Last Stand of the Blood Land

by Andrew Carpenter

  Oberon and Taragon returned after dark when all save Ignatius had fallen asleep. He met the war chief’s eyes and saw the sad shake of his head. It was all he needed to know that Vespasian hadn’t been convinced by the heads Oberon had delivered.

  “He knows,” said Taragon. “He must know how few we are. There were tens of thousands more of them camped on the plains, preparing to fight their way in through the snow.”

  “Then our time is short,” said Ignatius.

  “Tomorrow,” said Oberon.

  Ignatius nodded, thinking that Vespasian would be a fool to send more forces into the forest when another blizzard could take them just as easily.

  “Tomorrow,” said Ignatius.

  And with that they rested while Taragon’s Nymphs loaded the supplies from the wagons into their sleighs and set up a watch. Oberon lay down next to his brother and Ignatius remembered their bond, remembered the koona before pulling Sage closer under the bearskin. He tried not to think about the butchery that was coming, and finally drifted off to sleep wondering how many heads it would take for a Man like Vespasian to listen to the reason of a savage.

  Chapter 25

  I gnatius sat in the crook of a gnarled old birch, watching the plains. He could see the soft earth peeking through the melting snow and the sight made him feel vulnerable. That winter, the snow had made the Cherubim invincible and now it was nearly gone. Sage sat in the branches behind him and her presence was comforting. Together, they were watching for the Southlanders who, if they honored their agreement with Oberon, would be leaving Therucilin and heading back to Galatia. If.

  Ignatius was hopeful that the deal Vespasian had struck with Oberon would stand. He wanted to believe that, facing the loss of tens of thousands of his Men, Vespasian had turned to Oberon knowing the war chief was reasonable. Still, looking out towards the barren plains, he remembered how many heads he had hacked from bodies that winter, and how Vespasian had refused to meet with Oberon past any reasonable number of losses. Only when the heads piled at the edge of the forest had started to reach the branches had the Southland king relented. That is not reasonable. And so, watching for confirmation that, despite all he knew, the South could be trusted, Ignatius wondered what he would do if Oberon’s third way failed.

  “There,” said Sage.

  He looked at the Nymph’s outstretched arm, remembering a winter spent trying to forget the slaughter while warped in those supple limbs. Following the line of her blowgun, he tried to see what it was that she had spotted. Staring off towards the Canyon Lands to the northwest, he could only see the grey clouds that covered the sky and the grey, muddy plains that matched them.

  “I can’t see them either,” said the Nymph, sensing his frustration. “But look.”

  He looked up to where Archeo circled above, the little bird’s wings darting and dancing with excitement. He could sense from the way the kestrel was looking, and his urgent circling, what the raptor was trying to say.

  “Centaur,” said Ignatius, pointing with his spear away towards the east.

  Sage turned her gaze eastward in surprise. “What are they doing here?”

  As if to answer her question, the lone Centaur galloped directly towards their position. Ignatius could see he was painted for war, white spots on his black hide and face. From the way he ran and his dark coloring, he guessed this must be one of Wotan’s offspring. Knowing that Sage would move to prepare the griffins, the Cherub dropped to the ground to greet the buck, his moccasins squishing gently into the brown grass. Ignatius could see that the warrior’s antlers had already been shed, and he could tell from the weapons he carried and the blood on his arms that this Horse-Man had been fighting.

  “Ignatius.”

  “Wotan son?”

  The buck nodded, panting slightly.

  “Southlanders, moving from Therucilin.”

  “Yes,” said Ignatius, trying to understand the Centaur’s rough grasp on his language. “They should be heading east, then south.”

  “Not east. South from Therucilin,” he said, pointing southwest.

  Ignatius frowned. The Dwarven kingdoms, then the mountains, lay southwest of Therucilin. The Southlanders should not have been moving that way.

  “You learned our language from Wotan?”

  The Centaur nodded again, sensing something akin to respect in the buck’s eyes. Did Wotan speak to him of me?

  “They come, Skagen gone, Wotan gone, Skraelings gone.”

  Ignatius knew that Oberon had angered the Centaur’s greatly when he had allowed the Men of the South to evacuate the forest that winter. Their tribes had suffered for centuries, fighting and dying as generation after generation of Horse-Men attempted to remain free of the South. Their greatest leaders had worked for small victories, over Theseus, and with Oberon against Vespasian. But, that winter, with the help of the Cherubim, they had finally positioned themselves for a victory that would make a real difference. Then the Cherubim had betrayed them, had let the moment slip away. And yet, he is here to warn us.

  Sage appeared with Kaizen and Katana, landing dramatically next to Ignatius and the Centaur. Ignatius saw the Centaur’s eyes go wide at the sight of the griffins. They were resplendent in their armor.

  “We will fight,” said Ignatius.

  The Centaur nodded slightly then said, “The mountains, they come.”

  Ignatius looked back towards where the mountains jutted out towards the canyons and saw that the Southlanders Archeo had spotted were in deed moving towards the forest. They are betraying us. He could see they were heading directly for the road they had carved that winter, the road that led much of the way into the heart of his homeland. Oberon had known this was a possibility and the Riders had kept up a constant patrol. The Plainswatchers were ready to fight a delaying action so Devil’s Lake could be evacuated. They were ready for this. Ready for an attack from the plains.

  Fear settled into the Cherub as he thought about what the Centaur had said. The Southlanders went south out of Therucilin, then over the mountains? The mountain passes that protected his forest homeland were too tall for non-flying beings to come over, especially this time of year when the peaks would still be deep with snow. Weren’t they? With more questions than answers in his mind, he nodded to the Centaur and back flipped into the saddle, landing astride his constant companion. The griffin could sense his panic and spread his great wings to hurtle them skyward. Just before he took off, he asked this son of Wotan a single favor.

  “Are there enough of you to delay them?”

  “We are few, they are legion, but for Ignatius, we will try.”

  Ignatius nodded, thankful that Wotan’s heirs still remembered how he had spared their father, their chief. They climbed out over the plains and Ignatius watched the Centaur grow small as he streaked away onto the plains. Once they were in the air, his worst fears were confirmed. There they were, a small herd of Centaurs off to the east, and to the north, the phalanxes of the South were on the march. When Kaizen banked back over the forest, with Sage circling in his wake, Ignatius could see tens of thousands of Southland forces heading not south, but west towards the inroad they had blazed towards Devil’s Lake that winter. They are coming. It would have been negligent for Oberon to ignore the possibility of this betrayal and defensive positions as well soft terrain would still make it difficult for this force. But Ignatius feared they had not anticipated a second prong, and the idea that enemies could have come over the mountains, leaving the Giants and Cherubim at Devil’s Lake completely exposed, sent panic into the Cherub’s heart.

  They flew west, passing over small groups of Plainswatchers who were scrambling to delay a full-frontal assault. Whereas their efforts that winter had looked dangerously effective, the small numbers of Nymphs and female Cherubim he saw now looked dangerously sparse. Even as they killed the Southlanders by the thousands, the attrition amongst their own forces had taken its toll. An accident here, sickness there, here and there a Southlander killing a Nymp
h, a Yeti bringing down a Cherub. Ignatius watched their defenses drift past, wondering how he had let it come to this. Donus had known. Looking back, he saw the grim look of worry pressed tight across Sage’s face, and he wondered if he had fought against his blood born nature too hard.

  They flew on for a time, urging their steeds across the brief stretch of dense forest that separated the furthest reach of the Southlander’s road from the Nymph’s petrified wall. He saw the first buds of spring there, marking a new beginning, and, then, saw the fire that spelled the end for his people. Blasting over the heads of the guards who patrolled the wall that encircled the Cherubim village, Ignatius could see that the village of his tribe was burning.

  “NOOOOORRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

  The cry escaped from his lips without his knowledge. He could see flaming arrows raining down from the northwest rim of the caldera, burying themselves in the tree homes his people had been constructing since the first of his race came down from the mountains. His memories were burning. The trees they had planted, ancient and sacred, the walkways and meeting places, all of it was under attack or already being destroyed. But most incomprehensible of all were the beings that could be see fighting and dying amongst the fires. My tribe.

  The Riders dove, mated warriors bonded by war and winter, their mated griffins carrying them out across the black, glassy lake. Ignatius saw the attackers, Men and a smattering of Caipora, swarming over a breach in the wall and down into the village under the cover of Dwarven archers. He didn’t bother to consider that Vespasian had called for more Caipora from the South or that some of the Dwarven tribes had betrayed the Northern Alliance. His eyes moved swiftly to the forges, where he knew Erithea would be working, sensing that they were safely removed from the heart of the attack. Then, with at least a hope that his mother was safe, he pulled his spear from its scabbard and guided Kaizen towards the breach.

  The griffin took more guidance from Ignatius now than he had in the past, following his Rider’s instructions more than his own instincts. The attacks they had made together had become part of the griffin’s psychology, his predatory nature giving way to a trust that he would mate and eat more than any alpha in griffin history so long as he attacked when Ignatius needed him to. Now, when his need was greatest, Ignatius sent his steed out over the forest to the west, then careened him back in so his armored beak and clubbed tail could rake the outside of the wall. The armor Erithea had forged for her son rattled as they scraped against the kudzu vines that the Nymphs had turned into stone. With a series of thuds and jerks, Kaizen blasted through the ladders that had been erected by the Southlanders. Ignatius could feel several bodies being cleaved and looked back with satisfaction to see dozens of Men falling to their deaths, smashing into the line of soldiers who were waiting their turn to climb over the wall.

  Turning back, he could see that the respite his maneuver had created for the beleaguered defenders was allowing them to try and retake the top of the wall. There were dozens of dead and dying Dwarves, Cherubim, and Nymphs littering the ramparts and at least as many still fighting to retake them. He saw Katana smashing down in the middle of the Men and enemy Dwarves that still held the wall. The griffin’s tail blasted some of them from the battlements, her beak picking up a Caipora and slicing the creature in half even as his tailblade was deflected by Sage’s kusarigama.

  Ignatius dove down, feeling Kaizen’s talons rip through Men, pinning their bodies to the parapet while he jumped down onto the walkway. Arrows arched up all around him as he fought his way towards Sage. Donus’ weapon hooked into one Man, then smashed into another, before he buried the head into the chest of a third, the final warrior standing between him and his Nymph. When he reached her, she was bloody, her eyes wild with rage. He saw in her the same blood born rage that he knew flowed in his veins and suddenly, he wondered if some of the anger that was in his people’s nature had come from their mothers.

  “AIIIIIIIYYYYYYIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAA!”

  He had never heard such a scream. It was the rage of a mother protecting her child, the fierceness of a female who knew that her family, her home, was under attack. Then the defenders were around them, swarming in to return fire at the Southlanders below.

  “They are in the village, hundreds of them,” said a Nymph Ignatius did not recognize.

  “Ignatius,” said Albedo, his face gashed and one of his white wings missing. “The elders. Go, we will hold them here as long as we can. Tell Fleuron…”

  “I will,” said Ignatius, thinking of Albedo’s brother where he was stationed at the castle. He blocked an arrow, then turned to Sage.

  “Go to Taragon, I will meet you at the castle- we must evacuate the griffins.”

  She nodded, the rage still beating in her eyes, her hand lingering on his wing. Then she was gone, and Ignatius moved to catch Kaizen’s reigns, turning him down into the great trees that marked the upper ring of his home. The griffin bounded from limb to limb, too big to fly in the tight confines of the great trees that ringed the caldera. Below, Ignatius could see carnage. The dead and twisted bodies of Cherubim, Giants shot through with arrows, butchered Dwarves that had been so loyal to the idea of freedom. Then, further down the boulders and walkways that had been constructed for non-winged residents, he saw them making their last stand.

  Atlas was there, unarmored but wielding his sword to a devastating effect without the weight of his plates. Strato and a dozen of his Blood Born fighters, as well as Rebus and Arbolante were there as well, giving as well as they got from hundreds of Men who were pushing their way towards the beach. Looking past the dueling warriors, Ignatius could see the youths and elders, the loyal captured Southland women who had chosen to stay with their mates, and Hadrian clustered on the beach with Abigail and Nestor. Defenseless and weak, the elders and youths represented the past and future of the Cherubim, and the Men, Dwarves, and Giants clustered there on the beach in terror represented their hope for a united North. Rage pressed into Ignatius chest and he drew his katanas, diving off of Kaizen and down from the branches into the fray.

  The boulders and gigantic trees gave an advantage to the small number of defenders, allowing them to move in three dimensions whereas the majority of the invaders were stuck trying to keep their footing where they pushed down towards the beach. Ignatius bounded down and around the terrain he had known intimately for a decade, slicing through Men who had expected reinforcements to stream through the breach and help them take the village. His perfect violence had never been more desperate, more selfless than in that moment as he hacked down soldier after soldier, the routine slaughter he had established that winter coming back in an instant.

  He saw Rebus where the immortal Elf held his ground between two stones, blocking a dozen Men where he could fight them one by one. They fell to his katana in a steady rhythm, their blood splattering on his red armor as he severed their limbs. The Cherub recognized the risk the immortal took to defend his people, to fight when he could always run and resist for another age. Here, he risked eternity and for an instant, Ignatius wondered if an Elf or an Angel who had already lived for thousands of years risked more than a Cherub who could only ever live for hundreds.

  The thought passed while he cut his way into the pile of Men who were pressing forward, trying to use their shields to overwhelm the Elf. From behind, he could take them out with ease, slicing across the backs of their necks and stabbing through their ribs until, at last, he reached Rebus. His horned helmet made the Elf’s calm demeanor seem more terrible than it was. Really, he looks sad. With his hand reaching out to touch his shoulder, Ignatius could feel the emotion pouring off the warrior.

  “Ignatius. I’m sorry.”

  There were tears in the Elf’s green eyes, and something about the way his ancient shoulders slumped told Ignatius that a great tragedy must have occurred. The Cherub tried to pass through the stones and, reluctantly, Rebus allowed him through. There on the sand behind the Elf lay two bodies, a Nymph and a Cherub. Ignatius im
mediately recognized the first as Nestor, the blind old elder who had first supported Oberon as war chief. His wings were sheared, his grey hair matted with blood. Ignatius could see a sword laying in the sand near his hand and felt something lock into place in his spirit as he saw that Nestor had gone down fighting.

  Then, he saw the Nymph laying at his side and he knew instantly who she was. Mother. He dropped to his knees, crawling across the sand until his fingers reached her red curly hair. The adrenalin of battle was still upon him while his fingers traced her pointed ear. He rolled her over until she lay in his lap as he had lain in her lap when he was small. She wore her smith’s apron, soot and charcoal mingling with the blood that dripped from her body and the blood of those she had taken with her to make her look like a fall forest at dusk. Mother. A sob welled up in his heart as his spirit recognized the loss far ahead of his mind. He cradled her head, thinking of all she had done for him and wondering how he could do more for her. His knives, Kaizen’s armor, the way she had taken care of his father, countless loving moments throughout childhood that had made him want to be like Oberon. It all seemed to meld together into one feeling of recognition that amplified the loss until it rang in his ears. She knew who I am.

  Arrows were landing on the beach, triggering his reflexes but he found himself unable to move. Strong hands were there, pulling him and Erithea up against a boulder that could provide cover. He looked up into Rebus’ green, knowing eyes, the question unspoken.

  “She was here, on the beach, when they broke through. She held them, put a sword in Nestor’s hands. I saw her go down as Strato and I made the fray, her hands were like snakes, like lightening striking out, cutting them down. The beach would have fallen were she not here.”