by Craig Davis
Chapter VIII
Artur ran through the forest, hurdling fallen limbs and boulders as best his beefy legs could. His mind churned as hard as his feet. “The secret, the secret,” he repeated to himself, hoping that something would come into his mind. The chanting at least gave him a cadence for his strides. “Thylak never learn.”
“Turn out! Turn out!” he cried as he neared the camp. Immediately he saw Wyllem already mustering the men. All the warriors were again strapping on their armor and brandishing their weapons. Wyllem wheeled toward Artur’s voice.
“They are back!” they both yelled at each other.
“Together, men!” Artur commanded, circling about to address all the clan at once. “Together, Rufoux, to the fields!”
Wyllem caught Artur roughly by the arm as he turned toward the rise separating the village from the fields. Terror bordering on panic filled Wyllem’s eyes. “Will we run into the mouth of the beast again? What of the plan? Do you have a plan?”
“The secret remains hidden from me. But Rufoux will learn, we will not be the thylak!”
“What?!”
“We will not stand down!” Artur offered no further explanation.
“We will do no better today! What can be done?”
“The secret is hidden, Wyllem!” Artur repeated. “But we can drive them back again, for a time, if nothing else!”
Artur again turned, but Wyllem would not let go.
“Will you not at least give sacrifice?”
Artur stared back; he could not believe he had forgotten. As chief he must intercede with Mog on behalf of the battle.
“Yes! Yes, of course. Bring me grain!”
Again a young woman appeared, again Andreia, holding a basket of corn, but this time Artur did not see her. He simply grabbed a handful of the seeds and ran to the communal fire.
“Oh Mog, high and exalted god of the Rufoux, defeater of the Emim, wrathful, powerful, vengeful Mog!” he recited as fast as he could. “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! 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! Bring to us today a great victory! Bring to us today a great victory! Bring to us today a great victory!” Fire consumed the grain and Artur’s vain repetitions.
Artur swallowed hard. “Follow me!” he called.
“Hoo-rah!” returned the Rufoux men, and together they ran to the crest of the hill. In the distance they could easily see the Aoten, once again clumsily reaping what the Rufoux had sown.
Artur began the charge down the incline, holding Kylie high above his head, the entire clan whooping at the top of their lungs. The Aoten men and women, if that’s what they could be called, looked up from their work and gazed disinterestedly at the onrush. Artur could see into their eyes and minds, he could see that the thylak never learn, and then at last he had an idea. Close at hand he found Osewold.
“Follow me, to the left! Follow me, to the forest!” he cried out, and to Osewold: “Run around our rear flank and back to the front, and direct everyone to follow me!” Osewold nodded, and the two veered off in opposite directions, Artur to the left and forward, Osewold toward the rear. Osewold swiftly and easily lapped his clansmen, and shortly the Rufoux men altered their course to enter the grove of trees bordering the fields. The women followed close behind, and the Aoten watched their every move.
Artur led his men in a wide circle into the woods and then back out again toward the Aoten, cutting the giants off from their weapons. Again they met in the fields in a great clash, and again the giants made for the trees, as though they didn’t realize they had been attacked from that direction. Unable to wade through the onslaught of Rufoux to reach their clubs, they could use no more than their bare hands.
The open field also favored the Rufoux, away from low tree branches that would hinder swords and axes. Here the men could swing with wild gusto at their enemies and hit only their targets. But even that advantage gained them little, for still the giants’ great size and strength kept Rufoux warriors at bay, and their tough skin and covering of hair took the edge off even the most direct Rufoux blows.
Again the clan outnumbered the Aoten some six to one but could gain no upper hand. Artur, with Kylie in hand, spent his energy in a continual dodge-and-parry, to no end whatsoever. Wyllem had better effect with his spear, but very shortly a giant merely grabbed its point and snapped the staff in two. Wyllem stared at the frayed end of the short rod now in his hands, absorbed in its melancholy, but his attention jerked back to the matter at hand just in time, and he desperately waved the stick to keep the giant at a safe distance. The Aoten seemed content to manually ill-treat whatever Rufoux they could get their hands on, like apes with a rag doll.
Osewold stood next to Jakke, again limited to using his hammer, as their group tried to get in close, underneath another giant’s ungainly swinging. As he ran below one mighty lunge, he noticed the creature’s sandals and their exposed toes. Circling to Jakke’s back, he pulled the muscular metal smith away from the fighting with great difficulty.
“Jakke, Jakke, their toes are the best we can do,” he said once he got the thick man’s notice. “I’ll turn him around, and while his attention’s on me, you pound his toes.”
A moment, and Jakke realized what he meant, nodding with a grin. Osewold worked his way back, and his sword gave the giant short, stinging blows to the forearms as he looped around. The victim turned clockwise to follow, and soon his eyes looked in exactly the opposite way his left foot was pointing. Jakke jumped in and brought his hammer down on the fellow’s foot with a tremendous grunt and cloud of dust.
No doubt such yowling had been heard in Medialia before, but nobody could remember when it might have been. The giant dropped to one knee to nurse its foot, and Jakke again took a powerful swing at his head. Though one might have expected the creature to tumble over in a heap, instead it continued to rub at its foot. The other Rufoux fell upon it like flies, but once the creature had its toes in working order again, it shook the men off its shoulders. Jakke reared back to take another swing, but the giant quickly stood, caught him by the head and lifted him from the ground. Jakke’s hammer dropped to the ground, and he hung limply, swinging wildly with both fists and both feet, though the Aoten held him far too distant to make any contact. The giant flung him as far as he could in disgust, and he landed on his head. Any other Rufoux probably would have ended with a broken neck; as it was, Jakke emerged sore and groggy, but no worse.
Artur’s eye caught Geoffrey near to his right side, thick in the battle. “Where’s your armor, you old coot?” he yelled out angrily.
“I don’t wear it anymore. Hadn’t you noticed?”
“You old fool! At least take some Aoten with you as you go down into death!”
“That would be the idea.” Geoffrey lunged into the giant he faced, along with several other Rufoux, fighting with only his walking staff. The Aoten still attempted to draw their attackers after them, but with the woods cut off they found themselves backing towards the River Alluvia. With the water looming ever closer, Geoffrey’s giant suddenly caught hold of his staff and gave it a jerk. Still strong for his age, and not loosing his grip quickly enough, Geoffrey was thrown into the river. Without heavy armor, he bobbed at the surface and floated on his back peacefully with the flow, until he became entangled in some half-submerged bracken, eddies swirling playfully about him. He lay there helpless, caught between life and death, cheated again.
Among the women standing behind the lines, Andreia could see the men making no real gains. Now many of the Rufoux lay upon the ground disabled, and the giants doubled back upon the remaining warriors. Desperately she turned and ran back to the village, looking about for any weapon she could find. She came upon the ceremon
ial fire, and saw that one end of a small log extended out of the flames. She grabbed the wood and ran back to the battle, streaming fire behind her.
Artur stood in the center of the battle, the group with him down to only two or three. Andreia saw a giant approaching him from the back, completely escaping Artur’s notice. Like a comet she streaked toward the Aoten, holding her torch over her shoulder with both hands. She brought the flame down upon the beast’s hairy back, producing a squeal of terror from it as well as a putrid burning smell. The giant wheeled about and knocked her and her weapon to the ground, then ran to the river, trailing sparks. Artur looked about to see the fleeing giant, but he did not see Andreia.
Arielle, however, deep in the fighting as usual, did see her, and she ran to the fallen log. Stabbing her arrows into dead leaves and cones, then dipping them into the flames, she sent a barrage of fiery arrows into the Aoten. Quickly, other archers joined her. The giants bellowed in panic as they brushed away at their scorched hair and sought the safety of the waters. Others saw the retreat and followed. Soon the whole group waded against the course of the river, away from the fields, and the Rufoux stood exhausted, dropped their weapons and watched them go. From his pool Geoffrey shook his fist and cursed.
Again Artur took the measure of stalemate. The Rufoux had not been defeated, but neither had the Aoten. He looked about the battlefield and again saw the wages of impulsive passion: Men and women lay groaning upon the ground, and trampling feet had ruined much of the clan’s crops. Andreia leaned on one elbow and watched after him from afar.