Even though there was nothing to fight, Ignatius felt the blood born rage flowing in his veins. He had left without telling Oberon his plan and defiance against the chief, against the war plans he knew would fail, against the world, flowed through him in an electric moment of conscious power. There is no one who can stop me from taking my own path. He knew it was childish, short sighted, a thought Donus would have, but he darted into the woods full of confidence and heady with a sense of his own power.
The trees flew by in a green blur, the moist wet decay of the forest filling his nostrils. The Cherub had smelled death, the kind of smell that overcame those who had survived to make the battlefield a place without hope. Here, in the springwoods, the smell of death mingled with rebirth in a more balanced existence. This was his home and here he had no reason to fear.
He felt the extra weight of Donus’ daggers and knew how the Cherub had felt at the end, when he had stalked the North. Ignatius felt the memory in his hands, the memory that knew how to send his blades into his enemies. Here, at the height of his youth and with more experience than any of his tribe, he was an unstoppable warrior searching for a weapon to defeat an infinite enemy. Perhaps there is one among the Nymphs who can save me from myself. He remembered her, the smile she had fired like an arrow at him over her shoulder, her curly blond hair, the loincloth that exposed her legs. She was a creature of the forest like him but she had not been to war. The Nymph would know enough of him to be his mate but would know little enough about the warrior he had become to help him remember who he had been.
Unrealistic expectations for the Nymph female and the weapons her tribe could deliver ran through his head for a time until the panorama of the passing trees filled his mind with the present moment and he simply ran, absorbed into his home. For now the warrior was lost to his people, searching for a center where he could choose his own third way from which he could return to a war torn North. He knew the value of life for he had seen death, he knew the value of freedom for he had seen the South, but he did not yet know the value of himself, for he had not yet seen who he was.
Chapter 8
S age watched the Cherub running through the trees from her position higher in the canopy where the smaller branches supported her lighter weight. She had entwined herself among the limbs, resting comfortably and concealed. The hollow tube of her blowgun, several feet in length, looked like a branch extending from her palm. Within it rested a dart that she knew would drop the intruder; just as the outside world underestimated the Cherubim, this Cherub underestimated the Nymphs. Sage had heard of their ability to block arrows but the silent little barb she carried would undoubtedly get through, too quiet and small to trigger the warrior’s reflexes.
She didn’t like the way this warrior moved, too confident, too cocky in his abilities. That he approached through the branches, moving with neither stealth nor friendly openness, suggested to the Nymph lookout that he assumed her tribe would either welcome him or would pose no threat to his safety. The oversized griffins that shadowed him surely added to his confidence. The catbirds wore packs that bulged with food and weapons, lightening the load for the winged warrior. Sage let them pass, watching his gold and brown feathers, noting the many blades on his figure, examining the muscles of the griffins, and remembered seeing him when he was a different being. He has changed.
Swinging down to hang from the branch by one arm she reached out to catch her kestrel, the bird landing on the leather strap that she wore wrapped up the length of her arm. She smiled at him, pleased by the slate blue color of his head and wings, the reddish feathers on his body, and the stripes of black on his face. The dove sized falcon pecked affectionately at the thick golden braid that held her hair tight and out of the way over her pointed ears, falling nearly to her knees.
“Archeo,” whispered Sage with a smile.
She gave a short series of whistles that Archeo had been trained to recognize. The kestrel flew off through the forest to alert the tribe that a stranger had passed through their outer perimeter. Sage launched herself with grace, landing nimbly on a branch and tracing the intruding Cherub like a squirrel. She wore a thick brown belt that held her white, mountain-goatskin loincloth comfortably on her hips. Attached to the belt were her throwing knives, her own handiwork in whose tradition her kin had taught their Cherubim sons and daughters. Across the back of the belt her kusarigama was sheathed where she could draw it at a moments notice. The weapon, also fashioned by her own hand, consisted of a short scythe, a hooked backwards facing blade attached to a two foot handle. Fastened to the butt of the handle were twelve feet of thin chain. The chain, coiled and affixed to her belt, ended in a vicious metal ball with a pointed spike. The deadly speed and coordination of her tribe allowed Sage to make the chain sing and dance through the air, moving around her body while smashing, snaring, and pulling opponents into the killing blade of the scythe.
Her white leggings matched her loincloth, catching the morning dew where her knee high-laced boots carried her through the leaves. With her blowgun slung across her jerkin, a garment woven from one of the many plants her people cultivated, she was a deadly version of the natural beauty that was the Nymphs, as powerfully attractive as she was swift and nimble. Her green eyes shone with ferocity and inquisitiveness, a playful surface spirit enclosing a driving mind that distinguished her from her peers.
She slowed, her blond braid dropping from where it had flown horizontally behind her, to match the pace of the Cherub. A grin passed over her freckled features for she knew the reason for his pause. He had reached the arbor of the Nymphs. In front of them a wall of petrified vines reached to the tops of the trees, blocking his path. The brown cracked surface of the wall was comprised of interlaced vines draped upon each other so thick that several inches in they became a solid mass. They had been petrified, turned to stone through an ancient process known only to this tribe. The wall stretched away into the woods towards the rocky slopes of the mountains, protecting the approach to their homeland.
Sage sensed the guards from the other outposts converging on the Cherub and knew that by now Archeo would have alerted a larger force to intercept him. Undeterred, the Cherub jumped from the branches, flapping furiously to make the top. She led the others after him, jumping from the branches to catch their fingers in the crevices of the outer wall, well-trained fingers and feet pulling them out of the dark forest and into the sun. Like spiders they followed him to the top where he had been surrounded by dozens of her kin, their spears and daggers not threatening but displaying their control of the situation. The griffins flew above the wall, watching but not attacking the strangers that surrounded the leader of their pride.
When he turned to face her she saw the confidence flow from his face like blood from a wound. He recognized her and she knew it was from a brief smile she had sent him on a hunt the previous year, a time so recent but yet so far removed from their changing world. She saw the feathers adorning his braided hair, lean arms testifying to ceaseless training and fighting, and green eyes that looked into her own, searching for something to draw him back from the totality of willingness that had sapped his innocence. There is medicine there but it needs a guide. She could see the cockiness he had displayed moving alone through the woods had evaporated and knew that this warrior needed to grow before the quiet confidence of a capable and humble warrior philosopher could stabilize his spirit.
He turned, the moment passing, and flew down into the arbor, allowing the Nymphs to encircle him while he walked towards the heart of the their village. The forest that lay on the other side of the wall was unlike any other in the Blood Lands and the envoys of his people had rarely entered beyond the outer wall. The air buzzed with activity. Nymphs glided along treetop bridges leading to the wall, falcons of many shapes and sizes jumping from their arms to dart through the trees after thumb sized bugs that glowed with red light. One of the bugs landed on Sage’s jerkin where she walked behind the Cherub. He looked over his shoulder at her ne
rvously, his eyes landing on the beetle. It pulsated a bright red light, wings humming, before a hawk swooped through, snatching it neatly up in its piercing talons. She cocked her head at him teasingly, hoping he had not come only for her. Fool.
The trees had been breed and cultivated by the Nymphs over generations to produce a canopy so tight it left the forest floor dark, the sunlight glowing dimly through the intertwined leaves. This semi-darkness was made all the more magical by the glowing of the red insects whose lights were triggered in sequence. The falcons hunting the bugs could see their light easily but the areal hunt was tilted in favor of the smaller, more nimble, insects. Currar dug his way through the canopy and light spilled in through the gap he had created, sending a beam into the hazy air to illuminate a green, foot thick vine that snaked its way across the forest floor.
Sage watched the Cherub watching the vine and could see the shock on his face when it moved. Large red flowers dotted its length, each one surrounded by a small swarm of the glowing insects. Here and there down its length a fist sized seedpod hung, glowing rhythmically with the light of the cocooned beetle she knew was inside. Even as they watched the vine could be seen to grow thicker, longer, growing so fast as to appear to squirm. She knew none of the Cherubim had been allowed to learn of the kudzu, the plant whose pods represented the primary food source and whose vines made the building material of her people. The koona, the glowing beetle who had a symbiotic relationship with the vine, had been at the center of their culture for centuries. Either the tribe will kill him or we will decide to let a few of our secrets into the world.
The Nymphs escorted the Cherub over the kudzu’s bulk while the trees quickly regrouped to close the gap in the canopy and Sage grew more curious about the outsider. What secrets does he bring to trade?
After an hour of walking through the arbor, past strange cultivated plants that grew nowhere else, they reached the edge of the western mountains. Here, canyons and trails ran back into the cliffs and fantastic boulders climbed into the sky. On the edge of the arbor they came upon Taragon. The Nymph chief sat at the intersection of a dozen Kudzu vines. The vines had been woven into a living throne, ringed with red flowers and buzzing koona. The vines separated at the foot of the throne, running in different directions into the dark arbor. Behind the throne they ran up into the stone, each flowing to a different pagoda where the structures perched on the mountains above.
Sage watched the Cherub, giggling when he approached Taragon. He is more confident with the powerful Chief than he was looking at me. She perched herself on the kudzu she knew ran to her family’s pagoda. It represented the strength of her specific clan within the tribe, providing them with seedpods to sustain them in the winter, building their walls and structures, and attracting the koona that fed their birds. Each family had just one of the plants and because each plant was female, it was very rare for a new clan to obtain a plan of its own and split off.
She pulled her braided hair over her shoulder and rested her blowgun across her knees as Archeo landed on her arm. The little bird munched on a koona, the insect’s iridescent internal glow firing intermittently while it was consumed. She reached up to stroke his head and watched representatives from the other clans take their places on their family kudzu, their own hawks and owls landing on their outstretched arms and darting through the air. She could see the Cherub calming himself with deep breaths of the flowery air, working to ignore the distracting scenery that surrounded him so he could focus on the matter at hand. Mountains, a dark forest, strange vines, glowing insects, hawks, and dozens of attractive Nymphs made his focus difficult to achieve.
“We do not take many visitors into our homeland,” said Taragon.
He was older than most but still a young chief at one hundred and sixty. Sage, just a youth by Nymph standards, found the chief’s experienced demeanor reassuring, the grey of his braids and his tanned skin representing the wisdom of leadership earned over many seasons. The leader had one brown and one blue eye, a rare visible feature that matched his invisible skill for seeing both sides of issues in the tribe. Whatever the Cherub had to say, Taragon would weigh it and reach a decision the Nymphs could follow.
“Am I a visitor if the blood of the Nymphs flows in my veins?”
Taragon smiled disarmingly and shifted his blowgun, his figure blending into the mountains behind him.
“The blood of the Angels flows in your veins as well and we remember what was taken from us the last time winged beings landed in our arbor.”
Sage knew the stories of the Angels who had come and taken wives from among them and suspected that this one had come to do the same. She stretched her neck and rotated her hips so she could feel the weight of the kusarigama tied across her waist. She would not be swept off her feet by a little Cherub but the thought of an ancient stoic angel, chiseled and capable, dropping from the sky to make her his, was appealing enough to make her believe the Nymphs who had loved the Angels had left with them of their own will.
“I do not come to take. I come to trade information so that you may defend yourselves with your eyes open to what you must give to keep this place.”
Taragon nodded, following the Cherub’s arm as it swept across the Nymphs, plants, animals, and rocks that made up their homeland.
“I have met with your elders and with the other races,” said the chief. “I know that you must be Ignatius and I have heard of your deeds across the North. We have sent food, birds, poison, weapons and smiths to Devil’s Lake and we communicate with your elders. Have you come to convince me to send more?”
“I have come to convince you to send everything you have.”
“Then you have come to take, not a wife, but the blood of my warriors.”
“Yes, but I will take a mate if she is a warrior.”
Taragon laughed at the courage of the young fighter and Sage smiled, her heart warming towards his boldness.
“Tell me, why would I give everything I have?
“Telling you would not work as well as showing you,” said Ignatius.
He stood and turned to the forest, whistling for Tulma in a short, clear blast.
The female griffin lunged out of the treetops with the male following behind, the Nymph’s birds scattering to make way for the lumbering monsters that overshadowed them by a hundred pounds. When they landed at Ignatius’ feet he stroked their feathers and pushed them down so they rested quietly on the ground, long tails flitting against amused Nymphs. From within the bags attached to the female he produced the scrolls he had taken from Hadrian before he left. Sage could see Taragon’s mismatched eyes locked onto the griffins and knew that he was thinking about the way the Cherub handled the bigger breed the way they handled their birds, the way they responded to his wings and saw him as a member of their pride rather than prey. That was more interesting to the chief than the maps that were now being unrolled before his feet.
“This map represents the North,” said the Cherub just as he had heard it explained by Hadrian.
Taragon nodded, glancing back at the docile griffins.
“And this,” continued Ignatius as he unrolled the larger more detailed map, “represents the South.”
Taragon got off of his Kudzu throne and looked down at the scroll that now covered the map of the North. Sage noted how Ignatius had positioned the maps so they were right side up from the chief’s perspective. Conscientious. Perhaps, she figured, the mature centered warrior was more developed in him than she had guessed.
“You obtained these when you captured Therucilin?” asked Taragon.
“From the commander Hadrian himself.”
“Why would you think that showing me that we face impossible odds would convince me to send my warriors to fight and die when there is no chance of victory?”
Ignatius was quiet for a moment, obviously surprised at the reaction of a leader whose priority was to protect his people’s lives. Sage craned her neck so she could see the map and felt Archeo shift his weight in r
esponse. Around her the others were doing the same but they could not see around the Cherub to understand what their Chief was saying. She felt the social pressure to remain seated but knew that if she stood up to get a better look the others would follow. She stood and moved to look down over Ignatius’ shoulder and felt him look up at her nervously. Taragon eyed her harshly but the others were already moving to join her. He nodded at her slightly, recognizing that the accomplished young Cherub warrior didn’t yet have the vision to see past Sage’s beauty and charm to understand the Nymph on a deeper level.
“The South is coming for all of us,” said Ignatius. “They will not stand for the resistance inherit in freedom, freedom that is natural for the North. They have controlled the Giants and the Dwarves for years, wasting their blood against the Centaurs.”
“I cannot make a choice between fighting this,” he pointed at the lands representing Galatia that spanned almost the entire map, “and serving them. I understand the North’s battle plan, to hit and run, to hide, to attack their supply lines and starve them over the winter. But a few hundred of my warriors will not make a difference against such numbers.”
“They will if they fight with hope,” said Sage looking at the Griffins.
Her eyes met Taragon’s before moving to Ignatius. He held her gaze, understanding passing between them.
“My mother tells me there is a bigger breed of griffin in the mountains,” said the Cherub. “Tell me how to find them and I will give hope to all the tribes of the North. You won’t have to choose between death and servitude.”
Last Stand of the Blood Land Page 11