The Man stumbled backwards, falling onto the table where the others jumped in fright. The commander bellowed in fear and rage, one hand attempting to stem the blood while his other hand drew his sword. The sounds of the Man drew Ignatius comrades into the tent, their cloaks dropped so their wings filled the small space. They held their tomahawks ready to assassinate the leaders as they had planned. Ignatius held up his hand, the vision these Men had given him of the koona changing his mind towards something far grander than simply killing all of the Southlanders in the North.
“A message,” he said.
The others looked at him as he stepped forward. The other Men stepped back trying to get away from the monster that had them cornered. Reaching out with his foot, he kicked the commander back down onto the table and flew to land on top of him. His knees landed to pin the man’s hands to his sides and he drew out his daggers, plunging them into the commander’s eyes to blind him without killing him. The Man writhed and screamed, bucking Ignatius into the air. Sensing the horror that was unfolding, the other soldiers tried to cut their way out the back of the tent, but the fourth Cherub was there where he waited with the horses.
In the coming moments, they scalped the leaders, cutting the sword hands from the Men as they screamed and panicked. Their bowels emptied as they scrambled to save themselves from the butchers that had made their way into the heart of the camp. When the Blood Born made their way into the swirling snow, they left their living, mangled message behind. A monstrous legacy was born in their wake as they escaped into the nature that was as much an enemy to the Men as any of the races of the North. A nature that will destroy the Southlands, not just the Southlanders.
Chapter 21
W ar drums, sounded faintly from across the wide plane. Oberon cocked his head, trying to separate the rhythmic pounding from the low wine of a ceaseless wind that swirled flurries from the storm that rolled towards Therucilin. The faint drumming, more than the wind, sent shivers down the war chief’s spine and he pulled his wings down tight over his furs, thankful that the Centaur’s drums beat with him instead of against him. He reached up over his shoulder to adjust his arrows where their fletching was rattling in the breeze. The familiar feel of the bolts calmed him. The Cherub knew what he could make those little shafts of wood and steel do. They should fear us.
He squeezed his legs together and felt the grizzly respond, his hump rumbling back and forth as the great bear moved through the aspens. Their branches were bare now, and Oberon could see his Blood Born there, ghosting through the branches. They moved with ease, hilts and wing blades belying the graceful nature of the warriors as they drifted peacefully through the falling light.
Oberon enjoyed and respected the power of the full grown male war-bear, resplendent in his Dwarven armor. He had never gone to war on male grizzly, let alone a full grown, well trained monster such as this. Years of war had made them rare, prized weapons hoarded by the Dwarves. For a few minutes he tried to enjoy the swagger of leading a war party on such an animal, tried to own the war drums and approaching night as one to be feared rather than as one to be afraid. Watching the white trees slide by he couldn’t help but see the faces of his tribe in the black patterns etched on the bark, and he soon began to wonder how many of his own kin would spill their blood, becoming as white as the trees in death.
With the bear climbing towards their goal atop a small rise at the edge of the forest, Oberon thought of how Strato’s force of Cherubim had paved the way for this raid. They had blazed trails, cached food, weapons, and blankets, and built a strong knowledge of the local area here within striking distance of Therucilin. They had counter attacked foraging parties of Southlanders, recapturing this and several other bears that had been taken from Dwarves loyal to the North. Most importantly, they had used ropes, platforms, and tree forts to build a network of safe havens, trails, and resting places extending clear across the mountains and towards Devil’s Lake. These sanctuaries would make it possible for them to operate year-round with supplies and reinforcements being brought in while wounded Blood Born were brought out. My little war.
With planning, he knew his little strike force would harry the South, multiplying the effectiveness of the Centaurs, Dwarves, and Northlanders trying to contain the hordes of Southerners that had descended on the valley. With the bear cresting the rise, the war chief thought back to the battle plans he had made on his little map and wondered if what he had seen in his mind could become real.
The wind was stronger here on the exposed crest of the hill. The trees gave way to the open prairie that ran north to the lake which bordered the only city of the North. Seeing those open grasses, covered in a foot of snow, Oberon’s mind stretched north across the miles of openness he had traveled as an emissary of the Old Alliance. That mission seemed silly to him now, working for the South instead of against them. Still, as he remembered hard miles traveled with Atlas and Onidas, he remembered that were it not for that trip he would not have found Caldera and her father, Ryogen, would not be out there, somewhere near the city fighting against the invaders. Thoughts of Caldera warmed him for a moment, the slender strength of her brown thighs, the fierceness in her blue eyes when she rode her buffalo, but the landscape in front of him quickly pushed such thoughts away.
Strato and another Cherub appeared out of the woods, flanking their chief astride their own bears while several scores of their comrades rested in the trees behind them. The sight before them was the stuff of dark, inescapable nightmares and the Cherubim knew that they could not wake up. The sun was setting behind the western mountains, streaking a violent snow storm with violet and red where it was pushing its way down the valley out of the North. Normally, the sunset would have been beautiful, but in winter the setting sun heralded cold and suffering. Oberon watched the thunder-snow, where lightening cracked through the massive, black and red snow clouds, with apprehension.
Underneath the drama occurring in the blackening skies, the Cherubim could see a herd of Centaurs sweeping out of the east, running down a small band of Southerners attempting to escape to the safety of the walled city. Watching the men, he saw those on horseback dueling bravely with the approaching bucks in an attempt to allow their comrades on foot to escape. One by one they fell, and the tide of Horse-Men rolled on, cutting through the running soldiers with abandon. Oberon was drawn to the Men more than he was to his own allies and, averting his eyes, he thought of Ignatius and Donus and their willingness. They would not shirk from their duty.
Oberon had always known that his tribe respected Ignatius in a way that they did not respect him. It was tales of Ignatius’ battles that were told around the fires at night and it was Ignatius that the young warriors looked to as a model of what a warrior should be. He knew the elders respected him for other reasons, better reasons, and had made him war chief because he was not like Ignatius, but he couldn’t help but see the way Sage looked at Ignatius and wonder if it would be better to be fearless and deadly decisive rather than thoughtful and endlessly careful. The fight against the Caipora had helped, but still he couldn’t be satisfied that he had something Cherubim like Ignatius and Donus didn’t. Now is the time to show them that plans and control can destroy more than rage and power.
Suddenly he sensed a shudder in the bear beneath him and he followed the animal’s eyes to the southwest where the sky was still clear. He saw them, skimming across the tree tops, and though he expected them, the feeling of unease was still the same. Griffins. The war-bear shifted to face the only natural predator big enough to hunt a bear and Oberon pulled back on the reins gently, counting on the bears training as well as his instincts as a killer to keep him from moving to safety in the woods. The bear seemed to relax when the great catbirds landed, a plume of snow being kicked up by their wings to obscure their piercing yellow eyes. The war chief recognized Stratera’s black hair and Fleuron’s black wings as they flew from the saddles. As the snow settled, Oberon noted that these griffins were smaller, younger, than t
hose ridden by Sage and Ignatius.
“News?” asked the chief.
“Ryogen is in the city,” answered Stratera, her dark blue wings matching Fleuron’s in the failing light. “As is Aram. They are ready for you and hard pressed to hold any ground.”
Oberon nodded, thankful the leaders were still alive but concerned about how he would get them out. “And you brother?” He asked the question to Fleuron, secretly hoping these riders would have news of their fellow rouge rider, Ignatius.
“His forces allowed Fritigern to hold Fort Hope, Taragon will be in position within a day. The South pays dearly to attack our forces.” The relief was plain on the Cherub’s face when he discussed his brother, Albedo, as was the glee at an enemy’s suffering when he discussed the South. Such duality. Oberon wondered for a moment how beings could hold both love for their family and hate for others in their heart at the same moment.
“Ignatius is with them,” said Stratera, guessing at Oberon’s unasked question. “They will attack the herd with the Plainswatchers in two days’ time.”
“And our path to the fort?”
Stratera pointed towards the Centaurs streaming across the plain, sowing havoc and drawing the Southlanders to respond. “Skagen’s heir clears the way, if you go now.”
He nodded his approval, placing a hand on each of the Rider’s shoulders. “I’m proud of you.” Simple words, he knew, but the mere act of telling them that he was proud of them gave him power over them, asserted his right to judge. The empowered looks on their faces told him they looked to him for this judgement, and he knew he was still war chief to at least some of the Riders. “Tell Devil’s Lake to prepare for the full assault as soon as the herd is taken. We will draw them out.”
“Do you really think the Southlanders will be stupid enough to invade our forest with winter approaching?” asked Fleuron.
“If they feel they must save their forces at Fort Hope, and if we can hit them hard enough in Therucilin that they feel they are not safe there, their pride will demand it.”
They nodded, trusting in his vision and turned to remount, their work in Therucilin valley completed for now. Oberon watched them mount up and take off, marveling at this weapon that could coordinate his forces across the miles, solving his need for information, for resources, and for time. Such power.
Looking out at the flames that sprouted from the buildings in and around Therucilin, taking in the Centaurs with their wolves and the trail of bodies they left in the snow, the terrific griffins winging away to the east, and finally accepting the coming night and the violence of the approaching storm, he realized that he must be willing to lead even if some part of him wasn’t willing to be unafraid. He felt the blue and black war paint covering his face and channeled the spirit of the Horse-Men that had once fought his Angelic fathers, fanning his fear and doubt into an angry power that rumbled in his chest. Normally he would have let loose his war cry, but the guerrillas were dedicated to maintaining their strength of stealth and surprise. The bear beneath him sensed the hunter’s energy and reared, growling low as Oberon drew his sword and pointed the way forward.
There was a rustling of wings as the Blood Born understood the path their leader was guiding them towards in the face of such an anguished scene. They glided down from the trees, spilling after Oberon and the other commanders and down the rise onto the snowy plains. He led them out into the exposed expanse of snow covered farm fields and pasture that separated them from the flaming city. The Cherubim formed into units of ten as they ghosted across the plains, darkness enveloping their movements as they covered the miles that separated them from the city. Two storms are coming for you. Oberon knew the snow would further mask their incursion into the bleeding city, nature’s gift to the North.
Soon they reached their guides, two young Dwarves that had fought with Jamais but who had trained under Aram. Strato had rescued them when his forces reclaimed the bears, and they had promised to lead them into the city where Aram was organizing the resistance. Oberon knew that northerners such as Fritigern who had trained by, been raised by, independent minded warriors like Aram, and who had served in the Old Alliance long enough to see its injustices, were with them. Looking into their black eyes he wondered if he should trust them, if he could trust them, with so many northern clans still siding with the South. Seeing the earnest passion in their black faces as the last of the sun’s rays were engulfed by the storm, he knew he had to trust the youth and that he did trust Strato.
“We have to hurry,” said one of the pair, his thick accent filled with worry.
“It goes badly for Aram?” asked Strato.
The other young warrior simply nodded then turned, leading the way through the darkness as only a Dwarf could. They plowed through the snow, heedless of the pounding drums and shouts that grew louder and more frequent the closer they came to the city. For a time, a sliver of moon rose in the south, its rays illuminating the driving snow and soot from the fires, black and white mingling into a slurry that coated the raiders. The drifting smoke and screams bundled with the snow to mask their approach, creating an unnatural and haunting cover as they moved on in silence.
Somewhere in front of him Oberon could see the small shape of the Dwarf pause, and he dropped to the snow. Behind him he could sense his warriors couching, altered to the danger the Dwarves sensed by the sudden halt. Then he heard hooves approaching like the thunder of a cataract approached down a forest trail. At first it was quiet, then it became clear, drowning out the wind, and then, not ten yards ahead, they stampeded past. The Cherub could see their antlers through the darkness and felt awe and terror at these monsters in the night.
When they finally passed, he began to move but the Dwarf raised a hand in warning and he paused, his ears searching for the sign the warrior had sensed. Moments later, he heard their footsteps, muffled on the snow but steady as the wind. A phalanx, made obvious by torches as it snaked its way over a rise along the trail of the Centaurs. The lines of Men were endless, fearless in their regimented journey through a night they were determined to own. Their passing seemed endless to the Cherubim, with their torchlight just lapping over the edge of Oberon’s bear. The war chief could see their faces, cold and determined, with a singular focus on driving the Centaurs away so they could secure the city.
When the last of them had finally passed, the war party dusted off the snow that had covered them and pressed on into the darkness. Oberon thought about their trail, wondered about the Centaurs and the soldiers, struggled against the uncertainty of the night, and tried to remember the confidence he knew in the day. After a time, the glowing embers of the buildings that surrounded the city came into view. The blackened timbers of taverns and inns, abandoned shops and burned homes surrounded the red walls of the city. Their column disappeared into the wreckage like a rabbit into a hole.
Oberon could feel the warriors dispersing, spreading up and over the ruined infrastructure that had grown up around the protection of the wall. Here and there he caught glimpses of them where they darted up and over rubble while he and his commanders rode in a solemn procession on their bears. Eventually their guides led them through a twisting maze of blocks into a courtyard where two buildings had crumbled against the city wall to form a hidden, protected enclave.
Entering into the stillness of this protected place, Oberon slowly came to perceive the shapes of a dozen Dwarven rebels nestled among the blocks. Their black eyes and dark complexions served to make them appear nearly headless, their bodies seeming to appear and disappear while he glided down towards the bear. Gauntleted hands took the reins and he moved into the midst of the dark ring created by the wreckage. Flakes of snow drifted down through a shaft of moonlight and he listed for the breathing of the allies he had come to find. You are holding your breath. He exhaled, feeling his heart beat and reaching out with his senses. On the next breath in he heard the flint, then saw the torch spring to life.
In an instant, the snowflakes illuminated by th
e moonlight disappeared in the bright yellow flame of the torch. All around the cavern, Dwarves winced at the sudden incursion but those that could move came towards the Cherub war chief like moths to a flame. Oberon could see the trauma of the battles in the city written in the wounds that covered many of their bodies. In others, he could see it in their battle shocked faces. The story their wounded minds and bodies told was of a hopeless struggle to maintain a foothold in the city against impossible odds. Oberon looked at them with pity, sensing the part he had played in convincing the North that freedom was worth this cost.
Then, Cherubim began to appear through the same gap as the snow, drifting down into the light and scattering like bats to hang around the rocks and timbers that made up the cavern. He saw the transformation that came across the faces of the frozen, war weary Dwarves. Hope. More of the hearty warriors struggled to their feet, inspired by the sight of the infamous Blood Born. Oberon took another breath, realizing that he too was inspiring these soldiers.
“We are going in.”
He said it to no one in particular. There were heads shaking in disbelief, others nodding gratefully, obviously remembering comrades and fellow Northerners they had left behind to find this refuge on the edge of the inferno. One of their guides began to rouse those that were still fit enough to join them. An old, crippled warrior led the Cherubim to a small pit next to the wall. The Dwarf spoke low and soft in his own tongue, panic creeping into his voice at times as he described what Oberon knew to be the horrors he had seen even though he could not understand the words. He placed a reassuring hand on the warrior’s shoulder, then led the way into the pit.
The frozen earth made slippery going for a moment as he made his way down into the earth, but soon he past the frost line and found a ladder that carried him down to the mouth of an ancient tunnel through the castle’s foundations. Having spoken with Hadrian and Rebus he knew that his forces would be awaited by Caipora defenders if they took the obvious approach up and into the city. The Caipora scout he had released would surely have alerted the Men, warning them of an airborne incursion from the strikeforces he had seen at Devil’s Lake.
Last Stand of the Blood Land Page 38