short blade, which to show his devotion he called Kylie, hanging at his belt.

Not only swords, but also plowshares came from Rufoux smelting. The clan had established its village on a high bluff near the floodplains of the River Alluvia. A slight rise in the land separated the huts from the fields — a crest lined with stacks of heavy wood stored for use in building and fire-making, as well as frames for drying and tanning leather — before steeply declining toward the floodplains. The beneficent river overflowed its banks regularly, its water standing over the fields for upwards of a month, leaving rich, pungent soil to nourish their crops. In fact, the Rufoux enjoyed the most hale and hearty health of all the clans, and they guarded their farmlands vigorously. An unusually ingenious man of the clan years before invented a plow with removable handles — a quick yank, and the sharp blades of short rapiers emerged from scabbards within the frame. Thus did they become farmer-warriors.

Although small, they had become excellent riders. The sight of a stumpy Rufoux man ridiculously astride a huge hippus might put an observer into hysterics — until the rider stood upon the beast's back at full gallop, hung from its neck, jumped from side to side and ended by deftly pulling the animal to a sudden stop, blowing great bursts of steamy breath into the awe-struck face of the scoffer.

The clanspeople pursued other activities, not only work and warfare, with equal enthusiasm. Betrothed and married at a young age, Rufoux couples tended to have great numbers of children, bustling about the house banging metal spoons against metal pans in mock battle. Rufoux women were stocky like the men and shorter still, with shapely hips given to easy childbearing. They tended homes made of wooden frames, poles bent into semicircles, with animal skins stretched over the top, leaving an opening in the center of the roof. Directly underneath a fire blazed, always at the center of Rufoux life. Pallets for sleeping lined the floor along the walls of the dwelling; as a family grew, new circles of pallets would be added until no walking room existed between the sleeping area and the fire, lost to the bustle of confined concord. In this way alone Artur divided himself from his people.

Though the leader of the clan, though a willing joiner of talk, Artur often sought out solitude. A melancholy mantle draped his thoughts at such moments. He alone of the Rufoux men remained a bachelor, a point of constant sorrow and dismay for him. Never lonely, yet he knew himself to be utterly alone, a miserable weight he felt often upon his head. In the evenings, when families lulled their children to sleep, Artur crept into the dark of the wood, separate from all activity except his swirling thoughts. The Rufoux customs betrothed couples at age six, formally engaged at twelve and married at eighteen. Artur's parents had dutifully arranged for him a child bride, and the ceremony of their betrothal also had been the day Geoffrey gave him his first breastplate of ceremonial armor. That day's glorious celebrations were forever etched into Artur's memory. Then an accident, a terrible sequence of events before Artur's eyes, took the life of his intended and threw it as far away as the wind blows. At that moment he began to take no regard for himself, but instead abandoned safe discretion in favor of thrill and the well-being of his clan. He gave up hope for wife and children of his own, and took all the Rufoux as his family.

So Artur masked his darkness with intensity and bravado. It is not so uncommon even in our own world.

Chapter II

Across the expanse of Medialia, the wooly ones roamed the forests in abundance. Monkeys, birds and flamboyant squirrels populated the trees, and the land teemed with rooting tapirs, okapi, crocodiles and grand giraphant. Even wild rumidonts and hippus still moved about in herds. Though domesticated long ago, these animals had feral cousins living off their somewhat limited wits. Rumidonts grew to only about waist high to a Rufoux, with three-toed hooves and a thick coat of wool almost as heavy as their odor. Once shorn, the coat was soft to be woven into warm clothes and blankets, and strong for ropes and nets. They also produced milk, making them the prized possession of the herding peoples, kept practically as pets, some would say, and others would say as gods. Their heads appeared to be too big for their bodies, with broad noses and foreheads, and they produced a high, frenzied cry when alarmed.

The hippus had been trained to be beasts of burden, for riding and pulling, and the average hippus could easily accommodate three men on its back. Brawny beasts, they were also fleet of hoof, and the potent combination made cause for great celebration any time a man could catch one in the wild. Their galloping speed served the hippus well when packs of thylak, hunting animals that scoured the forest shadows, might bear down upon them. Though smaller than even the rumidont, the thylak's heavy shoulders and hindquarters could simply outmuscle larger prey; the brutal animals bore a set of oversized fangs that extended menacingly beyond their lower jaws, and had claws to match. Dogged in their pursuit, a single thylak could easily bring down a squealing rumidont or screaming man who had not kept a sharp eye out. Indeed, the wooded cover that offered protection to the rumidont and hippus also served to trap them, hiding the creeping menace that meant only to destroy. Only the giant therium could safely stroll the lands, their great bulk and six horns sufficient to give even the most arrogant thylak second thoughts about making an attack. As well, the therium's heavy coat of wiry fur and their thick, leathery skin added yet more protection. Twice the height of a man at their shoulder and as wide as a small house, the therium spent their days lazily browsing leaves from the trees that no other ground animal could reach, often rousing into flight birds and lemurs, and other small tree-dwellers. In the evenings they made an eerily mournful wail, deep and throaty, always long and flowing, slowly diminishing into nothing more than an echo. The therium strode with complete confidence through the forest, avoiding only the steaming pits that divided the fertile central land from the great mountain range to the west.

Artur owed his fate to one of these great brutes. One day as a young man he came upon the body of a dead therium. Soon a pack of thylak, he knew, or even a deviltooth might find the corpse and begin work upon the remains; with his short sword he quickly removed the horns. Taking a leather thong and a drill made of bronze, on the spot he fashioned a necklace for himself. By the time he re-entered the Rufoux encampment, with the six horns dangling from his neck, his story had gelled: He had brought down the therium himself, with only his own brains and brawn at his disposal. "I spotted the great animal in the forest and scaled a nearby tree, hand-over-hand, running up like a frightened Melic. I tied a noose and slung it about the therium's neck, then jumped down the opposite side of a high limb. Hanging desperately onto the rope, I threw all my weight into controlling its huge, thrashing head, as he whipped me about like a clump of grass. I fought back by weaving the rope over a multitude of tree limbs and trunks, and that gave me greater power over him. But just then the therium shook off its surprise and began to overcome me. He looked dead at me and snapped his tusks. Just then," Artur paused and gazed about wide-eyed, "Mog himself appeared and leant his strength to my rope. The unfortunate beast, this only one ever known to be killed by a man and a god together, strangled as I and Mog strained against the rope, even hoisting the mighty animal's forequarters clear off the ground!" Or, at least that is how Artur told it. The Rufoux men met that night, and before morning Artur had become chief of the clan.

Less common were the scaled ones, but they made a fearsome sight when encountered. Like the draughgon, which dwelt in the waters, the scaled ones usually came into sight only in the corner of one's eye, leaving a man uncertain whether he had seen something or perhaps only imagined a nightmare. The scaled ones mostly stayed by the warmth of the steaming pits, so wise men, like the therium, avoided that territory. But brave men and foolhardy youths would sometimes venture into the area, where they could still see small groups of depila bird, flightless beings that moved as one like a flock. Much more-rare glances would reveal the deviltooth, a fearsome beast that could snap a man in half with its powerful jaws. Taller even than a therium, with long, razor-sharp teeth, these creatures feasted mostly at the expense of the depila bird, but when pickings grew thin, they had been known to hunt the forests. The light of the sun glinting off the deviltooth's metallic-looking scales ascribed to the beast an air of royalty amongst a lesser people. Though the deviltooth certainly had no more brains than a walnut, it bore a continual frown that gave it the look of decided antipathy. Its stupid, mechanical bent toward killing made it all the more terrifying.

Though not particularly mountainous in the central areas, the ground of Medialia erupted into formidable spires of black marble and granite, streaked with tall scars of blue green and purple crystal. Great, steep columns burst forth from the land's thick carpet, often crowned by weird formations that seemed to balance with no support, perilously looming hundreds of kronyn overhead. Their rugged and scarred sides gave witness to the painful birth that brought them forth eons ago, ribbed with great crevasses and giving resting place to small pockets of scree up and down their heights. These grand sculptures, known to the people as standancrags, scattered across the land, brought forth by some awesome force of creation, as if a divine forefinger and thumb had grasped the firmament and pulled the spires into view like gushing water. Though most measured no more than a hundred kronyn across, some stretched for a groonit (a measurement something like our kilometer) or more in breadth. Some of them towered over the forest trees, and others not, so a traveler walking through the dense foliage could easily be unexpectedly blocked by a standancrag's sudden appearance, requiring a lengthy detour from a straight route. In the meadowlands, however, they stood unveiled in all their naked glory, mighty monuments to the underworld, the foundation of Earth herself when she unloosed the buttons of her green mantle. The proud sculptures stood in majestic silhouette against the sky, daring any observer to see past, or perhaps to scale their heights, or even to simply guess their magnitude. They stood as watchmen in the morning, reminders to all that lives begin and lives end, peoples and races and cultures come and go, but the Earth remains.

Two seasons divided the Medialian year: humid and more humid. Indeed, some days the air hung so heavy with moisture a man could have difficulty seeing through it, yet never a fog, never a mist. The sultry warmth wrapped its blanket around the flora, a loving sauna for its lushness. The dampness trapped heat from both the Earth and sun and maintained a constant temperature; tiny droplets that clung to nothing more than air acted like a perpetual shower, cooling the flesh of the land's inhabitants. A brisk journey through a shaded glen could leave one soaking wet. A quiet breeze picked up as the sun set each evening, but the weather never grew any more violent. The coastlines never brought in a storm from over the sea's waters, and malevolent clouds were strangers to the skies overhead. Indeed, the deep blue sky, pinkish greenish on the horizon and tinged with violet at its apex, never gave way to clouds at all. The native ecology was similar to a rain forest, and then again not, and water dripped continually from the leaves of the trees. These very droplets served as Artur's alarm that morning. But now the day was growing late.

Paths worn by long generations of feet and hooves criss-crossed the land. None of the little roads went anywhere directly, but wandered about, giving birth to narrow offshoots that in turn would lead nowhere. No paving lined the ways except that of well-worn grass. Still, the walking was smooth and pleasant, and disagreeable rocks seldom emerged from out of the ground. Within tribal boundaries, occasional low stone walls lining the paths grew into sturdy bridges, built well before even the deepest memory, that crossed the rivulets branching off the Alluvia and Gravidas. Arbors grew overhead, carefully planted intermittently to offer shade to those taking long journeys overland. The trails often cut through gardens of exotic succulents and flowers, tended with loving care. Huge leaves and bobbing blooms lapped over the edges of the paths, brushing and patting at the legs of passersby in a friendly manner. After some time of study, one could identify what man had planted each field by the designs that shaped the gardens. No single idea of beauty, order nor asymmetry, dominated, for every man did what his own mind deemed right. So one garden might be planted in circles and coils, while the next might feature straight rows suddenly running at an angle into more straight rows.

This day one such path led to Artur, alone again in the forested land. The trees waved to him like so many friends, and as he walked along he reached out to his right and left to grasp their welcoming leaves. The saw-tooth edges played a harmless game of gotcha as he ran them across the tough skin of his hands. With his thumb and middle finger he flicked moisture off dripping leaves in a miniscule shower, then rubbed the wetness off on his pants leg. He did not tread lightly nor take any care watching his steps: His leather boots gave him ample protection from whatever slippery hazards or grasping roots or branches the undergrowth might hide. Indeed, his eyes cast their gaze upward much more frequently than toward his feet. The deep blue of the evening sky, dappled by the glinting foliage, made him to hear the peace of sleep calling, even to him. The birds above gave him little notice but sang a glad tune, which he deemed a rightful fanfare for himself anyway. This day his depression weighed not so heavy.

But nothing he could do would erase that one moment long ago.

"Oh, is this where you hide?" said a voice from out of the bracken, punctuated by crunching footsteps. It was Wyllem. "It is true," he said. "They have been seen."

The Legend of Mog

In the great grey-green mists of the murky past, a mighty, dreadful race of unearthly creatures claimed divine right over all the known world. Even the shortest among them grew to all of twenty kronyn tall, and their pallid green skin bulged with pulsating veins. Oozing from every orifice, their rippling limbs ended in fearsome, three-digit claws. Glowing eyes peered with slitted red pupils, and their faces appeared like inverted triangles, crowned with a broad forehead and coming to a pronounced snout. With both character and demeanor hateful, they sought only to ravage those beings they considered inferior. Tremendous size and strength, and their ruthless loathing, served them well in this mission. But their greatest weapon, the one thing that made them invincible, was a secret of eternal life. No matter how great a blow they received, no matter how deep an injury left, none of these beasts would ever die. These became known as the Emim, the horrible giants, and they liked nothing better than the taste of Rufoux.

In these days wood kilns burned across the land, for the Rufoux had not yet discovered the stones that burn. Every day men and women of the clan had to enter the forests to gather wood for the fires that burned wildly in their camp; and the fear of the Emim gripped them. Many a day twelve ventured out, but only eleven, or ten, or nine returned. Each family took its turn to send out a wood-seeker, and each family member took his turn, so all shared the risk. But the burden weighed heavily — so great an anxiety to bear — and fear gripped the clan throughout, as fathers and mothers and sons and daughters wept bitter tears for each missing clansman. All the Rufoux lived under a cloud of despair, except for a tiny few, a few who cared not for life nor limb but much for liberty. One of these was a man named Mog.

Mog chose not to stand around waiting to be eaten, but neither did he relish risking his life for a few sticks of wood. He and a handful of followers didn't even live in the Rufoux camp, instead sleeping in logs and hollows out in the wilds. Fruits and berries kept them alive, but when they had a taste for something more succulent, nothing satisfied them more than raiding an Emim banquet, as long as they weren't serving Rufoux. Mog and his men loved to sweep down upon the unsuspecting Emim as they sat at table, for though they were large and cruel, they were none too bright and easy to surprise. Before they could fall to arms, the raiders would snatch away the most pleasant dishes, bloody a few noses and be gone.

On one such raid the future of Mog and the Rufoux changed forever.

One evening as a multitude of stars blinked in disbelief, Mog and his men crept through the trees toward the grand log house of the Emim. The structure was simple, yet huge and comprised of many rooms. The long dining room spread about at the very center, making the raiders' work all the easier: Each time they broke in, they used a different hallway to enter, always catching even the most alert giant off guard. This night, as they approached the banquet hall, they found an ancient man dressed in long robes, with a long, gray beard, light and fine like cobwebs, like the smoke of incense. Bound in chains, he hung upside down at the entry.

"Who are you? You look not like Rufoux," said Mog.

"I be Skratti, wizard of the standancrags. Many a day have I passed vexing the Emim with my incantations, so that they hate me above all others. Today I be captured when they caught me unawares at my morning chants."

"Why have you not been eaten?" asked Mog.

"Not being as tasty as Rufoux," replied Skratti, "they be setting me aflame when the night falls to its deepest."

"More's the pity, old man."

"You be Mog, no? Your legend looms large in the wood, but little do you know. You hate the Emim as much as I?"

"How can I hate the one who cooks for me? I have decided to remain indifferent, as long as I stay out of their pot."

"Aye, you be as good a liar as vagabond," Skratti laughed in spite of being trussed up like a chicken in a butcher shop.

"Surely, you must indeed be a wizard, for you have either discovered how I loath the Emim, or you have put it in my heart."

"Release me, and I will make you their master."

"I would release you just to shove my blade up their noses," said Mog, and with his fine Rufoux sword he cut the shoddy Emim chain to shreds. Skratti fell heavily to the floor with a grunt but no great injury.

"Let us be gone," he whispered hoarsely. "Come with me to my rooms, and I will give you knowledge to defeat the Emim."

"Not before dinner," said Mog, and he led his men screaming into the banquet room. Giants fell to the floor backwards in their chairs at the ruckus, half-chewed food spewing from their ghastly mouths. Mog slashed away with his blade, but it left no more than scratches on the immortal beings. The Rufoux men grabbed armfuls of wonderful breads and puddings, fruits and vegetables, and vaulted through the windows before the Emim knew what had happened. Skratti made a hasty retreat out the nearest door.

Outside, each man ran in a different direction, then circled back around to the side of the longhouse opposite the Rufoux camp. There Skratti, without explanation of how he found them, appeared out of the darkness.

"Welcome to my lair," he said, and he gestured to a great standancrag directly behind him. As they walked toward the stone pillar, a dark opening appeared as if by conjuring. Skratti turned his head and gave a craggy smile over his shoulder at Mog, and led the Rufoux men inside. As the last one entered, the opening vanished, and the standancrag once again looked like solid stone.

Inside, the men could barely make out walls lined with strange, shining, clear containers that obviously had different kinds of fluids in them. Skratti rubbed his fingers together and produced a flame, with which he lit a small collection of beeswax candles set on a table. He blew out the flame and waved his fingers in the air.

"There be a secret below the Emim longhouse, a secret I alone among humans know," said Skratti in a harsh whisper, his heavy, white eyebrows nearly covering his eyes. "All others who have ventured so deep into the fortress have paid with their lives. I alone have seen and escaped. It be the secret of Emim immortality."

The Rufoux men sidled up to the wizard without a word, drawing like moths toward the dim light and shadowy words.

"Underneath the Emim banquet table there be a great wooden door, with a single ring for a handle. That door leads below the house, into a dungeon deep and lined with stone, where lies a dragon, a beast of horrible size and great, massive teeth. This monster once roamed wild with the deviltooth and thylak, but the Emim captured it and imprisoned it under their castle. It guards their most precious treasure, the one thing they value over all else in the world."

Here Skratti paused, and the Rufoux men leaned in yet closer.

"It be a gem, a single, purple stone, clear and bright as a pool of water. Nobody knows who mined it, or who cut it, or how the Emim came to own it. Neither does that matter, for only its power matters, and that power be eternal life. Yes, eternal life radiates from the stone, and simply living over those mysterious warming rays makes the Emim invincible. But they must stay in the vicinity of the gem for half the day, or its power will seep away from them."

With this the Rufoux men stood erect again, wild eyes cast upon the defiant old man. "How can we know this to be true?" asked Mog.

"Search your memory, test your mind," said Skratti. "Do you really believe the Emim to be so slow that they cannot pursue as you steal away their food? They dare not leave the longhouse after being gone at day, or they be not getting a full dose of the gem's life-power. They know their real food, and they be guarding it well."

Sharp disappointment stabbed at Mog with these words, thinking that his raiding bravado had been revealed to be empty. Now he felt compelled to top it.

"Well, then. How do we get it?"

"You have to go through Emim defenses. You have to slay the dragon. You have to steal away with the gem without falling into Emim hands."

"I know how to get into the longhouse. That's easy enough. But how to survive the rest? That's the trick," said Mog in a pensive manner.

"Get past the Emim, kill the dragon, then eternal life belongs to you," said Skratti.

"Yes, you've said that. But how?" Mog's temper rose.

Skratti wheeled toward the back wall, and returned with one of the strange containers. He studied the contents carefully as he swirled it around, then poured some into a smaller container. With his left hand he reached into a round box, and produced some powder to sift into the liquid as he held it over a flame. A pungent fragrance arose in the room. In a voice so low the Rufoux men could not make out his words, he mumbled three short sentences over the elixir, then plunged the whole container hissing into a bucket of water at his feet. Again he swirled the liquid as he peered through it, and abruptly thrust the container at Mog.

"Drink it! Drink it fast!"

Mog looked from face to face in the room, still feeling his manhood bruised by the truth about the raids. Ready to prove himself, he slammed down the potion as hard as he could.

"What did I just drink?" he winced.

"You be Rufoux, you be men of fire," said Skratti, his grin revealing ragged teeth. "Learn it, command it. Call the power of the sun down on the hated Emim. I now give you the power of the sun's heat. When your anger burns hot, your touch will burn hotter. You cannot kill the Emim, not as long as they have the gem, but you can sear their flesh. Now, begone!"

Suddenly Mog and his men stood outside the standancrag again, and no sign of Skratti remained, nor of the entryway, nor the container that had been in Mog's hand. They paced about there in the starlight, confused and irritated, unsure of what had happened. Only the bitter unrest in Mog's stomach told him he hadn't been dreaming.

Days passed, and the men lived off the stolen bounty from that night's raid. Soon came the time to again burglarize the Emim, but to his men Mog seemed uninterested in returning. As hunger gnawed at them, they became dissatisfied with the berries and roots of the forest. Then one of them made a mistake.

"You have grown afraid to return! The dragon makes you afraid!" he accused Mog as they fell deep into argument.

Mog arose in a rage. "Oh, you will pay a dear price for your insolence!" he screamed as he hoisted a huge log over his head with one hand, preparing to strike down his clansman. The log instantly burst into flame, from Mog's grip all the way to the end. Suddenly, the conflict ended. The men stood and stared at the unfortunate piece of wood, miraculously aflame and yet not burning Mog's hand.

"It is true," said Mog, as he watched the log quickly turn to charcoal and then ash, staring in wonder and yet fighting a smile. "I have feared believing it, but now I see it's true. Skratti has endowed me with fire. Let's be off!"

With that, the band ran like deer toward the Emim longhouse.

Outside one of the great windows, the Rufoux could see the Emim at their meal. There Mog drew up a simple plan.

"We all jump in, as we always do. This will turn the Emim out in surprise, as it always does. Then I will set fire to their table. As the blaze arises upon the house itself, the confusion will be great, and I will open the door to the dungeon. If any Emim arise against me, attack if only as a diversion. We will not be able to kill them until the gem is away for a time. I will slay the dragon with fire and retrieve the eternal stone for the Rufoux."

The men all agreed, and went crashing through the windows with full throaty cries and whoops. The Emim leapt in shock as before, and Mog took hold of one end of the long table with both hands — and nothing happened. He looked at his palms in disbelief, and in his mind saw the crusty old wizard with his gnarled grin. "Damn you!" he screamed, and pounded the table with both fists. This time it burst into a ball of fire, and Mog understood: The power of the fire fed upon his rage. Keeping his anger at a fever pitch, he grasped a chair in each hand and threw both like fire bombs into the crowd of Emim.

The great ring that Skratti had described lay at Mog's feet. With both hands he took hold and gave it a hard yank, getting the door open just before the handle turned to ashes. Mog threw himself head first into the opening and landed on something pliant and cold.

Darkness filled the dungeon, but Mog didn't have to see to know that he was in trouble. The lumpy floor snorted and began to turn and twitch beneath him. A low growl began, followed by a violent jolt throwing Mog against a wall.

A burst of stars exploded inside his head, and Mog suddenly couldn't remember where he was. As his head cleared he felt blasts of heat close to his face. His hands explored the surrounding floor with no sense of purpose, but one fell upon a piece of lumber.

Hastily he came to his feet again, with a defiant shriek, and the wood burst into flame. The sudden flash of light and heat drove the dragon back – for he had indeed landed upon the dragon – and Mog got a good look at it. It had to be fifty kronyn long, as tall as a therium, with scales of every color imaginable. Its yellow eyes bore down on Mog, and a forked tongue slinked angrily in and out as the beast sought its way past the flickering of the fire.

Mog looked about him, and by the dancing light he could see several loose pieces of wood among the rubble, as well as a massive fireplace. Circling around carefully, he threw as many pieces of timber as he could reach into the hearth, then threw in his lit kindling. The dry wood went up in a flash, lighting the dungeon brightly and glinting gaily off the gem, standing upon a small table encircled by the supple body of the dragon. It was just the size of an egg, but the light it produced, only by reflecting the fire, was as brilliant as the sun on snow. Mog rubbed his hands and approached the dragon.

Its serpentine neck twisted as the beast, still showing reptilian concern over the fire but not intimidated, followed Mog's every move. Mog tried to think of every injustice ever done to him or to his people; his temper rose and boiled over at the thought of the hundreds of Rufoux victims of the Emim. As he weighed the incredible power the Emim had gained and abused, his rage drew him away from rationality.

Mog rushed at the dragon, deftly dodged its stamping claws and grasped both hands about its neck. Flames shot out of his fingers and singed his hair, but the dragon didn't flinch. The creature's thick scales easily deflected the heat of his anger. Instead, the beast deftly flicked its neck to the side and threw Mog off.

Mog again landed heavily against the wall. Could it be — could it be the dragon too had gained immortality from guarding the gem? Skratti had said none of this. He had come far too along to care about such things now, though, Mog realized. Clearly the fire did the beast no damage; perhaps his blade would.

His sword drawn, Mog approached the dragon cautiously. The dragon eyed him with welcoming disdain, its tongue scrutinizing the air. It testily made for Mog with its fangs, Mog made for it with his sword. As he circled about, he watched for an opening, but couldn't find a way to get past those teeth.

Frustrated, Mog screeched and flailed his weapon at the dragon's tail. The blade bounced off with a clang, having no effect against the scales. Unless Mog could get his blade into a vulnerable spot, he would have no hope. He had to use every wit at his disposal, or he would be lost.

Again bellowing like a madman, Mog ran around the dragon. As the beast turned its head to follow him, he made a complete circle and came again to the front. Too large to turn around, the beast had to wheel its head in the opposite direction, and at that moment Mog ran up one of its front legs. Before the dragon could locate him again, Mog leapt upon his neck and rammed a lit thumb into one of the creature's eyes. The socket blazed with the sounds and smell of burning flesh, and the dragon raised its head with a terrific roar of pain. At that moment Mog's sword found the tender flesh underneath the scales of the dragon's throat, and quickly its head lay free and bleeding on the floor. So the monster was not immortal after all; the very scales that had protected it from Mog's blade had also fended off the beneficent energy of the gem.

Mog sat heavily on the floor, eyeing the stone still nestled within the dragon's body. Quickly he had an idea, and grasping the gem securely in one hand, he climbed up the great chimney to the roof of the Emim castle. Standing upon the highest parapet, he called out to the creatures and Rufoux struggling below.

"Behold, I have the power of eternal life," he called out, and all eyes turned to him as he held the precious stone aloft. "Behold, for evermore you will serve me. I feast not on your food, but upon your future."

For a moment he presented the stone high above his head, beams of light shooting from between his fingers, then brought it to his mouth and quickly swallowed it. Holding his now empty hand up for all to see, Mog took on a glow like the sun. A brilliant ring of light suddenly encircled him; the Rufoux men fell back, the Emim screamed in horror. Mog stood like a beacon against the night.

The Emim had not long to live after that. Soon they were wiped out, their great size and strength no match for the light and fire of Mog. The Rufoux roamed safely upon the land, safe to live their lives and fight their fights, aided by the anger and aggression of the eternal Mog. Every now and then he still showed himself, in the midst of the midday, when the sun would grow dark and only the brilliant ring of Mog could be seen. And he blinded the eyes of many as they looked upon his glory at these times, in the face of his anger and aggression.

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.

"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.

Chapter IV

The chirping insects had ceased, and the birds had taken their turn at welcoming the emerging day. But Artur knew the time had come to pull himself out of bed only when he heard the clatter of metal against hard leather armor outside his tent.

"Good morning, Arielle," he said, looking at the blackness surrounding him. "Is Wyllem with you?"

"No, he still sleeps. He rests heavily after a hard night," replied Arielle, and the charitable darkness veiled her blushing. She handed Artur a steaming cup, and he drank of it deeply.

"Just as well. Sometimes his best advice comes out of knowing the least. Let's get going," and Artur let the cup fall and started for the deeper forest. The journey would require some hours to make, but they should arrive plenty early enough to spy out the Aoten and count their numbers before any left camp.

"I will go with you," said a gravelly voice from the darkness.

"Father," said Artur, "shouldn't you be resting about right now?"

"No, I should be risking my life," said Geoffrey. "If anyone should be risking his life, it is me. You two should protect your lives while they are still worth protecting."

Artur had not been trifling with Wyllem when he said his father wanted to die. Indeed, Geoffrey looked for a way to die at every turn. He had grown old, old enough to have seen many generations of middle-aged sons and daughters, and his life had been wrung by many wonderful and disastrous sights. His memory was a blur: Who were his oldest children, how to give bronze a greenish hue, just when did he begin counting his years with three numerals. His wife long dead, he had little reason to want to live beyond a mouthful of food and a fire to warm by. Geoffrey was tired in the way that only living can make one tired. So much did he long for death that he had cast aside his armor, wearing no more protection than a rough shirt and pants; much to his frustration, his days had become filled with a series of tragedies barely survived.

A mane of thick, pure white hair topped his head, and his body had declined into a drawn, skeletal form, but his strength remained. His right hand no longer had its thumb, the result of a wound suffered so long ago he no longer remembered the battle or ever needing the digit. Geoffrey's life had passed its usefulness, and he only wished now to leave it in a way that would be remembered.

"Yes, Father," said Artur. "We will be glad for you to risk your life, but for now we'd prefer you not risk ours."

"What is that supposed to mean?" said Geoffrey, getting his dander up. "Do you think I can't take a simple morning constitutional to a giants' camp?"

"Your desire to die is going to get someone killed one of these days!" retorted Artur, his temper rising in kind.

This time Arielle acted to restore calm. "Come, you two. You can argue on the way. You'll wake the entire village." She took each one by the elbow and led them into the wood as they continued to quietly bicker. As the hike proceeded, Artur agreed that Geoffrey could come along, but only with the promise he would do nothing to attract the giants' attention.

Onward the three tramped through the thick forests, heading west until they came within smelling distance of the steaming pits. Then they headed north, toward the forests' edge where Arielle had seen the Aoten the day before. They went at a half-running pace, slouched forward, their arms hanging low, smoothly leaving the groonits behind them. Only a few times did they stop to rest, and then only for a moment, before moving on.

The sun still had not appeared when Arielle signaled the others to slow their pace. She stood straight, her unusual height giving her an excellent view of the landscape. Suddenly she scrunched back down, motioned to her left slightly, and crept forward. After a few yards' progress she stopped short again, ducked her head low and pointed directly in front of them, eying Artur intensely.

"Aoten!"

Artur raised himself up slightly, stealthily, apprehensive of what he might see. They came into view, a vast number of them, truly at least twelve kronyn tall. Artur counted as best he could as they moved about in their morning preparations; more than a hundred, it seemed certain, milled about. Human in form for the most part, their backs seemed abnormally large, and hunched over toward their shoulders. Their rotund torsos bulged out. Each had a heavy brow, with eyes set deep, and their teeth appeared to be sharpened to a point. Dark and heavy hair covered their bodies, even on what appeared to be the women; around their mouths it was matted with saliva and bits of food. A few youngsters, less hairy but not much, wandered about, their large heads out of proportion to their bodies.

Around the Aoten camp lay a disorganized collection of broken tree limbs and piles of rocks. Artur smirked at the sight of a smoldering pile of blackened logs, evidence of poor fire-building skills. A dead animal lay near the embers, apparently a thylak, and one of the giants busily skinned it with a flint blade. Artur could not make out their communication, made in low guttural tones.

Artur squatted down again with the others. "I have never seen so dreadful and disgusting creatures in all my life."

"I could barely force myself not to rush down upon them yesterday, the first time I spotted them," said Arielle.

"That certainly would have been the end of you."

"Let me see them," said Geoffrey excitedly, scurrying in front of Artur in his squatting position.

"Now be careful. You promised, you said you wouldn't try to catch their attention," said Artur sternly.

"Yes, yes, boy, I know. Just let me see them." Geoffrey didn't try to hide his impatience.

He lifted his head to look, and Artur joined him. The Aoten remained completely unaware of their presence, and the three Rufoux studied them as carefully as they could from their safe distance. Artur noted their strong arms and legs, but also their shuffling manner and apparent clumsiness. Geoffrey saw them to have long necklaces of leather about their necks, hung with the sharp teeth of the thylak. Arielle noticed their clothing and shoes offered them little protection, their sandals in particular appearing loose on their feet.

"Yes, a plan. We must think this one through, if we will ever defeat these monsters. We must study this carefully," Artur said to himself.

Suddenly the Aoten, each and every one, started and froze, directing their attention to the south. Artur and his companions heard it too: A loud, screeching cry from the cover of the wood to their left. The Aoten scattered and ran, hoping to find cover somewhere in the far distance.

"Scaled ones! Deviltooth!" cried Arielle in a panic.

"Run! To the east, run!" called Artur, under no pretense of trying to be quiet any more, and he sprinted away, but he could not keep up with Arielle. Her long legs put the ground behind her in a flash.

"Deviltooth!" said Geoffrey, a gleam coming to his eye. "The end of Aric! Deviltooth!" He did not move.

Artur had run a good part of a groonit before realizing he heard no footsteps but his own. Geoffrey was old indeed, but not feeble; he should be close behind. Artur skidded to a halt and looked back to see his father standing straight up, holding his arms out, craning his neck to see the oncoming deviltooth.

"Fool!" Artur screamed, again to himself, and ran back to fetch his recalcitrant father.

Artur plowed into Geoffrey from the back, wrapping both arms around him and bringing him to the ground.

"Let go! Let go! Let me be! Let me have this glorious death. What a legacy, taken down at long last by a deviltooth! Oh, what a Rufoux legend will follow my name!"

"Come on, you old coot! You swore!" Artur screamed with all his gusto.

Geoffrey struggled to throw the larger, heavier man off him. "I said the Aoten! I never promised to stay away from a deviltooth!"

"I don't care, I'm not leaving you here, you ungrateful old bastard spawn of an egg-sucking Koinoni trader!"

"You! Oh, when I get my hands on you! Let me up!"

"You'll be cheating the grave today, old-timer! You're coming with me!" Artur untied the leather thong that bound one of his leggings and wrapped it around Geoffrey's arms and body.

"Stop it! Stop it! Let go!"

The thud of heavy footsteps came crunching through the wood, and some great thing pushed aside even the stoutest of trees. Both Rufoux looked up to see a tall, shadowy form make its way toward the clearing the Aoten had abandoned. Artur heaved Geoffrey, tied up like a nice pork loin, upon his shoulder.

"Let go! Let me go! Hey! Deviltooth! Over here!" Geoffrey continued to scream, and he kicked both legs and bucked his body from the waist as hard as he could, but Artur would not loosen his grip.

Through the forests, in as directly opposite a direction as he could, Artur ran with his thrashing cargo. Dodging trees and standancrags, leaping over fallen branches, he churned along for a good hour before Geoffrey finally gave up and went limp in his arms. Only then did the Rufoux chief set him down and rest, panting heavily.

Geoffrey lay on the ground, still bound by the leather cord. "I hate you," he said.

"You never were much good at endearments," said Artur as his heaving lungs would allow him.

Chapter V

Days passed, the Aoten remained distant, and Artur did and said little to defend the prospects or calm the fears of the Rufoux people. He seemed dazed, lost in a fog as Wyllem quizzed him over how the clan might repel an assault.

"Are our numbers great enough to overwhelm them? Would it take three, or four Rufoux to each giant?" he asked.

"I cannot tell," Artur said. "We have no way to tell, except to see them in battle, to know how strong they are, or how courageous, how skillful. We might need two, we might need eight."

"Do they have hippus?"

"I saw none. A hippus would have trouble bearing up under one Aoten, even Brute," Artur referred to his own huge mount.

"Could that then be an advantage for us?"

"I don't know. Perhaps they've never fought cavalry. Perhaps they could pick up a hippus and throw it back on us."

And so it went until Artur believed certainly he had heard every question possible, only to see Wyllem returning with dozens more. Artur wasn't sure if his exhaustion came more from worry over the Aoten or by imagining battle strategies. All about him the clanspeople buzzed with anxiety born of uncertainty: Whether the Aoten might attack, whether the Rufoux might be able to survive. The councils, the nervous activity, the fearful expressions made his head ache, and he knew some urgent action was essential before the clan fell in upon itself.

Finally a morning arrived with these words to Wyllem: "I have come to a decision."

"Are you sure that's wise?"

Artur had known what to expect from Wyllem, yet still his spirits sank in frustration. "Yes, I'm sure. At least hear me before you cast your doubts upon me."

"Yes. Indeed."

"My decision is this —" and Artur paused for effect. "We will have games."

"Yes! Excellent!"

Wyllem's unhesitating enthusiasm took Artur by surprise and gave him new confidence. Perhaps he had stumbled upon a real remedy; pleased, he slapped his torso with both hands. "Rufoux do nobody any good sitting around afraid," he further reasoned. "Gather the families onto the plains behind the village. We will work out our troubles with games!"

As Wyllem spread the word through the village, indeed it seemed just the medicine the clan needed. Men, and Arielle, rummaged through their storehouses for their wooden spears and swords, maces and chains, and the women, except Arielle, gathered in the common area to spread grand tables of food and drink. Children outdid them all by finding stout sticks and entering into impromptu sword play.

Before long the plain filled with the clattering of mock battles as the Rufoux took out their frustrations physically upon one another. In one area wooden clubs battered wooden shields, and in another riders upon swift hippus ran at each other headlong. Yet elsewhere men tried to knock each other off high beams using long staffs. Among the ruckus a tremendously thick, completely bald man approached everyone he saw with a single word: "Fight?" He found no takers.

And thus did Jakke, the chief metal smith among the clan, make his rounds. Immensely strong, Jakke's chest and arms looked comically large for his stumpy legs. Without a scrap of hair upon his head, he made up the difference with a heavy red thatch from his mustache to his heels. He knew enough to know he knew little, and he masked his ignorance with silence. Not fond of conversation, not fond of bathing, he found his greatest joy in a simple boxing match. His nose lay practically flat, broken innumerable times by an unfortunate opponent's fists. Now, though, after years of beatings, no Rufoux would accept his challenges.

Jakke ambled up toward Artur. "Fight?" he said.

"No, Jakke. I need all my bones right now. Perhaps Wyllem," Artur volunteered.

Wyllem didn't wait for Jakke to ask. "No, Jakke, not me. You would not find me much sport. Don't you want some more worthy opponent? A hippus perhaps?"

Not comfortable with so many words, Jakke said no more. He stood there for a moment, then silently walked toward another group of men.

"He smells unusually rank today," commented Artur. "I must get into a competition. My mind feels so wrung out, only an equally exhausted body will put it to rest."

Artur strolled about the different groups of games, studying the combatants with only feigned disinterest. Onlookers surrounded each venue — the swordsmen, the lancers, the axe men, the hammer throwers — cheering on the rhythm of the action: "Hoo-rah! Hoo-rah! Hoo-rah!" With each surge of action the chant would rise and fall again. Artur surveyed the clashes, seeking a likely opening for himself, but he would not get the opportunity.

As a round of "Hoo-rah!" died down, a small voice crying out came from over the crest of the bluff. Artur's attention turned to the sound, and he saw the flowing, platinum hair of Osewold as he sprinted toward the plain.

Osewold had earned the respect of Artur, a reliable aide, a fearless man willing to take on any assignment and see to it well. Among all the clan he also ran fastest, faster by far than even Arielle in spite of her loping strides. So he often ranged far as a sentry, appointed to warn the clan of impending danger. His natural sense of urgency made him perfectly suited to be watchman for the Rufoux. Seeing him approaching the camp at full speed made Artur shiver.

"Turn out! Turn out! They enter the fields!" cried Osewold.

Artur needed hear no more. His eyes sought out Wyllem, who ran to his side. All the clan ran toward their huts. Artur was hot. "This is it," he said to Wyllem through gritted teeth. "We will not allow this intrusion!"

"But what of the plan?" begged Wyllem.

"We have thought over plans for days! How many more days must we think before we starve to death?" retorted Artur as he jogged to the village.

"How can we win? What weapon can wound the Aoten?" Wyllem continued.

"The one weapon we never counted," screamed Artur into his face. "We will use Rufoux rage to mow down our enemies and defend our lands! Bring me corn!"

A fetching young woman appeared as if out of nowhere with a woven basket spilling grain. More slender than most Rufoux women, her waving red hair fell upon her fey shoulders and down her back. Her porcelain arms held the basket up high to Artur as he approached the communal fire and kicked over the pot that hung over it, cooking something. Quickly, every man and woman gathered to the fire, fully armed, no longer with wood but with sharp, fire-cured metal.

"Oh Mog, high and exalted god of the Rufoux, defeater of the Emim, wrathful, powerful, vengeful Mog!" began Artur, and he grabbed as much corn as he could from the basket with both hands and held it above his head, sending a cascade of grain down upon himself. "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 threw the grain upon the fire, where it popped and sizzled. "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!" Sparks flew from the blaze as the Rufoux raised their weapons with a cheer.

"Follow me!" Artur cried.

As one, the Rufoux ran to the fields, where they knew the Aoten had arrived. The Rufoux' crops always grew lush and plentiful, fed by the River Alluvia. Throughout their history, every enemy had first tried to take the Rufoux farmlands, and the Aoten would be no different. As the warriors topped the bluff, they could see the giants clumsily using jerry-built scythes to level great swaths of cornstalks and wheat, barley and stacken.

With loud shrieks the men swept down toward the invaders, at first seeming to put a scare into them. The Aoten turned from their work and fled toward the forest. This only encouraged the Rufoux, their hatred doubling at the giants' cowardice. Across the fields and into the woodlands they pursued the fleeing creatures. But the ruse revealed itself: Once deep into the wood, the Aoten turned to fight. The giants produced clubs from behind trees and out of holes in the ground, and in turn charged at the Rufoux.

The two forces met in pockets of great clashes. Artur vaulted his body toward the first giant he saw, only to be laid flat on his bum. One Aoten would fend off half a dozen Rufoux men, its simple wooden cudgel turning aside a barrage of blows from their swords. Rufoux hammers and axes would break to pieces a poor Aoten blade, only to have the men thrown to the ground by a single blow from the giant's forearm. Rufoux armor and shields, able to blunt the edges of knives and daggers, could not protect from the utter strength and size of the Aoten.

Artur, unable to get in close with Kylie, instead stabbed her blade at the outstretched fingers of his opponents like an enraged wasp. Jakke could not have been happier within the fighting – but likewise unable to get within range of his fists, he instead slung his hammer, with good effect but sapping his strength. Geoffrey, wading into battle still without armor, received a stout blow and hit a tree hard, knocking him unconscious. Many Rufoux shared this same fate, until their numbers dwindled dangerously. The struggle went on for hours, it seemed, as the combatants gave no quarter but began to flag with exhaustion. Artur bent backward nearly double under the siege of one giant when Wyllem found him.

"Is this the best we can do?" he asked.

"What do you think, you weasel?" spat Artur.

"Is this worth lives today?"

"Just say it, you idiot!"

"We'd best withdraw, or we will have to carry dead instead of wounded!" said Wyllem.

"Tell Osewold!" was all Artur said, but Wyllem knew what he meant.

Wyllem broke away from the fighting and found Osewold by himself provoking a giant, running around the slow creature's back and stabbing him as best he could through its thick hair. "Call a retreat! Artur calls a retreat!"

"What if they follow?" asked Osewold without turning his attention from the giant. This question had not occurred to Wyllem, but, of course, no answer existed for it anyway.

"We will hope they do not," said Wyllem.

Osewold easily escaped his adversary and ran along the Rufoux line yelling, "Break off! Withdraw!" Slowly the clashing began to diminish, and the Rufoux warriors backed away from their opponents, who either did not understand what was happening or gladly accepted the recess. Regardless, the Aoten too warily broke off battle and moved toward the forest interior. Every Rufoux who passed a wounded man grabbed him by the collar or the head and dragged him to safety. Artur took the rear, the last to leave the wood, the last to collapse into the fields.

Chapter VI

Artur stiffly paced a circle around a tree at the edge of the wood, desolate and fuming. Never had his people nor his body taken such a thrashing as at the hands of the Aoten. The Rufoux needed a plan, a strategy; for long days he had pondered idly what battle might bring, but he had never settled on an idea. Instead he had relied on pure emotion – yes, he had always relied upon that in the back of his mind, from the very beginning. Believing that raw anger would carry the Rufoux to victory, as it always had, he had neglected his responsibility to lead. One can not lead without some idea of where to go, and Artur had failed. The failure could not be placed upon his people, Artur thought, it fell squarely upon him.

As the couples of the village bowed and embraced to console each other, Artur's solitude again rushed in upon him. He gave up his stalking and sat, withdrawn at a distance. The crushing doubts he now felt, as never before, fed his usual isolation from all that felt safe and comforting. Thoughts of the battle swirled together with his pretensions to grand strategy, and hopelessness swelled in his chest. Only the jostling of another body sitting down roused him from his dejection.

Wyllem sat there silently.

He remained so for a time. Occasionally he would glance at Artur, but mostly he too hung his head and gazed upon the ground. Finally, Artur spoke.

"Victory comes easily for the Rufoux. Stalemate is no better than defeat."

"We drove them off the fields. Isn't that a victory?"

"They drew us off the fields, as you well know. And they may be back there already, you can't be sure. I'm not going to go find out."

"Don't you think they feared to follow us? Didn't we at least give them reason to think twice tomorrow?"

"I don't want to consider tomorrow. Surely we can not survive this kind of striving every day. Certainly our strength will not hold out forever. We are men, made of muscle and bone and no more. One day death will catch all of us; only one has outfoxed that enemy. And speaking of Mog, did he flee with his protection? Has Mog himself abandoned us?"

Wyllem again fell silent for a time. "Will you stop being chief, then?"

"What? Of course not," said Artur without hesitation. "If I had any strength left I'd bludgeon you for that."

"Then at least I can thank the Aoten for saving me a beating today," Wyllem tried to raise a smile but could not. "Or perhaps I should say another beating."

"We have never retreated, never before have we retreated. Rufoux do not retreat," said Artur. "This is not like any war we have ever fought. We will have to think our way in and out of this one, not just fight like frenzied baboons. And we can not let the Aoten pick the battles."

"You talk like a true chieftain now, like a military chief," said Wyllem. "But come, you must recover from this battle first. You must rest your mind and body now, before you prepare for another day. Come on."

Artur lurched to his feet, and Wyllem led him into the gathering of people. A few spoke a word of encouragement to him, a few slapped him weakly on the shoulder, and a maiden approached him with a bowl of water and thick towels.

"What is your name?" Artur asked her.

"I am called Andreia," she replied, and she squeezed water out of a towel and blotted at the blood and grime covering Artur's face.

"You brought me the grain."

"Yes, Sir Artur."

"Your husband should serve with you. Why do you work alone?"

"I have none," said the old maid at twenty-one.

Artur fell silent at this, and Andreia continued ministering to his injuries. The hummingbirds darted playfully from behind his head. A cold compress around the back of his neck and gentle nursing of his aches and pains improved his mood within, though his face remained stolid. His mind returned to the events of the fight. How grandly he and Wyllem had agreed about making a battle plan in the days before, and yet they never decided anything. This failure haunted him. But no decision presented itself. The Rufoux had come upon the Aoten with all their might, and had been turned back. Attacks like that day's had scattered every foe the clan had ever faced. Artur did not know what to think. If raw power failed them, what could be added that might make the difference?

"What secret is there to victory?" Artur asked himself out loud.

"Begging your pardon, sir?" said Andreia.

"Nothing. Nothing."

"Do you still think about the battle, Sir Artur?"

"What else? Don't call me sir." The name stabbed him to the heart.

"Yes, sir. Did you not win victory you had hoped for?"

"No, I'd say not. We held our own, but for what? Only to put off for a few hours the pillaging of our fields."

Andreia stopped her nursing for a moment and sat thoughtfully. "You must not wait," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"This people know as much of the battle as you. They think the same thoughts as you. They look to you to tell them what to do. You must not wait."

"I see —"

"We depend on you, our leader, Artur. You are a great leader — Artur of the therium. This clan needs you now more than ever before, needs you to make them believe they can overcome the Aoten. But you must not wait. You must talk to this people soon, immediately. Do not let this battle sink into their minds and fester; lift their spirits, and give them hope. The Rufoux have never faced a greater threat than this, and you must make them know there is a way to victory. Only you can make them understand that secret."

"There must be a secret. But what?"

"Mog will whisper it to you. You will know when you hear it."

Artur looked into her young eyes. "You are a great encouragement, Andreia, was it? I know that name, I believe."

At this Andreia's countenance turned down and she hung her head.

"Yes, Andreia," said Artur, his memory returning. "And you have no husband. You are Andreia, betrothed to Aric."

Andreia nodded her head slightly, and a tear fell.

Artur looked upon her with pity and thought back through the years. Aric and Andreia, promised to each other at the age of six in the Rufoux fashion, reached the year of their twelfth birthdays, time for engagement. Andreia, already with a thick head of long hair, fair skin and still a few freckles on her nose; Aric, slender and straight, deep blue eyes and broad shoulders for his age. The young couple appeared the ideal of Rufoux culture and life, ready to take the next step in their traditional lives.

But one was not so ready.

At the head of the ceremonial tent, Aric stood with his vast family to the left, regaled in flowers and feathers, a new sword at his side. To the right stood the family of Andreia, looking about uncomfortably, for their young lady had not appeared.

"Where is Andreia?" asked the patriarch of Aric's family, who would act as priest.

"We do not know."

"And why is she not at this most important ceremony?"

"She does not want the young man."

"What?! And why not?"

"We do not know."

And so it was: Andreia herself did not know, for her years numbered but twelve. Early that morning, facing a commitment forced upon her, she left the village and hid herself among the thousands of caves at the edge of the desert lands. There she sat, her arms wrapped around her knees drawn close, grieving that she could neither live with Aric, nor would her clan likely let her live apart from him. One of the best of the Rufoux youth, Aric had bound himself to the clan and its traditions, and showed great promise among the metalworkers in training; yet something in him Andreia found repulsive. She did not know why, she only knew it to be so: She could not give in to the cultural pressure of her people, even if it meant having to leave them. And so she stayed rocking and weeping alone in the cave.

Days passed; hunger gnawed at her and she became feverish. When she heard her name called, almost unwillingly she answered, and the blurred figure of her father appeared to carry her weak body home.

"I'm sorry," she told him as he laid her to bed. "I will marry Aric. I'm sorry."

As she drifted off she dreamed of her father and mother exchanging a weary glance.

Of all the Rufoux boys from all of Rufoux memory, Aric alone suffered the rejection of his intended. Never had any bride shunned her engagement ceremony, and yet this day he had so seen. Unable to bear the humiliation, the insult to his already-inflated Rufoux manliness, the twelve-year-old boy had left camp early the next day and run to where the scaled ones live. He lashed himself to a tree, and waited for a deviltooth to cut short his life.

A great legacy grew around Aric and his courageous end in the following days and years. The remembrance of his name never reflected the shame of his rejection, but rather the honor earned by a man who set his face towards death. The final irony fell when, with Aric's death, Andreia gained that most rare Rufoux gift: forgiveness. With no groom remaining, no commitment remained upon the bride; but when Andreia recovered and learned Aric's fate, the weight of guilt nearly broke her. She carried the burden still these many years later.

"Because he gave his life, I have had mine as I wished," she said quietly.

Artur remembered his own engagement, and the events that had quickly spun out of his control that day, and laid his hand upon her bowed shoulders. "Bless you, child. Bless you for your tender care, for your words, for your suffering." And Artur turned again to the deep woods.

Artur's Bride

Never had a boy welcomed the rising sun as Artur did that day. The crisp air stung his senses like never before, the beams of dawn's light shot through the foliage with more brilliance; even the birds crafted a more gay and clever song that day. Artur blinked his eyes clear and sat erect in his pallet, bright in countenance as though he had slept for hours but had been awake for hours more, though neither was true. As he stepped from his hut, his lungs tingled with the hubris of a new day. The water of the River Alluvia splashed upon his hands and face, clear as crystal and cold, the droplets dancing through the air as they playfully returned to mother water. The leaves of the trees twisted and waved upon their stems as the wind teased them for their captivity. All of Medialia celebrated as Artur prepared to ascend into manhood. And all about him the Rufoux villagers called out, greeting him with mock solemnity and a streak of good-natured ridicule.

"Is this Artur? Geoffrey's son? Certainly not! Why, just yesterday he grew to no higher than my knee!"

"Ready to take over the bellows of my forge, Artur? It is not for nothing you are known for hot air! Now maybe I can retire!"

"Artur! Is that a whisker on your chin, or do you dribble your mama's milk again?"

"Artur, that bride of yours is lurking about! Keep your eyes straight!"

Artur smiled broadly and held his shoulders back until his muscles ached as he swaggered through the camp. Filled with bravado even at twelve, he offered back insults and retorts with equal gusto. Every man and woman of the Rufoux looked upon him glowingly, and Artur knew the day belonged to him, and all that it would mean to the rest of his life.

From a distance Geoffrey kept an eye on his son making his rounds. He disguised his smirk only with difficulty, remembering the time eons ago when he too tested his youthful cheek against the good humor of his kinsfolk. He saw much of himself in Artur. Only when the boy had circled back toward his own hut did Geoffrey rein him in.

"Artur! Here!" he called quietly, gesturing with a thumbless hand.

Artur dutifully followed his father around the back of the house and toward the smithy shop. Along the way Geoffrey talked to him in that way that only fathers can talk to sons.

"Artur, you don't need me to tell you the importance of this day. I can't remember a day of the last six years that you have not talked about this day. But you must realize that today's ceremony means more than a betrothal. This day you commit yourself to your family, to me, to the memory of your mother, as well as to the entire clan. You commit yourself to more than just Lauræl."

Ah, Lauræl, that name, the heavenly name of all nature's most beautiful creature. Just at the sound of it Artur's mind raced into a distant world in which Geoffrey could be seen only through a dream, a place where his voice faded to only a faint, annoying buzz. Artur's eyes still followed his father's lips, but his mind heard only the name Lauræl. Truly she must be an angel, a celestial being escaped from heaven's clutches to bless the land with the treading of her feet. In a few short hours their promise would be made good and they would be betrothed to each other's love before all the Rufoux.

Often had Artur indulged in the boyish imaginings of love: Rescuing Lauræl from deviltooth, defending her from villains' attack, serving her like a child goddess in her temple. This day his only goal was to hold her. Though they had been promised to each other six years earlier, in truth they had declared their devotion to each other much earlier. So well did they know each other, so much did they think alike, that Artur couldn't distinguish what he loved so about her; he loved her like his right arm. He did not remember a time when he and Lauræl did not share in one another's games, and confidences, and dreams. He did not remember a time without Lauræl.

"Artur, listen to me!" Geoffrey became reality again, and Artur jumped slightly as his attention snapped back. "You make me proud, and humble, and embarrassed and frustrated all in the same moment! You become a man today, and you are expected to take the role of a man. Soon you will be apprenticed to a trade, you will learn the forge, and you will learn the art of battle. You will learn to build a hut, and prepare for the day when you will fill a hut with your own family. It is all the Rufoux culture, the Rufoux history."

At this point Geoffrey stopped as if to gather his thoughts. He sat next to Artur on a bench outside the smithy's, and he slid closer to him to speak in a dark whisper. "Artur," he began, and thought again. "When your mother bore you, the eldest of the Rufoux spoke. He served as priest of Mog for that event, and he spoke in a way I had never heard before. Not the usual mumbo-jumbo, rites of passage garbage — he spoke a word of prophecy over you, Artur. You would remain my youngest son, but you would be the greatest, he said, and no Rufoux to follow will ever be greater. You have a destiny, Artur, and today you begin your journey toward that place in history."

Artur sat silently, not sure what to make of this talk. Geoffrey stood and disappeared into the smithy's for just a moment. When he returned, he carried with him the most beautiful piece of worked metal Artur had ever seen.

His hands held a breastplate of polished bronze, shining like a mirror, not unlike Geoffrey's own, awarded to him eons ago. Etchings of delicate images of thylak and rumidont spanned the broad chest, with a great burst of flame engraved in the very middle. Around the torso area swirled rings of knots and loops, surrounding the angry face of a deviltooth. From the shoulders draped the long blades of swords, appearing to strike scenes of Rufoux enemies writhing on the ground at the small of the back. Around the bottom a fringe of leather — the traditional Rufoux armor, tough as chain mail — hung like a skirt to cover the thighs. It was just Artur's size.

He could not believe his eyes. Geoffrey held the armor out to him with the words, "Artur of the Rufoux, this breastplate, like no other piece of armor in the land, I give to you this day. It is for the celebration of your ascendancy. Take it, embrace it, wrap yourself in it, for in it you will find your destiny."

Artur held the work of art in his hands, not knowing what to do for what seemed an hour. A look to his father, and silently he unstrapped the buckles, and with Geoffrey's help fitted it over his head and onto his body. It lay upon him heavily, a burden almost, but fit perfectly to his physique, like a glove. Again he returned to the village and strode about his people, no longer in pride but an odd measure of glad humility. The friendly taunts fell silent.

The service in the common building took the form evolved through centuries of tradition. A great bronze bell was rung once to call the attendants. Artur's family stood at the left, Lauræl's to the right. Artur, bedecked with the ceremonial feathers and skins, his arms painted to highlight his muscles, stood like a god with his chin high; the breastplate struck the crowd breathless. A hummingbird flew circles around his head, but Artur took no notice; he could see only Lauræl.

Lauræl stood demurely in lacy white linen. Flowers adorned her head, woven into her soft red hair, which fell in cheerful curls upon her shoulders. Underneath her delicate brow, bright green eyes shone like the sun itself, accentuated by deep, pure white. Pleasing lips turned up in a secretive, unrelenting smile, only occasionally allowing a glimpse of glimmering teeth. A gentle nose turned up slightly, and the petals, locks and a gauzy veil conspired to cloak the soft curves of her ears. Her neck, unusually svelte for a Rufoux maid, emerged from the tight collar of white damask. No more of her could be seen, save her hands, but there could be no doubt: Lauræl was fast maturing into beautiful womanhood.

The front of the long building at stood bared to the heavens, no skins covering the skeletal framework; under the open sky stood the aged Geoffrey, the patriarch of his family although only Artur's father. Gowned in long robes and intricately decorated mantles, he stood between the two families before the assembled crowd. A dappling of colors, one mystically transforming into another, peeked from the folds of his dyed vestments. Upon Geoffrey's head, in place of a helmet, stood a tall, white miter, embroidered with black and gold thread, long ribbons of feathers hanging down the back. In one hand he grasped a stout sword, made of flint chipped into a point and sharp edges, and in the other a hammer; a clansman held before him a flaming torch that threw dancing shadows across Geoffrey's face. Behind him stood an altar of rough, haphazardly stacked stones, piled with kindling.

Incense and candles burned around the perimeter of the hut, filling the senses with stinging, sweet pungency. A small table behind Geoffrey held a tethered dove and a mottled red apple. As the guests filed in and sat upon the ground, a low humming arose seemingly from nowhere and yet everywhere, an ancient chant sung entirely in unison. The sound swelled and faded as the assembly grew, but never throughout the ceremony did it disappear altogether.

Geoffrey held his hands aloft, armed with the sword and hammer, to begin the proceedings. "Oh Mog," he recited from ages of memory, "We come here today to acknowledge the greatness of your power and the power of your anger. We gather to hear these two Rufoux, in the flower of their youth, declare before you their dedication to each other, their dedication to the clan, their dedication to you, oh Mog. We gather as witnesses and partners to their engagement, as they fold their individuality into each other and into the whole of their people.

"Oh Mog, we pray that you will present your fire. We pray to you today that you will bring your iron will down upon this young couple, Artur and Lauræl, and make them four arms in defense of the Rufoux, four legs in defense of the Rufoux, one heart in defense of the Rufoux. We pray that you will burn in them love for themselves, love for the clan, love for the borders of the Rufoux. We ask that you will use them to bring up a great army to defend our lands in Medialia."

With this the man holding the torch retreated, and Geoffrey turned his back on the crowd and faced the altar. "Thus do we bring this man and woman, Artur and Lauræl, together. Thus do we declare them one." And he brought his two implements together with a great blow. The heavy hammer knocked the sword out of Geoffrey's hand, lacking the thumb, and sent it clattering to the ground, but not before fulfilling its purpose: An explosion of sparks flew over the dry kindling. The wood caught easily, and soon a great blaze arose.

Geoffrey laid aside the hammer and took hold of the dove, firmly pinning it down with one hand as he untied the tether with the other. Turning again to face the assembly, he held the bird high and allowed it to flutter its wings, showing it to be alive. Then he returned to the altar and held the dove over the fire. The ceremony had come to a critical moment, in which Mog's will would be revealed. According to tradition, the fate of the dove would determine the future of Artur and Lauræl; without a favorable sign, doom would hang over their marriage. Geoffrey, wise in his experience, held the creature over the fire and smoke several long minutes, then let go with a flair of dramatics, holding his empty hands and splayed fingers high over his head. The asphyxiated bird fell directly into the altar fire and burned to a crisp. Geoffrey knew to let it breathe deeply of the smoke – if the dove had somehow managed to fly away from the sacrifice, Mog's fire would not satiate his anger with the bird, but no doubt instead wait to exercise it against the couple. But Mog had consumed the dove; a good omen had befallen them.

Geoffrey again wheeled around to the crowd, and again took up the ancient liturgy. "Artur and Lauræl," he began. "Do you today pledge yourselves to each other in formal engagement?"

They both nodded.

"Then pledge yourselves to these vows by saying 'Yea' in response to each."

They nodded again.

"Do you, Artur and Lauræl, pledge to hold your bodies only for each other?"

"Yea."

"Do you pledge to withhold your bodies from each other until you are wed?"

"Yea."

"Do you pledge to make a new family, many children added to strengthen the defense of the Rufoux?"

"Yea."

"Do you pledge to destroy either one who may violate these vows, or any outsider who would lead you to violate these vows?"

"Yea."

"Do you pledge to fan the flame of love, to forge devotion between yourselves, among your family and within the clan?"

"Yea."

"Then be you engaged to be married upon the year of your eighteenth birthdays."

Geoffrey again turned to the table, took up the apple and gave it to Lauræl. Lauræl took a single bite and held the fruit out to Artur, who took the second bite. At this the crowd broke out of its humming and stood to raise a great cheer, then fell into the undercurrent of song again. Slowly they filed past the couple, each man and woman rubbing their heads for good luck. Hours ground past as hundreds of Rufoux went about this ritual. Artur and Lauræl felt faint at times as they endured this ordeal, standing like statues; but within sight of each was the other, and their eyes sustained them until at last the final man, Geoffrey himself, rubbed their heads and led them from the tent.

The ceremony over, the celebration could begin. According to Rufoux convention, the crowd would be entertained with games. The young couple sat on a bench upon a dais, covered by a flowered bower. Lauræl, the bride-to-be, by tradition named a champion to do battle against an opponent chosen by lot. Lauræl looked slyly over to Artur, and shyly said a single word.

"Jakke."

The crowd groaned, and Jakke strode out of the crowd to kneel before the lady. A strapping man of only about a hundred seventy, his nose had not been beaten quite flat yet.

"What will be your weapons?" asked Geoffrey.

"Short swords," replied Jakke, and he winked at Artur.

Lots were cast, and an unfortunate Rufoux man stepped out of the crowd. The two men entered an open ring and took up wooden swords.

"No matter what foe fate might throw against us, the Rufoux will be champion. Let the games begin," Geoffrey blared.

The Rufoux clansman grasped his sword with both hands, holding it before him as he warily approached Jakke. Jakke held his sword down, in his right hand, smiling at the man. They came within a couple yards of each other, then before anyone knew it the contest ended. Jakke expertly used his weapon to wrench his opponent's sword out of his hands and send it flying off to the right. In the same motion his left fist had found the man's chin and laid him flat on the ground. Now Jakke knelt over him, smiling gleefully and slapping him lightly on the cheeks; he grasped him by his crown and lifted him gently to his feet.

"Quick work," said Lauræl.

"I told you so," said Artur.

"Games are over," said Geoffrey with some exasperation. "Everyone go home."

Artur and Lauræl sprinted away, hand in hand, into the forest lands. Artur's plan had worked perfectly, cutting short the interminable rites and rewarding him with time alone in the presence of his beloved.

Together they ran among the trees and bramble, breaking from each other's grasp on occasion, then again coming to a collision of hands and inter-locking fingers. Lauræl's face glowed bright as a star in the deep night, like one of Medialia's glistening pools reflecting the sun's dappled glory back upon itself. A scattering of curls had escaped and played upon her forehead. Adventure danced in her eyes.

"Come, over here," said Artur, and he took her by the hand toward a husky-looking standancrag, far from the Rufoux camp, deep in the tangle of the forests.

"Can you climb in that?" he asked Lauræl, indicating her gown. Without a word, she answered by pulling the back of her dress through her legs and binding it with her belt. Artur smiled and pulled the end of a vine from behind a shard. Lauræl could see the length of the vine curled around to the back of the standancrag. Artur walked around the rock pillar, unwinding the vine, until she saw that it led to a small opening in the side some forty kronyn from the ground.

"Up with you then," said Artur. "I'll be right behind."

Lauræl kicked off her shoes and began her ascent. It should come as no surprise that the Rufoux encouraged their women to be fit and strong. Slowly she made her way up the standancrag, pulling with her hands, pushing with her feet, Artur close behind, until both sat within the little enclave. Scattered leaves and straw covered the dry, smooth floor, and a small row of stones acted as a low wall around the ledge. The sides of the opening rose gently sloping outward, until they merged again into the outside of the standancrag. The whole area took up no more space than an oxcart.

"I alone know of this place, my private retreat, my haven. Today I give it to you as well," he said.

"It is like a castle in the sky. Like a Raspar city," she replied.

"Never has there been a day like today. I feel like I've breathed all of creation into my lungs," said Artur, beaming at his beloved.

"Oh, Artur, I love you so. Why did our mothers give birth the same year? Could anyone be more blessed than to be born the same year?" Lauræl gently caressed his head with both hands, letting his hair run through her fingers.

"Who can say? Why did my father have another child at his great age?"

"I don't know, but I'm glad he did. How wonderful that only Rufoux of the same age are betrothed!"

"True, that, or you might have gone to another. I would have had to kill him, poor chap. Father says I am to be the greatest of his sons."

"I already believe that. You are a sight in that armor. I have never seen anything like it."

"Yes, my father has given me a glorious gift." Artur leaned back upon his hands and looked down at his gleaming breastplate, but of course from his angle he couldn't make out its designs. "How does it look?"

"Just the most dazzling thing a girl could ever see, that's all," Lauræl said playfully. "Just the most impressive show of manliness ever. But I know your weak spot." With her finger she traced the delicate engravings at Artur's chest.

"Oh, do you? You think you could hurt me?" Artur returned, smiling slyly.

"That armor will do you no good against me," and she kissed him lightly.

"Come on, then, give it your best shot," said Artur, not letting go of the game.

"What?"

"Give me your best, wench, or I'll have you for a scullery maid," he said with overdone bluster, puffing out his chest as best he could. He gave the breastplate a couple of raps with his knuckles.

"All right then, have that!" Lauræl threw a couple of small stones at him lightly.

"Is that all the better you can do? Really, how can I do battle for the Rufoux if I can't get better training than that?"

Lauræl grinned mischievously and stood up. "All right, then, Sir Artur, prepare to meet your destiny."

She looked about for another small stone, and found one the size of her palm. She let it fly, throwing awkwardly from her elbow and off-balance. The stone bounced off Artur's armor and flew back at Lauræl, catching her just upon her eyes.

The next second proceeded in slow motion before Artur's unbelieving gaze. Lauræl stumbled at the blow and twisted her ankle badly on one of the larger stones. "Artur!" she cried out as she lost her balance. Her arms shot desperately into the empty air, and then she disappeared.

Artur lunged for her, reaching, pleading with both hands, landing heavily on his chest and scattering stones off the ledge. He lay there like a wet rag. His head and outstretched arms hung limply over the edge of the grotto, his haven, his sanctuary, as he stared at the broken body of Lauræl below him.

Chapter VII

Deep inside the forested land, Artur sat with his back against a stout standancrag. He had not been back to the village, and the night slowly turned to dawn. Heavy moisture fell from the leaves above, making damp every inch of him exposed to the drip-drip-drip. A bird, lodged somewhere in the trees, made merry with its morning song. Golden-pinkish hues transforming the eastern sky overhead did nothing to lift Artur's mood.

Artur could not get out of his head images from the day before. The more he thought, the more he remembered, the more it seemed the Rufoux had floundered, the more his blood boiled. What was it Andreia had said? His people knew as much of the battle as he did. If they thought the same thing as him now, soon they would be in utter fury. If they did not take this rage out on the Aoten, then they might well take it out on him. So Andreia judged rightly: He must address the gathered clan this morning.

First he must seek out Wyllem, though. Together they had to offer some kind of strategy to their clansmen. Not only could he reinforce his leadership this way, but he owed it to his people. He would not lead them into suicide. But he found himself without ideas; perhaps Wyllem had thought of something through the night. Perhaps he had considered the... the... the bird overhead grew more and more insistent with its song.

"What the..." said Artur as he shaded his eyes and searched out the caterwauling.

The sound seemed to be coming from high above, off to the right slightly. Artur peered into the leafy cover, until some of the branches appeared to have a face. The whistling of the "bird" ceased. Blinking a couple of times, Artur looked closer and indeed, a face with no body peered back at him.

"Death makes a multitude of friends, but defeat alone leaves one lonely," it said.

"Who are you?" bellowed Artur, not sure what the face meant by this saying. "How dare you encroach on Rufoux land?"

"You and I reside in the deep woods," said the face. "Melics call it their territory."

"Melic land does not exist, only Melic treetops," replied Artur.

"Well said."

"Come down here, and talk like a man, if that's what you be," growled Artur, his already-ill temper gathering into a storm.

"I think not. I think it better for me up here."

"As you wish," said Artur threateningly, and he grasped the tree with both hands and prepared to climb. But Rufoux boasted no skill at shimmying up the mighty trees, and for good reason, so without ladders and ropes he could ascend only a kronyn or so before having to give it up. The face smiled from above.

Artur looked about for something to throw, but he could find nothing suitable and decided he couldn't hit a small target that high anyway. This brief detour into logic didn't soothe his anger any, though, and he suddenly embraced the tree trunk and shook it with all his might. The impressive show made no effect, however, and the face looked down in pity.

"You might as well give up. You're not getting along any better with the tree than you did the giants."

Artur stopped at this. Now the face definitely spoke about the battle against the Aoten. "Are you mocking me?" he screamed.

"Not at all, not at all. I only say, you might as well give up against the _tree._ I know her well, and she is a solid tree."

"How do you know of the giants? Are you one of them?"

"No. Aoten is in the eye of the beholder, and I was simply beholding."

Artur stared back with a scowl.

"I watched the fight yesterday," the face explained.

At this point the face shifted, and in its moving about a man's body appeared from out of the camouflage of leaves. Now Artur knew how the man had remained hidden, for he wore clothing made of woven, leafy vines, the typical dress of the Melics. He sat down upon a branch, showing his bare feet to have thick layers of calluses.

"Who are you?" Artur repeated, this time with more true curiosity.

"I am Theodoric."

"Oh. Well," said Artur, and he backed away from the tree. He had heard of Theodoric, chief of the Melics, the tree-dwelling clan of Medialia. He even had heard the mysterious forest music, a chorus of indefinable sounds that the Melics somehow produced, according to legend. But he had never seen a Melic, and certainly none had ever addressed him.

Theodoric peered down at him from his high abode. Leaves no longer obscured his face, and Artur could see its ashen color and deep lines, and that it wore an expression of mild amusement. Theodoric's nose was long and his features thin, and one ear appeared to be missing. Gray hair splayed in all directions from beneath his tight helmet, and a short, tubular stick hung from his belt. The man's high-pitched voice had a throaty quality to it.

"Yesterday's memories are tomorrow's plans," he said.

"What? Do you always speak in puzzles?" Artur replied.

"Almost. When you look at a problem, really look into it, puzzles often are all you're left with."

"Come down here," Artur again suggested. He still had not calmed down quite completely.

"I think it's better here even yet. I can see the sunrise, and the River Alluvia, and I can see you, and the furrows of your brow tell me the tree is a lovely place to sit at the moment. Anger gorges itself on wisdom until there's none left."

"Fine, then. I'm through with you," and Artur turned away.

"The giants drew you into their snare yesterday, did they not?"

"We meant to do that," Artur yelled over his shoulder.

"Yet they are not so clever," Theodoric called out after him. "They hunt thylak the same way. The thylak never learn."

"The thylak think with their stomachs."

"And the Rufoux have a stomach for warfare."

Artur stopped. Theodoric had no doubt leveled some insult at his people, but he couldn't tell for sure. Then he realized what Theodoric had said: This Melic knew how the Aoten hunt.

"You have observed the Aoten?" he asked.

"Oh, I observe everything. Nothing else to do."

"So you know Aoten habits?"

"Yes, somewhat. I know they burn the hair off their hands, I know they worship no god, and I know they let the thylak attack and then lead them to their hidden weapons. Thylak never learn."

"What do you mean to say?"

"Now that you know, don't let it happen again," Theodoric shrugged.

"Oh, you can be sure of that," Artur's temper once more rose, and he shook his fist at Theodoric, because no Aoten stood about to shake it at. "But you Melics have no need for concern!"

"Perhaps." The corners of Theodoric's mouth turned downward and he waggled his head from side to side. "Perhaps not."

"Perhaps nothing. The Rufoux have entered into this battle, and Rufoux will make an end of it," Artur's mind again turned to Andreia's counsel. He would know the secret when he heard it, she had said; he wasn't really listening right now.

Theodoric looked out over the horizon, which he could see well past the river. "I think we all have the same problem. If we're not careful, we'll all meet the same fate."

"You're safe enough. They're not so tall that they can reach into the branches. And as you say, that tree is solid." Artur rubbed his aching biceps.

"Yes, still, I have a bad feeling."

"They want Rufoux crops, and Rufoux land. That has no bearing on tree-dwellers."

"Crops today, trees tomorrow. They may set their sights higher, so to speak. Who's to say? We clearly see one thing: They take what they want."

Artur planted his fists on his hips. "Rufoux will have something to say about that."

"Rufoux talk is like beating a rock with a hammer. In fact, it is beating a rock with a hammer."

Artur's anger reached high pressure again. "Enough insults! Come down from there!"

"No, I still like it here. I only say, a rushing river will always be split by a strong mountain."

"What do you mean, you insolent sparrow?" Artur fumed.

"A falling tree can crush the undergrowth, but will always stop at the ground," explained Theodoric.

"Arrgh! If I could only get my hands on you! I'd take your gibberish and shove it back down your throat," Artur strode about trying to think of things to do to Theodoric.

The Melic chief sighed. "The thylak never learn."

"Stop saying that!"

Theodoric's mood suddenly seemed to turn to gloom. He picked at his branch a bit absent-mindedly and shook his head. "Yes, your people have a Rufoux problem, and you Rufoux will take care of it. I can see that now. Make the best of it you can, Artur of the Rufoux."

"Now you talk plainly. Now you talk sense," said Artur arrogantly.

The Rufoux chieftain stood like a celebratory statue as the Melic leader sadly contemplated the scene. The weight of his people bore down upon him. "Yes, I see," he said, and he lifted the stick from his belt and to his lips, and blew a few melancholy notes as he scanned the top of the forest. The sun fully hovered over the horizon now, light glinting off the kaleidoscopic leaves as they fluttered in the gentle breeze. Great birds balanced on the currents above him. A new day in Medialia would be no different from any other.

"Yes, I can see the sunrise," said Theodoric thoughtfully, "and the River Alluvia, and I can see the Rufoux fields, and that the Aoten have returned." His brow turned sullen as he watched Artur break for the Rufoux village.

Chapter VIII

Artur ran through the forest, hurdling fallen limbs and boulders as best his beefy legs could. His mind churned as hard as his feet. "The secret, the secret," he repeated to himself, hoping that something would come into his mind. The chanting at least gave him a cadence for his strides. "Thylak never learn."

"Turn out! Turn out!" he cried as he neared the camp. Immediately he saw Wyllem already mustering the men. All the warriors were again strapping on their armor and brandishing their weapons. Wyllem wheeled toward Artur's voice.

"They are back!" they both yelled at each other.

"Together, men!" Artur commanded, circling about to address all the clan at once. "Together, Rufoux, to the fields!"

Wyllem caught Artur roughly by the arm as he turned toward the rise separating the village from the fields. Terror bordering on panic filled Wyllem's eyes. "Will we run into the mouth of the beast again? What of the plan? Do you have a plan?"

"The secret remains hidden from me. But Rufoux will learn, we will not be the thylak!"

"What?!"

"We will not stand down!" Artur offered no further explanation.

"We will do no better today! What can be done?"

"The secret is hidden, Wyllem!" Artur repeated. "But we can drive them back again, for a time, if nothing else!"

Artur again turned, but Wyllem would not let go.

"Will you not at least give sacrifice?"

Artur stared back; he could not believe he had forgotten. As chief he must intercede with Mog on behalf of the battle.

"Yes! Yes, of course. Bring me grain!"

Again a young woman appeared, again Andreia, holding a basket of corn, but this time Artur did not see her. He simply grabbed a handful of the seeds and ran to the communal fire.

"Oh Mog, high and exalted god of the Rufoux, defeater of the Emim, wrathful, powerful, vengeful Mog!" he recited as fast as he could. "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! 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! Bring to us today a great victory! Bring to us today a great victory! Bring to us today a great victory!" Fire consumed the grain and Artur's vain repetitions.

Artur swallowed hard. "Follow me!" he called.

"Hoo-rah!" returned the Rufoux men, and together they ran to the crest of the hill. In the distance they could easily see the Aoten, once again clumsily reaping what the Rufoux had sown.

Artur began the charge down the incline, holding Kylie high above his head, the entire clan whooping at the top of their lungs. The Aoten men and women, if that's what they could be called, looked up from their work and gazed disinterestedly at the onrush. Artur could see into their eyes and minds, he could see that the thylak never learn, and then at last he had an idea. Close at hand he found Osewold.

"Follow me, to the left! Follow me, to the forest!" he cried out, and to Osewold: "Run around our rear flank and back to the front, and direct everyone to follow me!" Osewold nodded, and the two veered off in opposite directions, Artur to the left and forward, Osewold toward the rear. Osewold swiftly and easily lapped his clansmen, and shortly the Rufoux men altered their course to enter the grove of trees bordering the fields. The women followed close behind, and the Aoten watched their every move.

Artur led his men in a wide circle into the woods and then back out again toward the Aoten, cutting the giants off from their weapons. Again they met in the fields in a great clash, and again the giants made for the trees, as though they didn't realize they had been attacked from that direction. Unable to wade through the onslaught of Rufoux to reach their clubs, they could use no more than their bare hands.

The open field also favored the Rufoux, away from low tree branches that would hinder swords and axes. Here the men could swing with wild gusto at their enemies and hit only their targets. But even that advantage gained them little, for still the giants' great size and strength kept Rufoux warriors at bay, and their tough skin and covering of hair took the edge off even the most direct Rufoux blows.

Again the clan outnumbered the Aoten some six to one but could gain no upper hand. Artur, with Kylie in hand, spent his energy in a continual dodge-and-parry, to no end whatsoever. Wyllem had better effect with his spear, but very shortly a giant merely grabbed its point and snapped the staff in two. Wyllem stared at the frayed end of the short rod now in his hands, absorbed in its melancholy, but his attention jerked back to the matter at hand just in time, and he desperately waved the stick to keep the giant at a safe distance. The Aoten seemed content to manually ill-treat whatever Rufoux they could get their hands on, like apes with a rag doll.

Osewold stood next to Jakke, again limited to using his hammer, as their group tried to get in close, underneath another giant's ungainly swinging. As he ran below one mighty lunge, he noticed the creature's sandals and their exposed toes. Circling to Jakke's back, he pulled the muscular metal smith away from the fighting with great difficulty.

"Jakke, Jakke, their toes are the best we can do," he said once he got the thick man's notice. "I'll turn him around, and while his attention's on me, you pound his toes."

A moment, and Jakke realized what he meant, nodding with a grin. Osewold worked his way back, and his sword gave the giant short, stinging blows to the forearms as he looped around. The victim turned clockwise to follow, and soon his eyes looked in exactly the opposite way his left foot was pointing. Jakke jumped in and brought his hammer down on the fellow's foot with a tremendous grunt and cloud of dust.

No doubt such yowling had been heard in Medialia before, but nobody could remember when it might have been. The giant dropped to one knee to nurse its foot, and Jakke again took a powerful swing at his head. Though one might have expected the creature to tumble over in a heap, instead it continued to rub at its foot. The other Rufoux fell upon it like flies, but once the creature had its toes in working order again, it shook the men off its shoulders. Jakke reared back to take another swing, but the giant quickly stood, caught him by the head and lifted him from the ground. Jakke's hammer dropped to the ground, and he hung limply, swinging wildly with both fists and both feet, though the Aoten held him far too distant to make any contact. The giant flung him as far as he could in disgust, and he landed on his head. Any other Rufoux probably would have ended with a broken neck; as it was, Jakke emerged sore and groggy, but no worse.

Artur's eye caught Geoffrey near to his right side, thick in the battle. "Where's your armor, you old coot?" he yelled out angrily.

"I don't wear it anymore. Hadn't you noticed?"

"You old fool! At least take some Aoten with you as you go down into death!"

"That would be the idea." Geoffrey lunged into the giant he faced, along with several other Rufoux, fighting with only his walking staff. The Aoten still attempted to draw their attackers after them, but with the woods cut off they found themselves backing towards the River Alluvia. With the water looming ever closer, Geoffrey's giant suddenly caught hold of his staff and gave it a jerk. Still strong for his age, and not loosing his grip quickly enough, Geoffrey was thrown into the river. Without heavy armor, he bobbed at the surface and floated on his back peacefully with the flow, until he became entangled in some half-submerged bracken, eddies swirling playfully about him. He lay there helpless, caught between life and death, cheated again.

Among the women standing behind the lines, Andreia could see the men making no real gains. Now many of the Rufoux lay upon the ground disabled, and the giants doubled back upon the remaining warriors. Desperately she turned and ran back to the village, looking about for any weapon she could find. She came upon the ceremonial fire, and saw that one end of a small log extended out of the flames. She grabbed the wood and ran back to the battle, streaming fire behind her.

Artur stood in the center of the battle, the group with him down to only two or three. Andreia saw a giant approaching him from the back, completely escaping Artur's notice. Like a comet she streaked toward the Aoten, holding her torch over her shoulder with both hands. She brought the flame down upon the beast's hairy back, producing a squeal of terror from it as well as a putrid burning smell. The giant wheeled about and knocked her and her weapon to the ground, then ran to the river, trailing sparks. Artur looked about to see the fleeing giant, but he did not see Andreia.

Arielle, however, deep in the fighting as usual, did see her, and she ran to the fallen log. Stabbing her arrows into dead leaves and cones, then dipping them into the flames, she sent a barrage of fiery arrows into the Aoten. Quickly, other archers joined her. The giants bellowed in panic as they brushed away at their scorched hair and sought the safety of the waters. Others saw the retreat and followed. Soon the whole group waded against the course of the river, away from the fields, and the Rufoux stood exhausted, dropped their weapons and watched them go. From his pool Geoffrey shook his fist and cursed.

Again Artur took the measure of stalemate. The Rufoux had not been defeated, but neither had the Aoten. He looked about the battlefield and again saw the wages of impulsive passion: Men and women lay groaning upon the ground, and trampling feet had ruined much of the clan's crops. Andreia leaned on one elbow and watched after him from afar.

Chapter IX

Alone among the Rufoux, and rightfully so, Arielle stood like a conquering Amazon and exulted over the Aoten retreat. Wyllem, dead on his feet, made for her first, then thought better of it and turned toward Artur.

"Will you be following them?" he asked.

Artur gazed upon him in disbelief, panting, not saying a word.

Wyllem turned his attention to the field. "This destruction — the giants would have done no worse. Can we save what remains?"

"We have to find a way to guard these crops," said Artur.

"The vast fields are too vulnerable. How many men would it require? Do we have that many Rufoux, to guard the fields day and night?"

"We have to find a way," Artur repeated.

"Can we get by guarding a smaller portion?"

"We must have sufficient grain to keep us alive."

"What about the flooding time? If we lose more of the crop, what will we eat then?"

Artur looked at Wyllem but did not reply.

"These questions run throughout the clan," Wyllem continued. "A murmuring rises against you, Artur. Can we live on less?"

"No," said Artur bluntly, and he turned from the fields and walked toward the village. "Nor can the Aoten." One by one the rest of the Rufoux fell in behind him. Determined, he strode to the nearest hut and took hold of a scythe. He turned on his heel to face the still-gathering men and women of the clan.

"These damn freaks will not reign as gods over us!" Artur declared. "These miserable beasts are flesh and bone! Strong as they be, they suffer the same weaknesses of all mortal beings. They feel the spears and arrows, they thirst for water, and they hunger for food — they have shown us that. We will not stand down before mortal beings!" he screamed as though his lungs might burst, brandishing the farming implement high over his head.

The rest of the Rufoux, some still milling about at the rear, responded with a tepid cheer, but a cheer nonetheless.

"The secret still runs from me!" Artur blurted out in outrage and frustration. Andreia started slightly and stared at him; only now was she sure he'd listened to her.

"The Aoten will fall to defeat! We will know the way, though today our weapons cannot harm them. For now we can only hold them off. But they have the same weaknesses as all flesh! Like Mog against the Emim, we drink of our rage, and today we invent a new weapon! Like Mog, we will deny them their source of life!" Again he lifted the scythe into the air, and the surrounding eyes watched without understanding. But at the name of Mog, the ritual humming had begun, as though the meeting had become a religious ceremony. Artur began to regain the clan's confidence.

"Aoten want Rufoux crops. All Medialia wants Rufoux crops! Well, they can't have them! We keep them for ourselves! No more will we let the Aoten walk into our fields and fill their appetites on our labors! No more will Rufoux soil feed the gorging of inhuman beasts! Let them root and scrape like pitiful rumidonts; they will no longer suck the blood of the Rufoux!"

The crowd answered with another hollow cheer, a little bolder, but still not knowing what Artur meant.

"Today we reap! Take up your scythes, take up your pitchforks, and follow me to the fields! Today we reap, tomorrow they starve!"

At last the clanspeople knew Artur's meaning and saw his wisdom, and each man and woman responded with sincerely upraised voices and ran to their huts to fetch farming tools. Andreia smiled warmly at Artur's words from afar, pulling down strings of leather she had been drying on a frame; they would do well to tie bundles of stalks. Wyllem looked like the world had been lifted off his shoulders, but as he headed toward his dwelling Artur caught him by the shoulder.

"You must remain here," he said. "After all, we have to guard a smaller portion."

"Meaning what?" Wyllem asked, his eyes puzzled.

"We'll be guarding all of the crops, but a smaller portion of land. You must stay here and organize the storehouse. Take as many men as you need and build a hut, a stout hut large enough to hold all the crops, with only one entrance. Build it in the center of the village. It's one thing to pull our food out of the ground; let's see if the Aoten can pull it out of our fists!"

The plan truly impressed Wyllem. He clapped his hand down hard upon Artur's shoulder, and jogged off in the opposite direction, a new spear jaggling back and forth upon his back.

True, the ears of grain had not quite reached maturity yet; in normal times the Rufoux would gather them only as needed, giving the plants more time. But the grain would ripen in storage, as long as it could dry, and the amount would be enough to feed the clan until the next planting time. The flooding Alluvia would force the harvest soon, anyway. Perhaps the clan would be able to drive away, or kill off, the Aoten by then.

Even though much of the crop had been trampled underfoot, some of that fruit could be salvaged. And though many acres lay destroyed, many more still survived, and the work lasted long through the day and into the night. The battle that morning had left the Rufoux exhausted and battered, so the toil felt particularly laborious. In the village the storehouse went up steadily, the frame made of so many more beams than usual, it might as well have been solid wood. Wyllem had the builders stretch an extra layer of skins over the structure for still more security. They very pointedly made the doorway only Rufoux-size, and quickly sheaves of grain entered inside.

Through the late morning and into the afternoon the work stretched, from the afternoon into the evening, past the setting sun and into the moonlit night, and still reapers stayed grimly to their task. Uneasily they worked, keeping one eye always over their shoulder for the possible return of the giants.

"Is it true the Bedoua never go outside under the moon?" Wyllem said idly as the mild orb stared down at them.

"Who's to say?" Artur replied. "Their habits signify nothing to us."

"I heard something," said Osewold. His attention to detail always raised a flag in Artur's mind.

"Look into it," Artur said to Wyllem, indicating the forest.

Wyllem in turn appointed Osewold to lead a small group of men and Arielle into the wood, stealthily, and without light. They picked their way along for several yards and saw nothing.

Osewold stood still as the standancrags and listened, staring into the shadowy gloom as if he might see the noise.

"It must be nothing," he said finally.

"Let's go further," said Arielle.

Osewold nodded in a noncommittal fashion and pointed the way. Slowly the group worked its way farther from Rufoux territory and deeper into the wooded lands. The low strains of mysterious music came and went, almost like a dream. Each careful step brought fears of a stick that might snap too loudly, or a trap that might be sprung. Suddenly, one man fell with a high squeal and called out in a whispered scream, "He's got me! He's got me!"

Finally the searchers had to see, and a torch was lit. The Rufoux man frantically wrestled a furry beast upon the ground, and in a twinkling all the men leapt upon it. The creature whipped into a mighty panic, made only worse by the flashing of the torch near its face, and the squealing sound continued. With some difficulty the search party restrained the creature and finally got a look at it.

It looked like an Aoten, but only the size of a Rufoux woman. Apparently a youngster had somehow become separated and fallen asleep in the forest. The giant's squealing, prompted by awakening to a man falling upon it, had changed into a guttural mumbling as it climbed to its feet. The thing had extremely powerful arms, and it used its huge head like a battering ram against its foes. Still now the Rufoux struggled to keep it under control, each man with his weapon drawn.

"What is this baby doing out alone in the wood?" Arielle wondered out loud. "Do they not care for their young?" Though a warrior, Arielle also was a mother many times over and would defend her children to the death. Even the beasts of the wilds, at least the woolly ones, watched over their little ones.

"Perhaps only for a time," Osewold speculated. "Perhaps not at all."

He studied their captive; clearly it posed no threat, but certainly they could not simply release it. He shuddered to think of taking it back to camp. Osewold had not come prepared to make such a decision.

"Well, what do you think..." he began to ask Arielle, but he was cut short.

A muted call rose from deeper in the wood, and the Aoten child stretched and answered with another high squeal. The ruckus had aroused the Aoten camp, and regardless of whether the giants cared before about the lost youngster, they certainly sought him now. The Rufoux struggled again to quiet him, and the youngster fought back with renewed strength. The possibility of rescue always renews the desire to survive, and the young Aoten put all his strength into shaking off his captors.

The overwhelming odds, the violence of the scuffle, the flash of sharp Rufoux weaponry: Time was the only arbiter of the inevitable. Strife gives rise to passion, and in the Rufoux world passions flew from the heart and into the eyes, and the teeth, and the fists. The desperate contest intensified, and almost without noticing, the Rufoux warriors found themselves standing over the body of the young giant, dead in the undergrowth. Each one of the searchers looked upon him with a mix of dread, disgust and pity, each with at least a trace of blood on his blade. Again the call came from the direction of the Aoten camp, a little bit louder, a little clearer, and to a man the Rufoux warriors looked toward it with deep alarm.

"We'd best be off!" said Osewold, and he was gone.

Chapter X

"They'll be on us like grackles once they find that body," said Artur.

The remaining reapers scurried to glean the last of the ears of grain from the farmland: None would be left to charity. Men busily tossed stalks into wheelbarrows, and women hastily collected them in the folds of their skirts. The crop very nearly filled the storehouse to the roof, and no more than barren stubble covered the fields.

Ideas buzzed about in Artur's mind, annoying him and going nowhere. Till now the Aoten had always let them attack; the Rufoux had never seen the giants mount a charge. Artur had no idea what to expect. His plan had made the crops safe, he believed, but now the clan must prepare to protect the village. How might the Aoten come? In a wave? By stealth? Artur looked toward the forest lands. Had they reached the edge of the fields already, perhaps? If not, surely they would come some time. Three days this would be, three days of battle for the clan. War and work had exhausted the beaten and bruised warriors, but surely the Aoten would be coming. Three days in battle. The thylak never learn. The secret eluded him.

"Are not the grains ready to defend?" said Wyllem.

"Good. Well done," Artur returned absent-mindedly. A hummingbird sat unnoticed upon his head.

"How shall we do it?" asked Wyllem.

"Do what?"

"Defend the storehouse."

"Oh, that." Artur's thoughts still buzzed about and did not alight anywhere in his brain.

"Would it be a good idea to first use those men who have gotten some sleep tonight?" suggested Wyllem, hoping to sound helpful.

"Yes, of course." Artur realized he needed to clear his head and concentrate on this issue first. "Yes, well said. How many did you say?"

"I didn't. How many do we have or how many do we need?"

Artur stared blankly for a moment and then replied, "Look, I can't think. It doesn't matter how many. When the Aoten come, every man must turn out regardless, so it doesn't matter. We just must prepare. Make sure each side of the storehouse is guarded by — three? — three rows of men, full armor and weaponry."

"We did well to reduce the crops to a small territory," said Wyllem somewhat wistfully, as though he couldn't decide where Artur's mood really lay, and he had to be careful how he found out.

"Yes, but?"

"But are we wise to show the Aoten where that small territory is?" Wyllem edged backwards slightly. He still wasn't sure.

"How so?" Artur seemed irritated.

Wyllem swallowed hard. "Wouldn't placing a heavy guard at the storehouse tell them where the grain is?"

Artur bowed his head and shook it slightly. "I keep you around for this reason. Your questions save our heads, and they keep me so annoyed I'm ready to slice a giant in half."

Wyllem relaxed a bit, and went on. "Does it seem to you that we know more than they? We know they come; do they know this yet? We know what direction they will come from — their forest camp, no? And we know what they will be coming for."

"For?"

"Will they be coming for grain again?"

"Not likely. More likely for blood."

"Then can we use this against them? Can we draw them where we wish?"

Artur's mind flashed again to Theodoric's counsel. Might the Aoten fall into the very trap they set?

Wyllem continued. "What would be the best place for battle?"

"What we must defend. The village." Artur looked about them at the structures.

"Wouldn't that risk the storehouse, and all the huts?" asked Wyllem. "And the little ones?"

"Yes, I see. But we are defending. We will not be attacking today."

"Why not?"

"Because we have been bludgeoned the past two days. We would prefer no fight at all today if we could manage it."

"Isn't the fight coming anyway?"

"Yes." Artur knew it. "But we will not attack today."

Wyllem conceded the point but not his argument. "Regardless, how much time do we have? You are right, and we are defending. But, the question is, where?"

"Where they choose, I suppose."

"But if we _were_ attacking, where would we choose? And if we know more than they, why not defend where we choose? Why not fight where there's no more damage they can do?" Wyllem turned to face the fields as he posed the question.

"Yes, I see," said Artur again, this time with some excitement. "The fields have no value for us now."

"No, and the village houses Rufoux wealth now. Should the battle move here as well?"

"No," replied Artur flatly. "The battle must draw the Aoten away from the storehouse, and all our homes and belongings, and from the young wives and children. We will see if they learn as well as the thylak."

This last part stumped Wyllem, but he would not be sidetracked. "What else might we try?"

"Try for what?"

"For battle," said Wyllem. "What have we not tried? Rufoux muscle and weapons have proved unable to overcome the Aoten. What more can we try?"

"I don't know. There's still no plan; I still don't know the secret."

"They stand very tall, do they not? If only we could match their size."

"Yes, their height dominates us. Their height, and weight, and strength, and reach..."

"What if we could match their size?"

"How? Sit on each other's shoulders? Sit on a hippus?"

Artur saw at last exactly what the Rufoux had not tried. In the clan's frenzy to clash arms with the giants, they had never yet thought to engage them as riders. Now he had time, time and the presence of mind to place a cavalry before the attacking Aoten.

"Get out the mounts!" he called out suddenly across the camp. "Riders, mount your hippus! Bring me Brute! Join me on the fields! We await the Aoten! And bring me grain!" Wyllem's fatigue showed as he fell silent and ran his fingers through his red hair.

All waking Rufoux warriors did just as their chieftain bid. A quick sacrificial ceremony, and those men with hippus assembled in the fields. A large collection of foot soldiers joined them, and piles of armaments dotted key positions; what had once been a womb of the soil soon would be truly baptized a battlefield. Osewold stayed behind in the village as lookout, ready to muster at a moment's notice the Rufoux left sleeping.

Near the edge of the wood, high among the birds and leaves, Theodoric watched the Rufoux expertly handle and position the huge beasts. "It truly is a magnificent sight, Pepin. I now wish we had domesticated the hippus," he commented to his fellow Melic beside him. "But I don't suppose they climb trees."

"This will not go well," said Pepin, and sighed. "I did not see this going well."

"Here they come, and eagerly," said Theodoric, looking toward the Aoten camp.

The giants indeed approached on a quick march, brandishing their weapons. They broke out of the trees in the direction of the village, and did not see the Rufoux army until the warriors erupted in war cry. At the same time that the giants saw where their foes awaited, they also realized that their food supply had been denied them, and they rushed into battle with added fervor.

The two armies charged each other with a shout. In the middle of the field they came together in a confused melee; this time the Aoten ran on fury. As Wyllem thought, the hippus did allow the Rufoux to reach the upper body of the giants, but the crowded animals maneuvered clumsily, and the close fighting knocked many of the riders to the ground. This time flailing weapons, unlike the second battle, the Aoten made a much bloodier impact on the event.

Artur wheeled Brute about, standing upon the beast's back as he rode. He slashed viciously with Kylie but made no wound worse than a minor cut on a giant's shoulder. At last he sheathed his sword and used Brute as a ram, sending many Aoten to their backs, pummeled by the animal's sharp hooves. But the giants made quickly back to their feet, punishing the Rufoux with heavy blows from their clubs and crude swords.

Arielle stood at a distance and again used her fiery arrows to pick off as many enemies as she could. The giants were not to be so easily frightened this time, however, no longer simply trying to deflect some inconvenient pests, but instead fighting in reprisal. They brushed off the hot stings until at last one of them had enough and headed for the fair archer.

Wyllem fared quite well with his spear upon his hippus, able to stab Aoten necks with its long reach. He caught sight of the giant stalking toward his wife just as Arielle sent a rapid-fire barrage of arrows into her attacker. The missiles slowed the creature hardly at all, and it bore down upon Arielle, who in turn did not give an inch. As the giant reached to take hold of her a sudden, crashing force hit him from the rear, and he felt pounding like four hammers upon his back and head. Wyllem brought his hippus back around, ran over the Aoten again, and Arielle expertly caught his hand and swung herself up behind him as they sped away.

Andreia positioned herself at the rise between the village and fields, looking for an opportunity to help. With no great battle skills, slender and waif-like in Rufoux terms, she knew she could not do much more than get in trouble if she joined the fighting. Still, she would give her life if necessary, and when she saw a gathering of Aoten at the near side of the field, she ran to one of the stacks of heavy timbers stored at the top of the rise. Taking a large axe in both hands, she swung it as best as she could to sever the leather strap holding the logs in place. The punishing timbers, some of them thick as tree trunks, careened down upon the giants. But they bore down upon Andreia first, and with a terrified scream she fell into the avalanche. She rolled down the hill with the lumber, covering her head and hoping for the best. The onslaught of logs proved to be too much for the Aoten, but as well for Andreia, and she lay still at the edge of the fields as the fighting waned.

Osewold had quickly roused the Rufoux still in the village, but to no avail. The resting warriors, among them Geoffrey, reached the battlefield only as the Aoten withdrew. Not a campaign to claim territory but a simple revenge killing; not a search for spoils but a mission to satisfy bloodlust: The battle had been short. What with the Rufoux reinforcements bounding ever closer like the scattered logs themselves, the Aoten declared their work done and backed away. Now they headed back to their camp, bloodied but not defeated, and six Rufoux lay dead on the ground.

Artur leapt from his steed, chest heaving, wiping down the sweat upon the snorting hippus, a distraction from what he might see upon the ground. He anxiously took account of his fallen comrades, glancing over Brute's neck. His eyes fell upon Andreia, and he ran, gathering her into his arms. Osewold sprinted down onto the battlefield breathlessly and threw his head back, exasperated at being too late. Jakke stalked about pounding a fist into an open hand. Wyllem and Arielle remained mounted and at a distance. Geoffrey contemplated one of his dead clansmen, completely still, completely downcast.

Theodoric and Pepin silently slipped through the branches and made for home.

Chapter XI

The thick foliage high over the land of Medialia made a fast and comfortable avenue for Theodoric and Pepin, like stepping stones in a stream. Their bare feet leapt quick and sure from branch to branch, and their arms and hands instinctively knew to keep their balance and brace their bodies. Melics ran through the dense treetops as gracefully as seabirds hang in the air.

"Your muscle seems to have taken a cramp, and in the water yet," Pepin said.

"Strength grows only with the testing of pain," replied Theodoric.

"True, that," said Pepin.

The Melics had grown into a philosophical people, a gift of their god Drueed and the result of having endless hours to sit in the sky and think. The great sages from the clan's history numbered in the thousands, though only those who died violently won grandest honors. The Melic way of life rose above the toils of the ground, separated them from the dangers of animals, totally gave the clansmen over to the sylvan span of the trees. Deep in the forested areas lay Melic territory, their towering abode so safe that among all the clans, they alone dared live close to the scaled ones.

Theodoric and Pepin arrived in the elevated community of the Melics, hundreds upon hundreds of wooden platforms built among the branches, all at different levels, all connected by short stretches of rope-ladders and catwalks. A roof of tightly knit branches, still attached to their trees and growing thicker and more entangled by the day, covered each area of flooring. Every home, for each platform was a home, also served as a thoroughfare as Melic men and women moved from one end of the community to another. The village appeared like a city of bridges upon which the inhabitants passed back and forth in a scattered stream.

Every one of them wore the clothes of woven vines and went about unshod. The wear and tear on their feet made them so tough that shoes offered them no advantage, and calluses made their grip on the bark confident. They preferred the treetops, without a doubt, but Melics were not averse to walking upon the ground as well, and if need be they could scale a tree as easily as walking across a room. Not surprisingly, considering they shared a neighborhood, Melics imitated birds with uncanny results. Although not a warlike society, they did occasionally wear light breastplates made of wooden rods, and simple helmets. Their historians could not remember the last war the clan had fought, much less started, and their axes served as their only real weapons, chipped from volcanic glass, which they used most effectively against trees. They much preferred the bucolic life of meditation and debate over physical adventure.

The foresters of Medialia, Melics gave and took their lives completely from the trees. Their dining consisted mostly of fruits and lichens, but many of the Melics had become skilled honey-hunters. One of the most glorious of their champions was Lombard, the legendary finder of beehives, stung to death at a young age on his last fateful quest. The novelty of a Melic not dying of sickness had done much to enlarge his legacy.

Of all the clans, Melics had the shortest life spans, although to look at them one might think they had aged several centuries. In reality their lives were better measured in decades. They all shared Theodoric's grayish hue, except one, and their pale eyes and long, drab hair added to the appearance of death itself. They made up a sickly clan, many given to chronic coughing and wheezing, many with teeth missing, and each Melic baby for generations had been born with their smallest two fingers fused together, except for one. Because their years were fleeting, the Melics gave their days to new discovery, but tended not to remember much from generation to generation.

They did excel at music, producing the haunting tones that floated through the wooded lands through the night. Their choirs produced rich and delicate harmonies, and the instruments they fashioned from wood included reeds, hollows and barkstrings. Almost every Melic carried an instrument at all times, just as Theodoric had carried his reed upon his belt.

Theodoric ruled as their king, descended from a line of kings that went back further than any could remember, though he didn't much stand on ceremony. Unmarried and with no children, he had put the royal line in danger, but that did not concern him. He spent many hours alone contemplating marriage and what it meant in the Melic world, and he chose to let others think about who would be king next. What did he care? He would be dead.

High priest to his people as well, Theodoric mediated for the clan before Drueed, a philosopher god with whom one could reason if only one could be still and listen. Quiet and distant, Drueed endowed the Melics with great power in their minds if not their arms and legs.

The Melic king indeed had one ear missing, just as Artur suspected, the consequence of an accident with another woodchopper. As a result he had to wear a helmet too small for him, which caused tremendous headaches at times. Theodoric often slipped into long and deep periods of silence, which his people assigned to his deep philosophy, but more than just the course of his ideas troubled his spirit. He felt deeply the morass of guilt within his culture and could not escape the thought that this unsuspecting people would one day pay a price; he feared that the Aoten might have arrived to collect the debt.

As he and Pepin moved through the various levels of the Melic community, they ran upon Pepin's wife Carolingia. She greeted him with a deep kiss, and as they turned to part from Theodoric, she gazed at her king knowingly over her shoulder. Theodoric only frowned.

Pepin had become Theodoric's closest advisor, always ready to stubbornly contend for his opinions. He often could be heard spending hours in argument with Drueed, taking up both sides of the debate. Many times Drueed had spoken in return, but only in dreams, when Pepin would see things that later came about. But he suffered bitterly under Carolingia, who browbeat him mercilessly. From his travails with his wife, he had developed a habit of sighing frequently.

"What have you been doing?" she demanded of Pepin.

"You know. Theodoric and I observed the Aoten and Rufoux."

"Your silly dreams again, is it? Foresee anything rightly this time?"

"I did not see it end well, in my dream nor today."

"If you know how it is to happen, then why don't you stay with me during the day? Why waste your time watching something you've already seen?"

"Do you want me to stay?"

"Yes," she lied. "I could use some help tending the mushrooms and lichens."

"Next time then. My king ordered me today, though."

"Next time! How often I've heard that! I know all about your next time! Do you love me or do you love that king?"

"Yes, beloved," Pepin said, and sighed.

Theodoric proceeded to the station of Franken, the woodworking master. Franken had cut and carved the wood for so long, his right arm had developed to twice the size of his left. His speech even followed the rhythmic beating of the axe he had listened to all his life, a habit gained from grunting each word he spoke as his blade hit wood. The helmet he wore had a large dent in it, the result of not noticing a falling tree quite soon enough one time. Franken's art surpassed all others of the clan, and he made the finest of their musical instruments.

"Franken," began Theodoric, "I have an assignment for you."

"Yes, sire?" Franken looked up from his work, his lap and the platform around him covered with wood shavings.

"I want the Melics to join with the Rufoux. We must find something in common that might prove our bond with them."

"The Rufoux? Do we dare make a pact with the brutes?" asked Franken in cadence.

"I believe we must. Are we not all of Medialia? Without the flower the bee dies, without the bee the flower dies, without the bee and flower the Melics die. I have made contact with their leader, but at the moment we seem to have nothing in common. At least nothing he cares about."

"Then why should we care about them?"

"Because of the Aoten. The Rufoux are the strongest and fiercest of Medialia's clans, and three times now I have seen them unable to defeat the Aoten. If the oak can't stand to the wind, what hope has the willow?"

"Is the king so concerned of Aoten attack?"

"Yes," Theodoric answered flatly.

"What would you have me to do, Melic king?" asked Franken. His speech followed this pattern without him having to think about it.

"I thought perhaps you could make something — an instrument, perhaps, or a clever apparatus? Something that might serve as a gift, an offering to the Rufoux. Something to show our common need, and common cause."

"I will consider, my king, what you ask me," replied Franken. "If you're sure of the need of the Melics."

"I am sure, Franken. I have considered our situation well, and weighed it carefully before Drueed. Drueed is wise, and sometimes his wisdom is hidden, but of this I am quite sure."

Chapter XII

Artur gently placed Andreia upon the ground in the midst of the Rufoux village, and disappeared into the wood. Wyllem followed.

"There is a secret. So said Andreia."

"If a secret lies hidden," replied Wyllem. "Shouldn't it follow that we must also root out a keeper of the secret?"

"That would follow, yes. Is it you?"

"No, I must confess. But do you suppose the knowledge dwells here in the forest?"

Artur thought of Theodoric, and barked. "I doubt it."

"Then why do you withdraw away from the village?"

"Because peace dwells in the wood, and solitude. At least it used to." Artur scowled at Wyllem's unwelcome presence, and he drove deeper than usual into the forested land.

Not to be deterred by this abuse, Wyllem continued his pace alongside Artur, but he kept silent for the moment. Questions raced through his head, but he couldn't strike upon one he thought helpful. The two headed directly westward, well away from the Aoten camp. Birds twittered above them, interrupted only by an occasional raucous squawk from one of the larger ones. Small animals bounded out of the way of the oncoming footsteps, unaware that the land had only just seen a bloody, deadly conflict. The minds of the Rufoux were out of sorts with their world. A hummingbird trailed behind.

"What if we built a high stockade, taller than the giants, all around the village?" Wyllem finally asked.

"For what purpose?"

"To keep the Aoten out."

"It would do a much better job of keeping the Rufoux in."

"But, for protection..."

Artur replied angrily, "Wyllem, we fight for our lives, true. But we also fight for the lives of our forefathers. The Rufoux rule Medialia as its greatest clan. Our fathers and mothers before us built a culture of might, of warfare, of metalworking, and tending the fields. All the clans covet our fields. And all the clans clear their paths before us; we can go anywhere we wish throughout Medialia, without fear."

Artur stopped and peered into the treetops. "Anywhere! Do you hear?"

Wyllem looked overhead as well without knowing why.

"We go where we wish. We allow the borders of the other tribes, but if we want to, we will cross those borders without thinking twice. It is the Rufoux way. Now should we build a prison around our village, and declare that we're afraid to walk about Medialia? No! Never, while I'm chieftain. The Rufoux will forever be free to go where we please, and if we must drive out the Aoten to do so, we will. If we must kill every one of the Aoten, we will."

"How many have we killed so far?" asked Wyllem.

Artur didn't answer; he got the point. At the current rate, there would be no Rufoux left to roam Medialia and plenty of giants left over. He sat down heavily in some dense undergrowth.

"What can we do that we haven't tried already?" asked Wyllem.

"There remains a secret. Andreia said I would know when I hear it. She said so."

"You put much stock in this girl, Artur."

"Yes. Not since Lauræl... but what does that matter now? Neither is that the Rufoux way."

Silently they sat together against a tree. Artur drew aimlessly in the dirt with a stick, studying his designs while thinking of other things completely, and Wyllem continued to sort his questions. The thoughts fell dead in his mind; not one had an answer.

Time passed, and eventually the men heard a throaty grunting noise easing closer behind them. Silently they exchanged glances and turned upon their hands and knees. Creeping quietly through the underbrush, they poked their heads through the other side and spied out the source of the rhythmic snorting.

A magnificent therium made its way lazily through the forest, coming into a small clearing, sniffing about at the leaves overhead. Rufoux seldom saw therium, simply because they didn't usually enter into the animals' deep-forest domain; Artur and Wyllem felt like worshippers as they beheld the huge beast. Its lips curled around small branches and gathered them into its teeth, and its six horns stood menacingly over its snout and brow. The trees groaned and complained as the beast pulled its food loose. This one had apparently just enjoyed a mud bath, for brown slime and algae covered its back and sides. Limp stems of water plants hung to wiry hairs sticking out in all directions, and small birds flew down to quickly stab at seeds and ticks stuck to its hide before making a hasty retreat back into the trees.

"Come," whispered Wyllem. "Show me how you bring down a therium."

"No thanks," said Artur.

Artur and Wyllem watched enthralled while the creature ambled along. This animal truly mastered the land, unafraid and uncaring. It needn't worry about shelter, nor hunger, nor attack. In utter confidence it dumbly packed its belly on the abundance of the land and filled its lungs with prosperity. The great mass of muscle and horn could easily mow down the two Rufoux if provoked, but short of that, they felt quite safe.

Artur nudged Wyllem and pointed to their left. A movement under cover of the bracken caught his eye. The men froze, now not in wonderment but knowing they were in real danger of their lives.

The malevolent head of a thylak appeared from the undergrowth, stiffly, stealthily. It might be upon the two men in an instant, giving them no opportunity to fight in such close quarters. But this thylak did not notice their presence; its eyes fixed upon the therium. Artur glanced toward Wyllem as if to say, "It's crazy." Slowly it emerged, crouching to the ground, waiting for the perfect moment, or for its courage to arise, or for the therium to drop dead.

From the thylak to the unsuspecting therium and back again, the Rufoux men watched the drama unfold. Artur found himself rooting for the hunter, not even half the height of the therium's shank, amazed at its brazen audacity, its readiness to defy death as well as its huge prey. He caught his breath as he saw the thylak begin its assault.

Approaching the therium from the back, the thylak crept along faster and faster until it broke into a full run. Now at the side of the therium, it leapt upon its shoulders and sank its fangs into the thick skin as well as it could. The startled therium let out a bellow. It reared up on its hind quarters and came down with such a crash that the thylak went tumbling to the ground. The animal ducked away before the therium could crush it under a hoof, but instead of running for cover as Artur expected, it circled back around toward the therium's rear.

Again the thylak jumped upon the therium's back, and again it crashed to the ground. Again it gathered itself out of harm's way and prepared for another attack. Again it made for the giant beast's neck. Again Artur elbowed Wyllem and pointed.

Out of the underbrush had come another thylak, stalking as did the first one before breaking into a sprint. Both animals now leapt upon the therium's back, and both fell squirming upon the ground. The therium turned and cried out in fury, charging with its horns and pawing the ground, but the thylak jumped out of the way. And then yet a third came.

The therium spun in confusion now, but every time a thylak made for its shoulders, still the behemoth shook it off. No longer could it even think about stamping out the lives of its attackers, though, as two or three immediately replaced every one or two shaken off. Survival now entirely occupied the hunted creature. And then a fourth and fifth came.

Now constantly thylak hung upon its back, or shoulders, or hindquarters. The therium kicked and bucked, but the onslaught didn't relent. Finally it turned and did something the Rufoux had never seen: It ran. It ran for its life. But as it reached the thicker foliage, the therium met with the glaring eyes of the full pack of thylak, waiting in ambush.

They poured out of the undergrowth, more and more, piling upon the panicked therium. Ten, twenty, thirty — the swarm of predators defied counting. At full gallop a long line of the beasts appeared from among the trees to leap upon their prey. The swarming animals covered the screaming therium like a fur coat; some thylak leapt into the attack only to sink their teeth into other thylak, so thick did they cling to the beast's hide. And still more they came; Artur and Wyllem looked on, entranced in horror.

The therium twisted and wailed mournfully; it tried to butt attackers off with its horns and scrape them off against trees. But still they came. The thylak, despite their reputation for cowardice, never ceased until the therium fell upon its knees; and at that moment the question was suddenly settled. Teeth too sharp, bodies too heavy, blood flowing too red, the therium could no longer hold up under its enemies. One last jerking attempt at freedom, and the mighty animal lay down in the dust of death.

Artur and Wyllem let out their breath for the first time in what seemed a half-hour. Never had anyone seen such a thing: A therium brought down! The Rufoux themselves never attempted a wonder such as this, Artur thought, then caught himself and grasped his necklace. The overwhelming numbers of thylak had brought down the most powerful of all the wooly ones, the small making themselves mighty through incredible numbers.

"Perhaps the thylak do learn," said a voice from overhead.

Chapter XIII

Hearing a heavenly declaration at that moment gave Wyllem such a start that he bumped his head on a low branch. He let out an exclamation of "Mog's goblins!" and turned over in the dry brush, holding his head and groaning. Rolling about, he knocked Artur's elbow out from under him, making him fall in turn, face-first into the bracken. The commotion attracted the attention of the thylak, and two of them turned their bloody mauls from the slain therium and slinked toward the hiding place. Wyllem and Artur broke from their enclave and ran in a panic, bodies held low, vaulting downed logs and dodging trees, devoured by thoughts of the entire pack falling upon them. Wyllem's wiry frame delivered him out of tight spots much quicker and easier than Artur, and so he ran ahead until he knew for certain the thylak had laid off their pursuit. Cautious to the end, though, he did not go back to check on Artur; he merely waited for him to catch up.

"What was that?" Wyllem asked when Artur did reappear.

"That was a thylak — nipping my heels — no thanks to you," said Artur, much disgusted and out of breath.

"No, where did that wood sprite's voice come from?"

"Not a wood-sprite, nor even so much as a nymph, unfortunately," said the voice, again from above, helping out as Artur's lungs heaved.

Wyllem broke to run again, but since no thylak pursued this time, Artur caught the back of his leather breastplate and pulled him rudely to the ground. Wyllem's panic did not subside, however, nor did his feet. Artur placed a foot upon his chest, and strain as he might, Wyllem could not break free, but his legs did churn up quite a plume of fallen leaves. Artur, bent over with both arms propped upon his knee, could spit out only sporadic words.

"Wyllem — stop. Only — Melic." Wyllem continued his thrashing.

"The seer wins no honor within his own borders, and the judge comes from a strange land," said the voice.

Artur picked Wyllem fully off of the ground. "Stop!" he commanded, and Wyllem hung limply until Artur could tell he had given up his struggle.

"Are you just going to stand there and let these demons devour us?" he asked.

"This is no demon," said Artur, at last able to speak in sentences. "It is a Melic, a thorn in my side. I would insult no demon by confusing the two."

"Thanks be to you for your kind words," said Theodoric.

"A Melic tree-dweller?" asked Wyllem, back on his feet and again peering into the limbs high overhead, this time at least knowing what he sought. "How is it he is here, and not back with the therium?"

"Running the branches," said the voice. "It becomes quite easy going once you've had a lifetime of practice."

"How do you stay up there? Do your arms change length to keep your balance? Do you really have claw feet? Can you really change your weight according to the limbs you stand upon?" The rumors of the Melics had them always present, yet never showing themselves. All the questions Wyllem had ever wondered about this elusive clan wrestled each other to find a place in his mouth first.

"Questions are only riddles, and their answers only japes," said the voice.

"Having to listen to one of you is bad enough; now together you make my head hurt," said Artur, scowling at Wyllem.

"Artur," said Theodoric, "You have been given a great stroke of good fortune. You have survived your battles with the Aoten, and you have been shown a cure for what vexes you. As Drueed would say, find the reality in the shadows."

Theodoric climbed down out of hiding and perched on a low branch as he had before. With him sat Pepin.

"What's that on your feet?" asked Wyllem.

"I am Theodoric, and so are my feet, and so are the thick soles of my feet. This is Pepin, counselor to the clan and the king."

"So you watched us again?" said Artur with disdain.

"Yes, we observed from the trees, but we knew already. Pepin dreams; he had a vision of the thylak and the therium, and the bushes had faces. He foresaw the deaths of your Rufoux kinsmen at the hands of the Aoten."

"Really?" asked Artur with a dubious tone.

"Yes," said Theodoric, and Pepin solemnly nodded.

"That's a good story."

"What is that fabric you're wearing?" asked Wyllem.

Theodoric looked at him and continued. "It's true. He dreamed once of a fishhook I had lost, and I found it according to his vision. I was just a boy at the time, and I still remember the joy of it."

"That's a wonderful talent," said Artur sarcastically.

"I have dreamed of you," said Pepin. "You looked like a bird."

"That's good news," said Artur, still not at all impressed. "You speak big words for a man who lives in a nest yourself."

Pepin shrugged. "Good tidings will find sanctuary in the ears of the patient."

"True," said Theodoric, nodding wisely at Pepin. Artur felt his temper begin to boil again.

"Come down here!" he yelled at the Melics.

"In due time," said Theodoric. "For now, we'd best remain in the nest, as you say. We will be safe on the ground after we learn to fly in the air."

"Deviltooth!" swore Artur. "Come on, Wyllem, let's get to the village before I set fire to this tree."

"How do you make those tunes we hear at night?" asked Wyllem.

"All in good time, friend. Music requires breathing, and so does survival. Let us talk now about survival," said Theodoric.

Artur pulled at Wyllem, but he was so engaged in seeing the mysterious Melic men, he didn't notice. The delay gave Theodoric time to talk, and as best he could he made philosophical platitudes give way to plain language.

"Today you saw a vision, a great sight that no Rufoux has ever seen. Barely has ever a Melic seen thylak pull down a mighty therium, so rare it is, but today your eyes opened. Do not turn away from the truth behind the vision."

"What do you mean?" said Artur, quite perturbed.

"Did one thylak pull down the therium, or even two, even six?"

"No, of course not," said Artur.

"Did one, or two, or six Rufoux defeat an Aoten warrior?"

"You saw it; you even dreamed it, so you say. You should know."

"Exactly," said Theodoric. "How many thylak brought down the therium?"

"You talk like Wyllem, plaguing me with your damn questions. I need only one Wyllem."

"Very well. A score and twelve thylak it required. Take a lesson from the thylak, Artur of the Rufoux, and count your clansmen. Number your men, or number your days."

"What do you mean by that?" Artur bellowed.

"You will need more than the Rufoux," Theodoric cleared his head of idiom and tried to return to simple instruction. "You will need Melics."

"What?! That is the grandest of insults! I yawn harder than you can strike a blow! What can puny Melics possibly show Rufoux of battle?" Artur stalked around the tree trunk in his rage, and a hummingbird buzzed away for cover.

"Sometimes it's best to battle from the safety of the branch," Theodoric said to Pepin, who showed his approval with jaunty laughter. And again to Artur, "You will need Melics. You have not enough Rufoux. There are no Melic thylak, there are no Rufoux thylak, there are only thylak. You will need the Melic."

Artur exploded into rage, and let go a tirade of verbal abuse against Theodoric and Pepin using words he hadn't thought of for years, and added them all upon their people. The two Melics simply stood upon their branch, reached overhead and smoothly pulled themselves out of sight. Artur's diatribe continued for as long as he thought the two might be near enough to hear.

"They have gone," said Wyllem.

"And all the better for them! The only good idea they had all day!" he roared, spewing spittle in all directions.

"Should we not be returning to the village now?" asked Wyllem.

"Sure," said Artur, and he trudged away in a foul mood.

"Today I saw thylak overcome a therium, and I talked with a Melic," Wyllem commented.

"Forget about both."

The men walked through the trees and standancrags back to their home, neither returning with what he had wanted or expected to find in the wooded land. Artur — despondent over the Rufoux' last failure against the giants, having lost friends forever — found no solace in the forests anymore, and in fact had nearly lost his life, an escapade topped off by crossing paths again with the most infuriating man he had ever known. Wyllem, hoping to extract some solution out of the hundreds of uncertainties that swirled around his clansmen, instead had a day of discovery such as he had never enjoyed before. Such an experience would have been like heaven itself in years past, but right now the teetering future of his people overshadowed everything else and left the pleasures of the day tasting of a sallow bitterness. The journey back to the village passed dismal and silent.

A great funeral pyre lit the gloaming sky as the Rufoux sent their fallen comrades on their eternal journey to the realm of Mog. The fire consumed handfuls of grain as well, final sacrifices to the god who had promised his rage would deliver them victory. The wounded had been gathered into one of the larger buildings, where the women tended them with what few medical skills they had. The Rufoux chieftain stood in the doorway and looked over the injured masses, greeting each one who could hear him.

Next to the wall lay Andreia.

He knelt beside her, and she stirred.

Artur placed his hand upon her forehead.

Andreia smiled slightly through hazy eyes. "Listen to the secret," she whispered.

Drueed and the Cave

#### To be sung in the choir

#### When mankind awoke all across the land of Medialia, they were the Melics, and all the Melics of the world were gathered into a deep void, open at one end, closed at the other; and there were three. Upon three posts bonds held them securely: their ankles, their legs, their waists, their wrists, their arms, their shoulders, their heads. Prisoners of an existence they did not know, the gaping mouth of the void mocked their backs as they faced away, forcibly directed to see only the back wall. Throughout the day the sun shone brightly behind them, and all the long night the moon beamed, and so were cast three tall, straight shadows before the Melics, all day and all night.

"What are those forms?" asked one.

"Black against the bright! They are dark and powerful," said another.

"They do not move," observed the third. "How can such silence testify to power?"

"Strength does not require movement. Strength can be shown in stillness."

"Would you say, then, that we are strong? For certainly there are none more still than we."

"Nor any more dark."

"Dark like the forms."

"What can they be?"

"I say they are gods."

"What are gods?"

"In my mind they are handsome and wonderful; in my mind they are strong and magnificent. In my heart they are good and gracious."

"That, my dear fellow, is a matter of theology."

"What we see is black, and sturdy, and straight. And that is all."

"They indeed are wonderful, but that is not to say they are good."

"They indeed are strong, but offer not grace to us."

"Perhaps they are not gods."

"What else is there that might enlighten us? What else is there to relieve our burden?"

"Perhaps they are trees."

"What are trees?"

"In my mind they are tall and majestic; in my mind they are useful and beautiful. In my heart they are life and safety."

"That, my dear fellow, is a matter of botany."

"What we see indeed is tall, but that does not make them safe."

"They indeed are beautiful, but that does not make them life."

"Perhaps they are not trees."

"What else is there to give us wisdom? What else is there to give us hope?"

"Perhaps the forms are we."

And so it went for days upon days, longer than anyone would care to count, as the Melics tried to understand their world of which they saw so little. Alone in the void, separated from the rest of creation, they talked of the forms and what they might mean. Were the forms made of substance, or were they images of another substance? Was substance just what existed in the Melics' minds, or was it made of something outside? Were the Melics' words only empty symbols of things that did not exist? Did anything abide apart from the Melics' minds?

Then one day, different forms appeared.

"See! There is a new form!" said one.

"Black against the bright! It is dark, but it does not appear so straight and powerful as the others," said another.

"It moves," observed the third. "That is power in and of itself."

"Woe are we! For a new form has appeared, a form which we have never known!"

"Woe upon us, for what we have known is now less than we believed!"

"Woe upon us, for until this moment we have not known everything there is to know!"

"Woe upon us, for this new form is an unknown danger!"

"This new form will destroy us!"

"This new form has powers we do not understand."

"But what is understanding without seeing?"

"Is this merely a new form, or is it new understanding?"

"Perhaps it is an old form, only different."

"Perhaps it is an old form, hidden from us until now."

"Perhaps it has been with us in the void, black against the black, from the beginning."

"Perhaps we have never before needed to see it, or understand it."

"Then what can this new form mean? Why does it show itself? For certainly our existence never before required us to know it."

"Perhaps it is not important to our existence."

"Perhaps it is not important. Perhaps it is insignificant."

"Indeed, look, it is a small thing, and appears woolly, and has a large knob at one end."

"It appears to have a head, and then a rounded nose."

"And a smaller knob at the other end."

"I say it is an animal."

"What is an animal?"

"In my mind it is soft and warm; in my mind it is living and breathing. In my heart it is friendly and helpful."

"That, my dear fellow, is a matter of zoology."

"I shall call it rumidont."

"I think it is but a small one."

"Perhaps it is a lamb. Perhaps they start out small, then eventually they become bigger."

"It is a lamb, black against the bright."

"But see, the form is gone. In its place is one that is newer still."

"Another new form! We are doomed!"

"Perhaps this one as well has always dwelled with us in the void."

"Perhaps this one also is not important to our existence."

"Perhaps this one also is insignificant."

"We can come to understand this one, as we did the other."

"It is very much the same as the other, and yet it is different."

"It is different somewhat, but it is the same as well."

"At least it is different from the first three forms, so straight and powerful."

"It moves, but in such a way that it won't be seen moving."

"It is small, but not as small."

"It appears woolly, but the wool is straight and coarse."

"And it too has a large knob at the end, but this one has a long and narrow nose."

"There are things descending from the mouth, long and sharp-looking things."

"Could this also be an animal?"

"Perhaps, but not so soft nor friendly."

"I think those are teeth pointing down."

"Sharp and cruel teeth."

"Dangerous, ravening teeth."

"And it is hungry."

"It is hungry, and it is hunting."

"I shall call it thylak."

"But now it is gone. What can we know of such forms when they are so fleeting?"

"We can know what we see."

"We can know what we think."

"We can know there are many wonderful things in the world, and not just three beings. It is good to know such things."

"There are things straight and tall, and things small and soft."

"What is soft?"

"In my mind it is gentle and tender; in my mind it is silky and supple. In my heart it is feeling and touching."

"That, my dear fellow, is a matter of physiology."

"Now there is another form. It is like the first animal."

"The rumidont."

"It is like the lamb. It is soft and woolly, one can tell, though it be nothing but black against the bright."

"It is the lamb again. I can see it is a lamb."

"It is good that there is a lamb in the world."

"It is good that the lamb has returned."

"But its nose doesn't look right."

"Yes, a lamb's nose is also soft."

"Yes, this nose is too long, and too narrow, and too sharp."

"What is happening to the nose? A lamb's nose is not like that."

"A lamb's nose is not long and narrow."

"We know that."

"We have seen a lamb before."

"The form of a lamb."

"This lamb is changing."

"We have been deceived, for this lamb is not a lamb at all."

"This lamb has sharp things pointing down. Sharp and cruel things."

"This lamb has teeth."

"This lamb is that other animal."

"The thylak."

"This lamb is a thylak, after all."

"Perhaps it is not good that there is a thylak in the world."

"As the forms have shown us, it must have its place."

"But the lamb must have its place as well."

"The lamb will have its place."

"But now the form is gone."

"What is it do we see? Three beings?"

"Or are they only three forms?"

"And what of the lamb, and the thylak? Are they real?"

"Are we real?"

"Will we ever know?"

And so it went for many more days, as the Melics pondered the forms they had seen, never moving their arms, or their legs, or their heads, never seeing anything but the closed end of the void and the three stoic forms. They marveled over the lamb, and the thylak, and the lamb that wasn't a lamb at all; and they talked endlessly. Then one day, a new form arrived. It stood erect like the first three, but suddenly tapered near the top into strong, shallow inclines, then becoming a large knob that moved back and forth, as if contemplating its concomitant shadows.

"There is a fourth form upon the wall," said one.

"It is not so different from the other three," said another.

"It thinks," observed the third. "That makes a world of difference."

"It is not frightening to have a new shadow. This one is like a friend."

"It is tall. I look straight at it."

"The ledges of its plain — they are rounded with bone and muscle."

"Those limbs that hang from the ledges. It gestures with strength and grace."

"See it move the knob at top."

"It has a head."

"And its head makes it a different animal."

"It has a nose as well, and a brow, and a strong jaw."

"It has a purpose."

"It has a purpose, and it knows what that purpose is to be."

"And it knows it's purpose within its head."

"In its head it holds thoughts."

"And perhaps it has words for thoughts."

"And perhaps it has forms for words."

"I say it is a man."

"What is a man?"

"In my mind he is master yet slave; in my mind he is lovely yet hateful. In my heart he is noble yet sinful."

"That, my dear fellow, is a matter of anthropology."

"I shall call it The Man."

"He is a good, strong man."

"But what has happened to him?"

"His head droops."

"His limbs reach out."

"He changes."

"He changes, like the lamb."

"But he changes not into the thylak."

"He changes like the lamb, but not like the lamb."

"No, he changes much more."

"He is dying."

"He is dead."

"How could this happen?"

"The form is disappearing, it is fading away."

"Woe, woe upon us, The Man is dead, the form is gone."

"Is life so fleeting as well?"

"Must the forms always go away?"

"Is there no purpose to the forms?"

The three Melics fell silent for some time, and their heads would have hung low had they not been bound to the posts, without them knowing.

"Look, the man returns," said one. "He has the same strong head."

"He has the same strong shoulders," said another. "He has the same strong limbs."

"No, this is a different man," observed the third. "An ancient man."

"And his hair grows long."

"And it grows long upon his chin."

"And something drapes upon him, below his head."

"It is a different man."

"A great, tall man."

"An honorable, venerable man of the ages."

"But now he too is gone. What madness is behind this wretched torment?"

"Was he ever there?"

"Was he real?"

"What is real?"

"In my mind it is loving and giving; in my mind it is living and working. In my heart it is hope and faith."

"That, my dear friend, is a matter of philosophy."

At that moment the form of the ancient man reappeared upon the back wall, and a voice boomed from out of the darkness behind the three: "You have done well, Melics, you have arrived at your destiny." This time the form did not vanish, but in fact appeared to move in tandem with the spoken words.

"The forms you have seen are only shadows, shades, silhouettes of things to come. The light of the sun, of which you know nothing, casts the shadows upon the wall of stone, of which you know nothing. Black against the bright, shades cast upon the light by the light. Do you prefer blackness, or do you prefer the light? One cannot have the first without the second.

"Only reality casts a shadow. The shade is a form of reality, which is a form of truth, but not the truth itself. It represents reality, but only in a crude way. The reality is much finer, it is much purer. It is truth.

"For now you know only shadows; one day you will know the reality of your world. You have been taught to read silhouettes so one day you will recognize the truth within your world. But now you know only shades. When you see the reality of your world, you will still know only the shadows of my world. And there you must stay, for that is your destiny.

"I give you shadows! I place them upon the wall before you! Rejoice! It is appointed to you, Melics, to consider the black images of your god and ponder the truth. Your lives are given over to the thoughts of the heavens. Your minds are the mines of my specters, which you will turn over time and again. One day you will understand, when I give you reality, but for now you will know only shadows.

"Do not despair, Melics. Your days and nights will be filled not with labors, but with laborious reasoning; not with drudgery, but with dredging ideas. You will understand that you can never understand, and that will give you comfort. I give you the gift of philosophy."

The Melics, held immovable upon their stakes, again observed the shadows as the form of the old man grew larger, then held up a single, strong limb. Its hand grasped a large blade, and with a quick slashing motion, their bonds were cut and they then at last could see more than the closed end of the void, and they realized the void was a long, straight cave.

They saw the posts they had been bound to for so long, they saw the straps that had held them now hanging limply, and they saw there was an escape from the cave. And they saw their world for what it was. They looked upon each other for the first time, finally seeing that they were the same, yet different; that they had faces, and hands, and smiles; that they were real.

"We are not trees at all," said one.

"Nor are we gods," said another.

"We are men," observed the third. "And, moreover, we are Melics."

Squinting toward the mouth of the cave, into the blazing sun, the Melics realized the voice belonged to the ancient man, no longer only a black form but as he was, tall and dressed in robes, with a long, gray beard. His hair made a wild mane about his hoary head, and the fabric he wore was embroidered with lush gold/scarlet and silver/purple thread. Small, bright lights whirled about his head as he smiled upon his three subjects.

"I am Drueed, god of the Melics," he said. "And by the power of the sun I have given you the shadows of the future. But they are not the reality, and you must never grow content in knowing only the shades. Go and search your minds, search your hearts, and one day, I will reveal the truth to you.

"Go and prosper, for you are men, and you are indeed gods, and you are indeed trees. You will find your place in Medialia in the safety of the branches, where you will live kissing the heavens. Be one with the oak and the cottonseed, the sittlebark and the gopherwood. Caress the wood and the grain, and make it your home.

"Your people will devote their time to exploring their minds and their hearts, the places where they will come to know their god. Probe the ideas of your forefathers, and test the inspiration of your babies. Doubt that which you are confident is true, and revisit what you are convinced is false. Only by seeing all will you know to believe less."

The ancient man began to fade from their sight, as though he were one of his forms projected upon the cave wall. The apparition seemed to lead the Melics toward the mouth of the cave as it diminished more and more. They beheld him intently as he shrank and grew dim. But before his voice decreased to nothing, before he forever disappeared from view, he left them with a blessing.

"Behold, on this day and in this cave I give you this gift: You will forever be guardians of the shadows of the future, for you are men, and moreover, you are Melics."

Chapter XIV

As the funeral pyres dwindled, the fires of argument swelled into a hateful blaze.

Artur sat fuming, alone at the hearth of the community building, except for Wyllem, Osewold and Geoffrey. A small flame flickered in their faces dimly, and offered no greater illumination to their minds, as Artur recounted the events of earlier that day in the forest.

"But what does it mean, Artur?" asked Osewold. "What could the thylaks' success against the therium mean?"

"I cannot tell, nor why Mog directed us to see it. Perhaps a bunch of dumb animals found good fortune, and that's all. But perhaps it is meant to be a sign to us; normally I would dismiss the word of a bark-eating Melic, or of anyone not Rufoux. But Andreia..."

"Can we put the sign to a test somehow?" asked Wyllem.

"How would you go about a test? Herd thylak toward a therium, or bridle the therium and lead it about?" Artur asked, spitting venom like a cobra.

"Well," said Wyllem, undaunted. "How about a sacrifice? Perhaps Mog would reveal the future in a vision."

"Mog!" muttered Artur. He had about had it with his god. "What did that other Melic pipsqueak say? What was his name?"

"Poppin? No, Pepin," said Wyllem.

"Yes, the dreamer. Did he say anything about the future? Did he dream anything?"

"No, he said nothing."

"See?" Artur exclaimed. "In the end we can make no use of them at all! Dream dreams, but say nothing of the future. They can talk all day long about the past, but nothing of the future. And still, Andreia says to listen. How that girl vexes me!"

"What of this girl, Artur?" asked Geoffrey. "Why do you continue to bring her name into this?"

"Days ago, Father, days ago she told me the way to defeat the Aoten lies in a secret. She didn't know what it would look like, but she said I'd know it when it came. Then today she said, 'Listen to the secret.' She couldn't have known what happened within the forests; she must have been unconscious most of the day. But she told me to listen to the secret."

"And what else do you know of her?"

"She is Andreia, betrothed to Aric."

"Ah, yes." Geoffrey turned deeply thoughtful. "She has been marked; she may be what they call an intuit. Sometimes these things happen, but rarely. When children, or work, or some other such thing does not clutter one's mind, it can pick up on influences not quite so obvious."

"Have you seen this ability before?" asked Wyllem.

"Once, long ago.' Geoffrey screwed up his face trying to remember. "Either long ago, or I just have forgotten. I don't recall much of it now. A barren widow showed extraordinary power to know other people's business. Some believed Mog had blessed one left alone. Eventually we burned her as a witch."

"Certainly you're not suggesting we burn this girl?" Wyllem was aghast.

"You're the one who brought up sacrifice."

"Rufoux sacrifice grain! That is our way!" said Artur loudly.

"Yes, and doves as well, mind you; but not many would confuse either with a girl. Grain and doves shall remain our way. Our traditions bind our lives together," said Geoffrey.

"Besides, Andreia..." Artur hesitated and let his voice trail off.

"Our traditions bind us, Artur," Geoffrey said, eying his son firmly. "Even as you have said, we fight for our lives and our culture, and they are one."

"Yes," said Artur.

"What do we do about the secret? What should we do about the Melics?" Osewold felt the need to get back on track.

"They practically begged us to let them join in the fight," said Wyllem. "What could we lose if we accept?"

"I'll tell you what we can lose," began Artur. "The Melics have virtually nothing to add to the fight. They live in trees and have nothing to fight for. They have no weapons outside of axes for hewing trees. They don't even have anything the Aoten want! What do we have to lose? Everything, for they have everything to gain. Attaching themselves to us now, when the Aoten are driven out, the Melics will make claim to what we have afterwards."

"You have thought this through," said Geoffrey.

"Yes, I have thought this through."

"So why do we meet? Is not your decision made already?" asked Wyllem.

"Because Andreia!"

"And she's all?"

"She's all. And she is enough."

The Rufoux sat silent. Artur smoldered in his defensive insistence on believing a young woman. Geoffrey contemplated his son, wondering in fear at the thin line between wisdom and utter nonsense; while he had no more use for his own life, he had no interest in seeing his clan disappear. Wyllem quietly weighed each argument, and Artur's anger tipped the scale slightly heavier than his reason. Osewold knew something had to be spoken.

"What harm could come of talking to them?" he said.

"I have never heard such an insult!" said Artur. He would have challenged himself to a duel if he could, he was so angry. But he could not shake the words of Andreia from his mind. He thought about picking a fight with Jakke.

"But we have gotten nowhere alone against the Aoten, have we?" Wyllem pointed out. "Only by tremendous numbers did the thylak take down the therium."

"The Melics have appeared out of nowhere! Do none of you find that strange? When have they ever cared what became of Rufoux? When have they ever come to our aid when crops failed, or hippus stampeded? Why do they suddenly care now?"

"One could ask as well, when did Rufoux ever come to the aid of Melics?" asked Wyllem for no particular reason.

"Now, it appears, now they claim to come to our aid, but in truth we would be helping them. Never did a deviltooth ask the help of a rumidont; the deviltooth helps himself. But the feeble, they are the ones who always want a handout, like leeches, weaklings sucking the blood from the stronger. The Melics merely seek our protection for themselves; they make no offer to help us."

"There must be a reason," pressed Osewold. "You say yourself they have nothing the Aoten want, and surely they rest safely so high in the treetops."

"Yes, puzzling, isn't it? And yet we can gain nothing against the Aoten ourselves, and Theodoric claims to know how to defeat them, and Andreia says listen to the secret, and even a pack of idiot thylak can learn. The Melics will remain safe in their branches as they have ever been, safe to sit about and talk in circles all day long, but they want to climb down and be killed by giants! Does a wise clan expose itself? Why does the philosopher clan choose certain death? I'll be damned if I can figure out why!"

"Yes, you make an important point. Perhaps a simple solution will present itself. Perhaps if we talked to them, we could find out why," said Osewold.

"Will you not at least allow us to meet with them?" asked Wyllem.

"No! Yes! It grates like a burr in my armor to meet with them! I think I might rather turn my pocket out to a Koinoni!" raged Artur. "We might as well say we can't save ourselves. We might as well ask help from an ant. But I have to allow it, I have to! It tears at my entrails, but I have to!"

"Then I will go, and now!" said Osewold, and he made as if to stand, not wanting the opportunity to somehow slip away before he could.

"No! Sit down, Osewold — Wyllem and I alone are enough," said Artur. "No use contaminating anyone else from breathing Melic exhaust."

"We may find that they do have something to offer, Artur," said Wyllem. "You may see. Their thoughts do not act like our thoughts."

"What does Arielle think?" asked Artur.

"Do you want me to find out?" said Wyllem, puzzled that Artur would mention his wife. "I must go fetch her."

"You needn't go far. She's directly outside the door," said Osewold.

The four men turned their faces to the door and Artur called, "Arielle, come in here." After a moment's delay, Arielle appeared sheepishly in the doorway.

"What do you say?" demanded Artur.

"The Rufoux rule all we see," she declared, and hung her hand from the bow looped over her shoulder. "We have no need of Melic help."

"Sorry, Arielle, I must agree with Wyllem this time," said Artur more quietly. "What I mean to say is, what do you think of Andreia?"

Arielle's countenance fell and she shifted her feet uncomfortably. "I know of Andreia. She is no quilt-maker. She tells me what my head says sometimes, when I don't know how to say it. And she will never retreat from what she believes."

"Thank you. You may go," said Artur.

Arielle stood awkwardly, deciding to leave and then to stay two or three times without settling on which. Wyllem gently signaled her away, and she made a face at him before turning to go.

"That settles it. This will be your test, Wyllem, we will meet with the Melics and test Andreia's insight. Perhaps they have a different secret. We will go, but only Wyllem and me."

"I will go," said Geoffrey.

"Look, if you think you're going to get up into a tree and throw yourself out headfirst and kill yourself, you can forget it. We will be staying on the ground."

"Oh, I'm sure I will survive this meeting."

"Why do you wish to go, then?"

"I know the Melics," said Geoffrey simply, and he studied his hand, with four fingers and no thumb. "I have lived."

Artur considered his father for a moment, then agreed. "Very well, then, we will be three. Be prepared go out into the wooded lands at the break of morning. I'm sure we'll have no trouble finding them; they seem always to be overhead and underfoot. And with any luck one of us will be able to decipher what they're talking about."

Chapter XV

Three men trudged through the forests, heavily armed even for Rufoux. All wore extra armor, except Geoffrey, who had none. Artur was sullen and didn't care who knew. They walked about not cautiously, but keenly aware of their unfamiliar surroundings, expecting something unexpected.

It came when five vines fell straight out of a tree some twelve kronyn in front of them; in a flash three men and two women had slid down to stand before them.

"You see," said one, "our feet do fit the ground."

Theodoric and Pepin, Carolingia and two others took their places side-by-side, unafraid but prepared to quickly retreat. They all wore the light armor of the Melics, and the back of each bore an axe with a long, curved blade. Each belt held an oddly shaped item that Artur did not recognize. Each Melic had the scraggly gray hair and ashen appearance of the clan, except the woman at the end — her flesh shone with health, to the point of being ruddy. Though she looked perhaps a twentieth the age of Theodoric, she really numbered about half his years. Pocks and scars horribly marked the unknown man's face, and several welts could be seen on his skin even from a distance.

"I must apologize," continued Theodoric, "for we come bearing no gifts."

"Do you mean bribes?" Artur sheathed his sword, a bad mood already on the rise.

"Our craftsman could not prepare his handiwork so quickly: Time is the keenest ingredient. But I congratulate you on your swift decision to meet with us in the wood. Our home serves as fuel for you — as you see, we have much in common."

"We have nothing in common but the air," said Artur contentiously.

"Perhaps I misjudged," said Theodoric, peering carefully at the Rufoux. "Perhaps this meeting comes too quickly. What say, Pepin?"

"I dreamed nothing." To his side, Carolingia shifted her weight and laughed just enough to attract attention.

"We came here by our own choice, and not because of any sweet words from you," Artur said. "Take it for what it's worth, or take it not at all."

"Not at all, then, I think," and Theodoric reached for his vine.

Geoffrey took Artur by the arm. "Let me speak for the clan," he whispered urgently.

"I speak for the clan!"

"As your subject and father, Artur, let me speak, for you draw closer to starting a war than making a peace. You may be the greatest of my sons, but I know the Melics."

Artur growled and looked askance. He felt his anger rising, and didn't know why. He couldn't understand Andreia, he couldn't understand the Melics, and now his own father joined the word games. Geoffrey dug his fingers into his arm, and Artur silently acquiesced. He turned and walked a step or two away.

"Theodoric of the Melics," Geoffrey began. "I am Geoffrey of the Rufoux. We thank you for entering into the wood with us. Medialia rejoices for this happy meeting of its two greatest clans."

Theodoric let loose the vine and considered Geoffrey. Artur rolled his eyes. "We do recognize good tidings for Medialia, though perhaps the Bedoua and Raspars would disagree with your analysis," said Theodoric.

"Truly, but they have no part of what we speak about today. We must talk about the Rufoux and the Melics."

"Indeed. This is Pepin, whom your companions have met before," Theodoric said. "And his sister Carolingia. Also with me came Aachen, our chief honey-hunter, son of the legendary Lombard, and Picta. Though not blood of mine, I have raised her like a daughter, living in my own home. She came to see one who does not look like a Melic."

"So we put on a freak show for you, then?" broke in Artur, staring at the young woman.

"To see is to learn, to learn is to think. Nothing wrong can come of that," said Theodoric.

Geoffrey stepped in front of his son and continued. "Theodoric, the fame of your reason and wisdom spans Medialia. What do you know of the Rufoux?"

"I know what I have observed, and I observe much. Nothing else to do."

"And?"

"You are strong, but not strong enough. You are courageous and confident, and that may be your undoing. You are skilled with fire and metal, and upon the hippus."

Artur glared at him, but only Geoffrey spoke. "Then you know well. Let me tell you what I know of the Melics: They always say what they believe; they do not lie. They hide their fear behind leaves and words. Death bears down upon everything they do."

"Indeed," Theodoric repeated.

"Then I call upon you to tell us truly, Theodoric."

"Yes?"

"Why do you call for this alliance with the Rufoux? What threat do the Aoten pose to you? What of your clan do the Aoten desire? Why do you seek out the Rufoux, Theodoric of the Melics?"

Theodoric thought silently for a moment.

"That can be heard by Artur's ears alone, my friend."

Artur looked up at him, caught off-guard, having lost track of the conversation.

"Will Artur agree to meet with me privately?"

Artur considered Theodoric and looked to Geoffrey, then back again.

Theodoric made a solicitous gesture with both hands. "Sword on your belt, axe on my back. What more could we do than kill each other?"

For some reason this approach appealed to Artur, and he nodded his head. Theodoric waved a hand to his right, as if to recommend a neutral corner, and Artur followed his direction. As they turned, out of the corner of his eye Artur saw Carolingia throw her arms around Pepin's neck and kiss him deeply. She opened her eyes wide and fixed them upon Artur as he broke his gaze away.

"I thought you said she is his sister," he said to Theodoric, motioning toward the couple.

"Sister — wife — our custom has become our affliction," returned Theodoric with a heavy sigh, and he extended a hand toward Artur. "Marriage ties together families that are already one. Those vows then make righteous infidelity to burn in our hearts, and some turn to it though it promises death, even in the worship of our god. The souls of my people have died, and our bodies follow closely."

Artur caught sight of his four fingers, and wondered.

"And this is the very reason, Artur of the Rufoux, that I seek out your clan," Theodoric said as they withdrew into the forest. "The sin of my clan runs deep, deep. We may say truthfully what we believe, but our actions belie a corruption well within our souls. Our sickness mortifies body and mind. Our lives flit past like moments in Medialia, worn short by this burden of damnation. Our culture lays a heavy curse upon us. And yet I must speak of this to you alone, Artur, for when the Rufoux are shocked they also can turn bloody."

"What do you expect from us?" asked Artur, suddenly sickened yet feeling the despair in Theodoric's face that he'd never bothered to see before. Patience nudged aside the frustration that had always marked his meetings with this Melic.

"This one thing: I'm hoping to save my people," said Theodoric flatly. "I am sure the Aoten have come for us. They may live off your fields, but they come as the mighty, vengeful arm of Drueed. The wise god gave us thought and philosophy, but we have misused it, working out in our minds the justification of degraded lives. We turn ourselves over wholly to hedonism, the power of our brains giving license to our flesh, and now Drueed has sent judgment. Of this I have no doubt."

"How can you expect to defeat the judgment of your god?"

"The question burns, does it not? I have no answer, but I hope we can deflect that judgment long enough to make amends. Drueed is a god who observes and considers. If we gain his grace, gain this last chance, perhaps we can change our ways. If not, perhaps it becomes a mercy in the long run. You see the weakness of our bodies; we will surely die out in time if we do not change our ways. Only Picta among us does not suffer sickness, and in turn my people consider her ugly and pitiable. Oh, how I weep for my clansmen.

"So you see, the Aoten want nothing from us but our lives. They arrive here as a judgment upon us, and we seek Rufoux help to save ourselves. At the same time, the Aoten must live somehow, and they have chosen to do so at the expense of your people. So perhaps we can help each other."

"The Rufoux can defend themselves. We have already taken measures to protect the crops of our fields. Certainly you've seen that."

"Yes, but your fighting has proven of no benefit to you. You have seen the result of one Aoten death; what will happen when others die of starvation? A deviltooth can teach a rumidont to climb trees. The giants will come at you yet harder, lusting for the taste of your grain."

"We have plans to build a stockade," said Artur testily.

Theodoric fully felt Artur's resistance, and so made his last, desperate attempt: "Has not one among you spoken of the secret?"

Artur's sudden memory of Andreia caught him speechless for a second. "How do you know of that?"

"The world is a mysterious place," said Theodoric, and no more.

"And you have no interest in the Rufoux fields?" asked Artur after a moment of awkward thought.

"The fruits of our trees keep us quite satisfied, as they always have."

"And you aren't lying?"

"May I quote your father? 'Melics do not lie.' "

"But weakness plagues the Melics, as you say," Artur said with some arrogance creeping back into his attitude. "What do you have to offer the Rufoux?"

"Perhaps we have thought of some things you haven't," replied Theodoric, meaning to sound secretive.

"Such as what?"

"That would be the catch. I cannot tell you without a pact. A bee will have neither honey nor life if it stings a bear that's already raided the hive."

In spite of this last sentence, what Theodoric said made sense to Artur. "Andreia said listen. She knows about the secret you speak of. Very well, then, we will join you, for now. If we see any treachery, it will go very badly for you."

"That has always been clear to us."

"You must join us in our village."

"And what guarantee do we have that we will be safe there?" asked Theodoric.

"I give you Kylie. For now. One false move and I'll pull your head off." And Artur slid his sword from its sheath and handed her to Theodoric, partly as promise and partly to show he feared him not at all.

"This is extraordinary indeed," Theodoric said. "The sword and the gesture."

"Come," said Artur with an expansive feeling he hadn't expected. "We must tell the others."

As they emerged from the trees, Artur stared in surprise at Geoffrey and Picta, standing at a comfortable distance but each one contemplating the other, lost in thought. And at that moment he noticed the girl had five fingers.

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 point 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."

Chapter XVII

The Melic with the marred face, Aachen by name, came by his features through many unfortunate encounters with angry bees. Though he looked even worse than most Melics, his personality simmered with optimism, always thinking of what good thing might be possible, perhaps because the rewards of his work always proved sweet. Seeking out honey for the clan had led to many skills within him, in particular keen hearing as he tested for hollow trees, and a high threshold for pain. Long expeditions also had brought him into contact with many natural aids to healing and good health, in a Melic sort of way.

His father had been Lombard, the greatest of the honey-hunters, mentor of the family trade. Never a mark had been put on him by a bee, and he was as clean a man as ever lived among the Melics. But one afternoon, as he and Aachen together sought ripe hives, he stumbled and fell out of the branches, landing amid rotting logs on the forest floor. Before he knew it he wallowed in a vast honeycomb, covered with the angry bees who had made it. That lack of stings over the years now betrayed him, as his body had developed no resistance. The rarity of a Melic dying a violent death, and of Lombard falling prey to stings after so long, for a time threw Aachen under suspicion of foul play, but in the end the clan made Lombard a hero instead of Aachen a villain.

Theodoric and Artur found Aachen in the camp and led him toward the building housing the injured. Many of the wounded had already left its confines, but some remained. Andreia still lay stretched out on her back by the wall.

Along the way Theodoric related all of Aachen's many medical discoveries, but Artur wanted to talk about other things.

"What do you mean, we need the other clans? What do you know of them? Just because we're trusting you doesn't mean we'll trust just anybody," he said in a harsh whisper, walking quickly at Theodoric's side as if trying to catch his attention.

"We have only our minds to offer. But that too will fall short: Thirty-two to one, Artur, learn from the thylak. You will need more."

"Do you think to play some kind of trick? Do you wish to pollute the Rufoux? I can't tell my people they need Bedoua — our forefathers raided their camps at will, in broad daylight! They bit the heads off their rumidont and spit them back into their tents! And besides, they do stink! I meant that literally — they're rank like animals!"

The three entered the building, and Aachen knelt by Andreia as the debate continued.

"The Bedoua have skills neither you nor I know. The light shines upon all, but only chosen eyes see chosen sights," said Theodoric.

"Look," Artur said menacingly, but still trying to conceal his voice. "If we're going to do this, you'll have to use plain talk. I don't have time to figure out your word games."

"We live in a wide world, Artur of the Rufoux. The Earth opens to all of us, but each clan has taken a different path. Each clan has uncovered different wonders that the Earth births for all. The Bedoua make an odd substance: Hard as rock, but clear. They make it with fire, just like your metals, so you see, you have a hidden knowledge in common with them. Their harsh desert lands have taught them to survive on much less than would keep you alive for only a week. They could have much to offer — besides their numbers."

"How do you know so much about them?"

"I observe," said Theodoric matter-of-factly. "Nothing else to do."

"Well, fine, you've been spying on them just as you have us. But you know nothing about the Koinoni, and I do. Every flood they bring their boats up the Alluvia and try to cheat us out of our crops. They are trustworthy like shadows, creeping about unseen in their long cloaks, doing what they please under cover. They would steal the breath out of your lungs if they could. You don't know them like I do, and they can't be trusted."

"Certainly we Melics alone would quickly fall victim to their cunning. But together with you, Artur, with your advanced insight, we can keep an eye on them." Theodoric tried not to sound patronizing. "Besides, they know of other peoples outside Medialia. Those other lands must be filled with marvels you and I could not even imagine. No telling what they could bring to the battle — besides their numbers."

"The Koinoni would love to march into battle with us and disappear. They would leave us stranded, or sell us over to the Aoten for a string of beads. They offer their friendship to wealth alone, and the game of cheating it away from others."

"Perhaps we can persuade them that trading with all of Medialia would be more profitable than just trading with giants. How much did the Aoten offer you for grain?"

"You have an answer for everything, don't you? Very slick, I guess you've been thinking about this for days up in your tree. Well, what have you to say about the Raspars? You ever even seen a Raspar?"

"No, I must admit, but I have laid eyes upon their city. Such beautiful strength, never before had I seen anything like it. The planning of the tall buildings, the might it took to cut and move that stone, and the carving! Their statues look like a song, but instead of disappearing like notes into the air, their sculpture will stand forever! Certainly they would have much to contribute, besides..."

"Numbers, right," interrupted Artur sourly. "I wouldn't trust a Raspar any farther than I could throw him."

"You could throw a Melic a far distance," said Theodoric. "And as of yesterday you didn't trust us at all."

"No, I can't agree to this. Melics are one thing, but Raspars! Our elders tell tales of such treachery — they murdered an entire clan! And Koinoni, Mog's goblins! How could I explain that one to Wyllem? Koinoni are the bane of the whole world — throw them to the Aoten, I say! Then the other clans would come to us with sacrifices of gratitude! And the Bedoua, that bunch of sloppy herders of rumidonts, Rufoux stables would not allow them entry," Artur ranted under his breath.

Andreia stirred as Aachen felt her forehead and gently tested her abdomen with the flats of his fingers. He moved her head about slightly, and tested the joints of her hips and knees, her shoulders and elbows. He rolled her lower body over just enough to look under her, and peered into her eyes. They stayed open, but slightly out of focus, as he stood up.

"No bleeding, as far as I can tell, and no discharge. The pipes and beams inside do not appear to be broken. She's too hot, that's the main thing. I can collect leaves and seeds to grind a poultice, but the hot skin needs treating from the inside."

"Do you know of any cure?" asked Theodoric.

"No," said Aachen, who had overheard the conversation with Artur.

"Do I have no hope then?" Artur asked meekly.

"Her life is in serious jeopardy, but as long as she breathes she draws in hope. It will not come from me, however. She needs Bedoua healing."

"What?"

"The Bedoua know much about healing," Theodoric said. "They know the poisons."

"What!" exclaimed Artur. "Do you think I'm going to let poisoners close to Andreia?"

"The line between death and life divides thinly, and between poison and medicine as well. Too much of anything can kill a man; just enough might cure him. The Bedoua alone in Medialia know this skill."

"The Bedoua again! How much of this Medialia rabble must I indebt myself to?"

Andreia again stirred. "S'Artur," she said softly.

"What? What is it?" the Rufoux chief quickly turned attentive and knelt beside her.

"She talks not to you," said Aachen. "She drifts in her sleep, and will tell her dreams what she has to say."

Artur looked away from the Melic healer and back to Andreia. "What is it?"

"Ar-tur."

She groaned and sighed heavily.

"See. Creature peep bl-ast hoe." Her voice faded to nothing on the last word, and she said no more.

Artur looked upon her silently before slowly rising. Her lips burned their brightest red, blazing with the heat of her fever. " 'Creature peep blast hoe?' What could that mean?"

"The light hides much from the blind when the true seer lies in darkness," said Theodoric, and Artur snapped his head toward him. "Or, in other words," he corrected himself, "She knows: 'Secret, your people's last hope.' "

Artur thought for just a second, then understood. "The secret?"

"Herein dwells the secret — all the clans together, and you must be their leader, Artur. You are the only clan chief strong enough. Andreia sees the truth in the depths of her sickness. You must be at least as strong as she is."

"Lauræl." And Artur gazed upon her still body.

"She is worth keeping, no?" asked Aachen, wiping his four-fingered hands on a soft leather towel.

"Andreia," and he raised his eyes. "We must."

"Well, you may indeed need the Raspars and Koinoni, and the Bedoua as well to defeat the Aoten, eventually. But this girl needs the Bedoua now."

Chapter XVIII

The River Alluvia, fount of all things good for the Rufoux, showed her cruel side as well in Medialia. At her mouth she arbitrarily flowed south toward the sea and left only dry sands to her north, the unforgiving lands of the Bedoua.

To this forbidding territory embarked a small company of travelers, but not before thoughtful preparation by Theodoric.

"Pepin, I need you back to the village. You must send Franken out to the river's mouth to meet us there — he'll know why. Send with him Mienrade; four feet travel just as fast and twice as friendly. Then return here with woodsmen. A stockade remains to be built here, I believe, and our axes will be of much use. You must oversee that task."

Artur chose Osewold and half a dozen other Rufoux to make the journey, but Theodoric cut him short.

"Best only one Rufoux. Your legends tell tales of Rufoux raids on Bedoua tents, and so do theirs. Less trouble will arise if they see only one Rufoux, and that the chief."

Artur wavered, but by now he knew he should trust Theodoric's judgment, on the off times he could understand it, and sent his fellows away. He took Wyllem aside to solemnly charge him with the clan.

"You always counsel me, so now you must stand for me as leader of the clan until I return. Let the Melics have their way with the logging; they know what they do. You make sure the storehouse is secure. Fight off the Aoten with all your power, if such arises. If you have questions, direct them to Father." And then to Geoffrey, "As much as his questions might make you want to kill yourself, I expect to see you alive when I get back."

"Aachen will accompany us," Theodoric informed Artur. "He must describe the girl's sickness. Picta will go as well. She has somewhat in common with you, and can keep you company. Besides, one must have reeds, barkstrings and hollows to play well."

With knapsacks slung over their shoulders, lightly packed with supplies, Artur with extra weapons and the Melics with their instruments, the four struck out to follow the River Alluvia's path into Bedoua territory. Along they trudged at the river's bank, occasionally slipping on the mud, often fording small streams. The journey would take some days on foot. Flooding time would come very soon, when the swollen river would swallow up the very ground they trod upon. For Artur the trip north would have been much faster upon Brute, but once the floods came, a return trip through the wetlands would be nearly impossible for the hippus; besides, the Melics couldn't ride.

Artur walked silently most of the time, listening and watching his feet. To pass the time, Theodoric and Aachen shared their philosophies on every gust of breeze, it seemed to him. Picta continued in silence as well, willing to break neither the men's conversation nor the ice with Artur. But her attitude changed when Theodoric and Aachen slipped up into the trees.

"Now that we draw near to Aoten territory," Theodoric told Artur. "Aachen and I will walk the branches for a time to keep a look out." And immediately they vanished.

Artur looked at Picta awkwardly. "I'm not much good at conversation," he said. "Usually I just answer Wyllem."

"Just as well," replied Picta. "I listen to my people talk and talk, but I don't try to join in much. I'm not included very often anyway."

"Oh?"

"They say I'm too ugly."

"You don't sound like you care."

"Oh, I care that I'm ugly. Wouldn't you? But I'm used to it."

"You wouldn't be considered ugly by Rufoux."

"Thank you, for Rufoux women boast all the beauty of a hippus' ass. What do the Rufoux know about it?"

Her belligerence caught Artur off-guard. "What? You would not be called ugly by Rufoux," he tried to explain.

"But I do not belong to the Rufoux," she returned, this time more angry. "I am Melic. I may be pink in the flesh and lack my people's lines, but I am Melic! I am an ugly Melic!" She crossed her arms and hid her hands underneath.

"Better an ugly Melic than Rufoux!" she said, her eyes filling. She flipped a hand at Artur in disdain, then hid it again.

Artur did not know what to make of this behavior. Though he had three companions, he yet considered himself to be alone. Even by himself, he did not fear confrontation; but he did not relish argument and did not care to enter one with a Melic woman, so he chose to walk the path in silence again. Picta gently sobbed as they walked along. Artur thought of Andreia, and Geoffrey, and the mother he never knew.

On they went until night fell. Now safely distant from the Aoten camp, Theodoric and Aachen descended out of the trees, bringing with them each a load of dead wood, which they laid before Artur. Artur produced his flints and quickly sparked a fire. A little river water, and they had produced a fine stew of roots and grain, the last drops sopped up with Rufoux bread.

The Melics produced their instruments and played into the night stars. Theodoric's reed whistled a mournful melody to Aachen's low barkstring, and Picta kept tempo upon her small hollow as she sang along. She never looked up from her hands even once, and Artur looked deeply into her sad countenance as her haunting voice floated through the air and the trees and into the heavens. He sat mesmerized at the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard.

Artur almost didn't notice that they'd stopped. When he regained his attention, all the Melics had come to their feet.

"Sorry, Artur," said Theodoric. "But it just wouldn't do for Melics to spend the night on the ground. A perch loves the water, and a Melic loves his perch." And with that all three disappeared into the leaves and the blackness.

Artur spread out the rumidont hide he carried and lay down beside the fire. Alone once again, it suited him well, and he reviewed in his mind the events of the last several days. Soon his eyes grew heavy and his mind dark.

He awoke to dappled light tickling his eyelids and the psychotic singing of a particularly loud bird. No, not a bird — the whistling drew Artur's eyes to Theodoric, playing with the night's embers, trying to coax a blaze. Artur blinked and tried to gather his bearings, when Picta's face appeared overhead.

"Heard you snoring last night," she said; apparently her mood had lifted. "You made even the trees shake. No wonder you sleep alone."

Artur could only grunt in reply, and then she tripped away anyway, so he made a mental note to get back at her later. He busied himself building the fire for Theodoric, and soon a hot breakfast sizzled over the blaze.

The trip proceeded in this manner for days as the travelers wound along the Alluvia's course. As each day passed, Artur could tell the river's level was rising; before long the flooding time would be fully upon them. He knew the high water would likely bring trouble into the Rufoux village.

Finally they reached the spring where the river bubbled out of the ground, surrounded by a small area of pasture. This land marked the boundaries of the Bedoua, but the four knew that at whatever time outlying shepherds had spotted them, the entire clan certainly would have retreated into the desert still to the north. And thus did the Bedoua defend their lives and homeland.

As they approached the pasture, Aachen stopped and carefully held his head cocked. Just as suddenly he turned to Theodoric and said, "They're almost here."

"Good," replied Theodoric. "We'll wait."

Artur stood there expectantly for a few minutes but then ran out of patience. He nearly had time to ask what they were waiting for when two Melics suddenly dropped out of the trees on vines behind him. He jumped a little in surprise, and Picta snickered under her breath.

"Mienrade, Franken, just in time," said Theodoric. "Meet Artur of the Rufoux."

Mienrade bowed deeply, and Artur could see he had an instrument like Theodoric's, only much bigger and ornately inlaid. Franken stepped forward and held an object out to Artur.

"Artur of the Rufoux, I gain much pleasure for myself and the Melics to offer you this token of our great regard," Theodoric announced.

Artur stared blankly as Franken held the object out stiffly. It was carved of wood, Artur could see, and it looked like a hippus with a rider, but he wasn't sure what to do about it.

"Looks like wood," he said, with some disdain.

"It's a hippus, and a rider," Franken hesitated as he explained. He didn't want to insult Artur's intelligence, but at the same time he didn't know why Artur didn't take the gift. "It is made for you, Artur of Rufoux."

"What for?" Artur asked, truly not knowing what to do. Picta rolled her eyes.

"Well, I made it," said Franken, not knowing what point he should make. "Push the tail and reins move up — figure flips like Rufoux riding."

"Oh, well, that's good. I have seen Rufoux riding," said Artur, and he turned his back to address Theodoric. "Shouldn't we be going?"

"Yes, surely," said Theodoric in embarrassment, and as they left he shrugged at the dismayed Franken, still holding his work of art outstretched. The Rufoux had no idea of diplomacy, knew nothing of tact, and Artur in particular had no interest in clever trinkets. Franken let his arms drop and forlornly followed the rest, the little hippus tucked under his arm.

Chapter XIX

"Yes, we must be going," Theodoric continued, looking overhead. "The full moon rises tonight, and we must make their camp before dark. They will insist on it, or else we put our lives in danger."

"Why?" asked Artur.

"I don't know. All I know is what I've observed."

"How will we know the way?"

"Morning sun directly to the right," said Theodoric, holding his right arm straight out. "Make it go directly overhead, directly to the left."

"Smart," said Artur.

"Well, we observe the sun. Besides, we may have tracks to follow as well."

The little group pressed on into the desert in silence, now expending all their energies in walking. They soon passed the former site of the Bedoua camp, the sand still stirred up like churning water, although the winds worked to smooth it quickly. Sure enough, a faint trail of footprints remained visible. On they trekked, and as the sand grew deeper, each step became more difficult. Artur, in his heavier Rufoux armor, soon tired and felt the heat of the unhindered sun beating down upon him. And yet on they went.

Hours passed, until at last they topped a tall dune and saw Bedoua tents. Rumidonts wandered about outside the large camp, and dozens of sentries stood at its perimeter.

"Do as I do," said Theodoric.

He threw his hands into the air and slowly walked a direct path toward the camp. Artur and the other Melics followed suit, and soon sentries surrounded them, taking Artur's weapons.

"I am Theodoric of the Melics. I have come to see Dungo."

"Who is the Rufoux?" asked one sentry grimly.

"I bring Artur, chief of the Rufoux. We have come together to see Dungo."

"You cannot see Dungo. Nobody sees Dungo."

"Artur has journeyed far; Artur, who battles the Aoten. He must see Dungo."

"The Aoten? Who battles the Aoten?"

"Artur, Artur of the Rufoux. He must see Dungo."

"He must wait here."

"He must see Dungo."

"Wait first. Maybe you will see Dungo later." And the sentry disappeared into the tent city.

Their hands still up in the air, the travelers waited in the blazing sun as the remaining sentries milled about. Artur grew hotter by the minute, as did his temper, but he knew the Bedoua's numbers made his situation hopeless, in spite of the dagger he still had hidden underneath his breastplate.

At last the sentry returned. "Come see Dungo," he invited, and his smile gleamed as bright as his frown had been ominous.

The little group filed through the camp in line, Theodoric in the lead, hands held high. A smattering of Bedoua fell in along the way, staring at the Melics' hands, and straggling rumidonts scattered out of the procession's way. Their guards led them toward a large tent, luxuriously woven of rumidont wool. Wonderfully intricate embroidery peeked out of its folds, not pictures but knotwork, paisley-like patterns, like ironwork made of fabric, and a rich fringe lined all its edges. Servants instructed Artur to remove his shoes as he entered, then carefully washed the feet of all in bowls of water. A deep carpet, again of rumidont wool, swathed their tired feet in its cool softness.

Before them sat a rotund man upon a pile of embroidered carpets, stacked askew upon each other, at least a kronyn high. Jet black hair fell from his head, long and braided into thin strings like his beard, which he sat twisting upon one finger as he contemplated his visitors. He wore a single large earring made of glass, looped through his pierced lobe, and he kept a large collection of beautifully delicate glass figurines at his side. With them sat a group of small, colorful bottles, all carefully sealed with cork and wax. The smell of rumidonts hung thick inside the tent, and in fact two sleepily chewed their cud in the corner. An intricate water clock sat beside him, also made of glass and continuously dripping out the most precious commodity of the desert for its most opulent occupant: Dungo, grand vizier of the Bedoua, so named as the fattest of the clan, a mark of accomplishment among a people of meager means. Behind him stood a thin man with a heavy mustache and wearing something over his eyes, and a full-figured woman with long black hair as well.

"Who brings this Rufoux into my presence?" Dungo began, full of indignation. "Who brings him into the camp of the Bedoua? Does he not know that Rufoux hang as a curse over the Bedoua? Does he not know that the Rufoux have vexed the Bedoua forefathers, and forced them into the desert lands, into the curse of the River Alluvia? Does he not know that the Rufoux have stolen the right of the Bedoua to live in peace with the land and the water? Does he not know that the Bedoua forefathers have bought their right to harmony with the land at a high price? Does he not know the price the Rufoux and Wolven himself extract from the Bedoua? Does he beg yet more outrage, that he would then bring Rufoux into the Bedoua camp? Who brings this Rufoux among the Bedoua? Who would bring him into the presence of Dungo?"

"I, Theodoric of the Melics."

"Melics are one thing, Rufoux another," Dungo continued. "Melics can have their trees, we do not care. Melics do not covet the pastures, or the full length of the Alluvia, or the wool and milk of the rumidonts. But the Rufoux, they want all they can see. Their fields do not yield enough for them, their metals and fire give them not power enough. The Rufoux have made victims of my people for generations. Did we not bargain away enough for the security of our camp? What more would you extract from us, Rufoux man? And at dusk as well, when the full moon arises. What worse sign could fall upon the Bedoua? What more misfortune would you bring upon us? What is it, Rufoux man? What do you require from the Bedoua before you bring your clan down upon us? Here, sit and eat," and Dungo gestured toward a large platter piled high with cheeses, an odd hospitality in the midst of his rant.

"Artur, chief of the Rufoux, has joined me to seek an audience," said Theodoric, settling down on the floor and reaching for the food. Artur followed suit and took some of the strange stuff himself, his hunger overcoming his doubts and his distaste for the smell inside the tent.

"Artur, the chief! Well, what a fine thing! Why does the chief of the Rufoux travel with Melics? And alone at that! This is puzzling indeed. Is there an army of Rufoux awaiting behind the dunes, perhaps? Awaiting a signal to attack? You will be mightily disappointed, Artur of the Rufoux, if you plan such mischief, for the night of the full moon stalks you! Anyone outside the tents will be left in shreds tonight, for soon comes the full moon. I well remember once long ago, a pack of thylak entered the deserts, thinking to make a meal of Bedoua rumidonts. But the full moon knew too much! Wolven left not a single thylak alive. Little did they know, but the thylak avoid the desert now, you see. So why would you venture out in such dangerous times? Why do you come to us, Artur of the Rufoux? Why do you seek out the Bedoua, if not to pillage and steal?"

"We come seeking help," Artur swallowed hard to keep his disdain from his voice.

"Help? Help the mighty Rufoux? How can that be?" Dungo was sincerely incredulous, but not above sarcasm. "The Rufoux have always looked upon the Bedoua as servants, if not animals, allowed to live only to produce wonders worthy of theft. Our woolens, our glassware, our herds and women: All lay about like wild grasses for the mighty Rufoux to harvest for themselves. Only for raiders to snatch away from us when our guard is down. Jackals who sneak into the corral as the shepherd drops waste. I know the legends well, the ancient Rufoux who swept down on their hippus and drove the rumidonts into the mouth of the Alluvia. You keep us away from its southern waters! You force us into the dry sands of northern Medialia! How do you now expect help from us? How can you seek aid from the lowly Bedoua, oh high and mighty Rufoux?"

"We battle the Aoten," said Artur.

"The Aoten! So I have heard! The giants have come into Medialia! Has one stronger arrived to vex the Rufoux? Is the shoe now on the other foot, so to speak? Do the Rufoux now learn the lessons the Bedoua have studied for so long? I say well enough then! Let the Rufoux pay the price of peace they once forced the Bedoua to pay! Let the Rufoux drink the cup of servitude! One time a rumidont sought leadership of a herd, but he looked for followers in the wood and found only deviltooth! Perhaps the Rufoux seek rumidonts in the Bedoua, but have found deviltooth in the Aoten."

"I'm afraid you have well spoken, but the Aoten will not stop at taking Rufoux lands," said Theodoric.

"Do you say the Aoten threaten the Bedoua? I have not seen them. I have not heard of them coming up the Alluvia. What might they want from the desert? What do the Bedoua still possess that the giants might desire? I think they could want little here, and I think the Bedoua might want to offer the Rufoux more little yet. Let the Aoten have the forest lands, I say, let them have the Rufoux fields. We have no use for Rufoux, nor either for Melics. The Bedoua will stay in the pastures, and the deserts if need be, and we will survive, as we always have. We will disappear into the depths of the sands, if we must, but we will survive. Your curse has become a blessing to us, Rufoux man! And when the Aoten have filled their bellies on Rufoux wealth, then perhaps Wolven will slake his own hunger upon them, and Bedoua will inherit the riches of Medialia."

Out of patience with the long-winded Dungo, Artur wanted to simply walk out of the meeting. But not sure if he'd even make it out of the tent alive, he decided instead to try a different appeal to the Bedoua leader.

"If not this then, we ask for your healing skills," he said. "For a girl who suffers greatly."

"Oh? Have you heard then of Bedoua alchemy? Skills the Rufoux forced upon us? Here in the miserly desert we have much to fear: Poisonous snakes and lizards, insects and plants that sting with death. We have learned much about making a weak body strong again, because we don't have the abundance that the Rufoux enjoy. And now you ask us to share our secrets? You ask us to save a Rufoux girl, who will no doubt then produce a dozen more Rufoux warriors to vex us? Should we save this life so the Aoten can take it?"

"I have knowledge of healing as well," said Aachen. "But I do not have the skills of the Bedoua. This girl will die without Bedoua healing."

"Do I care? I remember stories of a Bedoua girl, long ago, raped and beaten by Rufoux raiders. Did she survive? I hardly think so ..."

"But that happened so long ago," Artur broke in impatiently.

"Are our memories so short? Should we refuse to learn?" Dungo insisted, looking directly at Artur. "What can come of forgetting the past? Only more atrocities? So you then ask me to dishonor this girl's memory for the sake of her tormentors? But, what's this I see? What is this marvelous device? How can such a delightful object exist? What clever design and ingenious contrivance is this?"

Dungo's eyes had fallen upon Franken's carving, turning his face as bright as the sky, and the travelers could hear a clicking sound accompanying Dungo's words. The gift sat before Franken, who had been playing with it idly as the vizier's monolog droned on. Dungo reached for the little hippus, and Franken handed it over.

"What beautiful work! What delicate art! And the tail, how can the tail move the rider? Oh, the splendid joy of creation! A tiny Rufoux doing tricks upon a hippus! What cleverness! What grand invention! Who could have imagined such a wonderful toy?" Dungo looked about in glad search of other Bedoua to share his discovery with. "Ha-haaa! Such raptures, and joy! See, what exquisite designs upon the breastplate, the brave face, the wonder of the tricks! How it must feel to be real and ride upon such a grand animal! Who has brought this? Who has brought this most charming, excellent offering into the lands of the Bedoua?"

"Artur offers you a gift, a token of esteem from the Rufoux," said Theodoric.

"Krait! Sylva! Prepare beds for our honored guests!" ordered Dungo, and he marveled at the tiny plaything.

Chapter XX

Dungo's complaint against the Rufoux was hardly unjustified, for lack and deprivation choked the Bedoua world. But neither did the clan's circumstances hang as desperately as its leader made out, for the people had chosen their lifestyle, and they had learned to take much joy in what they could squeeze out of the dry lands.

Dungo simply showed the typical Bedoua outlook, beset by moaning one moment, in the thralls of gladness the next. Emotions ran high in the clan, seldom with guile, and the clicking sound Artur and his companions had heard always signaled a Bedoua's pleasure. Only one, Krait, had learned to hide his mood, not only from strangers but also his clansmen; glasses with tinted lenses and heavy whiskers added to his concealment. But Dungo could be as expansive and full of good humor as a child, regaling a gathering of friends with long stories of past happenings, relating lessons to be learned from nature, or heaping attention upon his pets, Moss and Skree.

Their domesticated rumidonts claimed the center of the Bedoua life; the clan's shelter and sustenance came almost entirely from these animals, able to survive on the scraggly grass of the sands. The woven wool — soft enough for swaddling clothes but sturdy too to braid into ropes — made up all Bedoua clothing, as well as their tents, rugs and blankets. Cheese, milk and butter dominated their diets, although they also gathered wild grains that they baked whole into their bread, to help keep them regular.

Sylva, Dungo's daughter, could talk with Dungo only. Her birth had muted her voice but left her intelligence, and she had developed a language of hieroglyphs and could communicate with him by writing. In that way she counseled him in secret, for no other man nor woman in Medialia could read or write.

"Yes, you must bed down in the tent of Dungo tonight, for already the night threatens those who venture outside," said Dungo to the travelers. "Sylva and Krait as well, for the night has fallen too far to leave the tent, or Wolven will cast a bloody shadow upon the moon. Already the rumidonts have been hidden away and will not be released to graze again until dawn. My heart rejoices to invite you to stay with me; we will have a grand feast tonight, and talk of many wonders of the outside world." He continued to play with his new treasure made of wood, and the clicking intensified.

Krait and Sylva had made up beds for all in the spacious tent. Artur chose one and casually tossed his knapsack upon it, but the Melics looked about at each other nervously. Theodoric realized that he had not thought ahead about night in the desert; he looked to Dungo and began.

"Begging your pardon, oh vizier, we offer you much thanks for your hospitality. You have opened your own home to us, and we confess our debt to your generosity. But, begging your pardon, we Melics were not made for the ground. As you know, our security relies on the trees, given us by our god Drueed, and to sleep upon the ground would be quite impossible."

Dungo broke in with great annoyance. "What say you? You will not stay in the tent of Dungo? And what trees do we have to offer you, or do you refuse the camp of the Bedoua as well? And what protection can we offer you against the ravening of Wolven? Any? No, none, not if you leave our tents! Do you expect to make the full day's journey back to the forest lands? Will you outrun the vicious Wolven as you seek the cradling arms of Drueed? I hardly think! You will stay in my tent or you will not survive the morning!"

"But, great Dungo," Theodoric began again.

"Come to think of it," added Artur, "I feel a little cramped myself." His adulthood spent sleeping alone made him dislike the idea of strange bunkmates.

"No! I will not hear of it!" Terror showed itself in Dungo's eyes. "If your gods respect themselves at all, they would strike me down for sending you into the jaws of Wolven! Bedoua ways forbid it, to so mistreat a guest as to deny him not only a bed but also his life! You must stay, trees or no trees. See, we have much to eat and drink, delicacies such as you Melics have never known. The night will pass quickly, you will see! And you will not be torn to shreds, as well. You, girl, you must separate yourself and follow Sylva to the tent's far side."

"Picta," said Picta.

"Sylva," said Dungo, not understanding. With the Melic attitude toward sex, Picta in turn did not understand his directions, and she made a face as she obeyed.

Theodoric looked to his clansmen and sat upon one of the beds in resignation. "The wind blows we know not from where, but we can see it directs the ways of the leaves." Franken carefully assessed the rugs upon his bed. Picta tried lying on her side. Artur lay back on his pallet, his hands behind his head, and wondered what to do while Dungo's voice filled the night air.

"Let me tell you of Wolven, wise Melics. All the Bedoua know of your philosophy, but maybe you have not heard of the ways of Wolven. Our god perhaps does not care for the gentility and benevolence of yours; ours may extract of his people a high price when they are found wanting. The appetite of Wolven finds its roots in the beginning of time, never to be satisfied. He awaits only to find the ignorant, or unwary, or unbelieving to exercise his wrathful judgment. His stealthy pace overtakes his victims without notice, and he can pull the very bones out of a man's body! Through the nostrils! I have seen it done — or at least I have heard the tales. Stories to chill your blood, Melics! Even you, Artur of the Rufoux, your clan of warriors would cringe at the sight of Wolven!"

"I don't..." began Artur, but he didn't get far.

"Oh, such a terrible being is Wolven!" said Dungo with much mystery in his voice. Krait stood behind him impassively, his eyes hidden from view. "From the very beginning he desired only to covet and steal, to kill and destroy. But so did he gain his power, and so does he maintain control over the Bedoua! For if he finds any man or woman, or child, or even rumidont from the Bedoua camp under the full moon, he wipes it forever from the memory of the Earth. What a devilish thing is Wolven! What a curse upon the northern sands! But though he would wipe out the Bedoua if he could, as well he slaughters our enemies who seek the Bedoua among the dunes. So lucky that our sharp-eyed sentries discovered you before dusk! For under the light of the moon there would have been no hiding from Wolven!"

"So we have been told," said Theodoric. "And more so, that when a Bedoua comes upon a traveler as the full moon rises, he also will kill him outright."

"Oh, indeed, to be found by the light of the full moon promises sure death!"

"A wonderful opportunity for your father, were he here," Theodoric commented to Artur.

"What? Oh, yeah," Artur said, and let his mind wander again.

"Yes! So true, the Bedoua distribute generously of their mercy!" Dungo continued. "Better to be killed by your fellow man than murdered upon the ferocious teeth of that villain Wolven. For he takes his victims by the head and tears at their throats with his vicious claws. He leaves them gasping for air as he gnaws out their entrails. Then he might tear off each finger and each toe, displaying the dismembered feet and hands before the eyes of his victim, to behold every digit as it disappears down his gullet. He might, if his grace overflows that night, then suck the eyeballs out of the man's head, to spare him the anguish of witnessing more of his pain. Wolven leaves an empty skin behind, evidence of his crimes, defying any who might bring him to justice. Then he blows across the deserts to his lair with a ghostly howl. 'Never shall his stomach cease gnawing at his heart.' "

Outside a swelling and waning chorus arose to greet the cool night air. "Sand crickets," said Dungo. "As long as they sing, it is a good sign."

Aachen shuddered, and Picta lay on her side with a slight smile. Every now and then Artur's snoring would jar him awake. Cheeses and bread lay about in abundance, and Sylva handed cups of fresh milk to all who would take them. Mienrade, the Melic who had accompanied Franken to the mouth of the Alluvia, took a drink and studied its taste. The chief composer of the clan, he tended to think of everything in terms of chords and harmonies, what would complement well and what would not. He pulled a flagon out of his knapsack and squeezed a few drops into his drink. From his pocket came a wooden straw, a device he had invented when he tried once to devise a particularly small whistle, and he stirred and took a sip.

Dungo had actually stopped talking to watch Mienrade at work. Mienrade smiled and offered his cup back to the Bedoua, who sniffed carefully before drinking himself. With no idea how to work the straw, he simply used the lip of the cup.

"Ha-haaaa! What name do you give this divine elixir? Can it be ambrosia itself?" he exclaimed loudly, staring into the milk.

Artur shot upright, wide awake at the ruckus.

"I don't know. I added honey, the sweetness of the Melic table. The mixture has never been tasted before tonight," said Mienrade.

"Then we have been visited by a night of truly the greatest blessing! Oh, what a night, and a full moon at that! Let Wolven try to steal away the glory of this night, and the days that follow! Now, I have decided, that settles everything! Krait, take note! In the morning you and Humus leave for the Rufoux camp, and you will do whatever you can to help the girl! Take some of this delicious brew with you; perhaps it performs magic upon the stomach as well as the tongue! We must talk more about the Aoten, they remain a much different matter, but all in due time! For now, we save the girl! Yes, for we have tonight spent the most fortunate night in the history of the Bedoua, the night the desert was made a land of milk and —" and Dungo hesitated, seeking help.

"Honey," said Theodoric, smiling. "Milk and honey."

Dungo may well have talked all the rest of the night, but Artur would never know. So heavily did sleep bear down upon him — after the draining journey, his arrest and interrogation and the long conversation — even Dungo's bombast did not stir him. Franken, after much study, struck upon rolling up the rugs that made his bed, so he could lay on top, his arms and legs dangling somewhat, in the semblance of sleeping on a branch. All the Melics followed suit and slept as soundly as if they had been in their own trees, with the exception of Picta, who somehow had dozed off on the ground.

The Ascendancy of Wolven

Amuntah has spread his hands over the dust, over the sparkling, mystic particles floating upon the invisible breeze.

Amuntah placed the dust in his hand, and squeezed them together with divine strength.

Amuntah has pricked the dust with a pin, and it has bled water, water that flows across the surface of the ball within his hand.

Amuntah scattered seeds beside the flowing streams of water, and drew out stems and leaves from the dust.

Amuntah has freed the fish and lobster, the sea star and abalone, and unleashed the draughgon into the depths of the waters.

Amuntah prepared a place for the rumidont and hippus, for the otter and the thylak, for the deviltooth and depila bird.

Amuntah has directed the Alluvia and Gravidas to flow, to reject the northern lands, to refuse the pleadings of the desert.

And Amuntah took the dust he had made, and fashioned the Bedoua, to live as the wind-blown sands sting the face.

Oh, Amuntah, your power extends beyond imagination, your wisdom and wonder beyond the mind of your creation.

Your goodness and mercy no doubt are greater than the heart of man can understand.

Oh, Amuntah, you drape your long robes over the expanse of your creation, giving shelter to all who crawl along its surface,

Or fly in its crystal skies, or swim in its cool darkness.

Oh, Amuntah, life belongs to you, whether it be short like your appetite or long like your elegant whiskers,

For you care not for the delicacies of the table, nor for the succulence of the fields.

Oh, Amuntah, you are more feared than any other, and your judgments strike deep into the hearts of evildoers and righteous alike.

You walk upon the heavens in shoes curled at the toe, carrying your long scimitar forever at your belt, prepared for your enemies.

What is your pleasure today, Amuntah, and what will come from your belly?

For you have set bread upon your tables, and you give generously to all those who call upon your name.

What will be the sign of your goodness this day? For you have set moisture in the air and dryness under the feet of your chosen.

You have done what is right in your sight, and prepared a creation that waits upon you.

Wolven! What is this that you have imagined? What has put these desires into your heart?

You creep about along the paths of the heavens, hiding among the stars as you plan your deceits.

The taste of ambition hangs upon your tongue, and your stomach gnaws at your heart.

What have you divined in your mind, that bitter envy would color your designs even against your creator?

"Oh, Amuntah, is it right that you have created me? Is it right that you have set me down in the midst of suffering?

"Oh, Amuntah, I come now to charge you with cruelty, you who have made me without my consent.

"For what am I, oh Amuntah, but what I am? And who has made me thus, if not you, Amuntah?

"And why do I hunger after that which I am not allowed, and why should my stomach gnaw at my heart?

"Oh, Amuntah, my wish is that I had not tasted birth at all! That I had been stillborn in the womb of your imagination!

"Oh, Amuntah, that you had had mercy upon me before my consciousness and prevented me from this sea of affliction.

"For you have brought me forth, you have brought me upon the heavens and Medialia,

"And them have I hated." And so you have said, oh Wolven, in the courts of the creator.

"Oh, Wolven, well you have said," says the creator. "For Amuntah has heard your complaint and seen your torment.

"Have I not created you with a clean mind, a dune without footsteps, to do with which as you will?

"Did you not fill your mind with gnawing? Have you not yourself created the desire for things you are denied?

"For you have stepped upon my shadow in my presence, and you have elevated yourself to my tables

"Not to share in abundance, but to steal; not to add to your plate, but to conceal underneath your robes.

"Is not every good thing yours? Why must your desires be upon secrets withheld?

"For the wisdom of Amuntah runs deeper than the Alluvia, and his beauty is poured out upon the south.

"And the golden loaves will sustain his chosen forever."

Did not Wolven hear the words of the creator, and did he not heed their direction? No!

"They will be made mine," Wolven has said within his heart, and he has made his way to steal the secret.

And upon the table of Amuntah has he crept, in the shelter of the darkness, moving among his fellows, the shadows;

Wolven has stalked the golden loaves that sit upon the tables of Amuntah.

Dressed in cloaks of darkness, did Wolven prepare his way to the tables, sacks hanging from his shoulders.

"Well will he regret making me to suffer," he has said in his heart. "Well will he remember the day of my revenge," Wolven has said.

For deep in the shadows he did creep, long past the time of the sun's setting,

That most bright creation of Amuntah, which he created at the beginning of time.

Stealthily did Wolven come upon the tables, in the darkness of night, when not a single candle burned in the mansion of the creator's domain.

Though fire brought heat upon the cold and the damned, not a candle burned.

Light did Wolven despise as he crept to his crafty mission in the depths of the darkness.

Light did Wolven despise, for his heart was dark and his purposes filled with deceit.

Oh, Wolven, have you not invaded the secret counsels of even your own creator?

Have you not betrayed the purposes of the one who set the universe in motion, to travel about himself in perfect order?

For you have crept through the passages of the mansion of the creator's domain,

And you have stolen the golden loaves from the creator's table, and cast them upon the land of Medialia.

What is this, that lies upon the sands? What is this thing, that brings life to the deserts of the Bedoua?

For it is like nothing ever seen, nothing that grows upon the trees of the ground, or flows from the teats of the rumidont.

For what reason is it hard, yet soft? For what reason does it defy tearing, yet does it crumble into helpless pieces?

What genius is womb to this wonderful gift? What generous deity has blessed the Bedoua so with the bread from heaven?

Oh, Amuntah! From the depths of your creation you have designed the spirit for life.

You have brought your mercy to the shores of the land, and into the desolate tents of the Bedoua have you at last sent grace.

Your gifts have fattened our bellies and prospered us indeed,

And you have made of us a grateful nation, prepared to serve you in obedience and thanksgiving forever.

"These sickening praises!" Oh, Wolven, have you not blasphemed in the fullness of your anger, your hatred?

"These prattling worshipers!" Oh, Wolven, have you not used the depths of your wiles and still failed against Amuntah?

"In cursing you I have blessed them, and in cursing them I have blessed you! Woe is me, and woe upon my head!

"For though I would cause you to suffer, the same suffering you have made me for, I can not." Oh, Wolven, great is your bitterness.

Amuntah stands silent in his victory, the giver of the stolen gift, not condemning though mere mortals eat.

Created long years ago, sitting upon his table, preparing for the appointed time to descend.

The golden loaves remain yours, though you share them freely, even among the Bedoua, oh Amuntah,

And greatly are you to be praised among the people, in the midst of the congregation of tents, in the midst of the Bedoua.

Battle hangs in the air, as the clanging of weapons rises in the valleys.

Armor glistens in the sun, for the day of bloodletting is come upon us.

The tramping of feet echoes throughout the mountains, as armies prepare for massacre.

Slaughter marches onward and bears ruthlessly down upon time, fleeting time.

Wailing arises among the cities, as peoples prepare to mourn their children

And families flee to false security within the thick forests and upon high plateaus.

Great numbers, rising on winged hippus, take formation against each other

In the valley of the unmerciful, the path of the final reaper.

"Why do you come out against me, oh Wolven?" Amuntah has said. "Why do you presume to bring battle before me?

"Why do you assemble an army after me, to overthrow my reign and make yourself greater than your creator?

"Why have you thought to prepare a throne for yourself in the far north, where the land is barren and the Alluvia flows not?

"For I have made you lesser than me, and only your desire to be more has brought you to this ruinous place.

"I have made you the first of my creation, oh Wolven," Amuntah has said. "That you might be clothed in splendid glory.

"You were made no less than the stars themselves, even the star of the day.

"Your conspiring thievery has served only to fulfill my wishes, and so you have waited upon me even in rebellion.

"So now do you come against me, thinking you will finally satisfy your stomach gnawing at your heart?"

"Such will be my vengeance upon you, for you have made me to suffer," Wolven has said.

"You have made me to suffer for the things withheld from me, and for the humiliation of my failure.

"You have made me to grovel before created things, the men you have chosen to favor over me.

"You have made me to suffer, though I would choose never to exist, by making me the servant of your will.

"So I will have my vengeance upon you," Wolven has said. "And I will see your throne overturned in anguish.

"And my armies have I assembled, to face you in the wilderness, and leave you clinging to life upon a tree.

"Betrayal will be my weapon, and my numbers will flourish before you, and I will claim the blessing of the golden loaves.

"And you will taste of the dust of death, and of the suffering you have brought upon your creation, by your gift of life."

Though many or few, none can stand before the might of Amuntah, creator of the heavens and all in them.

Though mighty and full of weapons, none can fight the powerful Amuntah, master of the land and all its animals.

Though filled with arrogance and butchery, none can withstand the mighty arm of Amuntah, lord of Medialia and all its people.

Though brimming with anger and hatred, none can overpower the love of Amuntah, vizier of the patient.

Have you not stood against a stone wall, oh Wolven, in your manipulation against your creator?

Have you not made yourself an impossible goal, in your deceptions to overcome even Amuntah?

Or do you carry the harsh desert wind in your hand, the daggers of death itself within your slathering jaws?

Do you have the fortune to overthrow that which is greater than you, he who alone has power to bless or curse?

Oh, Wolven, the depth of your malicious hatred is like the ravening quicksand casting up a mirage

Which beckons with lies of abundance but swallows up the unwary, who innocently seek life.

Oh, Wolven, the roiling of your bitter anger blows like a great wind, the cyclone that makes the sand to dance upon itself

And whip into the eyes of even the wise, to make them blind, and to bury the therium in its deceiving weight.

And so you march against your creator, the mighty Amuntah, with armies of traitors and mercenaries.

You bring battering rams and catapults, longbows and crossbows, to the castle walls of your master's mansions;

You bring fire and iron, you red devil, swords and pikes to do battle with the great and mighty one.

For you have said, oh Wolven, "I will proclaim myself victor over Amuntah, or I will end the gnawing at my heart."

Have the archers not drawn the bow against the balustrades, and let fly their missiles against the guard upon the wall?

Have not the battering rams splintered the great wooden doors, and opened wide the courts within the castle?

Have the swordsmen not drawn their weapons against the lord's infantry, and laid waste to women and children?

Have not the crossbows sent their bolts deep into the armor of the soldiers, a silent sting of death?

Have the axmen not expertly swung the heavy blades, to loosen shields from hands, and arms from shoulders?

Have not the pikes and lances set upon the people, defenseless against the cruel stabbing of grinning tormentors?

Has the cavalry not driven the hippus down upon the camp, and covered the ground like a flood?

For blood flows from the heavens and drenches Medialia below. And yet does Amuntah prevail.

Amuntah stands upon the parapet, in the midst of his armies, mighty against the fires of the night sky.

His robes flow in the breezes, his beard singed as the sparks of battle whirl about his head.

High over the heavens does he stand, and he directs the ways of the armies, and the forces that battle among themselves.

For he has created them, and they do his bidding, and the will of Amuntah is unable to fail.

Wolven creeps about at the foot of the wall, seeking a loose stone, or a tunnel through the dirt,

For he wants only a burglar's passage, to steal away the glory of Amuntah, and count it as his own.

Are you not afraid, oh Wolven, to see the face of Amuntah, your creator these many ages ago?

Are you not afraid to see that the one who gave you life now requires it back again?

Men fall, breathe in the dirt from which they sprang, and life soaks back into eternity.

Fire claims the wood that once was no more than ground and water, and stones drop from their lofty place back to the earth.

Sparks twist into the heavens, flying up as from the bowels of Hades, the end of suffering and yet also only the beginning.

The sound of rushing wind brings only sudden shock, and the arrow's shaft betrays its deadly success.

Oh, Amuntah, creator of all that exists, create now a new power in your armies!

Oh, Amuntah, master of the fates, the past and the future, direct the battle to redeem your name!

For the full moon is on the rise, and a scarlet shadow is cast upon it,

For Wolven is on the prowl, and his armies are fed by his hateful bloodlust.

Proud against the sky stands Amuntah, his arms outstretched over his creation, over his armies that do battle.

High over the melee does Amuntah hold his staff, a mighty king in the battle thick with his faithful subjects.

But one who would betray him creeps below, and he has found his way into the king's castle, and he has taken his place at his tables.

For Wolven is upon the balustrade, and he crawls among the shadows at his lord's feet.

Have you not said, oh Wolven, "I cannot attack the creator in his strength."

Have you not said, oh Wolven, "I will attack the creator only where he is weak."

And so you sink your teeth, the vicious daggers of evil, deep into the master's heel, deep as his face is turned away.

And you introduce death to the creator as you cling mercilessly to his feet with your putrid maw.

"It is finished!" you have said, oh Wolven, "I have had my vengeance even upon the one who created me!

"I have made him to pay for the suffering he appointed to me, when he made me and withheld the goodness of his hand from me.

"Now will I reclaim the golden loaves, the secret of the bread for which the Bedoua do still bless him!

"No longer will the bounty of the creator's table be a blessing to the people, but its memory will be a bitter curse."

And so did you return to Medialia, oh Wolven, you returned even to the northern sands of the Bedoua,

But you do not find the bread. The bread is no longer upon the land, but in the minds of the people.

And the secret of the golden loaves sets its table among the Bedoua, and you are not able to steal away its blessing.

And forever will you roam the land, seeking out the golden loaves.

How great is your anger, oh Wolven, the bile that remains still in your belly, poisoning your mind and bowels.

How great is the torment, still laid upon your head by Amuntah, even in his defeat.

For in death you still cannot claim the things he withheld, and in his absence you still are not master of his creation.

And your suffering still is not complete.

You shall roam the desert lands, always searching, never finding, but it is yours to lay waste to all who cross your paths.

You will be chained to the moon, prisoner of its rising and falling, seeing only by the light of its fullness.

You will be a curse upon your people, the Bedoua, whom you have stolen away from Amuntah.

But you shall never steal away the blessing of the golden loaves, and never shall your stomach cease gnawing at your heart.

Chapter XXI

The dawn broke, and all turned out well in the Bedoua camp. The men and women crept cautiously from their tents, and shepherds led the rumidonts from their covered corral. A heavy dew upon the sand made it stick to feet in great clumps. No sign of atrocity could be seen, but that did not mean disaster didn't loom nearby: Dungo arose and stretched, well rested for a day's talking.

"You see? Have we not been kind to you, and saved you from sure death?" he began as the Melics tried to stretch the kinks out of their backs. Sunrise had awakened Artur, and now he thanked the missing stars to finally get up from his cot. The blankets woven of rumidont wool offered more plush comfort than the furs he generally slept upon, but he much preferred the dusky odor of his own bed to the sickeningly sweet fragrance of rumidont. Moss and Skree nuzzling about in the tent didn't help things any.

Dungo immediately took up his toy hippus and inspected all its workings as he spoke. "Yes, you will be very glad that you did not meet with Wolven last night, and you will find the next month very enjoyable here, until the full moon again shows its face. The Bedoua have many great wonders to show you, but none to compare with this very fine example of art. It appears nearly alive! But we have glass, and poisons, and weavings we must show you, for certainly you have no such things. A strange fact about the arts of the Bedoua, which I have only just now thought of: They are beautiful, but it hides their danger. Except for the weavings. But the glass and poisons, they can be very dangerous, dangerous like Wolven. And our cheese, you have sampled our wonderful cheese, perhaps we can arrange a trade, milk and cheese for that wonderful concoction. What did you call it? Hoo-nay? No? Oh, honey! Yes, the Bedoua would love to trade with you for hoo-nay. Where does it come from?" His throat clicked joyfully.

"From bees," offered Theodoric as he stuffed his meager belongings into his knapsack.

"Bees?" Dungo looked horrified. "From bugs? How can that be?"

"Yes, bee," said Theodoric, willing to risk a joke nobody but his fellows would understand.

"What a disgusting idea. The pests fly into the meadow lands, sting people, then fly away. They make us grateful that they hate the desert! How does one go about to milk a bee? No matter, I cannot deny that the serum tastes magical. We must talk, we must come to some agreement, to get the wonderful hoo- — bee milk from you. Today I will show you all the wonderful gifts and skills of the Bedoua, and then we can negotiate trade, to get a beautiful vat of bee milk. The Bedoua can show you many things, even you Melics of the trees, that you will love to have for your own. Secrets of making we cannot share with you, but the items themselves, you will feast your eyes upon them in joy and never guess how we make them. Even you, Rufoux, your fondness for fire burns hot, yet you would never know the glass is burned out of the sand. But we have time for that, much time for delicious conversation! You must stay as our guests, and you will be welcome to remain as long as you like."

"You have hit just the point," said Artur, really out of context. "We must leave right away."

"Really?" Dungo looked hurt. "Why?"

"The girl lies ill from her injuries. She needs healing quickly."

"The who?" asked Dungo.

"The Rufoux girl we told you about last night," said Theodoric. "She suffers severely and requires care that we cannot give. You said you would send Bedoua healing."

"Yes! Oh, yes! Is she as bad as that? Well, it can't be helped, I suppose. Yes, Krait and Humus will go with you. Humus knows the secrets of roots and bark, and he can help the girl, I am sure. Then you will return, and you will bring great vats of bee milk, and we will talk. Yes, we will talk much at that time."

Theodoric had a tired, knowing look in his eyes, and Artur nearly made a rude comment before Picta accidentally stepped on his toe. Dungo's aide Krait guided Aachen through the camp to Humus, and he listened attentively to Andreia's symptoms. Reunited with Kylie, Artur sharpened her blade on blocks of hard cheese, part of a generous breakfast that also included wonderfully coarse bread and hot milk with herbs (and extra honey for Dungo.) Then at last the little band struck out for the Rufoux camp accompanied by Krait and Humus, along with his brothers Ingle and Mistral.

"Overall, that went better than expected," remarked Theodoric.

"Can we have quiet, please?" groused Artur, and Picta mocked him behind his back.

***

In the days of Artur's absence, Wyllem rallied the Rufoux to prepare the defenses of the camp. He drew a perimeter for the stockade, and helped select a stand of trees for cutting. Always cautious, Wyllem thought it wise to cut trees nearest the Rufoux fields; that way, if all went well, land would already be cleared to expand their planting, if they wished.

Pepin arrived back in the Rufoux camp with Carolingia and Melic woodsmen soon after Theodoric and the others had left on their journey. The line of men marched into camp with huge axes strapped upon their backs, singing in deep harmony to Pepin's bright reed-playing. They all wore their traditional light armor and helmets, except Carolingia, who had chosen a frock of loosely woven vines, hanging from one shoulder, that showed her pale skin underneath.

"We have chosen the stand by the fields to begin cutting," Wyllem told Pepin.

"Fine. You will want to strip the trunks of their branches and line them up beside the Alluvia," replied Pepin.

"Why would we do that? We need the logs here in camp," said Wyllem.

"Soon will the river's flood be, correct? The ant is mighty to carry, but the pitcher will overflow his nest," said Pepin.

"That may be true, I'm sure, but don't we still need the logs in the camp?"

"The sweat of the brow is not as powerful as the rush of the current."

"What are you trying to say?"

Frustrated, Pepin stopped short and stared blankly at Wyllem for a moment. Then suddenly he sprang up into a tree, sat on a low branch and withdrew into his head. He folded his arms and hunched over, and Wyllem stared as he went into something of a trance. Pepin began murmuring under his breath: "He does not understand, and I cannot make him understand. Why have you made the Rufoux thus? But he cannot help the way he is made. He has been accustomed to brute force all his life."

Pepin was in consultation with his god. Wyllem watched this one-man conversation develop with not a little alarm. Pepin's face took on alternating expressions as the exchange went from side to side.

"But how can it not be clear, even to Rufoux? He does not have the mind of a Melic, for I did not make him that way. You must make him see, Drueed, for I am unable. He does not hear the word of Melic wisdom. You must make him see, Melic, you must speak words he understands. The river soon will flood, and water will float the logs. Yes, I know, and certainly he knows as well. Why can I not make him put the two together? Because you have not really tried. Your pride in your intellect has stopped you. Does the fault lay at my feet, then, Drueed? Yes, you must speak so he can hear you, not to keep him ignorant. You say the truth. Yes, you have sought his help, but you refuse to help him in turn, because of your arrogance. Yes, Drueed, I see. Give me the words to tell him the river will lift the logs off the ground where they lay and take them to the camp. You know the words, Melic, that the river will lift the logs off the ground where they lay and take them to the camp. You must make him understand, Melic."

He seemed to have forgotten that Wyllem still stood there, until suddenly he fell silent and looked out over the land.

"What if," Wyllem said testily, as though unsure he should say anything, "we left the logs where they lay and let the flood waters float them to camp?"

"I said that already," said Pepin, drained.

The woodsmen did just that, and the small team of Melics soon had hundreds of trees down, only low stumps left in the ground. The Rufoux took battle axes and hewed off the branches, throwing them to the side for use in the fires. The Melics showed them how to use swords to sharpen the logs at both ends, a more delicate task that required less than an ax. They showed the Rufoux women how to cut bark into strips and braid them into tough ropes to sling the walls together. Together they had stacks upon stacks of huge logs prepared for the stockade, carefully placed along the banks of the Alluvia to await the water's coming surge.

As night began to fall, Rufoux sentries changed shifts in the forest, and a new guard went out to watch for Aoten attack. So far the giants had not realized the Rufoux grains had simply been moved into their village. The line of exhausted men trudged toward their huts past the exhausted line of Melics, headed back to their enclave in the branches for the night, each to their respective worlds. All the Melics retreated from the Rufoux village except for Pepin, still planning the stockade walls with Wyllem, and Carolingia. She swayed through the camp, casting sidelong glances to every man, challenging every woman with her beguiling eyes.

Chapter XXII

Somewhere deep in the underbelly of Medialia, the waters erupted out of their quiet rest. The springs and wells gurgled and spewed over their appointed banks, and sought escape through the Earth's crust. The source of the River Alluvia gave expression to their bubbling overflow, the annual flooding of the mighty stream. The water poured forth from the underground fountains, and the hips of the great giver of life spread to either side over the land upon which she sat. The swelling river deposited rich soil upon the Rufoux fields, bringing lush fertility from the northernmost point down until the mouth of the Alluvia opened into the sea. As well, it brought trouble from the south up.

The Melics and the Rufoux worked in camp now, collecting the logs as they drifted lazily downstream and pulling them onto dry ground; a short portage brought them into place at the stockade wall upon the bluff. Teams of men dug holes, dropped the logs in place upright, packed the ground around their bases and lashed them together at the top. The work progressed by the cadence of Melic music until no worker took notice of anything but the wood, the earth and the rhythm. Only by chance did Osewold glance up and see masts rising over the Alluvia's southern end.

"Koinoni!" he called out, and the Melics faded into the wood without a sound.

"Koinoni! Koinoni!" said a dozen Rufoux voices, almost with a tone of despair.

More than a half dozen large boats came up the river slowly, oars and poles working against the current, tall prows and masts standing high above the water's surface. The vessels consisted of no more than a combination of bundled reeds and wood bound together, and a huge billowing sail hung from each mast. Though the ships' flat bottoms drew almost no water, only at flooding time would the Koinoni bring them this far inland. Upon their decks stood dozens of still figures, draped in dark, heavy robes with deep hoods.

The Koinoni had arrived, the traders and the bane of the Medialian world. Their dress, by design, hid any and all information that might spoil a transaction for them. Their reputation for cheating and deceit had spread so widely that only the Rufoux would deal with them at all; for that reason had the Melics simply disappeared. Koinoni knew the Rufoux as well, that they had metals and grains to offer, and did not take kindly to treachery, so both clans approached their dealings carefully. Indeed, only at flooding time did the Koinoni feel confident of a quick getaway, if necessary. Artur had roughed up a few Koinoni in his time, and Jakke too had found some satisfaction in their visits. But the Koinoni had come to hide their fraud so cleverly, the Rufoux often never caught on.

The Koinoni shrouded themselves with mystery. They had no history nor traditions, so long ago being forced from their homeland by neighboring peoples that they didn't remember their country at all; instead they wandered the world, picking up whatever traits best suited them from the cultures they visited. Their robes hid the identity of each individual, so much so that one could not tell man and woman apart, until one was sold into whoring. Their hoods hung so low as to drape their faces completely in shadow; they had no peripheral vision, and developed the habit of whirling about in place, once around, first one and then the next, like a clockwork of sentinels, in order to see anyone who might be approaching from the side or back. The Koinoni had one love, for money at any price.

The Rufoux always welcomed flooding time for the new birth of the soil, but it also always brought Koinoni. The boats approached slowly up the waterway.

Osewold watched carefully as the Koinoni approached, and the other Rufoux returned to their work on the stockade, alone. The lead ship edged toward the riverbank and came slightly aground, and six figures stepped out upon the shore. Slowly they walked toward Osewold, one spinning around, then another.

"Zootaloo!" said the one in front, using the Koinoni greeting adopted from some far-flung nation.

"Good day," said Osewold, choosing his words carefully.

"I am Yarrow," he said. "I lead the Koinoni."

"My name is Osewold. Our chief Artur is not here."

"I know Artur, but just as well. What do you have?"

"I have nothing for you. I told you our chieftain is not here now, and I will not speak for the Rufoux."

"Just as well. What do you want?" He held out a hand, and Osewold could see a gold-colored dust caked around his cuticles; the others took their turns spinning like lilies in still water.

In the village, Pepin and Wyllem had been directing the building of gates. Carolingia loitered about the worksite, leaning against a hut. When they heard the cries of the Koinoni arrival, Pepin took a sideways route quickly toward the wood, but Carolingia lingered as Wyllem walked toward the river. As he passed, she abruptly grasped him by the belt and pulled him close there behind the little building, leaning her loins heavily against him. Her lips pressed upon Wyllem's neck before he knew what had caught him, and she tried to force his hand downward upon her body. He struggled against her embrace, preoccupied with the Koinoni, and an arrow whirred in the air. The shot severed the strap of Carolingia's dress and stuck into the wall of the hovel with a loud thump. Carolingia jumped, and her frock drooped to reveal pallid, shriveled breasts, and a thin line of dull red trickling from her shoulder. This exposure was too much even for the Melic strumpet, and she released Wyllem to cover herself.

"That was close!" she complained.

"That's as close as she'll ever miss," and Wyllem, free to see to his duty, caught sight of the smirking Arielle, leaning upon her bow, her right fist defiantly on her hip. He gave her a grateful salute and made his way to the river.

"I am Wyllem. Our chief is not here, and I have taken charge in his absence."

"Zootaloo!" said Yarrow. "What do you have?"

"We have no grain to give. Our supply has been ransacked," said Wyllem, studying the various spinning Koinoni, puzzled.

"Any metals?"

"We will have to ask Jakke, the chief of metalworkers," and Wyllem gestured toward the village.

"Mountain Man?" said Yarrow. "No, not now. Perhaps we will meet with him later. Better to ask him later." The rest of the Koinoni remained silently spinning.

"Well, we have nothing then."

"No grain?"

"No," said Wyllem. "The Aoten have taken some and destroyed some."

"Yes, the Aoten have come to your land. The giants always bring a very big problem. Do you build a fence to keep them out?"

"We plan to build a whole stockade, yes."

"That did not work for the Xinna," said Yarrow, completely without emotion.

"Well, the Melics have been helping us," Wyllem replied, suddenly thinking he had to defend his clan's activities.

"I see no Melic, except one," said Yarrow. Carolingia, holding up her dress by clutching a breast with each hand, walked up to the Koinoni figure furthest back.

"Yes, well, they have been helping. Where did they go? But as you see, we prepare for a hard fight to defend ourselves; if we fail, we will die out completely."

"Also like the Xinna. That would be bad indeed. That would leave nobody in Medialia for Koinoni trading."

"Our concerns are somewhat different at the moment."

"The Aoten must have laid waste to your crop. Even under the floodwaters I can see the bare ground of your fields — have the giants then taken it all?"

"No," said Wyllem carelessly. "We have stored the rest away." Osewold frowned at the back of Wyllem's head and shook his head slightly.

"Oh," said Yarrow, and he craned his neck in an attempt to see into the village. At least that's what he appeared to do, underneath his heavy shroud. "You have set aside some for planting, no doubt?"

"Well, yes, we always have some for the planting." Wyllem had not thought of this point since the harvest, but the Rufoux always held seed grain back.

"So you do have extra?"

"For the planting."

"How much extra?"

"I cannot say," said Wyllem, feeling confused and put-upon. Accustomed to asking the questions, now his usual cautious ways seemed to slip away in the treacherous chit-chat.

"What do you want for it?"

"We want nothing."

"Koinoni expect nothing for free."

"No, that's not what I mean. We don't have any extra for trade."

Yarrow clapped, and one of the other figures skipped his turn spinning and approached with a brightly colored cloth that floated in his hands.

"It radiates rich beauty, does it not? Feel how delicate and soft. Nobody can compare to the weavers of the East."

Wyllem dutifully felt the cloth. "This wouldn't stop a mosquito, much less an arrow," he said with perfect candor. Osewold caught sight of Geoffrey approaching cautiously from the work site.

"What would you give for it?"

"Nothing. It has no worth to me."

"Ah, but for your wife. Surely your wife loves beautiful things — are you married?"

"Yes, but knowing my wife —"

"What would you give? Extra grain?" persisted Yarrow.

"Our extra grain is for planting," said Wyllem.

"But you have extra, you admit you do. Certainly you have some for trade."

"Well —"

"We will make you a very good deal, a very bad trade for Koinoni, but a good deal for you."

"What else do you have?" asked Wyllem, and Osewold let his head droop.

"Wonderful sculptures, works of art," and the second figure produced small silver idols from underneath his cloak.

"What do these do?" asked Wyllem.

"They bring you the good fortunes of the gods, the good magic of Zdjaman."

"It's just a little statue."

"This god of a faraway people, it rules over this powerful people, numbering many thousands. Their god has made them a strong people, of whom all are afraid."

"It's just a piece of metal. Nothing to be afraid of."

"No, just a Xinna god. But so beautiful, is it not? Beautiful to keep in one's home?"

"Yes, it looks like nice metalwork, not Rufoux, but skilful anyway."

"Perhaps, if the Rufoux had the idol, you could learn to shape metal in this style."

"Metalwork always fascinates us." Wyllem began to look interested, and Osewold grew more nervous.

"It is very beautiful, and the Koinoni will make you a very good deal," said Yarrow.

"Do you want metalwork for it? We could see Jakke."

"Not Mountain Man, not metal. Koinoni will be happy to trade for Rufoux grain."

"How much grain would you want?" said Wyllem. Osewold nearly grabbed him by the coat to drag him off, but instead at that moment Yarrow's attention was distracted by another spinning Koinoni.

"What happened to the sixth? Where has Jaipoo gone?"

"Who?" said Wyllem, looking over Yarrow's shoulder. "And where is Carolingia?" Osewold and Geoffrey took the opportunity to grasp Wyllem by the arms and drag him toward the stockade wall.

Carolingia half-staggered deeper into the forested lands, only barely clutching at her dress.

"You bedded a Koinoni?" erupted Pepin in disbelief.

"Yes. Did you not dream it?" her reply dripped sarcasm.

"Which one?" Pepin asked, for no particular reason.

"What does it matter?"

Chapter XXIII

For the little band of travelers, no longer pressed by the full moon but instead by Andreia's illness, the return through the desert passed no more easily than the arrival. Artur and the Melics again struggled against the sand, but the rolling gait of the Bedoua allowed them to glide unimpeded over the shiftings of the desert's surface.

Similar peoples naturally gravitate toward each other, so with five Melics, four Bedoua and one Rufoux, Artur soon felt himself separated. As the hours bore on, he became more aware of his isolation. Although he told himself he cherished being alone, always before he had Wyllem and Geoffrey, and all the rest of the clan, to find friendship if he felt so disposed. Now his natural introspection was audience to seemingly meaningless Melic prattling, and endless Bedoua verbosity. He chose to concentrate on his feet, sinking ever deeper in the sands, as the group trudged through the desert and closer to the forested land peeking over the southern horizon.

At last the journey's first day came to an end as the arid land gave way to green underbrush and lush grasses. Very close would be the River Alluvia, expansive in the fullness of the flood, and tall trees. As the hikers came upon the forest, Theodoric and Franken made to the highest branches to scout the way ahead of them. Aachen and Humus explored the forest floor, seeking healing roots and barks; things rare and precious in the Bedoua lands grew in abundance in the Melics' territory. Krait, Ingle and Mistral prepared a Bedoua tent; Mienrade blew low, mellow tones on his ornate reed, his eyes closed; Picta rested against a tree.

Artur hazarded a conversation. "What do — uh. So — is there. Uh. Your people have a gift for persuasion," he said haltingly.

"Yes, we are a great people," said Picta. "The Melics are proud, but not so that we care not for others. We will happily lend our greatness to people not so fortunate, to save them from their weaknesses."

The attitude rang familiar to Artur now, and he chose to ignore it. "Theodoric has drawn me into his desires, and now nearly Dungo as well."

"You will see, he will bring the Bedoua into the alliance. All day long we reason, and play like Mienrade," she said. "That's all we do."

"You play and sing like the wind across the mountains. I do not understand what you do with your voices; your music sounds like all the different songbirds flocking together. What else can you do?"

"Oh, I'm a weaver." Picta pulled at her dress with a look of disgust. "I make things like this. They cannot look beautiful, though; they must hide us away in the leaves, and we become invisible to the world. We can't have anything different."

The talk grew louder, and Mienrade gave a stern look to the two. Not wishing to hear such complaining anyway, he popped into a tree and continued to work out his faint melody.

"What other things do you want to do?" Artur turned his face back to Picta.

"Oh, there's much I can think of to do, but the Melics don't allow much. She lowered her voice. "Thinking about things and doing them are very different things, and Melics draw a definite line. In reality, we're very closed to mixing with other clans. A revolution practically broke out when Theodoric said he had actually talked to you."

"Really? Then he has taken a great risk. The traditions that rule our lives can surely hinder much that is good," said Artur, and he thought again of Andreia.

"See, you can think if you take a moment, Rufoux man. As you say, the function of evil works to prevent good," said Picta pointedly.

"Now you sound like your people indeed."

"I am of the Melics, and I am not," and she looked away from Artur and into the distance. "I have many male relations, but I will not be married. Even if I were not so ugly, I would not be married. To take a brother as husband disgusts me."

"Theodoric as well?"

"He knows the clan verges on death. Why not let the royals be the first to go? If he sacrifices his line, perhaps the rest of them will learn. But they gladly marry their customs as well," and she pulled at her frock again.

They sat quiet for a time. "Some call me a bastard child, not a Melic at all," she said indignantly. "They say my blood is tainted, and I bring bad luck. It matters not what I do, they ridicule me for what I am. Could I count my fingers at my birth? Some blame me for the Aoten. How I want to run away."

Artur remained silent and looked upon her. Her face turned hard.

The Bedoua had pitched their tent quickly, in a grassy patch just outside the forest's edge. Ingle took charge of the process, barking out orders impatiently to Krait and Mistral, his brother. Krait sullenly went about his work, and Mistral took direction without showing he cared one way or another. The job done, the brothers huddled to talk together, and Krait stealthily crept toward Artur and Picta, eyeing them carefully behind his opaque glasses.

Artur's attention turned to the brothers, now deep in conversation, Ingle with his arms erect over his head and Mistral with his waving somewhat as they hung. Artur took note in particular of Ingle's fiery temperament, thinking he sounded like a Bedoua who might be worth knowing. A glass blower in his clan, Ingle's hair had burned shorter than most, and bandages covered the length of his singed fingers. His robes wrapped tightly around his arms, and a scarf circled around his head.

His brother Mistral found occupation as a jack-of-all-trades, completely without direction. His robes, bright with color even by Bedoua standards, flowed lightly. His long braids included beads, and they tinkled against each other in the breeze. He had no opinions, equally liking and disliking everything, and the clicking during his speech went on constantly. Whatever they talked about now, Mistral nodded and clicked, agreeing with everything said by Ingle, who grew ever more frustrated.

The third brother, Humus, was a man of the earth, somewhat cold-natured and lethargic. Often to be seen without sandals, his feet, hands and most of his clothing always carried a layer of dirt. One of the chief Bedoua poison-makers, he also had become well-acquainted with antidotes.

Krait spoke so softly that Artur at first didn't hear him. His lips could not be seen moving behind his mustache, and his habit of drawing out the letter "s" at the end of a word soon became apparent.

"You will never succeed getting Bedoua to fight again-ssst the Aoten as-sss long as-sss Dungo is-sss vizier," he said.

"How do you know?" asked Artur.

"That fat fool will never see the wisdom in wiping out the giant-sss."

"Do all the Bedoua speak this way, turning traitor against your leader? The Rufoux would cause a man to die for such talk."

"Yes-sss, I am Bedoua. It is-sss my way."

"I will have none of it," said Artur, and the conversation attracted Picta's attention. "Vizier Dungo has agreed to help our wounded girl, and I will not speak against him."

"As you wish," said Krait, withdrawing, wary of Picta's gaze. "The time will come again."

Krait retreated to Ingle and Mistral, and suddenly their discussion came to an end. Artur could see Ingle getting heated again, and Krait pointing first to him, then to Mistral.

"We must keep our eyes-sss on that Rufoux," Krait said. "He ju-ssst spoke to make me overthrow Dungo. We mu-ssst keep our eyes-sss sharp to ward off his treachery. That Melic girl is-sss in it with him."

"Krait, you've talked to him for five minutes. Why would he say such rot to you? He doesn't know to trust you or no," said Ingle.

"You can believe, he is-sss Rufoux, he is-sss treacherous-sss. You know our legends-sss, the stories-sss about Rufoux raiders-sss stealing from us-sss ages-sss ago — well, we'll see when we get to their camp. We'll see what they've taken from the Bedoua, and then you'll know the evil that lies-sss within them."

"Bedoua have had no trouble from Rufoux for generations, and none ever from Melics. How can you suspect that girl? Dungo would not have sent us this way if he had any worries."

"That girl doesn't look like a Melic to me. Does-sss she to you, Mistral?"

"No, I guess not," said the compliant man.

"She's-sss in with the Rufoux, I'm sure of it. We must watch what he says-sss again-ssst Dungo," Krait repeated. "You don't want Dungo to be insulted, do you?"

"No," said Mistral, and Ingle shook his head and threw his hands to his sides.

"You don't want the Bedoua wiped out, do you?"

"No."

"We're put in charge to watch this-sss Rufoux fiend. You want to do a good, heroic deed for your people, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Ju-ssst keep an eye on what he does-sss," said Krait. "If there's-sss trouble, you're with me, right, Mistral?"

"Sure," he said blandly.

The Bedoua retreated into their tent. Soon Aachen returned with Humus, carrying large sacks with a variety of plants crammed inside and sticking out the tops. The dark crept throughout the wood now, and Humus retired to the tent, Aachen to the branches.

"You're not so bad, Rufoux man," said Picta, standing up. "Watch this," and she jumped flat-footed onto a low branch, took a little bow, and before Artur knew it she had melted into the leaves and out of sight.

Again alone, Artur lay back on a small pile of fallen leaves. He longed for his own bed, nothing but a flattened-out pile of furs, but its soft familiarity beckoned his memory, and it didn't stink like rumidont. He worried about Wyllem and Andreia, about the flooding and the Koinoni that it would certainly bring, and how the trek along the riverbank would be a muddy slog. He thought about Dungo and the silly wooden hippus, and he wondered about Krait. Almost unnoticeably, rich Melic harmonies oozed from the treetops, the hollows particularly lively.

Chapter XXIV

After two days in the wastelands, Artur's spirit felt much lifted by walking the forest again; the Melics only more so. In fact, Artur did not see the Melics much at all as they reacquainted themselves with the heights of their beloved trees. So he trudged along the spongy banks of the sprawling Alluvia with only the Bedoua.

Krait stayed silent and inscrutable behind his mask, but Humus could not get over the amount of greenery beneath his feet. The water and mud gushed from the ground and up between his toes with every step. He made remark of these wonders constantly to his brothers, and while Ingle reacted often with an angry shrug, Humus could always count on an agreeable nod or word and much clicking from Mistral.

Ingle, having enough of the nature lesson, sharply asked of Artur, "What's over there?" He pointed to their right, the western edge of the wood.

"Have you never seen?" asked Artur.

"This land belongs to the Rufoux. Bedoua know better than to venture here." He looked perturbed.

"Well, great trees and standancrags fill up the forest. Deep pools of still water are scattered about, and the rumidonts run wild. The thylak hunt them down."

"Wild rumidonts? Do they look much different from our domesticates?"

"Not really. Skinnier, I guess, and they run from people."

"What about the Aoten?"

"Yes, their camp is in that part of the forest. We found them there."

"Is there anything more?"

"Beyond the woods steaming black pools bubble out of the ground, but we will not go there. The scaled ones make their home there, and the deviltooth that devours men whole. Beyond that the mountains rise into the sky, where some claim a lunatic lives. He is called No-Ahn – "No one" to us – by those who think of him at all; but that's all."

Ingle looked into the deep forest thoughtfully but said no more. Artur noted the slight clicking he now heard from Ingle, though his expression had not changed.

Artur set a brisk pace for this part of the journey in spite of the sloppy ground underfoot, still easier for him than sand. The Bedoua's strides remained unchanged and efficiently left groonits behind, but looked comical as they no longer needed to compensate for the unstable sands of their desert. They appeared like a ball rolling within a ball, their hips undulating as their feet paddled smoothly over the ground. Humus remained in constant wonder of the squishing moisture. Artur had no idea where the Melics had gone, but he reckoned they could find their way back by themselves. So it came as something as a surprise when a large hickory nut hit him squarely on the helmet.

"What th'," he said, looking up. He saw Theodoric, or Theodoric's face, staring out of a sheet of leaves. He pointed desperately to the west, and his mouth appeared to be saying the words, "Get down."

Artur grabbed Ingle by the arm and looked suddenly toward the west. Ingle shook off his hand violently and began to complain. Artur clamped his hand over Ingle's mouth and forced him to the ground. Krait immediately jumped to the aid of his fellow, but Artur's great arms and mighty strength easily enwrapped him and Ingle both and pinned them to the ground. Mistral calmly went to the ground after understanding Artur's silent commands, followed by Humus. His eyes showed the urgency of silence and nothing else, so much so that even Ingle calmed down and kept quiet.

Over their restrained breathing they heard footsteps approaching, a multitude, so many that they could not count, and the sound of scraping. The clumsy, shuffling thudding mixed with heavy, strained, incoherent grunting. Artur took his armful of companions and rolled into some tall grasses.

Only after further admonition to be quiet did Artur release his prisoners. His mouth formed the word "Aoten," and together they peered through the long, dense blades. Not three or four kronyn from where they had lain, a troop of giants, all adults, marched past, dragging great trees that had died and fallen to Earth. They made for the River Alluvia and floated the huge logs, straddling them and stiffly paddling across — with much trouble — until they reached the opposite bank and headed on east.

The band of travelers stood up and cautiously watched. "Where could they be going?" Artur said to himself.

"The thylak hunts after picking the bones dry," said a voice behind him.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," a startled Artur told Theodoric. He saw Picta behind, smiling at him.

"Sorry. You mean speaking philosophy, or coming up behind you?"

"Yes."

"I mean the Aoten are starving. Without the Rufoux crops, they have to find the next best thing. They will seek out the Raspar fields."

"Good enough for them."

"The Raspars do not know the success of Rufoux farmers, and their fields don't grow as lush. River Gravidas does not bless the land like Alluvia. Raspar crops never amount to much more than wild plants they have discovered and tended."

"They're welcome to them then. They're welcome to all the Raspars they can eat as well."

"The Aoten will find the bones dry there, too," said Theodoric. "They will be back. And when they get a taste of Raspar defenses, they will hurry back. The Rufoux stockade will no longer seem so intimidating to them then."

At a time not so long ago, Artur might have sneered at Theodoric's warnings, but now, separated from his clan, he knew the best thing to do was walk. "Let's go then," he said.

"Yes, let's. Perhaps Pepin has had a dream," and the Melics vaulted back into the trees.

***

In the Rufoux camp, the work on the stockade continued. The Melics remained absent, much to Geoffrey's agitation, and the Koinoni preoccupied his time. Osewold had dragged away Wyllem so as to keep him from trading away the entire camp.

"When will Artur of the Rufoux return?" asked Yarrow.

"We do not know. He left to visit the Bedoua," said Geoffrey.

"The Bedoua cannot be trusted," said Yarrow. "They will not trade."

"Really? That's good to know. Now you'd best be getting back on your boat and wait there for Artur. I'm telling you no one here is interested in talking to you."

"But I see still many Rufoux to talk."

"Nobody has anything to trade with you. Only Artur will speak to you."

"You speak to us."

"Stop that confounded spinning. You make me dizzy, by my eyes and ears both."

Much, much to Geoffrey's relief, a crunching sound came out of the nearby forest, and Artur appeared along with one other man. Not for years had Geoffrey hugged his son with such unfeigned affection. "How goes it?" asked Artur brightly.

Geoffrey merely looked over to Yarrow. "I see you're practically alone," he remarked.

Artur looked about him and saw only Theodoric. Peering into the woods, he quickly surmised all the others had caught sight of the Koinoni and remained hidden. He looked to the stockade wall and saw only Rufoux.

"I see you're alone as well," he said, and Geoffrey nodded.

Artur whipped out Kylie like a shire reeve and gave out orders, "Back on the boats! Back on the boats!"

"We have come to talk with Artur," said Yarrow.

"I am Artur. If you ever looked at anything but gold you'd remember that. Now get back on your boat."

"What do you have?"

"I have a sword. Get back on the boat," and Artur made some persuasive gestures with Kylie.

"Come," said Theodoric, and he took Yarrow by the sleeve. "Show me your ship. Have you ever seen one of these?" And he took his reed from his belt as they walked toward the boats.

Artur went into the woods to collect the Bedoua and Melics, and took Picta's elbow. "Pray, go find your woodsmen," and she left in the direction of the Melic community. Artur made short introduction of everyone to Geoffrey, and left them all in his care except Aachen and Humus, whom he led to hospital.

Most of the wounded Rufoux had been removed, but Andreia and a few others remained, no better in Artur's absence. The Melic and Bedoua knelt beside the Rufoux maid, and Aachen talked to Humus quietly as he made his examination. Finally he stood up, and the Bedoua clicking arose in his throat.

"Her sickness is not so difficult. I can use the willow we found on the way, and that will bring her heat down. I must go out and find cinchona bark as well, and mustard seed. The other things I already have. I can make her well; we have not arrived too late, I think."

He took some branches out of their sacks and gave Aachen instructions to boil down the bark. He gave Artur a bottle and prescribed three drops, if Andreia would swallow them. "No less, and by no means any more," he warned grimly.

As Humus disappeared into the forest, accompanied by Mistral for help and Osewold for protection, Ingle and Krait walked about the Rufoux camp. They took note of the buildings, and the stockade being erected. The look of the guards told them to keep a discreet distance as they passed the storehouse. They walked past the metal shop, and saw Jakke at his mighty furnace; he glanced up with a look of puzzled recognition. The two Bedoua noticed the women at their work, the heavy leather clothing being dressed, the cooking over blazing fires. Great stockpiles of weapons scattered about made their eyes grow big. They visited the work around the outside of the camp, and saw the remains of the Rufoux fields.

"These-sss Rufoux have everything they want. They cannot be trusted," said Krait.

"They have much, do they not?" said Ingle. "Their armor and weapons make them formidable. Their fields produce grand crops; no doubt the walls of that storehouse bulge with grain. Their faces glow ruddy with health, and they have mastered fire and metals."

"Yes-sss. They are thieves-sss and rich thieves-sss at that, to have all this-sss."

"I know of just one thing missing here, Krait. One thing, and do you know what I think it is?" said Ingle.

"What do you mean?"

"The rumidonts, Krait, I don't see any Bedoua rumidonts! And where do they hide the magnificent weavings of rumidont wool? Where are the wonderful cheeses and butters of the rumidont? And why have they made all the cups of metal and pottery, Krait? Where is the glass? And where have you seen any potions here, Krait? If they stole all the Bedoua wealth, why did they come to us for healing potions? Do you know why? Do you know why, Krait? Because the legends tell lies, Krait! All the legends you base your hatred on are no more than lies! Not a single Bedoua treasure resides in this whole damn camp!"

Ingle had worked himself into such a froth that he almost had to sit down. But he kept his wits about him for one more outburst.

"No, no Bedoua goods can I find here, but plenty of Rufoux handiwork I do see! And here is an example!" And he whipped Krait's glasses off his face.

"Where did you get this Rufoux metal, Krait?!" he screamed, mixed with indignant clicking. "Where'd you get the damn metal?!"

Chapter XXV

The dim light gave way to fuzzy images. Colors came and went, edges sharpening and blurring in turn, and eventually movement made itself known. Waving and bobbing hues took the shape of ovals and teardrops, and nodded their welcome. At one moment they glinted like light upon the waves of the sea; at another they became a thousand thousand rumidonts running as one across a vast plain. At last they settled on being the leaves of the trees, and drops of water fell from them like the dew, only much heavier. A face appeared from within the foliage, bright cheeks of orange/gold, brows of reddish brown, eyes of blue green, all glowing with the shades of Medialian dawn. But the colors of grief painted the face, furrowed deeply like the bark, and it sighed with sorrow like the wind blowing through the branches. It looked down upon its sleeping child, seeking solace in the tender sympathy, and salted drops fell heavily to the ground. Then darkness claimed its kingdom, and the vision faded away.

Brightness shone all about like the morning, and figures moved overhead. Heads and shoulders — red, black and gray mixed in a confusing alternation. One face with long strings hanging down, like a hideous giant spider, and another with bumps and deep wrinkles. Then one with familiar eyes, framed in ragged, red hair, burly and great and yet with an air of gentleness. For the first time in days, Andreia opened her eyes, if only briefly, and she turned on her side and breathed deeply.

"She will be better soon. The willow will be the best for her now," said Humus without emotion, but his throat clicked.

"Amazing," said Aachen.

"We will have games, and a great celebration," said Artur. "And you must be our guest, Humus, and Dungo as well."

"Well, you're welcome," said Aachen.

"And you, too," Artur clapped him on the back, feeling downright gregarious at Andreia's improvement.

"If I guess right," replied Humus. "Dungo will be in no hurry to travel to your camp. But he loved the wooden hippus, so maybe the temptation of seeing Rufoux riders will be too great for him to resist."

"Perhaps that, and honey," said Artur with a relieved smile.

"Perhaps," said Humus blankly, and clicked.

Artur left the building and stretched grandly as he walked about camp. Many days had passed since he had felt this much at home. A Bedoua treated the sick of his clan, Melics helped build the stockade, and another conveniently held the Koinoni at bay. Even with so many from other clans in the village, Artur felt a depth of well-being he'd never known before. To make him feel truly at home, a hummingbird buzzed circles around his head.

A glance to the river revealed Theodoric and Geoffrey again in talks with a Koinoni, probably Yarrow, and a handful of others. The Melics in camp had become accustomed to the traders' presence, but still they maintained a careful distance. The robed figures intrigued the Bedoua, however, and Ingle and Mistral approached the gathering. Artur thought it best to listen in.

Theodoric saw him drawing near. "Quite a bargain for me, I must say," he said discreetly, showing Artur a copper figure about the size of his finger. "It cost me only my reed, and I hear tell it has the power to direct my future. Quite a powerful talisman," he said, his eyes full of mock wonder, and he tucked it behind his ear. "Even a tall tower begins with a hole for the foundation."

Artur stared at him in the usual way as he departed, and turned his attention to the Bedoua.

"What do you have?" asked Yarrow.

"What do you mean?" returned Ingle.

"We are Koinoni, we trade. Never have we traded with Bedoua, because no ships sail the desert. What do the Bedoua have to trade? We will make a good bargain."

"We have only the supplies we brought with us."

"What do you have?"

"We have some cheese to eat, some rugs to sleep on, and a tent."

"We will see them," announced Yarrow.

"Let us bring them to your ships," said Ingle, much interested. "And we will see what you have."

Artur began to enjoy the spectacle as the Bedoua brought out their belongings. The Koinoni gathered around the small collection of items, turning and spinning, and Ingle began to offer the cheese.

"What do you want for it?" asked Yarrow.

"How do I know what I want? What have you got?"

"We have this wonderful necklace, beads of shells from the far seas," said Yarrow as he produced a string out of his sleeve.

"I don't know," said Ingle flatly. "Bedoua beads of glass glisten much more beautifully."

"You don't like? Then we offer paper, from far to the east, beautiful flat pieces of paper made from fibers of exotic water plants."

"What is that for?"

"The peoples of the east use dark dyes to draw mysterious figures on the paper, and they look at it." He demonstrated by drawing the index finger of his left hand over the scrap of papyrus.

Ingle looked to Mistral. "It sounds like the writing of Dungo and Sylva," he said, and Mistral shrugged and clicked loudly.

Ingle began to click in his throat. "I will give you one of the cheeses for it."

Yarrow looked at him carefully, or at least that is what he appeared to do from underneath his hood, and he said, "No."

"No? What do you mean 'no'?" said Ingle, not clicking anymore and getting irritated.

"Five cheeses."

"Five? For that?" said Ingle, pointing to the paper with disdain but clicking again.

"Five. Six."

"Six? No, you said five," and Ingle stopped clicking again.

"Five then."

"Yes! Five!" and Ingle clicked furiously. They completed the exchange, and Yarrow said, "What else do you have?"

Ingle pulled out the woven Bedoua rugs, clicking madly, and Artur pulled him aside. "Look," he said, "you're a good sort, so let me warn you. These Koinoni are plucking you like a chicken."

"What do you mean?" said Ingle, turning irritated again.

Artur felt a bit of pride swell, thinking his use of analogy showed he had picked up some Melic wisdom. "One cheese for that paper made for a fair trade. They have loads of it in their boats. Yarrow told me it starts fires quickly — they have stacks of it to burn. Koinoni always cheat a newcomer."

"They cheated me?!"

"Well, you agreed to the price, right? So you have no complaints yet. But you do have a problem."

"What is that?"

"Your clicking gives you away. They can tell when you're pleased with what they say by the clicking. You'll never get them to come down on a price when your clicking tells them you're willing to pay more. They'll pull you in like a fish on a hook."

"What clicking?"

Artur saw that his help was nearly useless. "Believe me, your people have a habit of clicking your tongues or something when you're pleased. Krait does it not at all, and Mistral does it all the time; when it happens it betrays your thoughts."

"Oh, that!" Ingle looked sternly toward the Koinoni for a moment as though he understood, and Artur could see his temper rise. "There's only one thing to do then," he said in a huff, and he returned to the pile of goods.

"My brother will trade with you," he said dismissively, and marched away.

Mistral stood alone with the Koinoni, and waited for Yarrow to say something.

"What do you want for the rugs?"

"Do you have more paper?" asked Mistral, clicking loudly.

"Yes, a little, but would you prefer something else?" asked Yarrow.

"Do you have more little figures?" Mistral clicked.

"How many do you wish?"

"Whatever you can give," he clicked some more.

"I can give you one."

"Only one?" asked Mistral with a multitude of clicks.

"If that pleases you," said Yarrow smugly.

"I'm not sure. Maybe. I don't think so. Should it?" The clicking remained constant.

"Then what about two?" Yarrow grew puzzled.

"That's twice as good," he replied with glad clicking.

"Then it's a trade?"

"What else do you have?" he clicked again.

"Strange powders from the east that burn magically in the fire. They sparkle brightly with color and festivity."

"I'd like to see that," said Mistral with much clicking.

"A vile then?"

"Only one?" Mistral said again, as he clicked away.

"Well, perhaps two," said Yarrow with growing concern. He could not read this abundance of clicking. The more he tried to discover Mistral's intentions, the more items he agreed to trade. If the clicking would ever stop he might gain the upper hand, but as it went he couldn't tell what Mistral thought about anything. He didn't realize Mistral wasn't thinking at all.

"You like this, no?"

"Sure. What else do you have?"

"Strange and wonderful grains from the west. See the colors — yellow, red, purple? Do they not fill your eyes with wonder?" Yarrow gushed.

"Oh, yes, I'll take that, too," clicking and clicking.

The exchange went on for some time, until Mistral had accumulated a pile of trinkets in exchange for a Bedoua rug. The Koinoni retreated to their ships without even trying to attain the tent, and Artur stood chuckling warmly. He had seen the Koinoni run out of villages on a rail, and he had seen them beaten with fists, but never beaten so badly in a trade. He wondered at Ingle's wisdom working its way through the chinks of his temper.

The sun began to sink into the horizon, so after checking on the work at the stockade, Artur returned to the building where Andreia and the others convalesced. Inside he found Aachen talking to Pepin, returned to the Rufoux camp.

"Your lady improves greatly," said Aachen with a smile. "This thing astounds me; I have so much to learn. See, she stirs even yet."

Andreia indeed awoke slightly, bleary eyes blinking, and Artur and the Melics gathered, kneeling around her pallet.

Her eyes fluttered open just a bit, and she sighed with a slight smile as she squinted to see the faces above her. Finally she settled on Pepin.

"I dreamed of you," she whispered mistily. "Please don't be so sad."

"You truly have become an intuit," he replied. "After some training, you will see things indeed."

Chapter XXVI

The stockade stood finished, some seventeen kronyn tall, sharp points crowning each log. Only two gates broke the wall, at the least vulnerable points: The eastern side, facing the River Alluvia, and the southern, the highest point of the bluff. Jakke forged mighty bronze braces, along with hinges and latches, to reinforce the heavy wooden doors. All that the Rufoux claimed for their own, short of the water-logged fields, lay enclosed in its sturdy walls.

Andreia had recovered sufficiently to sit up and eat again, and Aachen and Humus spent much time at her side. Ingle and Mistral communed with many of the Rufoux clansmen, each on different terms, but Krait stayed to himself. The Koinoni took refuge in their ships, and the Rufoux and Bedoua gave them a comfortable berth; the Melics seemed not to care about their constant bargaining. Most of the Melics had retreated into their trees, but Theodoric and Pepin remained within the stockade. They, too, made their visits to Andreia.

"You know the secret, don't you?" she asked one time.

"Yes," said Theodoric.

"Will you tell me?" she continued.

"You know the secret and yet you don't know. Great wisdom knows to believe without seeing. Each clan must come to the rescue of the others — therein lies the secret. Rufoux, Melic, Bedoua, Koinoni — even Raspar. For centuries we have maintained tense peace through distance from each other. Now all the clans of Medialia must aid the others to rid the land of the Aoten."

"Most have already come here. Can not they agree now?" she said.

"Yes," Theodoric looked to Pepin. "Most do dwell here now, in a fashion. What do you think?"

"I had a dream," Pepin began. "Four rumidonts and a thylak. The rumidonts begged to lie down with the thylak, but he would not agree. Then his skin fell away, and I could see it to be a rumidont as well; and then it died, and the other rumidonts fed upon it. Very confusing. I didn't understand the dream, but perhaps it will play itself out. It will be worth seeing, for the thylak really was quite little."

Theodoric seemed to understand this, and set about to find Artur. Through Wyllem he discovered that the Rufoux chief had again drawn away into the trees and standancrags.

There sat Artur in the solitude, knowing that if an Aoten stumbled upon him he would have no chance of getting back inside the village walls. His heart had pulled him away, into dark separation: Lately he had spent much too much time surrounded by strangers and yammering voices, and not enough time listening to the stillness. Finally he found the blessed quiet and could sort out his thoughts as he sat against a bittereye tree.

With Andreia's improvement, he found his old despondency had lifted. Usually in the wood he could count on the hauntings of his past to catch up with him; not so this time. He thought about her wisdom and quiet encouragement in all that had transpired since the giants' first attack, and he considered warmly her courage and forethought. He thought about the brightness of her eyes, just now returning, and her lithe but strong figure...

A pair of feet hit the ground in front of him with a loud thump.

"I waited, hoping to find you here," said Picta with a smile.

"Your people have a talent for appearing out of nowhere," he said, barely hiding his irritation.

"My people, perhaps, a talent for something," she said gaily, sitting close beside him. "What have you come out here for?"

"I came to be alone, to think. I haven't had a minute's thought for a fortnight."

"Think about what?"

"The stockade, the Aoten. What makes you so inquisitive? The grain, Andreia..."

"Andreia? Who's that?"

"Our injured girl treated by Humus and Aachen. What a blessing from Mog, if such a thing is possible. Usually, all we get from Mog comes through brute force."

"Andreia is her name?"

"Yes, Andreia. She is beautiful —" Artur caught himself. "She was the one to make me join with your people."

"My people!" Picta's bright cheer had vanished. "Does she have four fingers?"

"Yes, of course."

"Yes, I suppose she does. What else does she have?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, forget it. I suppose you want to be alone then, to think about Andreia."

"Well, I was..."

But Artur had no opportunity to choose, for Wyllem came up to him through the bracken, silent but unable to surprise him like a Melic might.

"Artur, you must come back to the village. Theodoric has something urgent to say to you. Do you know what he might want? Theodoric and Pepin, and Andreia together?"

"Oo, Andreia," said Picta, and they prepared to return with Wyllem, Picta walking sullenly behind the two Rufoux.

The sight of half a dozen Koinoni inside the camp surprised Artur. Theodoric was talking vigorously with them, and he waved Artur and Wyllem to approach. Picta headed off to hospital to take a look at this "Andreia."

"Yarrow here has agreed to meet with us, Artur. Pepin and Andreia agree, it would be wise to meet, men from each clan, and discuss what to do next against the Aoten. The stockade will protect you for a time, but eventually we will have to fight them together, and we must agree on this now."

"Koinoni? Are you sure?" said Artur, his face twisted into a dyspeptic sneer.

"Yes, we must have all. Pepin hopes to persuade the Bedoua; they negotiate in your community hall even now. If they will agree to meet, Yarrow eagerly wishes to talk."

"I'll bet he does. Koinoni?" Artur repeated.

"We will trade for your attentions," said Yarrow. "We offer Romana."

"What?" said Artur.

"I will be yours, for a time, to do as you please," said one of the Koinoni figures in a feminine voice. She approached Artur and wrapped the hems of her robes around his waste.

"Away from me. We will have no such thing," his anger flared. "You would corrupt this Rufoux from the ways of his people!" Artur turned to Theodoric, who mused upon him. "You see? These Koinoni, they always have something up their sleeves."

"Yarrow desires a meeting with you, Artur. Perhaps we can persuade him to take it as a gift."

"All my good sense tells me no. If I meet with them, it will be to benefit all the Rufoux, not for the sake of my pleasures. You say Pepin and Andreia agree on this?"

"Yes. Pepin has had a dream, but he makes no sense of it."

"Oh, that's unusual," Artur offered.

"He sees no meaning now, but he believes it foreshadows such a meeting. And Andreia has spoken for it."

"Well. If that's the case. But we will hear no talk of trade! None whatsoever, and if you try to sneak it in, I will call Jakke, do you understand?" and Artur waved a threatening finger at the Koinoni.

"We are so prepared, but one must never confine prospects of the future," said Yarrow.

"Let's be off, then," said Theodoric with hopeful enthusiasm, and the group walked slowly toward the community hall, Artur eyeing Yarrow suspiciously.

In the hall they found Pepin arguing with Krait, and Krait arguing with Ingle; Mistral and Humus sat passively. "The majority wants to meet, but they cannot decide who will speak for the Bedoua," Pepin explained over his shoulder.

"I came as-sss Dungo's-sss emissary, and I will speak for him," declared Krait.

"You have no authority for the Bedoua," said Ingle, repeating himself for perhaps the sixth time. "Only Dungo will speak for the Bedoua!"

"Dungo is-sss not here! I will speak for him! We do not meet."

"We must meet," said Theodoric simply. "Pepin has had a dream."

"Piss-sss! I have heard of such dreams-sss! I care not for your silly superstitions-sss! I will speak for Dungo and the Bedoua!"

"You do _not!"_ insisted Ingle.

"We're not deciding anything now anyway, so it doesn't matter," said Artur brusquely and sat. "Sit down! You have come to my territory, to my camp, and you will bow to my generous hospitality! Now sit down!" He could barely get the words out between his clinched teeth as he glared at the bickering Bedoua. He tried to keep one eye on the Koinoni.

They sat on each side of the fire pit. Artur and Wyllem took the head of the room, with the Melics to their right. Krait and Ingle sat across from Artur, and Yarrow knelt to his left, a Koinoni trait designed for quick escapes. The remaining Koinoni, kneeling as well, surrounded Yarrow, facing out like spokes of a wheel, to keep watch at his every side. Women brought Rufoux bread, with Bedoua butter, and steaming hot cups, and the talk began.

"Artur understands that the Aoten cannot be defeated by one clan alone," Theodoric began. "The Rufoux — the bravest, most powerful warriors of Medialia — have fought the giants valiantly three times, and still they have not driven them from the land. Many Rufoux have died."

"Many more will, as well," said Yarrow.

"Already you irritate me?! Why do you say that?" Artur challenged him.

"Aoten came from the west. In the far west the Xinna built a fence against the Aoten. No Xinna have survived their fence. No Xinna left to trade."

"Bedoua will not give their lives-sss to you," said Krait.

"The giants came from the west?" asked Artur, and Yarrow's hood nodded. "That means they crossed the mountains, and the territory of the scaled ones," he said solemnly.

"Yes, they are very fierce. They move slowly, think slowly, but when they grow hungry enough, or angry enough, they are fierce and fearless."

"Bedoua vote again-ssst the war," said Krait.

Artur sat silently, so Theodoric continued.

"We must consider the stockade only a temporary measure. The Rufoux had to protect their supplies and families while we prepared a battle attack. The Melics will fight with the Rufoux; we bring our axes to the battle. But six Rufoux to one giant could not bring it down; six Melics more will not make the difference. We need all clans, all peoples to overcome the giants."

"What do the Bedoua have to do with it? We have no love for Rufoux," asked Krait defensively.

"The Aoten only take, they do not replenish. They will lay waste to the Rufoux, take the fruit of their fields and make themselves fat upon it. But they know nothing of farming; after one season the fields' produce will be gone, and they will turn their appetites to other clans' goods. The Melics' trees will come down; Bedoua rumidonts will lie dead upon the desert, their blood soaking into the sand; the Koinoni ships will be torn to shreds for every piece of scrap upon them."

"Koinoni ships will sail away, as they did in the west," said Yarrow.

"Perhaps," said Theodoric, "but the flying bird will one day lie exhausted upon the ground. Eventually your ships will reach the end of the world and have nowhere else to sail."

"Bedoua have no desire to join with Koinoni anyway," said Krait, his arms folded. "Damn Koinoni! Can not be trusted! They will sell your blood off their daggers-sss!"

"Shut up!" yelled Artur. "Nobody curses the Koinoni here but me!"

"Damn Koinoni!" Krait emphasized. "Bedoua spits-sss on Koinoni!"

"You have no authority to speak for Bedoua!" insisted Ingle.

"Rufoux and Melics agree together," said Theodoric. "Dungo must decide for the Bedoua." Krait threw up his hands and with loud cursings stormed out, but the others remained. "But what about Koinoni?"

"How badly do you want Koinoni?" asked Yarrow.

"We need everybody," said Theodoric.

"Does he agree?" asked Yarrow, indicating Artur.

Artur looked to the Melics and nodded grudgingly. He could see the Koinoni had knowledge of the Aoten beyond even Theodoric's observation. "Yes," he said, "we need everybody."

"So it appears we will be bargaining after all," said Yarrow.

"What do you mean?" growled Artur.

"Koinoni owe no clan. We care for nobody. We love only money, so we will have a price."

"Oh, I might have expected this," yelled Artur. "Extort a price, and then skip out on us, I suppose? But what else should I expect from rotten Koinoni traders!"

"What is survival worth to you? You need us, you have already said. What would you give?"

"What do you want?" asked Theodoric.

"Rufoux always deny us weapons. Fine Rufoux weapons of metal cut like no other in the world. This most excellent blade at your side, for instance. Is your blade worth more than life itself? Or would you give a weapon for each Koinoni to save your lives?"

"Mog's goblins! I might as well put a pack of rats in charge of guarding the grain! There's no telling what double-dealing treachery you might inflict in the night with Rufoux weapons!" Artur blasted away at Yarrow.

"Rufoux arms, or no Koinoni! We make our offer, and a good bargain for you. Life for weapons. If you need us, you will pay for us."

"You dirty — You know you have us over a barrel, don't you!" raged Artur. "Well, have your weapons then, and choke on them! And if ever you plan to turn them on us, I'll personally see you dead, and all your hooded friends! To hell with you!"

"You talk so brash, Rufoux! So greatly you strut, swollen with yourself, but now you depend on the Koinoni! Your lives depend upon us, and your homeland as well! Your homeland, so dear to you, that you would not have to wander about the world! You have a homeland to defend, a homeland to love, and you dare to judge the Koinoni? Beaten down, wiped out, driven out of our nation by hatred, sentenced to live upon the waters with no place to set our feet, no place to rest our heads! And you beg us to save you from this same end, you would deny us a few metal blades to save you from sharing our fate? Shame upon you, oh worthy Artur of the Rufoux, for you have not the humanity to offer a simple exchange to preserve your very way of life! Keep your weapons, you foul, sweating clan of brutes. We would not accept them, for they do not offer what saves us or you from the curse that pursues!"

The Tao of Zdjaman

There once was a time, many years ago, Little One, when a Koinoni said to himself, "I will walk across the Earth." The Koinoni took up his staff and struck out upon the road, and the whole world was his home, and he had no home.

Over the land he went, foot over foot, until he came upon the roaring soaring shores of the far, far sea. There he stood, wondering at the waters that rippled upon the banks. And there in the midst of the roaring soaring shores stood a tree.

"What do you see?" asked the tree, who really was Zdjaman.

"I see the waters of the far, far sea," said the Koinoni, "and all that they may bring to me from distant lands and peoples."

"Why don't you stay here, and eat of my fruit? For I perceive you are hungry," asked the tree.

"What else do you offer me?" asked the Koinoni.

"Watch me bring fire down from the sky," said the tree, and it stretched its branches as high toward the beautiful bright sun as it could. Suddenly a great streak of fire reached down, and in a breath's moment it struck the tree's branches with great sparks and splintering. The tree held out its branches to each side as if to say, "See?"

"You are truly a very clever tree, and magical besides," said the Koinoni.

"I am very clever, and magical besides," said the tree. "And I offer you my fruit. But because you sought more than the better thing, you cannot stay here with me. You must continue your searching until you find the better thing."

The Koinoni was disappointed, not because he desired the fruit or the company of the tree, Little One, but because he wanted to know how to pull fire from the sky. But the tree would not allow it, and so he struck out again upon the road. He wondered what the tree meant, to find the better thing, but he put it out of his mind and set his eyes upon his path. And the whole world was his home, and he had no home.

Over the land he went, foot over foot, until he came upon blowing flowing grasses of a great meadow. He stopped to wonder at the tender leaves of green and beautiful bobbing flowers that nodded in the gentle breezes. There in the midst of the blowing flowing grasses stood a rumidont.

"What do you see?" asked the rumidont, who really was Zdjaman.

"I see the grasses and flowers of a great, flowing meadow," said the Koinoni, "and all that I might grow there, to cut down and sell to distant lands and peoples."

"Why don't you stay here, and dress yourself in my fine wool? For I perceive you are naked," asked the rumidont.

"What else do you offer me?" asked the Koinoni.

"Listen to me bleat a chorus that calls out the small animals of the fields," said the rumidont, and it lifted its voice to the empty air above. With a thousand voices it called, until the mice and rats and snakes of the field covered the feet of the Koinoni. On and on the rumidont sang, until moles and shrews and pictels scrummed across the land, a thick carpet at the roots of the velvety grasses, drawn out by the beautiful song. The rumidont smiled.

"You are truly a very clever rumidont, and magical besides," said the Koinoni.

"I am very clever, and magical besides," said the rumidont. "And I offer you my wool. But because you sought more than the better thing, you cannot stay here with me. You must continue your searching until you find the better thing."

The Koinoni turned away sadly, not because he really wanted the rumidont's wool, because it was a warm day, but because he too wanted to call out the animals of the world to do his bidding. But the rumidont would not let him stay, and so he struck out again upon the road. Again he wondered what it meant to find the better thing, but still not knowing, he simply walked. And the whole world was his home, and he had no home.

Over the land he went, foot over foot, until he came upon a churning burning fire in an altar of black stone. There in the midst of the churning burning fire was a face made of coals, like the face of a Koinoni but completely of red-hot embers.

"What do you see, Koinoni?" asked the face of fire, who really was Zdjaman.

"I see the heat and flames of a billowing fire," said the Koinoni, "and all that I might take from distant lands and peoples if I burned them with the fire."

"Why don't you stay here, and warm yourself by my friendly coals? For I perceive you are chilled," asked the face of fire.

"What else do you offer me? For, after all, it is a rather warm day," asked the Koinoni.

"Watch me fill your stomach from the folds of my flames," said the face of fire, and immediately the fire fanned intense, brighter and hotter than before, as if the face was holding its breath and puffing out its bright orange cheeks, Little One. Then the face blew as hard as it could, and from its breath flew all the birds of the air: doves and eagles, auks and kinderfalcons, bluebirds and orioles. Then the Koinoni could see they were not birds at all, but flat discs of bread, floating upon the air. And the fire burned hot.

"You are truly a very clever fire, and magical besides," said the Koinoni.

"I am very clever, and magical besides," said the fire. "And I offer you my warmth. But because you sought more than the better thing, you cannot stay here with me. You must continue your searching until you find the better thing, Koinoni."

The Koinoni's face fell, not because he wanted the warmth of the fire, but because he wanted to fill his stomach, and to know how to blow bread from flames. But the fire would not share his secret, and would not let him stay, and so he struck out again. He was vexed by the command to find the better thing, for surely he thought the things he had wanted and the things he had seen were good enough, but he had no choice but to set out upon his journey again. And the whole world was his home, and he had no home.

Over the land he went, foot over foot, until he came upon a slippery glimmery flow of water, the River Alluvia. And in the midst of the slippery glimmery flow was the face of a woman, like the face of a Koinoni woman, only drawn entirely with the ripples of the current.

"What do you see?" asked the face of the water in a gurgly voice. She really was Zdjaman.

"I see the traveling strength of a mighty river," said the Koinoni, "and where it might take me, there and back again into the riches of distant nations."

"Why don't you stay here, and drink of my cool, sweet waters? For I perceive you are thirsty," asked the face of the water.

"What else do you offer me? For though I am thirsty indeed, surely there is more that you, such a mighty river, might have to give?" asked the Koinoni.

"Watch me make a crown of the finest silver and precious jewels," said the face of the water. The face disappeared in a swirl of current, an eddy that sank ever deeper below the surface of the river. Faster and faster it turned, its violent flow churning up rocks from the river's bottom. Then it turned itself inside out, and a point arose, spinning furiously, above the surface. The water formed a pure, crystalline crown, studded with finely polished stones. The Koinoni reached for the beautiful, silver-blue coronet, but just as he touched it the water and stones gave way, and it disappeared from sight. The river flowed silently on.

"You are truly a very clever river, and magical besides," said the Koinoni.

"I am very clever, and magical besides," said the face of the water. "And I offer you my cool sweetness. But because you sought more than the better thing, you cannot stay here with me. You must continue your searching until you find the better thing."

The Koinoni turned away very sad, not because he wanted the cool sweetness of the water, thirsty as he was, but because he was quite sure that the crown of silver-blue with fine jewels was a very good thing indeed. He began to grow angry that he should be expected to find a better thing, but the face of the water would not allow him to stay, so he set out upon the road once again to walk across the Earth. And the whole world was his home, and he had no home.

Over the land he went, foot over foot, until he came upon a towering glowering forest. And in the midst of the towering glowering forest stood a grand gray elephant, swaying its trunk and waving its giant ears.

"What do you see?" asked the elephant, who really was Zdjaman.

"I see a towering glowering forest, full of mighty trees," said the Koinoni, "and a mighty elephant that well could pull down those trees, that I might use them for myself, and keep them from distant peoples in distant lands."

"Why don't you stay here with me, and ride upon the strength of my back? For I perceive you are very weak," asked the elephant, and it scratched its back with a tree branch.

"What else do you offer me? For though I am weak and tired, I would use your strength for profit instead of charity," said the Koinoni.

"Watch me blow upon the trees of the forest, and turn their leaves into spun gold," said the elephant. And with that he lifted his trunk and trumpeted so mightily, so loudly that all the leaves of the trees spun about until the Koinoni could no longer see that they were leaves, only that they were spinning. And they spun and spun until the elephant stopped trumpeting, and when the leaves were still again, the Koinoni could see they had turned to gold. The grand gray elephant swayed its trunk and waved its giant ears.

"You are truly a very clever elephant, and magical besides, and I will very happily stay with you," said the Koinoni.

"I am very clever, and magical besides," said the elephant. "And I offer you the strength of my back. But because you sought more than the better thing, you cannot stay here with me. You must continue your searching until you find the better thing."

The Koinoni protested, and even threatened to sit down, but the grand gray elephant made it clear that he could either walk away or be thrown away, so the Koinoni left. He was tired indeed, and his bare feet were hurting from his walk, and he was very sure that the gold leaves were probably the best thing he had ever seen. Not at all did he understand the command to seek the better thing. But he had no choice but to leave, so he set out again upon his journey. And the whole world was his home, and he had no home.

Over the land he went, foot over aching foot, until he came upon a stocky rocky mountain range. And in the midst of the stocky rocky mountain range loomed a huge stone statue, staring wisely from among the rubble and covered with gray-green moss.

"What do you see?" asked the statue, who really was Zdjaman.

"I see majestic, tall mountains of beautiful hard rock," said the Koinoni, "and filled with gems and ores that I can trade in distant nations."

"Why don't you stay here with me, and know the wisdom of my unblinking eyes? For I perceive you are a fool," asked the statue.

"I beg your pardon? You will have to offer me more than to call me a fool," said the Koinoni.

"Watch me eat of the mountain and grow," said the statue, and indeed the mountains began to rumble and fall. The Koinoni was shaken from his feet and fell hard to the ground, and the stones of the statue began to increase. The statue stretched and groaned, as if rising from a sound sleep, and the Koinoni was very much afraid. The mountains shrank, and the statue grew, until at last it seemed satisfied and stopped the quaking of the earth. It sat and stared into the blue.

"You are truly a very clever statue, and I admit very wise, and magical besides. Please don't kill me," said the Koinoni.

"I am very clever, and wise, and magical besides," said the statue. "And I offer you wisdom. But because you sought more than the better thing, though I will not kill you, you cannot stay here with me. You must continue your searching until you find the better thing."

The Koinoni was upset to leave, not because he wanted the statue's wisdom, but he did want the statue to tell him what was the better thing. He stamped and cursed as he walked away, wondering why each magical being told him to search but wouldn't tell him what to find. He pondered why each tempted him with comfort but allowed him none of their wonders. On and on he trudged, across the Earth. And the whole world was his home, and he had no home.

Over the land he went, foot over foot, until he came upon the soggy boggy bottoms of a marshland, and in the midst of the soggy boggy bottoms a Will o' the Wisp danced upon the peaty soil.

"What do you see?" asked the Will o' the Wisp, who really was Zdjaman.

"I see a vast, malevolent land that would swallow me up, and also a spirit, or a sprite, or a wraith," said the Koinoni, "and the gold and silver coins that would pass to my hands to look upon such a thing."

"Why don't you stay here with me, and see by my light? For I perceive you are blind," asked the Will o' the Wisp.

"You are certainly a very rude sprite, for to be sure I can see you fine. You will have to offer me more than light to make me stay," said the Koinoni.

"Watch me, then, blind man. Watch me cover the fetid moors with crystals brighter than the sun." Immediately the Will o' the Wisp arose from the ground, and it spun and twirled within the skies, and grew to an astounding size. It swirled over the head of the Koinoni, sweeping about the sky like a comet, trailing behind it glowing bits of radiant goo. The luminescent specks fell lightly upon the ground until it sparkled white.

"You are truly a very clever Will o' the Wisp, beautiful to behold, and magical besides," said the Koinoni.

"I am very clever, and beautiful, and magical besides," said the Will o' the Wisp. "And I offer you light. But because you sought more than the better thing, you cannot stay with me. You must continue your searching until you find the better thing."

The Koinoni cursed the Will o' the Wisp under his breath, cursed his beauty that he could no longer behold, cursed his command to find the better thing. Of all the wonderful things he had seen, he could not choose the better. He stepped out upon his path again, distressed that he might never know what the better thing was. But he had no choice, for none of the magical beings would let him stay with them, so on he trod. And the whole world was his home, and he had no home.

Over the land he went, foot over foot, Little One, until he came upon the towering overpowering standancrags of Medialia. And in the midst of the towering overpowering standancrags stood a man, a man in a long robe, a robe with a great, deep hood, so massive that only the man's long gray beard could be seen hanging out of its opening.

"What do you see?" asked the man speaking from within the great, deep hood, who really was Zdjaman.

"I see towers of rock, standing out of the ground like they had been pulled from the earth, or like nails driven into the soil by the gods," said the Koinoni, "and the fine houses I could carve out of them for any who would pay."

"Why don't you stay here with me? For they indeed are my houses, and I could be a friend to you, and make you a man like me, for surely I see you are but a pitiful shadow of what man was intended," asked the voice within the great, deep hood.

"You are no doubt the most rude being that I have met upon my quest. All across the Earth have I walked, only to be belittled for the greatness of the work I have done. What do you have to reward me, for surely I deserve more than mere insults?" said the Koinoni.

"Watch me, shadow man, turn the whole of creation into living hell," said the voice within the great, deep hood, and the man lifted his arms, draped in long sleeves, to the heavens. Fire fell from the sky, greater than that of the tree; vast plagues of vermin swarmed, greater than those of the rumidont; birds swept down upon the Koinoni with their talons, greater than those of the face of fire; stones ground together upon the swirling land, greater than those of the face of the water; whole trees spun about, faster and harder than those of the grand gray elephant; the standancrags swelled and erupted, greater than the stones of the statue; lights flared and exploded, brighter and greater than the Will o' the Wisp. And the Koinoni fell to the ground before the man in the robe, standing with his arms to the heavens, O Little One.

"You are truly a very clever man, a very powerful man, and your magic is greater than all the magical beings I have known," said the Koinoni.

"I am very clever, and magical besides; and I am the tree, and the rumidont, and the fire, and the water, and the elephant, and the wisdom, and the light, and the power. All the magical beings you met along your way, I am. And all the things I offered you, you have refused. And I offer you friendship. But because you sought more than the better things, you cannot stay with me. You must continue your searching until you learn to renounce the lesser things, until you find the better thing."

"All across the Earth have I walked, and I did not find the better thing," said the Koinoni, still at the feet of the man in the robe.

"All the way of your journey I offered you the better thing. Until you learn not to refuse it, you must continue your wanderings."

"Do you turn me out empty, then?"

"No. I give you my robe, for a covering. No longer will you be naked without, though you remain wretched within, and you perceive neither."

And even though the Koinoni wanted to stay, the man, who now stood with body exposed, would not allow it, so he struck out again in his wanderings, dressed in a long robe with a deep hood, seeking the better thing, but never yet finding. And the whole world was his home, O Little One, and he had no home.

Chapter XXVII

Time passed, and Bedoua, Melic and Koinoni sojourned in relative peace within the Rufoux community. Of course, Rufoux anger inevitably flared at their unaccustomed guests, but the clans' leaders quickly smoothed over each new explosion. The stockade walls stood tall and strong, Andreia arose to walk about again, and the full moon threatened.

"We must be back," Ingle insisted, urgency in his eyes. "We must take refuge in camp or Wolven will have us."

Krait sniffed at his fears, but Humus and Mistral reflected the same concern in their faces.

"The Bedoua must return," Theodoric said to Artur, standing about with Wyllem and Pepin. "And considering their arguments at the council, I suggest we go with them. Putting pitch to the outside of the boat will save bailing water from the inside."

"What?"

"We must talk to Dungo before Krait does."

"Yes, I have known that, too," said Artur. "But I'm afraid we can not get there on foot before the full moon. Our progress upon the flood plains will be yet slower than our first trip, now that water saturates the ground."

"Yes. You ground walkers will have more trouble than when we returned," said Theodoric, and he looked at the boats. A group of Koinoni stood upon the nearby shore, one talking with Geoffrey, the others spinning in turn. Geoffrey shook his head.

"Yarrow?" asked Theodoric as they approached, and the still figure turned in their direction.

"Zootaloo!"

"We have need of one of your boats. How much for one?"

"What do you have?"

"I have a flagon of honey," said Theodoric, and he pulled Aachen up with him.

"A bit of honey for a boat? Why do you seek so much for this honey?"

"You never know how it might come in handy. But I do not want to purchase the boat, but only passage. We must sail to the desert, to deliver our Bedoua friends to safety before the full moon, but also to meet Dungo."

"You offer honey for a boat _ride_?" asked Yarrow, somewhat confused.

"Yes," said Theodoric, looking about to Artur, who also was puzzled.

"You would pay us for a boat ride?" asked Yarrow again.

"Yes, for the Bedoua, and for Artur."

"Never have the Koinoni given nothing for something, even at our shrewdest. You must promise not to seek vengeance for this, Rufoux. Koinoni have nothing to do with this offer."

"The expense will not fall upon the Rufoux, but upon Melics," said Theodoric, and he extended the flagon of honey toward Yarrow.

"Very well, let us have the honey. Perhaps we have learned a new way to trade. I will prepare my men."

"It would be best for only you to go from among the Koinoni," warned Theodoric. "The Bedoua have heard tales of the Koinoni, and will be distrustful."

"Some truth abides in Koinoni rumors, particularly the one that Koinoni always go about in sixes," said Yarrow.

"I know, but in this case one would be better."

"Koinoni always go about in sixes." The spinning of the others had gone on unabated.

"Can you handle a boat?" Wyllem asked Theodoric.

"Good point," said Theodoric. "I guess taking a large group is unavoidable. Perhaps we can find a way to set Dungo's mind at ease," he said to Artur.

"You should take Mienrade," offered Artur. "Dungo will remember his drink. And perhaps Franken as well — he liked his toy."

"Yes, an excellent suggestion, but remember, the hippus came from you. We will fetch Mienrade to the forest's edge again," said Theodoric. "I will go with Pepin, and I think it would be safe to bring another Rufoux this time. What say you, Geoffrey?"

"Very well," said Geoffrey. "Things have been too quiet here for me anyway."

Artur gave him a stern look. "No funny business out of you, old man. We're trying to make peace here, not get you killed."

"I don't know what you're talking about," returned Geoffrey, annoyed.

Yarrow boarded the smallest of the Koinoni boats, and the rest of the travelers followed: Artur and Geoffrey; Theodoric; Humus, Ingle and Mistral; and Krait, with no small words of complaint. "Dungo will not speak with you. Bedoua will not join with you," he insisted, and Ingle growled at him. Artur chose to ignore the debate. Pepin struck out through the woods to get Mienrade. Picta, who had remained in camp, hugged each of the travelers before departing into the trees as well, hanging upon Artur longer than he liked, and Andreia leaned against a hut and waved as the crew of six Koinoni used long poles to advance the boat up the Alluvia.

"We have saved one life," remarked Theodoric as he waved back to Andreia. "Perhaps we can save more."

"A very precious life," said Artur.

"She is strong and beautiful, is she not?"

"Yes, and young," and Artur sighed hard.

"Can it be such a wrong thing, to be young?" asked Theodoric.

"No, youth is a very good thing. But it traps her, for all the men of her birth year have married already, and certainly no others will be found."

"And what of the women your age, Artur? Have they all been taken in marriage as well?"

"Yes, indeed."

"There seems to be an obvious solution for you both, then. Soil and water share nothing in common, and yet when they combine, a seed blossoms."

"What do you mean?"

"You are fond of her, no? And I dare say she of you. What difference does birth year make?"

"It is not a matter of difference — it is a matter of our ways. Rufoux betroth their couples at six, then engagement at twelve, marriage at eighteen. We root our families in this ritual, the very foundation of our culture, and we remain very strict about it."

"What did the Rufoux do before establishing those ways?" asked Theodoric.

"What? Who knows? It has been our way for generations, long before even Geoffrey."

"But your people must have done something."

"I'm sure we must have, but I don't know what."

"And it must have worked, or you wouldn't be here."

"Yes, I'm sure it worked."

"So why can't your ways change again?" asked Theodoric.

"I am leader of the Rufoux," Artur answered. "What I want doesn't matter; I have to protect the safety of the clan. You saw what happened after the Aoten attacked us, didn't you, up in your tree? The clan erupted with talk that would have left me overthrown and dead. If I disregard clan traditions for something I want, it might cause rebellion."

"That may be so; much depends on perspective. Consider Picta, for instance. She would like nothing better than to break away from our traditions. Our traditions will kill her just as they threaten to kill us all, just in a different way. She hangs over us, a shadow of the entire Melic clan; Pepin has dreamed it. He has dreamed of you as well."

"I know. I don't see what that has to do with anything."

"Picta is wise in her foolishness, and yet foolish in her wisdom, for wishing to change Melic tradition may kill her as well. She has always been an outcast." Theodoric studied Artur's face.

"Hmm," said Artur flatly.

"It's a matter of perspective, what one considers most important. I too have faced overthrow; only the fact that I have no heir saved me. Picta's rebellion threatens her life as well. I will protect her as best I can."

Artur paused. "You have your marriage customs, we have ours."

Theodoric seemed to change the subject. "Has a Rufoux chief ever ridden upon a Koinoni boat before?"

"No, and I'll thank you not to rub it in."

"Has a Rufoux chief ever sought counsel from a Melic?"

"You're as bad as Wyllem with the questions."

"Has a leader of the Rufoux ever sought council with the Bedoua?"

"No."

"So you see, the Rufoux can survive when things take a different turn. Your clan stands mighty indeed."

"Yes, I suppose so." Artur looked over the bow of the boat at the vast lands spread before him, wondering if his future would look any different than his present, and if he'd have the chance to find out.

"Andreia, intuit of the Rufoux," Theodoric rolled the thought over in his mind. "The winds of change are blowing, Artur. Do not be afraid to cast your sails to the wind."

And for once, Artur understood what Theodoric meant.

The boat continued its way up river as day passed into night, then night into day. The Koinoni took shifts poling against the gentle current, two at a time, and so the vessel never ceased to move. All through the journey Yarrow dickered with his passengers.

"This land looks finer than any other in Medialia," he said. "Do the Rufoux claim all this territory?"

"Yes, although Melics would call it theirs," said Geoffrey. "We claim the land, they claim the branches. You can't have any of it."

"Where does it end?"

"At the mouth of the Alluvia. Have you never been there?"

"Never. Nobody will trade north of the Rufoux village, so we have no reason."

"Where else do the Koinoni go, outside of Medialia?" Geoffrey asked.

"Many places, many places not on any Rufoux map. The world spreads its borders wide, and houses many ports where the Koinoni still sail."

"I am the oldest of the Rufoux, and I have never gone past the Alluvia myself. My people have always remained on the banks of the river. Although I have spent much time in the forests. I even used to go — Mog's goblins, what's that?!"

A dark figure flew overhead, a great creature with a long neck and tail, held aloft by huge bat-like wings. Even in silhouette against the sun, Geoffrey could see its scales and jagged teeth.

"A dragon! A dragon!" he exulted. "Such a rare sight, a real flying dragon! Never does one see such a thing!"

"No," said Yarrow. "In the eastern lands they are quite common. They roam about practically like rumidonts. A common pest."

Elsewhere on the boat Krait sullenly muttered to himself. "Damn boat. Dungo will not join. Bedoua will not join. Which is-sss better? Which is-sss better for Krait? Damn boat."

Eventually the ship pulled into the burbling source of the Alluvia, and the Koinoni drew it to shore. Pepin and Mienrade awaited them where the meadows met the forest, and though the night drew near, the troupe decided to start out into the desert. With the Bedoua tent still in hand, and the Melics somewhat used to sleeping on rolled-up rugs, they knew they could spend the night upon the sands.

And so they did.

Just as they took shifts pushing the boat, the Koinoni took shifts sleeping. Still in their heavy robes, four slept while two kept watch, each in turn. The Koinoni would never let themselves be taken by surprise.

The group arose with the sun and set about packing their little bags and preparing a spare breakfast. As the Bedoua broke down the tent, Ingle noticed their unusual struggling at the work and suddenly asked, "Where's Krait?"

"Left three hours ago," said a Koinoni.

Chapter XXVIII

The sun glared almost directly overhead the travelers as they came within sight of the Bedoua tent village. Ingle and Humus led the procession, with the Koinoni at the rear, each spinning in turn as they walked. Artur thought they must be about to faint from the heat in those robes, but they showed no signs of fatigue.

"Zootaloo! Guards to starboard," said one after he spun, and indeed armed sentries appeared over a dune, demanding that each of the group throw up his hands.

"What do you mean by this?" declared Ingle, outraged.

"Orders of Krait. He warned us about you," said one rotund sentry with a particularly scraggly beard.

"Warned you, Mer? Warned you of what?"

"Koinoni, coming in with Rufoux, scheming against the Bedoua. Krait told us to arrest you."

"Krait does not speak for Dungo!" Ingle intoned his mantra between clenched teeth. "You make a better shepherd than guard, Mer! Krait is a fool! Let me get to him before he corrupts Dungo's mind!" And Ingle slapped away Mer's spear and marched past him quickly. As they walked toward camp the portly sentry reached out to tickle passing rumidonts and imitated their noises deep within his throat, and clicked.

Ingle led them grandly through the encampment, and a crowd gathered at the odd sight of the Koinoni marching along, covered like phantoms, each spinning in turn.

"Krait!" bellowed Ingle at Dungo's door. "I knew I'd find you here putting poison into Dungo's ear!"

They found Krait upon one knee before the seated Dungo, his hands outstretched as if making a plea. Behind Dungo stood Sylva, and Scree and Moss nuzzled the folds of her flowing raiment.

"How does the girl fare?" Dungo asked plainly.

"She has recovered," said Humus.

"Yes, she is well again. Thanks be to you, and to Mog," said Artur. Clicking could be heard from Mistral, but nobody else.

"Ho-ho! Krait says she has died, and you come to seek vengeance. But you see, Bedoua bring a blessing to the Rufoux, no? The Bedoua have delivered a good thing upon the Rufoux, and upon their leader! Well have the Bedoua done, would you not say, sir? Well we have done for you, and blessing we have been upon you, and you would return a curse upon us? Krait tells me of your plans, to bring more and more Rufoux into the camp and attack us in the night, to avenge the girl. He tells me of how you use the Melics to gain the trust of other clans, only to ambush them at the first chance! He tells me of the disguises you invent to sneak warriors into the Bedoua lands, so you can blame other clans." And he indicated the Koinoni. "What say you to this, oh treacherous Rufoux? What say you to these charges Krait has made?"

Every one of the travelers looked at Artur in surprise, not the least Geoffrey. Dungo's speech left them breathless.

Artur braced his feet and took hold of Kylie's grip. He felt the growl growing in his throat. "The girl lives. Krait is a liar. He means you only harm," he said, his voice thick.

"Yes, I know. Your words prove only too true," said Dungo, and looked to Sylva. "Begone, Krait, you have failed in your purposes." Krait glanced about defiantly, eyes concealed behind his glasses. He slunk out of the tent, sneering and muttering over his shoulder, and Dungo stared at the spinning Koinoni.

"Please, sit down and eat, cheeses and butter and cream, my friends! And stop that turning. I am so pleased to see my dear friends again! And you sir, what a blessing to see you!" Dungo grabbed Mienrade's hand. "Such good tidings that the girl survives! You have been paid well for the magnificent toy, no? Bedoua never leave a good turn wanting. We have met our end of the bargain. But now these Koinoni you bring, I did not agree to this. We can not have such scurrilous characters wandering in and out of the territory of the Bedoua. No, no! The clan would never agree to this, would never stand for it, even if Krait does say so, for many tales we know, mind you, tales of Koinoni trading that left entire villages bare. Tales that would make one shudder to think of what might befall the Bedoua at their hand!"

"The Koinoni have agreed to join us against the Aoten," said Theodoric when a breath by Dungo allowed the opportunity. "They come to persuade the Bedoua to aid our battle."

"Yes, the Aoten, they are yet more different, and an issue much different from healing a Rufoux girl. The toy hippus, and bee milk, such delights we have never seen, but that does not mean that the Bedoua will give their lives to Aoten cudgels. Bedoua still have no reason to go to war. The deserts, they protect us, and Wolven will have the giants in the midst of his prowlings. The Bedoua do not feel called upon to die when giants threaten only other clans. We wish you well, my dear friends, but to give our lives for such a thing, what reason do we have? No reason at all! What good can come to the Bedoua from joining with the other clans of Medialia?"

Ingle sidled up to Dungo's chair and handed him the paper he had traded for. "I have a new thing for you, Dungo — they call it paper, and peoples from far away draw lines upon it like Sylva's writing. We came to own it from our time passed in the Rufoux camp."

"Indeed? Pay-pare? How does this work? Can you make this work, Sylva?" She took the paper he offered her and studied it thoughtfully, then brightly nodded. "Well said, Ingle, you've done well to deliver this wonderful fabric to the Bedoua! No doubt you have served your people well, for Sylva reckons wisdom better than all my daughters, even all our people, and this new treasure mightily pleases her! What wonderful items the faraway peoples make! Ha-ha!"

Ingle felt greatly vindicated for his trade now, still hoping Dungo would not ask about the cheeses, and he looked to Artur and Theodoric. The Melic leader took up the argument.

"Dungo, the Aoten have set their minds to take Rufoux grain now. If they can get the grain, they will pillage Rufoux weapons as well. After the grain is devoured they will be all the stronger to take Bedoua rumidonts. All your little animals, even your pets here, will end up on spits over Aoten fires, then filling their bellies. And then your herds will be no more, and the Aoten will move on to destroy other clans. They have already destroyed the Xinna to the west."

The Koinoni nodded silently.

"Moss and Scree? They would," Dungo swallowed hard, " _eat_ Moss and Scree?"

"Likely," said Theodoric solemnly.

"Forget it," Geoffrey broke in with one eye on Dungo. "Krait said they wouldn't help fight."

Ingle nearly took exception, but he had no chance before Dungo.

"What does Krait say? Nothing! No, he speaks not a word for the Bedoua! He speaks not even for himself, for he never remembers the lies he tells! We will no longer hear of Krait! Dungo will speak for the Bedoua, and Dungo will decide if we fight or not!"

Sylva had taken a small bottle and dipped in her little finger, which she carefully ran over the surface of the paper. Quietly she reached over Dungo's shoulder and placed the parchment into his hand.

"The Bedoua have but one vizier, and Krait carries not enough weight! Who does? Dungo! Dungo will — what? Yes, what's this?" he said, and looked intently at the scrawl.

"What's that?" Theodoric asked Humus.

"Nobody knows," he replied.

"Dungo has decided," he said, looking up sharply. "But first we must know about these Koinoni. The peoples of the vast world tell many tales of their conniving, and the Bedoua will not be robbed as well as killed."

"Well said," said Artur under his breath.

"In their camp we found the tales of the Rufoux raiders to be false, every one," said Ingle.

"What? How do you know?"

"We found no Bedoua items in their camp, vizier. No rugs, no tents, not even tame rumidonts, though wild ones abound. The Rufoux use none of the good things that come from the rumidont. The Rufoux have stolen nothing."

"Nothing? How can that be?"

"The legends have lied, vizier."

"What, the legends, too? But what does that prove about the Koinoni?" said Dungo, looking at his paper again. "Just because the forefathers may have been mistaken about the Rufoux, does not make the Koinoni trustworthy. Just because someone perhaps exaggerated some stories we heard as children, does not mean the tales of today can't be true. How do we know we can trust the Koinoni? They don't even have a homeland; what can they possibly offer in the defense of Medialia? What do they have to offer the Bedoua?" Dungo looked to Yarrow, the only Koinoni facing him.

"What do you have?" Yarrow asked, mostly only out of habit.

"What do you mean?" said Dungo, and the constant clicking from Mistral increased.

"He means this," said Theodoric, and he lifted the flagon of honey hanging from the shoulder of the Koinoni who bore it, who reached to take it back, but too slowly. "His clan comes bringing bee milk for you. He found a way to win it from us, so he could offer it to you."

"Oh! Marvelous, this contains that marvelous bee milk? How I have longed for its taste this awful, slow month. You, sir, behave as a true gentleman, and a wonderful guest to bring more of this most precious elixir! Ah, its goodness leaves words in shame." Suddenly the tent filled with clicking, and Dungo looked to Sylva, who smiled. "Yes, it is good! So good! The Bedoua will not turn away from such a generous and wise guest, who makes such a compelling appeal!"

"What do you have?" Yarrow asked again, sounding confused and distressed at giving up the honey.

"Yes! Of course, a gift must be made in turn!" said Dungo, looking around himself, trying to identify something that might interest the Koinoni. "What do you see that you like?" He did not realize the danger of the question he posed to the Koinoni.

"What lies in there?" asked Yarrow, indicating a large pot filled with something black.

"Black sand!" gushed Dungo, and Humus nodded and clicked in his throat. "Most mysterious, is black sand. You can find it only in remote spots in the desert, and no Bedoua knows where it comes from or what to use it for! See, how large the grains, and coarse, and black as night; and then also they come smooth and gray — not like regular sand at all. And so heavy! What a find for the Koinoni, to possess black sand! We welcome you to the entire pot, for rumidonts can not eat it, and grains can not grow in it, and it can not be woven into fabrics. But you never saw anything so precious, so valuable, no doubt about it! You may take it all!"

Each side withdrew quite convinced it had received the better gift, and Dungo ordered milk to be brought. Mienrade mixed drinks for all, and Dungo lounged upon his perch of rugs, happily clicking alongside Theodoric and Artur.

"And what introduction may I have to this elderly Rufoux you have brought with you? Will you not allow me the honor of meeting yet another Rufoux, the second Rufoux to enter peacefully into the land of the Bedoua?" Dungo said.

"This is my father, Geoffrey. Among all Rufoux, he is most ancient."

Geoffrey extended his hand, and Dungo took it, noticing his missing thumb.

"What a shame. You have lost the best part," he said.

"What?" said Geoffrey, puzzled, and studied the hand. "No thumb makes a hand difficult to use, yes. Do I understand you?"

"No," said Dungo. "The thumb, the best part of the feast. Very tasty."

"What?" said Artur.

"Unfortunately, we have no dead, or you could taste one. Or at least you could try. The family would be very troubled to give up the best part."

"You," Artur's throat clinched. He looked twice at the food upon the woven napkin in his hand, and found the words difficult. "You eat your dead?"

"Indeed. The Bedoua celebrate the most holy of our religious rites by sharing death with life. We take our dead to ourselves, honor and venerate them by giving them our life. Why would we curse them to eternity in the dark ground, or the hot coals of fire, when they can become part of us? We take part in them, to keep them Bedoua forever. Each generation takes on the generation before, and so we make ourselves eternal upon the Earth. Ha-ha! And so we also rob Wolven of his appetites, for he lies in wait to inhale our beloved both body and soul, if we give him the chance. Much you could learn from the Bedoua! Death serves only as a right of passage into life, the lives of one's children, and never would a Bedoua do anything otherwise for his loved ones. The cursings of Wolven would surely fall upon us if we failed this obligation."

Artur let his cheese drop.

Theodoric sat listening deeply. "The sun travels the sky, but surely she has only to observe the Earth, for there's nothing more to do."

Chapter XXIX

Artur walked among the Bedoua tents, wondering what tide had swept him up. Geoffrey offered little counsel, himself confounded by the Bedoua cannibals: He suddenly had become very interested in not dying, at least not there. Theodoric's philosophical pondering of every new idea offered no comfort, either. Artur needed Wyllem; perhaps the right questions would point him in the direction of prudence.

No matter if or when Dungo agreed to visit the Rufoux camp, Artur could not leave the desert for at least a couple of days; this he knew. The full moon would rise in a night or two, and the Bedoua would suffer no one leaving until after the threat of Wolven's roaming had passed. Artur's feelings of cozy security, enjoyed just days before, his thoughts of understanding the mysteries hanging over him, vanished into the shimmering heat of the sands.

All his life he had lived separated into the Rufoux world, never seeking nor desiring the company of the other clans. Ages passed, and all Rufoux generations brought up their children this way, but he had never wondered nor understood why. Now he began to imagine that there had been reasons, established generations ago, good and wise reasons for separating from the other barbaric people, who in the long run could only pervert the Rufoux civilization. Artur knew he must keep the knowledge of this Bedoua custom secret from his people, at least until the wars with the Aoten had played out.

He shuddered as he thought again of his conversation with Dungo. The shock of eating flesh, human at that, paled when followed by Dungo's blasé defense — no, promotion — of it. What could drive a man to eat what had been alive, much less a relative? And Theodoric simply weighed it as a quaint personal choice. Of all the Melics, one of only a few disgusted by their own sickening incest, surely Theodoric should understand how debauched were the Bedoua. But instead, he accepted this Bedoua depravity like an invitation to a walk. And then the Koinoni, Artur grimaced, the Koinoni couldn't care less, selling their own women to sexual appetite, and then only to slip a knife into your back, likely. He still didn't trust them. The Rufoux leader's temper burned hot as he considered all these outrages thrust upon him and his people, and his anger doubled at the Aoten for driving him to this.

But hadn't Andreia recovered her health because of Bedoua medicine, he thought. Certainly something good could be found in these people. Even Dungo, fat, gaseous-from-both-ends Dungo: Who could long remain angry at the jovial man who loved toys and sweets? The fool. And yet it seemed Dungo realized this as well, and wisely relied upon his daughter. Hadn't his own people entrusted him with protecting their culture? And also he thought of Picta, who also cringed at the traditions of the Melics. She stood as a contrast to Carolingia, hers the worst excess of Melic carnality. Picta revealed that honor did exist among Melic women, honor that demonstrated itself in behavior and not just empty thoughts and words.

What too of the Koinoni? Yarrow seemed to have quieted their desire to swindle. They had tried their trading ways time and again, but still the various clansmen had not drawn Koinoni blood yet. Artur still thought they planned some kind of swindle, but so far they had given no rise to suspicion. Perhaps Yarrow sought something else.

Artur resolved to raise his vigilance. So much remained that he still did not understand about all these strange people; so much distrust still haunted his thoughts. The Bedoua had not yet agreed to fight against the Aoten; he resolved not to be taken into any more agreements until they did. If Dungo traveled to the Rufoux camp, if he saw the stockade, perhaps that would settle the matter for him and Artur. In the meantime, he chastised himself for talking so carelessly around Theodoric.

Geoffrey found Artur and pulled him aside behind a tent.

"I had my doubts when Ingle declared the tales of Rufoux raids to be false. After all, they fill up our tales as well," he said. "But now I am convinced."

"How so?"

"If ancient Rufoux raiders in the mold of Mog had come down upon Bedoua and seen them eating flesh, they would have wiped them off the Earth."

"Yes. You're probably right. Eating flesh is for drooling beasts like the thylak."

"Of course I'm right. My father would not have blinked at destroying them. If we didn't need them now I might suggest that very thing. What a world we live in. Disgusting."

"Do you agree we must have them, then?" asked Artur.

"I'm afraid so. These people seem to have nothing but pikes for weapons, but their length and barbed points could disable many an Aoten giant. We need every man, every man. And poison might save us much trouble."

"Thank you, graybeard. You're still useful, even without your tastiest part."

"Ugh."

"We must persuade Dungo to come to our lands, to see the stockade, and to join our defense."

"Do you think it wise, to reveal all of Rufoux life to him?"

"I think it's a reasonable risk. I wish I had brought Wyllem. He would certainly ask something that would make my brain work. But I don't think we have anything to fear from these people."

"Except perhaps Krait."

"Yes, and he's already seen the stockade, so the damage is done there. Dungo seems not to trust him, but we would do well to keep them apart."

"Yes. I could kill him," Geoffrey offered in jest.

"That may be a bad idea for now, Father. Here's a better: Dungo will be in his tent all night at the full moon, he so fears his god. We must make sure we join him in that tent, and that Krait does not. I will talk to Theodoric. Mog's goblins, I can't believe how much I have to trust a Melic. But I must."

The Rufoux men went their separate ways, the sun rose and fell, and a trio of Melic reeds heralded the onset of dusk. And then only one played.

Pepin and Mienrade walked about the tent city talking until they could tell a third pair of ears listened as well.

"I have had a dream," said Pepin.

"Do tell?" said Mienrade, noodling on his reed.

"Tonight the full moon comes out, the night the Bedoua say their god goes about thirsting for blood."

"Yes, so I have heard."

"Too bad."

"Why do you say?"

"My dream. I saw a vast treasure, buried lightly in the wool of a rumidont. Amazing wealth peeked out of the wool — by the light of the sun, it couldn't be found. It looked like a rumidont, but with so many other rumidonts around it, who could tell the difference? But under the full silver light of the moon, I saw it plainly, a rumidont out by itself."

"Why, what an intriguing dream. How could you tell the rumidont was really treasure?"

"The rumidont's eyes shined bright, like jewels. Yes, the moonlight in its eyes, they shined like stars of the heavens, and I could see it."

"Unbelievable."

"Yes, if these foolish Bedoua would not cower in their tents all night under the full moon, they could lay hold of this treasure. Out in these deserts, only the Bedoua could find it. The rumidonts represented dunes; they look so much the same under the sun, but in the moonlight the gems glowed. But the Bedoua hide under their covers, afraid of their silly superstitions! If one brave, shrewd Bedoua took the risk, he would find that dune with the jewels, and he would be rich."

"Well, it's just too bad."

"Yes," Pepin snorted. "Well, we must be inside, before Wolven gets us!" And the two Melics laughed gaily at the thought and headed for a nearby tent.

Artur, Geoffrey and Theodoric had already taken refuge in Dungo's tent, invited along with Sylva and the six Koinoni, but Theodoric stood at the fold that acted as a door. When he saw a silhouette skulking out of the camp, he closed the flap and joined the others. "The moon will soon be high above us," he said. "The feeling of safety warms the heart, no?"

"Yes, yes indeed," said Dungo. "You show yourself to be wise, Melic, learning so quickly to fear Wolven. You must tell me one day of your god, for he has made you wise, and Wolven only makes one frightened. But join us, join us for the night, and we will talk of many things, and perhaps our conversation will cover up the screams, should we hear any."

"Yes, I am glad to be safe," Theodoric continued. "The Rufoux village lies safe as well, for now, would you say, Artur?"

"Yes. The stockade should hold up under attack for now," said Artur.

"That 'for now' makes the unsettling part," said Dungo. "The Aoten are legendary in their ruthlessness. Legendary for their hunger first, then their ruthlessness. They will tear down your fence to get what's inside, if they want it. The giants will climb or dig or push until they sweep away the fence, and then they sweep away you."

"The Bedoua vizier speaks truly," said a Koinoni, probably Yarrow. The others faced away in different directions to keep a lookout within the tent.

"You will be safe enough inside," said Dungo, studying their formation. "I promise to keep the poisons corked, so Wolven needs be your only worry. And inside you will frustrate his ravening tonight. Feel free to take off your cloaks." The Koinoni did not move.

"Yes, our people can rest safe in the stockade, for now," said Theodoric. "But you know rightly, it will not remain so. We may be able to fend off the giants a time or two, but they will eventually find their way inside, just as you say. Then the walls will not ensure safety; indeed, then the outside will offer better chance to live."

"Yes, though you speak in riddles, I must agree," said Dungo.

What riddle, Artur thought to himself, even I understood that one.

"We must kill off the Aoten, or drive them off, and I don't believe the second is possible," said Theodoric.

"No, it isn't," said Yarrow.

"Yes, very dangerous business, this fighting Aoten. You would not catch me doing it," said Dungo, and he looked over his shoulder at Sylva.

"We ask you to visit our village," said Artur.

"You do?" said Dungo, and his smile showed him to be both pleased and perplexed.

"Yes," broke in Theodoric. "Artur extends his invitation to you to see the Rufoux games, in celebration of Bedoua medicine. It would be a great honor for you, in thanks for your skill and effort in healing the Rufoux girl."

"Yes, I can see that. But the destination demands such a far journey, and Bedoua never travel below the mouth of the Alluvia. Cursed Alluvia, it has never been our friend. The river has favored others, so we stay away. How could I ever make such a journey, and leave my people behind? The trip would be so very long, and no doubt hard on my feet. Yes, you see, from years of walking on only fine rumidont wool and the soft sand, my feet grow tender even to my sandals. Very delicate, and no doubt the walking would hurt them very much."

"Have you ever ridden on a boat?" asked Geoffrey.

"A boat? What's that?"

"The most ingenious creation — it turns your enemy the River Alluvia into your slave," said Theodoric. "The Koinoni invented the device, that sits on top of water and allows a man to stand in the middle of the water."

"No! How can that be?"

"A Koinoni secret," said Theodoric. "A secret that must be seen to be believed. Let not the blind be too timid to see."

"Oh, I would very much like to see that. What is it? A boot?"

"Boat. And would you not like to see Rufoux riders, too?" asked Artur tantalizingly.

"Rufoux riders? Like on the little hippus?" asked Dungo, nearly fainting, and he reached over to pet the plaything.

"Yes. Many will perform at the games. Oh, you can't imagine the tricks they can turn. Riding on their heads, underneath the hippus, one on top of another," said Geoffrey.

"On their heads? Well," said Dungo, wavering, and he looked to Sylva. Sylva knelt and drew with her finger some figures in a shallow pan of sand as Dungo watched.

"Yes! I have decided!" Dungo announced grandly. "Dungo will take upon himself this perilous journey, this courageous endeavor of visiting the Rufoux village himself! He agrees to risk the hazards of the desert, as well as those of the River Alluvia who hates us, and venture into the land of the Rufoux! Many will be the dangers he faces, and many will be the tales told in ages to come of his bravery! Make note, Sylva, that you will use the wonderful paper to write the tales of Dungo, and the children of our children's children will learn to read, and they will know that this night, the night of a full moon, Dungo dared to defy Wolven and became the grandest, the bravest, the fattest of all the viziers of the Bedoua!"

The little group lifted their glass mugs, filled with milk and honey, and the rest of the night made merry with tales of derring-do, adventures of a vast array of people over their vast land. Again voices spoke and ears beheld the tale of Artur, and Mog, and the doomed therium.

In the morning, the Bedoua again found themselves safe from Wolven's ranging, and Dungo rode out of the camp to the cheers of his people, seated upon a sedan chair supported by four swarthy Bedoua. Sylva and Humus followed, and Moss and Scree, as did the men of the other clans.

Dungo left Ingle in charge of the clan in his absence, and Krait, defrauded of power and hidden treasure, licked his wounds at the back of the camp.

Chapter XXX

The tiny Koinoni boat, only some thirty kronyn long, looked like a floating house with Dungo's opulent sedan chair on deck, surrounded by eight bearers. Gentle breezes played with tassels that hung from the luxurious woven cover, and Dungo adopted a somber, important expression, like an explorer whom civilization might never see again. The barge slid along nicely with the current, making the labor much lighter for the Koinoni sailors. "You will not curse me, oh Alluvia! You will bear me upon your shoulders and carry me like your own tender child!" cried out the Bedoua vizier, half-afraid, lying upon his chair like a bloated puppy.

Osewold, keeping watch to the north from the stockade wall, always alert to attack, was first to see the ship approach over the horizon. Quickly he alerted Wyllem, who led a group of Rufoux to the banks of the swollen river.

"Artur! A fast trip for you! No time even for the Koinoni to trade away the teeth from our gums!" he called out jokingly.

"Enough of that talk," said Artur, and Yarrow turned to retreat to the stern of the boat. He prepared to unload the huge cauldron of black sand.

"Behold, my eyes, behold the Rufoux land!" Dungo declared as he disembarked. "Not a bit of sand, not a bit. Surely this ground inflicts cruelty to the feet. But the trees grow so lush, and the grasses thick — only in oasis do we see such growth in the desert. And you have dunes of solid ground, rising high over your heads. I never would have imagined in all Medialia such a land as this. Ho-ho! And your people, they scatter themselves everywhere! So many, so many, and young ones, too. My, you are a ruddy people!"

"My people," Artur announced to those present, "I bring to you Dungo, grand vizier of the Bedoua. He has come to see for himself Andreia, healed by Bedoua medicine, and to see with his own eyes the Rufoux games. Osewold, Wyllem, prepare the clan for the games!"

"Hoo-rah!" arose a cheer, and the Rufoux clansmen scattered.

"Theodoric, call for the Melics to come, for they will see Rufoux games from the ground for once."

"Certainly, Artur, we do accept with honor your generous invitation," said Theodoric with a deep bow, and he motioned toward the Koinoni, still upon their boat.

"Yes, and Koinoni as well."

Pepin and Mienrade quickly disappeared into the thick forest branches and made for the Melic community. "Ha-ha! Most remarkable thing!" said Dungo. "For surely I thought those Melics stood here just a moment ago. No doubt they will reappear just so quickly! Ho-ho! And here I see the grand fortress walls, no? Very tall, very tall and sturdy. You have done well, Rufoux and Melics together, to build such a structure. May it stand fast against the Aoten."

Humus took Dungo by the arm, and together with Artur they tracked down Andreia, organizing mock weapons in the community hall. After a quick examination, Humus declared himself satisfied with her health, and Dungo took hold of her with both hands like a glad grandfather.

"My lady fair, fully well now, I trust? Bedoua healing has brought you back to life! I'm not sure I believe you were ever ill. But, oh! The power of Bedoua healing! The Bedoua are very clever, skillful people. But did you shrink in your illness? Your people all stand short, but you barely move the air, you tiny wisp of a young woman, you little thing! Ha-ha! This would never do in the Bedoua deserts. You could never rise to vizier being so little. We must have you full of cream and butter to make you fat like Dungo! No more of this little smallness. No wonder you get sick."

"Thank you, Vizier Dungo," said Andreia, and she cast down her gaze.

"Oh, what grace you show! What a good and wonderful people you have, not what our lying legends say at all! You could not even be called all that ugly, as the stories say. What a grand idea I had, to come to your beautiful, bountiful land. It cannot match the desert, of course, but that is only to be expected. You must believe it a wonderful place to live, knowing nothing else, a grand and glorious land, and the generous hospitality you offer to the Bedoua ranges far beyond our fondest dreams!"

"Vizier, perhaps you would like to tour the compound?" asked Humus, with an eye to Artur, and he nodded.

"Yes, indeed! I must see how the Rufoux live, what wonders they hold in their houses and buildings! These huts look nothing like tents at all, not woven of wool, but made fully of rumidont skins! How can that be? Where did Moss and Scree go? I suppose if these came from wild animals, that's not so horrid..." And he went on and on as his voice faded into the distance, strolling with Humus.

"So good to see you recovered," Artur said to Andreia.

"Thank you. I am feeling much better."

"Don't take Dungo to heart. He talks like that all the time. You're not too small."

"Thank you." Andreia blushed, being more pale than most Rufoux.

"Andreia, what would you think —" Artur's voice trailed off awkwardly.

"Yes, Sir Artur?"

"Andreia, would you like — will you— what I mean is —" Artur looked about desperately. "Would you not call me that," he sputtered, and left the hall abruptly. Andreia resumed her work, a slight smile fixed.

The Melics had quickly gathered at the Rufoux village, Carolingia and Picta among them. Many of them flexed their muscles, swinging their razor-sharp axes over their heads with great gusto. Most preferred to carry their musical instruments, however, and they quickly set up a sizeable orchestra and played reels and jigs. Carolingia broke away from the group and strode around the Rufoux stockade. Eventually she found Humus.

"Bedoua man!" she called out and caught his attention. "You hold the secrets that healed the Rufoux girl, don't you?"

"Yes."

"The people say you know poisons as well as medicine," she said, her voice silken.

"Yes, poison is near kin to cure."

"Teach me."

"Why do you want to know the art of poison?" Humus asked without emotion.

"Why do you think?"

"I don't know, nor do I care," he replied flatly. "I cannot show you anyway, for I have nothing to work with."

"I can show you something in return," said Carolingia, sidling close and wrapping one leg around Humus' calf. "In the forest, and there you will find roots and berries as well."

"Indeed?" he replied coldly, but a clicking sound arose.

"You strike me as a funny one. You run neither hot nor cold. You keep death and life together on one shelf, and find passion in neither lust nor revulsion."

"It is my way."

"This is my way," and Carolingia thrust her tongue into Humus' mouth. Quickly she pulled him into the underbrush at the edge of the forest, and her light frock of woven leaves fell open. Humus displayed no repugnance at her wasted, gray flesh, and he soon found his way between her knees. The act passed in minutes, crushing the tender grasses and leaves underneath, and the Bedoua man lay flat on the ground without expression.

"Now I have done you a great favor," said Carolingia, pressing her breasts upon his chest, mocking his flat tone of voice.

"Melics are a strange lot."

"You can do something for me in return. Teach me poisons, and tell me of Romana."

"Who?"

"The Koinoni woman offered to Artur. He wouldn't have her, would he?"

"No, he refused."

"Show me which one is Romana. I want to know her."

"Look for a Koinoni in a long robe."

Elsewhere, Picta also had left the Melics and walked among the Rufoux huts. She looked about carefully, seeking a particular balding head of red hair, and finally found Artur, talking with Geoffrey and batting at a hummingbird. As she approached she overheard their conversation.

"As you say, it has been so since long before my birth," said Geoffrey. "I cannot guess what might happen to defy such a deep tradition."

"But would we really be breaking tradition? For the betrothals ended in death. We both were left with no choice."

"Son, that may be true, but the ages for the marriage path have been set in our culture always. What Rufoux could even know what to do? A grown man betrothed? How? Only boys undergo the ritual! You wouldn't even fit the robes. And would the couple wait another six years for engagement, and another six for marriage? How would it work?"

"Could we not just make it up as we go?"

"Make it up as you go?! _Make it up as you go?!_ Is that any way to run a clan?"

"No, I can't claim that. So you think it hopeless, then? Are the Rufoux so weak that we would not survive this inconsistency? Is it so impossible for our customs to serve us, instead of us serving our customs?"

"Let me think on this, Artur. Allow me to think."

"Thank you, Father. I will talk with Wyllem as well."

"That would be wise. Hello, Picta."

"Good day, Artur and Geoffrey, welcome back from your journey, back to your own home." Picta patted Geoffrey's back and grasped Artur's arm with both hands, clinging to him.

"I must go, Picta. I must prepare for the games," and Artur shook off her touch. As he walked away, she followed him with her moist eyes.

Geoffrey watched Picta watching Artur ignore her.

"You despise the Melic ways of marriage, don't you, Picta?" he asked.

"With all my heart," she replied, still looking after Artur.

"Certainly I disagree with the unseemly practice as well, to conjoin one's siblings. But I suppose we all have our flaws."

"I will not be part of it. I would run away into the mountains before I'd let my people require such evil of me. It disgusts me."

"You absolutely reject marrying a brother, as is the tradition of your people? That thought repulses you so much?"

"Yes," she said firmly, and turned her eyes to Geoffrey.

Geoffrey looked at her hard, but with tenderness. "Then you'd best forget about Artur."

Chapter XXXI

On the incline of the bluff, above the flooded fields lining the Alluvia, but below the Rufoux village, the clans pitched the games. The thud of wooden swords upon wooden shields popped in the air, lances flew in long wobbling spirals into helpless targets, and axes beat huge logs into submission. Rufoux riders raced across the foot of the hill, displaying great skill and courage as they manhandled their giant mounts, narrowly missing each other as their paths criss-crossed and riders jumped from one hippus to another. Dancing to the Melic harmonies raised the spirits and perspiration of the clansmen; Andreia even succeeded in drawing Artur into a short and clumsy jig. Franken, looking like a fiddler crab with his one huge arm wielding his axe and the other waving wildly for balance, managed to take honors for wood-chopping. Jakke wandered about, forever offering, "Fight?" with no success. The Koinoni stood observing silently, unmoving within their robes except for spinning. Over it all presided Dungo, beside himself with delight at the spectacle unfolding before him.

"What a glorious day!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands in glee. "What a time we live in! Never has a Bedoua vizier dared believe he would witness such splendid pageantry! Ho-ho! And the Rufoux, such riders! The sight of the reality puts the toy to shame. And those songs, how do the Melics make such tones as those? So much have we missed in the desert, living these long generations separated into the forbidding sands. What a time to exist, in a day when Bedoua would join with Rufoux, and with Melics, even Koinoni, in such a wonderful display of strength and beauty! Ho-ho! And what's that singing sound?"

Indeed, a sound like a woman singing, only tinged with terror, emanated from the forest. Suddenly, Carolingia shot out of the branches at the forest's edge and ran hysterically for the stockade, clutching her frock about her desperately. "They're in the forests!" she screamed. "Aoten are coming!"

Music, celebration, games — all stopped abruptly. All the clansmen streamed toward the gates of the fortress. Only the Koinoni took a different direction, running to their boats and casting into the water. "Won't see them again," Artur said to himself. The last stragglers gathered inside, and he shut and secured the gates.

"Everyone in?" shouted Artur. "Families, count yourselves."

"Pepin, take stock of the Melics. I will speak with Carolingia," said Theodoric.

"Sylva?" asked Dungo, and she shook her head, holding up one finger. "One Bedoua goes missing," he yelled urgently. "We number only a few here. Who is missing?"

"Humus," said Carolingia. She sat on a low stump, breathing heavily. "They have taken Humus."

Theodoric looked at her sternly, and Pepin grabbed her harshly by the sleeve.

"How do you know this? What has happened to him?" he demanded, the veil of his contemplative accommodation at last falling to anger.

"We walked about in the forest, seeking plants he knew of. The giants fell upon us before we knew it. I leapt into the trees and ran the branches as fast as I could. But they took hold of Humus."

Andreia cried out quietly, then sobbed. "We must save him!" declared Dungo, but Sylva lay her hand on his shoulder and shook her head. "But we must! We must!" he protested, and still she demurred. "Humus!" he cried.

"No," said Artur, putting his arm around Andreia for just a moment. "We must stay inside. They will be down on us like the river. Anyone else missing?"

The clans people agreed, everyone else had made it safely inside the stockade walls. Theodoric allowed that most Melics had retreated into the trees. Artur looked to Dungo.

"Humus is lost to us."

Andreia broke down. Aachen quietly found Sylva, and promised to teach other Bedoua the knowledge Humus had shared. Carolingia's body shook violently as she sat, and Pepin shoved her shoulder as he threw aside his grip on her clothing. "The dead rumidont of my dream," his low voice deafening with disdain. "You bring death to everything you touch."

"Here they come!" warned Osewold, high upon the roof of a hut to see over the wall. "They bring bows into the attack!"

Indeed, the Aoten swarmed out of the forest, bearing down on the high walls. They waved clubs and crude swords, along with bows too small for their hands, as they came upon the front wall of the stockade with much inarticulate growling.

"They have grown hungry indeed," said Theodoric. "The nuts and berries of the forest undergrowth no longer can sustain them. They must not have found what they wanted to the east of the Alluvia; or perhaps they did."

The giants hit the stockade like a wave, and it groaned under the pressure of their massive bodies. Clever though they had been, the Rufoux and Melic builders had built no wall walk, preventing them from effectively mounting a defense. Artur hastily threw some grain in a fire and invoked the Rufoux prayer to Mog. Arielle joined Osewold and expertly fired her arrows at the Aoten, but the missiles mostly caught in the giants' heavy hair and did no damage; she also could see them using their own bows, very clumsily and with no success. Other Rufoux could only hack away weakly at Aoten fingers that peeked over the top of the walls.

"I had not figured on this," Artur fumed at Wyllem. "We sit blindly inside walls to await our fate! I cannot stand this. Rufoux pray to win victory, not to be safe! I must fight, I must battle!" And he beat angrily upon the wall with Kylie.

"Won't that just weaken the wall?" Wyllem asked.

In a rage, Artur sheathed Kylie and stalked away. The barrier swayed in and out, complaining mightily against the pushing of the Aoten, but so far it did not yield.

"They round the corner! They flank the stockade!" yelled Osewold from his perch, and Andreia looked about her. "Jakke, come with me!" she commanded, and he followed her to the nearest gate. "Move all those extra timbers against the gate! We must fortify the gate!" Others joined in as they realized the developing danger.

"We could make a leap for the forests," Pepin said quietly to Theodoric.

"No," he replied. "The dog is a friend until it turns tail. Then it is just a dog."

"True, that," said Pepin.

"Besides, we'd never make it anyway."

"They demand too much, too much!" Dungo repeated angrily. "We can not have this, the Bedoua will never stand for this. To think that we would be so mistreated by such a despicable race. The Bedoua will not allow this, Dungo will not allow it. Shall we sacrifice Humus, and our pride as well, and humbly be so ill-treated! Waylaid in the wilderness, corralled like a herd of rumidont, captured to be slaughtered by infidels, who give no honor nor fear to Wolven! The Bedoua will never stand for it, we will not allow this outrage to stand!"

Artur listened to the fat Bedoua's prattle for a moment before turning away. If Dungo thought he had been lured into a trap, well enough then. They were all in the same position. If he thought this predicament came from a Rufoux trick, well, perhaps the villagers didn't need Bedoua help to defeat the giants. The Koinoni had already abandoned them, and now so too would the Bedoua. Artur's clan would find its own way if it had to.

Again the giants swarmed upon the wall, unable to breach its height but testing the limits of its strength. The binding between the logs stretched painfully, and the ground began to churn away from the posts' mooring, and the wall leaned and groaned. Soon the attackers would find the gates, and the little fort's weakest points would be under attack.

"What's that sound?" asked Aachen.

"Oo-oo-ooo!" an eerie, unearthly noise arose from the distance over the sound of cracking wood. "Zoot-aloo-oo-ooo!"

The sighing moan caught the giants' attention quickly, and they looked toward the river with a start. Dozens of figures like phantoms, dressed in long, flowing robes and arms waving as if casting incantations, seemed to float toward them like dust rolling on the wind. The Aoten stopped their siege of the stockade and turned for the forests. With galloping strides they fled from the onrushing Koinoni.

Arielle stood on the hut completely aghast. "I don't believe it," she said.

"What happened?" yelled Artur.

"The Aoten have fled. They are afraid of Koinoni."

"Smarter than I thought," Artur muttered as others cheered and tried to clamber atop huts to see.

The gates opened, and the Koinoni entered the fortress to much congratulation. Theodoric studied the open door, pulling an object from its face.

"What has happened?" asked Artur.

"The Aoten fall easily into fright," said a Koinoni, probably Yarrow. "Easy to startle. We have done so before. But it does not change their ferocity; they will be back."

Theodoric held an arrow out to Artur. "They carried Raspar weapons."

"Meaning what?"

"We have no time for idle talk," interrupted Dungo, eyes burning with rage. "A Bedoua has likely died. We can tolerate no talk of any other thing. A Bedoua lies dead, and not even in his own territory, torn by the rage of a strange people, and not even Wolven. A Bedoua has given his talents to your clan, sir, and now he has given his life."

"Yes," said Artur. "Osewold, take men and search the forests."

"Carolingia will guide you," said Pepin flatly, and when she began to sneer at him he pushed her through the door.

In moments the body of Humus returned to the stockade, carried upon Rufoux shields. Battered beyond recognition, his limbs broken and twisted, the corpse rested at the front of the community building, Aachen and Andreia standing at his head.

"Never have the Bedoua suffered such atrocity!" declared Dungo, shaking both his fists, angrily directing his words from one clan leader to another, Sylva standing behind him. "You brought us near to the clutches of this savage race. You begged and bargained to bring us here! Never has Bedoua generosity been so ill rewarded! Never have we traveled so far from our homeland, to be so unjustly received! Never has so barbaric a people laid upon us such an outrageous offense! The Bedoua will not stand for it, we will not stand for it!"

The Bedoua vizier passionately voiced his fury at the crime he had suffered upon Rufoux land. Artur turned to leave, not willing to be lectured in the midst of his people.

"No, Artur of the Rufoux, you will stay! You will hear me! For the Bedoua will fight the Aoten! Humus will be avenged! Every Bedoua man and woman will fight the Aoten, tooth and nail, to their last drop of blood! Humus will not have died in vain, his life will not be reckoned meaningless! The Bedoua will fight!" And a chorus of clicking arose from the clansmen who had borne Dungo's litter.

Dungo's anger drained into grief. "But first, we must gather Humus back to his people. We must deliver him back to his brothers, Mistral and Ingle. We must immediately accompany him back to his family in the desert, that they may deliver to him the honors commanded by Bedoua tradition."

"What tradition?" Wyllem asked Artur quietly.

"You are a man of many questions, Wyllem," Artur replied, and felt his stomach up in his throat. "Don't ask this one."

Chapter XXXII

"This demands our attention," said Theodoric firmly to Artur, holding out the arrow.

A multitude of arrows stuck out of the stockade's wall, and many others had fallen harmlessly to the ground. The fortress bore mighty scars from the giants' attack, and Melic woodsmen immediately set to repairing the sections of wood that had suffered the most damage. Rufoux men worked on reinforcing ground that had been worked away from the posts by the tremendous strength and weight of the pushing Aoten.

"Do you see the stone arrowhead?" asked Theodoric, trying to impress Artur that he should give his full attention. "This must be a Raspar arrow, not at all like the Rufoux. And the feathers as well — they come from birds not seen in this part of Medialia. These feathers are from the lands east of the River Gravidas."

"How do you know this?" asked Wyllem, more interested than Artur.

"I know what I have observed. Not long ago, I had nothing else to do."

"So, it's a Raspar arrow, then — what does that matter?"

"A month ago we saw the Aoten traveling east; they have returned with this. I have no doubt now they made for the Raspar city. If they entered into alliance with the Raspars, and received weapons in return for peace, we may well be doomed."

Artur finally focused on Theodoric's words. "Do you believe this has come about?"

"It hardly seems possible," Theodoric replied. "To my ears the Aoten can barely grunt, and haven't shown any desire to make treaties. Of course, the Raspars have not killed one of them. But neither have I ever seen a Raspar talk with any man from any other clan. I have never seen a Raspar at all. So a pact between the two would seem unlikely. But another possibility exists."

"Being?" asked Wyllem.

"The Aoten could have stolen their bows. If they happened upon a secret Raspar weapons cache, or fought their way into a storeroom, that could be the source of the weapons. But if they can make their way through Raspar defenses, that would be cause for alarm indeed!"

"Why do you say that?" asked Artur.

"You will know when you see their city."

"Who said I'm going to see their city?"

"You must. We all must. We must have all the clans of Medialia in order to defend Medialia. But the Raspars never step outside their walls; we must journey to their city if we hope to speak with them."

Artur thought back to Andreia and the secret, revealed to Rufoux and Melic alike. Now they had a Bedoua promise to join, as well as Koinoni aid, questionable though it might be. The visions of Andreia and Pepin seemed to be coming about. But the Raspars; again Artur had to adjust his mind to accept this concept. Raspars had the reputation of a murderous, cutthroat people.

"We should ask Dungo," he said weakly, hiding behind a show of deference to his newest ally.

"That must wait," Dungo deflected counsel when Artur and Theodoric approached him. "Bedoua must see to their clansman first, see to the traditions of our people. Humus has lived and died honorably, and gloriously, in the service of Medialia, and we must give him proper honor as we send his body back to his family and his desert homeland. Rufoux and Melic, and Koinoni, will join we few Bedoua here to send him home."

An orchestra of Melic reeds played low and soft as the body of Humus was laid out on Dungo's sedan chair. A luxurious Bedoua blanket covered his body, up to his neck, and exotic flowers of the Rufoux territory lay all around him. The Koinoni again pressed their smallest ship into service, and the Bedoua bearers took the chair aboard. Aachen and Mienrade boarded too, as emissaries, and with instructions to seek out Bedoua to learn the healing ways. Yarrow appointed a crew to the vessel, six Koinoni, but he remained in the camp. To Artur's surprise, Dungo as well stayed ashore, along with Sylva. The crew poled the boat into the waters of the Alluvia and slowly around a bend and into the horizon.

"Cursed Alluvia," muttered Dungo.

"The waters will be going down soon," said Yarrow. "Then the river will be impassible for our ship. They must expedite their return."

"There will be time," pronounced Dungo. "And time now volunteers itself for us to talk. Bedoua will bring mighty phalanxes of men with pikes, and we will lance the necks of these barbarian giants."

"Even yet our weakness will ruin us," said Theodoric. "We have built a defense, and we welcome the righteous anger of the Bedoua, but even your mighty spearmen leave us lacking. The stockade walls would have given out had the Koinoni not frightened the Aoten into retreat. We must find a way to fight even inside our defenses."

"You've got that right," Artur broke in. "I can't stand around with a battle raging around me, just waiting for it to jump down my throat. I have to dance with Kylie."

"They will be back," Yarrow assured. "They will not scare so easily the next time."

"We must court the Raspars to join with us as well," Theodoric continued. "Their eternal city proves their mastery of defense, and the rumors tell of bloodlust within. A hard place may be cruel, but from it grows strength."

"Who are these Raspars?" asked Dungo. "Why have they escaped my attention, and their might in war? How could they be so fearsome and still the Bedoua have never even known of them?"

"They remain untouchable within their city, and mix with no other clan," said Theodoric.

"You can believe they are killers, too," said Artur. "They murdered an entire clan generations ago."

"You know this to be true?" asked Dungo.

"All the legends say so."

"Were not the Bedoua legends about the Rufoux incorrect?" asked Wyllem, and Dungo nodded. "No signs that the Rufoux ever plundered the Bedoua survive, do they? What if the legends about the Raspars also prove false?"

"If you want signs, go into the Quaar caves at the foot of the mountains. There you will find evidence enough of the lives of the Quaar, and their deaths," said Artur. He twirled Theodoric's arrow between his fingers. Wyllem stared at Artur, aghast that he had wandered into the mountain range, so close to the scaled ones.

"Even so, we must have all the clans," said Theodoric. "To have all the clans is the only way any one of the clans will survive. We must persuade the Raspars to join with us against a common enemy. To do so we must visit their city."

"Let us go then," said Dungo.

"It will be hard going, beyond the eastern bank of the River Gravidas."

"Bother! And I don't have my chair or bearers anymore," said Dungo. "You know, our chief gleaner takes her name from the Gravidas. You must meet her. To insult the Alluvia, her mother named her Gravida. Fine woman."

"Yes, but first we must visit the Raspar city, and quickly."

Each of the clan leaders made ready a party of only a handful, to prevent the appearance of invasion: six Koinoni, as always; Artur with Geoffrey; Dungo and Sylva; Theodoric and Franken, who carried along his woodworking tools. "There may be a need to be making some gifts," he chanted.

"We must all carry a shield as well, a stout one," said Theodoric.

"Why so?" asked Artur.

"I only know what I observe."

"I would speak a word with you, Theodoric, before you leave," said Picta, coming up from behind.

"Yes, daughter?" returned Theodoric, and he followed her lead into a secluded place.

"Funny you should so call me, for surely you are not my father."

"True, that, by blood at least. What word would you have with me?"

"Why did you never tell me?" Picta's temper rose in her eyes, and she struggled to keep her voice from shaking.

"Tell you what, child?"

"That I am not Melic at all. I am not a Melic freak with four fingers and pink skin — I am half Rufoux!"

Theodoric bowed his head. A time he long anticipated had arrived, and perhaps he had desired to enter into the Rufoux world in part to reveal this secret. With no children of his own, he truly loved Picta like a daughter, raising her as practically a foundling. Now he knew the time for the truth finally had come.

"Well," he said, "Your blood runs half Melic. Your mother was a Melic woman. The Melic clan bears profound troubles: And so we have seen the fruit of Carolingia's deeds. She is not unique; your mother also followed the conduct of Carolingia."

"I never knew my mother."

"No. She lost the clan's favor long before you grew old enough to know. Her husband, her only brother, died years before, and soon she lifted her skirts for any man who wished. We tolerated her indulgence among the Melics, as our way instructs, and as you know many still practice today; but when it became known a Rufoux man had visited her, the clan rose up in anger. It is our law. The king, my father, banished her into the mountains, the penalty for mixing with the other clans."

"They sent her to the mountains to die?"

"Yes, as the law clearly states. The same law would have condemned me when I first spoke to Artur, had I any children of my own. But the fear of losing their only leader protected me from my people. And now we can see the other clans as not necessarily evil. What is old always dies eventually. Your mother left many sons, raised by their various fathers, and you know them all. Your superior health — your pink skin that you hate, and that all your clansmen despise — proves me right to have not married: The desire for our sisters is killing the Melics from within. Our clan is sick, sick in its soul, sick unto death, and I see it. So none of your family would take you in, but I did. My father hated me for it, yet never did I have a regret, for you have been a great joy to me, Picta. A chilly, empty cave has much room for warmth."

"But why did you never tell me my father was not Melic? All this time, I believed I had been cursed, an ugly, pitiful mistake made by Drueed. But I'm not — I'm just part Rufoux! Why did you let me believe I was not good enough for the Melics?" Her anger began to show itself in tears.

"Not good enough? You, not good enough?" Theodoric mused. "Picta, you cast shame upon the rest of us. A nobility resides in you, a love for decency and what is right, that your clansmen have completely lost. With much talk and much knowledge, we have turned to every side of every argument, and we no longer understand the simplicity of wrong. You deserve more than a Melic for a husband, for no Melic man can claim to be your equal. No Melic man should dare call you his; I should not presume to be called your father. You have your Melic side, but your honor, and your hot temper, they came from Geoffrey."

"And what of Geoffrey? What about my father, and his so-called honor, bedding a Melic woman?"

Theodoric looked about the Rufoux camp. "We can hardly insist on throwing darts. Geoffrey is a man. The Rufoux treasure their families above all else. But he is a man, and he lost his lifelong wife at Artur's birth. To reveal his sin now accomplishes nothing, unless he so chooses. He knows you, and now you know him."

"Yes, I can see the wisdom in that. But I feel like such a fool, loving Artur, my brother."

"Your Melic part peeks out occasionally. But your affections will pass child, and you will be better for it – there exists a healthy love for a brother. For now we must find a way to bend Rufoux customs, and then perhaps we can find you another clansman to marry," and Theodoric nudged her toward Artur, whom they could see in the distance.

Picta picked her way toward the Rufoux chief, busy getting gear together for the traveling party. Andreia worked alongside at the same task, never far from Artur. Picta took Artur rather roughly by the arm and said simply, "Behold Andreia at your right hand. I have hated her. Now I bequeath her to you. Take her if you are not too stupid." She walked away, and Artur awkwardly stared after her.

Andreia only smiled slightly, and continued her work.

"Have you dreamed?" Artur asked bluntly, speaking too quickly to hide his thoughts.

"That depends on what you mean by 'dream.' "

"Your father refuses to take a shield," Dungo informed Artur.

Happy to have a distraction, Artur said, "I know. He wants to die."

"The thumbless one? Too bad."

Chapter XXXIII

"A wilderness lies ahead of us, a rocky terrain tangled with the roots of dead and dying trees, and no established road runs through the twisted ravines," said Theodoric. "Thick bracken and low branches will twist and entangle with each other to block our way the closer we draw to the River Gravidas. Raspar forefathers did choose their territory well, to ward off outsiders. The hiking high in the trees will not be so difficult, but land travel will turn treacherous indeed."

"You remain quite sure the Aoten have been in Raspar lands?" asked Wyllem, as he securely wrapped leather straps around Artur's shins.

"I believe the arrows show it so."

"Then shouldn't there be a path already cleared?"

"Yes, indeed," said Theodoric, somewhat sheepish. "Of a sort, at least."

"Ah, the Rufoux brain at work," said Artur.

Theodoric eyed Artur and replied, "A rumidont said to a thylak, 'I think I will take my rest now. I think I'll sleep, if you don't mind.' But he wasn't thinking at all."

"That had all the earmarks of an insult," Artur said to Wyllem.

"We'll have to begin to the north," said Yarrow. "But it will be worth it, if we can pick up the giants' path and make the crossing easier."

"Can we not think of another way?" asked Dungo.

They couldn't, and so the journey began, first up the Alluvia in a Koinoni boat, just to the point where they had seen the Aoten crossing weeks before, then onto the opposite shore and to the east. The plains bordering the River Alluvia at first offered a pleasant walk, but before many groonits had passed the ground arose in angry shards of rock and shifting gravel. Only an occasional giant footprint, revealed in displaced gravel, offered guidance along the unforgiving ground.

"This ground without compare is the most disagreeable I have ever trod upon," began Dungo. "Only these scant mounds of pebbles offer anything close to the comfort of walking upon the sands of my desert. These jagged rocks turn my sandals to the tops of my feet. This may be fine walking for Melics, with those thick calluses you grow on your soles, and for Rufoux boots — how do you fare, sir, under those robes?"

"Fine," said Yarrow, and all the others suddenly realized they'd never seen Koinoni feet.

The walking became ever more perilous the further they went, and finally Dungo stumbled over some stark rock fragments jutting out and lay weeping upon the ground. "I can't go on. I'm at the end," he panted.

"We'd best stop for the night anyway," said Artur, and then to Sylva, "You'll have a heck of a time putting tent pegs in this ground." She nodded, and put her finger to the side of her nose.

Theodoric gazed down at Dungo and said to Franken, "You need to have an idea."

"Pick up a man to carry across and that will be hard as walking, I've found," said Franken in his sing-song manner.

"Yes, but we'll get him nowhere on his own tomorrow. I'm sure of that."

"I will sit with my tools and we'll hatch out a plan," said Franken.

Sylva chose a small parcel of level ground and tied a rope to the lowest branches of the trees set in its four corners. She threw the fabric of the tent over the ropes, forming small makeshift walls. She looked to Artur and shrugged, then tried to drag Dungo inside. She could do no better.

Artur expertly built a fire, and Yarrow produced a bag filled with exotic vegetables and spices. He quickly mixed it in a shallow pan, where it sizzled and spattered; even Dungo forgot about his tribulations for a time, and he offered a small bottle.

"No thank you," said Yarrow.

"It's only oil," said Dungo.

"I wouldn't want you to make a mistake."

Soon the little band had warmed their stomachs well. Franken had remained silent through the evening; now, without warning, he stood up and said, "I must find some vines before nightfall arrives," and he slipped away like a ghost.

"He must have his idea," said Theodoric, and he pulled his reed from his belt. "Please excuse me," and he vanished into the branches above. Soon his melodies wafted into the night air, accompanied by the rhythm of a hatchet.

"I don't know how I'll ever sleep," said Dungo. "This ground is deliberately hard."

"Count rumidonts," said Artur, and he moved away, leading Geoffrey by the arm. "Did you talk with anyone about our conversation?"

"About Andreia? No."

"Someone has been talking. Just before we left, Picta, the Melic girl, practically made my declaration for me."

"Yes, I heard her. But I have spoken to nobody. Perhaps we're just too thick, Artur. We are Rufoux, after all. Others dwell in our camp now, others who have greater insight than we. Such things may be plain to see for them."

"Yes, perhaps that's it, and we have those who dream as well. Andreia has dreamed of it, she says."

"So I heard. But she said she dreams; she didn't really say of what."

"I took her to mean she had dreamed of our wedding."

"Perhaps that's how you want to take it," said Geoffrey. He stroked his grizzled beard with one thumbless hand. "My eyes witness much change swirling around me, things I could never have foreseen. Much greater changes than this issue, really. But I must consider the matter more."

"I haven't felt this way since Lauræl."

"I know. That I can see."

The Rufoux bedded down upon their simple pallets, and fell asleep to the soft music and whimpering voice of Dungo.

The morning opened their eyes to a contraption they had never seen before. Long and narrow, two wooden poles stuck out from the front and the rear. A small platform rested in the middle, and on either side disks of twisted vines supported it. Franken slept leaning against one of the disks, and Theodoric stood over him smiling.

"Well done! Amazing, he has taken this from Raspar design!"

"What is it?" asked Artur.

"A cart for carrying heavy loads. Those round things I have seen outside the Raspar city, and I once told Franken of them. They roll along the ground like a log on its side. Very clever of him; the Raspars make them of rock."

"How does it work?"

"Well, first, you have breakfast," said Theodoric, and he began to stir about the supplies. Sylva had arisen, and the Koinoni came filing toward the fire in single file. Only Dungo and Franken remained asleep.

"I suspect they both had difficult nights," said Theodoric.

Soon they had made breakfast disappear, and the Bedoua "tent" had to come down. Sylva roused Dungo, who in turn made such a fuss that Franken awoke.

"We will do well to set off right at once," he said, glancing at the sun.

"Yes. You have done wonderful work, Franken, and I'm sorry we must strike out so quickly. But you have rightly said, we have no time to dawdle. The sun and moon care nothing for the hourglass."

"Oh! My ankle!" cried out Dungo. "What am I to do?"

"Climb up upon the platform, sir, and make yourself at ease," said Franken.

"What? A Bedoua vizier lie there like a bundle of rugs and be hauled about the forest?"

"Yes, vizier," said Theodoric.

"I could never! No greater humiliation could ever befall the leader of the Bedoua! Ow! Oh, my ankle. All right, help me up. Oh, this troubles me so! The indignity!"

"Think of the rolling parts as Bedoua bearers."

Once they had secured Dungo onto the cart, laying flat on his back, the others piled supplies on top of him. With one powerful Rufoux at either end, the cart rolled easily along the ground, tipping only occasionally. Sometimes they found it better to carry the cart clear of the land. Soon Dungo had nothing but praise and much clicking for the device.

"Oh, clever Melics! The things you do with the wood of trees, who would believe them! One must use what lies at hand, but who could have thought such a delightful invention could be crafted from logs and vines? Ho-ho! Such a grand way to travel, as well, gazing upon the clear sky and piled high with luxurious fabrics and sacks. My people back in the desert Bedoua camp would never understand such a thing, what it's like to be rolled through the forest by one's friends. Only Dungo will ever know, for Dungo's great travels and wide experience have made him the greatest of all the Bedoua!"

"And his wide girth," offered Geoffrey.

For some days the group progressed in just this way. The land rose and fell and on and on they went, always keeping one eye out for thylak or therium, the Melics walking the trees and checking the sun, the rest following the path blazed by the Aoten, until their eyes fell upon the River Gravidas, and beyond a heavily wooded land much like their own.

"We draw very near," said Theodoric. "Not far beyond the river we will see some stone ruins, and then the Raspar city will rise out of the ground. The real danger begins here, though; the Gravidas does not have the big shoulders of the Alluvia, but the current runs stronger."

"How do we cross?" asked Artur.

"Can your man fashion a raft with his axe?" Yarrow asked Theodoric.

"Anything in your head I can make with my hands," said Franken.

Theodoric joined with Franken and soon hewed down several small trees. They quickly had the logs lashed together, and long poles supplied to the Koinoni sailors. The men dragged the raft to the riverbank, and the group set off for the eastern shore. The cart stood forlornly alone, left behind upon the bank.

"Good-bye, my lovely! Good-bye!" Dungo called out mistily.

"The Raspars have likely already seen us," said Theodoric. "If not, they soon will. Be prepared to hoist your shields."

"You sit by me," Artur said to Geoffrey.

The Koinoni made the crossing with much difficulty, unused to the Gravidas' heavy current. As the raft neared the far shoreline where the water churned, the jagged end of a fallen branch rose above the surface and careened toward the craft. Half looming overhead, half submerged underneath, the log struck the travelers a heavy blow, and though the Koinoni expertly stayed on their feet, they struggled mightily to maintain control. The impact sent their passengers sprawling, and they clung desperately to avoid going into the drink; when Dungo fell, the raft lurched even more and nearly capsized, and most of their supplies washed overboard, lost forever. "Pity," said Yarrow as he watched the Bedoua fabrics float away.

Once back upon dry land, the Koinoni secured the raft, and the group marched cautiously into the thick forests. Shields held high overhead, the travelers took each step with suspicion, not sure what to expect. The trees stretched into the sky grand and straight, growing tall before even the lowest branches reached out, but they seemed strange and unfriendly. Underfoot rocks still plagued the ground, though not as bad as before, and sharp thorns and barbs pricked at the travelers' ankles. Worn rocks, some that had once been square, others that had been round, lay about the ground in confusion. Each foot followed the one before with great caution, and slowly they advanced.

Like a disguised cliff, seemingly out of nowhere, grand stone walls appeared from among the thick trees, standing upright out of the ground. Perhaps a hundred kronyn tall, these walls soared straight and smooth, so tightly laid that dirt and wear had rendered the seams between the blocks invisible. Hundreds of small windows, the lowest some thirteen to fifteen kronyn from the ground, appeared at even spaces throughout the structure. Ivy crawled up the stone along the corners, but it had been carefully pruned away from all the openings. About half-way up, the smooth walls gave way to intricate carvings of faces and animals, leaves and birds, landscapes and battle scenes. The tops of the walls, so high they could barely be seen, supported elaborate spires and onion domes, beautiful balustrades and hideous gargoyles. To one side a large hole had been torn out of the foot of one wall, cut stone by cut stone, starting at a low window.

"Mog's goblins!" said Artur, caught in a stupor at the foot of the monument.

"Look out!" yelled Theodoric, and crouched beneath his shield. A thundering downpour of arrows cascaded from the city windows and overwhelmed the travelers.

Raspar Treachery

Centuries upon centuries ago, a race lived in the foothills of Medialia who could not quite be called human, nor quite animals, either. Somewhere in-between, they lived in the caves of marble and granite. Their tribal name was Quaar, and their individual names were all Quaar. In those years magma stilled flowed out of the mountain peaks, leveling trees and igniting fires, and the molten rock cooled into mighty stone across the homeland of the Quaar. The belching eruptions and streams of lava warmed the territory, turning whole rivers into steaming baths, stimulating the scaled ones to roam the expanse of Medialia freely.

The Quaar ran about on short, muscular legs, and their arms hung long from the shoulders, short from the elbows. Their broad shoulders and heavy pelvis made them massively strong. Their dark hair lay in a tangle down their backs, and on some of the men the tangle continued to their furry loincloths. Squat little heads topped those massive shoulders, with little above the eyes or below the teeth. For this reason, they had no intellect to speak of, and indeed could talk in only short words and sentences. Time proved them clever enough, however, to learn to cut the stones that the lava formed all around their caves. The white-hot rock, as it poured from the mountain peaks above, also burned the softer stone the Quaar gathered from dry riverbeds; and so they quite accidentally invented quicklime. By default they became builders, but they had no ambitions for their skills.

The ancient Raspars shared the land, but they owned no home nor shelter. They roamed the woods and open lands that bordered the River Alluvia; hardly a day passed when they did not fall under attack from some raiding tribe or animal. The Raspars had no weapons nor tools to speak of yet, neither did their bodies show any particular strength or vigor, but their minds operated with power and precision, and they had ideas. The greatest of the ancient Raspars had drawn a plan in his head; his name was called Zardracon.

"Aye, ye fellow Raspars," he addressed his council of tribal elders. "We face the failure of our clan. The animals hunt our young ones, and the other peoples of Medialia take what they wish from us. We are chased throughout the land. We have not a tree in Medialia that we call our own, not a hole to hide in, not a hut nor a cave to call refuge."

"Nay! Nay! Nay!" chanted the elders, indicating their accord and bitterness at Zardracon's words. They hammered the ground rhythmically with their long staffs, but carefully talked in hushed tones, so as not to bring thylak or deviltooth or man down upon themselves.

"Aye, the Raspars must take their own place in Medialia. Even the Quaar have their caves, while we scamper about like lost mice, with no shelter for our kin. We Raspars must take for ourselves a homeland, to build upon and defend."

"Lo, with what?" asked one elder. "For we have nothing with which to build, and nowhere to lay our foundations."

"Lo, will we take the caves of the Quaar?" asked another.

"Nay, we will not, for caves are the dwelling-places of animals," said Zardracon. "Caves can not suitably serve a thinking clan such as Raspars. Nay, we will move the Quaar caves, and build for ourselves grand homes, towering palaces no enemy can overrun. The Raspars will build a citadel, hidden into the depths of the wilderness, where we will be safe forever from the attacks of those who love to make us their victims. And we will build it upon the backs of the Quaar!"

"What? What? What?" chanted the elders.

Zardracon lifted high a great, flat piece of stone, with lines etched all across its front. "Lo, on this slate I have drawn the plan for a city, a great stone city. We will build east, away from the River Alluvia, in the outback beyond the River Gravidas, where the clans of Medialia fear to go. We will take Quaar stone, and mortar, and Quaar labor, and we will build our city, our Eternal City, and finally the Raspars will have a home! What is good for the Raspars must come first."

"Aye! Aye! Aye!" And the elders agreed among themselves to name Zardracon chief, and to follow him.

Zardracon set out for the caves immediately, prepared to barter with the Quaar. The Raspars had little to offer in trade, but he would not come to the end of his trek empty handed. Along the way he trapped a wild rumidont, easily, with a simple noose. He filled a leather pouch with water from one of Medialia's deep, crisp pools. He picked up a pointed stone of flint.

Though Zardracon approached the Quaar caves cautiously, he needed not. When the clansmen saw him, they stopped their simple domestic activities and calmly awaited his arrival.

"Aye, my friends, the Quaar!" he called out. The calculating ways of the Raspars were hard for him to mask, and his feigned enthusiasm would not have fooled most.

"Friends," the Quaar closest to him repeated. They knew no pretense, in themselves nor others.

"Lo, I am Zardracon, of the Raspars. I have come to make trade with ye. I have much to give to your fine people, to make ye a grander people of Medialia."

"Give to Quaar?"

"Aye, I have brought good things to share with the Quaar, things that will make ye great among your people."

"Good things."

"Aye. I have come all this way to give ye this skin. It fairly bursts with water, so great is its bounty, and who can live without water? Even the mighty Quaar must have the drink of life. With this bag ye will be able to travel a long way, and never thirst. The Quaar will come to treasure this bag, this wonderful device."

"Water!" said the Quaar, and as he tested the bag he accidentally emptied most of the contents upon his face.

"Aye, isn't that fine? And this also, this rumidont. It eats only grass, and from it ye can attain milk and wool. This animal can keep your babies warm and their stomachs full. Ye will much appreciate the blessings this little animal can bring to your clan."

"Cow?"

"Nay, rumidont. A wild rumidont captured in the deep forests of Medialia, through much cleverness and danger. I offer to make it yours, and may ye prosper with it." Yet Zardracon made no mention of how to shear, or weave, or how to extract milk from the animal.

"Lo, these things I bring for all of ye," Zardracon continued. "We give all to the Quaar, gifts from the clan of the Raspars. We ask but one thing from ye in return. We Raspars wish ye to do only one small thing for us, and if ye agree I will show ye a miracle beyond anything ye have ever seen."

"What thing?"

"Lo, the Raspars have no home, do they not? My people live every day exposed to the most vicious hatred of all who live around us. We have no homes for our children, as ye have in your caves. We want to build a home, oh honorable Quaar, we must build ourselves a shelter, and we wish to build with the stones of your mountain."

The Quaar seemed to understand Zardracon's meaning. "Stones," he said, smiling and nodding his head.

"Aye," said Zardracon. "We wish for ye to cut stones for us, and deliver them to our homeland which we claim in the uninhabited forests by the River Gravidas. We ask ye to help us build, with your stone and mortar, and strength."

"Quaar stone," agreed the Quaar.

"Aye, and in return ye may keep the bag, and the rumidont, and I will show ye a mighty miracle."

"Mir?"

"Miracle, aye. Do we agree?"

The Quaar looked around to his other clansmen gathered behind him, and after a series of grunting words turned back to Zardracon. "Agree. Mir?"

"Aye, a miracle beyond anything ye have ever seen. But I can show ye only if ye allow me to enter into your caves."

The clever Raspar walked to the mouth of the Quaar caves and produced the flint. Skillfully he traced the outline of the rumidont, following a Quaar, led by a leash. Some of the Quaar gasped with delighted recognition at the drawing, while others shifted uneasily to the back of the cave, afraid to look. The lead Quaar touched the scraping with the tips of his fingers.

"Aye, these wonderful drawings I give to ye as well, and I will make many more for ye, as long as ye deliver stone to the Raspars. Give us your rock and labor, and the walls of your caves will be covered with these beautiful artworks for the rest of time!"

"Agree! Mir!" said the Quaar, still gingerly caressing the etching, and from that day on they served under the lash of the Raspars.

The Quaar bent under their labor, cutting boulders from the mountain, then transporting them across two rivers into the wilderness. As well they fainted in the heat of the volcanoes as they burned quicklime for mortar. But the simple people did not complain; they merely went about their labors, for it was all they knew. The smooth words and fascinating art of Zardracon always sufficiently satisfied them.

Months went by, then years, then decades. As time passed, the stones piled high along the Gravidas. Zardracon produced his drawing of the city, and slowly the towers began to rise. The Raspars invented platforms, slung between trees, to work ever higher upon the walls' ascent. They built simple pulleys and levers to lift the stones into position. Wheels smoothed out of stone made the transport of the building blocks more efficient. Whatever need arose, a Raspar designed a device to see to it, for they truly were an inventive people. On and on the construction went, floor added upon floor at the emerging city, and Zardracon drew and drew ever deeper within the Quaar cave.

As the grand homeland fortress neared completion, an aged Zardracon sat in contemplation within the highest tower, before the council of elders.

"Lo, a problem looms before us," he said.

"What? What? What?"

"Aye, the Quaar have been immensely helpful in building our city."

"Aye! Aye! Aye!"

"Aye, in fact, the Quaar have seen every square inch of the city we build for our safety. They know every entrance, every weakness, every chink in the mortar. The Quaar know this edifice as well as I do, and that makes us safe not at all!"

"Lo, but what do we have to fear from the Quaar?" asked one elder. "They think of nothing but peace, and too slow to ever consider warring against us."

"Aye, their slow brains make them all the more dangerous. Without guile, they fall easily to trickery. Any enemy of ours would have no trouble learning every secret about our Eternal City from them."

"Aye! Aye! Aye!"

"Lo, we must act immediately to protect ourselves from this threat. What is best for the Raspars must come first. Should we wait until some dread foe learns from those dim-witted Quaar how to kill us all in our sleep?"

"Nay! Nay! Nay!"

"Nay! What is best for the Raspars must come first. We must do something to protect this, our grand new city!"

"What? What? What?"

"Lo, there is only one thing to do," said Zardracon. "Only one thing will forever prevent the Raspar fortress from being overtaken. Only one action will produce the utmost end to our worries: We must wipe out the Quaar."

"Nay!" arose a female voice. "Nay, we must not do so!"

"Lo, Mercia! What say ye?" bellowed Zardracon.

"Lo, we suffer no offense at the Quaar!" she cried out passionately. Though the Raspars purposed to be a cold and restrained people, their passions roiled strongly below the surface, and sometimes slipped out. "All Medialia despises them, just as they do us, though because we are weak, not simply different. Shall we turn this weakness upon others? Should we not instead pour out upon them empathy in our shared plight? Only because of the Quaar do we even have our city. To repay them with harm now would be a crime upon our heads!"

"Nay, what is best for the Raspars must come first. If we must sacrifice the Quaar to save ourselves, then so be it! And at the same time we will lift from Medialia the burden of this bumbling tribe of idiots," said Zardracon.

"Nay, ye suppose something that may not be true!" said Mercia. "What the Quaar know today, they may well forget tomorrow!"

"Lo, ye suppose as well," replied Zardracon. "My supposition will leave them dead, rather than my own kinsmen. Ye cannot make that claim."

"Aye! Aye! Aye!" the elders chanted.

"Nay, what you seek is wrong, it is an evil that Gryphon will lay upon our children!" cried Mercia.

"Lo, Gryphon does not see us," said Zardracon.

"Nay! Nay! Nay!"

"Nay, we must not! We must not do this thing!"

Zardracon turned away from Mercia and addressed the elders. "Lo, are we agreed?"

"Aye! Aye! Aye!"

"Nay, we must not!"

"Lo, remove her," said Zardracon. "And we will devise the utmost end."

Her clansmen dragged Mercia from the presence of the elders, and they considered their hideous plans at the foot of the city walls. Mercia shook off the grasp of her escorts and walked about the wonderful new structure, thinking what a grand notion it once had been, now only to be stained red. Tears that never flow from Raspar eyes spilled out of hers, and she considered throwing herself from the highest wall. Her heart rent between the loyalty she felt for her people, born from years of suffering and persecution, and the wickedness of killing off an entire race. How could she live in this house now, knowing its price? But if she rejected the city, how could she live any other way, still wandering the unforgiving land, but surely alone? Mercia settled in her heart upon neither, and upon what she knew she must do.

The elders decided upon a cunning trick to rid themselves of the Quaar, a plan devious and deadly in its simplicity. Only one obstacle lay before them: The Raspar plan required a lure who would not return.

"Lo, let it be me," said Mercia, when she heard of the trap. "For I will not live among a people who would do such cruelty."

"Lo, we have one more request of ye, before our Eternal City is finished," Zardracon said to the Quaar. "We ask ye for some very special stone to finish off the parapets. I have seen such stone in your caves, as I made my wonderful artwork. Mercia knows the stone to cut, but ye must help her find it. And see? I have given her the flint. After the stone is out, she will make ye a drawing far grander and more beautiful than any I have ever done."

"Flint," said the Quaar excitedly. The Raspars never determined if the Quaar realized the figures were mere images, or perhaps thought them real animals and humans created upon the walls. But they clearly loved the drawings.

"Aye, find the special stone, and ye will have all ye wish," said Zardracon, and to Mercia, "Find the crack in the ceiling where sand trickles out."

The doomed clan filed into the side of the mountain, each one eager to see the drawings that would reward their efforts. Mercia took a torch and followed the Quaar into their cave. Her eyes fell upon the hundreds of drawings left upon the cave walls, and she felt churning in the hollow pit of her stomach. She knew she led the people to their deaths, in which she would join; she thought she could give them no more. Deeper into the mountain they went, swallowed by the darkness and hopelessness, the Quaar completely unsuspecting.

"Lo!" said Mercia. "There overhead lies the stone we want. Hew out that rock above ye!"

And so the obedient Quaar carried out the order, hacking at the cave ceiling with their rustic tools, in no way thinking that they could bring the mountain down upon themselves. But that is just what they did. The sand that flowed like an hourglass increased upon their heads, and Mercia reached out her arms and let it shower over her. The cracks spread in length and breadth, until finally no longer tiny pebbles fell, but rather huge, punishing rocks. A great rumbling sound rang from the mouth of the cave, followed by thick dust billowing before the staring Raspars, and all fell silent. Over the following days they found a few Quaar stragglers and stoned them to death, and that put a tragic end to a people noble in their simplicity.

But the Quaar left their curse upon the Raspars. The clan prospered in its new city, where no opposing tribe nor animal nor even deviltooth could touch them, cowering inside the steadfast walls. Over the generations the Raspar clan increased as never before, as families produced great numbers of children who grew into adults and produced families of their own. But the city increased not at all, for the workers of the quarries no longer lived to cut new stone, and no strong arms and legs remained to haul the boulders across the land. The rooms of the city filled with people, until a steady mass of humanity moved about it as one, until sleeping Raspars lined the floors of every room and hallway throughout the night. Ultimately the council of elders had no choice but to limit every family to one child, with no exceptions, and the clan's prosperity ended. Instead, it began to die.

And never, even now, did a Raspar speak of Mercia with pity, or with honor, or with any understanding of why she had gone to her death in sympathy with a condemned nation. The traditions knew her only as a Raspar who had died, the last who died in the dangers of the world, outside the protection of the Eternal City walls.

Chapter XXXIV

"Damn!" bellowed Geoffrey. "How could a thousand arrows all miss me?" The little band of men fell back among the immense trees, seeking cover and taking stock of damage.

The attack had come too quickly for the aged Rufoux warrior to notice that as the arrows fell, the Koinoni had lifted their shields and advanced in front of their fellow travelers like an unfolding fan, spreading the folds of their robes. The heavy fabric mysteriously absorbed the impact of the arrows that hit, and now they picked out the darts like so many burrs. The others marveled at the number of missiles stuck in their shields.

"I suppose you still think the Raspars' reputation for murder is overblown?" Artur posed to Dungo.

"Oh, my goodness, no, I declare they must be the most surly people I have ever encountered," blustered the Bedoua vizier. "If I had any idea we would be greeted by such obstinacy I never would have suggested taking on this difficult task. I don't see how we will ever make an alliance with this clan — this people — this invisible rudeness hidden away behind those unfriendly stone walls," he sputtered.

"I must agree, this doesn't seem hopeful," Artur added. "I expected nothing less, though."

"Nor I," said Theodoric. "But if one is to drink from the sea, one must expect salt."

"Arrows offer up a little more death than salt."

"Ah, but by thylak or by maggot, the carcass disappears nonetheless."

"Look," said Artur, perturbed. "Let's get back to the point. These Raspars won't let us anywhere near them. They've no doubt got a million arrows in there, and they'll be happy to invest all of them in us."

"Never have I seen arrowheads like these," said a Koinoni, probably Yarrow. "They've sharpened and polished the points beautifully, and nowhere in the world can one find such marbling in the stone. These would command many goods in the east." And he gathered all that lay near him.

"If we stay much longer you'll have all you want," Artur noted.

"The Bedoua did not bargain for such deadly friends," said Dungo. "We must retreat from this place as fast as we can. Water will be the sad end of me yet — first the cursed Alluvia, now the Gravidas leads me here! These Raspars attacked us before we said even one word. How will we ever make a pact with them if they will not talk? What use is trying to join with a clan that wants to kill us more than the Aoten do?"

Artur looked to Theodoric, who had been listening quietly. "I can't see much reason to stay. We escaped injury this time, but with arrows coming down on us like – like – I don't know what, soon someone will be dead. It's best to just turn back now."

"The Raspars' attacks witness themselves that we must complete our mission," said Theodoric.

"So we can be killed? So we can save the giants the trouble?" asked Dungo, eying the city windows.

"You see the difficulty we face just to approach the Raspar city. Look around you; the evidence proves what we thought: The Aoten have attacked here, and the Raspars have turned them back." Indeed, the damaged section of wall testified to a recent attack, many sides of the dislodged stone blocks still clean and sharp as the day they'd been laid upon each other. As well, the ground by the wall was churned and undergrowth trampled, and large, dark red blotches clotted the earth. "We must have Raspar defenses at the Rufoux village in order to save it, and to save Medialia," Theodoric continued.

"Well, if the Raspars have it so easy here, why would they want to help us?" asked Artur.

"Behold that wall there, with the hole under the window. That damage must have been left by the Aoten. The Raspars have our very same problem: The Raspar bowmen are strong, but their numbers are not enough to fend off the Aoten. Over time all their city will look like that rubble; I imagine that room stored weapons, where the giants acquired their bows."

"Good luck getting close enough to check it out," groused Artur.

"Raspar defense would turn your stockade into a true fortress; the onslaught of their firing would seal off the walls from the giants' advance. Then we other clans could move to their flanks and rear, and destroy them. But we must have all the clans, if any are to survive."

"Well, then, what do you suggest we do now?" asked Artur.

"I don't know," said Theodoric. "We must give our options some thought."

The majestic city stood before them silent, still and inscrutable, unwilling to offer a clue to the future. Though many ideas arose, none seemed likely to draw out the Raspars, nor even to be safe. Meanwhile, the men began to grow hungry, and with much of their supplies washed away in the Gravidas, they looked to the trees for food. Two types of trees made up this forest: Giant leafy poles reaching to the skies and little saplings no taller than twenty kronyn, but nothing in-between. The towering redwoods and kyrabark held their branches so high that even the Melics could not reach them, but the smaller trees bore a variety of petite fruits upon their limbs. The men had never seen these varieties before, but the easy harvest, well within reach, couldn't be resisted. Dungo warned against a few that looked suspiciously similar to some the Bedoua used for poison, but they deemed most of them edible. Artur and Geoffrey lit a fire, and the sojourners gathered around.

The travelers had retreated deeply enough within the trees to shield them from arrows, but not so far that they couldn't see the city. They noticed the area surrounding the buildings had a heavy population of rats. Large and brazen, the rodents boldly went to the men's feet and threatened to climb up their legs.

"Zdjaman showed true wisdom to deny us this great blessing," said Yarrow, shaking the vermin off the hem of his robe.

"These animals have no fear of men," commented Geoffrey.

"They probably have never seen the Raspars," said Theodoric. "This clan doesn't come out of their city walls, except to gather grains and fruit, and I have never observed how they do so. All I know is one day a patch will be full of stalks, or a tree heavy with fruit, and the next day it's stripped bare. But never have I seen the people."

"Yes, they be a friendly folk," said Artur.

"No, they will not trade. How do you say, then, Theodoric, that you have learned about this city?" Yarrow asked Theodoric.

"I only know what I observe. When I don't observe anything, I can only guess, and that accomplishes nothing. But I have seen grain growing, only to disappear."

"As delicious as these fruits taste, I am afraid that we will need new supplies if we hope not to starve to death," said Dungo, a sour look upon his face and rubbing his stomach. "If for no other reason, we must reach the Raspars to beg food for our return trip."

The men neither agreed nor argued, but the sun had begun to set, so each sought a quiet place. Theodoric and Franken took up their reeds, and soft Melic music filled the air. The dusk turned heavy all around them. Smooth harmonies covered up a cautious padding upon the dry leaves surrounding their camp.

"Something approaches!" said a spinning Koinoni.

"Haffa!" cried Dungo. "What's that?" A burly, snarling, gray and black blur brushed heavily against him, knocking him upon his back. "Wolven?! Here?!"

"A rogue!" called out Geoffrey, and he grabbed for a log from the fire. Before he had a firm grasp, the thylak leapt upon him and knocked the flaming embers spiraling into the air. A large male, no doubt strayed or perhaps driven from his pack, had plowed into the campsite, glad for larger game than rats. His size dwarfed the thylak of the west, all of four kronyn high at the shoulder, and nearly the length of a man.

Franken took hold of his axe, but with the animal thoroughly engaged upon Geoffrey, he hesitated to take a swing at it. As for Geoffrey, he would not have cared: He ceased his struggling and lay at the beast's questionable mercy. Dungo still rolled upon his back, trying to regain his feet, and, without weapons, the Koinoni could do nothing. Without thinking, Artur grabbed the thylak by the scruff of its shoulders and, with a roaring "Mog's throbbing goblins," lifted it high off of Geoffrey.

Holding the thrashing animal at arm's length with his right hand, Artur couldn't draw his sword. The thylak brandished its maw in Artur's face; its desperate clawing dug into his chest and thighs, and quickly Artur's arm began to give way to the strain of holding the huge, twisting bulk aloft. For a moment he could do no more than study the vicious fangs dripping foam and saliva. Desperate, he at last thrust the snapping animal against one of the towering trees, his left forearm pinning its throat with all his weight, leaving his right hand free to pull Kylie from her sheath. The animal's claws gouged deep furrows into his arms and cheeks, and its hind legs pushed powerfully against the Rufoux warrior. Still, Artur managed to slip Kylie's blade into the animal's belly, then work it through the midst of its rib cage, cutting through heart and lungs, until finally the point just barely reappeared through the thylak's mouth. The animal gave a few weak whimpers, gurgling through blood, and went limp. As a final gesture, Artur took the sword by both massive hands and swung her around, driving her point into the tree, the thylak hanging like a pig on a spit.

The Rufoux chief sat down heavily, awash in blood, his necklace of therium tusks clicking lightly, and the others stared at him. What had taken only a few seconds to transpire seemed to them like a play unfolding on stage. Geoffrey shook his head, not believing his bad luck or his son.

"How much do you want?" Yarrow asked, fingering Kylie's hilt.

"Still not for sale," Artur panted.

After a suitable time of reverence, Theodoric finally spoke. "An interesting day, but certainly our excitement has been enough. The vulture knows it's better to kill hours than enemies," he said.

"What is that supposed to mean?" asked Artur, his dander up and just as willing to skewer Theodoric as the thylak.

"It means that we now know we must have shelter. We have nothing on the ground to keep more thylak from us; besides, we'll never sleep with these rats pestering us. We must devise some way to use these massive trunks," said Theodoric, contemplating the giant trees around them. "Franken?"

"At once do I have a good plan what to do," he chanted.

And indeed he did. Expertly slinging his axe, he cut notches in the giant trees about eight kronyn high, and then others some three kronyn lower. Stripping bark to make rope, he fashioned a belt at the higher notches, and fastened it securely to a platform made of split logs from smaller trees: With his muscular arm he could hew and split them with single strokes. Support beams extended across the lower notches and the underside of the platform. Franken crawled aboard his little tree house and lay upon his back, hands behind his head.

Following his model, the crew quickly put more platforms in place; Artur and Geoffrey chose the tree with the thylak nailed to it. Franken also had to fashion a ladder for Dungo to reach his platform.

Safely out of reach of marauding rats and other animals, and with chattering monkeys at home in branches much too high to be of consequence to him, Theodoric sat upon the platform with Franken. His legs dangled over the edge as he studied the city. He could see into the low windows just a little bit better from this higher angle.

"I believe you have hit upon our negotiating position, Franken," he said.

Chapter XXXV

Wessex peered through one of the narrow slots that served as windows.

"Lo, is it not enough that giants attack us? Must we now swat at Koinoni?"

He drifted away from the window, his tall hat, with flat top and no brim, brushing against the ceiling. So used to constantly rubbing shoulders with dozens of other Raspars, he took little care for the crowd around him. "Aye, watch yourself!" he snapped distractedly at one or many as he squeezed past.

Wessex sucked at his teeth as he paced and thought. As regent to the Raspar city, he had never before seen an attack on their castle walls. Now he had undergone two within a month. The first, an assault by a mob of inhuman beings, left one wall badly damaged. For days now he had puzzled at how to go about making repairs, for no Raspar knew how the stones stuck together. Now this second group of attackers, seeming more like minstrels than anything else, added to his irritation. They came a tiny group, and a puzzling mix like none he'd ever seen. But among them stood Koinoni, a portent Wessex knew to distrust, and a lone man seen before, spying on the Eternal City.

He towered over his people, tall as a rule, and his hat only exaggerated his height. A sculptor who had contributed many of the carvings upon the sides of the walls, Wessex had strong shoulders and a broad chest. Tough calluses covered his hands, which may have been the reason he constantly rubbed them together. A heavy brow topped his face, always appearing to have a frown; age had left him deeply wrinkled, with large ears and shaggy eyebrows. He walked with a limp, the nagging result of an injury to his hip years ago, when he had fallen from a wall, impaled upon a wooden spike. Like all Raspar men, he carried a belt ripe with tools about his waist always.

Wessex was a hard man among a hard people, skeptical about anything that did not play to his worst nature. His voice normally remained calm, also typical of his clan, but when his temper broke he spoke at nearly a falsetto pitch. The Raspars' long years in close quarters left them always on the verge of a flashpoint, but always just calming down an outburst. Anger flared easily, and faded just so.

The Raspar men grew only the lightest of beards and appeared clean shaven, and the women wore their long blonde hair in a singled braid down the back. The people's enclosed life had left them pale, frightened and hateful. They mistrusted anyone outside the city walls, and indeed had no knowledge of most of the peoples of Medialia. They never left their prison walls, just as Theodoric had said, except to glean wild grains and fruits from the wretched fields they watched over. Deep tunnels ran beneath the city, leading out to the world through secret openings; delicate artwork lined the walls of the passageways. Not even a single doorway opened into the immense city; the only entrance a stranger could make would be through a window by way of ladder. Artists and architects, the Raspars crept behind the confines of their walls, brilliant at their work, destitute in their hearts.

"Lo, do they remain outside the walls?" Wessex asked.

"Aye, and they look like they wish to attack," said a bent-over man looking timidly over the edge of the window.

"Aye, after a lifetime of false alarms, Hadrian, ye might have given us a call when they first arrived," Wessex yelled in an increasingly high voice.

"Nay, but I tended the water high upon the roofs."

Hadrian served as officer in charge of water, gathered in reservoirs on the city roofs, dew caught dripping from the leaves of the soaring trees. His years of work — tending the reservoirs, trying to stay hidden behind the balustrades, scanning the horizons for any sign of trouble — left him with his stooped posture. Of all the Raspars, fear struck his heart most coldly, and so made him the best lookout.

"Lo, but at least I did warn ye of the giants. That ye must say," he defended himself.

"Aye," said Wessex.

"Nay, the outsiders plot in the forest," said another, whose name was Vespus. "No doubt they are in league with the giants. They've come for their plunder."

"Aye, and we have precious few more arrows to spare," said Wessex.

"Aye, we must wipe them out! Slaughter them all!" growled Vespus.

"Nay, but we must be careful with our weapons. The giants have already raided us. We must not fire away all our arrows."

"Aye, we must wipe them out."

Vespus peered out with his only eye; nobody knew what had happened to the other, for he never spoke of it, and a ragged patch covered its former home. It may have had something to do with his height, for he was unusually short — only about the size of a Raspar woman — and he had run into a lifetime of grief on account of it. His temper ran particularly hot, and he carried a crude broadsword about with him, which he really had no use for except to bang on tables. He made no exception now.

"Aye, wipe them out."

"Lo, and how shall we go about it?" asked Wessex, his voice rising. "Will ye be going out after them with your blade? It is as dull as ye, I expect."

"Nay, but well-placed arrows, that's all that's needed."

"Lo, keep an eye on them for now. We'll have our chance much sooner than they."

Wessex paced away from the windows, down the long hallways, deeper into the castle towers, brushing past all others. Dim beeswax candles lit the towers' interior. Wessex kept his hands behind his back as he walked, sucking incessantly on his teeth, and remained oblivious to what would have struck any visitor as obvious, that twice as many adults as children lived in the city. Oddly, he sought just that.

"Lo, have the giants come again, Father?" asked the young woman, sitting on a low bed and brushing her hair. Like all Raspar women, she was tall, and her breasts proud and hips thin. Her long legs carried her about delicately, thin arms swaying gracefully. Much lust within her clan fell her way, and she did not hesitate to use it to her advantage. All around her lay at least a dozen other Raspar maidens.

"Nay, Mercedi, a different group lurks by the south wall. Outsiders — men like I have never seen before, and Koinoni."

"Nay. Koinoni?"

"Aye. And others, men colored red all over, and some who look gray. Then one other great fat fellow with hair black as charcoal. He appears to have a woman with him."

"Lo, Father, what do they want?"

"Aye, Mercedi, that we must answer — they will attack, no doubt. They have never come to Raspar lands before, but one of them; they must seek something, having traveled all this way. But the city walls will protect us. It is our first law." He absent-mindedly fingered the collection of tools about his waist.

"Lo, Father, may I see them?"

"Nay, be content to stay away from the windows for now. When they come upon the city, we may have need of ye to fight; ye will see them well then."

"Aye, Father. Are ye sure they mean us ill?"

"Aye. Why else would they be here?"

"Lo, Father, I do not know."

"Nay, neither do I. But I do know the bile within all men, and they would take our lives from us as easily as they breathe. We must protect ourselves, and our Eternal City."

"Lo, Father, what do they now?"

"Lo, they await the morning in the wood. We have repulsed them once — perhaps they will leave at daylight. Goodnight, daughter; perhaps the morning will bring better news."

"Aye. Goodnight, Father."

Wessex exited the room and continued his thoughtful walk. Raspar regents had come and gone, and the clan's security within the stone walls had never before been challenged. He could not be the first Raspar leader to lose clansmen to their enemies; the shame would be unbearable. And how could this tiny band of men presume to threaten the city anyway? But why else might they have come? Possibly to help the giants, who had laid siege to the city just weeks ago. Did they plan another attack, perhaps taking stock of the damage done, perhaps directing the giants' next assault? And what of the damaged wall? How would he fix it? Questions Wessex could not answer racked his brain; he knew nothing except to agree with Vespus, that all the outsiders must be wiped out.

Mercedi listened to her father's fading footsteps, then slid out of bed. She tiptoed carefully, her delicate steps cleverly finding even the smallest spaces between the other sleeping women, and made her way opposite to the direction she knew her father had taken. An odd thing about the Raspars: Even though Mercedi passed perhaps a hundred clansmen, they all turned a blind eye to what she did; they had something of a protocol of silence, as though everyone knew the secrets of all others, but would not think of revealing them.

Regardless, she passed through the lower levels until she reached a tower with a window facing the wood to the south. She peered through the window and spotted the tiny campfire of the travelers.

At just the same time but through a different window, Hadrian also looked out and trembled quietly. What he saw shocked him, and he wheeled about and declared in a panicked whisper to Vespus:

"That one just killed a thylak with a toothpick!"

Chapter XXXVI

The night passed and dawn broke. Theodoric and Franken awoke quite happy, after having slept in a tree platform like their own, though many groonits from home.

"The rats had a good night," commented Theodoric, looking toward Artur's tree. The others saw what he meant: Tiny rodent teeth had reduced the thylak to a skeleton, dangling loosely from Kylie's amoral blade.

Dungo had found the night strictly disagreeable, having rolled off his platform a couple of times and quickly becoming prey to the rats, and his humor showed no improvement over the previous evening. Indeed, nobody had heard clicking from him since leaving his cart behind. Immediately he began to press that they make their way back to the Alluvia.

"Such inhospitable lands, they make the deserts seem gracious. That gluttonous Gravidas, stealing away our goods, even the accursed Alluvia would do no such thing. And what despicable hosts! Nothing to offer us for breakfast but more arrows, no doubt! Wolven would shred my flesh if I treated visitors in such abominable fashion, if I gave him the chance. I insist, we must be heading back today, back to our own friendly lands. My fellows, do you not wish to visit your families again, and taste of the abundance of your own peoples? My mouth waters at the thought of cheese! Come, let us give up this doomed quest for friendliness in this wasteland!"

"We have come for a reason, have we not?" asked Theodoric. "Would it not be wise to exhaust our efforts before retreating? The songbird has many notes."

"I'm not going anywhere until I see a Raspar face," said Artur gruffly. "I'll either hear one speak or I'll have one to spit at."

Dungo turned his attention to the Koinoni, each spinning in turn, carefully trying to avoid rats. "Good fellows, perhaps you will hear the reason in my words. These forests are untenable, filled with fearsome animals large and small. The food is scarce and distasteful. The sleeping is impossible, not a single comfort to be had, dreadful all the night long. And what about Moss and Scree? And these people, these Raspars as you call them, may not be people at all. What kind of humanity would leave so small and vulnerable a band as we out in the elements without shelter or sustenance? What good could these beasts ever be to us anyway? Come, let us be quit of this place."

"We have been here often," said a Koinoni, probably Yarrow. "Many times we have had arrows fired upon us. Never have we seen a Raspar man, nor have they ever spoken to us. Raspars will not trade."

"You see?" Dungo appealed to the others. "Even Yarrow — Yarrow? — concedes that our purpose is futile here. Even the Koinoni are ready to return."

"Quite the opposite," said Yarrow. "We must stay. We have traveled all over the wide world. Only here have we never seen. This city may be our last chance. Perhaps here we will trade for the better thing."

Dungo at last saw he was defeated, and he retreated to one of the tall trees, sitting among the roots with Sylva. Quietly they drew signs to each other in the dust, and in time the Bedoua vizier seemed mollified.

"What do you suggest we do?" Artur asked Theodoric, and glanced at Geoffrey as well.

"We never spoke a word yesterday. Perhaps if we approach quickly, we can catch their ear before they can fire upon us again."

"Let's go then," said Artur, and made for the glade between the city and the wood. His patience, such as it was, had abandoned him. He wrenched Kylie out of the tree, sending the thylak bones skittering across the forest floor.

"One moment," said Theodoric. "Best to send one. One man will appear less threatening, and one death will reduce us but little."

"Yes, I can see that."

"I'll go," said Geoffrey.

"I'll go," said Artur, not kindly, and he pushed his father to the ground.

"You'd best leave your sword," said Theodoric. "You will appear less threatening, and it wouldn't do you any good in any event."

"Right," said Artur. "At least give me that shield," and he grabbed a sturdy Rufoux buckler of wood and leather.

Cautiously he made his way to the edge of the forest. He surveyed the huge height of the stone walls before them, they offered no evidence of any habitation. The windows that dotted the towers stared back in empty mocking. Not a sound nor movement did Artur perceive, and so he edged out of the forest with due prudence.

A shrill whistle came from high above. Artur heard the word "Aye!" and instinctively crouched behind his shield, as quickly and as compact as he could, and a fusillade of arrows rained down upon him.

"Stop! Stop it!" he screamed, a poor night's sleep and skimpy breakfast leaving him in no temper to be shot at. He peeked over the top of the shield. "I am Artur of the Rufoux! I come without arms, to speak to your leader!"

Another stream of arrows pummeled him from above. "Mog's goblins!" erupted Artur, as he fell behind his shield again. The impact of the arrows knocked him to the ground. "These damn fools must not have ears!"

Artur stumbled back into the wood, his shield heavy with the arrows stuck in it. He scurried behind one of the giant trees, making sure no part of him was visible to the city. Quickly he made his way back to the others.

"Here, I brought you something," he said to a Koinoni as he passed, and he handed over the shield. "Pick these out; they're yours. Well, Theodoric — how'd I do?" Artur was hot, and he didn't care who knew.

"Did you see anything? A face through a window? Anything?"

"I saw the back of my shield."

"Well, a worthwhile attempt, anyway," said Theodoric. "We have a second plan, but time is required, and one of us will face grave danger." And he looked to Franken, gripping his axe. "We must build a platform as high as their windows. We must see their faces and look them in the eye, and they must see our faces, to know we are men like them. The deviltooth will kill a herd of therium, but still will love its wife."

"How will you go about such a thing?" asked Geoffrey. "To construct a platform that high would require first building at least two others lower to the ground. And you will have to build upon a tree at the edge of the glade. No doubt that would mean working under a hailstorm of arrows."

"Yes, that is the trick, is it not? Franken?"

"I'll devise such a plan as you wish," replied Franken. "But first I must swim Gravidas."

The Melic woodsman slung his axe over his shoulder and marched to the west, toward the rushing currents of the River Gravidas. Unconvinced and confused, the others followed, except Dungo and Sylva, but once the Bedoua leader noticed the others leaving he hastened to catch up. Once to the river Franken walked in up to his knees and carefully extended both hands into the current. The others looked on blankly as Franken waded about on all fours, but soon he stood erect and triumphantly shouted, "These will do nicely, I say, to be sure!"

His hands held two perfectly round stones, made smooth by the onrushing water over the course of centuries. Franken laid them on the bank and continued his search. Theodoric, understanding what his man needed, joined the hunt, and soon Dungo and Sylva waded into the water too, frolicking in the rare stuff more than finding rocks, but helping nonetheless. Rufoux and Koinoni gathered onto shields and into robes the rocks that accumulated, and hauled them back to camp. After an hour or two of searching, Franken allowed that he had found enough.

Once back in the forest, Franken began work on the backside of a tree close to the glade's edge. He quickly had the first platform in place, upon which he stood to build the second. Then upon the second he began work on the third, the one that would be level with the lowest Raspar windows.

First he set to girdling the tree, a deep hollow not all the way around but as far upon each side as he could reach without bringing an attack upon his head. Slinging a barkstring rope around the trunk, he tied the ends together so the noose hung loosely. Using the pliable wood of a sapling, Franken wedged split planks between the rope and the tree, all around, placing the round rocks within the groove he had cut in the tree's bark. The more planks he inserted, the more pressure the noose applied, until all neatly curved around the tree, securing the rocks. Only then did he build the platform, sticking out toward the back of the tree, two supports coming down from the bottom but not attached to the tree. If the Raspars watched, or even cared about the construction, they gave no hint of it.

"There is the platform you asked for," said Franken, so pleased with himself he sang in truth. "Sit down upon it and then spin around."

And then the rest understood what Franken had done. The platform was built, and could be mounted, on the safe side of the tree, then turned around as the stones rolled like oversized ball bearings, until it faced the city.

"Will it be me?" asked Artur.

"Let it be me," said Theodoric. "Even the sun makes only one trip each day."

"Whatever you say. But take a shield with you," offered Artur. "And good luck."

"Drueed give you wisdom, my king," said Franken.

Theodoric climbed aboard the platform, and with much effort the others used poles to turn it around to face the Raspar city. The Melic chief gazed directly into the nearest window, and laughed at the astonished faces.

"Greetings!" he said. "A bird is never more vulnerable than when safe in its nest!"

Chapter XXXVII

"Aye!" Theodoric heard from within the stone tower, and three men appeared in the window — one standing, one crouching, one kneeling: classic Raspar formation — all with bows drawn. The Melic chief crouched behind his shield, and the archers let fly — straight into the ground.

"Nay, but ye must aim higher," said a voice.

"Aye, we are trying," said the men, and again they lifted their bows, with arrows strung and pulled.

Again the missiles flew from the fortress window, and straight into the ground. For generations, all the Raspars' defensive training had assumed targets on the ground. They had never conceived of shooting an arrow horizontally. Theodoric began to realize he was in less danger than his compatriots below.

"I am Theodoric of the Melics. I wish to speak to your leader."

Another trio of arrows hit the ground, in perfect line with Theodoric, but badly short of the mark.

"I have come with friends to make a pact with the mighty Raspars."

Some cursing erupted from the window, but nothing else.

"We wish to help you defeat the giants," Theodoric said.

Some bustling and bumping noises came from the city, irritated voices that Theodoric couldn't make out, and then another face appeared: a cruel face, with fiery eyes and hollow cheeks. The man behind it lifted a bow; even from his distance Theodoric could see his fingernails stained red. The archer bared his teeth and let his arrow go, straight into the ground. With loud cursings he, too, disappeared back into the tower.

Theodoric leaned back against the tree and stretched his legs, no longer trying to fit behind his shield. He prepared to wait, as long as it took, wait for the Raspars to address him through the window.

"How goes it?" asked Artur from behind the tree, not hearing anything but neither willing to peek around and risk an arrow in his forehead.

"Eyes do not add to the fire under a pot," Theodoric said.

"I might have guessed," Artur replied under his breath, resigned that he'd have to wait for his answer.

Theodoric remained in the tree, sometimes speaking with those below, sometimes catching a glance of a new face in the window. Often he had observed their city from a far distance, never catching sight of a single resident, and the fleeting glimpses of them now left him little opportunity to learn. They seemed a handsome race, one female face particularly fetching, but with fear etched deep within their eyes. He called out to each one who passed, but received not a single reply.

The hours passed by drearily, and food and water delivered to Theodoric helped ease the tedium. He took up his reed and killed time with sad tunes of his homeland. The birds flocked about his platform, picking at crumbs and seeds, and he took to mimicking their strange songs. Dusk crept upon the forest, night fell and Theodoric nodded off.

Morning had only just broken anew when an arrow falling onto his lap awoke him.

"Aye!" he heard, his head still groggy with sleep. The sizzling song of flying arrows filled the air, then the thwack of limbs and leaves sharply hit. Another arrow fell onto his platform: The Raspars had taken their archers trained to shoot from the lower level of windows and moved them to the higher levels, putting Theodoric directly in their line of fire. Unfortunately, the arrows had to pass through the thick foliage of the tree, which utterly ruined their mission.

"Very clever, sirs!" called out Theodoric gaily, but he held his shield over his head just in case. "You are indeed a wonderfully crafty people, and we are here to help you defeat the giants!"

Theodoric again heard cursing, and more arrows fell harmlessly through the tree limbs.

"I have come to talk with your leader!"

More bustling and bumping came from the lower window, and finally a face appeared that Theodoric had not seen before, an older face with long eyebrows and large ears, topped by a tall, brimless hat.

"Aye, and I am Wessex, regent of the Raspars whom ye vex, tree man!"

"I am Theodoric of the Melics."

"Nay, Melics do I not know, and ye others do I not know, and yet Koinoni do I know. Begone!"

"We are not just Koinoni. We are Melics, of the forested lands, and Rufoux from the River Alluvia, and Bedoua from the desert, and we must talk with the Raspars!"

"Lo, the Raspars do not know Melics, nor Rufoux or Bedoua, but we know Koinoni. Begone!" Wessex' voice had risen to a piercing soprano.

Artur turned to the group of Koinoni, each spinning in turn, with a look of disgust.

"I am of the Melics," said Theodoric. "We are tree dwellers from the other side of the River Alluvia. We are people of Medialia, like the Raspars. We all battle the Aoten."

"Lo, Raspars do not know Aoten."

"They are the giants who have already attacked you. Behold, the damage to that tower — only the height and weight of the Aoten could have caused that destruction!"

"Aye, but only with help would they ever defeat us! Ye have come to steal our Eternal City. Ye have traded our lives to the Koinoni so they might have a homeland!" In his passion Wessex beat on the window sill with a small hammer.

"The Koinoni have joined us in our struggle. The Aoten are our enemies, and yours as well!"

"Nay, ye make yourselves our enemies! Begone, I say!"

Wessex left the window with a dismissive wave of his hand, and Theodoric slumped upon his platform in frustration. Soon, he thought, he must abandon this idea and hope to devise another. My head hurts, he thought. He did not notice the beautiful face, Mercedi, reappear in the window and gaze upon him deep in meditation.

"We would have been wise to leave you behind," Artur said viciously to Yarrow.

"You may yet have use for us, my lord," he replied, and he gingerly felt the tip of a Raspar arrowhead with a finger.

"If I could mount that platform," said Dungo, "I could make the Raspar man let us into their city. I am known far and wide for my persuasive talents, and I would make our appeal to him irresistible. Ho-ho! I could have him eating out of our hands, if only I could see him through the window. Faced with my Bedoua charm and good humor, he would have no choice but to see things our way! Then what a wonderful welcome we would have upon entering their city. Fine rugs and beautiful feathers would be cast at our feet! If only I could get up on that platform."

"If you could make it onto the platform," said Artur with a sneer, "It and you both would quickly lay on the ground in pieces."

"Really, sir, I see no reason for mean thoughts."

"He is but a man," said Yarrow. "We will offer him Romana, an inducement to speak with us." A smaller hooded figure beside him nodded slightly.

Long hours passed as Theodoric remained at his post, calling out to the various Raspars that sneaked a glimpse at him. Late in the afternoon, when he was nearly ready to put an end to his vigil, Wessex again appeared in the window.

"Aye, but did I not tell ye to begone?" he said.

"We must talk with you, regent of the Raspars. We must agree to defeat the giants."

"Nay, but we will not talk with ye, we will not believe that ye do not conspire with the giants. Ye have come to destroy us and take our city."

"No, we are too few. We have not come with arms, except to defend ourselves. We have traveled these many groonits, even from the banks of the Alluvia!"

"Lo, ye cannot be trusted. All the peoples of Medialia, all make themselves enemies of the Raspars. All seek our murder and extinction."

"Are we not all men? Do we not have arms and legs, and heads and hearts? Are we not all made of the same dust? We must band together, to save our race from the Aoten!" begged Theodoric.

"Aye, ye are men, at least in the form of men. But ye are outsiders, and ye are strange to us, even as the Raspars are one, and ye desire our complete destruction."

"No, we desire you to live. We desire that all men should live against the giants!"

"Aye, ye are men, and I can see ye are men. Yet ye have come with Koinoni, and we know not that they are men. Koinoni remain hidden underneath their robes, they lie in wait and in deceit, and we will have no part of them."

Before Theodoric could answer, Yarrow stepped from behind the cover of the giant tree. He strode into the glade, a floating robed figure, and a sudden shower of arrows came at him. The missiles landed gently, swallowed up by the folds of his raiment, which he grasped at the center with both hands. In one motion he tore his robe open and let it fall. It hit the hard ground with a muffled clank.

The frock revealed an elderly man, completely bald, with torn, ragged clothing except for a coat of dull chain mail that hung to mid thigh. His body looked thin and worn, but the muscles of his bare arms were taut. His wan face gave pale background to gray eyes and white stubble upon his chin; even his eyebrows appeared sparse. There about Yarrow's waist Wessex beheld a Raspar belt — hung with hammers and hooks, flint chisels and antler picks — and at once he knew he had more in common with the Koinoni than he had bargained for.

"Nay! Hold fire!" the regent ordered.

Chapter XXXVIII

Of all the Raspars, Rhodan dwelled upon his curiosity the most: What took place each day in the surrounding world, what might lay outside the walls of the city. In years past he had served as a harvester, one who tended and gleaned the clan's paltry fields. He relished this work that most Raspars keenly despised, simply to see the earth up close and feel it under his feet. He gladly traded the cold security of stone towers for the crumbling softness of Medialia's soil, if only for short periods of time.

Rhodan had been raised a scholar, steeped in the finer points of Raspar culture, but in his youth he rejected his training. Then, the elders determined he enjoyed his reaping perhaps too much. As discipline, for long years he was restricted to the catacombs beneath the Eternal City. There he developed an appreciation of the delicate engravings and drawings covering the walls. He also learned by the dim flames of candles the intricate labyrinth of tunnels.

A wild shock of hair crowned his head, the only physical mark that separated him from any other Raspar. His mouth may have been another, but only for what came out of it.

As morning arose he sat upon a tower roof, along with Wessex and a handful of others. Wessex silently chipped away with a hammer and chisel, slowly forcing a block of stone into a dragon's head. None of them knew what to say about the previous day's events.

"Aye, I will kill them!" one with a cruel face finally erupted. He was Severus.

"Nay, but ye will do nothing," replied Wessex, not taking his eyes from his task.

"Lo, but I want to kill them!"

"Nay, ye shall not. Gryphon will see, and he will not be pleased."

"Lo, Gryphon does not see us," said Rhodan.

"Aye, Gryphon does not live," added Severus.

"Lo, yet ye will still do nothing," said Wessex, and the men fell into silence once again.

The chipping sounds ticked off the seconds, and Rhodan broke the stillness again. "Aye, the Raspars would do well to test what the outsiders know and think."

Severus sneered at him like a rabid animal. Wessex intoned, "Nay, ye shall do nothing as well."

"Lo, for too long the Raspars have hidden from outsiders. Now they are upon us," continued Rhodan.

"Aye, many more than we want. Some who tear down our walls, and others who would peek over them," said Wessex.

"Aye, and they will find their way."

"Lo, I will kill ye!" screamed Severus, striding toward Rhodan. "No outsider can breach our walls!" Severus had but one emotion, fury, and one reaction, hatred. He never had much to say short of threats. In truth, the close quarters of the Raspars' city and the toll of their requirements had driven him quite mad, but with a quiet, conniving insanity.

"Nay, but ye will hold!" declared Wessex, the pitch of his voice climbing. "Raspars will do no harm to a clansman, within the safety of the Eternal City! It is our first law! Ye will hold your anger!"

Severus screamed at Rhodan, both fists clenched, but retreated to a far side of the roof. Wessex continued sculpting.

"Lo, do ye suggest that the Raspars have something to learn from barbaric outsiders?" he posed to Rhodan.

"Nay, certainly no. The Raspar culture far outshines those who sit in trees," Rhodan replied.

"Aye, but that be true. So what do ye support?"

"Lo, there exists much beyond these walls," said Rhodan.

"Aye, much that is dangerous."

"Nay, we can not remain afraid forever."

"Lo, good reason to fear stands before us. Giants who pull great stone blocks out of city walls, for instance."

"Aye, and perhaps the enemies of such giants also dwell without."

"Lo," said Wessex thoughtfully, and he chipped away.

"Aye, too long have the Raspars hidden in safety, when we could have made a wider world for ourselves," pressed Rhodan.

"Lo, and now ye speak heresy against the forefathers," retorted Wessex, "for in ages past they set these stones upon each other to guarantee the survival of the clan."

"Aye, they were set upon each other in fear, and secured by murder."

"Aye, and blood is spilled. Would ye now have Raspar blood shed for an ideal ye have never tested?"

"Nay, but a dozen men could spill but little blood," said Rhodan.

"Aye, but then suppose we rest their bones here? Four clans — Koinoni and these others, the Rufoux, Melic and Bedoua. What then, when these clans bear down upon us to avenge their missing leaders?"

"Lo, but is it not ye who now betrays lack of faith in the forefathers' walls?"

"Nay, it is but a question."

"Lo, will they punish us any worse than the giants?" said Rhodan pointedly.

Wessex listened silently.

"Nay, I suspect greater retribution from the greater beings. So, if we kill no one but these men, we may not still remain when their clans' vengeance arrives," Rhodan continued.

"Aye," said Wessex, and he chipped away. "Ye must bring this thought before the council. But only if ye find an advocate. And we must remember the outsiders are inferior."

"Aye," said Rhodan, and he disappeared through a hole in the roof.

"Lo," Wessex looked to Severus and pointed to Rhodan's exit. Severus nodded and followed through the passageway.

As the morning drew on, the council members gathered to their summons. Mercedi, as Wessex' daughter the regent-in-waiting, would be expected to attend. As she made her way through the crowded halls, a hand gripped her roughly by the arm and pulled her against a wall. Dozens of Raspar clansmen passed, seeing but not seeing.

"Aye, ye conspire against the Raspars," hissed Severus in her face.

"Nay, but ye can not frighten me, Severus," she replied.

"Lo, do ye think that because ye are regent's child ye can survive as traitor to the clan?"

"Lo, and what mean ye, Severus?" She tried to wrench her lithe arm free but failed.

"Aye, I have seen ye in your comings and goings."

"Lo, all see and none see. It is our first law," Mercedi said.

"Nay, but I see. I see all."

"Lo, what then?"

"Lo, do ye deny that ye would give entry inside the walls to the outsiders?" Severus growled.

"Nay, but ye are mistaken." Mercedi turned to fully face Severus.

"Aye, ye prepare to let the walls of the city be breached."

"Nay, but I will show ye what I am prepared to do," and she took him by the lapels with both hands. "Ye are a man known to me, but not as well as I'd like." Mercedi drew her face closer to his. Severus let his grip on her arm grow slack.

"Aye, ye fill my dreams in the night, and thoughts during the day." Mercedi's hips rolled gently as she crept closer to him. "Ye shall fill my arms as well, as we consider what next to do," she said in a husky whisper.

She pulled Severus closer into her breasts as he stared dumbly back at her and moved slowly backward. Mercedi brought him nose-to-nose with her as he looked, confused, into her deep eyes. She turned him gently to one side and shot her arms out straight, sending him tumbling down a spiraling flight of stairs. Raspars walked by, this way and that, said nothing and made way for the cascading man. Wheeling about, Mercedi set out for the council room again.

There she found her father – bits of stone still clinging to the front of his shirt and trousers – Rhodan and a room packed with men and women. The council sat around a table in the center of the room. Hearing Wessex' voice already at a fever pitch told her the room was too crowded and the talk heated, but she squeezed in anyway.

"Nay, but I do not wish to bring outsiders into our city," Wessex was in the midst of saying.

"Nay, nay, nay," a collection of voices repeated.

"Aye, but neither can we defeat them, as long as they will not attack," he continued.

"Lo, they must be wiped out. Are they not Koinoni?" said Vespus.

"Lo, but they can not be wiped out, when they remain in hiding. They are merely men, even the Koinoni, and they will not attack," Wessex repeated.

"Aye, they have no intention to attack," broke in Rhodan, "for they are too few."

"Nay, ye shall not speak," said Wessex, firmly facing Rhodan, "unless ye have an advocate. A single voice will not testify — it is our first law."

"Aye, but my advocate has arrived," said Rhodan, and he looked toward Mercedi.

"Lo, daughter?" said Wessex in surprise.

"Aye."

"Aye. Then speak," said Wessex with a perturbed look, but his low voice betrayed resignation.

"Lo, the outsiders do not attack; they only seek an audience. They only wish to talk," said Rhodan.

"Nay, nay, nay," the same chorus chanted.

"Aye, they have come to speak of the giants, the giants who do attack," said Mercedi.

At that moment Severus appeared in the doorway to the room, looking battered and moving stiffly. He scanned the room until his gaze fell upon Mercedi. "Aye, and I will kill ye!" he seethed.

"Nay, but hold!" ordered Wessex, giving him a look of disgust.

"Nay, I want to kill ye!" Severus continued wildly.

"Nay, but hold!" Wessex said once more in full high voice. "Ye have failed me. Ye will do no harm within the walls!"

"Aye," said Vespus, glowering at Severus with his one eye.

"Lo," Rhodan began again, "for the first time in generations our city is under siege. The threat does not come from the men of Medialia."

"Aye, not at the moment," said Wessex. "But what of the future?"

"Lo, will we have a future?" asked Mercedi. A buzz spread throughout the assembled Raspars.

"Aye, and what of that? What are the prospects of the city and its people? Linus?" said Wessex. He rubbed his hands together and looked to the man at his right.

Linus scratched the bottom of his nose with a finger as he considered his answer. Comparatively young among the ancient clanspeople, his face looked drawn nonetheless. His words were spoken frank and rough, but it served to reveal his basic honesty. He wore a long coat with a high collar that hid his neck from view.

"Aye, as rationing minister," he said in time, "I can tell ye the Raspars will survive the weeks to come, as long as the damn walls protect us as they always have. But I can say also leaving the city to glean the fields grows ever more difficult. Fearing attack from the bastard giants, fearing detection by the outsiders — we are loathe to scavenge as freely as only a month ago. Aye, but we will not survive long once the grains run short and we remain flipping afraid to tempt danger. Raspars must become bold, either to leave the safety of the walls or allow entry to others."

"Lo, ye should ration your words. Ye talk too much," said Wessex sourly. Linus shrugged his shoulders and folded his hands upon the table before him. "As long as I remain regent, outsiders will not see the inside of Raspar walls."

"Lo, the outsiders defy the giants as we do," said Rhodan. "Our only hope to save the Eternal City may lie with them."

"Nay —" said Wessex, but a sudden, high-pitched whistle cut him off.

"Aye, and they are coming!" Hadrian's faint voice called from far off. The room arose in one voice: "Aye, and they are coming again!"

Chapter XXXIX

"Lo, they are upon us again," said Artur, grandly mocking, gesturing with an open hand.

"And yet an axe still makes better effect against a tree than does a cutting remark," said Theodoric. "So, I think we'd best begone."

The crunching of bracken made obvious the slow approach of the Aoten through the wood. The travelers retreated deeper into the forest, knowing that the giants would direct their attack on the looming stone city. Lacking weapons of any import, they decided it best to take cover but still attempt to watch.

"Oh, my fellows! What these roots and sticks are doing to my fine robes!" complained Dungo.

"Keep your voice down, or they'll be on top of us!" rasped Artur.

But Dungo could not stop talking, and he rambled on, "Yes, quiet, quiet! Let us begone, and quickly! These giants, they are surely a terror to behold. We must make ourselves safe as we can before risking a look at these brutes! For to do anything else curses us in foolishness indeed. So let us escape, and be careful, for surely the ground at our feet is treacherous as well. And then only after we find safety should we try to spy out our foes. Oh, the bloody beasts! What a terrible sight it will be that meets our eyes, once we are tucked away in some cozy sanctuary!" For Dungo had never yet seen the Aoten, and he covered his anxiety with nonstop blathering.

"What do you think that they could be after?" asked Franken as the group took refuge in a low thicket. Crouching hid them well, but in standing they could see the walls of the city.

"We will know only by observing. Nothing else to do at the moment," said Theodoric. "Who knows what lies inside that city? All we can tell is that the Raspars defend something. There is no reason to build a fortress of such might, except to protect a thing most precious. Apparently the Aoten realize this as well."

"Here they come, stinking oafs," said Artur.

Inside the city, the Raspar archers had taken their posts in the windows. Wessex positioned himself on the roof to watch the giants' approach. Soon they reached the glade surrounding the structure.

"Aye!" he called loudly, and the Raspars sent a deluge of arrows.

The Raspar women, Mercedi among them, formed supply lines to deliver arrows to the men. Stores of weapons lay strategically placed throughout the city, at the top and bottom floors of each tower. Three marksmen in each window mechanically followed well-timed orders to fire.

The Aoten came armed with crude shields and thick logs, no doubt taken from the Melics' trees. Immediately they set upon the stone walls, ramming the end of the logs against the blocks. Unorganized and clumsy, they made no progress at first, but neither did they yield. The missiles flying down upon them stung like bees, and stopping to flick them away further interfered with the giants' attack.

Upon the roof, Wessex stepped away from the balustrade and stumbled over Hadrian, cowering behind him. "Aye, and ye'll get away from me!" he screamed in quickly escalating pitches, and descended through an exit into the tower. The regent deftly took the steps down to the nearest level, and stuck his head out of a window to take stock. He saw the giants under wave upon wave of arrows, unrelenting as their logs cracked against the stone.

Artur took it all in. "This can not go on," he complained and rattled Kylie in her scabbard. "I have to fight. I can't stand watching."

"Indeed," said Geoffrey, ever hopeful.

Dungo had remained squatting upon the ground since they arrived in the thicket. Now he screwed up his courage and peeked over the group's cover, then sat again, his eyes like saucers. "We are without weapons," he shivered. "Surely you do not suggest we go against these monsters with nothing more than shields. We have no bows, nor Bedoua pikes, nor even slings to do battle with. Our shields will not last long against such hulking creatures. This Raspar territory turns worse and worse; I'd almost rather take my chances against Wolven. The deserts' soft sands beckon me home." And he took Sylva's hand.

"In the west heavy sticks throw rocks," said Yarrow flatly.

"What do you mean?" said Theodoric.

"Machines made of sticks. Big sticks. They swing around and throw great boulders many kronyn," Yarrow tried to explain, but with no real concept of design or art, he could not make the others comprehend.

"Do you understand him?" Theodoric asked Franken. "Do you think you could build this?"

"With not time nor idea, I give you no hope," he chimed in return.

"What are you talking about?" Artur urged Yarrow, thinking he could intimidate a description out of him.

"A machine of sticks that throws rocks," the Koinoni explained. The others continued spinning, even in their hiding place.

"This is something the western clans have?" asked Geoffrey.

Yarrow nodded deep in his hood.

"I have never been," grumbled Geoffrey to himself. "Curse me for a fool, all the things I've done in secret, and not a one will save us now. If I'd had more curiosity and less lust I might be of some use even still."

"Why do you tell us this now?" Theodoric asked Yarrow.

"Perhaps these little trees would serve just as well," he replied. "Bend them back, place a rock in the branches, and let go."

"Well, thanks for sharing your secret!" Artur barked.

A light burned in Franken's eye, and he saw that such an arrangement might work: The Melics' skill at climbing, Rufoux strength, Dungo's weight; all seemed reasonable. But the operation would have to be staged from the glade's edge, some hundred kronyn from the city, where a clear shot at the Aoten could be made.

"You must get up and then come along, for you are important to fight!" Franken said to Dungo, and pulled him to his feet.

The Aoten persisted at their work upon the city walls, the stones now giving up particles of dust as the splintered wood took its toll. The Raspar defense continued, and a handful of giants lay dead, having taken arrows in the eye or temple, perhaps their only vulnerable spots; many others had removed themselves to pick at minor wounds. Slowly the giants redirected their attack to the tower with the damage under the window. Wessex as well shifted to the damaged tower. He took stock of his arrow supply and ordered fusillades at wider intervals, and moved to a lower level.

They chose a likely sapling at the edge of the forest, and Franken quickly scaled it to attach ropes to the higher branches. The other ends flailed toward the men on the ground, and together they pulled at the tree until it doubled over. Franken and Theodoric hewed off selected branches and strapped shields to their stumps, forming a pouch of sorts. Artur and Geoffrey, the only ones with strength enough to lift and carry the huge stones that lay about, handed their ropes to Dungo, who leaned upon them with all his heft to keep the tree in place.

Together the Rufoux placed a stone in the pouch, and the men prepared to make good on their experiment. They all stood silent for a moment.

"The real trick will be not hitting the walls," said Theodoric. "That will not look good in our Raspar compatriots' eyes."

"Better ease up the stress on the tree," Franken counseled.

Another moment, and Theodoric winked at Artur. "Mog, we have neither fire nor grain! So be it! Aye!" the Rufoux chieftain cried, and the tree let fly. The boulder soared through the air and landed with a thud, bringing down a half dozen giants.

"Lo, and they're firing at us! So I told you!" screamed Vespus through a window, banging on the stone walls with his broadsword.

"Nay, but they fire upon the giants!" cried Mercedi. "Another one comes!"

Another boulder flew through the air, and giants scattered from its impact, dropping their logs. But at the same moment, one last key block fell from the hole in the crippled tower, and the stone mass began to lean.

Wessex felt the floor beneath him give. He turned to run toward the stairway, but the crowded room allowed no movement. Suddenly the floor disappeared from under him, and he knew he was falling to Earth with the tower. The great rocks of the stories above pounded him mercilessly, and the tower's cruel weight buried him and many other Raspars inside. From her distant window, Mercedi screamed into the air.

The travelers bent the tree back again, and the wood groaned and complained against the tension. As the Rufoux put another stone in place, the tree split, sending dozens of heavy shards splintering through the air. Franken rolled out of the branches and onto the ground; the stone fell heavily upon Artur's legs, twisting them sideways and pinning him to the ground. As he cursed and pushed the stone, pieces of wooden shrapnel flew at his head and side, entering his thigh and calf. Artur gained his feet and wondered who was talking to him; then the world moved in a way that it shouldn't, and Artur's mind left it, and he collapsed. He lay on the ground face-down, unmoving and saying nothing.

"Damn!" yelled Geoffrey, running to kneel by his son.

The giants picked through the rubble of the tower, rudely tossing aside Raspar bodies they encountered. A smattering of arrows continued to fall upon them. The Aoten gathered what bows and arrows they could find from the storeroom, then made their retreat toward the Gravidas; they also carted off as many stones as they could. A few unceremoniously dragged their dead behind them as they shuffled off. With surprising speed the dust from the tower had settled and the glade rested quietly again.

A lonely wail arose from the embattled Eternal City. Wessex' tall hat lay peacefully upon the grass.

Chapter XL

Raspar men and women, Raspars who had never before felt the fullness of the sunshine nor the wind blowing their hair, picked about among the stones of the tower ruins. The fallen wall left a gaping wound in the city, and the Raspars could reach the stones through exposed doorways while still hiding behind the rubble. Scores of bodies slowly emerged to be lined up on the floor of a wide hallway, each man's tool belt removed and placed at his side.

Mercedi knelt by Wessex. "Aye, even in his blindness, he will not have died in vain."

The scene played out in the forest; Geoffrey knelt by Artur. "He will not die," said Theodoric, as he listened for Artur's breathing and heartbeat. Geoffrey could not speak.

"He has a head injury, but not fatal, it appears," he continued, and then saw the moisture around Geoffrey's eyes. "No, he will not die today. But when he does, so will his line, for the sake of an empty tradition."

Mercedi stood up.

"Lo, the regent is dead, damnable fate," said Linus. "Long live the regent."

The Raspars lay the bodies of their dead on litters, which they hoisted upon their shoulders. Her people placed Mercedi in an odd chair, the feet fitted with inverted bowls that rested upon the heads of four men. With Wessex' body at the lead, followed by Mercedi and then the other bodies, a procession began. Up stairs and down again, through every tower of the city, Mercedi and the dead were paraded by each watching Raspar. Eventually they wound their way deep into the catacombs, where the bodies were laid upon generations of skeletons. Then the procession, carrying Mercedi alone, worked its way to the council room.

"Nay, Raspars will not have a woman regent," Severus growled at Vespus.

"Lo, she is child of the regent," Vespus replied, always prepared to be suspicious of Severus. "We have always known it would be thus."

"Nay, but Raspar men have never given authority to a woman!"

"Aye, but a simple quirk of fate makes it so. Even still Mercedi is the child of the regent."

"Lo, it does not have to remain so," said Severus.

"Lo, what mean ye?"

"Lo, Mercedi is without a child herself."

"Aye, but that certainly will change one day."

"Nay, but she spurns men! She toys with men!"

"Aye, and that too will change one day."

"Nay, not if we change regent now," Severus lowered his voice as Raspars filed past.

"Lo, what do ye suggest?" asked Vespus, his suspicions verified.

"Lo, we must rid ourselves of Mercedi and her line. We must kill the regent!"

"Nay, but ye seek an odd ally for your treachery!"

"Aye, so ye say, but we must kill her! Then we start a new line."

"Lo, and who would be head of this line? Ye? Nay. Ye shall find no Raspar to aid you in this crime. Your years of wickedness and deceit have come back upon ye, for no Raspar will join ye now in treason." Vespus pressed his face into Severus', empty eye-socket first.

The bearers placed Mercedi's chair upon the great stone table, and Linus mounted a stone bench behind her. In both hands he held aloft a rich woven cape, the royal ceremonial robes of the regent. He held the vestment high over Mercedi's shoulders before the clan. The gold embroidery sparkled from the deep purple fabric even in the dim light within the city walls.

"Lo, I give ye your regent —" he began.

"Nay, but the Raspars will be led by no woman," said Severus, head bowed but his voice loud enough to be heard.

"Nay, nay, nay," a chorus of a few voices responded.

"Lo, she is child of the regent!" said Vespus.

"Nay, the Raspars have had no woman regent in all our history!" shouted Severus, making no pretense this time.

Murmuring grew in the room so much that voices could not be made out, neither "aye" nor "nay." Linus stood like a statue, still holding the cape in place, looking about in befuddlement. The laws of the clan had never before faced open challenge. Mercedi gave Severus a hard look and scanned the confusion of her people. The well-ordered culture of the stone city threatened to fall apart like the tower, giving way to unknown forces.

She stood from her chair and reached around to Linus. With a flourish she pulled the cape from his hands and threw it around her shoulders herself. Holding it securely about her, she announced, "Aye, behold ye your regent!"

"Aye, ye dung-eaters," said Linus. "I give ye Mercedi Zardracon!" and the grumbling swelled into shouts.

"Lo, ye shall be still!" ordered Mercedi. "There will be peace among Raspars inside the walls! It is our first law!" She glared at Severus.

The council room slowly settled into quiet. Mercedi beheld her clanspeople with a knowing frown.

"Lo, the city walls have been breached!" she proclaimed.

"Aye, aye, aye," the chanting began.

"Aye, and our enemies dwell without."

"Aye, aye, aye!"

"Lo, and friends dwell without as well!"

"Aye —" Chanting mechanically enjoined quickly dissipated into silence.

"Aye, there dwell friends of the Raspars outside the walls!" she declared, determined to take advantage of disunity.

"Lo, ye would betray the Raspar city to outsiders!" screamed Severus.

"Nay, but the outsiders have taken the Eternal City already," Mercedi replied. "The giants can fell another tower any time they return!"

"Aye, the outsiders helped fight off the giants," Rhodan offered, his voice cracking. Mercedi's sudden attempt to change Raspar prejudice and fear came even while her leadership hung by a thread: Rhodan well knew the danger of what she undertook, and that her supporters would share her fate, whichever way it fell.

"Nay, we must kill them! Kill them!" said Severus frantically.

"Lo, we Raspars have power to kill the outsiders, but not to save ourselves. We have had our weakness proven to us," said Mercedi. Murmuring again filled the room.

"Aye, and I will kill ye!" screamed Severus.

"Nay, but ye will hold!" said Vespus. "Ye will do no harm to the regent — it is our first law." He stood next to Mercedi, still upon the council table. "Nor will ye do harm to the outsiders. Wessex so said," and he made sure Severus knew he spoke to him first, and then to the rest of the room.

Mercedi took her opportunity: She went to one knee and drew Vespus' ragged sword from its scabbard, then slapped it upon the table loudly. "Lo, one lies wounded outside. He will be brought inside the walls to be tended."

"Nay, nay, nay!" began a small chorus. Severus bared his teeth and seethed.

"Aye, but aye, we will bring him in!" Mercedi declared. "And he in turn may well save the Eternal City!"

"Nay, what can outsiders do for us?" called out voices.

"Lo, they throw mighty rocks through the air," said Rhodan.

"Aye, and one killed a thylak with a toothpick," said Hadrian meekly.

"Aye, and that one lies wounded," cried out Mercedi. "Like my namesake Mercia before me, I will not let Raspar fear feed upon honorable blood! I will let no more innocents die on our account!"

"Aye!" said Rhodan.

"Aye!" said Vespus.

"Aye!" said a handful of others.

"Nay! I want to kill ye!" Severus screamed again.

"Lo, there lies your choice," said Mercedi, indicating Severus with one hand. "Who do ye choose to follow, Raspars? Declare!" The rest of the clan held stolidly silent. Not one would align with the madman.

Theodoric looked up at the afternoon sun, then back at Artur, still unconscious. "We should have brought Aachen. Perhaps he would know what medicine to use."

"We need to get him to cover," said Geoffrey. "If the Aoten return, he'll be helpless and I with him."

Theodoric looked down tenderly upon the ancient father and considered his awkward declaration of loyalty to Artur. "You judge rightly. Yet I doubt they will come back soon. Unfortunately, I suspect they now return to our woods. The tree falls easier when hit by flint."

A spinning Koinoni said, "A window pokes out its tongue."

"What?"

The Koinoni indicated the city, and the travelers turned to see a small structure descending upon ropes from a mid-level window. When it reached the ground it lay flat, ropes at either end.

"Lo, do ye hear me?" a voice called from a different tower, from the window that Theodoric had peered into the day before.

The Melic chieftain scampered to the tree and climbed upon the platform in a blink. Through the window he spotted a face, which belonged to Rhodan, though Theodoric didn't know it.

"Yes, we hear. What would you have?" he asked.

"Lo, our regent Mercedi sends me on an errand of mercy," said Rhodan.

"Mercedi regent? And what of Wessex?"

"Aye, killed. Mercedi succeeds her father to the regency, for he is dead in the giants' attack. Mercedi is our regent, and we do not suffer upheaval."

"You will not be needed," Yarrow said quietly to the Koinoni smaller than he, and she nodded silently, willing to barter her flesh to a king but of no value to a queen. The grace of battle had relieved the price of whoredom.

"Will Mercedi speak to us then?" Theodoric asked.

"Nay, the Raspar regent will not condescend to speak to ye. But she sends her mercy."

"But we come as kings and regents ourselves."

"Nay, ye still are not worthy to speak to the Raspar regent. But lay your injured man on the litter, and we will lift him inside the walls' safety."

"We will not send him alone. We number twelve in all, and no less than twelve will enter. A missing tooth makes the whole head ache."

Rhodan's face disappeared, and after a moment a rope ladder unfurled from the window. The sojourners secured Artur's inert body to the stretcher, and watched it slowly rise up the wall of the first tower. Arms reached out of a window a level lower than the one from which the ropes extended and pulled the litter inside, end first. Then the ropes went slack and slipped like a serpent back inside the tower.

"Well, are we ready?" asked Theodoric.

Each one nodded assent, and one by one they scaled the ladder and entered the forbidden sanctuary of the Raspar city through the only door offered, even, with some difficulty, Dungo.

Chapter XLI

"It feels cold, like the taunting waters of the cursed Alluvia," whimpered Dungo once he was hauled into the city. He looked about anxiously at the bare, imposing walls. "The stone is hard and unforgiving, and it's cold. The harsh desert sun beats unmercifully upon its subjects, but it calls to me now like a mother's song. The shifting sands offer soft comfort to the feet, and the open spaces allow a man to breathe. It closes in, and so cold, within this city, and these walls feel like doom pressing in. Oh, for the warm embrace of my desert home again, and the soft touch of the rumidont's wool! This forbidding structure swallows a man like a deep well."

Through the window they'd entered a room unusually empty, the prospect of seeing strangers inside the walls frightening most Raspars into abandoning the area for more glutted quarters. Only Rhodan stood before them.

"Thank you for your gracious hospitality," said Theodoric.

"Aye," replied the Raspar with a nod.

"Where is my son?" asked Geoffrey huskily.

"Yes, take us to Artur, the wounded man," said Theodoric.

"Nay."

"You have our companion, and injured. We must see that he is safe."

"Lo."

"Is that all you say? 'Lo'?" asked Dungo, mightily agitated, letting his outrage guide his tongue. "You can say nothing more for separating us from our fellow in this great undertaking? I declare, I do not trust such a close-mouthed man! If you are no more willing to defend yourself in this hideous stone pit, when you drag away a helpless man and hide him from his compatriots, then you deserve no trust, I say! If you offer no more to justify this untenable action, you clearly know your position can not be defended by reasonable men. Surely you offer something to explain yourself and what has become of Artur?"

"Nay," said Rhodan.

"Haffa!" Dungo blustered, completely flummoxed. "Why should we remain here? And yet have we any choice? If these Raspars will not talk, and yet we can not recover our Rufoux comrade, we may rot forever in this stone prison. I fear we have fallen into a trap, my friends! I fear we have traded the dangers of the wilderness for a custody of chilly stones and cold shoulders."

Theodoric gave him a reassuring nudge. "Many birds take a song and make it a noise. Perhaps I should speak for us."

Sylva showed Dungo a scrap of paper, and drew her hieroglyphs as he watched and nodded; a handful of Raspars began to sift into the room. Her writing caught Rhodan's eye, and he sidled closer to look over her shoulder, but the others all stood a judicious distance from the outsiders.

"Lo, I am Linus, a minister of the Raspars," said one.

Dungo sniffed rudely, and Theodoric continued: "I am Theodoric of the Melics. We thank you for your gracious hospitality. Our injured friend is Artur of the Rufoux. Please take us to him immediately."

"Aye, but at the moment he is receiving care. Already we have used our skills to remove many damn large splinters from his flesh. We will bandage his wounds, and he will rest until he sees the light again. We will take ye to him when he, and we, are ready. Ye must understand that we are under siege, and our regent has determined not to trust any outsider at this most damnably dangerous time. So ye will stay as our guests, but ye will be watched well, and well watched."

"What do I hear?" asked Dungo, the clicking in his throat betraying genuine encouragement. "A Raspar who talks?"

"Aye, and ye talk too much," said Rhodan. Linus shrugged.

"To the contrary!" declared Dungo, clicking in earnest, and he drew closer to Linus. "I believe I have met a Raspar to commune with. Ho-Ho! Does not a light break in this pit of doom, now with just a handful of friendly words spoken? Do we not find ourselves in much more a place of fellowship, with the expense of only a little precious breath?"

Geoffrey broke in, his voice thick with anger. "Artur is my son. Where is he?"

"Aye, your only son?"

"No, there are others. What does that matter?"

"Lo, Raspars have but one child."

This information left Geoffrey cold, but before he could ask what he should do with it, he was cut off. The Koinoni, spinning all the while, had caught the Raspars' attention, and their odd behavior clearly distressed them. This one clan did the Raspars recognize, and in spite of the shared connection of Yarrow's tool belt, they had long known to watch out for Koinoni trickery. The spinning only disconcerted them more.

"Lo, what goes on with ye?" asked a perplexed Rhodan.

"Yarrow, speak with them," said Theodoric, seeing old prejudices arising.

"Zootaloo! I am Yarrow, leader of the Koinoni," said one robed figure, but the voice sounded different. "We know you cultivate no trust here, for us nor anyone. We well know hatred from throughout the world. But still we have come, not to trade, but to seek an ally in a struggle for life itself."

Theodoric as well underscored the point at hand. "Artur of the Rufoux is a warrior king, and our leader. We cannot speak as one without him — cut one pea from the pod, and soon all others will spill out. Will your regent speak with us when Artur's wounds are healed?"

"Aye, and that remains to be seen," said Linus. "The regent is still in mourning for her father, the regent Wessex, sent into Gryphon's hell by the giants. She will decide when and if she will meet with ye before your departure. For the time being she extends to ye a bloody act of mercy, the protection of the Eternal City. Ye shall find food enough to stuff your bellies in the lower floors. But see that ye do nothing full of deceit, ye bastard burglars, for Raspar eyes will watch each of your every moves."

Linus disappeared through the door, and the sojourners could see lines and lines of Raspars filing past in the hallway. Geoffrey turned his anger upon the wall as he banged a fist against the unfeeling stones. In frustration he repeated, "Why have I waited?" Franken approached and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Come let us see what to find for to eat," he said.

"Yes, we would all do well to have a decent meal," said Theodoric. "A woodsman will chop his blade flat if he doesn't stop to sharpen it. Don't you think so, my dear Dungo?"

"Quite, quite so. Let us follow after that fellow Linus. We have much to say with each other, I do believe. And, ho-ho! Did you bring any of that excellent bee milk with you? I dare say he would be quite delighted with that..." Dungo's voice trailed off as he and the others made their way down the hall. Sylva alone stayed behind, gently held back by Rhodan.

"Lo, I have seen your drawings, and their beauty is striking, but I do not recognize them. What do ye draw with your tool upon this odd fabric?" he asked.

Sylva wrote something on the paper and showed it to Rhodan.

"Nay, but I do not understand. The lines ye draw form no plant nor animal, no city nor mountain, and certainly no human."

Sylva pointed to her mouth and shook her head.

"Lo, what do ye mean? Ye can not speak?"

Sylva drew a simple profile of a woman with her mouth open. Then she added, proceeding from the mouth, the same letters she had first written. Yet when she showed Rhodan the illustration, he still looked puzzled.

She worked her jaw dumbly like a puppet, splaying her fingers in front of her mouth to indicate sound coming out. Then she emphatically indicated the paper once again.

"Nay! Ye talk in this silent way?" Rhodan marveled.

Sylva made another picture, a crude rendering of Dungo, with the same letters entering his ear.

"Aye, and your leader understands. Unbelievable! What an incredible art! Often have I wondered at what lay outside the Raspar city, but never did I imagine words wrought like sculpture. Just as I thought, even the greatest Raspar scholars have much to learn outside the stone walls.

"Lo, I must know your name! I must learn this amazing skill ye have mastered. Come, we Raspars have much of our own artwork for ye to see! Let me show ye. Lines, lines like the ones ye draw, but they form beautiful figures and scenes. Rumidonts and thylak, like they might come right off the walls and walk the land! Come, I will show ye!"

Rhodan took the Bedoua maid by the hand and led her to the closest stairway. Down several floors they descended, until the light dimmed nearly to extinction. Rhodan carefully guided her down the twisting steps as they became more dark and damp. At last they could go no further, and Sylva could feel soft, rolling dirt beneath her sandals. Rhodan vanished into the darkness for a moment but returned with a brightly burning torch.

"Lo, these catacombs run under the city," he said. In this one place did the Raspars not congregate in large numbers; indeed, Rhodan and Sylva were quite alone. "Follow me."

With nobody to answer, Rhodan produced a running commentary as they walked along: He had never before talked so much. Sylva ran her fingers over the etchings upon the walls as Rhodan pointed out the major works of generations of Raspar artists. She marveled at the reliefs carved lightly into the stone walls, and felt utterly lost in the winding tunnels that for years had been Rhodan's prison and home.

"Lo, this relief depicts one of the early Zardracons," Rhodan might say as he held the torch up to a painting. "Here he appeals to Gryphon for the defense of the Raspars. Gryphon appears as this sunburst. Ye will never see a likeness of Gryphon, for nobody knows what he looks like.

"Aye, these tunnels run throughout the foundations of the city. Many reach even to the outlying countryside. One tunnel runs west so far that even I have never explored its entire length. Lo, see this drawing — it portrays a tunnel running under a body of water. I often wonder what it could be.

"Aye, the catacombs spread like spider webs, and many end in rooms. Our regent Wessex now lies in such a room, he and many others, put there only today. We lay our dead in the catacombs, but like the city itself, the tombs grow too crowded.

"Lo, when the city filled thousands of years ago, the Zardracons ruled that every Raspar couple could have but one child. In that way they guaranteed the Eternal City would never shrink too small for us. So every couple may bear one child, no more."

As they walked the musky halls they came upon one of the dank rooms, and by the light of the torch Sylva could see tiny skeletons piled high. Every skull she could see bore a gaping gash in the forehead. Her shocked eyes met Rhodan's.

"Aye, every couple may keep one child. All other younglings are forfeit — they are killed. One named Severus does it — it is his duty — he is now completely mad."

Rhodan fell silent for a moment.

"Lo, my sister lies here."

Chapter XLII

A grievous, misshapen beast emerged from over a surreal landscape. Topped by a ridiculously small, featureless head, black as coal, his grotesquely massive shoulders grew into fearsome arms, dragging upon the ground or perhaps aiding his stride. He bore down on pitifully stubby legs as thick as columns. The eyes, the nose, a snarl — all bandied for prominence; then the face belonged to Mog, and he held fire in one hand and grain in the other. With a great booming sound he brought his hands together, and shards like missiles flew from between his fingers and shot through the air. Suddenly his legs grew long as he lifted his tremendous feet high into the air and brought them crashing to the ground. Then the head turned black again, and, bending over, the figure extended his massive reach and embraced great armfuls of earth. Drawing the two farthest points together, he pulled a broad blanket of soil and rock over the sun. Artur snorted and tried to stand as the light dimmed, but he fell back and felt his head hit the hard, flat stone beneath. The creature's missing face made a sound of wailing triumph, then faded into oblivion. The dim light returned, and a single flame burned above Artur like an idea. He caught dusky visions of a man standing over him.

"Lo, will ye be joining us now?"

Artur squinted, as even the single candle's flickering made his head hurt. His legs felt stiff when he tried to move, and his knees would not bend. "Wyllem?" he asked.

"Nay, not any woolens here. Will ye want some dew water?"

"No questions, if not Wyllem," groaned Artur.

"Aye, then, your own damn choice. Ye have entered the Eternal City. I am Linus, minister to the Raspars. Ye have been brought inside for your safety." He reached around behind him and produced a small stone vile. "Lo, take a drink of this; it is your treatment."

Linus handed him the container, and as Artur took it he heard the clank of metal. There on his wrists hung shackles, with chains leading to rings embedded in the stone walls.

"Lo, just a precaution," said Linus. "We had to use leg irons to fit your devilish arms."

The chains were heavy, but the metal light, probably copper or tin. Artur took one link in his fingers and twisted it open, then again with the other chain, freeing his arms.

"Lo. Aye. Damn," said Linus, trying not to sound concerned.

"Strong enough for this as well," grumbled Artur, defying his suspicions and lifting the vile in a toast before drinking down its contents. The redness of his anger returned to his face; he was feeling better. He glanced at his knees and saw the bandages wound tightly around them; only then did he become aware that milling people filled the room. He saw too that Kylie had gone missing.

"Lo, ye have nothing to fear. For hours ye have lain asleep, and Bryn nursed ye back to health, blinking tenderly, too."

"Who?"

"Lo, Bryn," said Linus, as though Artur should understand, and he gestured toward the area behind him again. Deep within the shadows, Artur could make out a forlorn, delicate face, appearing like a portrait hanging upon the wall. The light glowed softly off her dark eyes and velvet skin.

"Lo, Bryn is wife to me, and shaman to our clan," Linus continued in a distracted manner as he stacked empty cups scattered about Artur's rigid bed. "Though Raspar women are allowed a single child, Bryn cannot bear children at all. Bloody barren she is, so our clan honors her most highly, because Gryphon has so used her to benefit all the Eternal City. Her sacrifice causes the clan not to spill over the walls' protection. Symbolic for us; damn real to her. As well, her service to the health of all Raspars requires time and ability that might otherwise have been granted only to a son or daughter. So she receives much honor within the city, my lovely cow. She has nursed ye."

"Thanks to you, then," said Artur toward the wall.

Bryn did not respond, except to lower her eyes. "Aye, she has the sadness," said Linus, stopping his activity to look upon his wife. "The shadows are her realm, she feels less hell in hiding, and she seldom speaks. Many hours she spends polishing the carvings of the city, silent and lost within the melancholy of her heart."

"Lo, ye talk too much," a woman's voice said.

"Aye," and Linus gathered up the implements and left.

Artur silently gazed into the shadows of Bryn's corner; her eyes met only the floor. Her faint figure seemed to blend and disappear into the pattern of the stone construction behind her. Raspars came and left without comment nor notice.

"I have felt the sadness, too," said Artur, not knowing what to say.

Bryn remained silent and sank deeper into the darkness.

Artur lay on his back and considered his situation. He wondered what the outcome of the battle had been, and if he alone among the travelers had been injured or perhaps alone had survived. He wondered if he would see his fellows again, dead or alive, and if he would return to the Rufoux village. For a moment he thought of Andreia, and Lauræl, and wondered if returning mattered. Thinking of Geoffrey, he felt sure the old man probably had finally found a way to die. He eventually slipped into thinking he knew not what. Raspars came in and went out of the room, looking at him only from the corners of their eyes, trying to appear disinterested. Suddenly he was aware of a light grasp upon his arm, and he lurched toward it, grimacing at the pain in his legs.

Bryn pulled away with a slight gasp, retreating halfway into her shadows.

"What is it?" Artur barked. "Don't startle me like that!"

"Lo, do not grow angry at me," Bryn returned.

"I don't grow angry, I am angry."

"Aye, your anger remains too long. Ye will heal better if ye are at peace."

"You will not keep me here that long."

"Nay, ye will not stay long here. Your wounds are not such as to lay ye out. We found this caught in the crease of your neck; some kind of great bug."

Bryn held out her hand and revealed the crumpled form of a hummingbird, its still delicacy caught like a painting by its utter death.

"Lo, so beautiful. So pitiful in its beauty, never to breathe again. Its life denied," Bryn said softly.

"What did that fellow say? You serve your clan as healer?"

"Aye, though little sickness ever curses us here. No injury within the city, for the law forbids any to strike out against another within the walls. It is our first law."

"Sounds like you would have trouble keeping busy, then."

"Lo, an occasional accident occurs. Odd accidents. Lo, even Linus, my husband, wears his collar high to hide the scars of such an injury. He walked the ramparts of the high towers one day, and falling he caught the sharp edge of the stones with his throat. Vicious cuts, cuts from stones. Odd accident. I see little sickness, but much death."

"Yes. What?" said Artur, distracted and stretching uncomfortably. "These bandages on my knees bind too tightly."

"Aye, but we must keep them tight for now. If bones are broken, we must force your joints to remain still. Now that ye awaken enough to stand, we can test for pain."

"Well, that can wait," said Artur. "My head's too woozy to stand now, I think."

"Aye. Ye show medical wisdom."

"Sure I do."

"Lo, ye had best heal in haste that ye make your escape quickly. These walls will devour your soul if not your life."

"Escape?" said Artur with renewed irritation.

"Nay, no danger hangs over ye here. But the walls stand not as a fortress so much as a prison." Bryn looked about, her features painted with anguish, and she rubbed her palms down the front of her torso and loins.

"Why do you say prison? Do you speak of yourself? You feel safe here, don't you, and held in high honor? Isn't that what your husband said?"

"Aye, I receive their honor. I sit upon their pedestal, a sacrifice to their gods of empty survival. Every couple to keep only one child, but Gryphon decrees I am to bear none. A great and wonderful honor." Her voice trembled as she seemed to fade further from sight.

"I am sorry. Still, it is not your people's doing."

"Lo, isn't it? For the dead cry out for their mothers, and there is none to hear but the executioner! My people's honor mocks my tears, drains the blood from my heart! Oh, that they would simply drive their arrows into me, and not celebrate the denial that tortures me! My voice alone cries for mercy, and yet there is not even one to listen," and she flung a hand toward her passing clansmen, not seeing and not hearing.

Bryn fell to gentle weeping in the corner, Artur struck mute in confused silence.

"Lo, would I not take one?!" Bryn suddenly cried out. "Would I not take one innocent child? Must they all go down to death, when I would take any one offered to me? These little ones, innocents sacrificed to the whims of the past! But these my people, oh, they so honor me! They worship their law, their first law, and prefer the strictness of their habit over healing one broken heart!"

Artur lay in silence, watching the encroaching gloom fold over Bryn. Soon her sobbing offered the only hint of her presence, and Raspars came and went.

Rhodan approached Mercedi in the council room.

"Lo, regent," he said with a bow.

"Aye, Rhodan," she replied.

"Lo, how do you judge in this matter?"

"Lo, the outsiders pose no threat to us. We will let them rest and heal, then send them away."

"Aye, I agree. Will ye counsel with them before that time?"

"Lo, that remains for me to decide. They come from barbaric tribes far to the west. What can they do to add to Raspar fortunes?"

"Lo, but did ye not see what the giants have done to destroy the tower?"

"Lo, indeed."

"Aye, and they might have thrown down many more towers, if the outsiders had not known how to throw rocks through the air."

"Lo, what do ye mean to say?"

"Lo, the one called Theodoric, he speaks with wisdom I do not understand. I fear to answer him. And the woman of the Bedoua, she makes marks with an artist's tool, and by them her leader knows what resides in her head. We can not call these barbaric tribes. They are not inferior to us; they are only different."

"Lo, now ye it is who speaks wisdom," said Mercedi, smiling slightly. "I fear to answer."

"Nay, say not that," said Rhodan. "But I believe it wise at least to talk with these men, before ye send them on their way."

"Lo, the Raspars do not know this tradition. For generations we have remained inside these walls, safely hidden from the world."

"Lo, indeed."

"Aye, our forefathers always claimed Gryphon did bless us with the safety of these walls, alone inside, forever shielded from the wildness of the outside. How now shall Gryphon reward this breach of trust, this lack of faith?"

"Lo," said Rhodan, "Gryphon does not see us."

"Aye. Gryphon does not see us," said Mercedi.

Lo, Gryphon's Chasm

Aye, here begins the legend of the clan of the Raspars, their past and future.

Lo, when the sun first dawned upon the horizons of Medialia, and the stars glimmered in their newness and smiled upon the denizens of the world, and the planets had only just found the paths that they would take for the rest of eternity, and the shoulders of the Rivers Alluvia and Gravidas shrugged to raise the mountains and standancrags, and the winds blew the sands and seeds across the full expanse of the land, and rumidont and hippus roamed wild with no love for man nor obligation either, and the deviltooth and draughgon both abounded across the landscape, and the trees of the forests had grown to only a fraction of their height today, and the peoples of the Earth had not yet divided themselves into clans and nations, lo, the gods and spirits came together in council under the direction of The Overlord.

Aye, upon the jagged ridges of Cragmont, the tallest peak among all the highlands of the long Medialia mountain range, all the gods and spirits of the Earth gathered at the behest of The Overlord. From the pools and streams, the grasses and leaves, from the far flat dunes of the deserts to the rolling grassy meadows along the southern Alluvia, all of the gnomes, wraiths, nickels and other varieties of woodland folk hastened to the mountain. Magnificent chariots drawn by majestic birds of prey, grand ships with tall masts and billowing sails, great herds of stampeding hippus: All hastened to Cragmont, bringing their riders to confer with The Overlord.

"Lo, we have known an age when ye gods and spirits ruled the stars and waters and lands of the Earth," said The Overlord in the great meeting hall. "In days past ye sprites filled the forests, and ye merpeople skimmed the ocean's surface and sunned upon the islands. Aye, but liberty passes with the fleeting moment, and ye now are pushed from the habitats ye enjoyed in the emergent world."

Lo, The Overlord stood precariously high upon a spire erupting from the floor of the hall, black as the night itself, yet glistening before the torches. Long robes, sparkling like the galaxies, hung from his shoulders to well beyond his feet, cloaking them so that ye might believe he grew naturally from the jutting spire, though he did not. Even his long sleeves draped the sides of the fearsome rock, clothing it in his own gentleness, and the glimmering fabric swayed gently with his every movement. His long whiskers caught in his gesturing fingers and swirled about them like a fisherman's net. The great mane of wild, white curls upon his head looped away in every direction, and the light danced off the strands.

"Nay, ye will no longer rule your realms," The Overlord continued. "For man has multiplied to fill every corner of the world, and ye have no more place to lay your heads. Though ye are powerful, ye are weak in your independence from each other. Lo, in your desire for your own self-interest, ye have forgotten to be strong and know isolation's frailty. So the multitude of mankind pushes ye even to the margins of creation. Do I not watch over ye, and see the wide world, and speak truth, as ever?"

"Aye," said the assembled spirits. "Ye are our sovereign."

"Lo, shall we battle them, then, Overlord?" asked a troll eagerly.

"Nay, but ye shall not," replied The Overlord, and the troll muttered. "Ye cannot overcome the expanse of man's abundance upon the land. Ye have heard, yet ye have not listened. Ye shall defeat no enemy until ye defeat your own self-absorption. Ye each have divided to yourselves your own domains: forests for elves, mountains for dryads, streams for nymphs. Ye kelpies, ye have separated yourselves to the meadows, each to his own plot; ye daemons have laid claim each to his own stone. Not until ye have come out of hiding in each faerie habitation will ye learn true strength in the nubile world."

"Lo, then what would ye have us do, Overlord?" asked a faun.

"Nay, ye can not defend your place in the Earth. Ye will survive the onslaught of men only by joining with their numbers. Only by making league with these growing nations of humans can ye retain your very existence. Lo, I have thus called ye here — all ye phantoms, ye leprechauns, ye satyrs — I have called ye into my presence to make pact with men. I will name for each of ye a man, a man to whom ye will be bound, and ye will bless him, and he will reverence you, and in this pact ye both shall learn to rid yourselves of your sins — ye your desire to remain separate, your men their hedonist appetites."

Aye, and to each of the woodland folk did The Overlord appoint a man. And to one named Gryphon he gave the man Raspar.

"Lo, and what duty do I owe to this man Raspar?" asked Gryphon.

"Lo, ye shall be his head, and ye will offer him blessings to make him to prosper," said The Overlord.

"Aye, and what shall his duty be to me?"

"Lo, he shall reverence ye in your distance."

"Lo, distance? Am I not to show myself to this man Raspar?"

"Nay, ye shall not show yourself."

"Nay, then, this does not please me. How will the man Raspar know it is I who blesses him? How will he worship me without seeing me with his eyes?" Gryphon's anger mounted.

"Lo, reverence, not worship. For this very reason ye will not show yourself to him, for in your subtlety he would misdirect his worship. But ye will talk with him in the winds, and in the grasses, and in his mind."

"Nay, this pleases me not. I will not have it!" declared Gryphon, and at the same time grumbling arose from among the ogres, the nickels, and the minotaurs.

"Aye, but ye will have it."

"Nay, I will not, but I will show ye what I will have," said Gryphon, and he leapt upon the stone spire like a cat. With the goblins and specters rushing below, he scaled the narrow peak, muscles rippling his shoulders and back, bounding ever closer to the motionless Overlord. Below, the large and fearsome among the gods and spirits rampaged in utter chaos, while the small and timid scurried out of the hall and headed down the mountainside, seeking whatever cover the nearest hole could offer. Hand over hand Gryphon shimmied upward until he reached the gossamer hems of The Overlord's robes, which he grasped with a single claw-like hand. The Overlord remained still.

"Lo, ye overstep your bounds, Gryphon."

"Nay, but ye demand too much. I will no more be nursemaid to a man than a deviltooth preens a rumidont. These low beings will serve me, I will have worship. Ye will not deny me what I desire."

The Overlord stood utterly still, with neither objection nor struggle. In swift fashion Gryphon tied him into a tight bundle, to the point at which he could not move his arms nor his legs. Dragged from his precipice and hung by his heels at the entry of the meeting hall, The Overlord reviewed what the fearsome spirits had wrought.

"Lo, before this night is over, ye will do my bidding," he said to Gryphon.

"Nay, but I will do my own bidding, now and through the night. Then will we decide what to do with ye. Come, let us make use of the kitchens and tables!" Gryphon called the ogres and minotaurs, the gremlins and hobgoblins, to rejoin him in the hall, to the great cheers and congratulations of the mob.

Lo, the slovenly crowd laid waste to the cupboards and larders, pulling every bit of perishables out of storage and onto platters and tables and floors. Soon an abundance of breads and puddings, fruits and vegetables covered every flat surface. The gods and spirits went at the food like rooting hogs, filling their bellies and sending crumbs and scraps flying through the air. Fights broke out among trolls and nickels, arguments arose between satyrs and cyclops, and brawling spilled out from the great table into surrounding rooms. The melee rose to such a level that nobody noticed the one standing among them.

Aye, atop the rugged spire again stood the elegant figure of The Overlord. His face no longer glowed with beneficent preparations, but instead burned with defiant rage. In upraised hands he held the bonds that once held him, now turned to writhing snakes.

"Nay, enough! Ye will stand down!" he roared. The sound of his booming voice overturned chairs and left the great and fearsome of the spirits scuttling for doorways, as though an invading army had descended upon them. Immediately only Gryphon remained, unable to wrench himself from his seat at the head of the table.

"Lo, what will ye do with me? Will ye have your vengeance?" he croaked.

"Aye, well ye speak, for surely ye have so earned it. But I no longer hold judgment over ye."

"Lo, what mean ye?"

"Nay, ye no longer dwell in my province, for I have awarded ye to Raspar."

"Lo, so ye still make me to be guardian of a man?"

"Aye, and not merely guardian, but also servant, for surely ye must learn to know authority, and if not Raspar's, then mine."

"Aye, ye are my sovereign; so be it," Gryphon's words said, but his voice did not agree.

Lo, so Gryphon, alone, slid out of his chair and slinked from the room, descending the mountains and tramping across Medialia, searching out the man Raspar, alone. And he found him, sitting at the roots of a sittlebark tree.

"Lo, Raspar," he said, whispering from the leaves.

"Aye?" replied Raspar. "What voice is this? Do the birds speak to me from the treetops?"

"Lo, I am one called Gryphon."

"Lo, then show yourself, Gryphon," said Raspar, craning his neck to see the source of the voice.

"Nay, I may not."

"Lo, why is that so?"

"Lo, for I am one of the woodland folk, and The Overlord so ordains it. Even so does he send me to ye, to be guardian and benefactor to ye."

"Aye, just the kind of benefactor I would receive — afraid to show himself."

"Nay, not afraid. The Overlord so ordains it; I have no choice but to obey."

"Lo, I do not know this Overlord of yours. If ye can not show yourself to me, what can ye do to so bless me as ye claim?" Raspar challenged him.

"Lo, I will make the sun to shine upon ye, that ye might forever be tempered and browned with good health and warm fellowship," said Gryphon.

"Nay, but the sun shines upon me now, as it ever has. Why promise ye me this thing that I have always known? And what would ye require of me for this great privilege?"

"Lo, I ask that ye worship me, though ye can not see me, but still know that I do this wonder for ye, that ye might worship me," Gryphon said, quite perturbed, with the tenor of demand in his voice. Still he sought more than The Overlord had allowed him.

"Nay, this ye do not do, for the sun ever shines, as I have said. If ye desire worship, ye invisible spirit, then ye must do more than put the seal of your name upon what creation commonly provides."

"Lo, then, I will make the rivers and streams to ever flow beside ye, nurturing your families, cooling your throat and feet, filling your body with vigor and vitality."

"Nay, do not the rivers and streams flow already today, and did they not flow yesterday? This is a thing of the Earth itself, and not the goodness of any spirit who must hide among the leaves. What could ye possibly want in return for such an empty promise?"

"Lo, I seek that ye reverence me, in spite of my hiding, for I have been given guardianship over ye, to watch over your ways, and prepare the blessings of the Earth for ye."

"Nay, neither will I give ye reverence for such blessings, as ye call them. For the water flows where it will, and neither I nor ye can stop it from so doing. If I am to reverence ye, then ye must show me power worthy of such devotion."

"Lo, then, I will make the soil of the Earth to bring forth the fruits of the ground in faithfulness and abundance, so that ye and your people will be ruddy with health, strong in your coming and going, with long years added to your lives."

"Nay, do not the seeds already bring forth their leaves? And can ye even know how the clever seeds know what they are to do? Can ye explain how roots seek the soil, and branches seek the sky? Is this not the way of nature, that ye now promise to me? Do ye doubt at all in your promise? What is such an unlikely risk worth to ye, that which ye demand of me, ye doubly invisible spirit?"

"Lo, for this promise I ask of ye honor, though ye know me not, for of all the woodland folk, of all the large and fearsome, all the small and timid, the powers chose me to be guardian over ye."

"Nay, neither can I grant ye honor for making no better promises than a dead grain of wheat can give. If ye expect to earn honor from me and my people who follow me, ye will have to offer more than the produce of dirt and water."

"Lo, then, for ye I will make the air clear and fair, so that ye will never see it, even as ye shall never see me, but ye shall fill your lungs and strengthen your limbs with it to the fineness of life. Your chest will swell with the beauty of it, and your heart will beat stronger for it."

Aye, Raspar fell fully impatient now.

"Nay, nay, what is the air now if not invisible, even as ye are? What does the air do now but inflate my lungs and give strength to my muscles? What do ye promise, but what is already now and always has been? At what great price would you make this grand exchange?" Raspar asked, with sarcasm rich and copious.

"Lo, for this promise I ask only fellowship, that ye would act toward me as an equal, a friend, that I might fulfill my duty to ye as your guardian, for so has it been appointed to me by The Overlord."

"Nay, still do I not know your Overlord, and I do not know ye except that ye make promise of things I have known all my life. What friendship offers nothing but empty talk and daft passing of time? If ye will be my fellow, then ye must at least show me your face."

"Nay, I can not show myself to ye, for this too The Overlord has appointed to me."

"Lo, then, what will ye offer me?"

"Lo, I offer this carving, my likeness in fine polished stone, a stroke of artwork to keep in your habitations at all times, through all generations," and from the tops of the trees descended a beautiful statuette of multi-colored stone, ribboned with colors known only to Medialia, a perfect likeness of Gryphon.

Lo, Raspar took the heavy statue in hand and considered it at length. "Lo, is this cold artifact the only signet of the friendship ye offer? Is this token any better than a warm sun, or flowing water, or growing plants, or clear air? I reckon not." And Raspar took the figure and dashed it against the foot of a nearby standancrag, and it shattered into a thousand pieces.

Lo, Gryphon sat silently in the branches, humbled as The Overlord would never have been able to humble him. Silently he slipped away and retreated to Cragmont, and Raspar never knew.

Aye, but the sun knew, and it grew dim as a great body passed over it to darken the skies and cast a chill upon the land. And Raspar beheld it, and he raged against Gryphon, "Lo, where hide ye now, that the sun no longer shines upon me with its warmth and goodness as ye have promised me? Where have ye run, who would not show yourself? Why do ye remain quiet in this my time of need, as I beseech ye?"

Nay, Gryphon heard him not in the deep rooms of Cragmont, but the rivers and streams did hear, and they waned and trickled until they left only barren, dry beds. So Raspar beheld it, and he cried out to Gryphon, "Lo, now the streams and rivers do desert me, oh Gryphon, though ye have promised that they would flow forever across my lands. What mean ye by this, oh guardian, who have abandoned me to the dryness of my heart and soul? Where hide ye now, even in your mystery, ye Gryphon, appointed to be guardian of Raspar?"

Lo, Gryphon lay behind the stone walls of Cragmont, and knew not the cries of Raspar. But the seeds of the ground heard, within their warm beds of the Earth's soil, and they turned their heads away from his voice. Choosing death over the blessing of ingrates, the plants of the ground withered upon their stalks, their roots drawing into twisted brown tendrils in rich, black graves. And Raspar saw it, and he shook his fist into the empty air, "Lo, Gryphon, ye have betrayed me, he over whom ye have been appointed guardian, and your promise of the land's abundance has blown away with the wind! Oh, that ye merely hid in the branches of the trees, that I might make my plea into your ears! Where do ye hide now, where do ye take refuge, away from the pleadings of Raspar?"

Aye, Gryphon remained silent, and heard none of Raspar's pleadings. But the heavens all about him heard, and the very cursings he spoke clouded and choked the air, so that Raspar could barely breathe. Indeed, he fell to his knees in weakness, and in desperation, as he called out: "Aye, Gryphon, ye spoke wisdom to me, and even now do I feel the stings of your wrath. Where now is the promise of air to breathe? For ye have left me to myself and stand apart in your silence, I know not where. Live ye yet in the branches of the trees? Do ye take pleasure in seeing my despair? Why must ye remain hidden? Why did ye never show yourself to me, oh guardian?

"Lo, that I might see the carving once again, the fine countenance of your face, the noble lines of your shoulders and back! Oh, that the statuette once again lay in my hand, and I could at least gaze upon the graven image of your being! That I might know a place to direct my prayers! For neither do I see ye nor recall your appearance. Ye indeed grow cruel and hateful in your silence, and leave me to the caprice of a voracious world. I truly see ye not, and neither do ye see me."

Aye, Raspar desired the little stone image that he had shattered, but this too, like Gryphon himself, eluded his presence, even his memory. Left in his cold, dank homeland, Raspar turned bitter, hating Gryphon for his distance, and hating the possibility that he might one day appear again, at his own time, in his own way. Though the sun reappeared, and the rivers returned, and the plants relented, and the air revived, Raspar's heart grew ever harder for the sake of promises rejected, and benevolence lost.

"Lo, did ye not do my bidding?" asked The Overlord.

"Aye," said Gryphon. "In truth, ye are my sovereign."

Chapter XLIII

Of all the outsiders, the Koinoni — draped in the dark, heavy fabric of mystery — disconcerted the Raspars most. The curse of Gryphon seemed to have returned to the Eternal City's residents: The intrusion into their solitude of others even more unwilling to show themselves gave even the most skeptical Raspars a tingle at the back of their necks. At the same time, the unceasing parade of Raspar humanity threw the Koinoni into confusion; their spinning sentries could never tell who was approaching and who had passed, as the ebb and flow swirled through their minds into a tangle of pallid blurs. So the outsiders' decision to remain together in a central room, where most Raspars could avoid them, proved best for all clans. At this moment only Rhodan and Linus sat in the company of the sojourners.

"If I don't get out of these shadows and into the sun soon, I will be left looking like you," Dungo said to Theodoric. "See, the beautiful bronze has drained from Sylva's cheeks, and I daresay the raven ringlets of my head seem to fade into grayness. Ho-ho! What a grand sight the sun would be for these eyes, growing blind within the gloom of these walls. Oh, for sand to welcome the pegs of my tent! These rigid floors would never allow such beautiful intercourse; the cracks between these stones cleave so close and tight, even the spit of insult could not penetrate! Look, the floor itself rejects my rudeness! Now, the desert sands, they will drink up spittle like milk to a rumidont lamb. My desert could soak in the blasted Alluvia without a hiccup. How I miss my homeland, the ground upon which all my forefathers walked!"

"You know not of the depth you speak," said a Koinoni, probably Yarrow.

Rhodan cast a curious eye at him. "Lo, does not your voice change?"

"Shall we not reveal the Koinoni leadership at our own discretion?" Yarrow responded.

"Yes, you speak well," said Theodoric, redirecting the discussion. "We must take our leave of this place, with or without help. We must rouse Artur and not tarry. A surprise is never worse than when it is missed."

"What do you mean?" asked Geoffrey.

"The Aoten no doubt have headed back to your village," said Theodoric. "They took nothing from the fallen tower but weapons. I fear for your fortress."

"Then we must be gone!"

"Certainly, none of you wish to leave more than I," said Dungo, and he looked to Sylva. "But we first must attain provisions. We must prepare well for the journey west, for the way was rugged indeed coming here, and we have none of our own food or even shelter left to us. So we must stay at least long enough to beg for supplies. And for no reason will we abandon our friend!" Here Dungo's clicking began.

Theodoric stared at Dungo; he had expected the Bedoua vizier to be eager to quit the city, at almost any price.

"No, for certainly Artur is not only our leader, but our heart as well! Medialia can hope of no defense without him, for surely he has shown courage and wisdom beyond even his own estimation! Wisdom to listen, wisdom to lead, wisdom to follow, wisdom to act! A fighting man is a unique animal, for he must respect life as much as he is willing to sacrifice it. He must reckon his enemy as willing to shed blood as he is, and as afraid for his own, and use that ferocity and fear to sway the battle. Artur overshadows us not as a single man among us, but the heart of us all, even as Wolven is the crawling depravity in us all. Not one of us will leave Artur here, for without him Medialia is certainly doomed to be crushed under the giants' feet!"

Geoffrey looked downward, surprised and somewhat embarrassed. Though once he had called Artur the greatest of his sons, he had never heard such praise from the mouth of another. Theodoric remained silent.

"What, do you not believe I can see the world around me?" Dungo replied to this still reaction. "Am I so fat that I cannot see my feet? Perhaps I can not hide my meaning in a maze of words as you do, oh Melic king, but neither can I hide the overflow of my soul, and the inward parts of a man can divine the truth as clearly as his mind and tongue. So I have said, for the Bedoua do love easily, and wound easily, and heal slowly. And we are not a people to hide our emotions." Clicking came from his throat, and Sylva's as well, as she rocked backward and smiled reassuringly at Rhodan. The others knew the vizier had struck upon a truth they all had known yet never set their minds to.

Linus sat in consideration of the Bedoua leader, and leaned toward a corner filled with dark shadows. "Lo, ye think I talk too bloody much; here holds forth one who talks damn well more." He snapped his fingers at a Raspar passing by the door, who glanced at him and nodded before melting into the flowing current of the crowd.

"Truly, again you speak truth," said Theodoric, in a manner that was both apologetic and deferential to Dungo. "No matter the might of the trunk, a weevil at the roots can fell the tree. Your heart tells you well, and surely we will not leave without Artur. So we must find him first, then seek either audience with the regent or safe passage away."

At that moment a silhouette filled the doorway, moving stiffly under the bondage of heavy bandages. The hulking shoulders and spray of thinning hair made the figure's identity only too obvious.

"My son!" Geoffrey exulted as he leapt to his feet.

"Zootaloo!" came a chorus.

"Ah, my friend! What a blessing to behold you again!" began Dungo, the rest of his speech lost in the cacophony of greetings. All the travelers leapt to the door in welcome, as the Rufoux chief tried to acknowledge each, even each anonymous Koinoni, while painfully fending off their enthusaism.

"Thank you," he said. "Thank you. Good to see you alive. No, I've had worse. No bones broken, but my knees ache badly. Thank you. Thank you. I need to sit."

"Artur," said Theodoric simply, and grasped his arms to elicit a smiling wince.

"Aye, surely the treatment ye directed has served him well," Linus said into the shadows.

"Artur," said Theodoric, "We had begun to despair of seeing you again. Are you fit to travel? Will you be able to return to the Rufoux village?"

"I'm not sure. I can move all right, but I don't know how long I'd last on the trail. You may have to leave me behind."

"No, we will not have that. But I am certain we need to return, and soon," said Theodoric.

"Yes, the Aoten definitely returned to our forests."

"And heavily armed."

"Yes, I have thought the same. In fact, I'm surprised you haven't left already," Artur said, with a sidelong glance to Geoffrey. The old man stood defiantly.

"Ho-ho, no, sir, we will not leave without you —" began Dungo.

"Yes, as I say, we have settled that already," broke in Theodoric. "We will not leave without you. And yet as important, we must make one more attempt to speak to the Raspar regent, and secure supplies. But we must do so quickly."

"What do you mean 'settled already'? Was I consulted? Your conclusion is easily reached when the risk is not to your own people," scolded Artur. "You should have left already."

"I'm glad to see you did not break your anger bone," quipped Theodoric, looking to Artur's bandages, but his joke was lost on everyone. "Regardless, we are here, and time quickly fails us. We must make good use of it."

"Don't brush me off! As chieftain to the Rufoux, the clan's survival is all that matters to me! If you knew the Aoten planned another attack, you should have followed! How many days has your delay given them? You should never have waited for me!"

"Oh, but my friend, you are the most —" began Dungo.

"We stayed!" Geoffrey growled at Artur. "We stayed, and we will stay until you too get out of here! Then we will defend the village! Are you and I the only Rufoux? Do you think my presence in the village will make a wooden fence any stronger? Do you think you would improve our chances as a prisoner in a stone tower? Do you not think Wyllem can make Rufoux want to live? Shut up, my son, my chieftain! Shut up until you can muster right words to lead!"

"Lo, see, they do love him, just as ye said, and he bears the hellish burden of their worries," Linus murmured to the shadowy corner. "The measure of an alliance is the harsh words it can bear."

"All right, then," said Artur, shaking his shoulders. "If I'm not beaten to death by a giant, I'll have it out of your hide later, old man. What must we do, then? We must seek out this Wessex fellow, give him one more chance to join our fight, but then we must leave. We must be off with the morning. What time is it? I don't know if it's day or night."

"No longer Wessex, for the Raspar regent died in the battle, directing the defenses of the fallen tower. His daughter has taken the regency — Mercedi, and we can not see her," said Theodoric.

"Why not?"

"They do not allow," said Theodoric, looking toward Linus.

"Aye, Mercedi is regent now, at the tragic death of her father," said Linus. "Though young and without experience, she had stones to bring ye into the city. Ye are the first outsiders ever to see the inside of the city walls. Now many Raspars grumble against her and her leadership. She has taken damn great risk for your sake, and she chooses to wait before she risks more."

"I see," said Artur.

"Sir, we understand your regent's need to be cautious, but you must also see our desire for haste," said Theodoric. "The giants will turn their destruction back upon our people, and we must return. We desire your aid, the service of Raspar defenses, but if your clan will not join, then at least we must depart to rejoin the battle."

"Aye, I can assure ye that the regent will do nothing to prevent ye when ye must leave," said Linus. "Still, she must be sure she will not be overthrown by her own stinking people before she will gamble upon being overthrown by ye."

"We mean no threat, to her or your clan," said Artur. "Look, since we arrived we have done nothing to raise your suspicions. We took up your fight to repel the giants, without protection of your walls; I lay bleeding at the foot of your city. If your regent needs yet more proof that we bear no guile, then all we can show you is to leave now empty-handed."

"But the giants, they will return," added Theodoric. "Once they finish with us, they will return here."

"Yes, when we leave we will never return," said Artur. "There will be no other chance to join us, for we will either drive the giants away or lie dead on the ground trying. Either way, they will come here again one day. A show of good faith from us now, if we leave you at peace but alone, could as well leave you doomed."

"Nay, this is not a decision for me," said Linus. "Only the regent can hear it. Nay, it is not even my judgment whether she might give you blinking audience."

"I take it we will not be seeing her, then," said Artur. "Come, let us begone. Clearly we have wasted our time and blood here."

"Dear sir," Dungo pleaded. "You are a man of words, a man who knows that much can be settled with conversation. Do not let the cold belly of your castle pull a shroud over your heart; do not let the inflexible walls that surround you enclose your souls. We have risked death at the whim of the land, and the rivers, and the giants — even at your own hands did we offer our lives for the taking, because of the greatness of our quest. Medialia will lie in waste, if we do not defeat the giants! Haffa! I come from the beautiful desert sea, a harsh land you have never seen, where life dwells on a dagger's edge! Not a shrub will grow, unless it is nurtured with the most tender care! A labor of love it requires, to coax a blade of grass from the sands. But if the Aoten can wipe out the Bedoua, then without its loving husband, the desert would truly die, along with all Medialia. Surely your regent is so kind and gracious as to at least hear us? We beg for the life of our homeland!"

"Lo, I have heard," said a soft voice, and Mercedi emerged from the shadowy corner. "I have heard your words, and they ring in my ears. I will confer with ye."

Chapter XLIV

"Aye, much have I heard," continued the Raspar regent. "Ye have proven ye are not arrived within our walls for treachery. I have heard men of many words, and few words. Even the silence of the Koinoni expresses much, for they betray no interest in taking Raspar properties. Ye have shown too that ye care more for the many than for the one, for ye place the fate of all upon the fate of one. Ye have come as fellows, compatriots to a cause. And a woman among ye, no less," and she nodded toward Sylva.

The travelers listened silently as their surprise faded into wonder; and Raspars filed by, apparently neither noticing nor hearing. An awkward lull followed Mercedi's words; then finally Theodoric spoke.

"Good regent of the Raspars," he began with a bow. "I am Theodoric, king of the Melics. We come on an errand to defend our people from the giants who have invaded from the west."

"Lo, have I not heard?" said Mercedi.

"Indeed. My apologies. Though a bird flies from tree to tree, it remains the same, does it not? We all have our ways of speaking."

"Aye, and we Raspars do not much waste words."

"I have no desire to vex you. With whom would you confer, Regent Mercedi?"

"Aye, I'd best talk with one I can understand. I will confer with your leader."

The body of men parted in two as Artur slowly hauled himself back to his feet, moving like a man on very short stilts. Even to advance only a few steps, he lifted his whole side, each in turn, to raise a foot off the ground and let it swing forward like a pendulum. Grimacing and grousing, he worked his way closer to Mercedi, under the worried eyes of Theodoric, Geoffrey, Dungo – in fact, everyone. One tower was down already; the city did not need an explosion of Artur's temper.

"You know me, eh?" he grunted.

"Aye, ye have been under the care of Bryn," she replied.

"And why we're here?"

"Aye."

"How about it?"

"Lo," and Mercedi turned to Linus. "Ye see, this one does not talk too much."

She turned her attention back to Artur. "Aye, we will talk with ye about this matter. But we will not meet here. For reasons of my own, we must confer away from the crush of the people. We must find a place away from the press of the city."

"Lo, I know of a place," said Rhodan.

"Aye, indeed ye do," said Mercedi. She snapped her fingers at a Raspar passing in the hall and ordered, "Send for Vespus."

Vespus arrived in the flow of traffic, and Rhodan led the group of travelers, along with Mercedi and Linus, through the dim labyrinth of tunnels leading to the city's underbelly. Linus and Vespus looked about the strange surroundings uneasily, studying the damp walls and unfamiliar green moss. Gradually the number of milling Raspars dwindled, until Rhodan found a tunnel in which there were none. Expertly he reached into a niche in the wall and pulled out torches, and the flickering light revealed the glint of their sweat, and still-spinning Koinoni.

Mercedi drew Rhodan aside and spoke with him confidentially. In a blink he disappeared into the dark in the direction from which they had come.

"Nay, I cannot let my people know what I am about to do," began Mercedi. "Generations of Raspars have lived and died trusting in the might of their city. Never have the walls failed them, and even though one tower now lies on the ground in rubble, still they believe. It is our first law."

"You know better, do you not?" asked Geoffrey.

"Aye, when the giants tore out the first stones, I knew the lie of the walls. And when I saw ye kill the thylak against the tree, I feared. Then when ye survived our defenses, I could see our doom, if ye so chose. But ye did not attack the Eternal City."

"No," said Artur.

"Nay, and ye defended the city. So our first law, that all outsiders threaten the Eternal City, proved to be a lie as well. And as I took the crown, I knew Raspars must change to survive."

"You have reckoned well," said Theodoric. "Acorns fall early, and leaves fall late, but only one takes root and grows."

"Aye," said Mercedi, staring at him. "But Raspars still trust their walls. Therefore, to prevent the city from falling into chaos, I must tell nobody what I will do."

"And what will that be?" asked Artur.

"Lo, Rhodan even now fetches our best marksmen. I can not call for all our fighting men; otherwise the people might notice the great numbers missing. They will all come from certain families, the most celebrated in our history, the bravest and best archers. And they will leave the city with us."

"Nay, ye will not!" bellowed Vespus suddenly. He grabbed the hilt of his sword in a threatening manner and made for Mercedi.

"Lo, Vespus, ye know that I am regent. I decide what will be best for the clan. I will show favor to whom I will."

"Nay, these are outsiders that ye favor now! We should slay them now! Ye will take the Raspars' best archers and leave the city open to attack!"

"Lo, are we not open to attack already? Ye see not the end of your nose, Vespus. If ye support my judgment now, perhaps it is ye I will favor later." She moved closer to him and slid her shoulder under his arm.

"Nay! What is it —" Vespus looked confused and released his sword. Mercedi turned so that her back was to him; she reached one hand back to cradle the knap of his neck and rolled her hips into his loins.

"Lo, Vespus, surely even your one eye can see how alone I remain," Mercedi cooed, sidling intimately and bending his face closer to hers. He in turn brought his hands to her waist, as the others, with the exception of Linus, stared in disbelief. But before Vespus could move his hands around and higher, Mercedi brought the back of her head sharply against his face, breaking his nose. As he crumpled to the floor and produced a small puddle of blood, her attention returned entirely to the business at hand.

"Aye, as I say, Rhodan will bring with him a Raspar army."

Theodoric watched blankly, and stammered in reply, "Will Rhodan be returning here with the archers?"

"Aye, he will, and with them they will bring what bows we have left, and the arrows, though they be few."

"There are many more outside," said a Koinoni, probably Yarrow. "We have something of a collection that you fired at us."

"Lo, indeed," said Mercedi. "But we must give them up. Anyone of us seen outside the walls will only raise suspicion."

"So you wish to leave the city in secret?" asked Theodoric.

"Aye, I will survive no other way," said Mercedi. "If we leave to fight the giants at the Rufoux village, I will either return with nobody knowing, or I will be dead. As ye have said, either we succeed or the Eternal City dies. In the meantime, the Raspars need not know."

"A problem remains, lady," said Theodoric. "There is no exit for an army to leave the city without notice. How will your men escape without being seen?"

"Nay, exits run all about the city, tunnels that spread underground just where we are now. But they empty out onto the land too close to the Eternal City. Our sentries would surely see us."

"Your man Hadrian is an excellent eye."

"Aye, that he does, the coward. It presents a problem for us. We will mull upon it."

Minutes or perhaps days passed – the gloaming darkness made it impossible to tell – and Mercedi quietly chatted with Linus, but nothing came of it. Vespus sat cowed against the wall. Faintly the clattering of a multitude of footsteps rang in the distance. Rhodan brought out the Raspar army from the shadows. Row after row, with bows perched on one shoulder and knapsacks filled with supplies on the other, quivers hanging alongside their tool belts, the men of the families of the Raspars, their captains and soldiers, stretched well back into the black hall.

"Lo, men of war, I am your regent, Mercedi."

"Aye!" returned a chorus.

"Aye. I ask ye to brave dangers no Raspar has faced in generations."

"Aye."

"Aye. I ask ye to go places ye have never seen before. Places well beyond Raspar walls."

"Aye." The voices were scattered.

"Aye, but ye will not leave the Eternal City. For though ye will be outside the walls, your hearts will remain here, with the hearts of your people, in the defense of your people! It is our first law!"

"Aye!" said the men, again with some strength, exhibiting years of Raspar discipline.

"Lo, ye will follow the Zardracon! It is our first law!"

"Aye!"

"One more thing, Miss Regent, before we go?" inquired Artur.

"Aye?"

"I will require Kylie back."

"Lo?"

"My sword."

Rhodan emerged from the lines of archers, bearing the Rufoux blade, secured in her scabbard, still attached to Artur's leather belt.

"Lo, Rhodan," said Mercedi. "Do ye know a way to secretly leave the city?"

"Aye, I know these tunnels as well as my fingers, in light and dark, and many open up in grottos outside the Eternal City."

"Aye, but do any caves open distant enough for us to emerge without notice?"

"Lo, many tunnels extend far enough, but I know not where they exit."

At this moment Sylva took Dungo by the sleeve and drew him toward the wall that Rhodan had shown her. There on the surface was the mysterious fresco of the tunnel and the water. Dungo studied it quickly, and as Sylva drew in the air with her finger, a surprised look came over his face.

"Haffa! The rocky soil, the grand trees — you are right! That picture looks like the River Gravidas!" he exclaimed.

"Lo, is there really a river on the outside?" said Rhodan. "So what I have believed is true!" and he turned to Mercedi. "Lo, this drawing shows the tunnel that reaches toward the setting sun! Look, the ancients say it goes directly under the river our legends speak of!"

"That would get us out of the city," said Artur. "And spare us much of the hardest hiking of our journey."

"Lo, Rhodan, are ye confident?" Mercedi made sure, then to the travelers, "Aye, then, we are one now. Your traveling band has grown, for the Raspar archers now leave the safe comfort of their city, such as it is, and throw their lot with ye. And so do I. For better or for worse, ye have drawn the Raspars out of their captivity, into the wild world, where the danger is not less nor worse, only different. All here will accompany ye — all of us, including ye!" she said with flair, and she reached into a black corner and violently jerked Severus out into the light.

"Lo, I will kill ye!" he seethed. "Ye would give away all the Eternal City's secrets!"

"Aye, ye may kill me," Mercedi said as she pushed him into the grip of the travelers. "But not today."

Chapter XLV

For each man a candle, for each face a flame, the traveling party followed Rhodan through a twisting route of murky passageways. Mercedi walked at his side, followed by Artur and Geoffrey; Linus and Vespus took positions with the archers, whom they joined to keep Severus under guard. The narrow tunnels forced the travelers into contortions, at times swiveling their shoulders, then bowing their backs, stooping and crawling. Many a time did Dungo become wedged fast, and Artur's knees complained sorely at the long abuse. Huge spiders dangled tantalizingly from their webs, awaiting a victim for their fey silk to entangle. Bats clung to the stone ceiling, swinging slightly before flitting in a panic to each new inverted perch. As intractable as Raspars, these native denizens complained mightily at each new disturbance, and still the travelers moved on. Gradually the etchings on the walls thinned and disappeared, then the cut stones at their feet gave way to poorly matched rocks, then finally changed to earth, roots and ancient history.

The clay and sludge of their surroundings soon revealed a house of horrors, illuminated by the tiny candle flames sputtering and flaring in small pockets of gas, earthy burps from the planet's entrails. Sudden flashes gave fleeting display of human bones, many broken and crushed as if in tremendous battle. Skeletal remains of fantastic monsters flickered into view, bizarre sculptures no man could ever have imagined; beasts such as populate nightmares, with dreadful pikes and plates upon them, performed a macabre kabuki of death within the earthen walls, dancing shadows giving them new life. A stray, careless glance, a flash of light, and a man might look into the face of a human skull, peering back with loamy eyes, animate with millipedes and nematodes.

The going grew loathsome and tedious. Quickly mud caked the travelers' feet and leggings, forcing frequent pauses to scrape shoes clean. The damp of the passageway's walls evolved into visible trickles of water. A constant drip developed and grew so loud, it could be heard over the men's slogging footsteps.

"Are you sure of this tunnel?" asked Artur.

"Nay, of course not," Rhodan replied. The Raspars, each and every one, held not the least concern about the confining tunnel. Living all their lives in tight quarters, the pressing walls and low ceiling seemed not much different from their city.

"What man would have thought of digging such a burrow?" Artur asked nobody.

"The world conceals its new wonders even in its underbelly," said Theodoric.

On they crept, the drip-drip-drip counting off the seconds, the trickles ever increasing. Now the line had to march fully single file, with heads bent low and arms held tightly against bodies. Artur could do no better than drag his feet along, dredging clods of mud upon his toes and leaving trenches filled with water behind. Koinoni battled their urge to spin, hopeless indeed. At first too subtle to notice, then suddenly insistent, the dripping sound gave way to a roar, a growling wail that built until it seemed to engulf them just as the passageway did. The rushing tumult made the very muck they stood in tremble.

"Lo, what is that?" asked Mercedi.

"The river! The Gravidas!" exulted Dungo, crammed into the tunnel like milk in a skin, his elegant woven robes now the simple plain brown of mud.

"We're under the river?" exclaimed Geoffrey.

"Let's not stop and find out," said Artur, thin streams of muddy water splattering off his head. "This will never catch on."

"Yes, let us move on," said Theodoric nervously, now walking several men back, ahead of only the Koinoni and Raspar archers. "We can take a break when everyone arrives on the far side of the river." Then to himself, "Truly a bird was never meant to live like a mole."

The candles struggled to stay lit, as water and the thick air fiendishly conspired to snuff their flames, and the travelers' every footstep produced a comical sound in the sucking mud. Odd amphibians appeared out of the slime at each footfall to hop or slither for cover, this perhaps the first time they had ever been disturbed. The treacherous ground toyed with footholds, and any man who went down invited trampling as he labored to regain his feet ahead of the marching soldiers. The going slowed so in the heavy mire, Artur began to despair of ever stretching his limbs again; he had to lift his bandaged legs with his arms at each new step. The sound of the rushing river blasted in their ears. Dungo muttered under his breath about the "cursed Alluvia," though that river yet flowed many groonits away. Still on and on they walked, inching along in their underground escape.

At last the pouring of the water overhead began to diminish, the racket of the current declined to a whisper, and the ground underfoot became more stable. The soil turned rocky in composition, which made walking easier, but along with the dampness from overhead now came sifting gravel and sand. The travelers imagined that collapse could turn the tunnel into a long grave. On they trudged, on and on; the fit people of Medialia did not tire easily, and they bore under the burden of the long trek well. But for the infirm, and the corpulent, the ordeal took its toll.

"Haffa! To feel the sun again," said Dungo, who all along had continued a monologue that nobody could hear. "My feet! My feet, they will never forgive me."

"We must stop," said Artur. "Though the danger threatens as much here, I must stop a moment."

"Aye, it is well enough," said Mercedi.

"I'm sorry," said Artur, glancing up at Geoffrey. His breathing heaved, his head swam, and he tenderly massaged his injured knees.

"For what?" Geoffrey returned. "Does it make a difference to me? Perhaps I will finally meet my end. If this spot knows that secret, then I'm only too happy to stop. We'll move along in time."

"I'm not sure I'll make it."

"You've got more reason to make it than you think."

"Lo, how much longer?" Mercedi asked Rhodan.

"Lo, I know not. Ye know I have never traveled this tunnel. I know nothing of the Gravidas, nor this far side of it."

The passage remained narrow, so cramped that Mercedi could not consult with the captains of her archers. Neither could she keep an eye on her subjects.

"Lo, we must kill her," Severus hissed at Vespus.

"Nay, ye do not learn, do ye? Do ye think to make allies of us?" Vespus growled back at him.

"Aye, ye will see what must be done for the Raspars. She will cause our end, the end of the clan. We must kill her!"

"Lo, ye are a murderous one, willing to violate even the first law of the Raspars," said Linus. "I will have no part of ye."

"Aye, ye will become one with me!" screamed Severus. With nobody to give them orders, the archers sat by silently, not seeing nor hearing.

"Lo, though ye left me with one eye, I see ye too well, and ye will not have your way," said Vespus, snarling like a rabid dog.

"Aye, indeed, ye will see your own end. Ye will see your own death in your depraved conspiracies," said Linus, and he took hold of his collar. "No longer will we cover up your crimes."

"Lo, I will kill ye," Severus vowed deep in his throat.

Artur strained to peer down the tunnel, frustrated as he sought a hint of light. Did the ground above see day or night? None of them could tell. Most of the company's candles had burned to stubs. Artur had no mind to be trapped underground with no means to light the way out.

"Come on," he groaned at Geoffrey, lurching to his feet. "I'm ready. Let's get going."

The others around him mustered themselves, and slowly the train began to move forward again. Artur trudged along again behind Mercedi and Rhodan. The way seemed endless. He grimaced under the pain of his legs, and wondered what the temperature was. The dampness on his forehead returned, though almost no dripping came from above anymore. Artur forgot where he was. He saw the dimly lit walls of the tunnel surge toward him, and then away again, and the light of his candle grew into a great flame, then a fiery ball like the sun. Then he saw nothing.

"Haffa!" cried Dungo.

"Theodoric!" called out Geoffrey, and the Melic king peered over shoulders to see Artur lying face down.

"He needs fresh air, and we must tend his wounds," he said. "Franken, how can we carry him? We must reach the outside."

"I can not see well enough here to do much," he replied. "But take off your coat and we'll see what we make."

Franken took the two Melics' coats, buttoned closed, and two Raspar bows. Removing the strings, he inserted the bows into the coats, along the sides, to make a stretcher. The strong vine-woven fabric held Artur well, and the bows' curve created a pocket for him, but carrying his bulk proved difficult. Geoffrey held up one end easily, and two of the strongest Raspar archers tried to take up the other end. This arrangement proved impossible in the close quarters, and finally one Raspar slipped in under the litter and supported it upon his back, crawling on all fours as best as he could.

"Lo, this is intolerable," said Mercedi.

"There will be no remedy until we reach the outside, and yet that too is the remedy," said Theodoric. "The sun struggles through the night, but when morning dawns, it is warm again."

"Aye. Indeed."

Rhodan led the group on as the litter-bearers strained and the dusty shower continued to fall upon their heads. Many times Artur went into convulsive coughing after breathing in the grit, until Mercedi draped a cloth over his face. The rocky terrain gave way slowly to more agreeable soil, but still the troupe had to stop often to relieve whichever Raspar braced the stretcher. As well they often shared a bite to eat to keep up their strength; still, exhaustion was overtaking them all. The candles dwindled to only a few, spaced out along the long line of travelers, and light became the most coveted commodity of all.

"Lo!" cried Rhodan.

"Aye?"

"Lo, a glimmer ahead! Light before us!" and Rhodan pointed to a speck of pinkish gold ahead of them.

As quickly as he could in his stooped position, Rhodan loped toward the speck. Mercedi followed, and Geoffrey struggled with the pallet carrying Artur. The crush of anxious men behind them made their position yet more difficult and desperate. They felt an obvious incline underfoot, as the tunnel gradually made for the Earth's surface. Geoffrey saw Rhodan and Mercedi slip through the opening, hidden under a heavy thatch of grasses, but he could tell it would accommodate neither him nor Artur, much less Dungo. He set down the stretcher and squeezed in close to the opening, then with a bellow pushed with his shoulders against the ground above him. Clenching fists and teeth, emitting unlikely noises from either end, his legs and back strained against Mother Earth until she suddenly gave way, and his head and upper body popped out into the open air.

There before his eyes, high upon a bluff eerily lit in the distance by the setting sun, Geoffrey spied the ruins of a wooden stockade; then he fell in exhaustion.

Chapter XLVI

The tall grass and waving flowers of the fields, adjacent to the eastern bank of the River Alluvia, welcomed the weary travelers as they spilled out of their subterranean womb. Sprawled upon the ground, each man and woman found sleep awaiting like a circling vulture. They had no idea their march had taken more than two days straight. Not until the last man broke out did Theodoric realize there had been hundreds of Raspar archers following them; Franken took note that each individual looked like a Koinoni, such was their mud covering. But soon slumber overtook even the Melics, even without tree limbs to nestle upon, even without complaint nor worry. Only the disciplined Koinoni stayed awake, two of the six, keeping watch until their share of time was spent.

Artur, flat on his back on the makeshift stretcher, awoke first, coming out of his faint at the rising sun, or perhaps the whirring hummingbird. He imagined he had died, awakening once again to a world with open spaces and open skies. The best he could manage at first was to lay inert and rejoice, until finally the temptation to turn his head became too great. Seeing the Raspars scattered all around, still sound asleep, told him he remained in the same old world, but at least his place in it had improved. He struggled to get to his feet, more stiff than before, finally growing so frustrated that he took hold of Kylie and slit his bandages open.

As he tried to stretch the kinks from his back, he caught sight of the current shift of Koinoni sentries, spinning slowly like leaves on water, too weak to lift feet, arms or heads. They looked almost like unfinished pottery, pirouetting upon the wheel, their robes hanging heavily with mud. He slowly made his way toward them.

"Hey you! What's your name?" he called.

"Zootaloo, Artur! I am called Jaipoo," the Koinoni replied.

"How long have we slept?"

"Two shifts of four hours, a third of nearly three. Soon we will have our turn to sleep again."

"Sorry, Jaipoo, but I think we'd better get everyone up. Where is Yarrow?"

As they turned toward Yarrow's sleeping form, Artur caught sight of the stockade in the distance. The vision stopped him dead in his tracks; he set his eyes and caught a sudden breath. "Mog's goblins!" Though quite far away, he could see the logs of the fence stood askew, sticking out in all directions; some lay flat on the ground. Several appeared to be split in two, and a number of huts clearly sat in shambles. A thin plume of smoke trailed into the air. Forgetting Yarrow, Artur hobbled quickly to where Geoffrey lay and kicked him roughly in the side.

"Up! Get up! We must be off! Everyone up!" Geoffrey awoke with a snort and nearly leapt at his son's throat, until the familiar scraggly face caught his eye and brought a grin. A quick gesture directed his attention to the stockade, off to the southwest, and he started at the sudden memory of the destruction. Artur made his rounds through the camp and spared nobody his rudeness, planting his foot solidly in the ribs of everyone he could reach.

"Haffa! What is this? And just as I was getting reacquainted with my Moss and Skree! Oh, good dreams seem so distant to me now," blathered Dungo. Each sleeping man came to his senses with much difficulty and cursing, rolling over against the sun and noise until Artur's insistence prevailed. Even Mercedi he kicked in her svelte buttocks. As the Raspars awoke, they stared about at the lands and sky, the vast openness that surrounded them, and instinctively huddled around each other.

"Up! Up, everyone! We have another day's march!" Artur ordered, and quickly the other leaders joined him. "Another day, and then you sleep! For now we must march!"

"Lo, that is your village?" asked Mercedi. "It is no stone city."

"Yes," Geoffrey replied gruffly.

"Aye, then ye judged rightly. The giants have been there."

"Yes, though not much may remain. Artur was right, I should have been here. We must take on a forced march. Are your men able to resume?"

"Aye, they should be glad to do so. This is strange land to Raspars indeed; the wide land frightens even me, I must admit. My men will be glad to find an enclosure again."

"What's left of it," said Geoffrey.

With the crest of the flood long past, the land offered much easier travel than before, but still many areas lay submerged; planting time was perhaps still a month away. With no other way to cross the Alluvia, the Koinoni and Rufoux split off to find the boat they had left moored; the rest made a direct path for the village, led by Theodoric. After finding the small vessel, the first group would sail to the village and send the other boats to ferry the remaining people across. But none could tell how far north the tunnel had spit them out, so Artur could only guess at the course to plot for the boat. He chose due west.

"You have been very quiet this journey. You have been helpful," Artur said to Yarrow on the way.

"We may yet require something," he replied.

"You have earned it," said Artur.

"The damage to the village is staggering," said Geoffrey. "We must prepare our minds for what we may see, and what we must do."

"I just hope Wyllem has survived. He will have an idea what should come next. For myself, I don't trust my instincts anymore."

"What do your instincts tell you, that you don't trust?"

"They tell me many are dead, Rufoux and Melics as well. They tell me the grain is gone. They tell me with nothing to plant, the Rufoux starve. They tell me the forests go down next, for the fruit of the trees." Artur stopped and exhaled loudly. "They tell me I marry Andreia. Somehow."

"So you hope for more than just Wyllem," said Geoffrey. "We'll see."

Noon passed and the sun began its arch downward, and the small party reached the river. Yarrow and the Koinoni marched into the water, rinsing as much mud from the fabric of their robes as they could. Artur and Geoffrey gratefully sat on the bank, and Artur used his helmet to dip the cool balm onto his knees. As far as the depth would let them, the Koinoni walked through the current, until one cried out and pointed south: He had spotted the boat. A walk of perhaps another hour, and they would reach it.

The walk became more of a jog as Artur and Geoffrey could practically taste home, and the Koinoni as well longed for their familiar boats. Soon they climbed aboard, poling easily with the current of the Alluvia, bearing ever closer to the Rufoux village. To their left they could see the group they had left behind, still some groonits from the river. Before them lay the village, and on the bank of the river, Osewold. With a start he leapt to his feet and ran to the stockade.

Two ragged Rufoux and a half-dozen distrusted Koinoni landed at the foot of the bluff to greetings suitable for returning war heroes. The cheers mixed with sobs as stories of the attack fell upon their ears, the remains of the funeral pyres revealed, the reconstruction undertaken, the wounded visited. Artur found Arielle, who assured him Wyllem suffered badly but survived. Aachen, returned from his Bedoua mission, found Artur, and immediately rubbed a poultice of mustard upon his legs, as Humus had once instructed him. And as his eyes darted about, Artur finally spied Andreia, and a second time he slipped his arm around her, but this time to hold and hug, and she buried her face in her hands and wept.

Yarrow sent his boats across the river to wait upon the returning friends, and the troops of soldiers arriving across the vast prairie.

"Have you brought anyone back with you?" asked Wyllem, once Artur had a chance to see the injured. He lay upon the ground, his upper body propped up.

"Let me ask the questions this time. Are you well?"

"No, I am not well. I wouldn't be lying here if I was well. But I'll be up soon."

"What happened?"

"The giants returned, three days ago. We had everyone back in the stockade, as well as the Melics who helped repair and strengthen the walls. The giants came upon us like before, with more of these odd arrows." Wyllem gestured toward a great pile of the missiles lining a far wall.

"You don't know what a wise thing you've done by collecting those," said Artur.

"Why?"

"Still not your turn to ask questions. What happened to the wall?"

"The Aoten saw the arrows counted for nothing, so they fell upon the walls again with all their weight. And they carried great stones with them, high over their heads, pounding and pounding upon the timbers. We leaned upon the walls with all our might, but we could not keep them out. The stockade splintered, and the giants poured into the village. Then, just like before, six men attacked each giant, but gained no advantage. Koinoni used slings to pelt the giants from their boats, to no avail. Melics slung their axes like madmen, and it meant nothing to the Aoten. They tore the buildings apart, they tore men and women apart, it meant nothing to them. I was thrown onto the spikes of the wall, where I hung like a rumidont pelt. There I called for Osewold to lead a retreat, and watched as the clan ran like dogs and the Aoten laid waste to the village."

"Then what I feared most has happened," and Artur slumped into dejection.

"What?"

"The grain is gone."

"The grain?" said Wyllem. "The grain is in Melic trees. Pepin had a dream."

Chapter XLVII

A day of quietly ferrying Raspar archers, followed by much-needed rest, passed into history. The sun and the moon reckoned the time as though the world were unchanged, and the sediment of Medialia found its bed within the fibers of the Bedouas' Rumidont-felt robes. Cured in the dry heat of the desert, the wool did not take well to the defilement nor the cleansing that followed. A thorough washing in the pure river water shrank the raiment of Dungo and Sylva to several sizes too small.

"Cursed Alluvia!" blustered Dungo.

The clans arranged new clothing for them, Sylva fitting well into the flora-woven clothing of the Melic women. Only one item could cover the fullness of Dungo's girth, however: a Koinoni robe, and a large one at that. So the plain, rough gown draped his ample frame, and he made arrangements to return to the Bedoua tent city: Yarrow and a fresh group of attending Koinoni would take the two upriver on their boats, then accompany them into the sands. In short time, Dungo promised, a full battalion of Bedoua warriors would return.

"Ho-ho! This will so surprise Ingle, and Mer. Mistral will not care, but Krait will be beside himself!" Dungo clicked enthusiastically. "I will approach the camp completely hidden under my hood. Surely much dismay will come at seeing a group of Koinoni approaching the camp! Yes, dear, and a lone Melic. But no Bedoua! No — ho-ho! No Bedoua at all! Mer will not know what to do, if he is away from the flocks and standing guard. We will stride up to them, bold and sassy, and just as they stop us in the name of the grand Dungo, I will reveal my face! Oh, the rejoicing at the glad surprise! And the wonderful celebrating at their beloved vizier's return! The deserts will ring with merriment, for days and nights until the moon grows full! Oh, I can not wait to return, for the grand reception of that most traveled and courageous of the Bedoua, Dungo! Yes, and you too, my dear Sylva! Say, this cloak is heavy."

"We have a problem," said Yarrow. "For the floodwaters of the Alluvia have subsided, and only our smallest boat can navigate very far north. The river level will only decrease from here on. Even still we will not reach the river's source. Our large vessels will be of no use bringing back a Bedoua army."

"Can they not walk?" asked Wyllem, stiffly sitting next to an equally sore Artur.

"To walk would take much longer. When the Aoten see the walls under repair, they will come raiding again. We must act quickly," Artur said. "So we'd best postpone the parties for now."

"Oh, now, my good friend..." began Dungo.

"I'm afraid he is right," interrupted Theodoric. "And Yarrow is right as well. You will not have sufficient water to float all the way up the Alluvia; the time you spend walking to your desert camp will be delay enough."

"But why the rush? Did not the giants find nothing in your village?" asked Dungo.

"Yes, true. Our grain is safe for now in the tree village of the Melics," said Artur. "But we even now rebuild the storehouse and stockade to safely store it upon Rufoux land again."

"But as you say, the rebuilding will only bring the Aoten down upon you again," said the Bedoua vizier, smug in his logic.

"Dungo speaks correctly," said Theodoric. "The new stockade will make them believe the grain remains here, and they will attack here again. And we want just that."

"What?" asked Dungo, astonished.

"I'm not sure I would say I want that," said Artur, surly.

"Do you say we should guard the grain, or no?" asked Wyllem.

"A finger pointed away from the target can do as much damage as an arrow pointed at it," said Theodoric. "Your grain will remain safe in our trees, if you leave it there."

"The grain belongs to the Rufoux, the fruit of Rufoux labor, and the food of our future," steamed Artur. "We will not give it to you nor anyone!"

"It will remain yours for as long as your clan lives, Artur, buried in the ground each year only to rise again and bear new children. But listen to me now. The Aoten have no idea where the grain is now, but when we rebuild the stockade, they will think we have moved it here."

"Yes, I know that, and they will be right. What's your point?"

"The Aoten know grain was here. They know they didn't find it. They will attack again; that is hardly the question. But we can decide where the attack will come."

"Do you want the Aoten to be right about the grain, or wrong, when they come down upon us again?" broke in Wyllem, looking to Artur.

"I don't know," Artur replied, truly unsure, but he at least could tell now that Wyllem had taken up Theodoric's side.

"Let them attack," said Theodoric. "Let them come into the teeth of our defenses, with full armies of all the clans of Medialia. Let them knock down the walls again if they can. But even if they do, let them still not find your grain. Let it lie safe in the trees, far from their invasion."

"So the new stockade is only a decoy?" asked Artur.

"Brilliant!" said Dungo earnestly, speaking well of Theodoric's strategy, sounding only a little sarcastic about Artur.

"We must continue to rebuild. With Melic woodsmen, and Raspar artisans as well, the stockade will be stronger, and our defenses will mount up stronger yet," said Theodoric, looking to Mercedi.

"Lo, we will see to your fortress," she replied. "Rhodan can design walls like those drawn in the city catacombs. Ye must follow our direction, if ye will use Raspar archers."

"We will do as best we can," Theodoric deferred. "Yes?" and he looked to the other clan leaders.

Even Artur gave reluctant consent, raising a hand and looking askance.

"So what about bringing back the Bedoua?" asked Wyllem.

"Yes, we still must solve our problem," said Yarrow.

Theodoric turned to Franken. "I hate to lose your axe for the stockade, but you'd best accompany the Bedoua. Try to come up with an idea. A drop of dew can feed a forest or rot a flower, depending on where it falls."

"I will make it my task to bring back all the men," said Franken in rhythm.

So the little group set off upon the waters of the Alluvia, crowded onto the small boat, again six Koinoni poling against the current, Dungo, Sylva and Franken. As the vessel drifted around a bend and out of sight, Artur turned his attention back to the fortress, the damaged wood only just beginning to be cleared away. His eyes fell upon Mercedi, standing with the rest of the Raspars and staring at him expectantly.

"Halt work! Halt your work. Mog's goblins, now we've got to let someone else tell us what to do!" he sputtered.

"Lo, I know nothing about building with trees," Rhodan began.

"Well, that's a good start," groused Artur.

"Nay, that would be a bad start," said Mercedi without understanding.

"Forget it."

"Lo, your main construction should be just as before, but we must have some way for Raspar archers to fire from on high," Rhodan continued. For lack of a stone to scratch upon, he drew in the dirt. "We must build a wall walk, near the top of the fence, to form what is called a parapet."

"Really?" said Artur, not amused.

"Aye. Then we can fire upon the giants below as they approach the wall."

"Just as you shot at us outside your city," added Theodoric, hoping to help Artur understand.

"Oh, yes, because that really worked well for you," said the Rufoux chieftain.

"Lo, ye had protection under the trees. The giants will have no protection," Mercedi said defiantly.

"Nay, he does not understand! He is too stupid!" barked Severus, standing among the archers, who milled about and appeared to pay no attention.

"Lo, ye will not speak here! It is our first law!" ordered Mercedi.

"Aye, were we in the Eternal City — but we are not in the city! The laws of the city do not govern the land of the idiot Rufoux!"

"Lo, quiet! I am still your regent, and I say quiet!"

"Nay, he will not understand. The mighty Rufoux, too thick to build a fort!" grumbled Severus.

"I am chieftain here in Rufoux nation," snapped Artur. "If you refuse to obey your regent, I can see you obey me."

"Lo, ye would kill me, no doubt. Ye, who have dragged me away from my homeland and leave me now defenseless, would now kill me and bury me in strange soil. What a mighty man ye are!"

"Shut up! Get him out of here," Artur said under his breath, and after a nod from Mercedi two archers dragged the muttering Severus away. "What do we need to build?"

"Allow me to talk to Rhodan," said Theodoric. "My axmen will prepare most of the materials anyway, so let me understand his design."

"Fine!" said Artur, and he stalked away, stiffly, in the direction opposite of Severus; "Lo, towers should brace every corner..." Rhodan's voice faded into the background. Wyllem fell behind, ready to rejoin the service of his chieftain, his spear waggling back and forth on his back, though both walked with a comically stiff gait. Artur did not know where he wanted to go, but he desired the Rufoux land, not the strange looks and ideas of these foreigners within his territory. Aware that Wyllem followed, still he gave him no notice. He wanted solitude, he wanted quiet, he wanted the world to return to what he had taken for granted only a few months before. He found his way into the forest.

"Well," he said absent-mindedly after an hour or so. "What was the talk while we traveled far and wide?"

"Giants, mostly," said Wyllem. "Whether to trust the Koinoni, whether to trust the Melics."

"You took a risk there, moving the grain because of a dream."

"Yes, but what was I to do, with you and Geoffrey both gone? Arielle told me to do so."

"Andreia told you?"

"Arielle."

"Yes, right. What did Andreia say?"

"She said nothing," said Wyllem in a perplexed tone.

"You should listen to what she says."

"Arielle? I do; what choice do I have?"

"No, Andreia."

"Oh. Yes." Wyllem fell quiet as he studied Artur. "Perhaps I should." And he joined Artur in random thoughts of times past and a time perhaps future.

Chapter XLVIII

Once more trees fell and rose again, stripped of branches but brandishing instead an awful tooth at the end, and the stockade surrounding the Rufoux village resurrected. As the days passed, the clans restored walls, raised towers and attached a catwalk to the inside, some five kronyn from the top. The lumber, hewn with Melic efficiency, underwent expert shaping by Raspar tools designed for working with stone but sufficient nonetheless. No longer leather bonds but bronze straps secured the new fence, as Jakke labored at his forge. No gate interrupted the walls, but several ladders stood ready for lowering to the outside. The massive amount of laborers made the work progress quickly, although even after several days some still remained. Osewold took a position in the one forward tower completed, its height rivaling the forests that gave it birth, and so he it was who called the alarm of an approach upon the River Alluvia.

The clansmen outside the stockade gathered atop the bluff while the remainder scurried to see over the rim of the walls. Upon the gentle flowing of the river came a single Koinoni ship, carrying a large, familiar Bedoua form, once again decked out in the traditional, ceremonial garments of his clan, surrounded by dozens of baskets and parcels. Along with him stood a green figure with one arm clearly larger than the other, an axe strapped to his back. Behind came a huge flotilla of giant logs, every one with most of the inside pulp carved away and long poles sticking out, one from each side, at a backward angle. Within each log sat as many Bedoua as would fit, long pikes sticking straight up, working curved sections of thin bark as paddles.

"Zootaloo!" said a Koinoni, probably Yarrow.

"Ho-ho! You see, I have conquered the cursed Alluvia!" began Dungo, before he had even reached shore, the clicking from the canoes sounding like a plague of insects. "Now that this wretched stream knows its master, what hope do the Aoten have? Haaa! You see, we Bedoua return to join battle, to avenge the blood of Humus, to protect the lands of Medialia! Our lances reach long, and their points deadly sharp, and our aim as well! We will take a lesson to those giants, and they will learn to stay clear of Medialia, and of the Bedoua. Ho-ho! What say you, Artur of the Rufoux? What say you, Theodoric?"

"Good to see you returned," said Theodoric, taking Dungo's hand. "And to see your men with you is most welcome. Though a thousand flies die, their stings still can bring down the therium."

"Yes, welcome again to my lands," said Artur. "Though I'm beginning to wonder where we're going to put everyone."

"Lo, this fat toad will cause the death of us all," Severus muttered at Vespus.

The clansmen dragged all the dugout boats ashore with much difficulty, the desert Bedoua making at best clumsy sailors; among the debarking men were Krait, Mistral and Ingle. Sylva had also returned, and when her bare feet again touched the riverbank she immediately sought out Rhodan. The supplies came off the Koinoni boat and, with much fussing from Dungo, were carefully lifted into the stockade. "Much we have to talk about," said Dungo, clicking. "I think you will be pleased, every one. We now all come together, all five clans of Medialia, gathered in one place with one purpose in mind. Never has hand joined hand in such a way, that different clans might cooperate together in peace, for the greater good of all. Ho-ha! This historic alliance can not pass without great festivity and ceremony, to enlarge its remembrance for generations."

Dungo gestured Mercedi to approach, grasped the hands of Theodoric and Artur, and drew all closer to Yarrow. "I have brought gifts for all, wonderful gestures of peace and treaty, treasures to make prosperous your futures and add years of joy and comfort to your lives. Let us all meet at table, take bread and drink to one another, and exchange tokens of love and gratitude to each and every one, as memorials of our devotion and sacrifice, one clan for another!"

"Four for four? That is only even," said a Koinoni, probably Yarrow.

Not hearing, Dungo continued. "See, I have brought great quantities of cheese and butter, and flagons of rumidont milk for all. Might there be some of that bee-milk among us?" he entreated, leaning into Theodoric.

"Yes," said Theodoric with a patient smile. "I think we can find some honey."

"Grand! Then all is well," Dungo clicked. "We must gather in your finest building, Artur of the Rufoux. We must seal our new understandings of each other, our new prospects for the lands of Medialia, and make provision for a long and fruitful future together! Ha-ha! Much will be written of us in the millennia to come, for Sylva already has begun to commit to parchment and paper the wonderful adventures and accomplishments we have already won for mankind! The children of men will eternally glorify us in their memories, and in the tales they tell around their campfires. Let us make this pact among ourselves and all our descendants and mark it with precious and beautiful artifacts that our children's generations will treasure always!"

And so all agreed that each clan would send ministers to ceremony that night, in the only-partially repaired common building, bearing gifts for each of the other clans. As the sun dipped into dusk, Artur, Dungo, Theodoric, Mercedi and Yarrow gathered around the fire pit. Rufoux men and women lined one side of the structure, and Raspar archers, desiring as close quarters as they could find, lined the other. Upon the bare rafters above, not being covered with animal skins yet and still open to the skies, sat dozens of Melics, as happy as if they perched in the trees. Outside the walls around the open end of the great longhouse sat the Bedoua, content as well to be under the stars. Yarrow knelt along with five other Koinoni around him, all facing out like spokes on a wheel.

"Lo, this house is no better than living under a net," said Severus. "No self-respecting Raspar should be seen in such a hut."

"Aye, then, off with ye!" ordered Mercedi, and a couple of archers noisily dragged Severus out.

"Lo, I will kill ye for this humiliation!" he yelled.

"Friends," said Geoffrey. "As elder of the Rufoux, I welcome all to this conclave of the clans of Medialia. We begin our alliance against the fearsome Aoten — an alliance that will surely see much violence visited upon us — with tokens of peace exchanged among ourselves. First, to welcome you all to the Rufoux homeland, Artur, chieftain of the Rufoux, will offer our gifts and offerings."

Artur stood, and along with three others produced a set of brightly polished ceremonial helmets, of the same type usually made of leather, but these of burnished bronze. Rufoux metalwork at its finest, settings of smooth and colorful stones lined each brim, and delicate etchings pictured characteristic elements of each clans' existence: a Koinoni boat, a rumidont, a musical instrument, a sword, a chisel and hammer. A low humming, all in unison, arose from the Rufoux attendants as the gifts passed to each clan's chief, slowly joined by the rich harmonies of the Melics above.

"You still have to tell me how you do that," Artur said to Theodoric as he presented his helmet.

Yarrow stood next, along with the other Koinoni. They all began to spin in place, so quickly that none of the onlookers could say later how they had pulled from their robes delicate silver contraptions. The odd machines consisted of a heavy base; an arm rose from one side of the base, then curved over the top, with a hollow ball suspended loosely from its end. A conical spout emerged at a lateral angle from the side of the ball.

"Fill the ball with water, and light a candle under it. Soon steam will emerge from the spout, and the ball will turn," Yarrow demonstrated. "An ingenious man in a western land invented a miracle."

"Ha-ha! Balls spinning like Koinoni! This is too wonderful to express!" exclaimed Dungo, and the clicking of the Bedoua grew and provided a curious percussion to the undercurrent of voices.

"We bring to you all the most beautiful works of the Bedoua," the vizier continued. "These figurines came from the labors of our finest glass-blowers, the keepers of the secrets of the sands. They have mastered the arts of delicate forms and beautiful lines the mind can not even imagine, and they produced these wonderful works in just the time of my departure, in the camp of my desert home. These figures began as drawings by Sylva, Raspar skills that she has made her own."

Ingle brought forth four tall objects covered with cloths, almost his own height, and with flair Dungo unveiled each one in order. Each formed a tolerable likeness of another clan leader, made of long, thin stretches of colored glass, set vertically like a bird cage. Graceful turns and bends produced the look of muscles and clothing, thighs and chests, chins and noses, except for the hooded Koinoni figure. They made a sight most unusual, and beautiful in an other-worldly way, not unlike seeing a stranger who bears a resemblance to a close friend.

"Lo, we have traveled far and come not prepared to offer beautiful gifts, nor works of art to decorate your ceremonial halls," said Mercedi. "The Raspars have only tokens of their practical help for ye, at least until a later time. So please accept these artifacts as expressions of our intent to defend, and to build."

In her hand she held simple necklaces, leather straps strung with the highly polished Raspar arrowheads, and a small Raspar hammer hanging from the back. She slipped the cords over the heads of each king, and the arrowheads clicked lightly against the therium horns resting upon Artur's chest.

"From the Melics," said Theodoric, "We offer what makes our hearts glad, the only trail we leave in the forests, and we hope a symbol of our pact together. Like music, let us each be separate notes, but sung together, in what we call harmony. Even as our voices join with those of other clans tonight in this very building, let us join not only in the wars of the Aoten but in many endeavors in the years to come." Then he motioned Franken to bring out four beautifully carved and inlaid reeds, made of the blackest ebony and decorated with creamy white birch. Carefully he laid the instruments in the hands of Yarrow and the others.

"This offers no use to Koinoni. We can not play, nor can any we trade with," he said.

"What?" said Artur. The singing and clicking abruptly ceased.

"We refuse the gift. Koinoni have no use for it."

Suddenly Artur burned hot and jumped to his feet. "I might have known! You cheating Koinoni can not value anything that does not fill your pocketbook! You have strung us along until you can extract your own price for our survival."

"Not at all..." began Yarrow.

"Shut up!" screamed Artur. "Shut up! On my land, in my village, you bring villainy against my friend! Only by his word do we tolerate you here! You are not worthy of breathing my air!"

"Please, good sir," said Dungo soothingly.

"Artur, you risk ruining everything!" said Theodoric. "Your anger will kill this new alliance, and will deal a death blow to thousands more!"

Artur strained against his outrage. "Not for this kind of backbiting have I risked my life time and again! How do you propose to make this right?" he demanded of Yarrow.

"We would take something else," he said flatly, as though he had come prepared.

"What can I offer you instead of the reed?" asked Theodoric gently.

"We would take the woman Picta. She desires to leave your clan anyway."

Yarrow's statement took the air out of the room. Theodoric stared blankly, thinking only of his empty home in the trees. Artur looked up to Picta, sitting upon a rafter, who looked pleased at first to hear someone want her, until she spied Artur's expression. Suddenly she realized what the Koinoni sought from her, and panic took her eyes and flooded over her face.

"No!" Artur roared. "You will not have her, to sell her body into whoring! You will not! I would die in the teeth of a deviltooth before peddling flesh in my village! I'd rather – I'd rather –" he sputtered. "I'd rather kill you than breathe. But I won't. You made me offer once – all right then, done! You foul traders, you vile Koinoni, you will have something you desire more than even coin in your filthy pockets, but you will not have Picta!"

Artur pulled Kylie from her scabbard and brandished her at the opening of Yarrow's hood. In the second that passed, uneasy murmuring arose from the gathered Rufoux, not sure what to expect. Artur slammed the sword's point into the ground between the Koinoni chief's crossed legs, and stormed out of the building; a handful of his clansmen also made for the door, Geoffrey trailing behind. Each man and woman sat in stunned silence, and Picta wept tears of love, and loneliness, and gratitude.

Chapter XLIX

Geoffrey came to a quick halt outside the door, glancing about frantically for Artur before finding him stalking about behind the building, his fellows milling around him. Laying his hand upon his son's shoulder, he counseled him, "You have given up much in your life. You have sacrificed what most men cling to most desperately, and always to benefit your people. Now you have learned to take care of people not your own as well. Come inside with me; I have something to say to you and to all."

Geoffrey pulled the fuming man back into the community hall, as the Rufoux crowd continued to murmur. Artur hardly knew what buzzed about him, so aggravated he still was. Theodoric and Dungo moved to speak with him, but Geoffrey waved them off.

"Hear me, Rufoux! I claim my right as elder of the clan, and I have a proclamation. I am elder of the Rufoux and of my family, and I will judge rightly the prospects of both. The events of these days away from Rufoux lands have shown me many things, one being that we must not sacrifice the future for the sake of the past. Therefore, I proclaim this before all the Rufoux: My son Artur, chief of the Rufoux, has been betrothed and engaged according to Rufoux custom, and all that remains for him is to marry."

Artur now forgot his anger and stared at his father in utter confusion.

Geoffrey continued: "Therefore I proclaim that he will marry the bride of his choosing."

Where once murmuring simmered on the Rufoux side of the building, now shouts of disapproval boiled over. "No! It is not according to the traditions!" cried out a voice.

"He has undergone the ceremonies!" Geoffrey barked back. "What is most important, the intended bride or the ceremony? Flesh that dies or traditions that live?"

"You would defile the Rufoux way!" voices argued.

"What good does the Rufoux way, when it fails?" said Geoffrey. "What victory did the Rufoux way give us against the Aoten? When our traditions fail, we must seek a different remedy. We must find a way to redeem the failure of the law!"

"Our traditions have preserved our clan for generations! They have made us the most prosperous and powerful of all tribes in Medialia!"

"And yet where do we find ourselves now?" asked Geoffrey. "At the brink of extinction. Would you also condemn Artur's line to extinction? Does he not have an obligation now to fulfill?"

Quiet held sway for a moment. "But the traditions!" said a single voice; and others, not as many and not as strident, joined in.

"What harm would come if Artur did marry?" asked Wyllem.

Again silence fell, and nothing but silence, as no suitable answer presented itself. "But —" a lonely voice said. "But no woman Artur's age remains single."

"He'll have to figure that out for himself," said Geoffrey.

Still no rebuttal was raised. "I claim my right as elder," Geoffrey declared a second time. A cheer hummed and rose out of the Melics, joined by Bedoua clicking. Dungo clapped Artur on the back with a broad smile and much talk; Mercedi brought her archers to their feet in salute; Theodoric, now upon the rafters with an arm around his foundling child Picta, gazed upon his rash friend in wonder; even Yarrow looked up from happily inspecting Kylie's blade.

In those days many young Rufoux girls had not been betrothed, but all less than six years old. A few widowed women still lived as well, centuries old. For Artur only one choice offered itself. So he went about finding her.

"Besides," said Geoffrey. "Andreia has submitted to betrothal and engagement as well. Just not with Artur. She has fulfilled the traditions."

A bird had flown against a boisterous wind, splaying the feathers of its wings and tail, fighting to gain some leverage over elements it could not control. Pure white, with deep brown eyes, deep like the night, the dove combated its unseen foe, with no panic upon its countenance. Each twist, each contortion gave it more mastery over the buffeting breeze. Slowly she floated toward a perch, an odd configuration of horizontal poles, thick and slender, great and delicate, green with olive sprigs, and set upon a high hill. Just as her feet lit upon one of the thin rods, the air calmed and all was peaceful. There she took refuge, safe from the whipping winds, and she waited. So did Andreia dream, and so there she withdrew, to the stacks of logs and racks for drying leather at the crest of the bluff, away from the bluster of the community house. Eventually, guided only by the dim moon, without insight of dream, Artur found her there.

"Andreia."

She looked to him in silence, a slight smile making her glistening eyes a little less clear.

"Geoffrey has spoken tonight."

"Your father."

"Andreia —" he whispered.

"Yes?"

"I — I have often thought I wanted to be free, loosed from the clan's traditions that have laid chains upon me. But tonight Geoffrey declared me bound, and in need of fulfilling my promise, not to a woman but to the clan. In that I have found the freedom I needed."

"Sir Artur, your time with Theodoric has made you incomprehensible."

"What I mean is — " and Artur's voice trailed off into a prolonged pause.

"Would you like to walk with me, Artur? Come, and your steps will help collect your thoughts, and perhaps you will be entertained by a tale I can tell."

She took hold of two fingers of Artur's immense hand, and he joined her, trying to fit together what few words he had into sentences with meaning. Soon he found it much easier just to listen, as Andreia's smooth voice flowed into his ears. Her words rang more beautifully than the Melic harmonies, more delicious than milk and honey, more gloriously precious than all the gold ferreted away in Koinoni hiding places.

"There lived a thylak, a great and strong thylak, leader of the pack. He burst with courage, and led the rest of the thylak on every hunt. Every other animal of the land feared him, except the snake. In truth the snake feared too, but he went about in secret, trying to find a way to destroy the great thylak. He relied upon cunning, which is not the same as bravery, and he would not attack the thylak. So he waited until the thylak fell asleep, and he slipped into his mouth, slithered into the thylak's chest and stole his heart. When the thylak awoke, he knew his heart had been taken. Now he was afraid, at first, for his heart had been the seat of his courage and strength, and his hope for the future. He hid behind the trees and tried to stay away from his pack. Then he realized that because he had no heart, he could not be killed. This became strength to him, though he felt a hole in his chest; he had become invincible. He rejoined the hunt, and became even more courageous, because he could not be killed."

"What do you mean?"

Andreia smiled with kind patience. "The story means nothing. It is but feathers of pleasantry dancing upon the air. But when the thylak took his heart back, he became not quite so daring."

The passage of time seemed to waver as their conversation turned to sometimes-unrelated inspirations of thought. At times they tested deep waters; at other times they were satisfied to consider a particular leaf, glinting with a color they had never noticed before.

"I have always been one to challenge the traditions," Andreia offered, looking away. "Foolishly, I'm afraid. Tragically. But not you, Artur. You saw our ways as the Rufoux themselves, and only by serving the traditions could you serve your people. But you have changed. Your ideals have slipped to become like mine now, and I pray my desires have not corrupted you."

"You and I have much to be responsible for, good and bad, but you could not corrupt a daisy," Artur replied. "The progress of events, traced backwards, leaves an unlikely trail, twisting around obstacles and boldly plunging into pitfalls, every former turn forsaken for another leading to a completely different present. Will one choice ever deliver us from the bitter fruit of another once taken? How can we know, until we arrive at a new present and can look back again? These last few months I have learned to use the traditions only as they serve me, and leave the rest to the wiles of fortune."

"I believe Theodoric has affected your thinking."

"He has made me think. He has forced me to see. I have seen many new things, and that they may be wrong, or maybe not, or maybe I can not even tell the difference."

As the night folded its blanket over the land, the multitude of stars turned out in silent celebration. The moon reigned over the crystal sky, its crescent smiling upon the Earth and the strolling couple. Artur and Andreia sat against a tree deep in the Melic forest.

"I have not felt this way since the hour I lost Lauræl. But I should not speak of her."

"But you should. She must not be forgotten. Nor either Aric."

"No, but today I must speak of Andreia. At times I have grudgingly kept affection far from myself, knowing it to be doomed to frustration. Other times I fended it off with bravado, as if swinging Kylie — " and he stopped. "Kylie! I have lost another lover!"

"Kylie is lost to you?"

"Yes, for the honor of another girl. One whose heart also breaks. Never did I know the world nurtured such heartache. And yet you've been at my fingertips for so long, for years."

"For years. For years I knew nobody else would find my bed," said Andreia. "But besides the traditions, the chieftain of the Rufoux had more important duties than to see after a young girl. You don't remember the times I served you, invisible right before your eyes. I knew to have no hope in my designs. But one day everything changed, and I knew when you carried me from the battleground and into safety, everything had changed."

"But you lay unconscious then."

"Yes, and still I knew, somehow. Perhaps we know more than we realize in our dream shadows. But then, I feel like I'm unconscious even now."

Night birds sang brilliantly against the flitting shadows. In the background crooned a sound Artur now recognized, though through all the many decades of his life it had never meant a thing: Melic songs, the blending of barkstrings and reeds, a composition of Mienrade. Branches swayed gently as the wind caressed and tweaked their leaves, an elegant dance of incantation over the man and woman as they leaned upon the tree's strength.

"What we do has never occurred before, at least not as long as anyone remembers," said Artur, still feeling clumsy. "I imagine I should ask — Andreia — will you be married to me?"

"Hoo-rah," she said quietly.

"I suppose this day has forever been coming. I never to my last breath thought that I would receive blessing from Mog. Never a blessing of any kind. But hasn't every couple thought their love to be specially endowed by their god? Are we all correct, or all deluded? Mog knows only strength and anger, forcing his way with hot rage. I would prefer to think I have received grace from you, not him."

Artur took the liberty of caressing the back of Andreia's head, cupping it in his oversized hand. His eyes fell into hers, like the deep pools of Medialia itself. She looked patiently up to him, her delicate frame entirely at his mercy. He hesitated once, twice, before his lips came upon hers with a sigh like a great flock of birds taking wing, bearing away the totality of burdens he had carried all his life.

"You are the morning sun rising over Medialia. You are the waters of the Alluvia. You are the life-giver."

Artur stretched back and cradled Andreia under his arm. His eyes climbed the massive standancrag before them and came to rest upon a little grotto, where dried leaves blew about lazily and stones lined the floor, some forty kronyn up.

Chapter L

Time creeps from parts unknown and steals away men and women and cultures as it passes into the horizon. The babes of the day cling to the familiar as the future encroaches with its newness, that there might some history survive to bind families and tribes after they grow old. The death of some customs makes those that survive all the more precious, and they become the hallmarks of a people until tomorrow's babes arrive. And when progress can take the hand of ancient tradition, each comforting the other, the celebration glows particularly sweet. So men and women of the Rufoux gathered for grand games, to mark the alliance of all the clans of Medialia, and that of Artur and Andreia.

"Ho-ho, my dear Mercedi, you will marvel at the wonderful tricks of the Rufoux upon their hippus!" Dungo regaled the Raspar regent. "I have seen them! What a grand sight upon these huge beasts; I should have brought my carving! A present, from Artur! You would love to see it, such a beautiful, delightful toy! A tiny, wooden man balancing delicately upon a tremendous beast! But I suspect Bedoua warriors will use their javelins well in competition today. Ha-ha! We may well teach the Rufoux a lesson at their own game!"

"Lo, I look forward to the spectacle. Never have we heard of such a thing; there exists no room for festivity within the Eternal City."

"Ha! Your archers would certainly do well, if only they could shoot straight."

"Lo, ye will watch your mouth, you flabby lout," muttered Severus, standing separated from the crowd. He glanced about himself with his head down, scowling at the collection of clansmen that passed his gaze. "Aye, ye will feel my vengeance. Ye will not rejoice that ye have dragged me into this pit of barbarism."

"Vizier," said Krait, again standing behind Dungo, along with Sylva. "You mus-ssst take care, for you are not among your equals-sss here."

"Aye, ye speak truly, Bedoua man. Ye will refrain from talking to me," said Severus.

"You will not trus-ssst this-sss one," Krait whispered into Dungo's ear.

"My dear Krait," said the vizier. "I have invested many days with this people, and suffered many hardships with them. This one man is exceptionally strange, I grant you, but you will find him harmless and the Raspars as a whole orderly and honorable. Ho-ho! You should see their wonderful arrows, and the sculptures upon their city walls. But only the grand Dungo has traveled to such exotic places as the Raspar city. Surely a people so devoted to beauty can earn our trust. So let your suspicions begone, Krait, and accept that we have made a new world! Hand joins in hand, Krait! Let us glory in our new friends, and our new life!"

Behind the tinted lenses of his glasses, Krait's eyes shifted to each side as he studied the faces surrounding him.

Artur, as last time, withdrew from the games themselves to oversee. Only by much insistence did he persuade Yarrow that Kylie would not be allowed in the swordplay contest. He did take part in the trick riding, but only for a time before his injuries convinced him to bow out. The Melics showed their skills in axe-throwing, embedding their blades deep into the unfortunate tree selected as a target, and Artur donated his strength in pulling them out again. There, tugging without effect on one stubborn axe, Jakke found him.

"For you, Artur," he said simply, and held out a long, brilliant object. "Wedding."

In his hand lay a sword, well longer than most, in a dark brown, leather scabbard with a long fringe. He had beautifully worked its hilt with shining bronze, made thick and sturdy, scalloped on the end and with a crescent cross-guard at the blade. Speech failed Artur as he slid the blade slowly out of the sheath: The metal sang like a chorus of angels, and its color was a gleaming, creamy silver-blue never seen before, not even in Medialia. Straight and bright, heavy even to Artur, the weapon nonetheless balanced in his hand as though attached to his shoulder.

Artur looked at Jakke with his mouth open. "Never have I seen a more beautiful creation."

"What would you have for it?" asked a Koinoni, probably Yarrow.

"It came from the black sand of the Bedoua," Jakke offered. "I fired my forge with the rock that burns, and it flamed hot. A flare hit my face, and I turned away and spilled in the black sand."

Jakke stopped, unused to talking so much, and he looked about the gathering faces nervously. Artur had to spur him on, "Well? Did it kill the fire?"

"No, it glowed and melted, so I beat it, and it burned together. So I beat it, and burned it, and beat it all day, and this came out. I'll show you."

Jakke took the blade from Artur and grabbed a spear from a passing Raspar — Severus — a typical Rufoux weapon with a heavy, bronze head. Holding the spear lightly in his left hand, tucked under his arm, he brought the sword down on its head, as thick as a child's wrist, as though he were whittling. The sword screamed, a perfect note cutting the clear blue sky, and the bronze point fell to the ground and stuck out of the dirt in silent witness: The metal had no jagged break; it was cut, clean and sudden. Jakke showed Artur the sword's blade again, and all could see it had received not a scratch.

"For you, Artur."

"Lo, ye fool! Where am I to get another spear?" bellowed Severus, not offering explanation of where he got the first. "Ye ignorant Rufoux, ye insult my eyes just at looking upon ye! Ye farting hog! I will turn ye into rumidont feed, to pass out the arse and to the ground, and be trampled into the mud!"

The diatribe left Jakke speechless, not an uncommon thing, and quite surprised. He eyed Severus curiously, and, as if testing unclear waters, he said, "Fight?"

"Aye, I will kill ye," raged Severus, shaking both fists.

A clearing quickly and quietly opened as the surrounding men and women made room. A multitude of Raspars stood about pretending not to look nor listen. Krait joined as well, standing several back from the front of the crowd, concealed from the combatants. Jakke, his face aglow with innocent glee, long frustrated hopes now answered, took off his tough leather apron; Severus continued his insane rantings.

"Lo, ye will know no new day, Rufoux trash! I will hack off the top of your head, ye infidel child, ye bastard spawn! Ye think I am to be spat upon in this destitute land; it is ye who I deem inferior, and judge unworthy!" He seemed to speak to everyone and yet no one. Mercedi and Vespus made their way to the front of the crowd, where Artur caught their faces: totally blank, observing like weather-worn statues. Unsure what to do, he took a firm grip on his new sword. If need be he'd kill Severus, or Jakke, depending on what happened. He had no idea what to expect, but war came into his mind.

Severus let out a bellow and charged at Jakke. The huge Rufoux smithy barely had time to hold out a single hand and pop Severus' forehead with an open palm. The Raspar's head snapped back, and he hit the ground hard. Jakke's eyes twinkled as he stalked his prey. Artur kept a wary eye on Mercedi, who remained indifferent. Severus regained his feet and swung his arms wildly at his sides. Again he rushed at Jakke, who, better prepared, planted a fist the size of a thylak head squarely in his chest. Severus' eyes bugged and breath exploded across the grounds as the Earth again caught him by the back of his head. Slowly he worked his way from his hands to his knees to his feet.

The Raspar stumbled toward a tripod of pikes to the side, which he left in shambles after snatching one away. His eyes a twisted bramble of rage and lunacy, he menaced Jakke with the ragged point. Artur again moved to draw his sword, but before he could act Jakke had taken hold of the spear and used it to draw his foe closer, Severus holding on doggedly. Moving Severus in and out with the staff, jabbing with his free hand, Jakke lay blow after blow to the Raspar's head. Bleeding now, profusely, Severus fell to the ground.

As he dragged himself upward, he caught sight of Vespus. "Lo, he defeats me. Will ye allow this Rufoux knave to have better of Raspar dignity? Help me!"

Vespus looked on, seeing but not seeing, with his single eye, and said nothing.

Krait blinked.

Artur let go his grip on his new blade.

Jakke stalked toward Severus and grasped him by the collar. "Give up?" he said.

"Nay, ye great hulking putrid swine, I piss upon ye and your hallowed saints. I will kill ye."

Jakke held Severus' feet off the ground, though the Raspar was upwards of a kronyn taller, and beat him mercilessly with a single fist; finally Severus fell silent. Limply he hung in Jakke's grip, until the huge man could stomach no more. He let the Raspar fall to the ground and sighed, as though all his hopes and dreams vanished into vanity, never a fair competition to be found again.

The Raspar crowd, staring blankly until this moment, suddenly broke into smiles, and each man turned to his neighbor as they all agreed what a fine show had been put on. Backs turned and spectators strolled away, to discuss and recall the great battle and terrific licking Severus had received. Not a single mouth spoke a sympathetic word, and not a thought of vengeance arose. Artur stood bemused but relieved, never sure what to make of the strange peoples he had come to know, and yet not know.

Aachen knelt by the unconscious Severus, tending his bloodied and broken face.

Chapter LI

A new day dawned in the village of the Rufoux, and the sun rose, but did not see nor care.

For the first time since the Aoten came upon Medialia, the Rufoux homeland would see a wedding. The busyness of the preceding days had come to a conclusion, the planning and preparation fulfilled, the celebrations complete. The hour of the solemn ceremony approached, and in typical fashion, it belonged to the early morning.

Artur emerged from his hut, only recently doubled in size, so early as to find the Raspars still sleeping, huddled together tightly, leaning upon each other and against the stockade wall. As he walked past the open fires of the compound, his clansmen greeted him with the ragging banter of his distant past. Over the years he had learned to give it out generously, but he never thought he would again have to take it.

"Can't wait another hour of sleep, eh, Artur? Or does your lonely pallet not appeal to you so much now?"

"She'll still be around at noon, man. No need to rush her into anything."

"Mog's goblins, Artur, she's young enough to be your daughter. Or Geoffrey's great-great-great-great-great." And then a breath. "Great-great-great-great..."

Artur smiled and laughed at his tormentors and punched one or two to show his love. His saunterings through the village ultimately led him to Geoffrey's hut, which he ducked into without warning. Inside he found his father once again decked out in his armor, still fitting after all the centuries gone by.

"Father! I hardly recognize you. You again look like a Rufoux warrior."

"We do well to note this day," said Geoffrey. "When Sylva writes her history, for those who can decipher it, they will read what it means to be a Rufoux man. And I have always been a Rufoux warrior."

"Yes, you have."

"Let us go from here, Artur. Lo, your bride lurks about for ye within the city walls." The mocking of the Raspars' dialect that he and Artur toyed with had almost become a habit within his own speech.

Andreia had withdrawn to her family's large home, which she shared with her parents and still a dozen brothers and sisters younger than eighteen. Her last day among them overflowed with tears and laughter, rejoicing that she would not go lacking in the vast years left to her, grieving that her life among them, longer than anyone had ever expected or feared, at last would come to an end. Now the time of tears had passed, and all her relatives' hands, as well as others, busily adorned her beauty until she surpassed the inspirations of any poet who might come to live in another age.

As the early shadows crept shorter across the village, as the sun seemed to slow its pace in the sky, Artur himself finally made his way to the community hall, to wrap himself in the ceremonial wedding robes. On the way he ran into Theodoric, walking with Pepin.

"Artur! A good day to you, and a happy coupling with your new wife! It is the Melics' custom to refer to the bride as 'the daughter' or 'sister of your flesh,' but of course that is not the case with the Rufoux. The bee's power erupts from its sting, but to impose it upon another means only death for itself. Still, I hope that Andreia will become the sister of your spirit." Pepin nodded and smiled.

"Thank you. You will see your first Rufoux wedding today, I think."

"I saw one once before, but from far away, and the view was leafy. I used to give much of my time to observing, you know. You are quite sure we are welcome?"

"Of course!" Artur sounded insulted. "If trouble arises, I will take care of it. But I'm sure no trouble will be had today."

"Would you like music?"

Artur thought for a second. "Chanting is part of the ceremony. We have never had music, so the customs neither allow nor forbid it."

"Well, we'll come prepared," said Theodoric as they took their leave. Pepin merely smiled.

A single stroke brought forth a loud tone from the giant bell that hung at the back end of the community building, harkening the Rufoux to gather. Geoffrey stood at the front – his helmet replaced by the tall, white miter – Wyllem and Arielle standing at either side as attendants. Wyllem held aloft a lit torch, Arielle bore a sword. To the left gathered Artur's vast collection of brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews. Andreia's family stood with her to the right, at last redeeming the time of their humiliation years before. Behind Geoffrey lay the small stone altar piled with kindling.

Artur bore the robes, reserved for weddings only, that had been handed down to every Rufoux groom for generations upon generations. The skin of an aged thylak, pure white, draped his shoulders, fringed with long and resplendent feathers from the exotic birds of Medialia. Gold-blue paint highlighted his skin, the shadows darkened with a kind of purple-emerald. On his head rested a helmet similar to those made gifts to the other chieftains, the light of the surrounding torches and candles glaring off its burnished surface. Yet this helmet bore a single difference: An exquisite display of luxurious feathers hanging from its sides and back. Peeking in and out of the decoration was a stowaway hummingbird perched high upon Artur's shoulder, testing the bright red hair of the nape of his neck with its delicate tongue.

To the other side of Geoffrey stood Andreia, in a gown entirely woven of flowers, the product of Melic hands. The breeze played teasingly with the fragile fabric of petals, every color segregated to form a swirling pattern around her body; a train of stems spread about her feet. Her hair twisted into several tight Bedoua-braids, then wrapped around over the top of her head, leaving her ears, neck and shoulders bare, smooth and a creamy pink. Her slight frame and slender figure made her appear more likely a nymph or faerie than of Rufoux stock, but the look on her face could not be mistaken: Finely carved features showed diligence and satisfaction, the suffering and serenity of Medialia's hardest race.

The other clans peopled the compound outside the community building. Melics sat high upon the walk at the top of the walls, while Raspars lined the foot. Bedoua collected to one side of the building, clicking like great crickets, and the Koinoni stood apart to the other side. For this occasion the skins covering the structure had been removed, so all could see inside. The low humming, born more of habit than tradition, emerged from the Rufoux as soon as they sat.

Geoffrey raised his face and open hands. "Oh Mog, we come here today to acknowledge the greatness of your power and the power of your anger. We gather to join this slender youth (and at this he slipped a glance at Artur's stocky frame) and tender maiden together for the good of the families, the good of the clan of the Rufoux. We gather as witnesses and partners to their marriage, as they fold their individuality into each other and into the whole of their people.

"Oh Mog, the fire has been lit for this man. The dove has been taken in your anger. We pray that your will binds this couple, Artur and Andreia, as with a bronze band, and you will make them four arms in defense of the Rufoux, four legs in defense of the Rufoux, one heart in defense of the Rufoux. We pray that you will burn in them love for themselves, love for the clan, love for the borders of the Rufoux. We ask that you will use them to bring up a great army to defend our lands in Medialia."

Geoffrey looked down blankly at the hordes of people about, suddenly realizing what he had recited.

He took the torch from Wyllem in his left hand, and the sword from Arielle in his right. Turning to the altar, he raised each implement to the sky. "Thus do we bring this man and woman, Artur and Andreia, together. Thus do we declare them one." And he struck the torch heavily with the sword, breaking off the flaming end and sending it into the kindling upon the altar; the sword flew from his thumbless grip and flipped point-first into the ground. Quickly a hungry blaze burned on the crude hearth.

Geoffrey turned back again. "Artur and Andreia," he said. "Do you today pledge yourselves to each other in marriage?"

The two nodded.

"Then pledge yourselves to these vows by saying 'yea' in response. Do you, Artur and Andreia, pledge to give your bodies only for each other — in marriage?" Geoffrey's voice cracked, and he fell silent for a moment.

"Yea."

"Do you pledge not to withhold your bodies from each other in your marriage?"

"Yea."

"Do you pledge to make a new family of your marriage, many children added to strengthen the defense of the Rufoux?"

"Yea."

"Do you pledge to destroy either one who may violate these vows, or any outsider — " Geoffrey stopped short.

Artur studied his father's face. "Yea, father, we are still Rufoux."

"Any outsider who would lead you to break these vows?"

"Yea."

"Do you pledge to fan the flame of love, to forge devotion between yourselves, among your family and within the clan?"

"Yea, and all Medialia."

"Artur, what do you offer to Andreia today, as proof that you can protect and provide for a wife and family?"

For a moment Artur looked at Geoffrey like he was crazy — what had he been doing his whole life? Then he pulled off his necklace of therium tusks and draped it around Andreia's neck.

"Andreia, what do you offer to Artur today, as proof that you will provide and produce children to the house of Artur?"

Andreia turned to her kin, and an elderly woman handed her a silver statuette, about a kronyn tall. Artur recognized it as an idol brought to the land from the east by the Koinoni, a fertility goddess of the finest workmanship. A beautiful nude figure of a woman, and surprisingly heavy, she leaned delicately forward, raising her arms and prominent breasts on high. The soft curves of her form, highlighted by the silvery finish, shone in the sunlight, and an expression of tranquil joy enveloped the vague features of her face.

"Then be you married before the witness of Mog and all his people, the Rufoux."

The Rufoux stood and cheered, and as they lined up for the excruciating head-rubbing ritual, their humming enjoined with Melic harmony. Eventually the singing evolved into playing, and the playing into dancing, and Artur found that the final hand upon his head passed much more quickly than he remembered from the first time. The celebration spilled out into the stockade grounds, and the clans of Medialia mixed and made merry as never before.

Though not taking part in the ceremony, a glowing Pepin made sure he crossed the couple's path with Carolingia. "You made a better bird in my dream," he could barely restrain his glee, and Artur looked at his feathered regalia and remembered. "Come, my love," Pepin said flatly, and Carolingia glanced at Artur, bitter at the vows he had spoken, but not thwarted.

Artur paid no mind, and instead considered the goddess. "How much did the Koinoni require for this?" he asked Andreia.

"It came to me as a gift from Picta. I would not deal with Koinoni."

"I love you like the day itself."

The morning slid into the afternoon and matured into evening as the festivities continued. Finally a half-moon crept into the sky, and Geoffrey, still in his warrior's armor, once more commanded the attention of the gathered masses. He stood stiffly, his ancient bones giving no quarter to the years passed, and extended his hands to his clansmen. Voices fell silent, ears leaned expectantly toward a grand oration, and Geoffrey's face glowed. Surely a blessing and gentle good night awaited.

"Today I have seen the desires of my heart met. I have seen my son Artur, the greatest of the Rufoux, joined in marriage, defeating the fates and the years that would deny him contentment. I have seen Andreia grafted onto my family, a young woman finally allowed life again after a youth bent under devastating guilt. I have lived to my purpose, and I have seen the world of my memory pass away. So I will gain my final desire."

Geoffrey lifted his fists and tilted back his head. "Oh Mog," he bellowed. "You hollow tomb! You empty wash pot! For long ages I have sacrificed myself upon your altar, and you have proven yourself too weak to take me!"

Geoffrey's arms shook as his voice began to betray rage. His words spewed upward like foam from a geyser, and his face gradually went from ruddy to bright red. "Oh Mog, you fake and cheat! You tremble to reach down to Medialia and claim me! You are afraid, I declare, afraid of Geoffrey! If this be not so, prove it! If I am a liar, show yourself and have your vengeance!"

As his rant gained fury, a flickering appeared from around the collar of Geoffrey's breastplate. "Mog, you have mocked me these many years! Do battle now, if you think yourself able! Take the breath from my nostrils if you are strong enough! Plunge the sword into _my_ neck, if I am any less than a dragon!" The glow turned bright orange, then grew to a tiny flame. Then suddenly a burst of fire flew around Geoffrey's head, and he screamed to the heavens. "Mog, you traitor! You fraud!" Now a tremendous blaze engulfed his body, and his bronze breastplate roared like a chimney, as shocked clansmen from all over the land gasped and stared — so aghast, so enraptured at the sight, none even thought to move. "Mog, you overripe villain of legend! Swallower of stones! You believe unending life to be so wonderful, then take this one!" The reptilian tongues of flame licked the pyre and snapped high into the air, sparks dancing on the heat. Geoffrey's yelling faded within the veil of fire, and then so did the flames die, until only a small smear of ash lay on the ground where the aged man had stood, the charred metal of his armor lying about like discarded trash.

Picta sobbed quietly for a father twice lost.

Artur approached the scorched remnants, bits of ash still dancing upwards, and poked them with his toe.

"Crazy old fool."

Song of Geoffrey

A composition of Mienrade of the Melics

as told to Sylva, the vizier's daughter

Drueed took his own counsel, meditating in the shadows of

The rock, heights of Medialia known only to the few

Who would make of themselves men of valor and honor,

Those few who longed for the greatness of a past day

To return again to the present. And so did Drueed

Make a decision to himself in that day that such a one

Would arise from a strange people, a man not of the Melics,

And of this tree would he produce branches, two strong limbs.

And upon these branches would balance the fates of peoples

Scattered about the land, for upon strong arms and hearts,

Branches and roots, does the future place its hope.

And this one did Drueed raise, and he did fulfill

His due charge, to make his home with the Rufoux,

But befriend too all men of Medialia. And greatly prospered

The strength of his loins, and mightily the courage

That found seat in his heart, until the day of his passing.

But you, men of Medialia, will you not reserve the rest

Of your lives to mourn the doom of Geoffrey? Will you

Not proclaim your dirge for generations? Yet not today,

No not today, for even the mightiest trees are doomed to die,

But the lifeless standancrag stands tall and erect forever.

Indeed, the land cries out no, and the waters sing in response,

That on this one day you will celebrate the life of Geoffrey!

Hear! Oh men of leather and red, of bronze and fire.

Give ear, you clansmen of the trees and those who populate

The streams and rivulets! For a man lived before you!

Listen, O Bedoua, for the sands will not ring

With the echo of this song, nor will the stone walls

Deflect its tempest, oh you Raspar archers. For a man

Has walked the roads of Medialia, and traversed its waters

Like the greatest of his forefathers, and ours indeed. On this

One day, we will celebrate the life of Geoffrey!

"See what the future holds for you, oh Melics, what

The shadows will show you when the appointed day

Has come to pass upon Medialia," said Drueed, the great

Mystery of the ages. "See what man walks into the forests

To challenge your choosing to dwell apart, above the heights

Of all those who surround you. For he will impart to you

An idea foreign to you, and a hope for your future.

Open your reasoning to a new thought, that with men

Should men settle. Take hold with the hand the invitation

To see beyond what the shadows foretold, beyond what

Your ancestors have seen; take hold of the reality that reason

Must concede does exist beyond the form of mere shadows.

Oh, Melics, you have done well, for you are Melics,

But now I send you another who will strengthen you

And help you see that a reality exists beyond reasoning.

That one will bring hope for the Melics, hope for Rufoux.

And one shall meet him, and one will make him welcome,

For what is old is passed, what is new has begun."

Through the branches, though familiar to her feet, Hilde made

Her trek, against the setting sun, with the destination

Of land, of earth, and deserting the place of her upbringing.

"Why do you leave me alone, Drueed, oh you benefactor

Of the Melics? Do you find it difficult to speak,

Most high of the forests of Medialia? Or do you

Simply fear a woman? Do you find your tongue tied?

Why do you not defend yourself before me? Do you

Find me too difficult an adversary in my weakness?

For I am destitute in my home, alone within

The multitude of my clan, and there is none

To comfort me. Why then do you withdraw from me,

Oh Drueed? Why do you separate from me, just as

Surely as death itself does separate one from another?"

Yet did Drueed remain still, unwilling to reveal

The depths of wisdom, only the breadth of mystery,

Leaving Hilde to seek in her own mind the realm

Her contentment would at last discover.

"For what reason have you led me to the edge

Of my forest home, Oh Drueed? For what cause have

I been driven to the outskirts of my people?

What wisdom is this, Oh Philosopher, that you

Impute your contempt upon a destitute matron

Such as I? For there is no comfort within my

Family, nor succor either in the bitter arrows

Of my clansmen. Every word finds its mark,

Every glance stabs with its own blade, in this forlorn

Heart." Yet still did Drueed hide within the shadows,

Still did he withhold his secret counsels from

The Melic woman as she trod upon her solitary way.

And her hard feet felt the cool softness of the soil,

And the trees stood behind, her past, and the leaves

Nodded a gentle farewell to their prodigal daughter.

"Oh, Drueed, you have surely abandoned those

Who need you most, those who call upon your name most

Desperately, those who have lost all hope except in you!

For my womb is empty, and my bed desolate, and still

You hide your countenance from me! Show yourself,

Drueed, or else show me the face of my salvation,

The one who would give me release from the drudging

Toil of my days!" Hilde screamed toward the treetops

Vanishing into the distance. "Who makes this noise?" said

The gruff voice, "That imposes upon Rufoux lands?"

Hilde did jump at the sound, for the voice was surely

Grand and daunting, and she believed for a moment

Drueed truly heard and answered; yet no terror quaked

Behind the voice, no threat that is the spawn of weakness,

For strength itself brought forth the words, courage

Breathing justice and honor into its spirit, for thus spoke

Geoffrey of the Rufoux, the grand patriarch of his clan.

"I am Hilde, a Melic, and I abandon the trees

Of my homeland to tread upon your hallowed ground,"

Replied the woman. "I wander alone upon your lands

Even as I am alone in the branches. So do me no

Injury, Rufoux man, for surely I mean no harm to you

Nor to the ground of your feet and fathers' feet.

For a butterfly can land anywhere, but only

The most tender petal would feel its weight."

"Woman, I know not of what you speak," replied

Geoffrey. "Only do I know that you tread upon Rufoux

Lands, and in all my life the Melics have forever

Remained in the trees. Often have I heard their songs

In the dusk, but never have I seen the singer, neither in

The leaves nor standing upon the dust of Medialia.

What brings you here, woman, before I call the warriors

To wreak their vengeance upon you and your clan?"

"Have mercy, my lord, for my people know not that

I enter among you. The Melics grow tired of my ways,

And there remains none to console me. Therefore I leave my

Homeland to seek another, one who might bring fruit

Again to my womb and comfort my arms in the night.

So, my lord, have mercy upon me and upon my people,

For they have none of me, nor will have any part

Of me, and are innocent. As for me, as I linger

In my suffering, it matters not, for your mercy

Might extend my years or cut them short today,

It matters not. But within your own borders,

I have surely put my fate within your hands." And

So did sorrowful Hilde beseech him, hands enjoined.

"Well you speak," said honorable Geoffrey, "For the ages

Have passed without new war between Rufoux and Melic,

And I seek none now. Nor would I do harm to a lone

Woman, if indeed you do not scheme to deceive me,

And do not produce clansmen from the trees like droppings

Of the kinderfalcon. What your complaint is, and what

Remedy you desire, yet escapes me and any power

I have to drive you from this land in contentment."

Gently did he rest his eyes upon her, not wishing

Any evil upon her, seeming so deprived of hope.

"Sir, listen then to my lament, that your understanding

Might open upon my desire." And Hilde did lean

Her breast upon his shoulder, and look into his clear

Eyes, searching for weak flesh in the strength of his

Gracious spirit. Thus did Geoffrey fall into the wiles

Of her graces, the muse of her tenderness, and did

Bequeath upon her the Rufoux bloodline. But yet

Not to his shame! For still is Picta among us, a

Shadow for a future generation, the

Fruit of a merciful man, born from the honor of

This father of many, never speaking, never lamenting,

But only casting his memory upon her and the matron

Forced into the mountains in her guilt — for truly

A Rufoux man showed grace more than the trees — yet still

Offering hope to the Melics, the dying people, hope

That the sins of the past would not be visited upon

Generations to come, but instead life would call their spirits.

For what is old is passed, what is new has begun.

Again did Drueed sit among the shadows and meditate

Within his own counsel. Again did crisis arise among

The Melics, and Drueed called upon a man of separate

Nation, but not cause. For across the land of Medialia

Did a strange race invade, roaming the land in rage

And destruction. Towering high above the heads of men,

Mighty Aoten ranged the fields, with grievous footsteps

Claiming rights to Medialia. And the Melics did protest,

To see the hideous giants below, but their efforts fell

Weakly to the ground, for they boast not a warrior race,

But a people of thought and reason, for so continues

Drueed's gift to them from of old. And so did

Drueed again consider them and the words of their

Prayers lifted toward him, and did sit in the shadows

And meditate within his own counsel. "These Melics

Recall their need again, and all of Medialia, trees and

Lands, and they call upon me for wisdom and

Deliverance. But they yet fall upon wisdom, already having

Been defeated by the encroaching Aoten, and knowing

To seek out aid. But who shall I send to rescue them

From their distress, and to make a war against these giants?

For there dwells none within Medialia strong enough to survive

The slaughter of the Aoten, the might of their blows,

Except the Rufoux, and Geoffrey of the Rufoux."

And so did Drueed again call upon bold Geoffrey,

Endowed with the courage of age, the audacity of the

Passage of years, for so little did he care about

His own life that he would gladly give it for that

Of another. And Geoffrey heeded the call of

The Melics, and did bring his clan into league

With the tree-dwellers. And so he did at last lay

His eyes upon Picta, and his hand upon her shoulders,

And so he did make pact between the Rufoux

And Melics. "But we cannot win alone!" he declared

To the gathered warriors, "For our strength still falls

Short to defeat the hulking Aoten, who hunger

After our grain and the taste of our flesh. There remains

A secret matter for us to uncover — we must

Bring into the battle all the clans of Medialia,

All the peoples who belong to this most grand land

Upon all the Earth, or neither will the Rufoux,

Nor Melics, nor any clan live to tell the tale

To children dandled before the ceremonial fires."

Did Geoffrey cease? No indeed, for the ancient Rufoux

Saw truly that still weakness vexed his forces, not enough to

Overtake the raiders of the land, those who would rape

The forests and meadows. Even as the desperate cry

Lifted from the land, even as its people fell destitute,

Ships of the Koinoni brought their own terror,

And the Rufoux saw anew the despised vagabonds

Of the Earth. What new trouble would arise – just as

The eyes of the clan had diverted to saving

Their village – from the desires of the traders, vessels

Weighted down with ill-gotten wares and fiendish reputation?

What indeed? For it mattered not to Geoffrey, who saw anew

Upon the ships only strong arms to bear weapons,

And mighty robes of mail to deflect darts and arrows,

And ingenious devices from foreign lands that would

Serve him well to flummox the thick-headed Aoten and

Add strength to the swords of the Rufoux, the axes

Of the Melics, and the imaginations of all others

Who would partake in the great adventure he led

For all of Medialia. "So join with us!" he proclaimed.

"Take up your arms with us, in the glorious battle for

The life of Medialia's clans, and be one of us again,

A lost nation found once more in Medialia;

Be among the race of humans again, and no longer the hated

Wanderers of the waterways that flow you know not where."

But yet still the army stood weak, and its number too few.

And so yet again did Geoffrey of the Rufoux, the man

Who makes Mog himself jealous for the power

Of his bravery, the impudence that prepares for battle

By putting aside armor, jealous for the courage that

Lays siege against giants and dead elders alike, unafraid to

Challenge the weapons of a gigantic enemy or the mindset

Of entrenched culture, so did Geoffrey set out upon his

Desperate journey into the blowing desert sands of

The Bedoua, the strange people who had so long hated

The Rufoux. But Geoffrey, without fear in his heart,

Without doubt of mind, sought them out, to make his

Peace with the legends of warfare, to show his people's

Desire now for treaty, and desire now to right former

Wrongs, so that even the great lancers of the Bedoua

Might join in the battle to save Medialia. And in his

Wisdom he did bring the mighty desert nomads into alliance

To defeat the Aoten, even down the River Alluvia did he

Bring them, making peace between the Bedoua and Rufoux,

Between the Bedoua and the waters, to be cursed no more.

For what is old is passed, what is new has begun.

Nor even yet did Geoffrey rest satisfied, this man of godlike

Stature, the thumbless one of grand reputation, for still

The defenses of the clans against the giants could not

Withstand their assault. So even still he coveted the aid

Of the hidden clan, the hermit dwellers of the stone city,

The Raspars, who alone know the secrets of the high

Walls, the stronghold of warfare, the polished death

Of the fine stone arrowhead. Never had they been seen,

Never had they deserted their fortress of cut boulders,

But Geoffrey would not be restrained, nor would he

Be discouraged from his mission, and he gallantly marched

Across the expanse of Medialia, navigating the rivers

That hold the land in their tender embrace, and approached

The foot of the walls surrounding the great city,

The towers of stone, glistening in the sun, crowned with

Gargoyles, witness to the greatness of mankind, the glory

Of man's mind and muscle, the genius of his creation.

What foolishness, they claimed! But do not the shadows

Cast by the moon seem less dense in the darkness?

Did not Geoffrey's tree lift great missiles through the air,

Driving the giants into the river and across the land?

Was it not Geoffrey who returned? Did not Geoffrey

Advance across the fields, back to the awaiting Rufoux?

Was it not Geoffrey leading a great battalion of Melics,

Of Bedoua, of Koinoni, and thousands upon thousands

Of Raspar archers, bristling with tools, weighted down

With weaponry, desiring to spill the blood of the Aoten?

Was it not Geoffrey, or do I think of another?

Will my song end with this salutation? Or will I sing

More of Geoffrey? How could there be more still to tell of this

Man of Medialia? I must confess, still more I must tell,

For he has brought hope unto the Melics, the people

Of the trees, but as well all the clans of Medialia,

But more so he has brought hope to the Rufoux.

For in the days of his travels, he came to see

The sore melancholy of Artur, and the bruising of his heart,

And the prison of custom did hold his son in cruel grip,

And Geoffrey vowed this calamity would not fall

Upon this, his youngest son, nor fall upon his clan. In

That day he spoke his word to overrule the tradition

And end the solitude of Artur, and the shame of Andreia —

Just as his mercy touched the heartache of Hilde —

To ensure the line of Artur, the line of Geoffrey,

The chieftains of the Rufoux, that their leaders might

Grow in prosperity and fatness in all the years ahead

After driving the Aoten from the land, and all

The clans may live and work and play and marry,

Even as Artur and Andreia marry against expectation

Of the gods, and peace will reign upon the Earth.

For what is old is passed, what is new has begun.

Let us celebrate this hero, even as his funeral flames

Reach into the skies, his own fiery countenance taking

Him into the heavens without flint and kindling.

Surely the magic of Drueed shows us a great thing,

Taking Geoffrey into his reward at his own calling.

Let us celebrate the hero! For he has shown us

The way of the new world, the new Medialia,

A time when all clans will join together for

The better good of all! Let us celebrate the hero!

For he has battled the tyranny of traditions that

Held all men prisoner, and has led us into a better

Way, even as we do battle against looming rivals of

Simple flesh and blood, but no less fearsome!

Let us celebrate the hero! For Geoffrey lives on

Among us, always in the heart, always in the memory,

His spirit anointed to lead the new future of Medialia!

For what is old is passed, what is new has begun!

Chapter LII

In a copse sufficiently distant from the stockade to be private, but not too far from safety, Krait paced slowly and designed his plotting. The leaves of the branches hung heavily with dew, and he swatted with malice at their damp, unwelcome touch – spraying moisture, such as he had never seen in his desert home, reminding him yet more of his detested surroundings. A tangle of deceit traced its way around his hatred and ambition to weave a foul plan, and his words spoken only to the trees painted a portrait of treachery.

"Dungo has-sss no right to ensnare the Bedoua in this-sss fight. We have no part with these-sss Rufoux, who raid our lands-sss and drive us-sss into the desert! But I will take part with them! I will take our part away from them! Their crimes-sss of the pas-ssst will not long remain unpunished. I will be my own instrument of vengeance-sss again-ssst that fool Dungo and the Rufoux! But I mus-ssst weigh carefully my alliances-sss, for trus-ssst must be given only to one who also mistrust-sss."

His ambition settled in his head, Krait knew his conspiracy must hatch from within the stronghold, and so he made his return. Intractable as he was, only with great struggle could he force himself to call out for the ladder to scale the wall. He particularly abhorred seeking help, and if he instead could have dug under the wall or chewed through it, he certainly would have chosen to.

Having successfully navigated the climb, Krait pulled the ladder up to the wall walk and plunged the end rudely to the ground, into the mass of Raspars, who consistently stationed themselves tightly along the walls of the fortress. Gathering his robes around his knees, the Bedoua clumsily descended until he found himself hip-deep in archers, all involved with their morning meal. He quickly scanned the sea of bobbing heads and spied one with a patch.

"I have found out your name, Vespus-sss," he whispered, "For I know you have no misguided love for foolish alliances-sss."

"Lo, what do ye say to me, Bedoua?" Vespus replied.

"I have seen you refuse-sss your own kinsman, when he is-sss fated to a brutal beating. I have seen you take the better part of wisdom. I need to speak to such a man."

"Lo, and who are ye?"

Krait looked at him with hard, hidden eyes, and Vespus could neither see nor tell. "The name I bear will remain known to me for now. You have no need for secret knowledge of me at this-sss moment. You have no need to hold that power over me."

"Aye, ye say? Ye would speak with me?"

"Yes-sss, but not among so many."

"Lo, nobody walks about. Only Raspars abide, in the Raspar way, hearing only what is spoken to ye, and turning aside from all else."

"We mus-ssst be away, for this-sss is-sss not for the ears-sss of so many," Krait insisted.

"Lo, we will speak here, or not at all," said Vespus coolly. "I will not depart the safety of my clansmen. Lo, do ye make demands, and yet will not reveal your name to me?"

Krait looked about him and seethed. He very nearly turned to storm away, but he knew that would not serve his ends. Even so, he looked about the compound wildly. Indeed, none of the other Raspars did seem even aware of his presence. Perhaps he should give in to Vespus. Still, he kept his voice low.

"Very well, then. Have your way, Raspar, but soon you will agree to my desires-sss. I am Krait, a high minister to Dungo, vizier of the Bedoua. Never would I seek you out except that we are both in this-sss putrid hole. Together we fester, imprisoned securely within Rufoux walls-sss. For generation-sss the Rufoux have persecuted the Bedoua, since the day-sss they drove us-sss from the waters-sss of the Alluvia and into the dry deserts-sss. The Bedoua have no fondness-sss for the Rufoux; do you, Raspar? Do you claim any love for their clan?"

"Nay, I have no love for any other clan. My allegiance lies with the Raspars only. Yet ye say ye are minister to your vizier? Do ye speak for him?"

"I will speak for him when my time is-sss ready. You have no loyalty to any outsider, for you are a man of wisdom. Nor do I, but my hatred I reserve for the Rufoux. Many times-sss I have seen the abundance-sss of their land. I have left the desert at the times-sss of my clan's-sss superstitions-sss, even at the full moon, to spy out the Rufoux lands-sss and see their fullness-sss. I have seen the prosperity of their fields-sss, and their handiwork at metals-sss; I use-sss their skills-sss to my own end," he said behind his dark lenses. "I say, these-sss are things-sss that rightly belong to the Bedoua. The Rufoux have stolen our lands-sss from on old, and all the blessings-sss that belong to the lands-sss."

"Lo, and why should I spend my concern upon ye? Ye are Bedoua."

"Yes-sss, I am Bedoua, and I dwell in the courts-sss of the vizier. Dungo is-sss a fool, to join in this-sss suicide, and he will not stop talking."

"Lo, indeed, Severus also has said your vizier would be death to us all."

"Dungo is-sss an ass-sss," said Krait with unusual emphasis. "He will lead the Bedoua into oblivion if I do not stop him. Already he has-sss revealed the strategy to me: The warriors-sss are to meet the Aoten in the open and draw them toward Raspar archers-sss. Raspar archers-sss are known to draw their bows-sss from high, hard walls-sss. Well I have heard of the Raspar city, and its-sss crowding. Think of the Raspar future, Vespus-sss, and a greater Raspar kingdom with lands-sss to expand. Are not the Rufoux the mos-ssst powerful clan? What other clan of Medialia would ever hope to defeat them in battle? Surely you see, with no Rufoux, with no Aoten, your people could safely live outside your city. No longer would you be confined to your defenses-sss. Then you would be a great people within Medialia."

"Aye, and what do ye mean, 'With no Rufoux'?"

"Rufoux have held Bedoua lands-sss too long! The Aoten will remedy this-sss injustice-sss for my people at long las-ssst. Thrice-sss the Rufoux have failed agains-ssst the giants-sss, fighting alone; even with Melic and Koinoni help, they can be no more than grateful to have survived. It is-sss only for the giant-sss now to eliminate the Rufoux, and the Bedoua can again claim their lands-sss."

"Lo, have we not come here to fight against the Aoten? Did we not travel this great distance to make war alongside the Rufoux? Did ye not do likewise?"

"What is-sss this-sss you say?" accused Krait. "Do you now take the side of the Rufoux, to whom you owe nothing? Do you claim allegiance-sss now to this red clan of killers-sss, who would gladly steal your city in return for your help?"

"Nay, I have no love for any clan, save the Raspars," said Vespus flatly. "I prefer to remain within my city even today. But the tunnel already lays revealed."

"Then join with me, to overthrow this accursed alliance-sss, and let us-sss lay was-ssste to the Rufoux and all others-sss who squat upon Medialia. We have all gathered to battle the Aoten, have we not? What did the Melic say, that all clans-sss mus-ssst join to defeat the giants-sss, no? As-sss the clans-sss lead the giants-sss to the stockade, I will withdraw Bedoua lancers-sss, and you will restrain your archers-sss, and the res-ssst will fall like rumidonts-sss under the jaws-sss of thylak. With one clan removed from battle, perhaps-sss the giants-sss would defeat the res-ssst; with two gone missing, the Aoten surely would rout every man outside the walls-sss."

"Lo, what say ye?"

"You and I, we mus-ssst prevent our clans-sss from doing battle. We mus-ssst allow the Aoten to defeat the Rufoux, the Melics-sss and Koinoni; then the land will be ours-sss. The Aoten will prevail, they mus-ssst destroy all the Rufoux; but the fighting will surely leave them badly wounded and worn. Then the Bedoua, with Raspars-sss, will descend upon the giants-sss and wipe them out forever. The Bedoua will regain their birthright, the territory stolen ages-sss ago, and the ripe fields-sss and running waters-sss of the Alluvia. Foolish Dungo, he curses-sss the very river of his-sss forefathers-sss, who-ssse blessings-sss belong in the hands-sss of his-sss people! He too mus-ssst die! I will return them to the Bedoua, I will make them ours-sss again. Then will the Bedoua rule over Medialia! And then will the Raspars-sss have lands-sss to build new cities-sss, to expand your kingdom."

"Aye, but how will ye, a single man, arrange such events?"

Krait again looked about suspiciously at the crowd of Raspars, and he dropped his voice yet lower. "Dungo, that fat slug, he will feel the wages-sss of my ambitions-sss fir-ssst! That lumbering simpleton will fall heavily out of my way. Poison is-sss among the Bedoua ways-sss, and even Dungo himself is-sss always-sss surrounded by bottles-sss teeming with death. A drop or two, or the entire draught, there will be enough to give res-ssst to his-sss struggling heart. Left alone with his-sss empty-headed palaver, opportunities-sss to lay him was-ssste will abound. I will find a way to remove that billowing butterball."

"Lo, ye would kill your own leader? Ye do not make that odd clicking of your people — ye defy those who would read ye. Would ye truly kill Dungo?" Vespus' one eye displayed real shock.

"His-sss judgments-sss have brought the Bedoua to the edge of ruin. He is-sss no longer a wis-ssse leader of the Bedoua, and I mus-ssst replace-sss him. What is-sss in your mind now — would you think to hinder me? Would you betray me for Dungo's-sss sake?"

Vespus considered Krait carefully for a moment, then shrugged. "Lo, if ye wish to betray your leader, it does not concern me. I have no loyalty to your vizier. I have no loyalty to any, save the Raspars."

Chapter LIII

A gasp, and Andreia's eyes snapped open. "Artur!" as she clutched his forearm beside her, and the therium-tusk necklace clattered against her naked breasts as her body lurched.

"What?!" he started up.

"A dream! I was dreaming," she said, her panic fading, but still her heart raced.

"What about? Did you see something?"

"I don't know. I don't remember — I dreamed mostly images, feelings." Andreia sat up and pulled the thylak-pelt cover up to her shoulders. "A great flock of birds flew over still water — the River Alluvia, I guess, but it seemed much bigger. I don't remember seeing the banks at all. And the birds, every kind and color of bird I can imagine flew there, and they flew so low. Their wings flapped easily, and they bobbed up and down in the air, but didn't go anywhere; they hung still in the air, and flew just above the lapping of the water. Then one came out of the midst of the flock — a black one, a raven, I expect — and flew straight up into the sun, and I feared for it. I knew it flew toward the heat, the heat of the sun, directly above the land. The raven flew and flew, its wings strong and swift, but before it could reach the sun a terrible wind took hold of it. It was wind, I knew in my dream it was the wind, but it blew like never before. The air whipped like a charging pack of thylak, so great was its strength. I called out, but the bird wouldn't hear; and the wind captured the raven in its teeth, and the poor bird struggled to fly higher, but it couldn't. And then it disappeared, gone with no trace, it simply vanished. But the last thing I saw was its eye, an eye full of terror and understanding, and I was frightened and awoke."

"What does it mean? Does it mean anything?" asked Artur, soothing in his voice.

"I don't know. I am no longer afraid. I dreamed nothing real, for the waters never spread so broadly, and the wind always blows gently. But we should see what Pepin has to say."

"Can it wait?" Artur played with the necklace.

"Oh, we can let it wait a little while."

In time Artur and Andreia found Pepin, helping Theodoric in the daily inspection along the stockade's exterior. Every morning workers doctored and reinforced the pilings, packing new earth around their footings. Chinks that had formed overnight were filled, and new support beams added, making as solid a barrier as possible in anticipation of the giants' next onslaught. The Melics stopped their routine to carefully mull Andreia's dream as she related it again.

"You have paid attention well," said Pepin. "I have had no insights since arriving here; I think perhaps being away from home has darkened my light. The mind is like a man who collects treasures in his castle, with memories old giving rise to wonders new."

"Yes," said Theodoric. "Perhaps so. Do you understand the dream?"

"Visions are not things to be understood like proverbs; they dash and dodge in the imagination, offering explanations that contradict each other, then hide completely," said Pepin. "Many of us take refuge here, of different kinds and colors, and is not that the Alluvia there? I suspect the clans make up the flock of birds. Then one breaks away and disappears; that could mean a death, or desertion."

"Do you think?" asked Andreia.

"Well, perhaps. Sometimes the proof of prophecy requires no less than its fulfillment. We will have to wait, but at the same time keep our eyes open. It may yet become apparent. But really it is neither here nor there, for the bird would not hear you."

"What do you mean, Pepin?"

"Even if we knew the dream's interpretation, you say the victim would not listen. Sad to say, but not a favorable sign. But perhaps you can also find comfort in knowing the fates have taken the bird beyond your help. Perhaps that's all it means."

The group fell awkwardly silent. "How stands the wall today?" asked Artur at length, always preferring the needs of the day over philosophy.

"No weakness that we've seen yet," said Theodoric. "As we wait upon dreams, so also giants. Surely the Aoten will soon prepare another attack."

"Do you suppose they could have returned to the Raspar city?"

"A possibility," Theodoric considered it well. "That could be so — their best success has been battering our walls with Raspar stones, and they might have returned for more. Best not to mention the likelihood to Mercedi. Love and anxiety go hand-in-hand when they travel great distances."

"Right," said Artur, not knowing what to say, and he waved away a hummingbird.

"Meantime, we will continue to inspect, and make the fortress ever stronger. The Aoten will be upon us, likely much sooner than we'd wish."

"And the grain remains safe?"

"Safe indeed, Artur, and well camouflaged," Theodoric smiled. "I have hidden it well, so that you will think twice before snapping me in half. Otherwise, you would never find it."

Artur playfully pulled on the Melic king's arm, just to let him know he could twist it off if he wanted, and he and his bride climbed back inside the stockade. Theodoric and Pepin continued their rounds outside. As they passed by the near edge of their wood, they heard a rustling, but at a glance saw it to be only a Bedoua man.

"Careful out there, Krait!" called Theodoric. "Don't be caught beyond easy reach of a ladder. The sittlebark flowers for a season, but its petals line the nests of the coney and crow alike."

"True, that," said Pepin as the Melics moved on.

Krait sneered at them and continued his scheming back in the copse.

"The vizier robes-sss will go to the fattes-ssst," he said to himself. "The Bedoua will expect that, foolish tradition! Idiots-sss' tradition! No Bedoua here is-sss fat like Dungo; the true vizier will be one of thos-ssse left in the desert, possibly Mer. But the lancers-sss, the Bedoua force-sss dwells-sss here; I mus-ssst take charge here! The lancers-sss will likely fall behind Sylva, daughter to Dungo. She's-sss fatter than me anyway. I mus-ssst kill her, too, get her out of the way. That's-sss bes-ssst! That's-sss bes-ssst anyway, for she is-sss his-sss brain. I mus-ssst kill her as-sss well. Then I will take the robes-sss; I am not fattes-ssst, but I am high minister."

Preoccupied, Krait delicately picked his way out of the wood, careful to protect his sandaled feet. "Use-sss up the Rufoux, then the Aoten, then the Raspars-sss," he mumbled to himself. "Firs-ssst the Rufoux, then the Aoten, then the Raspars-sss."

Krait returned to the interior of the stockade and again found Vespus. "Vespus-sss, I have made my plan. Its-sss time will come soon, for the full moon is-sss nearly upon us-sss."

"Lo, I thought ye had no care for the beliefs of your people," said Vespus, again surrounded by Raspar archers. Krait appeared no more comfortable with this arrangement than he had been the day before.

"I have nothing to do with those-sss superstitions-sss, unless-sss they serve my reality," Krait hissed back, but so quietly that Vespus nearly could not hear. "The full moon will soon be overhead, and my foolish vizier will be petrified with fright in his-sss dwellings-sss."

"Aye, so I understand. So ye believe your god will invade the land of the Rufoux?" Vespus spoke in a normal voice, having no reason not to.

"I believe nothing."

"Nay, nor will Gryphon appear. He does not appear, for evil nor good."

"That is-sss not my concern. At the full moon the vizier will be trapped inside his-sss hut, with me jus-ssst as-sss certainly. All the Bedoua lancers-sss will seek shelter, cover for their heads-sss during the night. In the dark of the night I will strike, and Dungo will lie dead. I mus-ssst gain Rufoux weapons-sss, to shred his-sss body, for it mus-ssst look like the work of Wolven."

"Lo, what is it ye say?"

"Wolven is-sss a legend of terrible retribution. The fables-sss tell of vicious-sss reprisals-sss he makes-sss upon Bedoua who are not respectful of his-sss fearsomeness-sss. Let my foolish clansmen believe such tales-sss! I will leave Dungo's-sss carcass-sss out like a sheaf of wool, that they may all see, and believe that Wolven has-sss had his-sss revenge on the unfaithful."

A sea of Raspars sat by, neither hearing nor seeing.

"Lo, will they believe such a thing?"

"They will believe about Dungo, and they will believe as-sss much for themselves-sss. I will teach them well, that Wolven is-sss displeased with them for leaving the deserts-sss. They will believe, and then I will take hold of their wills-sss! They will follow me, for then I will be their only hope to remain safe until we return to our tents-sss. But our journey will be still a month hence-sss, before the nex-ssst full moon, and we will have our way with the Rufoux and the Aoten by that time!"

"Aye, ye propose a good plan. Well ye have done to approach me," said Vespus.

"Indeed, I mus-ssst approach you, for you mus-ssst help me. I need the Rufoux weapons-sss, but in their loathing they do not trus-ssst me. They look upon me with baleful eyes-sss, and more so the metal smith than the others-sss, for he hates-sss me, The all speak evil behind my back, and my very life is-sss in danger. So you mus-ssst acquire a Rufoux sword, a sharp sword, for me, and hooks-sss to tear and shred flesh."

Vespus considered his own rag-tag sword. "Lo, I can find some for ye, and perhaps for myself as well. I should be better armed for the battle. The smith surely will have what ye seek."

"Very well, very well. I will meet with you again, when the moon is-sss ready to burn brightes-ssst. Be sure to acquire the weapons-sss, and we will make good on our pact. Dungo will no longer burden this-sss Earth, and the Bedoua will be out of the clutches-sss of the Rufoux!"

"Lo, but what about the vizier's daughter? Will she not take rank before ye, and defy ye?"

"Yes-sss, so I have thought. I mus-ssst be the highes-ssst Bedoua official still here, when Dungo is-sss dead, to take power to myself. Dungo never stops-sss talking, and Sylva never speaks-sss anything; and yet she is-sss his-sss real power. Sylva mus-ssst go as-sss well."

"Lo, so ye also plan to kill Sylva?"

A single Raspar within the crowd raised his head at these words, a Raspar without bow and arrow, and at that moment Rhodan both saw and heard, and understood.

Chapter LIV

The Koinoni had moored their vessels upstream, for a twofold purpose. First, they hoped to serve as early warning, as the Aoten no doubt would again march upon the village from the north. The Koinoni conceived to set out a signal as soon as they spotted the giants' approach. Then, second, as the battle took shape and the armies drew the Aoten within the archers' range, the trading clan was charged with closing in upon the giants' rear flank with their slings.

Yarrow stood on deck with others, all spinning in turn even though they knew which direction to watch. Within the shadows of his heavy robes Kylie hung from his Raspar belt, and he contemplated what he had failed to attain.

"How have we managed to perfect misjudging the value of things, Gessel?" he asked the one nearest him. "Always have we coveted Rufoux weapons, and yet from the black sand we gave the bumbling smithy they produce a mightier blade than ever imagined. We surely draw no closer to the better thing than on the day Zdjaman required it of us."

"If it can be bought or sold, you will recognize it, Yarrow," Gessel replied.

"I fear all other ways are wasted upon the Koinoni. But at last we have reached the Bedoua, and the Raspars. New clans for trade will open new roads to explore. Perhaps one day we will also understand the Melics, and will find this better way, and find a homeland. For now, we would do well to befriend the new Raspar regent, before our minds turn completely to warfare. Let us pole our ship back to the village."

Within the stockade walls, Rhodan watched Krait walk away from the encamped Raspars and toward the tents of his own clan. Only then did he stand and slowly work his way through the tightly packed Raspar archers. Stepping over shoulders and gingerly placing his feet between bodies, he made a winding trail that led eventually to Vespus.

"Lo, what do ye speak with the Bedoua?" he demanded.

"Nay, nothing meant for ye to hear. Ye shall not listen to private talks," Vespus replied, his voice rising in indignation.

"Aye, but ye no longer reside in the Eternal City of the Raspars, and neither do I. We bow to the rule of the Rufoux first, and Mercedi second, while we dwell within Rufoux borders. That is why I hear ye speak with the Bedoua."

Vespus scoffed but calmed down. "Lo, it is of no matter at any rate. The Bedoua speaks only of his own clan, and they hold no importance for the Raspars. He has his own ideas for defeating the Aoten, and the Rufoux as well."

"Lo, defeat the Rufoux? Why does he wish this?"

"Aye, he wishes this greatly. His hatred for the Rufoux boils over, and he desires their lands for the Bedoua. He promises lands for the Raspars as well."

"Nay, but the Raspars do not desire new lands. Has Mercedi wished for new lands?"

"Nay, not that I know," said Vespus. "Mercedi does not counsel with me, though I seek only to serve her. Aye, indeed, she only humiliates me. Yet Krait promises that new lands will be home to new Raspar cities, bigger cities to protect many Raspars. Mercedi surely would see wisdom in that."

"Lo, but what of Sylva? Did he reveal designs against Sylva?" Rhodan's tone betrayed his anxiety.

"Lo, he will eliminate her. He will kill Dungo, and the daughter as well. Their doings have no meaning for us — it is a Bedoua matter."

Rhodan stood up and looked about in distress. "Nay, but we must stop him. We must save Sylva, and Dungo!" Around him Raspars neither heard nor cared.

"Lo, why should the Raspars care, or risk our safety?"

"Aye, we must care, for the safety of many lies in the balance. Why does Krait conspire to kill his vizier? What plan has he hatched?"

"Lo, to take over his clan. Then he will withhold Bedoua lancers, and I will withhold Raspar archers, and the giants will wipe out the Rufoux and all others..."

"Lo, ye?! Ye plan to withhold Raspar archers? And how do ye suppose to accomplish this?"

"Aye, I will forbid the archers to fire," replied Vespus, becoming confused.

"Lo, and what of Mercedi when she orders them to fire?"

Vespus did not answer; he clearly had given the matter no thought.

Rhodan grabbed his shirt by the shoulder and pulled him to his feet. As he dragged Vespus out of the crowd he cried, "Lo, we must find Mercedi! Fool — do ye understand nothing? How can ye overrule Mercedi as long as she lives? Krait expects ye to kill her! He will command ye to kill the regent after ye have no choice left!"

Vespus stared at him dumb-founded. "Nay! Never! I have no loyalty to any, except the Raspars, and the regent!" he insisted.

"Aye! Then we must run, we must find Mercedi, and warn her! We must save Sylva!"

They struggled out of the tangle of sitting men and ran around the perimeter, finally finding Mercedi at the edge of the cluster of Raspars. She faced a Koinoni, probably Yarrow, deep in conversation, with five others spinning around them.

Vespus reached her first and dropped to both knees. "Lo, my regent! My fair queen! Have mercy upon me, for I understood not!"

"Lo, what do ye talk about?" she replied. "Ye talk like Linus."

"Aye, my lady," began Rhodan, as Vespus bowed panting. "Treachery abounds against ye, and death awaits. Another clan plots your destruction."

"Nay, nay, ye drive me to confusion. What is this?"

"Lo, speak, Vespus!" commanded Rhodan.

"Aye, lady regent, I know of a scheme that would lead to your slaying."

"Lo, am I to join in on such a plan? What do ye talk about?" Mercedi asked toughly.

"Lo, regent, the Bedoua man Krait dreams a plan to defeat the giants and kill off the Rufoux. He plans to kill his vizier. Forgive me, regent, I beg ye!"

"Nay, Dungo? Treachery indeed, but why do ye require mercy?"

"Lo, regent Mercedi, the Bedoua man Krait expects to take command of the Bedoua, and refuse their lances in the battle against the giants. He drew me in as well, to refuse also Raspar archers! I did not see, regent! I beg ye to believe me, I did not see! He expects me to kill ye, regent, and so to command the archers. But I refuse, regent Mercedi! Now I see, and I swear I will not! Please be merciful, Mercedi Zardracon, I have no loyalty to any but the Raspars, and to ye!"

Vespus fell to weeping with his one eye, and Mercedi looked upon him coldly. "Lo, we sojourn outside the Raspar walls, so I will not deal with ye in Raspar fashion, until that time when we return. What know ye of this?" she asked Rhodan.

"Aye, regent, I heard this man Krait say he would kill Sylva. Then he will kill Dungo, and take over as vizier to the Bedoua, Vespus says, and betray the Rufoux to the giants. He bargained for Raspar aid, and Vespus was too thick to see through his plan."

"Lo, regent," offered Vespus, seeking favor. "Krait hopes the giants will destroy the Rufoux, and the Melics and Koinoni as well, and then the Bedoua and Raspars might overcome those that still survive. He wishes to take ownership of the land, so the Bedoua can live in prosperity. He promises land for Raspar cities. But first he requires me to acquire sharp weapons from the Rufoux metal smith."

"Nay, when do Raspars rely on promises of others?" said Mercedi. "The wages of deceit are nights too frightful for sleep, Vespus; if Krait designs to betray three clans of Medialia, what will stop his betraying the fourth? Ye fool!"

"Aye, regent," said Vespus, still bent over his knees.

"Lo, we must deal with this Krait," said Mercedi.

"Aye, but what will ye do?" said Rhodan. "We can do nothing to threaten the alliance — ye and I, we have worked too hard,"

"Nay, we can not. To inform Dungo would do no good, for he will see no evil."

"Nay, Krait serves as his highest minister. Dungo would never believe our report, and Krait would certainly deny it. Only bad blood could arise from such talk."

"Lo, perhaps I can make the traitor change his mind," said Mercedi, and her eyelids drooped slightly. "I have been known to make men change their minds."

"You will get no agreement from this Bedoua man," Yarrow broke in.

"Lo, what do ye say?"

"This man Krait is double-minded; he is not to be trusted. The Koinoni have turned down already his bribes to deliver up all you other clansmen."

"Aye? He has tried this with ye?"

"After the clans' first meeting, before we gathered to seek out you Raspars. Dungo too was absent, and Krait claimed to speak for the Bedoua. The vile brute cursed the Koinoni, cursed us to our faces, and before the other clans! Then not a degree in the sun's journey later, he slinked around again to make bargain with us."

"Lo, and what did he want from ye?"

"He promised us Rufoux territory for a homeland if we drew the Melics into the village and made them all to take of his poison. Then we would travel back to the Bedoua camp as though bringing news, and he would overthrow Dungo. He is a crazy man, crazed by his manipulations!"

"Aye! So ye did not consider joining him?"

"Of course not. We sought what he had for trade, and he had nothing. Koinoni need more than the air of promises to sell our service. Crazy man!"

Mercedi gazed hard at the robed figure — so benign in manner, so indifferent to any higher calling — for just a moment. "Lo, Yarrow, I must apologize, but also I must ask you to withdraw at this moment."

Once the six Koinoni had left, she turned back again to Rhodan.

"Lo, the man Krait is surely bent upon this action. He has only himself in his heart, and what we prevent him from doing this time he will replace with yet worse villainy to come."

"Aye, Mercedi. What will ye do?"

"Lo, I have not already grown weary of this endeavor, and I will show my faithfulness. The Raspars will give proof of our commitment. Krait we must stop; Dungo, and the alliance, we must preserve. Sadly, the duty falls to us — fetch Severus to me."

Chapter LV

Severus sat within the pack of Raspars, along the edge, his feet drawn close to his buttocks, his chin leaning upon his knees. His face still bore the marks of Jakke's pleasure; for this reason, perhaps, he held his eyes half-closed, and at times they appeared to roll backwards as his head bobbed slightly. In the Raspar way he had withdrawn totally within himself, seemingly oblivious to all around him, his mind fully back within the Raspar walls, enclosed by their cold comfort, imprisoned by the past and future. He knew Krait would seek out Vespus again.

Indeed, Severus snapped out of his reverie to see the Bedoua pacing back and forth before the assembled archers, scanning the faces with an irritated expression, clearly mumbling to himself. As Krait passed nearby, Severus spoke without pretense of ignorance.

"Lo, Vespus no longer sits here."

"Did I ass-sssk?" Krait tried to mask his surprise, then turned to his typically covert voice. "Where is-sss he gone?"

"Nay, I do not know. He has left the Raspar encampment."

"How can I find him?"

"Lo, ye cannot. He sent me to speak with ye."

"I will not speak with you," Krait turned openly indignant.

"Lo, ye would do well to, for so he has sent me. Vespus is careless, but he does not make the same mistake twice."

"He has-sss told you? Who else-sss?" hissed Krait.

"Nay, he tells no one else, for he knows I too hold no regard for your vizier Dungo. I will be all ye need."

Krait studied Severus, who did his best to look disinterested. "Truly, he spoke of your disdain for the vizier. You should learn respect for the leaders-sss of warrior clans-sss!"

Krait could not fool Severus. "Aye, when we join in battle, your fat chieftain will bring only disaster upon us all, regardless of who fathers the attack, ye or the Rufoux, and so ye know yourself. Vespus has sent me to ye; ye will find me a better tool in the hand of malice."

"I have not yet chosen to speak with you," said Krait. "I don't know yet if you can be trusted."

"Lo, better, for as I say, Vespus is careless, but not so I. Vespus would gladly discuss the matter openly, but I say let us speak of this elsewhere."

Krait received this saying gladly, at first, but the twisted gears of his mind soon made him unsure what to make of it. "You abandon the Raspars-sss way staying together? Do you not turn blindly away from what you hear and see from each other?"

"Aye, indeed the Raspars live that way within the Eternal City. And yet here more than Raspar ears stand about."

Krait could see milling Rufoux and Melics nearby, and even some fellow Bedoua. He ducked low, spreading his robes in hopes he would not be recognized. Still, he hesitated to accept Severus' direction.

"Look, I may not speak to you at all. I have no use-sss for weakness-sss. You have little ability to boast of yourself, as-sss your face-sss testifies-sss."

Severus glared as he gingerly touched his fingertips to his cuts and bruises. His fingers began to tremble slightly.

"Nay, I will not be so humiliated. I will take no such beating from him nor ye." Severus' cool demeanor began to melt away, and his eyes froze upon Krait. "I will have my revenge, for being so misused in this prison, this filthy pen of my captivity! I will see my requital done upon that smith, and I will — I will kill — I will —" His eyes burned and he grasped at his hair with both hands, trying to remember his task, struggling to regain his composure. "Lo, I will — I must speak with ye."

"I do not think it best to speak with you."

"Lo, Vespus is not here. Ye can speak to nobody else. What ye have sent him to do has been prevented, I must gain ye weapons instead."

"You will get the blades-sss from the smith?"

"Aye, I mus-ssst take them from the smith, and at the same opportunity I will have my vengeance."

"Perhaps-sss you would do well, at that, with your hatred again-ssst the man. I can not act without the weapons-sss. But you mus-ssst do nothing rash to put my plans-sss in jeopardy."

"Lo, nothing. I must do nothing." Severus seemed to calm down, and spoke hopefully. "But still too many ears lurk about. Let us be off, to speak of this privately, so none may hear."

"Where then?" Krait let his caution waver. "Let us-sss retreat into the forests-sss."

"Nay, others may be about there we do not see. The Melics, they cleverly hide in the branches above. Let us go into one of the towers. There we will duck below the windows and know we are alone."

Krait eyed the tower built into the closest corner of the stockade. It loomed over the compound, perhaps sixty kronyn over their heads.

Severus continued, hoping to entice Krait. "Lo, high above the rest, the towers are the only place to feel free of this hole. I have withdrawn to their heights often, where I feel my superiority, looking upon the pitiful Rufoux and Melics so far below, and the Koinoni boats that look like toys. Truly we rightly ascend into the heavens, for we are greater indeed than all these puny monkeys."

"Into the tower?" asked Krait, mostly to himself. His preference for the rolling dunes under his feet left him with no great longing to climb into the air.

"Aye, come with me into secrecy. The Raspars keep lookout for us, do we not? I will send away the sentry, I will relieve his duty, and then only ye and I will be present."

Krait weighed his options; he still hesitated. He talked in a distracted manner as he considered the height of the tower. "I have little desire for this-sss undertaking. I have little desire to speak with you at all."

"Lo, ye will speak with me. Now or later, ye will, for ye need someone to go to the smith. Ye believe ye cannot go yourself, and ye depend upon another. Why does the metal smith set ye to such trembling? Why involve Raspars at all, if ye could get the weapons yourself?" Severus wondered aloud, as he had discussed with Mercedi. "Lo, I believe ye fear him more than I, though I received his beating."

"Hush!" said Krait, his tinted lenses hiding his sudden concern. "Yes-sss, we will speak of this-sss, and only in private!"

"Lo," said Severus as he stood. "It appears we have finally come to an agreement. What so inspires ye to change your mind? Ye neither click your tongue as your people do, nor do ye show the look of your eyes; ye are hard to know. A clever device, the dark glass ye hold before your face like a mask, but Bedoua have no knowledge of metals — how did ye fashion such a framework? Or did ye attain it from another? Where did ye get such a thing? From the Rufoux smith? Of course! Why has no one seen this before?"

Krait now pulled a reticent Severus along, in the direction of the tower, and the Raspar fool did not cease talking. "Lo, the Bedoua are not so clever, neither in metals nor understanding, but what your vizier can't see for himself, another could show him. Certainly he would welcome hearing ye have been in league with the Rufoux for years. But ye must remain unseen by the metal smith, for he might recognize ye! Aye, is that not so? For if he were to know ye, certainly he would reveal your secret! For surely now I know it myself!"

"Shut up!" Krait hissed as they entered the tower, and he pushed Severus toward the ladder. "Shut up and climb!"

"Lo, ye have been seeking conspiracy against your vizier for years!"

"Shut up! We will speak of these-sss thing-sss only in confidence-sss!"

"Lo, did I not tell ye? Will ye not speak with me in secrecy after all?"

Up the series of ladders they climbed, from one level to the next, passing the wall walk and the spiked balustrade. Emerging through a trap door in the floor, entering the empty room high above the activity of the surrounding grounds, the two men faced each other once again.

"Yes-sss!" began Krait. "Long have I wished for the end of Dungo, for he is-sss a fool! I spit upon his-sss rule and the foolish culture of the Bedoua! We cower in our tents-sss at night, we announce-sss our emotions-sss without control, we creep in fear of offending the mighty Rufoux! I will wipe out Dungo, and bend the Bedoua to my will, and make us-sss the greates-ssst clan of Medialia!"

"Lo, indeed, I also have felt the lust for blood."

"Well you will need it, for I will not allow this-sss alliance-sss to continue the slavery of the Bedoua. If using Rufoux skills-sss helps-sss me destroy the Rufoux, so be it! So yes-sss, I have visited the Rufoux, and behind these-sss lenses-sss do I keep my own counsel, and neither Dungo nor the Rufoux will know. The Rufoux will fall finally to the blade of the Bedoua, and the Melics-sss as-sss well, and the Koinoni. If you would save the Raspars-sss, then you will join with me."

"Lo, Mercedi has said just so."

"Mercedi? Your regent? What has-sss she said? You told me no others-sss know."

"Aye, but in truth many Raspars know, and not all would join in your ambitions. Indeed, Mercedi does not join, and I do not join with ye, who despise my weakness."

"What? Then why do you bring me here? Damn you, what do you plot, having separated from your people so willingly!"

"Lo, I must be away from them for my mission, just as I must in the Eternal City." The wild look returned to Severus' eye.

"Wait," Krait said in panic. "Why does-sss this tower have no Raspar sentry?"

A sudden shriek rang across the compound, and a group of assorted clansmen without turned toward its source, the corner of the structure. A figure in robes fell like a fluttering bird from one of the towers, headfirst, landing without struggle upon the ground below, outside the stockade. Wyllem thought he saw a shadow move across the tower. Together the gathering of men ran to the figure lying inert, stricken with bloody, gory head injuries so massive, only the discovery of the glasses nearby showed it to be Krait.

Chapter LVI

Dungo, quickly alerted of his minister's misfortune, fast approached the scene, his typical Bedoua rolling gait and billowing robes making him look like a distant stampede of elephants. All the clansmen outside the fortress rushed to the point where body met earth met wall, and many joined from within as well, all gathering to stoically stand and quietly wonder at the passing of spirit, the heavy Dungo of course bringing up the rear. His cheeks huffed and puffed, red with exertion and emotion at seeing Krait's still form.

"What has happened? What tidings do I hear? Has more calamity befallen the Bedoua in this forsaken place? Who is this? Who is this?" his mouth overflowed, his ears neither seeking nor waiting upon any answer.

"Vizier," began Theodoric. "Your man Krait has fallen to his death from the lookout tower." He offered the crumpled glasses as proof. "Sometimes an infant Melic meets such an end, and it is all the same."

Dungo tenderly took the twisted metal, one lens missing, and considered them quietly. "Ah, my minister, my friend Krait! What you have given for the good of your people, for the good of all the clans of Medialia, at the behest of your vizier! Fallen — fallen? Krait? Fallen from that great height? How so? Who has seen this thing happen? First Humus, and now Krait! And we have not yet even put lance to a single giant! Oh, the Bedoua have strayed far from their desert home, and thus has Wolven reckoned with us! What are we to do for Krait, poor Krait. How could he have fallen? What business had he in the tall tower? Who has seen this terrible event?"

"I saw," said Wyllem. "Many of us gathered at the other end of the stockade." He turned to some of his fellows. "Did you not hear his scream just before he fell?" Several men nodded.

"You do not know the great distress this event brings upon us," said Dungo, becoming more agitated. "Surely Wolven has given us only a taste of his displeasure, and he will wreak his vengeance upon us when we are found without our covering and the moon rises full."

"Lo, what has happened?" said Mercedi from above, descending a ladder from the parapet.

"A Bedoua man has died, fallen from the tower," said Artur. "You be careful, regent."

"Aye, but I am practiced in such climbing. Perhaps this Bedoua man was not so accustomed. Perhaps he should have been more careful," she said carelessly.

"Madam regent, surely he did not know such activities, being from the dunes," said Dungo. "And yet we are required to scale up and down ladders like the scarmonkeys of the northern forest. I fear you do not understand our predicament now. We must travel back to our tent city, and the full moon will surely be upon us in mere days. We can not escape the vicious judgments of Wolven without fulfilling our traditions and seeking our protection. And yet we can not stay here until that great pocked rock hides its light, for we must return a body without decay to the family of Krait."

"Lo, 'twas Krait?" Mercedi said with disingenuous surprise. "Surely no songs will be sung for this one. A favor has been done for us all."

"Madam! I must protest! I might believe that Krait's horrible end pleases you! For years he served me loyally, more so than any other but Sylva, and his death will be a great detriment to the Bedoua now and forever, and to our struggle against the Aoten in between! Oh, were the Aoten our only burden to bear! I do not know what I will do now! I do not know who I will ask what to do! We must return Krait to his family, and not fall under the fangs of Wolven in the light of the full moon! Do you not understand? We must do what can not be done! This difficulty weighs upon me immensely! I must choose wisely, and quickly! And without my first minister!" Dungo's intense agitation turned Mercedi's face quite pallid.

"Truly, we must have no such talk, regardless of what we think of Krait," said Artur to Mercedi, his temper rising as well just for the sake of Dungo's bluster. "One of our warriors has fallen, and we must give him due respect."

Confusion covered Mercedi's face. "Lo, but –"

"Indeed," said Theodoric, lost in thought for the past several minutes. "Krait would not desire such climbing. So why would he have been in the tower? Bedoua posts are in the fields, not as lookouts. A fish still swims better in rapids than in dirt."

Aachen had knelt beside Krait, examining the body and the wounds to his head. "Wyllem, you say you heard him scream, then saw him fall?"

"What would make us look but his scream?"

"Then he made no sound on the way down?"

"No, I can not say that he did, to my memory. What difference would it make if he had?"

"It might mean the fall killed him," said Aachen. "But it didn't. See this wound? It is straight and long. Krait's skull was not crushed upon the ground — it was cut cleanly, by a sharp object, a heavy, sharp object."

"What do you mean to say?" asked Artur.

"Somebody killed him in the tower — killed him, then pushed him out," said Aachen, standing up. "Birds sing until the dawn, then the sunflower follows the light. That's what I think." Theodoric nodded.

"Lo, then, an excellent job by somebody," Mercedi foolishly added.

"Enough! Enough!" cried Dungo furiously, pulling at his mustache braids. "This insolence! Madam, I can take no more! My own dearly departed Humus trained this good friend Aachen the Melic in the apothecary, and to me his word is as if inspired by his god Drueed!" Spittle was flying from his teeth as Dungo railed. "He tells me my wonderful aide Krait has been killed, by some coward, some knave, some ne'er-do-well bastard spore son of a bitch, we know not what! You will not make jokes, you will not speak so carelessly about a brave Bedoua official, about the right hand of the Bedoua vizier! I will not have it, or you will feel a Bedoua lance between your ribs, I swear it, I swear it by the slobbering jaws of Wolven himself!"

"Whoa, hold it, hold it!" Artur yelled harshly, and stepped between Dungo and Mercedi; but he needn't, for Mercedi knew not to further provoke a fuming volcano. She knew little of diplomacy, but she understood the delicate balance she now had to strike for her clan. "In Rufoux territory there will be no more killing unless it is under Rufoux law. Aachen, you are sure of what you say?"

"Yes, quite sure. Of course, I could be wrong. But quite sure."

"You know," Wyllem added. "I believe I saw a figure moving in the tower after seeing Krait fall."

"Wolven!" shuddered Dungo.

"A figure of a man," Wyllem reassured him. "But how could we ever identify him?"

"I put that up to you," said Artur. "You love asking questions so much — go do your best to find out who you saw."

"Lo, that wound was not made by any Raspar arrow," Mercedi said testily.

"I can not believe this! I can not believe the calamity that Wolven has brought down upon us!" Dungo went on in despair. "The full moon will arise in two days, no more than three, and we have a body to return to a Bedoua family. The family can hold no funeral feast without the body! Already Wolven is pouring out his spite upon us, and we have no way to get back to the desert without him seeing! Oh, if only I could still ask Krait. I must find Sylva, I must seek out Sylva wherever she is, and discover what she thinks of this! She will tell me what to do! For god's sake, I hope she'll tell me what to do!"

"Well, at least gather him up, and take him to your encampment," said Artur, his stomach turning sour at the talk.

"Lo, do we not already know who has done this deed?" asked Mercedi after the Bedoua corpse had been carted away. "Who among us remains hidden in mystery, constantly seeking no gain but their own, always pestering about trades and possessions?"

"What accusations make you, regent?" said Theodoric. "We have all agreed to gather here, in common alliance."

"Aye, but who knows what motives lie underneath?" she continued. "The Koinoni have an unsavory reputation throughout Medialia, known even in the Raspar city."

"One can hardly use this reason to accuse them of murder. You put their lives in the balance."

"Lo, they are only Koinoni. They hardly count."

"You think Koinoni killed him?" said Artur, only too eager to go along. "That would figure!"

"Lo, every nation they visit drives these people out, and yet they have been given run of our stockade. How do we know what they have been scheming here? They may be in league with the Aoten, for all ye know." She tried to read the eyes of Artur and Theodoric.

"Those sneaking cheats! In their dark robes, one could easily hide in the shadows up there!" Artur mused, looking high into the tower.

"Aye, and do they not have the reputation of taking liberties with the unsuspecting, with those whose backs are turned?" Mercedi continued. "It saddens me to think of poor Krait, no doubt drawn into the tower by some deceit, and coldly murdered!"

"Why? Why would they conspire to kill Krait?" asked Theodoric.

"Lo, I know not. For something he owned, perhaps? The eyes can covet anything they see, the mind anything it imagines."

"True, that," Theodoric said, with measured interest.

"Lo, no Raspar arrow made that wound. But do not Koinoni possess strong Rufoux blades now?"

"Kylie!"

"Lo, your very blade?"

"I think you're on to something," Artur spat. "I'll tell Wyllem to concentrate on the Koinoni — find out what they've been up to."

"Aye, and only a day ago Yarrow came to me, trying to buy favor. He snuck away from the Koinoni vessels to seek some pact with the Raspars, but important business drew me away before anything came of it."

"How many?" asked Theodoric.

"Lo?"

"How many Koinoni came to see you?"

"Aye, five, I believe. Nay — six. They came to seek the favor of the Raspar people."

"Yes, six, for Koinoni always move about in sixes. In fact, I accompanied six back to their boats early this morning. Yarrow and five others." Theodoric's eyes narrowed.

"Lo?"

"And we see not even six among us now in the village."

Mercedi fell silent.

"So we know that all the Koinoni were aboard their boats when the killing occurred," Theodoric concluded.

"Damn!" said Artur.

Chapter LVII

While the mass of sojourners in the Rufoux village swarmed to the fallen body of Krait, Severus quietly left the tower and calmly paced down the wall walk. Carrying himself like a casual observer, under cover of a loosely fitting cloak, his face showed muted sympathy at Dungo's great lamentations. By the time Aachen made judgment about Krait's death, Severus had reached the opposite end of the stockade wall. As Mercedi made her accusations at the Koinoni, like a shadow he descended the ladder to the outside, carefully concealing a stout stone blade, clumsy but sharp, stuck under his tool belt. He quickly turned the corner, using the fortress to shield him from view, and made for the River Alluvia. In a blink the cloak was off and securely wrapped around the weapon.

"Nay, ye will tell no tales of my handiwork," he told the bundle as he exhorted himself. "Ye will not be witness against me, though ye could slice through the heads of many. No youngling has ever survived ye. But ye will not slay me, ye will say nothing of these passing moments, for the Alluvia will wash away your testimony, and cleanse me of guilt."

With a splash the packet fell into the water and initially gave Severus a scare by floating. He looked about frantically for stones to throw at it, but before long the fabric took on enough water to sink into the murk on its own, inspiring from him a sigh of relief. A quick glance over his shoulder, just to be sure, and Severus stepped away — gazing casually deep into the horizon, as though something had caught his eye — and headed toward the rear wall of the fort. Soon he would enter the stockade and rejoin the cluster of unseeing Raspars.

By this time Wyllem had climbed into the tower, accompanied by Aachen and Pepin. Blood and clotted matter covered the floor and part of one wall.

Aachen groaned. "He was killed here, all right."

"Yes, there can be no doubt of that, can there?" said Wyllem. "Why would a killer pick such a spot for murder? Did he not know witnesses would see?"

"Witnesses, yes, but without seeing clearly," said Pepin. "You can attest to that yourself."

"Why would he not take Krait into the forests, though?" Wyllem wondered. "That way, wouldn't hours pass before Krait was even missed?"

"Maybe; the wooded lands offer escape, though," said Aachen. "Here Krait would have no hope of fleeing. And the killer certainly thought the death would be taken as an accident. The point is without meaning, though, for so far, he has gotten away."

Wyllem paused to think. "But wouldn't he expect the sentry in the tower to see him?"

The Melics looked around briefly and realized no sentry stood guard.

"Where is the lookout?" asked Wyllem.

"This grows more serious," said Pepin, "For it seems likely the sentry on guard killed Krait. But even if he didn't, at the very least he has deserted his duty and made the whole stockade vulnerable."

"Didn't we, for the very reason of their diligent defenses, appoint Raspars to keep watch?" said Wyllem.

"Yes," said Pepin, wondering why Wyllem sought an answer he already knew.

"So don't you think it odd for the sentry to be absent?"

"Yes, I do."

"But how could a sentry on duty, at this great height, draw Krait into the tower, knowing that the Bedoua do not favor climbing even when they have no choice?"

Pepin shrugged.

"So could it not be that more than one is guilty?"

Pepin saw that, indeed, the guard may have conspired with the killer, leaving his post so that another might draw Krait into a trap that he could not escape.

"Shouldn't we find out who was supposed to be the sentry?"

"Yes, we should," said Pepin, surprised at how obvious their next move appeared when arrived at through Wyllem's questions.

"Yes, we should be able to find that out," said Artur after hearing their report. "I believe Mercedi appointed Linus to schedule sentries. Come and we will seek him out."

As they walked Pepin wondered aloud, "I recall Andreia's dream, and the black bird was doomed. I dreamed a vision myself, weeks ago, a dead rumidont posing as a thylak, and I thought it told of Humus. Perhaps I was wrong."

They found Linus separated from his clan, in a tiny hut with its windows covered by rumidont pelts. Shadows dominated the room as they entered, and their eyes adjusted to the dark only slowly. Linus quickly ran through the order of sentry duty in his head.

"Aye, new sentries are ordered for every two hours. Each time the shadows creep another thirty degrees, new sentries go on duty. At night it is damn difficult to keep track, of course, but often our men eagerly stay longer than their appointed time, so they do not care if the next shift arrives late. For every tower I have made these bloody plans, so I know in my head who is on duty and they know as well their responsibilities. For that north tower, the names are those pronounced with the lips open, the teeth clenched."

Linus stopped to think, then began mumbling as he sorted his thoughts. "Lo, today's sentries began with... then the next hours fell to... then at that bastard hour it must have been... it fell to Rhodan. Rhodan was assigned to that tower."

"Rhodan?" Artur showed surprise. "We know him. He led us through the tunnels."

"Aye, that is Rhodan. Why the hell do I memorize lists if they are not right? Rhodan served as sentry."

"Thanks," said Artur with no sincerity, and, looking subdued, turned out of the hut.

Within the building, set in the deepest shadows, a small figure sat forlornly, tied securely hand and foot, and quietly looked up with its one eye. "Lo, ye talk too much."

"What could this mean?" wondered Artur. "I do not like the way this is turning. Come, let's find Rhodan."

The bobbing faces of the Raspars, tightly packed against the stockade wall, all looked remarkably similar, but eventually Artur picked out Rhodan. He led his men, gingerly stepping between the unnoticing archers, to the central point in the group where Rhodan crouched.

"Come with us, Rhodan," Artur ordered.

"Lo, what do ye want from me?"

"Just come. We have questions for you," and he grabbed Rhodan's shoulder and hauled him to his feet. The surrounding Raspars, true to their nature, apparently neither saw nor heard, and without Mercedi to tell them to intervene, they did not. Artur fairly carried Rhodan in his sturdy grasp to the perimeter of the cluster.

"What do you know about who killed Krait?" asked Artur bluntly.

"Nay, I know nothing. I heard he fell."

"He fell, all right, but first somebody killed him. Was it you?"

"Nay, not me. I thought he fell as an accident," Rhodan said nervously.

"We think it was you," said Artur.

"Let me talk to him, Artur," said Wyllem. "Perhaps he killed Krait, perhaps he didn't; either way, he must answer for not standing guard duty. And, he must have information."

"I think he did it."

"Artur, did you not put me in charge of investigating?"

"Yes, Wyllem," Artur conceded. "You are the question man, so have at it."

"Rhodan, why did you not take your shift in the tower today?"

"Lo, who has said I didn't?" replied Rhodan.

"Do you say you served your shift as sentry, then?"

"Aye, I served my appointed time as sentry."

"Then you say you were present when Krait fell? That would make you a witness."

"Nay, I do not say that."

"Then you would be the killer."

"Nay, neither do I say that."

"But you do claim you fulfilled your shift as sentry?"

"Aye." Rhodan's nervousness increased.

"But you did not see Krait, nor anyone killing Krait?"

"Nay."

"If you were in the tower at your sentry duty, you either saw Krait killed, or you killed him yourself, man! There is no third way!" Artur erupted. "We're waiting for you to defend yourself!"

"Lo, maybe — maybe I went to the wrong tower," said Rhodan.

"Then another Raspar lookout saw you, and spent two hours with you, sharing sentry duty, and never did it dawn on either of you that you had gone to the wrong tower?" asked Wyllem, trying to make the scenario sound ridiculous.

"Lo," said Rhodan, glancing from face to face desperately. "Lo — I served as sentry."

"He's hiding something," said Artur in a resigned voice. "We must get to the bottom of this. Let's take him to Jakke." He dragged Rhodan away from the Raspar encampment toward the smithy shop, and though the hapless man struggled, not one came to his aid; Pepin and Aachen trailed behind. Once in the shop they tied Rhodan securely, standing against a wall; Wyllem prevented the Melics from entering.

"We Rufoux want to be peaceable people," said Artur. "We value our clan and families more highly than anything else, and so our culture is structured to keep conflict to a minimum. Yet occasionally a clansman will commit a grievance, an offense charged by another, and we must discover the truth and pass judgment. When this happens we have a trial — a trial by ordeal."

He nodded toward Jakke, who pulled a red-hot pike from his forge. Rhodan's eyes lit with panic as he struggled against his bonds.

"A crime has been committed," Artur continued. "Of that there is no doubt. Krait, a Bedoua under our care, has been killed. By your own admission you had to be present when the crime occurred. You will tell us what you saw, or what you did." Again he looked to Jakke.

The lumbering smithy held the glowing pike before Rhodan's face. Terror drew the Raspar man's eyes unyieldingly to the implement, while the heat drove them irresistibly away.

"Fire brings the Rufoux life," Artur growled, taking firm hold of Rhodan's head. "But she is a fickle mistress; she gives, and she can take away. Your sight will go black, as will your skin, as the heat works its will upon you."

Jakke touched the glowing metal to Rhodan's cheek, just below his eye; steam, the sound of searing flesh and a putrid stench arose from the contact. Outside, muffled screams drew the attention of all who stood nearby, but Wyllem, as second in command a trusted authority, indicated nothing amiss as he calmly stood at the door. Aachen in particular looked uneasy; "I'll fetch Theodoric," and Pepin was off.

Jakke pulled the pike away, but still held it only a finger's length from Rhodan's eye, and Artur persisted.

"What did you see in the tower?"

"Nay, I saw nothing!"

Jakke again placed the hot bronze to Rhodan's face, this time slightly closer to his eye, and again screams filled the air. The odor of charred skin hung heavily.

"Nay, I was not there! I was not there!" the wretched Rhodan cried.

"Why not?"

Rhodan hung limp and quiet. Artur again looked to Jakke, who applied the pike directly to Rhodan's eye.

"Nay! Nay, stop! Stop!" His agonized cries split the air like the squealing deviltooth trapped in the pits of steaming tar. "I will tell ye, I will tell ye."

"Tell us what," yelled Artur expectantly.

As Artur loosed his grip, Rhodan fell completely upon the support of his bonds. He panted heavily as he tried vainly to tend to his eye – pouring blood and tears and ooze – with nothing but his shoulder.

"Tell us what?"

"Lo, Krait was an assassin," he gasped. "He would have slain Sylva. He planned to kill Sylva, and Dungo." Still, after all he had suffered, Rhodan tried to limit what he said, desperate to protect Sylva, desperate to protect Mercedi. He didn't understand why his tormentors considered Krait worth avenging, worth caring about.

"What, so you killed him?"

"Nay, I swear I was not there."

"Did you abandon your post so the killer could use the tower?"

Rhodan again took to silence.

"Jakke," Artur said, but before the smithy pulled the pike out of the forge again, Rhodan nodded weakly.

"So who did it then? Did a Raspar do the killing?"

"Aye, so I suspect, for it was with a Raspar that Krait conspired."

"Oh?" asked Artur, and immediately Rhodan realized he'd said too much. "So who else among the Raspars knows of this?"

Rhodan hung sullen and silent.

Artur looked to Jakke, determined but without malice, who took Rhodan by the hair with one hand and again pushed the burning metal into the eye. Artur cut off the frantic, blood-curdling screams, filling Rhodan's mouth with a wad of fabric. The Raspar victim struggled mightily to breathe against the cloth, blood and fluid flowing from his eyes and nose, and after an eternity, he collapsed and Jakke relented. Artur gently removed the gag.

"Lo — Vespus — find Vespus — if ye can."

Chapter LVIII

Artur dumped Rhodan at Aachen's feet with a curt, "Take care of him," and strode out of the building, Wyllem falling in behind. "We have to find one named Vespus," he told him flatly. At that moment, Theodoric — breathlessly running with Pepin, not used to moving quickly on flat ground — intercepted him. Within the smithy shop, the Melic king could see his subject Aachen crouching over the prone figure of Rhodan.

"What have you done?" he demanded. "What madness is this?"

"Many birds may fly into the ear, but what nests in the heart will not change," sighed Aachen.

"A murderer walks among us," said Artur, hitting a quick pace toward the collection of Raspar archers. "I have neither the time nor patience for long discussions on what is guilt or what is fair. I care only to catch the criminal."

"Artur, you must respect these other nations! They do not share your ways!"

"Excuse me, but on what land do you reside?" Artur now stopped to face Theodoric. "Rufoux custom does not allow killing a man outside the fight. Shouldn't these squatters respect Rufoux ways?"

"Of course! But hospitality falls far short of torturing a guest. Mercedi will not long stand for her people to be so abused. A man who would have friends must show himself friendly."

"There you go again —"

"Look, I speak plainly. Is Rhodan the guilty man? No — you know that to be true."

"Yes," Artur said matter-of-factly.

"Yes, and you always knew, didn't you? You must not make an innocent man suffer for the mere sake of expedience, not if you expect allegiance from that man's clan!"

"Mog's goblins I won't!" declared Artur, and again made his way toward the Raspar camp. "A man whose clan I'm counting upon has died. An eye for a life is a trade any Koinoni would make."

Theodoric kept after Artur as he walked. "Yes, the guilty must suffer, but not at the expense of the innocent. You've made Rhodan a victim now as much as Krait. Make a target of the guiltless, and in the end all will pay the price of the guilty!"

"Fine, I'll make sure the next guy I hurt is guilty," said Artur without pretense of caring. "Help me find this Vespus."

At the outskirts of the gathered Raspars, Artur called out the name, but though a few men lifted their heads to look, none responded nor offered guidance. Still he persisted, and the ruckus eventually drew the attention of Mercedi.

"Lo, whom do ye seek?" she asked.

"Vespus. Can't you tell?"

"Lo, he is not here," she said shakily.

"How do you know?" Artur sounded caustic.

"Nay, he abides not here," Mercedi said again, glancing to Theodoric. "I know my men, and I know he sits not among them."

"Where can we find him, then?" Artur demanded.

"Lo, why do ye seek him?"

"He has some connection with Krait; he might be connected with his death. We know this is true, so don't try to hide him. I will talk with him."

"Lo, how do ye know this?"

"Regent," Theodoric interrupted. "Your man Rhodan, who led us through the tunnels, has offered information in the best interests of the alliance. He has suggested that we talk to a man named Vespus to determine how the Bedoua Krait died." Theodoric hoped to stall revealing the truth about Rhodan's testimony as long as possible, to break the news as benignly as possible.

"Lo, Rhodan told ye? How could that be?" Mercedi's voice choked, aghast that Rhodan would risk compromising her and her clan.

Theodoric held Artur at arm's length with one hand. "As I say, regent Mercedi, for the good of the alliance as a whole, in the best interests of defeating our real enemy, the Aoten, he has offered this aid to our inquiry. So now we must find Vespus."

Mercedi seemed to be somewhat calmed, but at that moment Aachen approached. "He'll not have use of that eye again. The best I could do was put salve and a bandage upon his wound. But the eye will not see again," he said with a gesture.

The Raspar regent followed the direction of his hand and saw Rhodan's form in the distance, now lying flat on his back outside the smithy shop. A handful of Melic women continued to tend to him, and suddenly Mercedi realized everything. "Lo, so you feed your bloodlust upon my man!" she exclaimed at Artur.

A collection of clansmen began to gather around the sparring leaders; Theodoric spoke a short word to Pepin and sent him off quickly.

"Lo, what betrayal have ye conceived?" Mercedi snapped. She sent some two dozen Raspars off with the words, "Go rescue Rhodan from these barbarians!" And then back at Artur, "Lo, well did I know that Rhodan would not accuse a fellow Raspar on his own! What have ye done to my subject? Why now does he fall under Rufoux judgment? Do ye not realize he is the only reason the Raspars arrived here within your defenses?"

"Perhaps he did cause Krait's death, then, bringing murderers among us," Artur snarled back. "And you're under Rufoux judgment because you're on Rufoux land! But none of that matters a thing to me now; all I care about now is to find this Vespus."

"Nay, ye will not put your hands upon another Raspar to torture! Did we not bring ye to the safety of your village when ye were broken and helpless? We owe ye nothing! Indeed, instead ye will answer to Raspar justice!"

"Regent, we must remain one!" Theodoric broke in urgently. "We must not accuse each other over protocol, for our unity remains most important! Let us trace the killer together, in unity, just as we must fight the giants!"

"Nay, but what trap do ye intend for me?" Mercedi raged. "What conspiracy do you weave to ensnare me?"

"That is the point, regent," said Artur impatient and surly. "We have no separate scheme. The conspiracy lay in Krait, along with a Raspar called Vespus. We must find him."

At this Mercedi realized that the Rufoux drew very close to discovering the truth, and she redoubled her efforts to throw them off. She foolishly fell into depraved habit.

"Lo, perhaps I agree with Theodoric. We can speak of this matter more calmly. I must remember I visit here only at your pleasure. I would have private conference with ye," and with that she took Artur's great hand with both of hers and held it tightly between her breasts.

"What are you doing?" bellowed Artur, his eyes disbelieving, grasping her wrist and tearing his hand free. "You cast upon me a public transgression! Did you not hear my wedding vows? Do you not know I must destroy anyone who would violate my marriage? Already you make Rufoux ways a laughing stock, even within the village! Do you mean to challenge the clan yet again? Or do you wish to join Krait, regent?"

Within the gathering crowd Carolingia stalked, keeping a sidelong glance upon Artur, smirking and smoldering.

Mercedi was stricken still, silent, hoping for another outlet for her misdirection, and one immediately offered itself from over the stockade wall: Pepin returned with Dungo. Theodoric moved to speak with him confidentially, but he moved too slowly.

"Lo, there! Did ye not say Krait conspired against the clans? Then there approaches your culprit!"

Dungo didn't hesitate. "What do I hear, Excellency, more accusation? Why do you call me here — just to hear more abuse? I must express my outrage, milady, at this inclination of yours toward slander! Ho-ho! The Bedoua have just about had enough — enough insinuation, enough persecution! Nothing still keeps us here, except the full moon bearing down upon us — no reason for us to risk our lives in the face of such shameful abuse! I stand shocked and dismayed that you, Regent Mercedi, stoop to such depths and make criminals of us, the Bedoua, those who have lost a dear friend and trusted confidant, adding to our unbearable grief. I am shocked, milady! What do you accuse us of now?"

"Vizier," said Theodoric, "I asked for your presence because a serious charge has been brought against a Raspar man, Vespus. He has been connected with a charge against Krait."

"Krait?!" Dungo blurted. "Krait accused? How can this be? I remind you, he is dead! Killed! He gave his life in service of this paltry group! He lies rotting away slowly, so that even his corpse will not have a proper end! You might as well accuse me! You might as well accuse — accuse —" Dungo blathered as he tried to think of something, then pointed out a Rufoux child, "Her! This outrage mystifies me, simply appalls me! I can not bring myself to stay another moment in this company that would make vendetta against the dead, rather than seek justice for his killer!"

"That is the point," Artur said again. "The point we must stay upon. We will never know whatever Krait might have done, we will never know his killer, unless we find Vespus!"

"Lo, ye choose to indict the Raspars, instead of seeking the truth about the Bedoua," said Mercedi, her manipulation giving way to natural Raspar paranoia. "Ye plan to inflict your judgment upon my people? But ye will have to go through Raspar arrows first, and kill me as well!"

"Regent! Vizier!" said Theodoric. "We must not target any clan, for no clan is guilty. We seek only a man, the guilty man, that justice might be done for Krait."

"Yes, we only seek justice —" said Artur.

"For our real enemy is the Aoten," said Theodoric, before Artur could finish, much to his displeasure. "The giants will steal your food and homes; they will kill your children. But neither so the Raspars, nor the Bedoua. A colony of bees will bless the sittlebark, and a wood beetle will vex it; but it takes a colony of beetles to kill it."

"We'd all like you to make actual sense," said Artur.

"May I pose a question?" asked Wyllem.

"When did you ever not?" Artur blared, exasperated.

"We all know the Raspars for their discipline. Have we ever seen them act upon anything but the orders of their regent?"

"Nay, never. The clan trusts me, and obeys me, and only me," said Mercedi confidently.

"Then how could a Raspar have killed a man without you knowing?"

Theodoric nearly collapsed at this turn of the discourse. But Dungo and Artur didn't notice him, for their attention had turned to Mercedi, whose face drained of color.

"Ah, the Rufoux brain at work," said Artur, his anger settling into vindictiveness. "What do you say to this, regent?"

Mercedi stood speechless. She lay bare, helpless, caught at last, her only protection archers who could do no better than shoot arrows into the ground.

"And so she accused Krait, even as his body lingered warm," said Dungo.

"Fellows!" said Theodoric frantically. "Comrades! We must remain together as one! Death awaits us all if we don't fight the Aoten together! We must remain together for our clans to have any hope of survival! Yes, a man is dead, a Bedoua man, and he must be avenged; but many more will die if we do not defeat the Aoten! Please friends, we must stay together! We must fight _for_ each other!"

Artur didn't listen, and his voice turned cold. "You bloody Raspars have never changed, have you? Would you make a ruin of us as you did the Quaar? Perhaps you will not find us so stupid as they were. The Rufoux should have wiped you out, all of you, eons ago, and laid claim to all of Medialia!"

Artur's hand had taken hold of his sword, and his massive body appeared to swell. He moved as if ready to bear down upon Mercedi, and she pulled a hammer from her belt, the best weapon she could manage. Artur drew upon the sheer blade and loomed toward her; Dungo as well stared upon him fearfully. Theodoric joined his hands together, fingers entwined, and rushing upon Artur hit him as hard as he could upon the chin, using both hands like a club.

Artur's head snapped back, and his attention turned toward Theodoric. A sudden rage boiled over in him, and, his long sword exposed, Artur pulled his arm back to strike, his eyes casting from shock to anger to respect. Theodoric held his hands down and open, ready to sacrifice himself, and pleaded, "We must fight together! We must remain joined, or the Melics will be no more!"

"Artur!" a distant voice called urgently. Osewold rudely squeezed his shoulders through the surging crowd and cried out again, "The signal! The signal! The Aoten come upon us!"

Chapter LIX

Artur slammed his long sword into its scabbard and turned back to Mercedi. "We'll settle this later!" he seethed and ran up a ladder onto the wall walk. Sure enough, a tower of smoke arose in the distance over the River Alluvia. The Koinoni had lit fire to several boats, the signal to be raised as soon as they spotted the Aoten advancing upon the village.

The Bedoua and Melics within the stockade clambered up ladders and over the walls to join their clans' positions without, Dungo providing a nonstop monologue all the way: "Over the top, lads, and do your best, and we will show these ingrate clans why all peoples tremble in fear before the Bedoua! Ho-ho! First these giants will taste our fury, then we will make these other tribes pay the price to so belittle the Bedoua! We know the harshness of the sands, yes, and the hatred of Wolven, so now turn it upon our enemies! Over the top, lads! And to your pikes! Bedoua warriors, prepare to charge! Ho-ho!"

Theodoric rejoiced like a madman to see approaching battle. He knew this encounter would tell the tale: Either the giants would be vanquished and the clans could give their petty troubles a fresh start, or the Aoten would prevail and all other issues would become moot. Pepin found him and anticipated the inevitable question: "I have dreamed nothing." Theodoric drew a sigh — "Tomorrow always awaits with the unexpected," — and together they took up axes and joined the Melic lines behind the Bedoua. "At least we have our common enemy."

Mercedi paused for the other clans' warriors to clear the stockade before ordering her archers to the towers and wall walks. In truth, for a moment she considered escape, abandoning the campaign now and leaving the village to the giants. But directing hundreds of men to clamber over the walls, likely to flee directly into Aoten hands, hardly seemed reasonable. In the end she could be heard charging her men: "Lo, we have yet this chance to win again the good graces of our compatriots, if we acquit ourselves well! I will not let Raspars again be cause of genocide! We must redeem Raspar reputation! So fire your arrows keenly, ye Raspars, and show the peoples of Medialia that ye will be reckoned with!" She knew as well, any retreat her people attempted across wide open lands would leave them utterly like lost children.

Rufoux soldiers took their places among the others, Arielle and other archers with the Raspars, Wyllem and other lancers with the Bedoua, a cavalry of hippus to the rear. Artur fairly slid down a ladder to the ground. He pulled loose the bag of grain he had hanging from his belt, tossed it into a fire and recited as he ran, "Oh Mog, high and exalted god of the Rufoux, defeater of the Emim, wrathful, powerful, vengeful! 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!" Then he took his place with the swordsmen behind the Melics, the last line of infantry before the Aoten would reach the stockade. He gazed off into the distance at the rising smoke, and soon saw Koinoni poling their remaining vessels, sagging under the weight of so many men, back down the Alluvia, and he knew the onrush of giants would not lag far behind.

A pair of hummingbirds startled Artur as they swooped down before his face. A moment passed as they hung in the air and looked him square in the eyes. Then they peeled away and made a looping line toward the west.

"Here they come! They break out of the wood!" Artur cried out, taking firm grip upon his sword as the lumbering forms of the Aoten appeared from the tangled bracken of the forests. Each one carried a giant stone, newly reaped from the Raspar city, and trudged slowly toward the village under their great heft. No sign of fright nor apprehension showed on their inhuman faces.

Artur braced his feet firmly upon this, his homeland. Many times now he had faced this foe, never giving ground, never gaining. Like Theodoric, he knew this battle would settle things forever. His mind fell to Geoffrey, the most ancient, treading Medialia so long only to slip away at its crucial moment. His father had called him the greatest of all Rufoux leaders; he might also be the last. Never while I have breath, he thought, never while I have breath.

Something wet hit Artur's ear. He brushed away at it and concentrated on the approaching Aoten, now crossing the fields. The ground had drained enough now to plant, but he'd had no thought of that this year. The giants' shuffling steps did not slow, and soon they would be within reach of a short charge; the long Bedoua pikes would easily reach the towering giants from a distance, but could their strokes penetrate that thick hair and tough skin? Another wet drop hit Artur, and then another, an irritating tapping upon his helmet. But overhead hung not damp foliage, but an open sky; puzzled misgiving drew his attention upward.

His eyes caught an unknown sight, brackish billows like he had never seen before ravishing the clear skies of Medialia. Was this smoke from the Koinoni boats? He stared in wonder — all the sky looked like smoke, but he'd never seen so much, not in all his days by the Rufoux forges and ceremonial fires. This hazy cast hung as high as heaven itself — could it be some kind of wizardry? Water from the air — did the Aoten bring with them some evil enchantment? Drops hit Artur's face by the dozen now, and he happened to glance at the top of the looming western mountains. Atop the highest peak he saw what appeared to be a huge wooden box, perched at the zenith of the lunatic No-Ahn's fabled realm, reaching toward the vengeful sky.

At that moment a great wave of current, standing against the air like a wall, bore down from around the River Alluvia's bend and swept up the Koinoni boats, tossing them like twigs, leaving them swamped and capsized. The Koinoni floundered, their heavy robes leaving them no hope as the raging water pulled them under. The fountains of the Alluvia had opened, and the onrush took the feet out from under the Bedoua, positioned furthest down on the bank. Many turned to run up the bluff, blocked by the packed crowds of warriors; others thrashed about in the rising tide, trying to stand up against the torrent as the Aoten encroached. Many terrified voices arose to a number of gods. Now the water fell from the heavens in a torrent.

The flooding time has already passed, thought Artur, nothing like this has ever happened. How strong is this magic? The waters came and came, until finally even the giants on the low ground staggered in the slogging mire — this trickery turned upon them as well. Though it be brutal, the deluge was none of Mog's doing, either; he knew only fire and rage, not the patient might of this massive, undulating onslaught. Waters churned and belched, working into every niche of the ground, and the crushing weight multiplied. The great battle fell away from the minds of all, and each individual thought only of survival. Artur spotted Dungo's bloated body already floating face-down, the final curse of the Alluvia against him, as the swirling, gurgling water steadily climbed the hill. Suddenly Artur's memory brought forth Andreia's face, and he ran back toward the stockade.

Many of the Melics naturally headed for the trees, but the power of the water began to push their sanctuaries flat to the ground, roots torn from the soil, spilling out the precious grain that had been stored away in hope of the future. Theodoric alone of his tribe stood upon high ground, screaming into the sky, "Curse me, Drueed, damn me, for I knew, I knew!"

The feet of grand standancrags wore away and crumbled; from the forests came the frantic screams of rumidont, along with the mournful cry of therium. Water fell from the sky unrelenting, and the wind blew in tremendous, violent gusts, drenching Artur as he struggled to lean a ladder against the fortress. Arielle, defiant to the end, shot an arrow into the air above. Distant wails of unknown victims mixed with the wind's howling, and leaves torn from the branches pelted every man as he sought cover. Great streaks of fire fell from the heavens, accompanied by loud crashes, magnificent complaints made against all the Earth, rattling the very ground. Artur's feet slipped and skidded as he reached the top of the wall and fell over its pointed top onto the narrow ledge. The Raspars fared no better, sliding off the wall walk as they ran for shelter from the strange downpour. The panicked men had pushed Mercedi aside and trampled her underfoot as they sought the comfort and security of solid walls. Artur carefully gained his feet and clung to the wall as he scanned the compound for Andreia.

The roaring fires that had always dotted his village now died to no more than hissing, steaming embers. The huts and buildings, every one, had been stripped of their skins and stood as bare skeletons. As he looked down the bluff, into the blinding sheets, Artur could see the clansmen laid waste, many of them struggling just to keep their heads above the tide. The Aoten, too, thrashed about in the wake, their next breath their only thought. The clans' ambition to put aside differences and discover a new unity finally found its fulfillment, for Artur could see, in their desperate desire to survive, in the judgment that befell them all, the Rufoux and all the clans of Medialia were no different — no better, no worse, no different — from each other, nor even the Aoten.

Another huge wave appeared over the top of the river, now as wide as the sea, yet another great outpouring of water from the Alluvia's mother spring, and Artur could only watch as it bore down upon the stockade. The waters had already topped the bluff, dozens of kronyn higher than any flood ever known, and this swell would squarely hit the wall upon which he stood. Men, women, children — all thrashed about without hope in the churning flood, sputtering and choking. Behind him Artur heard his name called by the only voice he cared to hear.

Artur turned and caught sight of Andreia, her arms held up to him. "Andreia!" he said quietly, and he looked upon his love, as far from him as she had ever been, and the furious river hit the wall with such force that it threw him to the ground. Andreia rushed to his side and gathered his head into her arms.

"Artur!" she sobbed. "My dream!"

Water pushed relentlessly against the stockade, wave upon wave, and the timbers of the wall groaned and strained. Raspars cowered beneath its leaning. The tenacious current ate away at the fort's earthen foundation. Persistent streams pushed their thin fingers between the upright logs, and the fountains of the River Alluvia poured out their draught without ceasing, and the clouds wept rain upon the land. Then the walls gave way, the towers fell like grand trees under the axe, and the mighty anger of the rushing river swept across the bluff, washing away in a mighty purge every sign of life and tradition, every bit of past and future, from the Rufoux' ancestral village. The flood claimed the hilltop, the stockade, the forests, the standancrags, and crept up the height of the mountains, ever closer to the wooden box and its precious occupants — and a great sullen blanket lay heavily from horizon to horizon. And stillness reigned upon all the Earth, and Medialia was no more, and the clouds wept rain upon the land.

"But as the days of Noah were, so shall the coming of the Son of Man be." — Mt. 24:37

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After earning bachelor's and graduate degrees at the University of Missouri, Craig Davis toiled for 20 years at newspapers, and has spent a lifetime in biblical scholarship. He has also authored "The Job: Based on a True Story (I mean, this is bound to have happened somewhere)" and "Feallengod: The Conflict in the Heavenlies." An amateur musician, he was once wrestled to the ground by a set of bagpipes. To keep up with other works by Craig, please join our Facebook page at  http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Job-Based-on-a-True-Story/104805546240239. Also, please visit http://www.StCelibart.com.

