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 reg
ent, 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.