Last Stand of the Blood Land

by Andrew Carpenter

  “And,” shouted Rondo as he jumped onto the table, spreading his wings so they flickered in flame. “To the South. May they learn to quit quickly!”

  They drank and laughed, following the light-hearted Cherub into the freedom of those who knew their time was limited. Ignatius smiled and sat, pulling Sage’s chair over closer to his, smelling the honey in his cup, the forest in her aura. She reached out to run her fingers through his hair, slugging a long draught from her cup. They watched the others as the young warriors got drunk, wrestled, and told stories. The Riders spoke with the Nymphs about the future, about words on bark, about a free North guided by griffins in the sky. Ignatius was content more so than ever before, surrounded by ideas he had made real, by family, his mate, the griffins safe in their stables, and warriors that would follow him into any battle. He made peace with what he knew they would do, the slaughter that would come and the decision about the koona that had been made for him. The storm raged on, but, for a time, as he enjoyed food and the fire and his comrades, the storm within was quiet.

  The sense of power was overwhelming. Ignatius was mounted on Kaizen with the winter sun beating down from a bluebird sky to shine off the griffin’s silver armor. Arrayed before them on the wall that overhung a waterfall were ten griffins, their Riders making last minute preparations to their weapons, riding robes, and the armor that adorned their steeds. When he was younger, Ignatius had felt the need to reach up and endlessly check his weapons before heading into battle, and he could see Bennu and Fleuron doing just that. He smiled, realizing that he couldn’t feel the black bladed katanas on his back, the daggers in his belt. I would notice if they were missing, not if they were here. He thought for a moment about the saddle bags, stuffed with arrows and blankets but very little food. We will feast on theirs.

  With one last look back at Orion, Maraki, Sequoia and the Nymphs who would remain behind to care for the eggs, he turned to look out over the waterfall towards the snow drenched forest and plains. He could feel the rumbling water dropping away through the head of a lion and he remembered how much the world had changed since he had first been summoned to the Angel’s castle. We have taken control. He thought for a moment about the kudzu pods he had taken from their stores, koona tucked inside where they would wait out the winter, emerging to breed and feast in the spring. They, more than his weapons or his griffin or his fellow Riders or even the Blood Born, they represented power. A choice is power.

  “BRRAAAAAAAAGGGRRRAAAAAAAAAA!”

  He shouted it at the South with the power of winter, and the others joined him. Kaizen screamed, his eagle cry blending in with the cries of their little band of warriors to shake the earth. Further up in the mountains an avalanche dislodged to send thunder echoing around them while the great griffins unfurled their wings and launched themselves into the air. Calma’s golden eagle and Sage’s kestrel flew with them, and the flock rocketed out over the falls into the clear, dry air. Kaizen led the way, banking South along the river so that the Riders could take in their base. The waterfall, the wall, and the castle looked uniformly white where the great storm had buried the towers and turrets. Behind them, the cabins and the pagodas looked like features of the landscape, buried relics of a forgotten summer. The younger griffins had to be held back by their Riders and Ignatius knew that the Riders longed to join them as much as the animals. Not because they want to go to war, but because they can’t bare for us to suffer without them.

  Then the cold wind forced him to slip himself deeper into his robes. He tucked his face flat against Kaizen’s shoulder, watching the frozen forest drift past far below. He could see the shadows of the other griffins there, outlined clearly against the snow. The shadows drifted across the frozen river, through the barren hardwoods, and over the snow-covered pines like ghosts. He could see that the snow was deep, deep enough to paralyze Men, to slow them until killing them was no longer a battle but a chore, like splitting firewood. Justice for the invaders.

  Rested, fed, and confident, the flight North towards the incursion was less difficult than their flight had been during the storm. Still, he remembered the anxiety, the fears that the years and the war had infected him with. The Cherub knew that the pain would return, but he was thankful that now, spotting the line that the South had carved into the forest, he felt at peace with what was coming.

  Thousands of feet up, the Riders could see the road that the Men had cut into the forest. Through sheer will power, they had fought their way past ambushes, traps, and unforgiving terrain, clearing trees and building forts along the way. The road provided a clear section of forest where supplies could be transferred to the front and ambushes were more difficult. Here, in the cleared path, the phalanxes had been more effective, the camps more defensible. From the air, it was clear that the scouting of the Caipora had told the South exactly the direction of Devil’s Lake, and their road had cut a surprisingly straight and long path towards the sanctuary of the Giants, Cherubim, and beyond, the homeland of the Nymphs. But now, with the forest tucked in under a deep blanket of snow, every inch of ground the South had taken was another step towards their own doom. The Riders circled, watching the Men as they struggled to dig out their shelters with their swords, barely able to move without snow shoes, furs, or shovels. Several miles to the east, a supply train could be seen entering the forest carrying those supplies. It was completely bogged down, stopped by banks of snow on all sides.

  To the south and north, flocks of Cherubim could be seen gliding effortlessly through the trees, searching for these helpless targets. Taragon’s forces approached on snowshoes and reindeer pulled sleighs from the southwest, and Dwarves could be seen clearing the walkways the ran through the trees. Ignatius signaled his Riders to move down towards their forces, to guide them in to eviscerate the forts and makeshift shelters that would become tombs for the helpless Men. Rondo, Fleuron, and Bennu banked east towards the supply train, following Ignatius as Kaizen dove down towards the paralyzed target.

  He could see them moving among the stalled wagons like ants stuck in honey. They seemed to flail incoherently, inching away from the wagons in all directions. With the forest getting larger, he realized what was happening. They are running. The thought sent a shiver down his spine. The idea that these battle-hardened warriors, veterans of so many campaigns, could turn tail and run at the sight of the Riders was stunning. The Cherub considered the thought while Kaizen tilted his wings to target a rider who had unhitched one of the floundering horses. He knew these Men had concurred the world with the discipline of their phalanxes, he knew that the South had knowledge and inventions so wondrous that they thought of the Northerners as savages. And yet, here they are.

  Ignatius separated from Kaizen at the last moment, using the momentum of the dive to glide up and over the wagons while his griffin mangled the horse and rider where they were trying to escape into the woods. He didn’t see the attack, but he heard the horse scream a terrifying, high pitched sound that told him the animal knew what was coming before it died. With the sound of the horse in his ears, the Cherub plunged over the wagon and glided swiftly towards the edge of the cleared road. Donus’ spear buried itself in the back of one Man, and Ignatius twisted off, wrenching the spear free. He bounded off a tree trunk and smashed the metal encased butt of the spear down into another Man’s head. He landed next to the Man’s twitching body, watching as the Southlander tried to raise up to defend himself. Blood trickled down his face, and Ignatius could see that he was buried in snow that was deeper than his waist. He had only been able to ford through the drifts for a few yards, making terribly slow progress. Ignatius, using his wings, was able to land on top of the snow and look down at the round face and young, brown eyes of the soldier. Without hesitation, he buried the spear point into the Man’s chest, watching as blood gushed from the wound into the white snow.

  Looking up, he saw dozens of Men fighting their way into the trees. Fighting the snow, not us. Rondo and Bennu were among them, dancing across the sn
ow with ease and dispatching the soldiers mercilessly. Fleuron stood atop one of the wagons, his arrows moving even more easily through the barren branches to take the slow-moving Men in the back. Ignatius saw Paladin and Kaizen gliding through the trees, their club tails pounding down, their talons piercing, and the sight of the slaughter stilled his heart. I remember. He could remember the Blood Born rage, the sense of violent, justified vengeance that this moment would have filled him with had he been in this moment only a year earlier. Here were his enemies, invaders, just miles from his home. Enemies that had killed his people, had pitted Northman against Northman, had enslaved the Giants, had tricked him into fighting the Centaurs. These were a people that had slaughtered the Elves, who had conquered tribe after tribe, who would stop not even with the Mere-People with their oppression. And now, in this remote corner of the world, they were at his mercy. If ever there was a time for the exercising of the rage he had inherited from his fathers, it was now. And still, there is no pleasure in it, not as I imagined it.

  He flew through the forest, dispatching the drowning soldiers one by one as easily as if he were spearing apples off a tree. With the spear and his ease of mobility, he was unstoppable. Oberon imagined this. He thought of the Cherub, always taking the high road, shunning violence, searching for a third way, and laughed. Only a non-violent being could be patient enough to make this much violence real. He realized his laughter was monstrous as he came upon the last soldier and he knew that he was the terror that could break even the most hardened of warriors. I am what my children must never become. I have become it not to preserve what we are, but so that they may be different.

  The recognition of what he was filled his consciousness until some corner of his mind heard the Man begging. Ignatius looked away from the soldier’s chest and saw that the Soldier’s limbs were shaking, his eyes wild. The Man was soaked with sweat, and Ignatius knew that hypothermia would kill the Southlander even if he stayed his own blade.

  “Mercy,” stammered the soldier, “I am a being just like you.”

  Ignatius listened to the calmness of the forest, the simplicity of the trees. He knew it was just that these Men should die, but he was no longer attached to the good or evil of it. There was no doubt in his spear as he thrust it through the eye socket, no remorse as he gave the mercy the warrior had requested. He turned back to his comrades, walking across the surface of the snow, his heart and wings beating softly to keep him from falling through.

  He reached the others and saw that they were more excited, more battle drunk on the ease of the slaughter than he was. In that moment he could see why Oberon had chosen Albedo and Strato to lead. Some warriors revel in it. It was the same reason the elders had chosen Oberon over himself. Albedo and Strato, like Oberon, were fine warriors, brave and trustworthy, but they were nowhere near as fine of killers as Rondo or Fleuron and Bennu, as Donus. I’ve changed. He watched Rondo’s face as he broke into the supplies contained in the wagons, watched the excitement in Bennu’s wings as he broke open crates of snowshoes and blankets and he struggled not to judge the warriors he had, only months before, wished he had more of. I was like them not so long ago.

  The griffins feasted on horseflesh while the Cherubim built a fire from the wagons. They pilfered frozen buffalo steaks and stuffed the sacks of their saddlebags with unknown liquor bottles and the finest fur blankets they could find. Settling back on a fur where he could feel the heat of the fire, Ignatius tried to savor the moment. The others were quiet, unaccustomed to such an easy battle and taking such savory spoils. Before they had finished eating, Stratera and Sage arrived, their steeds kicking up a dusting of snow when they landed next to the wagons. They joined the fire, snatching up food and Ignatius could see from the blood on their weapons that things had gone similarly for them.

  “It was a slaughter,” said Stratera, her blue eyes twinkling to show Ignatius that she hadn’t been repulsed by the violence.

  “It took Oberon hours to collect the heads,” said Sage with a tired edge that told Ignatius she was stressed. “We guided him and Taragon here.”

  “Heads?” asked Ignatius, pulling Sage close and kissing her brown cheek.

  As if to answer the question, the sound of runners gliding across the snow heralded the approach of Taragon’s sleigh. It was pulled by a team of caribou, their great horned heads bobbing as they pulled the Nymph chieftain up to the wagons.

  “Don’t get up,” said the Nymph, his unbraided hair drifting elegantly down his shoulders. “You have bodies?”

  Ignatius was confused for a moment, then he saw three more sleighs pull up. Oberon sat in the front, a pile of heads filling the wagon behind him. Nymphs were jumping out into the snow, following the tracks to the bodies of the Men the Riders had killed.

  “Maybe forty,” said Rondo.

  “But tons of supplies,” said Fleuron quickly.

  “We need the heads more than the supplies,” answered Oberon quietly as he stepped over to the fire. “Vespasian won’t listen to missing supplies.”

  Ignatius saw Oberon in a new light, saw the pain in his old friend’s eyes. The light had gone out of his once bright blue eyes. The violence was hard on him, and yet here he was, collecting heads. Ignatius got up, squeezing Sage’s arm as he stepped to the war chief. He reached out his arm and grasped Oberon’s bracer, pulling him in close.

  “We will get them all for you.”

  Oberon looked him in the eye. “Maybe it won’t take all of them.”

  Ignatius was confused by the comment. He could sense the pain in Oberon at the slaughter his plans were inflicting, even on an enemy. Even so, Ignatius had always thought Oberon’s plan was to kill all of the soldiers they could.

  “You cannot win by killing this army,” said Oberon, sensing the confusion in Ignatius glare. “You said those words and concluded that ‘We must kill them all.’”

  Ignatius remembered his own words, nodding in recognition that Oberon had been listening.

  “But,” continued Oberon, “we cannot win by becoming them. We must give them a reason to take the third path.”

  Ignatius knew then Oberon considering using the koona to be akin to becoming a monster to defeat a monster. He also knew, that here, with the South finally at their mercy, Oberon would negotiate. The Blood Born rage was there again, coming upon Ignatius as suddenly as an arrow in the heart.

  “You will reason with them?” snarled Ignatius, his hand white on the dagger in his belt.

  “They will listen to these,” said Oberon, pointing to the seeping pile of tortured faces.

  Ignatius knew then that he would have to kill Oberon. He is unwilling. Ignatius could see it as clear as he had ever seen anything. Mercy for Vespasian’s soldiers, the Northlanders allowing them to withdraw in return for Fort Hope, Therucilin, an agreement to trade with the South. And then, come Spring, Vespasian would return, breaking his promise as simply as Ignatius slipping his dagger into Oberon’s neck.

  The blade was in his hand, leaping out of the sheath, and he could feel the cobra speed of the Nymphs sending it up and out. His mind was clear, as clear as it had been when he had killed Donus, and now he knew that only Ignatius could lead his tribe to freedom. Donus had been too violent to turn dreams into reality, Oberon too weak to live the reality he had dreamed into existence. Only he, himself, could walk between these two extremes, could bring balance to a North that would spawn a new generation, a better generation.

  He killed Oberon there, stabbing the warrior in his heart. Then, somehow, it wasn’t so. Ignatius came back to the world of the living to see Sage’s hand on his arm, Archeo on her leather wrapped arm, and that beautiful, knowing face breathing for him as her smile shook him back from the anger that was his birthright. He stared at her freckled features, the high curve of her cheeks, her ears pointing out through bloody blond hair. He breathed in the sight of her, trusting in her, and then Oberon was turning away, moving off into the woods to do the dirty work of collecting his reasons.
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br />   “It’s alright,” she said.

  Ignatius nodded, drifting, allowing Sage to pull him back down onto the bearskin.

  “We will deliver this load to Vespasian,” Taragon was explaining, “and if he will listen, so be it. If not, we will move down to wipe out another fort, there are still tens of thousands of them strung out down into the forest.”

  Ignatius understood that if the South would not agree to Oberon’s terms, Oberon would bring them another load of heads. The patience, the resolve of the logic struck him as exceptionally foolish. Why not just take them all the heads so they know the cost of sending an army North? Perhaps, he reasoned, Oberon sensed that the South would not, could not, accept a defeat. But if they cannot accept a defeat, how can they accept terms?

  He sat with the others, listening to Stratera tell of how easily the Nymphs’ blowguns had taken out the Men stationed at the forts, how Strato and Albedo’s forces had cut through those that hid within the log homes and barricades the soldiers had constructed. Sage spoke of how fire had been used to drive their enemies out into the snow where they could be butchered from the trees and Ignatius wished she didn’t have those memories. It was clear that the Southlanders were starving, freezing, disoriented, and wholly incapable of surviving the winter, let alone putting up resistance.

  “Will they try to withdraw?” he asked, finally calming down from his mental killing of Oberon.

  “No,” answered Sage quietly as she lay back in his arms. “The snows are too deep, they are too terrified to leave their camps. Thy are waiting for Vespasian to save them.”

  “We just wiped out the only help Vespasian sent,” said Bennu, his curly brown hair getting in his eyes as he pulled another piece from the wagon and added it to the fire.

  They continued the morbid feast until evening, making small talk and cleaning their weapons. The waiting was normal for Ignatius, a trying part of war, and he slipped back into contentment as the calmness that had pervaded his consciousness in the past days seeped back into his soul. If Oberon makes his deal, I still have choices. I can be part of this tribe, I don’t have to be alone like Donus.