Chapter XIX
“Yes, we must be going,” Theodoric continued, looking overhead. “The full moon rises tonight, and we must make their camp before dark. They will insist on it, or else we put our lives in danger.”
“Why?” asked Artur.
“I don’t know. All I know is what I’ve observed.”
“How will we know the way?”
“Morning sun directly to the right,” said Theodoric, holding his right arm straight out. “Make it go directly overhead, directly to the left.”
“Smart,” said Artur.
“Well, we observe the sun. Besides, we may have tracks to follow as well.”
The little group pressed on into the desert in silence, now expending all their energies in walking. They soon passed the former site of the Bedoua camp, the sand still stirred up like churning water, although the winds worked to smooth it quickly. Sure enough, a faint trail of footprints remained visible. On they trekked, and as the sand grew deeper, each step became more difficult. Artur, in his heavier Rufoux armor, soon tired and felt the heat of the unhindered sun beating down upon him. And yet on they went.
Hours passed, until at last they topped a tall dune and saw Bedoua tents. Rumidonts wandered about outside the large camp, and dozens of sentries stood at its perimeter.
“Do as I do,” said Theodoric.
He threw his hands into the air and slowly walked a direct path toward the camp. Artur and the other Melics followed suit, and soon sentries surrounded them, taking Artur’s weapons.
“I am Theodoric of the Melics. I have come to see Dungo.”
“Who is the Rufoux?” asked one sentry grimly.
“I bring Artur, chief of the Rufoux. We have come together to see Dungo.”
“You cannot see Dungo. Nobody sees Dungo.”
“Artur has journeyed far; Artur, who battles the Aoten. He must see Dungo.”
“The Aoten? Who battles the Aoten?”
“Artur, Artur of the Rufoux. He must see Dungo.”
“He must wait here.”
“He must see Dungo.”
“Wait first. Maybe you will see Dungo later.” And the sentry disappeared into the tent city.
Their hands still up in the air, the travelers waited in the blazing sun as the remaining sentries milled about. Artur grew hotter by the minute, as did his temper, but he knew the Bedoua’s numbers made his situation hopeless, in spite of the dagger he still had hidden underneath his breastplate.
At last the sentry returned. “Come see Dungo,” he invited, and his smile gleamed as bright as his frown had been ominous.
The little group filed through the camp in line, Theodoric in the lead, hands held high. A smattering of Bedoua fell in along the way, staring at the Melics’ hands, and straggling rumidonts scattered out of the procession’s way. Their guards led them toward a large tent, luxuriously woven of rumidont wool. Wonderfully intricate embroidery peeked out of its folds, not pictures but knotwork, paisley-like patterns, like ironwork made of fabric, and a rich fringe lined all its edges. Servants instructed Artur to remove his shoes as he entered, then carefully washed the feet of all in bowls of water. A deep carpet, again of rumidont wool, swathed their tired feet in its cool softness.
Before them sat a rotund man upon a pile of embroidered carpets, stacked askew upon each other, at least a kronyn high. Jet black hair fell from his head, long and braided into thin strings like his beard, which he sat twisting upon one finger as he contemplated his visitors. He wore a single large earring made of glass, looped through his pierced lobe, and he kept a large collection of beautifully delicate glass figurines at his side. With them sat a group of small, colorful bottles, all carefully sealed with cork and wax. The smell of rumidonts hung thick inside the tent, and in fact two sleepily chewed their cud in the corner. An intricate water clock sat beside him, also made of glass and continuously dripping out the most precious commodity of the desert for its most opulent occupant: Dungo, grand vizier of the Bedoua, so named as the fattest of the clan, a mark of accomplishment among a people of meager means. Behind him stood a thin man with a heavy mustache and wearing something over his eyes, and a full-figured woman with long black hair as well.
“Who brings this Rufoux into my presence?” Dungo began, full of indignation. “Who brings him into the camp of the Bedoua? Does he not know that Rufoux hang as a curse over the Bedoua? Does he not know that the Rufoux have vexed the Bedoua forefathers, and forced them into the desert lands, into the curse of the River Alluvia? Does he not know that the Rufoux have stolen the right of the Bedoua to live in peace with the land and the water? Does he not know that the Bedoua forefathers have bought their right to harmony with the land at a high price? Does he not know the price the Rufoux and Wolven himself extract from the Bedoua? Does he beg yet more outrage, that he would then bring Rufoux into the Bedoua camp? Who brings this Rufoux among the Bedoua? Who would bring him into the presence of Dungo?”
“I, Theodoric of the Melics.”
“Melics are one thing, Rufoux another,” Dungo continued. “Melics can have their trees, we do not care. Melics do not covet the pastures, or the full length of the Alluvia, or the wool and milk of the rumidonts. But the Rufoux, they want all they can see. Their fields do not yield enough for them, their metals and fire give them not power enough. The Rufoux have made victims of my people for generations. Did we not bargain away enough for the security of our camp? What more would you extract from us, Rufoux man? And at dusk as well, when the full moon arises. What worse sign could fall upon the Bedoua? What more misfortune would you bring upon us? What is it, Rufoux man? What do you require from the Bedoua before you bring your clan down upon us? Here, sit and eat,” and Dungo gestured toward a large platter piled high with cheeses, an odd hospitality in the midst of his rant.
“Artur, chief of the Rufoux, has joined me to seek an audience,” said Theodoric, settling down on the floor and reaching for the food. Artur followed suit and took some of the strange stuff himself, his hunger overcoming his doubts and his distaste for the smell inside the tent.
“Artur, the chief! Well, what a fine thing! Why does the chief of the Rufoux travel with Melics? And alone at that! This is puzzling indeed. Is there an army of Rufoux awaiting behind the dunes, perhaps? Awaiting a signal to attack? You will be mightily disappointed, Artur of the Rufoux, if you plan such mischief, for the night of the full moon stalks you! Anyone outside the tents will be left in shreds tonight, for soon comes the full moon. I well remember once long ago, a pack of thylak entered the deserts, thinking to make a meal of Bedoua rumidonts. But the full moon knew too much! Wolven left not a single thylak alive. Little did they know, but the thylak avoid the desert now, you see. So why would you venture out in such dangerous times? Why do you come to us, Artur of the Rufoux? Why do you seek out the Bedoua, if not to pillage and steal?”
“We come seeking help,” Artur swallowed hard to keep his disdain from his voice.
“Help? Help the mighty Rufoux? How can that be?” Dungo was sincerely incredulous, but not above sarcasm. “The Rufoux have always looked upon the Bedoua as servants, if not animals, allowed to live only to produce wonders worthy of theft. Our woolens, our glassware, our herds and women: All lay about like wild grasses for the mighty Rufoux to harvest for themselves. Only for raiders to snatch away from us when our guard is down. Jackals who sneak into the corral as the shepherd drops waste. I know the legends well, the ancient Rufoux who swept down on their hippus and drove the rumidonts into the mouth of the Alluvia. You keep us away from its southern waters! You force us into the dry sands of northern Medialia! How do you now expect help from us? How can you seek aid from the lowly Bedoua, oh high and mighty Rufoux?”
“We battle the Aoten,” said Artur.
“The Aoten! So I have heard! The giants have come into Medialia! Has one stronger arrived to vex the Rufoux? Is the shoe now on the other foot, so to speak? Do the Rufoux now learn the lessons the Bedoua have studied for so long? I sa
y well enough then! Let the Rufoux pay the price of peace they once forced the Bedoua to pay! Let the Rufoux drink the cup of servitude! One time a rumidont sought leadership of a herd, but he looked for followers in the wood and found only deviltooth! Perhaps the Rufoux seek rumidonts in the Bedoua, but have found deviltooth in the Aoten.”
“I’m afraid you have well spoken, but the Aoten will not stop at taking Rufoux lands,” said Theodoric.
“Do you say the Aoten threaten the Bedoua? I have not seen them. I have not heard of them coming up the Alluvia. What might they want from the desert? What do the Bedoua still possess that the giants might desire? I think they could want little here, and I think the Bedoua might want to offer the Rufoux more little yet. Let the Aoten have the forest lands, I say, let them have the Rufoux fields. We have no use for Rufoux, nor either for Melics. The Bedoua will stay in the pastures, and the deserts if need be, and we will survive, as we always have. We will disappear into the depths of the sands, if we must, but we will survive. Your curse has become a blessing to us, Rufoux man! And when the Aoten have filled their bellies on Rufoux wealth, then perhaps Wolven will slake his own hunger upon them, and Bedoua will inherit the riches of Medialia.”
Out of patience with the long-winded Dungo, Artur wanted to simply walk out of the meeting. But not sure if he’d even make it out of the tent alive, he decided instead to try a different appeal to the Bedoua leader.
“If not this then, we ask for your healing skills,” he said. “For a girl who suffers greatly.”
“Oh? Have you heard then of Bedoua alchemy? Skills the Rufoux forced upon us? Here in the miserly desert we have much to fear: Poisonous snakes and lizards, insects and plants that sting with death. We have learned much about making a weak body strong again, because we don’t have the abundance that the Rufoux enjoy. And now you ask us to share our secrets? You ask us to save a Rufoux girl, who will no doubt then produce a dozen more Rufoux warriors to vex us? Should we save this life so the Aoten can take it?”
“I have knowledge of healing as well,” said Aachen. “But I do not have the skills of the Bedoua. This girl will die without Bedoua healing.”
“Do I care? I remember stories of a Bedoua girl, long ago, raped and beaten by Rufoux raiders. Did she survive? I hardly think so ...”
“But that happened so long ago,” Artur broke in impatiently.
“Are our memories so short? Should we refuse to learn?” Dungo insisted, looking directly at Artur. “What can come of forgetting the past? Only more atrocities? So you then ask me to dishonor this girl’s memory for the sake of her tormentors? But, what’s this I see? What is this marvelous device? How can such a delightful object exist? What clever design and ingenious contrivance is this?”
Dungo’s eyes had fallen upon Franken’s carving, turning his face as bright as the sky, and the travelers could hear a clicking sound accompanying Dungo’s words. The gift sat before Franken, who had been playing with it idly as the vizier’s monolog droned on. Dungo reached for the little hippus, and Franken handed it over.
“What beautiful work! What delicate art! And the tail, how can the tail move the rider? Oh, the splendid joy of creation! A tiny Rufoux doing tricks upon a hippus! What cleverness! What grand invention! Who could have imagined such a wonderful toy?” Dungo looked about in glad search of other Bedoua to share his discovery with. “Ha-haaa! Such raptures, and joy! See, what exquisite designs upon the breastplate, the brave face, the wonder of the tricks! How it must feel to be real and ride upon such a grand animal! Who has brought this? Who has brought this most charming, excellent offering into the lands of the Bedoua?”
“Artur offers you a gift, a token of esteem from the Rufoux,” said Theodoric.
“Krait! Sylva! Prepare beds for our honored guests!” ordered Dungo, and he marveled at the tiny plaything.