The dry earth of the Canyon Lands crunched under his hooves as he began to angle so he would slice into the now assembling soldiers rather than running straight into their shields. A spear fell forward from deeper in the mass of Men, but his feet were too nimble, and his angle sent him in between two shields, scimitars slicing in all directions. He felt the blind blows glancing off the men’s helmets, but his true aim was to create a hole where the rest of his bucks could penetrate, disrupting the all-important structure of the phalanx. His chest plate smashed into three soldiers in rapid succession before his momentum slowed. He felt them crunch under his hooves and began to buck, lashing out with all four hooves and spinning while he continued to hack at the enemy. From his vantage above the Men, Wotan could see that many of his warriors and some of their wolves had penetrated the phalanx and were now working to make space, ripping a hole in the rear of what moments before had been a cohesive force. His attention was torn back down when he felt a xiphos blade knock into his side. His armor held, thanks to the anemic power in the soldier’s blow. Unfortunately for the soldiers, who were trapped by the very closeness that normally gave the phalanx its strength, they couldn’t swing hard enough to penetrate the Centaur’s armor. In contrast, Wotan was able to bring the full power of his great shoulder to bare in his strikes. His scimitar severed the arm of the soldier before it could strike again.
In the confused press of the battle Wotan felt the inner ranks of the soldiers coalescing, sacrificing the outer ranks in order to form a shield wall that would negate the Centaur’s advantage in close combat. The soldiers outside of the perimeter fought desperately with full knowledge that they had been forsaken so that the battle could be saved. Wotan began to run down the line of soldiers, smashing through the exposed Men and using the open space to regain his momentum. Across the phalanx he could see Skagen’s forces were having a harder go of it. Facing the fully prepared phalanx they had yet to break through. To make matters worse, the perimeter guards were flanking them, and the black war chief knew that, without help, it would only take a few moments for his fellow chief to be routed.
Then, with his blades cutting down soldiers from behind as they tried desperately to return to the protection of their comrades, he spotted hope in the form of arrows flying towards the flanking Southlander cavalry. Though he could not see them, Wotan knew Dwarven sharpshooters had emerged from their tunnels and were using their cross bows to pick off the enemy riders. Buoyed by the arrows, whose deadly accuracy seemed to spring from the earth itself, Wotan circled, rallying his warriors who were engaged in separate skirmishes all up and down the line. Now they will feel the power of the land. With his forces breaking off and preparing for a second charge, there came a rumbling from within the ranks of the phalanx. The ground seemed to erupt, vomiting upwards in an explosion of earth, stone, and Men. A gap opened up amongst the tightly woven ranks of soldiers and in their place three hulking Giant knights towered, their armor glistening in the afternoon sun. The Giants had suffered, buried in the hot earth for nearly a day, fighting against suffocation and claustrophobia all for the chance to be in the right place at the right time.
The Centaurs smashed into the rear of the phalanx once again, and Wotan felt bucks go down on either side of him as he pressed against the first row of shields and cut down, fighting to burst through. Dust now shrouded the battlefield and the black Centaur felt the fatigue of battle in his arms, but he fought on, catching glimpses of the glorious knights where their mighty swords cut a large swath through the enemy. The line began to cave inward, bulging back as the Giants denied the front lines of support from behind. Wotan sense the moment was upon him. He could feel the breach was about to happen, and he locked eyes on the soldier directly in front of him. This single soldier was the keystone. If he fell, there weren’t enough ranks of soldiers to stem the tide of Centaurs that would link up with the Giants and break through to Skagen.
Wotan could feel the blood of thousands of bucks, drained into the earth over the centuries, pulsing up through his legs to give him strength. He reared, bring his weight up and down to slam into the shield of the man in front of him. The man trembled, but did not stumble under the blow, trained as he was by a decade of practice with his shield. Wotan lowered his antlers as if he were about to spar with a rival over a potential mate and felt his tines scrape the Man’s helmet. He shook his powerful neck, rattling the rack until a point connected with the man’s eye. Then, rearing once again, he lifted the man from the earth and flung him over his shoulder, crying out in rage as the blood from the soldier’s face showered him from above.
“RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOWWW!”
Then, they were through, pouring into the gap left by the soldier and bowling over two ranks of weary Men before slashing into the necks of the defenders that were trying to contain the knights. As he spun into the cloud of earth where the Giants had emerged, he heard the grunting of a buffalo. There, stamping in from the west, fifty of Ryogen’s Northmen were plowing into the phalanx atop their horned steeds, the hulking strength of the animals making short work of the already breaking phalanx. Wotan was grateful for the third front these Men had opened up against the Southlanders. They made up the bulk of Ryogen’s force that occupied the wall to the North and sending them made the wall vulnerable should the South move to retake it while they were gone. Wotan slashed at a fleeing Southlander, looking for Nicolo, the tanned commander of these buffalo riders but in the confusion of the battle he could only see a knight to his left, a small cluster of soldiers sparring with his bucks, and a solitary buffalo rider dueling with a Southlander on a horse. Wotan pressed forward, fighting to reach Skagen so they could unite their forces and complete the route, but as he stepped forward, he sensed a hulking presence ahead. He could tell by the shape of the figure, which towered above the battle, that it wasn’t a knight. To his left and right wolves appeared, growling at the looming figure, their hair standing on end. A Giant?
The combatant was cloaked in the dust that had been kicked up by the swirling mix of buffalo, Men, Giants, and Centaurs. Something in the wolf’s posture told the chief’s that this wasn’t a giant, even though the proportions were nearly identical. Moving closer, he ducked instinctually as a great battle axe blasted into his peripheral vision. The blow was deflected by his antlers, snapping off three of his tines and sending him reeling before sliding off his rack. The attack had come from an impossible angle, far off to the side. Jumping back out of range the chief looked up and spotted his attacker for the first time. It was huge, nearly as tall as a Giant but more muscular in the arms and back without the haphazard fat that many of the Giant’s carried as a source of pride. The difference in frame wasn’t nearly as surprising as the fur that covered the fighter’s entire body. It was thick, and dark, streaked with the white of an emerging winter coat that would allow it to blend in during the coming snows. It was abominable to Wotan, with curved horns like those of a ram, and piercing violet eyes that stared with cold, deadly conviction at Wotan, as if they knew he were to blame for the ambush.
Wotan took in the metal armor and enormous battle axe that adorned the hulking creature with a leader’s calm, knowing that if he didn’t remain calm he couldn’t expect any of the others to respond effectively. Instead of fleeing, he stared into those brilliant eyes and let lose a rallying war cry that he hoped would draw his warriors to his side.
“RAAARRRRARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAA!”
The creature screamed back, twice as loud, so loud that the battle raging all around them seemed to disappear.
“HOOOOOOWWWWWWWRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAA!”
Wotan feigned in before jumping back, hoping to draw the creatures axe into an off-balancing strike. The attack didn’t come as he had hoped, instead the beast circled, his blood matted fur shaking menacingly with each step. An arrow struck the creature in his armor and Wotan took the opportunity to dash in, slashing at the beast’s leg with one sword while striking at his axe hand with the other. On
e blow missed, and the creature was fast enough, faster than the heavily armored knights, to deflect the other before bringing its foot into its chest and kicking directly into Wotan’s chest. The force of the blow would have killed him were it not for his armor. Even so, he was thrown from his feet and landed in a crushed pile, feeling ribs snapping where the weight of his horse body crushed down onto a rock. Then, in an instant, the axe wielding, furry giant was on him, violet eyes lighting up between horns as he prepared to strike the death blow. In that moment, Skagen appeared.
The old Centaur who had agreed to Wotan’s plans for their people whooped as his claymore struck the monster’s leg, drawing red blood and causing the attacker to stumble. Skagen’s body deflected the axe and, ignoring the paid in his side, Wotan rose to attack the creature with his brother in arms. They circled, an old chief and a wounded chief, facing an enemy no Northerner had ever faced. Charging as one, their swords raised overhead, the creature punched a leather covered fist at Wotan and spun to the side, pulling his fist back and elongating the axe so that his momentum carried him through into a terrifying blow that buried the axe head in Skagen’s side, punching through the chainmail armor he wore to protect his flank. Wotan stumbled again, gasping for air through his broken ribs and feeling the strain of battle in his entire body. He dripped from several wounds that he hadn’t noticed at the time but that now had taken their toll.
Turning to face him once again, the creature came forward, bleeding from his leg and now sporting three arrows that had punctured his armor and stuck in his arms. The beast stomped a wolf, then shook another from its leg, and charged. One of the knights emerged, moving slowly compared to this beast but better protected due to the full suit of armor. The Giant came with practiced precision, taking a fighting stance with his ten-foot sword weaving in great arcs over his head. Stepping forward, the sword descended, severing the creature’s arm before returning to punch through his chest. The strange new foe slid from the blade, dropping to the earth, a sense of release coming over his face as his great horns hit the earth in a land he nor his people had never seen.
Wotan struggled to his feet and looked at the creature while the dust settled around them. The battle was over and all around his bucks were finishing off the surviving Southlanders. Ryogen’s Northmen were collecting as many weapons as they could carry, strapping them to their buffalo along with armor and a few surviving horses. Dwarves had appeared from their tunnels and were doing the same, collecting weapons that they could deny to the enemy and use to arm their own forces. Wotan ignored it all, ignored Skagen’s body, and instead called out to a young buck standing nearby.
“Bring me a survivor.”
The buck returned a moment later, dragging a badly wounded captain. Wotan looked to the Giant who had slain the creature and recognized Meggido when he removed his helmet.
“What is it?” said the Giant.
Wotan looked at the dying soldier for an answer. The man gasped, blood dripping from his scalped head. An arrow had punched through his lung, knocking him from the saddle.
“Yeti,” he gasped, clinging to life.
“Yeti,” repeated Wotan, gasping for breath himself and wondering why the soldier had said anything at all. He punched his scimitar through the man’s heart, ending his suffering, before glancing at Skagen. Goodbye my friend.
With that the surviving forces began to melt away. The buffalo riding Men headed north, back to the wall, while the Dwarves headed back underground. The healthy bucks headed east, deeper into the canyons where they could hide and launch further attacks, leaving behind their wounded, including Wotan. In the silence that followed, Wotan limped after them, hoping he could stay ahead of any Southlanders sent to avenge this defeat. He took a moment to survey the battle field where just a few of their forces had died but many hundreds of the Southlanders now lay baking in the fall sun. He looked down at the body of the Yeti. Such a massive, powerful race. He reached down with his sword and began to cut into the body, preparing to extract the heart. He knelt so he could pull the bloody red organ from the corpse by reaching up, underneath the ribs. Then he hacked off the curved, ram like horns, and rose, feasting on the power of the heart and looking across the destroyed bodies that surrounded him. The Centaur felt his energy returning as his stomach filled. He added the horns to his pack and turned, limping and struggling to breathe, to follow his bucks. He knew they had won a victory, and the idea that the north could be tamed had been destroyed in the minds of the soldiers they had killed. Will it be enough? He thought of his children, north beyond the wall, and knew that they carried his ideas, would carry them after his death. As he left the battlefield behind with only a few wolves for company, he knew that so long as there was a generation of Northerners that held onto their ideas, the North would always defy the imposed order of the South. Today, they had committed their people to a war of attrition that could only lead to one of two conclusions. So, it begins.
Chapter 17
S tanding at the window in Fort Hope’s lookout tower, Fritigern watched the assembling Southland army in awe. The Dwarf could just see over the sill, and he reached up, squeezing the stone involuntarily as he stared at the invading army. Freedom more than life. He repeated the idea in his mind, now more conscious than ever of what it would take to live it out. It was a surreal feeling, to stand against such an awesome power as the South, to stand in defiance of his king, to stand for an idea that was as impractical as it was inspiring. This is my way and the Dwarves will see it. His heart felt that this stand was the best thing he could do, and yet, the scope of his foe and the responsibility weighed heavily on the Dwarven master. He could see the dust from the bulk of the army as it marched north to take Therucilin, and he hoped that his own master, Aram, agreed that they should live like a free North was worth dying for.
It had only been a day since Rondo had flown in and alerted him that unless they charged, the ambush Wotan, Skagen, and Nicolo were preparing along with a few of Atlas’ knights would be canceled, or worse, result in a major defeat. Until that moment, the young commander had held onto the idea that, perhaps, he wouldn’t have to choose, that perhaps he could avoid committing and remain neutral between the new Northern Alliance and the old ways of his people. Not having to make hard choices is a luxury of those that don’t lead. He had led the charge, riding Baasha, the war bear Ignatius had sent with the last batch of Cherubim students. He could remember the feel of the she-bear, the power beneath his legs, the sound of his students, Centaurs, Men, Giants, and Cherubim, as they joined him in a mad dash towards the unsuspecting soldiers. Looking back, the charge had been outlandishly understrength. It had occurred in broad daylight, the most ineffectual time for his Dwarven fighters. Most of the Giants had scant armor, with only five fully armored knights joining the attack. It was a move best suited for the Centaurs, running down the zagging trail and out onto the open plain the army now occupied, but there were only fifty of the Horse-Men in the fort. Still, with twenty of the Blood Born joining the attack, it must have struck some fear into the Southlanders. Before they came within bow shot of the Men, who were unprepared for an attack and strung out over several miles of trail off to the south, two battle ready phalanxes had come charging down the canyon in an attempt to cut them off from the fort. The slower moving Dwarves and Giants had turned away from the easy targets and feinted towards the phalanxes before retreating towards the steep trail leading up to Fort Hope’s wall. The Centaurs and Cherubim had actually made contact with the exposed soldiers, killing several and wounding many with arrows in just a few moments. Fritigern had worried they wouldn’t follow his orders but discipline held, and he called them away from the easy kills just in time to prevent the phalanxes from cutting them off.
Now, looking out, he could see that the twenty thousand soldiers who hadn’t continued on towards Therucilin were preparing to make them pay for the trickery that had enabled Wotan’s triumph. Hundreds of tents had appeared overnight, arranged in neat rows
on the flat grassland that had previously been farmed by the fort’s students. We were lucky we had the Riders. Onidas had appeared two days before the South, warning them of what was coming and giving them time to collect as much of their harvest as they could ahead of any siege. It had been comforting to see the archery master, his enormous griffin had encouraged Fritigern’s troops that they could be reinforced from the air. Thinking about the talons and awesome mobility of the Dwarf’s steed, with a mean looking beak and all seeing yellow eye, Fritigern felt better about his decisions even as he watched spikes being planted around the Southlander’s camp to prevent another attack on their position. More troubling than the well defended enemy camp and awe-inspiring number of soldiers preparing to assault the fort were the strange wooden machines that the Dwarf knew from the Elves to be catapults.
He could see the devices where they had been wheeled in close, just outside of bow range. He could see the men as they labored to haul boulders into position while others worked to build platforms of earth and straw under the catapults. Further out, a steady stream of logs was being dragged by teams of horses and the monstrous Yeti that Hadrian had described to Oberon who in turn had described them to Fritigern. These logs, the Dwarf commander knew, would, over the course of several weeks, be turned into the more powerful, yet less mobile, trebuchets that could heave stones up and over the wall and into the fort. What madness will those things hurl against my warriors?
Tearing his eyes away from the scene he turned to the young Cherubim warrior he had tasked with keeping a lookout from the tower. Her violet spotted wings would allow her to fly up and down, coordinating their efforts far more effectively than he could. Still, the Dwarf had needed to see it for himself.
Last Stand of the Blood Land Page 28