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.”