Chapter V
Days passed, the Aoten remained distant, and Artur did and said little to defend the prospects or calm the fears of the Rufoux people. He seemed dazed, lost in a fog as Wyllem quizzed him over how the clan might repel an assault.
“Are our numbers great enough to overwhelm them? Would it take three, or four Rufoux to each giant?” he asked.
“I cannot tell,” Artur said. “We have no way to tell, except to see them in battle, to know how strong they are, or how courageous, how skillful. We might need two, we might need eight.”
“Do they have hippus?”
“I saw none. A hippus would have trouble bearing up under one Aoten, even Brute,” Artur referred to his own huge mount.
“Could that then be an advantage for us?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps they’ve never fought cavalry. Perhaps they could pick up a hippus and throw it back on us.”
And so it went until Artur believed certainly he had heard every question possible, only to see Wyllem returning with dozens more. Artur wasn’t sure if his exhaustion came more from worry over the Aoten or by imagining battle strategies. All about him the clanspeople buzzed with anxiety born of uncertainty: Whether the Aoten might attack, whether the Rufoux might be able to survive. The councils, the nervous activity, the fearful expressions made his head ache, and he knew some urgent action was essential before the clan fell in upon itself.
Finally a morning arrived with these words to Wyllem: “I have come to a decision.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?”
Artur had known what to expect from Wyllem, yet still his spirits sank in frustration. “Yes, I’m sure. At least hear me before you cast your doubts upon me.”
“Yes. Indeed.”
“My decision is this —“ and Artur paused for effect. “We will have games.”
“Yes! Excellent!”
Wyllem’s unhesitating enthusiasm took Artur by surprise and gave him new confidence. Perhaps he had stumbled upon a real remedy; pleased, he slapped his torso with both hands. “Rufoux do nobody any good sitting around afraid,” he further reasoned. “Gather the families onto the plains behind the village. We will work out our troubles with games!”
As Wyllem spread the word through the village, indeed it seemed just the medicine the clan needed. Men, and Arielle, rummaged through their storehouses for their wooden spears and swords, maces and chains, and the women, except Arielle, gathered in the common area to spread grand tables of food and drink. Children outdid them all by finding stout sticks and entering into impromptu sword play.
Before long the plain filled with the clattering of mock battles as the Rufoux took out their frustrations physically upon one another. In one area wooden clubs battered wooden shields, and in another riders upon swift hippus ran at each other headlong. Yet elsewhere men tried to knock each other off high beams using long staffs. Among the ruckus a tremendously thick, completely bald man approached everyone he saw with a single word: “Fight?” He found no takers.
And thus did Jakke, the chief metal smith among the clan, make his rounds. Immensely strong, Jakke’s chest and arms looked comically large for his stumpy legs. Without a scrap of hair upon his head, he made up the difference with a heavy red thatch from his mustache to his heels. He knew enough to know he knew little, and he masked his ignorance with silence. Not fond of conversation, not fond of bathing, he found his greatest joy in a simple boxing match. His nose lay practically flat, broken innumerable times by an unfortunate opponent’s fists. Now, though, after years of beatings, no Rufoux would accept his challenges.
Jakke ambled up toward Artur. “Fight?” he said.
“No, Jakke. I need all my bones right now. Perhaps Wyllem,” Artur volunteered.
Wyllem didn’t wait for Jakke to ask. “No, Jakke, not me. You would not find me much sport. Don’t you want some more worthy opponent? A hippus perhaps?”
Not comfortable with so many words, Jakke said no more. He stood there for a moment, then silently walked toward another group of men.
“He smells unusually rank today,” commented Artur. “I must get into a competition. My mind feels so wrung out, only an equally exhausted body will put it to rest.”
Artur strolled about the different groups of games, studying the combatants with only feigned disinterest. Onlookers surrounded each venue — the swordsmen, the lancers, the axe men, the hammer throwers — cheering on the rhythm of the action: “Hoo-rah! Hoo-rah! Hoo-rah!” With each surge of action the chant would rise and fall again. Artur surveyed the clashes, seeking a likely opening for himself, but he would not get the opportunity.
As a round of “Hoo-rah!” died down, a small voice crying out came from over the crest of the bluff. Artur’s attention turned to the sound, and he saw the flowing, platinum hair of Osewold as he sprinted toward the plain.
Osewold had earned the respect of Artur, a reliable aide, a fearless man willing to take on any assignment and see to it well. Among all the clan he also ran fastest, faster by far than even Arielle in spite of her loping strides. So he often ranged far as a sentry, appointed to warn the clan of impending danger. His natural sense of urgency made him perfectly suited to be watchman for the Rufoux. Seeing him approaching the camp at full speed made Artur shiver.
“Turn out! Turn out! They enter the fields!” cried Osewold.
Artur needed hear no more. His eyes sought out Wyllem, who ran to his side. All the clan ran toward their huts. Artur was hot. “This is it,” he said to Wyllem through gritted teeth. “We will not allow this intrusion!”
“But what of the plan?” begged Wyllem.
“We have thought over plans for days! How many more days must we think before we starve to death?” retorted Artur as he jogged to the village.
“How can we win? What weapon can wound the Aoten?” Wyllem continued.
“The one weapon we never counted,” screamed Artur into his face. “We will use Rufoux rage to mow down our enemies and defend our lands! Bring me corn!”
A fetching young woman appeared as if out of nowhere with a woven basket spilling grain. More slender than most Rufoux women, her waving red hair fell upon her fey shoulders and down her back. Her porcelain arms held the basket up high to Artur as he approached the communal fire and kicked over the pot that hung over it, cooking something. Quickly, every man and woman gathered to the fire, fully armed, no longer with wood but with sharp, fire-cured metal.
“Oh Mog, high and exalted god of the Rufoux, defeater of the Emim, wrathful, powerful, vengeful Mog!” began Artur, and he grabbed as much corn as he could from the basket with both hands and held it above his head, sending a cascade of grain down upon himself. “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!”
Artur threw the grain upon the fire, where it popped and sizzled. “Oh Mog, accept this sacrifice now to your hunger for justice, this sacrifice to your greatness and ferocity. Fill us with your bloodlust, wrap us in your enmity, kindle your own fire and brimstone through us and bring to us today a great victory!” Sparks flew from the blaze as the Rufoux raised their weapons with a cheer.
“Follow me!” Artur cried.
As one, the Rufoux ran to the fields, where they knew the Aoten had arrived. The Rufoux’ crops always grew lush and plentiful, fed by the River Alluvia. Throughout their history, every enemy had first tried to take the Rufoux farmlands, and the Aoten would be no different. As the warriors topped the bluff, they could see the giants clumsily using jerry-built scythes to level great swaths of cornstalks and wheat, barley and stacken.
With loud shrieks the men swept down toward the invaders, at first seeming to put a scare into them. The Aoten turned from their work and fled toward the forest. This only encouraged the Rufoux, their hatred doubling at the giants’ cowardice. Across the fields and into the woodlands they pursued the fleeing creatures. But the ruse revealed itself: Once deep into t
he wood, the Aoten turned to fight. The giants produced clubs from behind trees and out of holes in the ground, and in turn charged at the Rufoux.
The two forces met in pockets of great clashes. Artur vaulted his body toward the first giant he saw, only to be laid flat on his bum. One Aoten would fend off half a dozen Rufoux men, its simple wooden cudgel turning aside a barrage of blows from their swords. Rufoux hammers and axes would break to pieces a poor Aoten blade, only to have the men thrown to the ground by a single blow from the giant’s forearm. Rufoux armor and shields, able to blunt the edges of knives and daggers, could not protect from the utter strength and size of the Aoten.
Artur, unable to get in close with Kylie, instead stabbed her blade at the outstretched fingers of his opponents like an enraged wasp. Jakke could not have been happier within the fighting – but likewise unable to get within range of his fists, he instead slung his hammer, with good effect but sapping his strength. Geoffrey, wading into battle still without armor, received a stout blow and hit a tree hard, knocking him unconscious. Many Rufoux shared this same fate, until their numbers dwindled dangerously. The struggle went on for hours, it seemed, as the combatants gave no quarter but began to flag with exhaustion. Artur bent backward nearly double under the siege of one giant when Wyllem found him.
“Is this the best we can do?” he asked.
“What do you think, you weasel?” spat Artur.
“Is this worth lives today?”
“Just say it, you idiot!”
“We’d best withdraw, or we will have to carry dead instead of wounded!” said Wyllem.
“Tell Osewold!” was all Artur said, but Wyllem knew what he meant.
Wyllem broke away from the fighting and found Osewold by himself provoking a giant, running around the slow creature’s back and stabbing him as best he could through its thick hair. “Call a retreat! Artur calls a retreat!”
“What if they follow?” asked Osewold without turning his attention from the giant. This question had not occurred to Wyllem, but, of course, no answer existed for it anyway.
“We will hope they do not,” said Wyllem.
Osewold easily escaped his adversary and ran along the Rufoux line yelling, “Break off! Withdraw!” Slowly the clashing began to diminish, and the Rufoux warriors backed away from their opponents, who either did not understand what was happening or gladly accepted the recess. Regardless, the Aoten too warily broke off battle and moved toward the forest interior. Every Rufoux who passed a wounded man grabbed him by the collar or the head and dragged him to safety. Artur took the rear, the last to leave the wood, the last to collapse into the fields.