Last Stand of the Blood Land

by Andrew Carpenter

  Wotan was leading his warriors up through the unbarred gate faster than any horse and rider for in his tribe horse and rider were one. Black from head to hoof his midnight dreads, speckled with black feathers, flew wildly over his shoulders. His silky dark fur was covered in armor that dripped with the blood of his enemies. Black eyes locked onto Ignatius and when he opened his mouth to call out the Centaur name for the Cherubim, frighteningly long canines were revealed.

  “SKRAAAAAAAAAAAAELINGS!”

  The Centaur sheathed one of his long, curved swords on his back and reached down to grasp Ignatius wrist while all around them the tide of war surged forward.

  “Skraelings save many Centaurs today,” he said, looking up to where the six Cherubim were climbing the walls towards the rooftops.

  “These knights opened this gate,” answered Ignatius, motioning to Omri and Meggido. “Spare them and any of the Northern tribes you can.”

  Wotan bared his fangs at the word “spare” but nodded, shouting in his own tongue to his bucks. Ignatius released the mighty wrist and bounded into an alleyway where he could bounce from wall to wall, pulling himself up windowsills and onto the roof. He spotted his fellows darting away against the backdrop of the final sanctuary of Therucilin. The city was built on a hill with a lake protecting its southern flank and providing sufficient water to withstand any siege. The palace was perched on the very top and once the citadel was taken it too would fall. Ignatius expected the most desperate, if not the most difficult, resistance at this final juncture. Perhaps desperate resistance only becomes dangerous when the reason for desperation is not a lack of willingness but a lack of traditional resources.

  They followed the retreating civilians, now joined by terrified soldiers, from above as the now predominantly human refugees made a push for their final sanctuary. The way to the citadel was up long and narrow stairs with steep walls on both sides and it was soon choked with people pushing and crushing each other to escape the certain death that was closing in. The Cherubim charged down both sides of the final approach, Albedo’s white wings leading one side with his brother Fleuron’s black leading the other. Their arms deflected arrows with practiced ease as they glided up over their foes before kicking them off the escarpment.

  The Cherubim could see soldiers attempting to close the tall doors at the top of the stairs. The press of humans was too much and the onrushing bodies overwhelmed the Men. Shouts could be heard from inside the walls as the guards turned on their own people, lowering spears and forcing the people to choose between death at the hands of their own or turning back to the sounds of screams where the Centaurs were breaking through. Those at the front tried to turn back, heroic thoughts of dashing themselves on the spears so others could reach safety disappearing in the face of ancient survival instincts. But those at the other end felt the same, pressing forward to escape the Centaurs that had now cut their way through to the base of the stairs.

  Those in the middle did not change direction and the result was a slow press forward with multiple bodies being impaled on the guards spears before the weight of the bodies created a human bridge holding the gates open and allowing those behind to crawl over the bodies of their quivering predecessors to slide down into the muddy training grounds of the citadel. The Cherubim watched with grim horror at the display of survival instincts that was completing their work for them. As the last retreating soldiers and citizens crawled over the dead the first Centaur vaulted the pile of bodies to crush the survivors with his hooves.

  Ignatius looked at his companions and could see the exhaustion, the pain, the unwillingness to see the journey through to the end. He had felt as they did many times on journeys and in battles and could tell that if he let his blood lust fueled energy subside he would feel the same way.

  “RAAAAARRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAA!”

  The others joined him in his war cry and together they dove down into the tight tunnel and blasted over the Centaurs and through the gate. Flying over running soldiers they cut them down with reckless abandon, slicing and hacking at the exposed backs of the men. When they hit the center of the open field, with the Centaurs massing behind them and the palace in front, they were stopped by a strange sight. A short, unarmed man with black hair was walking towards them with his hands raised. Ignatius recognized him as Hadrian, the soft thinker who had architected the wall designed to keep the Centaurs out. Here was the man in charge of the defense of the city after Theseus, Alexander, and Aristippus had been killed.

  Wotan joined the Cherubim in a slow advance towards the man. Ignatius admired his courage, standing straight in the face of such a terrifying sight. Hundreds of Centaurs now filled the area behind them and, sensing a trap, Ignatius turned to Rondo and Bennu, motioning for them to fly to high ground where they could provide warning.

  “We surrender,” said the commander, his voice a firm whisper.

  Behind Hadrian the soldiers threw down their weapons and armor so that they blended in with the women and traders who had managed to survive this long. It was no trap, and Ignatius did not know how to respond. He looked to Wotan, the leader who had spent his entire life fighting for this moment, the trickster who had drawn Theseus into a trap, the bane of Giants and Dwarves alike.

  “There,” said the Centaur, pointing to one side of the field.

  Hadrian turned and spoke to the survivors, moving with them to the empty area against the wall where he had been commanded. They stood in a huddled mass, sobs and cries sounding foreign against the backdrop of so many stoic faces, unaccustomed to defeat. Here were experienced soldiers whose phalanxes had conquered across the southern world, their fortresses and subjugation of local populations always serving to protect them from this moment.

  Wotan began calling out to his bucks, short yips and screams. Intermixed with the animal yells were flashes of the Centaur language that Ignatius did not speak but comprehended well.

  “You can’t execute them,” he said firmly.

  Wotan turned and looked down at him. “If they leave, they fight.”

  “Keep them prisoner.”

  “No food, no prisons.”

  Ignatius had never considered what to actually do with prisoners. He had been a prisoner in this city himself and remembered how he and Donus had broken out, violently, before being recaptured. He knew he couldn’t expect anything different from these men and that letting them go would mean they must fight them again. The Council of Elders had discussed the food shortages that would ensue if nearly half the Cherubim population went to war let alone if hundreds of traitorous prisoners had to be guarded and fed. He knew Donus wouldn’t hesitate to recognize the only alternative to letting them go or keeping them prisoner. He also knew Oberon wouldn’t be willing to let them sink to the level of killing prisoners and would break the tribe, forgo their war plans, just to avoid it. He scanned the crowd.

  “Give me Hadrian, and the women,” he said, motioning to twenty or so women who had been young and strong enough to survive.

  Wotan nodded, shouting to a group of his warriors who moved among the prisoners, herding out those Ignatius had selected.

  “Take them out of the city,” yelled the Cherub, “and guard them.”

  The prisoners stumbled through the gate while the Centaurs laughed and prodded them with spear points. The remaining men had seen this scenario play out in reverse too many times to hold onto any hope about what would happen next.

  Ignatius signaled to the Blood Born to join him and explained the situation. At first, they all nodded in agreement, recognizing the need for female captives and the value of taking Hadrian alive. Then they began to put it together. Rondo and Fleuron continued to nod, understanding what sparing some meant for the rest. Bennu and Crusoe grimaced but Albedo and Strato gritted their teeth and shook their heads in disagreement about the fate of the remaining soldiers.

  “The easiest path would have been to kill them all,” said Ignatius. “We cannot afford to let them all live. If we do, it will be your
families that will pay the price for your unwillingness. It will be your homes that are burned.”

  Bennu and Crusoe were nodding now as well, albeit less vigorously, recognizing the necessity of the situation and the mercy of sparing those they could.

  “In the years to come, when we are we powerful and wise enough to decide differently in these situations, it will be because we were willing to recognize times like these where there is no alterative,” said Ignatius.

  He thought of his father for a moment, the Angel Augustine, who, though previously a powerful immortal warrior, had been felled by a strange disease. All of the Cherubim were nodding now. Had he made this decision in his wars with the Centaurs in the hope that I would never have to?

  “We do this so that our children can live in a world where we will make these decisions unnecessary. But if we are to allow this to happen, we will not allow others to do it for us.”

  The eyes of the young fighters widened and he didn’t give them time to argue. When he turned, the men were already on their knees and the Centaurs had already begun. There were only a few dozen left by the time Ignatius reached the nearest man. He drew his dagger and thought of those who had died because these men had come into their land. Donus, Parfey, Crius, Debir, Andronicus. All of those had been killed at the hands of Northerners but it was the deceit and manipulation of the South had turned them against each other. The deceit is worse than doing it themselves. He could still remember King Theseus sneering the truth at Parfey in the Centaur’s camp. The wall was meant to waste the strength of the Giants and the Dwarves. The South had armies large enough to crush the Centaurs but they let the Dwarves and the Giants spill their blood so the South wouldn’t have to.

  The knife was already though the first man’s throat before he realized it. The knowledge that this was necessary, perhaps even just, helped but did not remove the knowledge that his generation, perhaps many generations, would have to live knowing they were capable of such actions. He resented his people for an instant, trying to reach out for someone to blame, but he recognized his own responsibility for his actions and took solace in the knowledge that he had saved those he could. You saved Hadrian because you could use him, the same as the women.

  Pushing the thought away, he looked to his fighters, all lost in various states of myriad emotions, where they stood over the last of the soldiers. Some would handle this day like Donus, without reliving or perhaps even putting down the painful memories. Some would handle it like Oberon, vomiting and left with a gap in their hearts. Ignatius wasn’t sure how he would react anymore other than to know he wished he could get far away and never fight again. Centaurs were running down those who refused to sit and wait their turn. Ignatius took a breath and sighed. This is what victory feels like. He thought for a moment about a fire in his tree home on a snowy night, friends and food at his table. Never.

  They spent the rest of that day clearing the city of patches of resistance, made all the easier with the help of hundreds of Dwarves and Giants who knew of the new alliance and had little love for the Southlanders who had dominated their tribes in the previous hierarchy. Aram, the Dwarven master who had succeeded a previous King, Alman, after Donus had killed him, arrived that night to take command of the city. Winning the support of at least some of the Dwarves had required promising them control over many of the North’s prizes.

  Vast stores of gold were found in the palace, testament to why the South so badly wanted control of the North. When choosing his people’s share of the bounty, Ignatius remembered the piles of gold found across the plains stretching south where men had died, weighed down by their dreams of riches while the Centaurs closed in. He left the gold but, after two days of organizing, planning, and sorting, led a massive pack train to the east. In the train were hundreds of bears, horses, and mules laden with food, weapons, the twenty women, and Hadrian, as well as thirty giants, five of them knights, and two hundred Dwarves loyal to the new alliance. He sent Albedo and Strato south across the mountains to tell Oberon of their victory and to alert their forces that the next phase of the attack could begin.

  The last thing he did be before leaving the city was to return to the quarters of the Companion Calvary, now abandoned. He was looking for the griffins, Currar and Tulma, giant attack animals bred for size by Xyerston. He found them, forgotten and hungry, sitting under the table in the map room where the Companion Cavalry had plotted the movements of the Centaurs.

  They recognized his wings and nuzzled him with foot long beaks. He stroked their tan lion coats, ruffling the feathers on their heads and wrapping them up with his wings. They followed him down to the stables where he found them some meat, which they tore apart with four-inch claws. The others stared when the griffins followed him out of the city, bonded to him as part of their pride. They led the way, circling above the odd assortment of women and Cherubim, Giants and Dwarves, bears and horses. I wonder what Oberon will say when I bring this back to Devil’s Lake.

  Chapter 3

  I t had been a maddening day for Atlas. The young Giant and inexperienced Pathmaker already felt like a failure to his people. Standing amongst the barns and cabins that had once been a farming community of Southerners, he could count the heads adorning the wall of Fort Hope.

  “Fourteen Giants, at least twenty Dwarves,” he said, his voice cracked with emotion, his shoulders sagging with the weight of his new suit of armor. He felt the sun cooking his face where it hung directly in his line of sight as he squinted up at the fort with his brown eyes.

  Fritigern and Onidas listened in silence. The Dwarves, warriors who had studied and taught at Aram’s school where it lay nestled behind the mountains that made Fort Hope impregnable, had fought alongside the Giants. They had brought one hundred archers from the warrior academies in the Dwarven homeland to help their new allies take the fort. Their help was not without reward, for command of the fort would fall to their people.

  “Giants can smash gate?” asked Brogdar, a tribal chief of the Centaurs who had added twenty bucks to their numbers.

  Atlas looked at him with a mix of fear and amazement. His coat was brown with white spots and his tail flicked instinctually against the armor that covered his ribs even though there were no flies. He was small for a Centaur, perhaps five hundred pounds, with just eight points in his rack, but his canines and massive spear reminded Atlas that these were the raiders who had swept across the prairie, cutting down his people for centuries. The Giant could still remember the way Crius, his brother, looked when he died at their hands.

  “The trail leading to the gates is too narrow even to carry a battering ram and our Cherubim scouts tell us they have buried the gate under rubble from the inside,” answered Atlas. He twisted his great war club in his hands anxiously, feeling the studded handle slide through his fingers. He didn’t have an exact count as to how many Giants there still were in the world; centuries of fighting Centaurs and now Men had weakened them to the point of collapse several times. Those fourteen heads represented too large a proportion of his people to bare thinking about.

  The Dwarves and the Centaur nodded. They all wanted to take the Fort without losses and the easiest strategy was always to rely on the Cherubim. In this case the defenders had reasoned that using the winged warriors to open the gate was the only way for them to lose and had chosen to bar the entrance completely. Fort Hope, so named for the sanctuary it brought to travelers from Centaur raids, had been built across the mouth of a deep box canyon, preventing attack from any side but the front. The front of the fort faced east and could only be approached by a narrow trail that cut back and forth up a steep approach. Having been resupplied over the winter from Therucilin and having their own water supply, the defenders had decided to simply barricade the gate and wait for relief from the South.

  Atlas could not let that happen. He needed to capture Fort Hope if his people were to expand his father’s settlement on the edge of the Cherubim’s forest. As long as Southlanders held the fort, he
would have to contend with their raids. He also needed a place to retreat where his people could be safe when the inevitable counterattack came from the South. If only Oberon could have provided more fighters his problem would have been solved, but the new war chief of the Blood Born had sent only two females, the so called “Plainswatchers,” claiming the rest of his forces were indisposed with training or other missions. They had been watching and listening to the disorganized forces that were supposed to be taking the Fort and approached the leaders now.

  They were slightly smaller versions of the Cherubim Atlas had fought with in the past with longer, silkier hair. They had shaved it in places on the sides so they still looked distinctly feminine, with the beauty of their mothers, but with the practical advantage of keeping their hair out of their eyes.

  “We have a plan,” said the one called Stratera.

  Her jet-black hair was tied back in rows, with tiny braids falling behind her ear and pheasant feathers dangling in the wind.

  Atlas looked from Stratera’s dark blue eyes to the tan, freckled face of Andrika whose blond, wide Mohawk was kept back by a leather band. He couldn’t help but find them beautiful. They were stronger and leaner than the females of the other races and their wings fluttered impatiently behind their backs, wry grins bordering on laughter scampering across their faces. The bows they carried were smaller than those of the Dwarves, whose thick longbows produced exceptional power and range, and the three daggers they each had strapped to their right thighs seemed insignificant. Still, Atlas had underestimated the Cherubim before and watched one of them best his brother in mock combat and another kill his father. He would not underestimate them again.

  “Lets hear it,” said the Pathmaker.

  Stratera produced three long, black gourds from her traveling satchel. When Atlas reached for one she brushed his hand away with a dark blue wing that matched her eyes.