Last Stand of the Blood Land

by Andrew Carpenter

  The Giants charged with him and his arrow found a home in the thigh of a Caipora who was locked in a duel with Strato. The commander had appeared from nowhere, just as the rest of his units were beginning to join the battle as they finished destroying the Caipora on the walls beyond where the thick of the fighting was now taking place. All around the yard Caipora were scrambling up walls with their curved claws, their tailblades lashing out at the Cherubim who pursued them in silent desperation. Here and there a shout rang out, but the sounds were muffled by the raging blizzard.

  Oberon threw his daggers in rapid succession, desperately charging forward to attack a Caipora that was rushing to hit the two Cherubim who had taken up positions in front of the door. Behind him, he could tell the outnumber Caipora were being cut down quickly, but the Giants were too slow and the fight in front of the doors was going badly.

  The war chief deflected a katana with his wingblade, then dove to spear a Caipora with his own sword before coming up from his roll to stand alone in front of the door. Sensing their plan, two Caipora were charging him, desperate to alert their comrades. Their tails were too much, and with his back against the doors Oberon could not retreat without giving up their goal. A tailblade cut a long shallow track through his arm, deflected only partially on his bracer, and he knew he was in trouble. Suddenly, Ryogen was there, the black cord on his katana like a bat in the darkness as his buffalo robe swirled to the ground. He placed a hand on Oberon’s back, so he could tell exactly where the chief of the Northmen stood, and together they faced the approaching Caipora.

  Oberon felt the confidence of having the hand on his back and struck out as Rebus had taught him, not anticipating, but simply sensing, trusting. The Caipora he faced was too fast, anticipating too much, and assumed that Oberon would provide an advanced parry to the spiraling attack thrown by his tail. Instead, Oberon relied not on his unique gift of speed, but rather replied with a blow of perfect practice. The strike sliced through the Caipora’s side, hacking at an upward angle into the ribs as the creature jumped at the Cherub, his pointed arm shields trying to skewer him to the door.

  Instead, they fell short and Oberon turned to where Ryogen’s hand had left his back. The second Caipora was there, preparing to strike. Oberon stopped the blow from hitting the felled Northman, then watched as Meggido’s sword cleaved the Fox-Warrior in half, bringing the battle to a close. Oberon looked to his feet where Ryogen lay dying atop the bodies of the two Cherubim and knelt to pick up the leader’s head.

  Ryogen did not try to speak, but only looked into the bright blue eyes that so closely matched his own. In those dying eyes, Oberon saw all of the words Caldera’s father would never get to say. He saw the speech he would give at the feast that bound Oberon and Caldera, he saw the kind words he would say when they had their first child. He saw the guidance he would have given the North and the guidance he would have given Oberon as he fought for the freedom of both of their people. And then, he saw the light go out, saw the life of freedom that did not fit in the South fade, and saw the warrior’s spirit drift into the final freedom.

  For a moment, the war chief was in shock, sensing the enormity of the loss and losing his command of the moment. Then, filling the void left by Ryogen’s hand on his shoulder, Strato was there, pulling him away. They moved around to the side of the doors, watching while the three remaining knights dragged Omri’s body clear of the door he had charged. Oberon realized that the warrior had given his life to save him, to allow the mission to succeed, and had fallen there with him in that instant when the battle had taken two storied warriors of the North.

  Oberon waited in silence as his forces sealed in the building’s only other exits, then draped Ryogen’s buffalo skin robe over the chimney. The Dwarves appeared with oil, and within a few moments the structure was ablaze. Seconds later, the doors burst open and the first Caipora ran coughing into the Giant’s blades. The Dwarves arrows flew, and the Cherubim moved among the stumbling Caipora that managed to crawl past the arrows and the blades. Their tomahawks turned red as they bled out this threat onto the drifting snow in the darkness before the building.

  Oberon watched in numbness as they butchered the Caipora there while they tried to escape from the flames. The loss of his warriors, of the knight, of his mate’s father, so fast, and the ruthless efficiency of his Blood Born, pushed his mind to comprehend that his own lack of visceral, instinctual violence, had only led to a more calculated, more brutal form of slaughter. Calm, calculated. Worse than Donus. I’ve been too hard on Ignatius. Standing over Omri’s body with Meggido, he looked up at the dark place where he knew the knight’s head would be. He wondered what the warrior, a seasoned veteran of so many battles, was thinking as yet another friend and brother left him behind to carry on alone. The Cherub looked around at the carnage, the burning building, the twitching bodies where they lay in the shit and the blood and the mud. The snow was burying it all, falling so fast that it steamed on the still warm bodies. To Oberon, the effect made it look like ghosts were leaving the bodies and he knew, even as he beheld the nightmare, that it would be with him for the rest of his days.

  “You are wondering why,” said the Giant as he peered around at the carnage.

  Oberon nodded.

  “We warriors say good bye, and live to watch our brothers die, all so that our tribe may safely in their beds lie, never to know the warrior’s cry- this, this is why.”

  The warrior’s cry. Oberon looked up, searching for the Giant’s eye in amazement that the scarred veteran, so terrifying in battle, could also be a poet. Somehow, the knight’s words, their meaning and their beautiful presence in a scene of such terror, helped to still the war chief’s heart.

  Strato was there again after just a moment, his eyes signaling that it was time to move. The word was certainly spreading throughout tens of thousands of Southlanders that the Blood Born had breached the city, and their slaughter of the Caipora would certainly draw them like moths despite the howling storm.

  “One more mission,” said the war chief, dreading the composure he must keep through the final step in their raid.

  “What of them?” asked Strato looking from Omri’s body to Meggido.

  “Leave us, living and dead,” answered Meggido. “The Dwarves will get us to a gate.”

  “No,” said Oberon. “They will expect that. They didn’t expect us to come under, they won’t expect you to go over. We can’t afford to lose any more knights, who will remind the Giants of the old ways?”

  Meggido nodded doubtfully. “Up and over then.”

  The Giants followed ten Cherubim and the rest of the Dwarves as they headed for the outer wall. The Cherubim flew up to drape ropes for their comrades and Oberon knew he didn’t have time to wait and ensure they could get the three massive, armor laden knights over the top before they were overrun. Instead, trusting he had done all he could for the Giants, he followed Strato who knew the way to the citadel from his capture of the city the previous spring.

  Without the Dwarves the going was slow, and Oberon could feel himself losing strength as hours of constant movement and several battles without rest began to take their toll. He tucked his hands inside his fur vest, struggling to keep them dry and warm as they climbed higher and higher in the city. The feathers in his long hair whipped back and forth and he tried to stay focused as the shapes and images of the darkened city mingled with the memories in his own mind to disorient the warrior. He tried to remember Meggido’s poem, terrified that he would forget it and doubtful that he would ever see the Giant again. The fear made him think of Sequoia and his attempts to learn to write, and he wondered if the Rider would have time to continue his work now that the enemy was upon them.

  With his mind drifting like the snow, the distance flew past. Before he knew it, they were alighting on the inner most wall of Therucilin, looking in at the torches blazing throughout the citadel. If they had been fast enough, their target would still be inside. Oberon knew he was walking in Do
nus’ moccasins. The ghost of the dead Cherub warrior was with him as he flew over the heads of the soldier’s forming up in the training yard. He heard their shouts of surprise as the flock of Blood Born warriors descended on the stronghold, swarming up and over the snow-covered structure towards the throne room.

  The marble columns and portcullis that were designed to stop traditional invaders posed no problem to the Cherubim. Their worst struggle was the cold, snow covered hand holds that numbed their fingers as they stopped to rest their weary wings on the red stone. Strato led the way around and up until they reached the throne room. Oberon knew from his commander’s explorations of the building, and from Ignatius’ stories, that this is where he would find the commander of the South. The way was supposed to have been clear, a large window in the throne room where leaders could see for miles across the city and the plains and towards the mountains. But, as he caught up with the fastest of his warriors, the war chief could see that the way was blocked. Of course. His warriors were hanging, circling, perching around the window but it was blocked by stout timbers. When he stopped moving, the Cherub could feel the extreme exposure of their position, high above the city where the whistling winds blew snow into every crevice of their bodies. In winter, especially with Cherubim as enemies, especially after a king had been assassinated in this very structure, of course the window to the throne room was barred.

  Oberon couldn’t see them in the darkness, but he knew the Cherubim were looking to him, looking for an answer. He swooped out away from the sheer face of the wall and back in, catching his fingers on the freezing stone that made up the window sill. Strato was there with his tomahawk, and Oberon could see the plan in his eyes where a flicker of light escaped through a crack in the wood. Shaking his head, he motioned for the commander to go. Strato shook his head, obviously not wanting to leave his chief. Oberon nodded, wrapping his wings around himself and making a shivering motion before pointing around to the other warriors. When Strato still didn’t move, Oberon simply winked, then knocked on the window.

  Strato’s eyes grew big but he finally obeyed, moving off to round up the rest of their force and to move them out of the storm that would surely kill the weakened warriors if they did not get shelter soon. Alone, hanging on the edge of the citadel in the wild storm, Oberon listened for the sound of the window being unbarred and contemplated the strange loneliness of leadership. After a moment, he heard the scraping of wood and pushed thoughts of the cold and the possibility that he could be killed, alone and far from his home, from his mind. He circled out, his wings fighting furiously against the gale, and timed his return perfectly so that he blasted through the window just as it was opened.

  The snow followed him in and he exploded into the massive stone room in an elemental fury. His senses were besieged by the torches that lit the room and he landed, temporarily stunned, in the middle of the great table that filled the recessed floor of the room. After a moment, with his eyes clearing, he could see the chairs that lined the upper tier of the room. Six Caipora were there, their swords drawn in their long furry tails, waiting to strike. A dozen Southland soldiers stood guard around the room, their swords drawn, waiting to rush in and overwhelm the sole Cherub invader. He could feel the katanas fliting about, menacing him, waiting to cut him down. Waiting for what?

  Rising from a crouch, hands unclenching to form nonthreatening open palms, he spun slowly, until he saw the one who could give the signal. The Man was sitting on the throne, watching him with steel grey eyes. His head was close shaved like that of the legionaries and centurions that made up the phalanxes of the South and Oberon noted he wore no crown. The lack of a crown and the fact that his left ear had the deformed appearance of cauliflower, the mark of a grappler, told the Cherub that this Man was a warrior first, a king second. The Man eyed him for a moment longer, as if deciding what to make of this interloper, then nodded slightly. With the hint of an exasperated grin that Oberon had seen on Rebus face when instructing his students, the king spoke.

  “Bad weather?”

  An icicle dropped from where it had formed on Oberon’s scruffy, black trail beard, hitting the floor and echoing off the tense warriors.

  “Seasonable.”

  Oberon saw the Caipora standing on either side of the throne, their buckler’s prepared to intercept his daggers.

  Seeing his eye movements, the Man continued, “Are you here to kill me?”

  Oberon moved his eyes back to the king, thinking about the path the dagger would take, and for a moment his mind ticked with the possibility of the assassination. An image of Omri’s body flashed in his mind, then of Caldera, and he remembered why he was here.

  “I can’t kill you.”

  Puzzlement passed the Man’s face. “You killed Prince Alexander just above us, what makes you think you could not kill me?”

  Oberon resisted the urge to correct the king. I am not Donus.

  “King Theseus was killed, King Alexander was killed, and yet here you stand, another king. You are Theseus, you are Alexander, and because another would come if I killed you, you cannot be killed.”

  The Man pondered this for a moment and Oberon thought he might discuss it further, but instead he simply spoke his name.

  “I am King Vespasian.” He rose from the throne, stepping over the skulls of Giants, Dwarves, Men, and Centaurs as he moved towards the edge of the upper tier. His Caipora guards moved with him and Oberon could see that, beneath the wolf fur cape that covered his shoulders, the king had the long, lean, build of a young brawler.

  “Chief Oberon,” replied the Cherub as he eyed the skulls.

  “If you have not come to kill me, surely you have not come to have me kill you?”

  Oberon shook his head, sensing the wind and snow that still billowed in through the open window as well as the tailblades hovering around his neck. He could feel anger rising in his heart, frustration, fear. These words make your vision real. He fought down his blood born instinct for murder and spoke.

  “I come to show you that I am reasonable.”

  The King laughed. “Reasonable? Thousands of my Men are dead to take back just one of our forts. This city, it is destroyed, useless. Our women, taken. No survivors of the battle in which you took this city. Where was your reason when you slit their throats?”

  “My people are not always reasonable, but I am, and I lead my people. Just because we are reasonable does not mean we are not dangerous.”

  The King paused at that, thinking. The cold wind seemed to get to him, and he turned from the discussion and motioned one of the Men to close the window. Oberon watched it close, his heart closing with it as his only line of escape was barred.

  “Well, reasonable Chief Oberon. Sit, and we will reason together.” Vespasian sat down, his legs dangling off the edge into the air above the lower tier of the throne room. He leaned back against the throne’s legs and motioned for Oberon to sit as well. The Cherub stepped to the edge of the table and sat, his own legs dangling as he propped himself back on his wings. The Caipora and Men seemed to relax slightly, Oberon’s small movements building unspoken trust. “So, tell me Chief of the Cherubim. Tell me of the griffins your people ride and of the forest where you hide, tell me of the hate in your heart for the Men of the South.”

  “Xyerston had griffins,” said Oberon, speaking of the first commander of the Companion Cavalry, the force of many races that fought the Centaurs in the mountain passes. “Ours are just bigger.”

  “They certainly are, at least that is what I hear from my Men at Fort Hope.”

  He knew the King was trying to build rapport, but he did not have time. Word of his deeds that night would reach the Citadel at any moment, and reasonable as this King seemed, Oberon was counting on the fact that he would not be reasonable once he knew that most of his Caipora were dead and that many of the gorillas in the city had escaped.

  “Our hate is not for the Men of the South. We love freedom, we do not hate. Love can be very violent when threat
ened.”

  Vespasian nodded, his square jaw and unbroken nose looking like the features of a willing but reasonable Man. What is a man? He was a Man, just a Man. He did not have the stamina of a Centaur, the size of a Giant, the speed of a Nymph, the wings of a Cherub, the eyes of a Dwarf, or the tail of a Caipora. Oberon wondered how Men had come to rule so many races and he realized that the will of Men must be stronger than that of any other race, strong enough to overcome any weakness. The phalanx is the ultimate surrender of freedom, the willingness to let go of oneself completely.

  “So,” said the king, breaking Oberon’s train of thought. “So, the Cherubim did not have enough freedom under Theseus?” He pointed to the Caipora, motioning for them to lower their swords. “The Cherubim could be like the Caipora. Their people are honored, cared for, their skills as warriors prized through all of Galatia.”

  “We are not the Caipora.”

  “If you will not accept the freedom of service, of belonging to a greater whole, then you are the Centaurs and you must be destroyed.”

  “We are dangerous, like the Centaurs, but our reason makes us different. Different even from the Elves.”

  At the mentioned of the Elves, Vespasian’s thin brown eyebrows perked up. “The Men of Shadow have penetrated the Cherubim as well?” He paused, not waiting for Oberon to answer. “The Elves can wait, they always have. Tell me of this reason of yours.”

  “You will see,” said Oberon, a hardness coming into his voice that he did not recognize, “you will see that the North is more willing than you can know. You will see that you are not willing to pay the price to break us. When this moment comes, you must know that I alone am reasonable, I alone can show you a third way. We are not the Caipora, we are not the Centaurs, we are the Cherubim, and when your will breaks, I will be there to offer you a third way.”