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.