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.