Chapter LIX
Artur slammed his long sword into its scabbard and turned back to Mercedi. “We’ll settle this later!” he seethed and ran up a ladder onto the wall walk. Sure enough, a tower of smoke arose in the distance over the River Alluvia. The Koinoni had lit fire to several boats, the signal to be raised as soon as they spotted the Aoten advancing upon the village.
The Bedoua and Melics within the stockade clambered up ladders and over the walls to join their clans’ positions without, Dungo providing a nonstop monologue all the way: “Over the top, lads, and do your best, and we will show these ingrate clans why all peoples tremble in fear before the Bedoua! Ho-ho! First these giants will taste our fury, then we will make these other tribes pay the price to so belittle the Bedoua! We know the harshness of the sands, yes, and the hatred of Wolven, so now turn it upon our enemies! Over the top, lads! And to your pikes! Bedoua warriors, prepare to charge! Ho-ho!”
Theodoric rejoiced like a madman to see approaching battle. He knew this encounter would tell the tale: Either the giants would be vanquished and the clans could give their petty troubles a fresh start, or the Aoten would prevail and all other issues would become moot. Pepin found him and anticipated the inevitable question: “I have dreamed nothing.” Theodoric drew a sigh — “Tomorrow always awaits with the unexpected,” — and together they took up axes and joined the Melic lines behind the Bedoua. “At least we have our common enemy.”
Mercedi paused for the other clans’ warriors to clear the stockade before ordering her archers to the towers and wall walks. In truth, for a moment she considered escape, abandoning the campaign now and leaving the village to the giants. But directing hundreds of men to clamber over the walls, likely to flee directly into Aoten hands, hardly seemed reasonable. In the end she could be heard charging her men: “Lo, we have yet this chance to win again the good graces of our compatriots, if we acquit ourselves well! I will not let Raspars again be cause of genocide! We must redeem Raspar reputation! So fire your arrows keenly, ye Raspars, and show the peoples of Medialia that ye will be reckoned with!” She knew as well, any retreat her people attempted across wide open lands would leave them utterly like lost children.
Rufoux soldiers took their places among the others, Arielle and other archers with the Raspars, Wyllem and other lancers with the Bedoua, a cavalry of hippus to the rear. Artur fairly slid down a ladder to the ground. He pulled loose the bag of grain he had hanging from his belt, tossed it into a fire and recited as he ran, “Oh Mog, high and exalted god of the Rufoux, defeater of the Emim, wrathful, powerful, vengeful! Oh Mog, defender of the mighty and aggressive, strength of the angry and violent, pour out your fury upon us today to strike the heads of our enemies!” Then he took his place with the swordsmen behind the Melics, the last line of infantry before the Aoten would reach the stockade. He gazed off into the distance at the rising smoke, and soon saw Koinoni poling their remaining vessels, sagging under the weight of so many men, back down the Alluvia, and he knew the onrush of giants would not lag far behind.
A pair of hummingbirds startled Artur as they swooped down before his face. A moment passed as they hung in the air and looked him square in the eyes. Then they peeled away and made a looping line toward the west.
“Here they come! They break out of the wood!” Artur cried out, taking firm grip upon his sword as the lumbering forms of the Aoten appeared from the tangled bracken of the forests. Each one carried a giant stone, newly reaped from the Raspar city, and trudged slowly toward the village under their great heft. No sign of fright nor apprehension showed on their inhuman faces.
Artur braced his feet firmly upon this, his homeland. Many times now he had faced this foe, never giving ground, never gaining. Like Theodoric, he knew this battle would settle things forever. His mind fell to Geoffrey, the most ancient, treading Medialia so long only to slip away at its crucial moment. His father had called him the greatest of all Rufoux leaders; he might also be the last. Never while I have breath, he thought, never while I have breath.
Something wet hit Artur’s ear. He brushed away at it and concentrated on the approaching Aoten, now crossing the fields. The ground had drained enough now to plant, but he’d had no thought of that this year. The giants’ shuffling steps did not slow, and soon they would be within reach of a short charge; the long Bedoua pikes would easily reach the towering giants from a distance, but could their strokes penetrate that thick hair and tough skin? Another wet drop hit Artur, and then another, an irritating tapping upon his helmet. But overhead hung not damp foliage, but an open sky; puzzled misgiving drew his attention upward.
His eyes caught an unknown sight, brackish billows like he had never seen before ravishing the clear skies of Medialia. Was this smoke from the Koinoni boats? He stared in wonder — all the sky looked like smoke, but he’d never seen so much, not in all his days by the Rufoux forges and ceremonial fires. This hazy cast hung as high as heaven itself — could it be some kind of wizardry? Water from the air — did the Aoten bring with them some evil enchantment? Drops hit Artur’s face by the dozen now, and he happened to glance at the top of the looming western mountains. Atop the highest peak he saw what appeared to be a huge wooden box, perched at the zenith of the lunatic No-Ahn’s fabled realm, reaching toward the vengeful sky.
At that moment a great wave of current, standing against the air like a wall, bore down from around the River Alluvia’s bend and swept up the Koinoni boats, tossing them like twigs, leaving them swamped and capsized. The Koinoni floundered, their heavy robes leaving them no hope as the raging water pulled them under. The fountains of the Alluvia had opened, and the onrush took the feet out from under the Bedoua, positioned furthest down on the bank. Many turned to run up the bluff, blocked by the packed crowds of warriors; others thrashed about in the rising tide, trying to stand up against the torrent as the Aoten encroached. Many terrified voices arose to a number of gods. Now the water fell from the heavens in a torrent.
The flooding time has already passed, thought Artur, nothing like this has ever happened. How strong is this magic? The waters came and came, until finally even the giants on the low ground staggered in the slogging mire — this trickery turned upon them as well. Though it be brutal, the deluge was none of Mog’s doing, either; he knew only fire and rage, not the patient might of this massive, undulating onslaught. Waters churned and belched, working into every niche of the ground, and the crushing weight multiplied. The great battle fell away from the minds of all, and each individual thought only of survival. Artur spotted Dungo’s bloated body already floating face-down, the final curse of the Alluvia against him, as the swirling, gurgling water steadily climbed the hill. Suddenly Artur’s memory brought forth Andreia’s face, and he ran back toward the stockade.
Many of the Melics naturally headed for the trees, but the power of the water began to push their sanctuaries flat to the ground, roots torn from the soil, spilling out the precious grain that had been stored away in hope of the future. Theodoric alone of his tribe stood upon high ground, screaming into the sky, “Curse me, Drueed, damn me, for I knew, I knew!”
The feet of grand standancrags wore away and crumbled; from the forests came the frantic screams of rumidont, along with the mournful cry of therium. Water fell from the sky unrelenting, and the wind blew in tremendous, violent gusts, drenching Artur as he struggled to lean a ladder against the fortress. Arielle, defiant to the end, shot an arrow into the air above. Distant wails of unknown victims mixed with the wind’s howling, and leaves torn from the branches pelted every man as he sought cover. Great streaks of fire fell from the heavens, accompanied by loud crashes, magnificent complaints made against all the Earth, rattling the very ground. Artur’s feet slipped and skidded as he reached the top of the wall and fell over its pointed top onto the narrow ledge. The Raspars fared no better, sliding off the wall walk as they ran for shelter from the strange downpour. The panicked men had pushed Mercedi aside and trampled her underfoot as they sought the com
fort and security of solid walls. Artur carefully gained his feet and clung to the wall as he scanned the compound for Andreia.
The roaring fires that had always dotted his village now died to no more than hissing, steaming embers. The huts and buildings, every one, had been stripped of their skins and stood as bare skeletons. As he looked down the bluff, into the blinding sheets, Artur could see the clansmen laid waste, many of them struggling just to keep their heads above the tide. The Aoten, too, thrashed about in the wake, their next breath their only thought. The clans’ ambition to put aside differences and discover a new unity finally found its fulfillment, for Artur could see, in their desperate desire to survive, in the judgment that befell them all, the Rufoux and all the clans of Medialia were no different — no better, no worse, no different — from each other, nor even the Aoten.
Another huge wave appeared over the top of the river, now as wide as the sea, yet another great outpouring of water from the Alluvia’s mother spring, and Artur could only watch as it bore down upon the stockade. The waters had already topped the bluff, dozens of kronyn higher than any flood ever known, and this swell would squarely hit the wall upon which he stood. Men, women, children — all thrashed about without hope in the churning flood, sputtering and choking. Behind him Artur heard his name called by the only voice he cared to hear.
Artur turned and caught sight of Andreia, her arms held up to him. “Andreia!” he said quietly, and he looked upon his love, as far from him as she had ever been, and the furious river hit the wall with such force that it threw him to the ground. Andreia rushed to his side and gathered his head into her arms.
“Artur!” she sobbed. “My dream!”
Water pushed relentlessly against the stockade, wave upon wave, and the timbers of the wall groaned and strained. Raspars cowered beneath its leaning. The tenacious current ate away at the fort’s earthen foundation. Persistent streams pushed their thin fingers between the upright logs, and the fountains of the River Alluvia poured out their draught without ceasing, and the clouds wept rain upon the land. Then the walls gave way, the towers fell like grand trees under the axe, and the mighty anger of the rushing river swept across the bluff, washing away in a mighty purge every sign of life and tradition, every bit of past and future, from the Rufoux’ ancestral village. The flood claimed the hilltop, the stockade, the forests, the standancrags, and crept up the height of the mountains, ever closer to the wooden box and its precious occupants — and a great sullen blanket lay heavily from horizon to horizon. And stillness reigned upon all the Earth, and Medialia was no more, and the clouds wept rain upon the land.
“But as the days of Noah were, so shall the coming of the Son of Man be.” — Mt. 24:37
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After earning bachelor’s and graduate degrees at the University of Missouri, Craig Davis toiled for 20 years at newspapers, and has spent a lifetime in biblical scholarship. He has also authored “The Job: Based on a True Story (I mean, this is bound to have happened somewhere)” and “Feallengod: The Conflict in the Heavenlies.” An amateur musician, he was once wrestled to the ground by a set of bagpipes. To keep up with other works by Craig, please join our Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Job-Based-on-a-True-Story/104805546240239. Also, please visit https://www.StCelibart.com.
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