Wars of the Aoten

  Chapter L

  Time creeps from parts unknown and steals away men and women and cultures as it passes into the horizon. The babes of the day cling to the familiar as the future encroaches with its newness, that there might some history survive to bind families and tribes after they grow old. The death of some customs makes those that survive all the more precious, and they become the hallmarks of a people until tomorrow’s babes arrive. And when progress can take the hand of ancient tradition, each comforting the other, the celebration glows particularly sweet. So men and women of the Rufoux gathered for grand games, to mark the alliance of all the clans of Medialia, and that of Artur and Andreia.

  “Ho-ho, my dear Mercedi, you will marvel at the wonderful tricks of the Rufoux upon their hippus!” Dungo regaled the Raspar regent. “I have seen them! What a grand sight upon these huge beasts; I should have brought my carving! A present, from Artur! You would love to see it, such a beautiful, delightful toy! A tiny, wooden man balancing delicately upon a tremendous beast! But I suspect Bedoua warriors will use their javelins well in competition today. Ha-ha! We may well teach the Rufoux a lesson at their own game!”

  “Lo, I look forward to the spectacle. Never have we heard of such a thing; there exists no room for festivity within the Eternal City.”

  “Ha! Your archers would certainly do well, if only they could shoot straight.”

  “Lo, ye will watch your mouth, you flabby lout,” muttered Severus, standing separated from the crowd. He glanced about himself with his head down, scowling at the collection of clansmen that passed his gaze. “Aye, ye will feel my vengeance. Ye will not rejoice that ye have dragged me into this pit of barbarism.”

  “Vizier,” said Krait, again standing behind Dungo, along with Sylva. “You mus-ssst take care, for you are not among your equals-sss here.”

  “Aye, ye speak truly, Bedoua man. Ye will refrain from talking to me,” said Severus.

  “You will not trus-ssst this-sss one,” Krait whispered into Dungo’s ear.

  “My dear Krait,” said the vizier. “I have invested many days with this people, and suffered many hardships with them. This one man is exceptionally strange, I grant you, but you will find him harmless and the Raspars as a whole orderly and honorable. Ho-ho! You should see their wonderful arrows, and the sculptures upon their city walls. But only the grand Dungo has traveled to such exotic places as the Raspar city. Surely a people so devoted to beauty can earn our trust. So let your suspicions begone, Krait, and accept that we have made a new world! Hand joins in hand, Krait! Let us glory in our new friends, and our new life!”

  Behind the tinted lenses of his glasses, Krait’s eyes shifted to each side as he studied the faces surrounding him.

  Artur, as last time, withdrew from the games themselves to oversee. Only by much insistence did he persuade Yarrow that Kylie would not be allowed in the swordplay contest. He did take part in the trick riding, but only for a time before his injuries convinced him to bow out. The Melics showed their skills in axe-throwing, embedding their blades deep into the unfortunate tree selected as a target, and Artur donated his strength in pulling them out again. There, tugging without effect on one stubborn axe, Jakke found him.

  “For you, Artur,” he said simply, and held out a long, brilliant object. “Wedding.”

  In his hand lay a sword, well longer than most, in a dark brown, leather scabbard with a long fringe. He had beautifully worked its hilt with shining bronze, made thick and sturdy, scalloped on the end and with a crescent cross-guard at the blade. Speech failed Artur as he slid the blade slowly out of the sheath: The metal sang like a chorus of angels, and its color was a gleaming, creamy silver-blue never seen before, not even in Medialia. Straight and bright, heavy even to Artur, the weapon nonetheless balanced in his hand as though attached to his shoulder.

  Artur looked at Jakke with his mouth open. “Never have I seen a more beautiful creation.”

  “What would you have for it?” asked a Koinoni, probably Yarrow.

  “It came from the black sand of the Bedoua,” Jakke offered. “I fired my forge with the rock that burns, and it flamed hot. A flare hit my face, and I turned away and spilled in the black sand.”

  Jakke stopped, unused to talking so much, and he looked about the gathering faces nervously. Artur had to spur him on, “Well? Did it kill the fire?”

  “No, it glowed and melted, so I beat it, and it burned together. So I beat it, and burned it, and beat it all day, and this came out. I’ll show you.”

  Jakke took the blade from Artur and grabbed a spear from a passing Raspar — Severus — a typical Rufoux weapon with a heavy, bronze head. Holding the spear lightly in his left hand, tucked under his arm, he brought the sword down on its head, as thick as a child’s wrist, as though he were whittling. The sword screamed, a perfect note cutting the clear blue sky, and the bronze point fell to the ground and stuck out of the dirt in silent witness: The metal had no jagged break; it was cut, clean and sudden. Jakke showed Artur the sword’s blade again, and all could see it had received not a scratch.

  “For you, Artur.”

  “Lo, ye fool! Where am I to get another spear?” bellowed Severus, not offering explanation of where he got the first. “Ye ignorant Rufoux, ye insult my eyes just at looking upon ye! Ye farting hog! I will turn ye into rumidont feed, to pass out the arse and to the ground, and be trampled into the mud!”

  The diatribe left Jakke speechless, not an uncommon thing, and quite surprised. He eyed Severus curiously, and, as if testing unclear waters, he said, “Fight?”

  “Aye, I will kill ye,” raged Severus, shaking both fists.

  A clearing quickly and quietly opened as the surrounding men and women made room. A multitude of Raspars stood about pretending not to look nor listen. Krait joined as well, standing several back from the front of the crowd, concealed from the combatants. Jakke, his face aglow with innocent glee, long frustrated hopes now answered, took off his tough leather apron; Severus continued his insane rantings.

  “Lo, ye will know no new day, Rufoux trash! I will hack off the top of your head, ye infidel child, ye bastard spawn! Ye think I am to be spat upon in this destitute land; it is ye who I deem inferior, and judge unworthy!” He seemed to speak to everyone and yet no one. Mercedi and Vespus made their way to the front of the crowd, where Artur caught their faces: totally blank, observing like weather-worn statues. Unsure what to do, he took a firm grip on his new sword. If need be he’d kill Severus, or Jakke, depending on what happened. He had no idea what to expect, but war came into his mind.

  Severus let out a bellow and charged at Jakke. The huge Rufoux smithy barely had time to hold out a single hand and pop Severus’ forehead with an open palm. The Raspar’s head snapped back, and he hit the ground hard. Jakke’s eyes twinkled as he stalked his prey. Artur kept a wary eye on Mercedi, who remained indifferent. Severus regained his feet and swung his arms wildly at his sides. Again he rushed at Jakke, who, better prepared, planted a fist the size of a thylak head squarely in his chest. Severus’ eyes bugged and breath exploded across the grounds as the Earth again caught him by the back of his head. Slowly he worked his way from his hands to his knees to his feet.

  The Raspar stumbled toward a tripod of pikes to the side, which he left in shambles after snatching one away. His eyes a twisted bramble of rage and lunacy, he menaced Jakke with the ragged point. Artur again moved to draw his sword, but before he could act Jakke had taken hold of the spear and used it to draw his foe closer, Severus holding on doggedly. Moving Severus in and out with the staff, jabbing with his free hand, Jakke lay blow after blow to the Raspar’s head. Bleeding now, profusely, Severus fell to the ground.

  As he dragged himself upward, he caught sight of Vespus. “Lo, he defeats me. Will ye allow this Rufoux knave to have better of Raspar dignity? Help me!”

  Vespus looked on, seeing but not seeing, with his single eye, and said nothing.

  Krait blinked.

  Artur let go his grip on
his new blade.

  Jakke stalked toward Severus and grasped him by the collar. “Give up?” he said.

  “Nay, ye great hulking putrid swine, I piss upon ye and your hallowed saints. I will kill ye.”

  Jakke held Severus’ feet off the ground, though the Raspar was upwards of a kronyn taller, and beat him mercilessly with a single fist; finally Severus fell silent. Limply he hung in Jakke’s grip, until the huge man could stomach no more. He let the Raspar fall to the ground and sighed, as though all his hopes and dreams vanished into vanity, never a fair competition to be found again.

  The Raspar crowd, staring blankly until this moment, suddenly broke into smiles, and each man turned to his neighbor as they all agreed what a fine show had been put on. Backs turned and spectators strolled away, to discuss and recall the great battle and terrific licking Severus had received. Not a single mouth spoke a sympathetic word, and not a thought of vengeance arose. Artur stood bemused but relieved, never sure what to make of the strange peoples he had come to know, and yet not know.

  Aachen knelt by the unconscious Severus, tending his bloodied and broken face.