by Craig Davis
Chapter X
“They’ll be on us like grackles once they find that body,” said Artur.
The remaining reapers scurried to glean the last of the ears of grain from the farmland: None would be left to charity. Men busily tossed stalks into wheelbarrows, and women hastily collected them in the folds of their skirts. The crop very nearly filled the storehouse to the roof, and no more than barren stubble covered the fields.
Ideas buzzed about in Artur’s mind, annoying him and going nowhere. Till now the Aoten had always let them attack; the Rufoux had never seen the giants mount a charge. Artur had no idea what to expect. His plan had made the crops safe, he believed, but now the clan must prepare to protect the village. How might the Aoten come? In a wave? By stealth? Artur looked toward the forest lands. Had they reached the edge of the fields already, perhaps? If not, surely they would come some time. Three days this would be, three days of battle for the clan. War and work had exhausted the beaten and bruised warriors, but surely the Aoten would be coming. Three days in battle. The thylak never learn. The secret eluded him.
“Are not the grains ready to defend?” said Wyllem.
“Good. Well done,” Artur returned absent-mindedly. A hummingbird sat unnoticed upon his head.
“How shall we do it?” asked Wyllem.
“Do what?”
“Defend the storehouse.”
“Oh, that.” Artur’s thoughts still buzzed about and did not alight anywhere in his brain.
“Would it be a good idea to first use those men who have gotten some sleep tonight?” suggested Wyllem, hoping to sound helpful.
“Yes, of course.” Artur realized he needed to clear his head and concentrate on this issue first. “Yes, well said. How many did you say?”
“I didn’t. How many do we have or how many do we need?”
Artur stared blankly for a moment and then replied, “Look, I can’t think. It doesn’t matter how many. When the Aoten come, every man must turn out regardless, so it doesn’t matter. We just must prepare. Make sure each side of the storehouse is guarded by — three? — three rows of men, full armor and weaponry.”
“We did well to reduce the crops to a small territory,” said Wyllem somewhat wistfully, as though he couldn’t decide where Artur’s mood really lay, and he had to be careful how he found out.
“Yes, but?”
“But are we wise to show the Aoten where that small territory is?” Wyllem edged backwards slightly. He still wasn’t sure.
“How so?” Artur seemed irritated.
Wyllem swallowed hard. “Wouldn’t placing a heavy guard at the storehouse tell them where the grain is?”
Artur bowed his head and shook it slightly. “I keep you around for this reason. Your questions save our heads, and they keep me so annoyed I’m ready to slice a giant in half.”
Wyllem relaxed a bit, and went on. “Does it seem to you that we know more than they? We know they come; do they know this yet? We know what direction they will come from — their forest camp, no? And we know what they will be coming for.”
“For?”
“Will they be coming for grain again?”
“Not likely. More likely for blood.”
“Then can we use this against them? Can we draw them where we wish?”
Artur’s mind flashed again to Theodoric’s counsel. Might the Aoten fall into the very trap they set?
Wyllem continued. “What would be the best place for battle?”
“What we must defend. The village.” Artur looked about them at the structures.
“Wouldn’t that risk the storehouse, and all the huts?” asked Wyllem. “And the little ones?”
“Yes, I see. But we are defending. We will not be attacking today.”
“Why not?”
“Because we have been bludgeoned the past two days. We would prefer no fight at all today if we could manage it.”
“Isn’t the fight coming anyway?”
“Yes.” Artur knew it. “But we will not attack today.”
Wyllem conceded the point but not his argument. “Regardless, how much time do we have? You are right, and we are defending. But, the question is, where?”
“Where they choose, I suppose.”
“But if we were attacking, where would we choose? And if we know more than they, why not defend where we choose? Why not fight where there’s no more damage they can do?” Wyllem turned to face the fields as he posed the question.
“Yes, I see,” said Artur again, this time with some excitement. “The fields have no value for us now.”
“No, and the village houses Rufoux wealth now. Should the battle move here as well?”
“No,” replied Artur flatly. “The battle must draw the Aoten away from the storehouse, and all our homes and belongings, and from the young wives and children. We will see if they learn as well as the thylak.”
This last part stumped Wyllem, but he would not be sidetracked. “What else might we try?”
“Try for what?”
“For battle,” said Wyllem. “What have we not tried? Rufoux muscle and weapons have proved unable to overcome the Aoten. What more can we try?”
“I don’t know. There’s still no plan; I still don’t know the secret.”
“They stand very tall, do they not? If only we could match their size.”
“Yes, their height dominates us. Their height, and weight, and strength, and reach …”
“What if we could match their size?”
“How? Sit on each other’s shoulders? Sit on a hippus?”
Artur saw at last exactly what the Rufoux had not tried. In the clan’s frenzy to clash arms with the giants, they had never yet thought to engage them as riders. Now he had time, time and the presence of mind to place a cavalry before the attacking Aoten.
“Get out the mounts!” he called out suddenly across the camp. “Riders, mount your hippus! Bring me Brute! Join me on the fields! We await the Aoten! And bring me grain!” Wyllem’s fatigue showed as he fell silent and ran his fingers through his red hair.
All waking Rufoux warriors did just as their chieftain bid. A quick sacrificial ceremony, and those men with hippus assembled in the fields. A large collection of foot soldiers joined them, and piles of armaments dotted key positions; what had once been a womb of the soil soon would be truly baptized a battlefield. Osewold stayed behind in the village as lookout, ready to muster at a moment’s notice the Rufoux left sleeping.
Near the edge of the wood, high among the birds and leaves, Theodoric watched the Rufoux expertly handle and position the huge beasts. “It truly is a magnificent sight, Pepin. I now wish we had domesticated the hippus,” he commented to his fellow Melic beside him. “But I don’t suppose they climb trees.”
“This will not go well,” said Pepin, and sighed. “I did not see this going well.”
“Here they come, and eagerly,” said Theodoric, looking toward the Aoten camp.
The giants indeed approached on a quick march, brandishing their weapons. They broke out of the trees in the direction of the village, and did not see the Rufoux army until the warriors erupted in war cry. At the same time that the giants saw where their foes awaited, they also realized that their food supply had been denied them, and they rushed into battle with added fervor.
The two armies charged each other with a shout. In the middle of the field they came together in a confused melee; this time the Aoten ran on fury. As Wyllem thought, the hippus did allow the Rufoux to reach the upper body of the giants, but the crowded animals maneuvered clumsily, and the close fighting knocked many of the riders to the ground. This time flailing weapons, unlike the second battle, the Aoten made a much bloodier impact on the event.
Artur wheeled Brute about, standing upon the beast’s back as he rode. He slashed viciously with Kylie but made no wound worse than a minor cut on a giant’s shoulder. At last he sheathed his sword and used Brute as a ram, sending many Aoten to their backs, pummeled by the animal’s sharp ho
oves. But the giants made quickly back to their feet, punishing the Rufoux with heavy blows from their clubs and crude swords.
Arielle stood at a distance and again used her fiery arrows to pick off as many enemies as she could. The giants were not to be so easily frightened this time, however, no longer simply trying to deflect some inconvenient pests, but instead fighting in reprisal. They brushed off the hot stings until at last one of them had enough and headed for the fair archer.
Wyllem fared quite well with his spear upon his hippus, able to stab Aoten necks with its long reach. He caught sight of the giant stalking toward his wife just as Arielle sent a rapid-fire barrage of arrows into her attacker. The missiles slowed the creature hardly at all, and it bore down upon Arielle, who in turn did not give an inch. As the giant reached to take hold of her a sudden, crashing force hit him from the rear, and he felt pounding like four hammers upon his back and head. Wyllem brought his hippus back around, ran over the Aoten again, and Arielle expertly caught his hand and swung herself up behind him as they sped away.
Andreia positioned herself at the rise between the village and fields, looking for an opportunity to help. With no great battle skills, slender and waif-like in Rufoux terms, she knew she could not do much more than get in trouble if she joined the fighting. Still, she would give her life if necessary, and when she saw a gathering of Aoten at the near side of the field, she ran to one of the stacks of heavy timbers stored at the top of the rise. Taking a large axe in both hands, she swung it as best as she could to sever the leather strap holding the logs in place. The punishing timbers, some of them thick as tree trunks, careened down upon the giants. But they bore down upon Andreia first, and with a terrified scream she fell into the avalanche. She rolled down the hill with the lumber, covering her head and hoping for the best. The onslaught of logs proved to be too much for the Aoten, but as well for Andreia, and she lay still at the edge of the fields as the fighting waned.
Osewold had quickly roused the Rufoux still in the village, but to no avail. The resting warriors, among them Geoffrey, reached the battlefield only as the Aoten withdrew. Not a campaign to claim territory but a simple revenge killing; not a search for spoils but a mission to satisfy bloodlust: The battle had been short. What with the Rufoux reinforcements bounding ever closer like the scattered logs themselves, the Aoten declared their work done and backed away. Now they headed back to their camp, bloodied but not defeated, and six Rufoux lay dead on the ground.
Artur leapt from his steed, chest heaving, wiping down the sweat upon the snorting hippus, a distraction from what he might see upon the ground. He anxiously took account of his fallen comrades, glancing over Brute’s neck. His eyes fell upon Andreia, and he ran, gathering her into his arms. Osewold sprinted down onto the battlefield breathlessly and threw his head back, exasperated at being too late. Jakke stalked about pounding a fist into an open hand. Wyllem and Arielle remained mounted and at a distance. Geoffrey contemplated one of his dead clansmen, completely still, completely downcast.
Theodoric and Pepin silently slipped through the branches and made for home.