The Yeti’s sword came down like an avalanche and Oberon could only raise his own meager blade to keep it from severing him in two. The force of the attack drove him down towards the snow-covered forest floor just as a gleaming metallic force smashed through the three Men and tackled the Yeti with a terrifying crash. Oberon hit the earth hard, the thunder of Atlas and the Yeti echoing in his stunned head. For a moment he was back in the Northmen’s forest, reliving a fall he had taken escaping from Ryogen. He tried to rise to his knees, groping for his sword, sensing wounded enemies nearby as his mind drifted back and forth between an enchanted forest many miles away and the present reality.
Through his clearing vision he could came to see flashes of Atlas, flames dancing on him as he dueled the Yeti among the trees. Their swords and size were elemental, rocking the earth as a legend of the North pitted himself against a legend of the South. To Oberon’s clouded vision, Parfey had returned. He saw the fabled Pathmaker and his son as one, joined across time by battle and belief. The image of the two titans seared itself in his mind, the white fur and armor plating of the Yeti, Atlas moving as if the knight’s heavy armor he wore were air.
Flaming arrows, Nymphs, and Southlanders danced around the dueling pair as they traded blows, but Oberon forced himself to look away. Drawing his tomahawks, he turned to face the three Men who had fallen around him. They were as dazed as he was, and he killed one whose legs had been snapped at horrific angles, watching himself as the tomahawks punched into the man in slow motion. He parried a sword stroke from the second man with one of his tomahawks, then swept the pointed backend of the other blade into the Man’s leg to knock him to the ground. He fell on top of the wounded soldier, striking out at the third with his wings. The Man beneath him fought with the desperation of a cornered badger, lashing out with his hands and bucking to dislodge the Cherub that would surely kill him in the next breath.
Somewhere in Oberon’s mind, he remembered the old ways, the fights on the beach at Devil’s Lake, his training. He sat up, his knees sliding into the Man’s armpits, his hand pushing into his enemy’s chin. Then, he was dropping his entire body weight into his elbow as his hand slid off the Southlander’s face and up over his own shoulder. The elbow smashed into the Man’s jaw and he felt the cracking of the break rather than hearing it.
A sword swept over his back as the final warrior attacked over the flattened Cherubim. Oberon drew his dagger from across his body with the numb arm that had just knocked out the Man. Jumping to his feet, he held the knife over his shoulder, just next to his ear so that the blade pointed out of the bottom of his fist. The Man was there, and Oberon began to stab at his face, over and over, with rapid downward strikes. They came in such rapid succession, driven with the full power of the chief’s triceps, that the soldier’s arms, cheeks, eyes, and throat were punctured several times before he finally fell back into the snow.
Picking up his tomahawk, Oberon turned to finish the Man whose jaw he had broken, the horrifying scene now beginning to register as the Cherub returned to his full faculties. He smashed the Man’s throat with the hatchet like weapon, watching as the final shuddering breath of the warrior escaped unnaturally through his bloody neck. He looked up to where Atlas knelt over the body of the Yeti, his sword standing upright where it was buried in the warrior’s chest. The Giant flipped open his visor and Oberon could see the Pathmaker’s panting matched his own. How could I forget there were Yeti? The soldiers had concealed them in the event of an ambush, and he kicked himself for overcommitting his forces to this attack.
At the instant he realized his mistake a second Yeti emerged through the flaming forest. He was flanked by a score of soldiers, their shields and armor creating a foreboding defense. Atlas rose to his feet along with Oberon and the pair prepared to make a stand against these fresh, coordinated Southlanders. As the warriors began to fan out, preparing to finish off the berserkers who had stormed into their camp, a massive shape rocketed through the trees. Ignatius. Oberon knew it could have been any of the Riders, but his gut told him who it must be.
Kaizen’s armored form barreled into the Yeti, talons piercing through leather armor while the hooked spike that adorned his helmet drove itself straight into the warrior’s skull. The force of the blow sent Yeti and Griffin tumbling into the darkness and in their place, Oberon saw his brother in arms landing among the soldiers. He held Donus’ spear and his face was painted black.
Oberon didn’t take the time to find his sword but charged, the dagger still held pointing out of the bottom of one hand and the tomahawk in the other. As they closed with the soldiers, he could see Kaizen’s blood covered form gliding towards where Ignatius was spinning his spear, stabbing ruthlessly at the Men who surrounded him. The Griffin had become more fearless as he adapted to the armor plating that protected his vulnerable sides, back, and legs. The Nymph forged plates were elegantly molded, covering the animal so that he could move effortlessly. Like the soldiers, the war chief couldn’t help but feel his eyes moving to the tail. It was wrapped in studded leather and, at the end, a spiked ball of steel could be seen whipping back and forth. Kaizen tore into the Men, his spear tipped beak and war club of a tail pulverizing the warriors that stood between him and his Rider.
Oberon knocked down one warrior, then threw his dagger into the neck of a soldier that was bravely confronting Ignatius. When Atlas sweeping sword and Kaizen’s deadly armor had silenced the resistance and he found himself with Ignatius. He looked into the warrior’s green eyes that stared out from the blackness of his face, taking in the griffin claw marks that ran up over his eye and the jagged scar on his forehead. For a moment, he could see Donus there, the violence, the uncompromising nature. Tonight, we need Donus. Then, Ignatius was nodding to him, and he knew that, in addition to the blood born rage of their fathers, they shared something that Donus did not have. He sees the third way.
Wordlessly, they moved through the camp, Blood Born warriors flanked by armored griffins and their Riders, a Giant knight, and Nymphs in the trees shooting poison at their enemies. Resistance crumbled in the face of such a force, and Oberon could feel fear breaking the willingness of the soldiers despite their greater numbers. They broke and ran, screams echoing in the night as Dwarves guided the Northerners in to slaughter the fleeing soldiers. Kill them all. The war chief didn’t need to give the command; his forces knew that there could be no prisoners when the battle was fought this close to home. There was nowhere to take them, no one to guard them. He regretted the harshness he had shown Ignatius over killing the soldiers that surrendered at Therucilin, regretted there could be no mercy for the Men who begged at the feet of his warriors. He knew he would remember the faces, the feel of his weapons chopping through outstretched, pleading arms, but he refused to let his forces descend into the slaughter without him. After a time, a silence fell over the forest, and he knew it was over.
He felt the same sickness in his guts that he had felt in his first battle with the Centaurs. The slaughter, the killing, the ending of life, he could see other’s points of view too strongly to be a ruthless warrior. Ignatius flew with him as he went away into the woods where their forces would not see their chief vomit. When his stomach was empty, Oberon looked up from the branch where they stood and saw the stars through the barren branches. The fires and bodies and stench and moans of their wounded seemed far away, back through the timeless trees.
“You took a nasty blow,” said Ignatius.
Oberon looked over at the Cherub and saw he was looking at the stars as well.
“You know it wasn’t the blow.”
Ignatius nodded without looking away from the sky.
“I don’t want us to be like this,” whispered the chief.
Ignatius sighed. “And that is why you are a good chief. You do what is necessary, you search for a better way, you believe we can be more.”
Oberon looked back at the stars and sighed himself. He felt love for Ignatius then, and he knew that somehow, through t
he killing and suffering and decisions, a bond was forming between them that only warriors knew. We could die at any hour. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Instead, he reached back and plucked a grey feather from his wings and handed it to his brother. Ignatius took the gift and reached up to add it to his hair, then reached back to pull a golden feather of his own and hand it back in exchange.
“There is some Oberon in you,” said the chief.
“And some Donus in you,” said Ignatius.
“Perhaps, but I think there is some Ignatius now as well.”
Ignatius laughed. “I’m part Oberon, Donus, and Ignatius, that’s a lot of Cherub for Sage to handle.”
Oberon laughed back. “Yes, all Caldera gets is Oberon. It makes me feel inadequate.”
They sat in silence for a moment and Oberon’s mind drifted back to the eyes of the Men he had killed, to the fear he had seen there, and the pain it caused him in return. They are the same as us. He realized that Southlanders were beings as much as Northmen, and if Centaurs could be allies, he had to prove to Ignatius there could be a third way even with the South.
“You can’t do it.”
“Do what?”
“The koona. You can’t unleash that on the South.”
Ignatius looked back at him through the darkness. It was too dark for Oberon to see his eyes or even his face, too dark to tell if the emotion that was written there was understanding or defiance.
“You are chief my brother.”
Oberon accepted the answer, trusting that their bond would keep Ignatius from unleashing the weapon that would bring more suffering to the South than any of the Northern tribes had ever imagined. Shivering, the chief looked to the sky to see why the stars, stars that had been there moments before, had failed to illuminate Ignatius face. Then he felt the cold, and the first stirrings of wind.
“Snow,” said the Blood Born together.
Oberon had never felt such joy, such relief to know that the great blizzards that buried his homeland this time of year had finally arrived. They moved together back towards their forces, darting and gliding through the trees as the first flurries began to descend on the forest.
Chapter 24
T he night was pitch black and the storm was closing in, but Ignatius trusted Kaizen knew the way home. For the Cherub, for all of the Riders, the griffins had become family, as bonded as if they had been born and raised in the same tribe. It was a bond that was defined by trust, and that trust was built through patient consistency. Now, with a flock of Riders streaming behind him like geese, Ignatius relied on that bond to get them home. He couldn’t see the others there, Sage, Onidas, Stratera, Rondo, Calma, but he knew from his steed’s posture that Kaizen could sense them and that was enough.
They had been flying through the night, racing the storm away from the attack on the lost squadron of Southlanders to make it back to the castle before the snow made travel impossible. Tucked in tight, Ignatius peered out from his robes from time to time, trying to get a sense of where they were in relation to the storm, in relation to the castle and the security it could provide them. In the dark, freezing confines of the saddle, he thought about the kudzu vine stables that would keep the Griffins safe, the food they had stored away there for them. He thought about the security the Angel’s castle provided the Riders themselves, away from the battle, away from enemies. Most of all he thought about the wood stove that heated the small cabin where he could be alone with Sage. The image of the two of them, curled up and cozy in front of the wood stove, safe and warm and fed, stuck in his mind for a moment as he coursed through the winter sky.
Normally, Kaizen’s animal scent mingled with the smells of leather and kudzu vines that emanated from the saddle to relax the Cherub as they flew through the fresh air. Now, however, the fresh and wholesome scents of flying were overtaken by the stench of war that had permeated his clothing. Bits of guts still clung to his vest, and blood had drenched his pants causing them to turn crusted as the liquid clotted and froze. The smell of it and the cold that was sinking into his bones brought out a fear in his stomach that hadn’t been there in the heat of battle. The cold, the storm, the night, the way home. Things that never scared the Cherub before suddenly paralyzed him with anxiety as his mind considered what would happen if the Riders became lost, separated, stranded during the storm. Even though he knew that any one of them could build a shelter, start a fire, and weather the storm, something about the battle, the battles, was pushing anxiety into his mind where it had never lived before.
Flying on, the pain of anxiety mingling with the pain of the cold caused a sort of desperate panic to form in Ignatius’ heart. He tried to fight it as Donus would, loosing his blood born rage in an attempt to drown it out. This brought his anger to the surface, anger at the South for invading his homeland, anger at Oberon for telling him not to take the koona South, and even anger at his comrades for forcing him to lead when all he wanted was peace. The rage burned for a time, but as the miles wore on and exhaustion overtook his mind, he was forced to let go. In letting go he began to feel himself sinking back into the pain of memory, thinking of Wotan, Parfey, and Donus. Augustine. The thought of his father pushed his mind to awareness and he remembered that the Riders were counting on him to be the warrior, the leader that did not despair.
Resolving that he would make his father proud, he tried to think how he could tackle his anxiety, the pain and fear that threatened to steal his ability to act. Too tired to fight, he let go once again, remembering the clarity and peace he had achieved meditating near the mountain lake, remembering the contentment. This time, rather than letting go of his fight against his pain, he let go of the idea that he had to fight it. It’s alright. Ignatius suddenly realized that he could be content in pain, that fighting his pain, labeling it as an enemy, would never free his mind. He breathed in, acknowledging the killing, the death, the cold, the uncertainty, and exhaled, simply aware that his world had become very hard. The idea that his anxiety simply, was, relieved his burden and his mind began to clear.
After a time, he felt Kaizen banking, changing the course that the griffin could somehow detect even through the night. Ignatius peered out, seeing only dark rays of snow arching past as they flew into the first wall of the storm. Then, he saw a light in the distance, floating in black space like a single star in the night sky. He knew it was the signal fire set atop the Angel’s wall, guiding them home. He resolved to spend more time working to clear his mind so that he wouldn’t transfer his own pain to those around him, so that he could continue to be a light guiding the Riders and the people of the North.
Bennu and Fleuron were there to help them as they landed behind the castle. Orion, a young Northman picked by Ryogen to represent Men among the Riders, was there as well, working to get the griffins into the shelters that Calma had built using kudzu growth that summer. Nymo, Andiamo, and Sabu, the three youngest griffins, jumped around their feet in excitement to greet the rest of the pack. Ignatius checked each of his Riders over, looking for wounds or signs of frostbite and sensing their desire to, first and foremost, care for their precious steeds. With frozen fingers and still bleeding wounds, the Nymphs, Cherubim, Dwarf, and Human worked to unsaddle, brush, and dry their comrades. Removing the plated armor from Kaizen, Katana, and Saguaro, Calma’s Griffin, was a tortuously slow project for the frozen forces.
Ignatius looked over the griffin’s wounds and sensed that the animals were exhausted. They had pushed them to their limit, lifting forces up and over the mountains to save Fort Hope, stampeding the Southlanders herd, providing constant reconnaissance of the forest. Too much. They were too tired to eat the meat Orion had laid out in their cave-like stables, instead collapsing into the straw bedding there where they would sleep in warmth and safety through the storm. Ignatius began to worry about how much they would eat when they woke, wondering if they had enough meat to keep them fed through the winter. Horses. He knew there would be plenty of meat from enemy animals, and,
watching Kaizen and Katana curl up with Nymo tucked in under their wings, he finally allowed Sage to pull him away.
Ignatius was too exhausted to react to her wounds. A slice running down her back had been bandaged but blood was still turning the back of her torn jerkin red. He followed her through the swirling storm, unable to see more than a few feet as the blizzard raged around them. They followed a well-worn trail, through the snow up into the alpine meadow that stretched behind the castle. Instinct told them when to turn, both of them too far gone to wonder what would happen if they missed the cabin and stumbled out into the white wilderness of the mountains.
Sage ran into the wall of the one room cabin where Erithea and Augustine had raised Ignatius. Together they fumbled for the latch until Sequoia’s calm hands appeared, opening the door for the pair of warriors. Ignatius looked at the Cherub, realizing for the first time that he had come to make sure they made it home, some part of his subconscious recognizing the care and practicality inherent in the gesture.
“Your words…” started Ignatius, trying to tell Sequoia about the talking bark just a step away from an end to his painful journey.
“Tomorrow,” answered the Cherub with a smile, pushing Ignatius into the cabin behind the Nymph Rider.
Ignatius felt the door seal behind him, shutting out the wind and raging storm. He heard Sage dropping onto the bed, could hear her shivering. For her, a little more. He summed the last bit of his strength and felt his way through the darkness. His numb hands found kindling and pulled his flint from the pouch on his belt. He knelt before the stove, unable to feel the hard wood planking beneath his knees. The Cherub blew into his hands, forcing enough warmth into them to strike the tinder he had left in the fireplace before he had left the mountain to go to war. So mindful. The sparks fell from his clumsy hands, catching in the dry nest and lighting up the interior of the fireplace. He reached down, picking up dry sticks and piling them onto the glowing nest, then leaned forward and breathed life into the life-giving newborn of a fire.
Last Stand of the Blood Land Page 47