Last Stand of the Blood Land

by Andrew Carpenter

  Then she spotted them, twin columns of fully armed hoplites. Their shields made them look like a continuous serpent, spread out from the camp through the area where the herd had been kept and heading out towards the battle behind the hills where Sage lost sight of them. She pushed Katana into the air, skimming over the snow, tracing their path from a distance and trying to ascertain how much time they had. She could see the front of the column had stalled waiting for orders, several miles and just out of sight of the battle. She knew that, if they marched at full speed, they would reach the battle before the North had time to consolidate its victory. If they held, they might just have time. Maybe.

  She guided her Griffin back into the Canyon Lands and out of sight, flying hard towards the battle. When she came over the bluffs, she could see that the fight was over. Their forces had broken through on all sides and resistance was crumbling as the Cherubim laid waste to their formation from the inside. She could see that the strength of the phalanx was in one direction. It enabled the Men to tackle any foe, be they Giant or Centaur, but only so long as they could keep the enemy in front. The ruthless order of the South was weak if the battle wasn’t clearly defined, and they had denied the phalanx the cavalry it needed to protect its sides or call up reinforcements.

  She could see Onidas and Rondo, circling the edges of the melee and picking off individuals while Nicolo and the Centaurs were converging on the Blood Born. Ignatius was there, surrounded by bodies, fighting from the ground with Kaizen. Sage didn’t hesitate, but dove towards him, drawing her kusarigama and bellowing her war cry.

  “AIIIIIIIIIIIIYYYYYYYYYYYYAAAAAAAAAA!”

  Katana, exhausted, killed two soldiers as she hit the blood red snow. Sage danced from the saddle, her chain swirling, searching. Two more brave soldiers were there, still trying to attack Ignatius’ griffin in a heroic last stand. Her spiked ball smashed into one of their helmets, killing him instantly. She jumped deftly, using the lightening speed of her people, throwing a dagger into the second Southlander’s neck even as her chain began to spin again, swirling, searching. A Man who had been rent through, the broken off haft of a spear still protruding from his stomach, tried to rise, slashing at her with his sword. She jumped over the blow, slicing the blade of her kusarigama through his throat to finish him. And then, he was there.

  She saw him fighting his way around from the other side of their mated griffins, his twin black katanas moving in lighting quick attacks. She saw the fierceness in his movements, saw the terror he was to the Southlanders who tried to run. He let none escape, killing one, two, three before her eyes. He blocked an arrow fired from she knew not where, his bracer coming up in reflex. The blood had soaked his furs, and his black war paint ran down his cheeks like tears. Sage saw his hair had come undone, strands and curls hanging wildly. He turned to her, the anger and blood lust still covering his features, his eyes wide, chest heaving. She stepped forward, and he growled slightly, not recognizing her.

  “Ignatius.”

  He looked down at his hands, then left and right at his outstretched wings. Guts and skin hung from the blades there, blacking his typically beautiful feathers. Then, he looked down again, panting. She stepped towards him, recognizing the suffering of her warrior, seeing the conflict he felt at what he had become. She stowed her weapon, reaching out and grasping his slick arms with her own war dirtied hands.

  “Ignatius.”

  She pulled him in, holding him for a moment and she felt him take a long, slow breath to return to the moment.

  “Sage.”

  Then he was kissing her, his swords stuck into the snow. She felt the warrior’s rage, the blood born violence in his kiss, but also regret and pain, self-loathing at what he was willing to do. She felt it too, but, she realized, she knew better than he how to deal with her feelings. Because I am a female. In a flash she saw the compassion she had seen amongst the Plainswatchers, the sharing, the empathy, and she remembered how they complained about their mates inability to share how they felt. I will have to show him.

  “How far are they?” he asked, breaking off the kiss and pushing her hair back over her shoulder with a delicate hand.

  “Minutes if they come, but they stalled.”

  “Their leaders are afraid.”

  “Why?”

  At her question she saw him withdraw again, sinking into his own mind and terrors, remembering his maiming of their leaders.

  “We must get them moving,” he said without answering his question.

  Later. “Of course.”

  She nodded, flashing the Nymph’s coy smile that she knew would tell him everything was alright, that would allow him to hide from it while he had to keep moving. Together, they mounted their steeds, surveying the battle field. All around them, Northmen and Plainswatchers dispatched the last remnants of resistance while the Centaurs ran down any who were escaping. The Nymphs had captured hundreds of horses, and were quickly scavenging the armor and weapons of the vanquished force.

  “Get them organized and headed for safety, I’ll get the Centaurs to lead them away.”

  Sage nodded, accepting the difference between Ignatius the Pathmaker and Ignatius the mate. She spent the next minutes flying between the Nymphs and the Plainswatchers, alerting them of the force that could swipe in and annihilate them at any moment. The rest of the herd was quickly caught and all around her she saw forest dwellers taking their first uneasy steps on horseback.

  Those without steeds that were not wounded were the first to leave, dashing at full speed on a southwesterly course for the safety of the forest. Next went the Giants along with the wounded that could be loaded onto horseback and the Dwarves on their bears. Finally, Taragon prepared to lead a pack train of horses loaded with weapons, leaving just Sage and the Centaurs.

  “Your people will speak of your deeds this day,” said the chief.

  “What will they say of them?” she pointed to a few dozen of the wounded that could not be evacuated. Their wounds too grievous for them to be loaded onto horses, they had been left in a small group on the battle field.

  “Leaders have to make choices,” answered the tan leader.

  Sage looked into his two eyes, one blue, one brown, and wondered why anyone would want to lead. She watched the pack train move off into the distance, leaving her alone with the Centaurs that had been unable to go with their brethren to distract the Southlanders. They watched her, their antlers looking hauntingly out of place in the sunshine amongst the dead and dying. Some of them were missing arms and were bleeding out, others had horrific gashes on their legs that made it impossible for them to run. There, among the dying Centaurs and wounded wolves, she saw him.

  “Wotan.”

  The black skinned war chief of the Horse-Men was dying too. He struggled to stand, blood dripping from a spear in his chest, another in his front leg.

  “It is good to die with spears in my front,” said the Centaur with a frightening grimace that could have been a smile, blood dribbling past his fangs.

  “Because you charged their line?” asked Sage.

  He stumbled but one of his fellow Centaurs caught him, propping him upright for another moment.

  “Because I died as I lived.”

  Sage placed her hand on Katana, nodding in understanding.

  “I have fought Skraelings, I have seen Angels from the sky, and now I see Riders. One day my bucks see will see a free North. The Riders will remember the Centaurs?”

  Sage nodded, looking at the way the dying Centaurs looked at her. Fear. Hope. She knew what the riders meant to the Nymphs, the Dwarves, to Northmen, to the Cherubim. But there would never be a Centaur Rider.

  “We ride for all tribes of the North, as you have fought for the freedom of all tribes of the North.”

  Wotan nodded his massive rack of antlers in thanks, stumbling to his knees. His hands dug into the snow as he slumped to the ground. He scooped up a piece of earth and prairie grass. Sage stepped forward, watching as the Centaur that had
struck fear into Giants and Men smelled it, speaking in his own tongue. The Nymph could see him running on the grass in his eyes, his wolves there with him as he drifting across the endless plains toward his home, his family. Archeo landed on her shoulder, watching as the blood that poured from Wotan’s chest spilled into his hands and onto the bit of earth and grass that he held. Then, one of his comrades was there, ready to finish him in the way of his people.

  “You do the same for yours,” whispered the Centaur, a wolf coming to rest his head on his leg. “Their blood is the land, and their children will run across it with mine.”

  With that, the Centaur buried his spear into Wotan’s side and Sage heard his last breath rattle out. A single tear fell down her cheek as she watched the warrior that had known Ignatius, the warrior of so many stories, leave the land that had now risen up with his people, risen up because of him. She stood, turning away from the remaining Centaurs as they finished off their wounded. She walked with Katana towards her own kin that lay dying on the field. One by one, she dispatched those whose eyes told her they were ready to stop suffering.

  Then, she found one whose eyes said that she would not give in. A young Nymph, too wounded to speak, to stubborn to die. Sage lifted her, ignoring the gasps of pain, and lay her across the saddle. Finally, with the sounds of marching Southerners approaching, she used her kusarigama to cut the same kudzu vine rope she had used to release her stones. She took the vine and tied the Nymph into the saddle, looking towards the approaching soldiers and surveying the battlefield one last time. With that, she took off into the sky.

  Katana’s sluggish movements told her she was at her very limit, and so Sage directed her due west towards the forest. As she flew, she could see thousands of Men rushing towards the slaughter where more of their comrades had been killed in a single day than ever before in the North. To the southeast, she could see the last of their forces escaping into the safety of the forest with more horses and weapons than they had ever dreamed of capturing with such limited losses. But, to the north, she saw something she did not expect. A massive force, far larger than the force that had been left to capture Fort Hope, was approaching, blanketing the plains lake a herd of buffalo. The forces from Therucilin. She spotted Ignatius flying in behind her after guiding the Centaurs away to the open plains and, too tired to think of what to do next, followed him towards the edge of the forest.

  Katana settled into the branches on the edge of the forest next to Kaizen. Her bleeding had slowed but Sage could see she was more tired than she had ever been. Sage could feel the burden of the battle, and she noticed a deep gash running down her arm and couldn’t remember when she had received it. She stood, leaning against her griffin, holding the wound and looking out onto the plains. For a moment she took in the gathering Southlanders where they were assembling just a few miles out onto the prairie. They blocked out the view of the battle, and the Nymph felt as if their victory was worthless. So many. Another tear streaked down her cheek as she remembered Wotan, his death sticking out amongst all the others. For a moment, she felt as if she would begin sobbing, hopeless in the face of a future filled with endless days like this one. But then, just when she felt she couldn’t hold it back any longer, he was there. She felt his arms around her, pulling her in so that they faced the sight of their enemies as well as their memories together.

  “You did well,” he said. She nodded, his presence helping to hold back the tears and he moved to bandage her arm with a strip of cloth from his saddlebag. “Together,” he added, “we fought them together.”

  They moved as one, carefully lowering the Nymph to the forest floor and passing her into the care of the escaping warriors. The last of them were just now making it out of the exposed plains into the forest that had been so carefully prepared to keep them safe during the coming invasion. The Riders watched them for a moment, then moved to collect food for their griffins and to attend to their wounds. Finally, after more than an hour of work, they sat together, cleaning their weapons and eating dried fish and apples. Rondo appeared with a bottle of apple brandy and soon Onidas was there as well.

  They did not discuss the battle, it was too soon, but instead watched the gathering forces, tens of thousands more soldiers than had stayed behind to take Fort Hope. The sun was setting and their cook fires looked like lightening bugs, flickering and covering the plains as the sun went down behind them. Sage enjoyed the brandy, laughing at the ruggedly handsome and easy going Rondo and smiling to herself when Ignatius pulled her close, a pinch of jealousy coming through in his tired smile.

  After a time, the relaxing Riders heard a voice behind them in the trees. “I should have known I would find Riders here, drinking while a war is on.”

  The Riders turned in surprise to find Oberon there, flanked by Strato. The war chief of the Cherubim stood stoically, looking out at what he had wrought on the plains. Sage felt Ignatius squeeze her shoulder and she moved her head from his lap so he could get up and greet his brethren. She leaned back against the comfort of he griffin, nestling into the feathers to watch the Cherubim shake each others’ arms.

  “Therucilin?” asked Ignatius.

  “As planned,” answered Oberon, pulling the Rider in for a hug.

  “You must have provoked him.”

  Oberon nodded.

  “And who exactly is him?” asked Rondo.

  “King Vespasian.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” said Onidas, his black eyes already disappearing in the failing light. “Tough fighter in some war or another down South they say.”

  “Listen,” said Ignatius with uncharacteristic impatience. “I have it, a third way.”

  The all looked at the Cherub, Oberon especially, wondering what it could be that caused the excited anxiety in his voice.

  “You know the koona,” he said, asking the chief.

  Oberon shook his head in the affirmative, looking for the first time at the ignored female in the group. “They are of the Nymphs.”

  “Yes,” answered Ignatius. “They survive the winter in the kudzu pods. But in the South there is no winter.”

  The others looked confused but Sage could already see his meaning. To the Nymphs, stories of the past tragedies of the koona were common. Every youth had heard them and, as a result, took their duties seriously. They hunted the glowing beetles with their birds in the summer, and were careful to control the pods created by each clan’s kudzu. Sage knew that, without winter to drive them into their kudzu pods and kill off the majority of the population, the koona would be worse than locusts, devouring entire forests as they had once done in the North before winter stopped them. Without winter, there would be no stopping them.

  “The koona would destroy the South’s crops, all of them, forever,” said Ignatius. “Without crops, there would be no armies to send north.”

  Oberon feel quiet, pondering the idea. After a moment he spoke, not in sentences, but in imaged futures. “Famine. Starvation.”

  “An end to it,” said Ignatius.

  “There is no word for it in Dwarvish,” said Onidas quietly.

  Sage tried to conceive of it. Flying south on their griffins, dispersing kudzu pods with koona inside. When they sensed winter was over, they would emerge into a strange land, an invasive species. Just as the Southlanders are an invasive species. She thought for a moment about Ignatius’ deal with Taragon, the griffins for the kudzu. The koona are of the Nymphs, this is not for him to decide. She felt betrayed, preferring the image of Ignatius as a warrior, not a leader, not one who made decisions to kill when he wouldn’t be there to accept responsibility.

  “No,” said Oberon. “This is not a third way, this is Donus’ way. This is more violence, beating fire with fire.”

  Sage couldn’t see Ignatius’ face, but she could see the tension in his shoulders. She could see Rondo’s youthful face stretched uncharacteristically tight as he looked at his fellow Rider and she could read Ignatius’ face through Rondo’s. The rage. Finally he spoke.


  “We must,” said Ignatius, pointing out at the army that had gathered on the edge of the forest. “You cannot win by killing this army. We must kill them all.”

  “No,” said Oberon, anger slipping into his own normally reasonable voice. “You disobeyed me to move Albedo to Fort Hope, and he tells me what you did to the Southland commanders there. You dishonor your people as you dishonored them taking Therucilin. Those shames can be washed with time, understood with circumstances, but this, there is no word for this and if we are to survive, our children will not live in a world where we did this.”

  Sage could see Oberon’s hands balling into fists, his wings spreading instinctually as he gave his command. She saw Ignatius quivering on the edge of rebellion, of instinct, of becoming a renegade who would subject himself to no one and nothing. A father must be capable of listening. Then she felt it snap, and he was calming. She saw the back of his shoulders move ever so slightly as he breathed in the calmness of life, and exhaled his fury.

  “Think on it.”

  Oberon nodded, sensing the acceptance in Ignatius’ tone and stance. Sage wondered what Ignatius had done to the commanders, too scared to guess what it could have been. For a moment, there was an awkward silence, then Ignatius broke it by asking Oberon of his plans.

  “The Caipora?”

  “Yes.”

  “So,” said Ignatius, turning and smiling his sad smile at her so that she knew he wanted to put her at ease. “So, your weakness has turned to strength?”