Last Stand of the Blood Land

by Andrew Carpenter

  His counsels with Aram and other Dwarves over the summer had also revealed rumors, legends, whisperings, passed down through generations of Dwarf lore. The tales passed from father to son from the early days of the Old Alliance when the city had been built on the backs of the Giants and with Southern designs. In those days, the Dwarves had played critical roles in supervising the designs of the Men, cutting the stones and directing the building, roles that had made it possible, or so it was whispered, for them to include some designs of their own. When Aram had spoken of these most secret family stories to Oberon, he had known the Dwarf was breaking with his people, a people who did not even like to share their language with the other races. Now, as he entered into lore, delving deep into the bowels of the city, he knew that Aram had chosen to share this gift of from his ancestors with all the tribes of the North.

  Crawling through centuries of earth that had hidden these secrets, the war chief finally reached the opening to the tunnel. It was small even for a Dwarf, ensuring only Dwarves could travel its corridors to take advantage of the surprise, secrecy, and protection these secret ways gifted their travelers. Tucking his wings, Oberon felt the panic creeping up on him as he crawled into the abyss on all fours like a dog.

  A dwarf child was waiting there, black eyes shining in the light of a small lightening bug lantern. The little fellow laughed when he saw the powerful Blood Born chieftain crawling towards him, a lifetime of weakness turned to strength for his people by the context of the tunnels. They followed the child down long distances of untrod passages, glimpses of runes and frescos depicting the past of the Dwarves sliding past into the darkness of history. Behind him he could hear the shuffling of his warriors, their feathers and blades dragging across the stones, and above the occasional rumble that told him of the horrors they were bypassing in search of their true targets.

  After a time, he emerged into a small chamber just big enough for him to pass the Dwarf. The child pointed a trembling finger to the ceiling where the lantern illuminated debris, soot, and snow falling into the room through a small hole. As Oberon watched, the body of a Dwarf, shot through with arrows, tumbled down. The warrior twitched for a moment, his blood pouring out onto the ancient stones while the child looked on in horror. My people shall not live in terror.

  The Cherub felt himself being reborn as he kicked off the wall and shot up through the hole into the big, violent world. His wings stretched, and his senses reeled while he took in the slush of blood-soaked snow that covered the ruins of an old warehouse where he stood. Smoke still billowed from coals where the timbers of the building had burned, and he sensed dozens of Dwarves staring at him through the smoke. They were hard pressed by a phalanx of Southland soldiers who were trying to secure the building. For a moment he looked at their terrified, exhausted eyes, and knew that he must appear as a daemon to them, emerging form the earth via the escape tunnel they were paying so dearly to secure. Now.

  “BEERRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLL”

  He gave them his best demon scream, the war cry he had held back as they approached the city. His bracers were moving to deflect a series of arrows that came from archers that had taken up positions on the surrounding roofs, archers who were less stupefied than the phalanx of soldiers whose assault had been halted by the sight of a Blood Born warrior. Oberon charged them, drawing his katana while his comrades spilled from the earth behind him in a steady torrent that turned the Dwarves fears into cheers. They charged with him and he felt himself flying off the heap of rubble up and on top of the soldier’s defensive shield wall. The sword was like water in his hands, cutting down and slicing as he danced across their shoulders, flapping powerfully to make the roof when the wave of Cherubim struck the now outnumbered soldiers.

  The archers that had taken up a position there had not expected to be assaulted themselves and he cut into them with ease. One, then two, fell before he began to pull his daggers. The throws snapped out in rapid succession as he fired all six of his Nymph forged blades into the archers, felling them before they could continue firing on his comrades where they were still emerging into this one single battle in the war for the city. He stood over their bodies, more Men than he had killed since the battle with Aristippus when the Angel’s had come from the sky to save his brothers. Now we come from the Earth to save the North. He watched the others mopping up the soldiers, sensed the Dwarves taking control of the area once again, and pondered how easy it had been for him to kill. So fast.

  He didn’t dwell on the thought long but scanned the roof tops and ascertained the location of their target by the high concentration of archers on another rooftop. Watching them through the driving snow, he could sense they were firing down on the resistance fighters he had come to save. The others were landing around him now, and he ran along the rooftop after securing his blades and finishing the Men. This course allowed the Dwarves to follow, securing a connection to the escape tunnel that would ferry their fighters out of the lost city.

  The Blood Born swarmed behind him, dashing at all levels over wreckage and rooftops and awnings. Through the blizzard he could hear the sounds of battle ahead, clanging steel on steel and the roars of creatures he had not yet faced as his mukluks danced across the snow. He felt the cold air in his throat and was aware of the blood born rage propelling him. The awareness allowed him to channel the anger, the frustration he felt at a life of war. Before he knew it, his wingblades were slicing through the throats of two archers and he was propelling out and into the open air of a courtyard.

  His eyes had only a moment to take in the sight below him. A ring of Men fighting side by side with Dwarves and Giants, phalanxes pressing in from two alleys, and a pair of Yeti threatening to break the meager resistance. His wings flicked, diverting him directly at the head of the nearest Yeti. Drawing his blade with both hands, he swung the curved sword out of the scabbard and into the exposed, fur cover neck of the warrior so that all of his weight drove the blade home. Oberon’s legs swung outward and he spiraled around the decapitated body in midair, running up the chest and through the spurting blood to ride the corpse down. At the last moment, he leapt from the creature’s body and landed, blood soaked and sword in hand, before the second Yeti.

  He stared defiantly up into those piercing violet eyes, watching as the Warrior brought his sword up in a high arc, big enough to cut a swath through the Cherub and the Northerners rallying behind him. Before the blade could strike, a knight was there, his own titanic sword smashing into the Yeti’s blade while his gauntleted fist smashed into the warrior’s helm. Oberon looked up and recognized the knight as Meggido, his single eye glaring out with power and rage through his visor.

  Then the Cherubim were upon them, tomahawks piercing into the Yeti and throwing knives cutting into the approaching Men. The War Chief spun and began to move into the scrum of his allies, searching the faces for Aram. He found the master there among the warriors, a halberd in his grizzled old hands as he continued to direct his forces. Oberon was amazed at the unfazed gaze the little warrior gave him. His black eyes belied nothing of the panic that the war chief would have expected from one who was being overrun, cut off from his escape tunnel. The Dwarf grasped his arm with a smile and turned to point at the tall Northman that had been fighting at his side. Ryogen.

  Oberon was shocked to see the tall father of his mate, Caldera. The chieftain’s brilliant silver Mohawk and katana made him look Elfish, and Oberon could only manage a nod as he took the Man’s arm.

  “Glad you made it,” said Ryogen. “My daughter must have convinced you her old man was worth saving.”

  “I didn’t know you were in the city,” said Oberon, missing the humor in the warrior’s tone.

  “Not a particularly beautiful time of year for a visit, but we can catch up later.”

  Aram was shouting in Dwarvish, the phalanxes pulling back as the unexpected arrival of the Cherubim made them rethink their plan to overrun this last pocket of open resistance.

  �
�It’s house to house fighting, hit and run, but they flushed us out here,” explained Ryogen. “We didn’t think they would patrol as heavily during the storm, but the Caipora alerted them to our movements.”

  “The Caipora,” said Oberon, remembering his second target. “I’ll need Dwarves, and Giants, to go after them.”

  Aram was already organizing the Men and Dwarves, preparing them to retreat down the path the Cherubim had cleared to the tunnel. He spoke to Ryogen quickly in his own tongue and Oberon was shocked to see the Northman spoke the language.

  “He says the Giants can’t make it into the tunnels anyway. They are trapped in the city, so they may as well hunt Caipora. He will leave you scouts who know where to find the Fox-Warriors.”

  A dozen Dwarves, twenty Northmen, and four knights, including Omri and Meggido, remained behind under Ryogen’s command while Aram disappeared into the swirling snow with the last major force of resistance fighters in the city. Oberon knew they could escape into the tunnels and be safe, perhaps even stage more attacks within or around the city. In the months Aram had held Therucilin since Ignatius had taken it, they had placed traps, destroyed barracks, and looted it dry while also extending the tunnel network to make their insurgency particularly difficult to root out. The South’s size becomes their weakness, the North’s size becomes our strength. He thought of trying to house a force as large as the one that had marched north in a walled city like Therucilin throughout the winter and knew they would face a greatly weakened enemy come summer. Now, to the hunt.

  The Dwarves scouted the way as the regrouped phalanxes began their counter attack. Their numbers were sufficient to overwhelm the Northerners had they chosen to stay and fight, but the Men of the South found the once contested ground was empty. Ignatius watched his Blood Born as they prowled through the storm, tracing the Dwarves and keeping an eye on the Giants that would serve as bait in the coming trap.

  From his discussions with the captive Caipora, Oberon knew that killing Giants was a high priority for their people, both as an order from their Southern masters and as a distinguishing mark of courage. Oberon flew down from the rooftops landing next to Omri in the deepening snow. He could not see the knight’s features in the dark but he knew the warrior was the last of his breed. Trained for modern combat in the Old Alliance, armed by the Dwarves after years of hard labor, lifted to the status of knight by a foreign king and granted land. He remembers the old ways. Oberon knew it was land Southern kings had no right to grant. And yet, looking up at the great silver armored warrior, he knew the respect the Giant nation paid the few remaining knights who had fought the Centaurs and gained them a homeland. As he was pondering the extinction of this great race of warriors, the Giant reached down. Oberon grabbed onto the outstretched arm and felt himself being lifted up as easily as if he were a sack of potatoes. The Giant guiding him up and over his head, and he spread his wings so that he landed on the great warrior’s shoulders.

  The Cherub rode, perched ten feet above the snow, as if he were a child. He smiled in amazement at the honor, speaking to Omri in reverence. “You can still find your way out of the city.”

  “If we had wanted that, we would have left weeks ago.”

  Oberon nodded, thinking of the courage it must have taken to stay behind in a city that was sure to fall. Escaping from Therucilin would have been easy for a Cherub but there were no tunnels for a Giant.

  “Parfey would be proud.”

  Omri nodded and Oberon could see a tear in his eye through his opened visor. Or perhaps snow. “Aye, we are here for his son. The Pathmaker and his father have given our people hope, a place of safety. Parfey’s glen, his fort there on the plains, was a start. The forest, with our brothers the Cherubim, knowing my people are there, it gives a warrior the courage to be here.” He gestured into the snow, into the darkness, and Oberon nodded, knowing the importance of a homeland that would live on after a warrior.

  “My people will be with them always.”

  Omri shut his visor at that and lifted his massive arm so Oberon’s butt slid into his upturned palm. Lifting the Cherub in front of him, he nodded. “And for that, the knights would follow you into the mountain’s maw.”

  He said it as he shot putted the Cherub into the sky. Oberon felt the rushing cold as he was propelled back towards the roof tops. He found the Dwarves there, being pulled by the Cherubim across gaps between the mountains. Working together, with the Dwarves’ night vision and the Cherubim’s wings, they moved like owls through the night. Below, the Giants marched on obviously, their great boots crunching through drifts of snow that were freezing fast as the temperature dropped in the blackest part of the night.

  Then Oberon sensed his warriors growing cautious, spreading wide out and away from the Giants path like wolves circling around a herd of elk. He moved with the others, enveloping a section of the street below where the Giants would have only just set foot. There, ahead on the edge of the street, he spotted them. Caipora. The Fox-Warriors had taken the bait, their entire focus on the Giants trudging below. As he crept closer, Oberon could see their long tails, grasping onto beams and stones as they prepared to swing down in an ambush of the knights. In the black, snow driven night he tried to imagine the path his knife should take to silently end his enemy’s scout.

  Pumping his wings slightly so he wouldn’t crunch through the layer of ice on top of the snow, he danced up behind the nearest Caipora just as the warrior was preparing to dive off the roof and onto the suspecting Giants. Oberon’s arm slipped around the creature’s neck in a rear naked choke he had learned fighting on the sands of his homeland. But this was not a battle with rules, and as the Caipora’s clawed paws went up to pry away the choking arm, Oberon’s dagger rammed home into the exposed armpit. The Cherub’s assumption, that the anatomy of a Caipora would not be so different from that of a Man, was correct. Instantly, the Caipora began to choke and sputter on his own blood as the knife severed the large blood vessel running there and punctured into the lung. He slid the warrior to the ground softly, feeling the warm blood soaking onto his mukluks, then jumped up onto the edge of the roof.

  He surveyed the fight taking place below in a crouch, preparing to jump in. There were a dozen Caipora draped over the knights, their tails and claws finding easy purchase on the Giant’s armor. With tails wrapping their legs and their swords useless in such tight quarters, they great warriors began to stumble and fall, reaching up and tossing Caipora as they went down. Were it not for Strato’s forces diving to their rescue, the Caipora would have made short work of them. As it was, Oberon did not even feel the need to dive into the melee. Instead, he watched as twelve Dwarven cross bows fired in unison. He watched as the stunned Southern scouts were attacked from all angles by Blood Born tomahawks, and he watched while the power of the Giants ripped the startled creatures limb from limb as they fought their way to their feet.

  It was over in seconds. The Cherubim gathered up the Caipora’s blades, too precious to leave. With a quick check on the various wounds sustained by the Giants, the war party continued on its way. Nearing the outer wall, they began to break into smaller groups, each with its own Dwarf to guide them. Oberon watched them disperse to the wall where he knew lookouts would be watching for their approach. Watching above the wall, but not below. He let them go, instead moving with the Giants towards their primary target.

  They came upon an open yard where the wind had swept the stones clear of snow. The war chief breathed in the night, sensing that it was powerfully cold, sensing that the wind chill made it a night unfit for any being. I am willing. He walked into the yard, feeling the drifts funneling him towards the barracks where the snow had piled into tall, triangular mountains along the buildings flanking his approach. The four giants followed in his wake, a guard of the North’s most hunted, desperate, as well as mighty warriors. Together they approached the large, oaken double doors of their target. Seeing two Caipora there, warming themselves around a small fire, Oberon stepped forwar
d.

  He recognized one of the warriors there as the one he had released after their duel near in the forest near Devil’s Lake. The light of the fire was just enough so that Oberon could recognize the way he stood. The confidence, the tinge of grey where the flames lit up his hateful orange eyes. The warrior stepped forward, raising his bucklers in invitation. He wants another chance to duel. Then there were more, perhaps a dozen of them, dropping in from the rooftops surrounding the open ground and from the roof of the building itself.

  They closed in around the Giants and Oberon, forcing the duel. But, just then, with his opponent’s form highlighted by the fire, a squad of Cherubim dropped from the rooftop to block the doors to the building. Oberon reached not for his sword, but for the bow that had been his companion since before the war, from a time when there was just peace and the forest and family. The arrow was nocked and flying faster than the war chief’s doubt and, in an instant,, the Caipora whose life he had spared, whom he had set free, was spurting blood from his throat and dropping to his knees. The Warrior that had believed Oberon to be an honorable leader, capable of mercy and unwilling to be a monster, looked at his killer with shock and surprise as his red blood dripped black onto the exposed cobblestones. What does it mean, to use mercy, to show unwillingness, so as to bring about still greater violence?

  He didn’t have time to think about the implications of this ambush as he drew a silencing arrow and fired it while simultaneously charging towards the all-important doors. He knew from Ryogen’s reports, and from the Caipora themselves, that he would find the terrifying southern foil to the Cherubim behind that door. They would be sleeping soundly in the rafters, warmed by fires and well fed by the Men who had brought them to the North. Clustered in the companionship of their kin, these terrific warriors that had punctured the security of his forest so easily, would be asleep. Oberon knew that he must not allow any of the Caipora he now faced to make it through those doors to sound the alarm. I will not think about what will happen if I am successful.