“Go,” he said, their steaming breaths escaping from the cave of robe and wings. “I must speak with Albedo, but I will meet you at our camp.”
She laughed, and it was music to him even though he knew she would be beyond anger if she knew what he planned. Watching her skip away up the canyon, glimpses of her bare thighs slipping out from between her loincloth and leggings, he smiled anyway.
The Blood Born were watching him, knowing grins on their faces and more than a few whistled as the Nymph Rider escaped from their view. He shook his head, happy to be back among the warriors he would have led if it were not for his place among the griffins.
“So,” said Albedo, shaking his head in amusement, his wings folded across his chest.
“So,” said Ignatius, his own coy grin covering up the calm murder in his heart. “I need three warriors.”
Albedo sighed, nodding. “I followed you into Therucilin, they would follow you anywhere, just promise no more war crimes.”
Ignatius nodded, finding it easier to mislead the Cherub than the Nymph.
In a matter of seconds three of the Cherubim warriors were at his side, their feathers wrapped around them, tomahawks and daggers stowed in their belts, blades on their wings. Ignatius had each warrior bring a cloak tucked tightly between their wings and, after speaking his plan to Rondo, they were off, drifting south across the fort and scaling the sheer cliff wall.
When they reached the top of their climb up the granite wall, Ignatius looked back down at the smoldering wreck of the fort and paused, pointing at the line of bodies where he imagined he could make out Timna. The others looked back, their braided and feather decked hair twisting fitfully in the winds of the approaching storm. They nodded, understanding that now they would take the fight to the Southlanders.
They hiked for a time, skipping and skimming across the snow with ease until they reached the apex of the little peak that separated the fort from the plains and forest to the south. Below, they could see the trail the Men had trampled across several miles of open plains to the trees that lay to the west of their camp. Several teams of horses and Yeti were moving logs across the distance, bringing them from teams that worked around the clock to fell them in an ever-expanding indentation into the otherwise continuous expanse of pines. The raiders knew that their allies were out there, plotting an attack on the exposed Men as well as their herd. But, for now, the soldiers were unafraid, boldly going about their labor required to fuel their warriors with shelter, siege weapons, and fuel.
The Cherubim glided down towards the Men’s operation, darting in and out of the trees that concealed their approach. When they reached the edge of the forest, they maneuvered until they were as close as possible to the trail leading back to the camp and set to waiting for the next wagon load of lumber to pass their position. The snow-covered branches of a pine tree hid their silhouettes and Ignatius admired his kin, the beautiful violence of their forms calming him. They wore buckskin pants and furs and their throwing knives and tomahawks were simple and functional. Killers. He knew last night had been their first battle and, remembering his first battle against the Centaurs, he thought they were quite stoic.
To the west, he spotted a cart approaching, escorted by four soldiers on horseback. A Yeti, his hulking frame straining, pulled a second cart. Seeing the curved horns and steaming breath, as well as the haft of a massive axe protruding from the cart, Ignatius shook his head at the others, answering the unspoken question in their eyes. Not yet. They resumed their wait, cuddled down in their feathers and furs, watching for a fawn like mountain lions that had just passed up a mature buck. While he waited, Ignatius thought about the Northmen under Fritigern’s command. They fought bravely to defend this gateway to the north, they knew its strategic importance in the Centaur wars that had been fought in the past. But they defend it against their own kind. Strange, he thought, for Men to be so divided. He reasoned that ideas, beliefs, could be stronger than blood even if it was easier to kill those that looked different.
Looking out across the rolling hills that drifted away from the Canyon Lands towards what had been Atlas’ village, what had been Parfey’s village, he thought of Timna lying next to a dead Giant and knew that Atlas’ people wouldn’t be able to fight for the North much longer. Neither can the Cherubim. There simply weren’t enough numbers in his tribe or among the Giants, among any of the northern tribes, to fight through more winters like this one. This thought brought him to Oberon, Oberon who knew the futility of it all but who also refused to surrender. He regretted the harshness he displayed for the war chief, regretted undermining his leadership, and felt a moment of respect for the vision Oberon was trying to obtain. Even if it will never come to pass. He thought of the Elvish katana he had left at home and resolved to give it as a gift to the chief if he ever got the chance.
A cart approaching from the forest jolted him from his thoughts. He could see one Man leading the team of horses by the bridal, two mounted soldiers riding behind. No Yeti. He rolled to the side along the green branch of the pine, sliding down towards the snowy ground. The others hit the snow in low crouches around him, the lean sinew of their arms combining with the blades on their wings to send a shudder through Ignatius even though they had already removed their war paint. Turning towards the open plains, he moved his wings above his head to form a plow and began to crawl on an intercept course with the approaching soldiers.
There were only a few hundred yards between their position and the trail the carts would travel to return to the camp. For their plan to work, none of the horsemen could escape to sound the alarm. Over a smaller distance, the Cherubim could outpace the horses, especially in deep snow, but it would be too close at this distance if the riders bolted back up the trail. So, they crawled, mostly concealed in the snow, while Ignatius broke trail with his wings. It was awkward and risky, but effective. Seen from above, the little flock of Cherubim looked like lions in tall grass, spreading out to tunnel their own paths as they approached the trail.
When he sensed he was close to the hard-packed trail, Ignatius paused, raising his head ever so slightly above the snow. From his perspective, the unbroken surface of white stretched out in perfect, smooth plane directly from his eye. He couldn’t see the tunnels the others had carved to set the trap, but he sensed they were near. He could also see that the Men, elevated on horseback, would spot them at about twenty yards out. He sensed it would be enough and lowered his head, counting his breaths both to judge the time and to calm his nerves. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. After a few moments, he rose to his feet, feeling the cold snow through his fur lined boots and, bending his knees, launched off towards the cart.
He had timed it well and had covered nearly ten yards in great leaping bounds before the Men spotted him. By then, he had enough momentum to go air born, his boots barely skimming the surface of the snow as he pumped his wings and dashed towards the men. One of the horsemen charged at him, his war horse going white in the eyes as the Man drew his sword and shouted to his comrades. The horse was slowed momentarily by the snow, giving Ignatius the moment he needed to rise to eye level with the man while drawing a short curved katana in one smooth motion. He prepared to strike, sailing over the horse’s head as it’s forelegs punched down into the snow, but the Man’s eyes grew wide and he slouched forward, dropping his sword. Ignatius sliced the tip of his blade through his throat for good measure, but the man was already wounded, a Cherubim tomahawk protruding from his back.
Ignatius spiraled his wings, knocking the man from the saddle and landing astride the bucking horse. The animal spun for a moment before the Cherub found the reins, his wings enabling him to easily ride out the horse’s movements. Though his people were not horsemen, his time with the griffins had given him a sense of how his mount moved. Eventually, he pulled the reins to the side, pulling the horses head towards its leg where it could not buck. As he did this he scanned his surroundings, watching where two of his fellows were in pursuit of the other rider w
hile the third circled the wagon, unable to pin down the man who had been driving the load of lumber.
While he watched, the two Cherubim who were chasing the rider used their angles to catch up with him. Eventually, one of them grabbed ahold of the horse’s tail and, with the Man swatting backwards with his sword, managed to glide up with the horse pulling him, drifting back and forth out of sword range while the horse sprinted madly back down the trail towards the wood lot. The other Cherub swung in wide, driving the horse from the trail out into the deeper snow. It was over in an instant, the pulled Cherub swinging up so the horse stumbled, throwing the rider into the snow. The second Blood Born was on him in an instant, striking down with the vicious heads of his twin tomahawks while blood sprayed across the pure white snow.
They buried the body in snow, covering the blood and returning with the second skittish horse. Meanwhile, Ignatius rode to the side of the wagon, forcing the scrambling man towards the waiting Cherubim like a hunter flushing a rabbit towards his hounds. The Man made his stand, swinging wildly with his woodsmen’s axe, but he was no match for the speed of the Blood Born warrior. Seeing the Man cut down gave Ignatius a moment of pity, but the thought of Timna, the potential of her young, beautiful life, laying frozen among the youth of the North quickly drove the thought from his mind.
They hid the bodies quickly, scavenging helmets and armor that would help to conceal their identities. Within minutes they were riding towards the camp, two Cherubim in the wagon and two on horseback, their wings concealed beneath their cloaks. Ignatius looked at the resolve on his comrades faces and breathed out, wondering if he was becoming accustomed to the killing. It was easier when the enemy was Centaurs. The Southlanders were smaller than most of the Northmen, but they still had the same general form as most Northlanders and didn’t look so different from Ignatius’ own race.
They rode on in silence, watching the approaching camp with trepidation. The wind was rising now, flakes of snow moving sideways ahead of the approaching storm. The snow on the ground began to drift, sliding in the wind and causing the landscape to shift like a great flowing river. Ignatius could feel the flakes stinging his face through the beard that had appeared there since his war path had left him no time to shave. Pulling the cloak tightly around his shoulders, he was thankful that they would have a reason to conceal their faces and that any guards would have a reason to hunker rather than to check them too thoroughly. He led his little force up the trail, watching the light shift from orange to pale yellow as the approaching clouds and swirling snow obscured the landscape. He struggled to keep his hands warm, tucking them inside his vest against his skin. He wished he were back in his tree home, a little fire heating the air, Sage warm in his bed. He thought of her and regretted not telling her of this mission, regretted the fury he had felt and shown for Oberon. A warriors regrets can only grow with time.
And then, distracted by the cold and his thoughts of home, he was riding into the camp, not even looking to where a lone sentry huddled behind the wall of spiked pikes that protected the perimeter. A makeshift gate was already open for the returning wagons, the watchmen manned it were busy building more robust shelters out of whatever wood and snow they could find. Ignatius watched them, realizing the resolve of his people meant the South now faced an enemy whose willingness they could never hope to match. Nature.
All around him, he could see tents being buried by drifts and warriors unprepared for the winds that now drove snow into garments meant for a different kind of battle. They staggered about, searching for fuel for their fires and a scrap of clothing or a spare blanket to help them weather the coming blizzard. Atlas denied it to them. Ignatius though of the daring raid that had captured the supply train meant for these soldiers and he smiled to think that the Cherubim and Giants were wearing the winter clothing meant for these men, eating their food.
His smile spread into a vicious grin as they made their way along the well-worn trail. It was easy to follow the tracks, and he nodded slightly as they passed a Yeti and another wagon heading the other way, their loads deposited as they tried to squeeze in one more trip back to the forest. The driver of the wagon nodded back, grimacing into the wind before turning his face down into his cloak.
Soon they came upon a great pile of fresh cut logs where, despite the weather, carpenters were preparing them for use in shelters. They parked the wagon to be unloaded and the two Cherubim that had ridden inside disembarked to follow their mounted comrades towards where a lodge was being constructed on a small rise at the center of the camp. Next to the lodge was the bigger tent that Ignatius had spied from Fort Hope and he knew their targets would be inside, planning. Planning how they could unseat the rebellious gorillas that had entrenched themselves in the mountains, forests, fort, and tunnels that concealed them from the far greater numbers of soldiers that would destroy them.
Ignatius dismounted, handing his reigns to one of his comrades behind the tent. He could smell the fire burning inside, could see smoke billowing from a small chimney. Two of the others followed him as he made his way around, running his fingers along the damp wool fabric until he saw the guards where they watched the entrance. He paused, looking at the Men as they did an admirable job despite the conditions. One of them spotted them and turned, looking at the three cloaked strangers with uncertainty. In that moment, Ignatius knew what monsters they were, the stuff of not only children’s fears, but soldier’s fears as well. Cloaked and haunted, they had drifted into the camp with ease, unafraid of how they would escape, admiring the suffering they had caused the Men and coming to strike down those that were supposed to be invincible where they thought they were protected, safe. Nightmares.
His cloak dropped to the ground and his katanas were out, his hands warm and limber from being pressed against his studded stomach for the previous minutes. They gripped the hilts of his weapons with calm competence while the guard struggled to draw his sword with frozen hands, too startled to cry out. One of Ignatius’ blades severed the Man’s hand where it continued to grasp his own sword while the second struck out directly through the throat, stifling any cries. The second man was turning towards them now, unalarmed but curious to see the cause of the sound of his partner hitting the snow. Two daggers thrown by the other two Blood Born took the Man in each eye simultaneously. Ignatius moved forward, catching the twitching body before it could fall through the heavy canvas door and into the tent.
The Cherub looked around, watching for any signs that they had been spotted, but the camp may as well have been deserted. The storm was rising, falling snow mingling with the drifting snow to create a growing whiteout that the Men were trying to ride out, their inadequate summer campaign tents their only protection. Ignatius shook his head at his companions, pulling their daggers out of the body before returning them and mouthing the word “Overkill”. They grinned back sheepishly, his humor helping them to cope, to normalize, the violence of their actions. They bent to don the cloaks of the fallen Men, dragging their bodies into a drift of snow and taking their places as guards outside of the tent.
His swords sheathed, Ignatius peaked through the tent door. Inside he could see the warm glow of a woodstove and three Men huddled over a table with their backs to him. They were deep in discussion, pouring over maps, and he took the opportunity to step into the room unnoticed. The raging storm covered the muted sounds of his fur lined boots as he nestled himself in a quiet crouch against one wall of the tent. The iron stove, its warmth pressing into his body, concealed him on one side while a stack of swords bordered him on the other. He enjoyed the warmth, listening to the Men talk and allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light in the large tent.
“How could we not have prepared for this?” said one of the Men as he rubbed his mailed hand over his shaved head anxiously.
“We should have wrapped up this campaign weeks ago,” said another in exasperation as he pulled his red cloak tightly around him. “And we did prepare, we sent for supplies, warmer tents, food,
real boots.”
The third Man was obviously the commander. Ignatius could sense from his straight back, his lack of complaint, the way the others gave deference to him. He had longer hair than most of the soldiers, and his hand never left his sword hilt.
“The Caipora confirmed the Cherubim captured our supplies,” said the commander. “And we have not taken the Fort. We are Men of the South, and we under estimated the winter because there is no winter in the South. We underestimated the savages as well. Now we pay for this mistake, but King Vespasian has given us very clear orders.”
No winter in the South. Ignatius repeated the words in his mind and suddenly remembered what Hadrian had told him at Devil’s Lake. We have our Seasons, but never snow or frosts. The words combined in his mind with what Sage had said of the koona, and he suddenly realized what his subconscious had been trying to tell him. The koona could destroy the South.
“Yes, of course,” said one of the Men. “We are to capture this position or die trying. But why break ourselves, why lose our Men when we could join the rest of our forces at Therucilin and return in the Spring?”
“Because,” answered the commander, “that would be a failure. And we are not willing to fail.”
They were quiet for a moment, looking at their maps and shivering quietly while they considered their position.
“So, we build the mole,” said the third. “Just as our forces in the South used a mole to capture an island, we will capture the fort with a land bridge of our own. We build a city here for our forces, and we root them out of the earth like a dog digging for gophers.”
The commander nodded his agreement, stepping nearer to the fire in an attempt to get warm. Ignatius saw him looking down towards him with curiosity, his hands finally leaving his sword to outstretch towards the fire. The Man cocked his head, his eyes widening as his mind recognized the crouched form for what it was. Ignatius’ wing blades were striking out in an instant. He slashed with them, cutting open the Man’s forehead and sending blood cascading down into his eyes.
Last Stand of the Blood Land Page 37