Last Stand of the Blood Land

by Andrew Carpenter

  “Why build an underwater bridge here?” asked Abigail.

  An elder of the council at more than one hundred years old, her grey hair and doe eyes had seen the early days of her people when the first trees were planted at Devil’s Lake. She could remember years of isolation and peace and had a hard time comprehending the changes she saw around her.

  Oberon watched as a Giant waded into the fast flowing river, the widest and most difficult to cross of the waterways that stood between his home and the plains. It would run thick and fast, deadly with ice cold melt water coming down from the mountains, until fall when the air would become too cold to allow soldiers to get wet.

  “This is a critical stopping point for anyone trying to come towards Devil’s Lake,” he answered, squatting with his hands on the wooden barricade where an archer could take cover. “When the Southlanders hit this point they will stall, either using one of our bridges or building one of their own. We can’t let them cross on one of ours but we also need a way to get the Giants and Dwarves to safety.”

  “I see,” Abigail nodded, jumping up with surprising nimbleness to squat next to the commander. “So you have built it in the water to hide it, allowing our forces to cross but preventing theirs from finding it.”

  Oberon watched a pair of Giants dropping a stone into the rushing water and nodded. “A compromise with Atlas,” he said. “The safest thing to build would be no bridge, or a bridge we can destroy easily. But he wanted to make sure that his people could always get across; there is no guarantee of a timely retreat.”

  “Compromise is why we chose you as a leader. We will not be the savages the South thinks us to be.”

  Oberon turned his head so she could not see the conflict on his face. He reached up to adjust the leather head band that Nestor had given him, he was still uncomfortable with the new garment, and thought about how Rebus had warned that building a permanent bridge risked the entire battle plan. Sacrificing some for the greater good was necessary and in this case Oberon knew this meant risking the escape route for the Giants. He was not willing to sacrifice their new friends even though Rebus had told him the consequences. If the Southerners made it this far they must be stopped at this river; the bridge put that necessity in question but it was a risk he had to take.

  Abigail watched the blue gemstone as the young chief adjusted it and smiled.

  “It will never get more comfortable,” she said with a smile.

  “The gem?”

  “Making decisions.”

  Oberon sighed and allowed his eyes to follow his ears towards an approaching female Cherub who was skipping over the branches, running towards them down the planks that had been laid to connect the trees. She carried her bow in a quiver with her arrows on her back and had the customary three daggers on her leg but carried extra water skins, each empty and tied between her orange tipped wings. The leaders waited patiently for her to catch her breath.

  “The Plainswatchers have extended four days as a Man rides along the trail south,” she panted, taking a water skin from Abigail and drinking until it ran down her tanned chest. When she came up, she was once again gasping for air.

  Oberon spoke to give her time to catch her breath. “And how long to get the message to Atlas from that far out.”

  She brushed instinctually at her hair even though it was tied back in tight rows along her head. “Less than a day, but if we had a few more horses we could do it in half a day.”

  The Plainswatchers had strung outposts south across the plains, stocking them with fresh horses, food and water, so that at the first sign of an approaching army they could race from post to post. A relay would carry the warning north faster than any single runner, even a Cherub, could ever travel.

  Oberon stroked the black stubble on his face, thinking out loud. “Three day’s notice, one day to evacuate the Giants to the fort and forest, one day to stock provisions, a week at least before riders would reach the Centaurs to rally their forces. We need more warning.”

  “Then give them more horses,” said Abigail moving behind the Cherub runner to fix her braids and rub her trail warn shoulders.

  Strato and Albedo had informed him that Ignatius was bringing twenty or so horses back from his capture of Therucilin as well as some bears and buffalo. The buffalo were promised to Atlas and Fritigern and he needed the bears here, not strung out across the plains where their slower speed would hurt them and their fighting ability wouldn’t help. He alone was aware of the tribe’s limited resources and he was growing tired of saying no.

  “We only have the horses we captured at the battle in the Canyon Lands, and you have most of those already. The few we kept are needed to move supplies. When Ignatius arrives we could spare five, maybe ten of his mounts if you think it would get us an extra day or two of warning.”

  The warrior nodded, moving her head to the side where Abigail found a knot. “We will spread the outposts further, we can gain another day or two perhaps. Tell those males to find us more mounts, what are they good for?”

  Oberon grinned through clenched teeth. He needed the Plainswatchers; there simply weren’t enough Cherubim to defend their homeland without them. I don’t think they would have stayed out of the fight even if we had thousands of males. The best he had managed at giving the allusion of control was to split them into their own force and assign them to defend the forest and watch the plains. Abigail had insisted that the females would be a different kind of force than the males. Better able to control their rage and fight as a unit, she claimed they would be more ruthless, more cunning, and more effective. To her, their smaller size and emotional abilities were assets because they would allow them to think.

  He watched them fly off together, old age matching the pace of exhausted youth, to resupply and pass the information off to the other Plainswatchers. Knowing what had happened at Fort Hope he knew there was a lot of truth to Abigail’s words. He had followed Parfey, along with Donus and Ignatius, headlong into a fight with the Centaurs that left many of their party dead. They had trusted their fighting skills whereas Andrika and Stratera had come up with a plan that didn’t risk so many warriors but was brutally effective. Perhaps the males will learn a thing or two.

  He ran down the trails in the trees, passing Dwarves and Cherubim working together to expand the network in the greening canopy. When he reached the trees on the rim the lake, he paused to look at the industry of war that had sprung up in his home. The boulder-covered slopes of the caldera, dotted with the tree homes of his people on the western shore, were peppered with activity. On the sandy beach Rebus trained a group of males to use their tomahawks and swords with a deadly professionalism he had learned over thousands of years. Oberon could see a nervous volunteer being used to demonstrate the locations of critical arteries and weak points in a human with the tip of the Elf’s curved sword of folded steel.

  At the base of their tree homes, pens had been constructed where Dwarf experts were training a small number of captured buffalo, colts, and bears with Cherubim apprentices looking on. Groups of females practiced their archery from tree branches, shooting at targets below. Set slightly apart, on the south rim of the bluffs, a sad reminder of the setting of the Angels was being constructed by the Nymphs. In between the volcanic sand from the lake, sand that produced the best steel, and the remnants of an ancient forest that had burned, leaving behind charcoal for their forges, the wives of the Angels had set up shop, producing arrow heads and armor day and night.

  Oberon remembered his conversation with Nestor and looked for evidence of the old ways among the activities of war but could find none. Even the children were receiving instruction in how to move weapons and food for the fighters. Nowhere was the usual hunting, gathering, and fishing that would normally have consumed the tribe during the spring and into fall. He recognized the contradiction of relying on the Giant’s surplus of food to feed his people when it was the Giant’s fields that would be first area to be abandoned when the South came. He misse
d the music, the drinking and stories, the artwork and fights, but it was the hunger he knew would take them if the Giants’ crops failed and that caused him the most anxiety. My people will suffer.

  He waved across the lake to where he could see his father, Hael, the last of his race in those lands, using his wings to fan the furnace of his mothers forge. He alone had stayed when the Angels who had not fallen sick left to follow the sun, west across the mountains and over the endless desert which none save their race had ever crossed. Some had taken their Nymph wives, hoping to leave behind the horrible sickness that was wiping them away. His father was the only one who had stayed, his mother unwilling to leave her son’s people and he unwilling to leave her even if it meant his slow death.

  Her people, and her son’s people, were at war, and her husband knew more of war in the North than any left in those lands. He was beginning to weaken and would soon perish, but for now this, the happiest and most playful of the Angels, was Oberon’s last connection to the race that had given rise to the Cherubim.

  Hael ran from his duty at the sight of his son, both of them launching from the high bluffs above the lake and angling towards the western shore. They met in the middle of the water, spring sunshine illuminating their different forms. Hael allowed himself to drop, his massive wings outspanning Oberon’s by many feet. The Angel’s wingtips flicked the surface of the water but they were moving too fast for the ripples to disturb the reflection of father and son flying together. The Angel, several feet taller than his son, spoke when they flared upwards, skidding to a stop on the sand near the training Cherubim.

  “The rope ladders are in place for your children and elders to reach the castle when the time comes.”

  Thinking of Caldera, Oberon asked, “will they hold the humans?” hastily adding “or the Giants?”

  Hael laughed his barking, sincere laugh. “Your woman will make it up just fine, but she only listens to you when she agrees with what you tell her.”

  Oberon smiled a knowing smile, looking down at the sand. He knew she would fight and nothing he could say would change the wild mind of the northern warlord’s daughter whom he loved.

  “Your Sequoia is a fast learner,” said the Angel referring to the Cherub Oberon had sent with his father to learn to read and write.

  There were rooms filled with ancient books at the castle and Oberon knew that talking leaves, what he called words on paper, could be a useful tool for sending messages in war. Hael pointed out that it was a useful skill for a tribe, war or not, and that with the setting of the Angels it was time that they learned.

  “What of the weapons?” asked Oberon, referring to the other rooms at the Angels’ castle, rooms filled with wingblades and arrows. He knew these were more practical than talking leaves given the threat of the South.

  “Your fighters are moving them down as we speak. There will be enough to arm many Northerners but most of it is too big for your people or the Dwarves.”

  The smaller wingblades would work for his people, the ones the Angels used on the tips of their wings. The rest would have to be produced by the Nymphs. The duo watched Ryogen fighting off three Cherubim at once, his perfect motions matching the inexperienced attackers despite their superior natural abilities. After a time the Angel nodded to his son, silently acknowledging his pressing needs as the leader of his people. Oberon nodded back, acknowledging his father’s sacrifice to stay and support his son. Spreading his great wings, as yet untouched by the slowly spreading weakness in his body, the Angel swooped off the rejoin his mate at their forge, a gleaming reminder of what once was. Oberon stored the image he had of his reflection flying next to his father in his mind. Strange, when you know someone will die, what you remember, even though we all must die.

  Oberon made his way among the trees, devoid of their normal inhabitants who were off fighting, training, and building across the land. He found the only tree in their village whose ladder reached the ground and climbed into the sky. He climbed quietly, hoping she would be home and wanting to look in on her in secret for just a moment. Reaching the top of the ladder his eyes moved across his one room home, amazed at how her presence had altered its formerly Spartan character. Her clothes, far greater in number than his, had taken over the rack where he set his belt, vest and buckskin pants, extending to a second set of pegs where his buffalo robe was buried under her fighting, dancing, and formal garments. The wood for the fireplace was now kept in a neat box; his easy to access piles of gear, which had been spread around the floor, were a distant memory. The food was out of his hands entirely, although he was still expected to clean up, and a small table had been added where they could eat together. For years he had simply wolfed his food down sitting on the bed, or on the floor in front of the fire while he pulled on his moccasins. No longer.

  With his head peeking over the ladder he could see the small vase of wildflowers had had picked for her above the fireplace and he realized the only change that mattered was Caldera, sitting on the bed, sharpening her spear and looking at him from behind blond hair with dark blue eyes that matched the flowers. He smiled, embarrassed at having been caught spying, and climbed the rest of the way into their home. He never took his eyes off her tan skin, straying down to her breast where they filled out her elk skin dress. She giggled at his embarrassment, pleased to have caught him in the act. The butt of the spear jumped forward, lifting his chin with just an ounce of pop so his eyes were forced up to hers.

  “What news does the war chief have for his mate?” she demanded.

  He remembered how easily she had captured him with a kiss and the touch of her skin when he had been part of an envoy to Ryogen, sent by Xyerston to try to add the Northman’s warriors to the Old Alliance. With that embarrassing memory in his mind his hands darted upwards to catch the butt of the spear, pushing it to the side and yanking her off the bed when her grip did not loosen in time. She flew forward and his outstretched foot spun her around, sending her toppling backwards to the floor. He was faster, catching her with one arm before she hit the timbers and pumping his wings so they landed gently together, her head beneath his arm and their eyes matching.

  “The woman of the chief asks no questions of him, she is there to serve,” he said, unable to hold back a smile knowing there was no truth whatsoever to his words.

  He could feel her heart beat into his chest; he felt her sweet breath on his face and smelled the cool rugged scent of a mountain glade. While his eyes were lost in hers she reached up to grab his face, pulling him in for a feigned kiss and biting him on the lip. His reaction to the sudden pain was swift, pinning her arms to the floor and holding her down firmly with his body. He reached down with a wing, tickling her neck until she laughed, letting go of his lip.

  He tortured her for a minute longer, lost in a past dream, now real, of bringing his love to his home and having her there, the two of them alone. He moved his feathers away from her neck, reaching them up instead to move her hair out of her eyes. He leaned in to kiss her. She craned her neck upwards into the kiss, pressing her hips into his, wanting the dominating version of her lover who was so different from the Cherub she ate her meals with.

  He resisted, pulling his neck back and looking down at her, black hair dangling on her heaving breasts with his afternoon blue eyes looking into her evening blue irises.

  “When they come, if I asked you to go to the castle, or your fathers village, would you go?” he whispered.

  She looked back, biting her lip for a moment before turning her head to whisper in his ear.

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  He smiled, putting his forehead on hers and moving his wings to caress her face.

  “I know,” he answered. “I am fated to love a warrior woman with her own mind and I will worry but I’ll gladly fight beside you.”

  She let the moment stand for a few seconds, appreciating the tender side of her burdened mate. But soon her desire to see the warrior he could be in bed moved her to playfulness and sh
e struggled under his grasp.

  “We will fight together soon but I would fight against you now. Is your dagger big enough for me?”

  He barred his teeth in a low wolf’s growl and rolled to her side, pinning one of her arms behind his back and pulling the other behind her neck. His legs entangled hers, spreading them wide while she struggled against his ground fighting moves, transferred from war to love.

  With his teasing mate pinned he pulled her dress up with his free arm, his top wing reaching over and forcing her dress down to expose her breasts. She twisted and turned for a moment in feigned resistance to her gentle mate turned aggressive lover before giving in as his hand moved up her thigh to stroke between her legs. Her nipples turned hard under the gentle brush of his feathers and he leaned in to kiss her neck, feeling her body convulse with pleasure.

  The sunlight came in beams through the window, lighting her exposed legs as she tilted her head back and moaned. He watched the shadows dancing on her face, feeling himself grow hard until he needed to take her, breaking her pleasure on the edge of climax.

  He pushed her shoulder and used his legs to roll her over, penetrating her with the dagger she had mocked. He pinned her arms behind her back with his stomach, feeling her press up against his hips where he had exposed her by pushing the dress up her back. He thrust into her with another growl, a slice of the blood born rage finding its way into him while he had his way with his lover.

  She could feel him dominating her, his wings running up and down her legs. She would never let him control her outside of this moment, but here, with his arms holding her head, she let him have complete control and felt herself cumming on him at the same time he growled with his own orgasm. She lay, feeling him throbbing inside her, her body wracked with release, feeling his hot breath on her neck. She smiled as the beast that had just had her like a captive, now transformed back into the gentle warrior she loved, lifting her from the floor and placing her gently on the bed. When she rolled over, placing her head on his chest, he looked down at her guiltily, nervous as always at the wolf he could unleash.