Last Stand of the Blood Land

by Andrew Carpenter

  “RAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

  The war cry thundered from his lungs, echoing off the bluffs that rose out of the forest west of the grove. He stepped forward, sheathing his bow, his hands curling into fists while the war paint on his face turned the animal snarl on his face evermore fearsome. The Caipora uncoiled their tails and donned their bracers, moving around the interloper on all fours with their claws digging into the hard earth.

  Oberon let them come, stepping forward into the ring of death. A single warrior met his gaze, burning orange steaming into clear blue. The Caipora raised his paw towards his advancing comrades, their tails raised with deadly blades preparing to strike down the winged warrior that had struck down one of their own. Oberon observed this Caipora, noting the white fur that climbed up his cheeks towards the greying orange that surrounded his eyes. There was a wisdom there, born of experience and hardship. An edge that the warrior had resisted as long as he could. Pain, war, struggle, hopelessness, all turned to violence and hate. The war chief sensed it all as he took the stance he had assumed so many times on the beach with Rebus. The Caipora stepped forward, his own stance featuring raised paws, his shields threatening, his tail reaching up towards the hilt of his sword where it protruded from his back. For a moment, there was silence and the fog hung motionless around the poised warriors.

  Then, a gust of wind rattled through trees, lifting the fog. A cascade of dying yellow aspen leaves were set free to drift down around the clearing. The brilliant leaves swirled, eddying among the Caipora and between Oberon and the warrior. When the leaves wafted away, the warrior’s swords were drawn, and they circled each other, closing the distance as another blast of wind sent another rush of leaves spinning around the clearing. Oberon could sense orange faces surrounding him between the straight white lines of the aspens, but his ears did not sense the slicing of swords through the air. They wait for this one to give the signal.

  His ears detected more wind, approaching across the tops of the trees and his eyes returned to the warrior and his drawn sword. He watched steam protruding through the warrior’s snout and felt leaves dancing down around his skin. Unfurling his own wings, he sought to match the epic intimidation of his opponent, sensing that the dueling culture of these scouts was preventing him from being killed by the overwhelming number of warriors that surrounded him. A perfect moment.

  The Cherub struck forward, heedless of the fact that this seasoned Caipora was neither injured nor taken by surprise as the previous two had been. Instead of relying on surprise, he trusted to the lessons he had taken from the elves and the speed he had taken from his mother’s people, focusing on the one love that could justify his hatred for this invader. Caldera. Then, his mind and heart emptied like the last water boiling out of a pot.

  His first strike was overhead, directed at the tail that circled above, darting in and out, looking for weakness, keeping the fur covered warrior at a distance where he could strike the Cherub from safety. Tucking his wings and arms, Oberon spiraled his attack forward in one fluid motion, aspen leaves kicking up around him in a golden cloud as he moved. Now, inside the tail’s reach, he struck out with his sword. By drawing in his limbs and spinning, the momentum of his body was transferred entirely into the strike when he extended his arm.

  Such a powerful strike with folded steel would have cleaved the Caipora in two, smashing through any shield, but the experienced leader of the war party did not underestimate the speed of his opponent. Instead, he swept back with his tail, attacking Oberon from the rear while ducking to the side. Such was the power of Oberon’s attack, and the speed of his reflexes, that he was able to deflect the blow on the second pass of his spin. Jumping back and with a stroke of his wings, the Cherub was able to remove himself from a one warrior pincer movement.

  Now positioned on new ends of the clearing, both warriors took a moment to reassess each other. Oberon had fought in only a few battles. Still, it was enough to know that only warriors that could learn about their opponents quickly, perhaps instantly, could survive to fight in many battles. Another gust of wind dislodged a deluge of leaves, their path making the invisible wind visible while the warriors studied each other. The sun poked through in rays where the wind was parting the fog. Through the wind and his own panting, Oberon could hear the sounds of his warriors coalescing on their position, the Nymph war drums behind them in the bluffs. Seeking to distract the Caipora, to keep them contained where they could be eliminated, the Cherub stepped back into the battle. Close.

  This time the clawed paws of his enemy came on in a fury, punching at his chest with the metal tipped forearm shields, then slashing with his claws where they protruded beneath the buckler. Perfect for defense, the shields were also a crushing force with brutal power. Oberon swatted at the attacks with his wingblades, blinding and slicing all at once while keeping his sword aloft to parry the tailblade that smashed down at all angles. The weight of the Caiporas thrusts and the off-balancing effect of using his wings as arms forced the Cherub back even as one of the long-curved blades on his wing bone sliced through the exposed under side of his enemy’s forearm. Ignoring the pain, the Caipora launched a spinning leg kick that connected with Oberon’s neck, bringing another weapon into the battle of tails, wings, and blades.

  Sensing the blackness of a knockout, the Cherub rolled, slicing out with his sword and diving to create space so he could recover. The tailblade punctured down into the dirt next to his chest, slicing him as he rolled. The Caipora pushed himself into the air off of his sword, and drawing his knees in, wrenched the sword up and prepared to dive down on his stunned foe for the killing blow.

  Oberon recovered just in time to see his enemy eclipse the sun, surrounded by the yellow swirling leaves as he dove down at the winged warrior. The Caipora hung at the apex, his tailblade and both shields pointing down in a trio of death at the stunned and sprawled Cherub. In desperation, the war chief let go of his sword, reaching across his body with both arms he threw his daggers at the exposed face and neck of the levitated scout. The Caipora brought both of his bucklers up to protect his face while continuing the downward slash with his tail horizontally so that, even blinded, he would hit his opponent.

  Channeling the legendary speed of the Blood Born, Oberon brought one of his leather bracers around to parry the flat side of the falling katana so that it buried itself in the dirt next to his head. His other arm reached out to catch the tail while his wings kicked off the earth to send him sideways, out of the way of the falling hind claws that would have punctured his chest. Upright once again, he rolled, keeping the tail firmly in his grasp, and retrieved his sword from the grass. With a powerful jerk of his wrist he wrenched the snarling Caipora off balance and struck, severing the tail just below the tip where it was coiled around the sword.

  Freed, the red furred warrior spun away, his tail spraying blood on the white aspens while it whipped over his black tipped ears. A final burst of wind sent a torrent of leaves across the clearing and Oberon breathed out, as if for the first time in his life. They eyed each other once again through the swirling gold, the Caipora scout of the South and the Cherubim chief of the North, and Oberon was suddenly thankful for his inexperience. He underestimated me in the end. Being the dominant warriors of the South had made them overconfident, and he resolved to never let the same happen to his fighters.

  When the leaves cleared, he could see the tree tops were filled with his warriors, their wings making them look like a flock of warbirds descending on a carcass. Leading them was Strato, his resolute figure gliding through the birches. Oberon could see there was blood on his wings and, watching the look on Taragon’s face where he appeared out of the woods, he sensed that snaring the Caipora in this trap had come at a cost. Will it be worth it? Oberon knew his own risk had paid off, diving in to face these warriors single handedly had delayed them, distracted them. Word of the duel would certainly spread among his warriors, cementing his place as a leader. Now that hundred
s of Nymph warriors were filing in, making escape or further resistance futile for the Caipora, he could only hope any lives they had lost would pay off in precious information that would save even greater numbers in the coming battles. Hope.

  The Caipora he had dueled dropped his bucklers, motioning for the others to do the same. Oberon bent to retrieve the severed tail. He had to unwind the muscular, fur covered appendage where it was still coiled around the spiraled handle. He struggled to grasp the strange hilt while reaching out to hand the tail back to its owner. There was a hint of a smile, albeit a menacing, canine filled one, on the Caipora’s face as he extended his clawed paw. Watching how awkward it was for him to grasp the tail, the Cherub realized these warriors relied on their tails more than their paws for grabbing and holding items. Strange.

  The Caipora broke into a screaming laughter, similar to the frightening calls Oberon had heard from foxes in the forest. The warrior reached back to inspect his remaining tail where it was already regenerating, new pink muscle extending out from a wound that had scabbed over. Like our wings. Then the Caipora shouted in a language Oberon had never heard, clearly frustrated that Oberon had his sword.

  Hadrian appeared from among the Nymph ranks, Rebus horned and armored form flanking him as the Southlander translated.

  “He says that he has caught you in a trap within a trap.”

  Oberon looked back at the Southland scout, waiting for the creature to elaborate which he did after more unsettling laughter.

  “He says you should be thankful that he dueled you, next time you will not be so lucky. He wants to know if you will show his fighters the same courtesy of allowing them to duel for their freedom.”

  “It is their custom,” said Rebus.

  “It is not our custom,” said Oberon, his gut churning at the sound of the other Caipora joining in their leader’s laughter. When Hadrian failed to translate his words, the war chief continued, “Ask him where the rest of their force is.”

  Hadrian spoke the words, then repeated back the Caipora’s answer.

  “He says their forces are elsewhere.” Hadrian hesitated, failing to translate much of what had been spoken.

  “Tell him,” said Rebus.

  Oberon nodded. “Say it.”

  “His forces are elsewhere,” said the Southern builder sadly, “as yours should be. He has only these scouts, no war party. So many Northerners to stop so few Caipora.”

  The pieces fell into place in Oberon’s mind. The legendary scouts revealing themselves to Andrika, the ease with which they had been captured. If the tales they had heard of these warriors were to be believed, it had certainly been a feint to distract the Nymph forces, the Blood Born too, from the important battles going on at Fort Hope and Therucilin. A feint that worked. Anger welled up in Oberon’s chest and he thought of his forces, besieged at the Canyon Lands, of Aram facing the bulk of the Southland force alone further to the North. What would a strike force of Cherubim mean for them? Even the Plainswatchers needed reinforcements where they were trying to capture the besieger’s herd. What would hundreds of Nymph warriors have meant for them? Oberon sensed his warriors watching, waiting, and wondering what would come next.

  He thought of Ignatius killing the captured soldiers at Therucilin and the anger he felt at being outmaneuvered made him long to repeat this obvious, simple course of action. Through his rage he remembered his own words, his own attempt to remind his warriors and his people to be better than their enemy. There must be a third way. He thought quietly for a moment, his rage conflicting with his previous judgement, his previous words. He could sense panic and fear, but they were muted, filtered through the anger. Anger is easier than regret. Breathing a long sigh, he knew that his heart was different from Donus. He knew he must show Ignatius, show all his warriors, how to take the more difficult path. He stepped back from the Caipora, not taking his eyes off of the dangerous warrior, and spoke, sensing that Strato and Taragon had joined them.

  “Strato, send scouts to confirm there are no more of them. Take the rest of your warriors and prepare them to head for Therucilin. Taragon,” he paused, looking at the Nymph King, sensing the wisdom in the greying chief and meeting his mismatched eyes for a moment. “I believe your warriors will be needed at Fort Hope. Let us bring these captives to the lake and prepare for war.”

  Strato took flight, unquestioning and anxious to set his forces into action. Taragon called out to his warriors who ran forward. They bound the hands and tails of the Caipora with kudzu ropes, tying them together into a line while keeping their famous throwing daggers and bows at the ready. The Nymph chief joined Hadrian and Rebus in an impromptu council as they began the hike back through the forest towards the village.

  “Two Cherubim killed, five Nymphs,” said Taragon. “These captives are more dangerous than any warriors in the field. Why would you leave them alive?”

  Oberon couldn’t put his desire to be more than the South into an effective answer. He took comfort in quiet, watching the lines of warriors where they darted between the trees back towards their home. Two Cherubim killed.

  “It is not like the Caipora to surrender, to be captured,” said Rebus.

  “Another feint?” said Hadrian.

  The group walked on in silence, pondering the obvious diversion their collective wisdom had missed and wondering what else they were missing in the Caipora’s motives.

  “We can reach the Plainswatchers in two nights,” said Taragon.

  “They will need your forces if we are to hold the fort,” said Oberon through gritted teeth. “Perhaps it is not too late.”

  The horns on Rebus helmet looked majestic when he spoke, less intimidating than when he fought, floating through the lower branches above his silver hair. “If you take these warriors to your village, if you let them live, they will return to the Southlanders and tell them not just of your defenses, your numbers, but also of your character.”

  The Southlander’s words struck Oberon and he paused, watching the retreating line of Caipora, the Cherubim bouncing from branch to branch, the Nymphs running through and over the trees with their hawks and owls flitting above. Our defenses and our character. The sight of the northerners was breathtaking as they moved through their home territory with their birds of prey gliding overhead responding to a chorus of whistles. They flowed through it, as much a part of their homeland as the rivers that flowed down out of the western mountains and out onto the plains. He knew the Caipora had humbled them, keeping a huge portion of the Northern Alliance out of the fight at a critical moment. They will not humble us again. The Cherub knew that only those who do not learn from humiliation remain arrogant enough to be humiliated again.

  “We will let them believe our character to be reasonable,” said Oberon quietly to himself.

  “What?” said Hadrian.

  Speaking louder, Oberon continued “They already know our defenses to be formidable. They do not know our character to be reasonable, Donus and Ignatius saw to that. What do you do with a formidable, unreasonable creature?”

  He didn’t ask the question to anyone in particular but Taragon answered, his grey braid bouncing behind him as he danced over the underbrush.

  “Like a badger?” he said with a laugh. “You kill it and eat it.”

  “And what do you with a formidable, reasonable creature?”

  Rebus sensed where Oberon was going.

  “You reason with it until you can kill it and eat it,” said the Elf.

  Hadrian laughed, mistaking the hundreds of years of suffering that had led to the Elf’s reaction for humor.

  “Maybe you kill it,” said the Man. “Or perhaps, you trade with it.”

  Oberon smiled, hope of a third way rising out of humility.

  “We are showing them the cost of destroying us will be high, but they must also know that the possibilities that come from seeing us as equals, as trading partners, are also great.”

  Rebus shook his head, as did Taragon, but Hadrian shrugg
ed. The early winter sun was setting behind the mountains, sending the Southlander into a fit of shivers.

  “It has never happened before, not as equals,” said the Man.

  Oberon shrugged as well, his anger fading slightly at the creativity of his path.

  “These Caipora are here to gauge our willingness, our character. They will escape, and they will report that we are exceptionally reasonable.”

  “The South,” said Rebus, “does not reason with the races it enslaves. Subjects are not reasoned with.”

  “Then at least they will underestimate the brutality a reasonable people is capable of.”

  The four warriors walked on in silence, each meditating on their own motivations. The Elf desired the destruction of the race that had destroyed his own tribe. The Nymph imagined a future where, with his border secured by Riders and the power of the kudzu, his people could prosper as never before. The Man still longed for the immortality his wall had promised, but now he wanted the immortality of a tribe, an immortality that would live on in a way a wall could not. The Cherub longed only for a third way, something other than subjugation to violence or subjugation to the South.

  The late evening light revealed the petrified wall, blending quietly into the forest ahead. When they reached it, the Nymph and Cherubim forces continued to flow over it and down towards Devil’s Lake to make their preparations. The Caipora could have followed them easily, but with their limbs bound they were forced to wait for the guards to open the gate. Oberon moved away from his counselors, running his fingers along the petrified kudzu vines that had, in one short summer, built a wall around the entirety of his home. He smelled the cold air and thought for a moment of his tree home on the other side of the wall. Caldera will not be there to warm my bed tonight.