Wars of the Aoten
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 Eter
nal 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, y
e 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.