“Careful,” said Andrika, “getting that on your fingers is enough to make you sick. Consuming just a drop will kill you quite slowly but quite certainly.”
She had the habit of talking with her wings the way some tribes might talk with their hands and her golden feathers hypnotized the three warriors watching her.
Onidas, an archery instructor, finally shifted his gaze to their bows, pulling on his jet-black beard that contrasted with his short grey and white hair. The short Dwarf finally broke the spell with a question.
“How do we get it into their water?” he asked.
“Not their water,” said Strattera, squatting down nimbly to smell a tiny spring prairie flower. “That comes from a waterfall that we couldn’t hope to poison.”
“Food,” said Brogdar gruffly, as he kneeled his great bulk down awkwardly so he could pluck two small flowers.
Andrika reached out, taking the flowers from his outstretched hands and sliding one into her hair. Stratera spring deftly out of her squat and turned to her companion who added one to hers as well. Brogdar smiled, his sharp teeth portraying affection that was uncharacteristic of his people. Atlas shook his head at the sight of a Centaur handing out flowers.
“We have scouted above the fort and cannot take the poison by ourselves,” said Andrika looking into the eyes of the others.
“But we can,” said Stratera, “take four of your Dwarves over the mountain. We would lower them into the fort under cover of darkness where their night vision would allow them to sneak into their food supplies.”
Fritigern looked away from the females and craned his neck up, following the path they would need to take. He shook his head slowly, a pit forming in his stomach as sweat formed around his long brown hair and dripped into his patchy brown beard.
“Collect all of the rope you can and four of your fittest, sneakiest fighters, and meet us here in one hour,” said Stratera. “We will have you up the mountain in two nights and into their food by the following night.”
Andrika looked to Atlas and Wotan. “You must ensure that when they realize they must leave or starve those that leave wish they had starved.”
Without giving them a chance to respond the two jumped to the roof of the nearby barn and disappeared over the top in a golden and blue flurry of wings. Atlas turned to the others and looked from Brogdar’s strange grin to the frightened look on Fritigern’s face before gazing back towards the fort and feeling rage well up in his chest at the sight of the severed heads of his kin. He didn’t feel like a leader, like the Pathmaker. He was sure Parfey would have had a better plan. He did not.
He nodded to the Centaur who stood nearly at his own height. “We will box them in and kill any who flee.” Looking down to the Dwarves, he said, “Happy climbing. I will find you as much rope as can be had.”
Onidas shrugged, turning to Fritigern. “Did you see the callouses on their right hands? I’d wager those two Cherubim are better archers than all but a few of our race, and smart too. Poison,” he said shaking his head, “remind me not to cross them.”
Fritigern laughed at the facts of the female’s brutality, masked by coy excitement and feminine charm. The Dwarf had the typical large forehead and broad nose that served to shade his iris-less black eyes, adapted to life in the dark. He scratched his exposed chest, which was covered in tattoos, with his own calloused hammer hands, thinking about the challenge before them and squinting in the bright sun as it burned his night vision.
Fritigern had nearly lost his patience with his guides after an hour of hiking. They flitted and jumped from branch to branch with ease while the four Dwarves below labored through the underbrush with the weight of several hundred feet of rope, daggers, crossbows, bolts, food and water. From time to time Andrika or Stratera would call down to them to turn this way or that, and here and there he caught flashes of their feathers, adorning the branches above like gigantic birds.
Onidas had opted to let a younger Dwarf take his place, choosing instead to command the archers outside the fort. Fritigern, the most experienced fighter and leader of the group had personally trained, and trained with, each of the fighters he now led. The females are really leading us; I’m just a sub commander. He was looking up for the Cherubim when he ran face first into a massive boulder that was hidden in the dense underbrush. He slapped his hand on it, feeling the warmth of the midday sun and catching his breath. They had all trained for years to overcome their stature in combat but even so, carrying this much weight on an uphill march was sapping his strength.
Andrika popped out over the boulder like a beautiful mirage. As she slid down the stone to alight quietly among them he saw the bow in her hand and wondered how she would perform inside the fort. If the Cherubim couldn’t get them out the defenders would surely kill them long before they starved.
“You have hiked, now you scurry, soon we fly and you climb,” she said with a wink.
The others were still shocked by her golden wings. Save for Donus, Ignatius, and Oberon, none of her people had traveled among the other races and the sight of a winged being took some getting used to. She turned, squatting down and leading the way around the underside of the rock. Dwarves were well suited to this type of climbing, in and around and over the scree of the mountain separating them from the Fort. The Dwarves bounded and hopped with stout, sure feet like burdened mountain goats. They were nothing, however, compared to the Cherubim whose moccasins barely touched the stones as they glided on graceful feet, warm currents of air flowing up the rocks pulling them skyward. Fritigern had seen their male counterparts make the same movements and recognized that there were clunky and syncopated in comparison to the females.
As the day wore on the way became progressively steeper and their path, scouted by the Cherubim, became increasingly erratic. They made cutbacks and at times moved down across loose rocks to find a path where they could continue moving skyward. From out on the plains the mountain had looked vast but manageable. Up close it was impossible to see the way and the Dwarves felt as if they never made progress. That night they camped on a flat ledge that the guides said represented the beginning of their true climb. Fritigern walked to the edge of the flat space where the granite vaulted skyward and touched his fingers to the stone. It was smooth, but nature had marked it with holds big enough for their small hands.
“If we have enough rope you won’t need to climb,” said Stratera cheerfully.
Fritigern nodded slowly. “How much rope do we need?”
The other Dwarves leaned in close. “As much as we have,” she responded, “if we can’t do it with this much we will just make the mountain smaller.”
Fritigern smiled, sitting down and leaning against his pack. The light was failing, having already long since sunk behind the mountains. The plains were awash in a pink glow, turning the spring grass into clouds of flowing embers.
“It will be enough,” he agreed.
Andrika pulled pemmican from her pouch and passed it out with nimble fingers. The two of them stretched while they chewed, limbering out the day’s exertions and preparing their muscles for the coming climb. They worked together to stretch each other’s wings in a way the males did not. Fritigern decided he liked their playful ways better than the serious brutal mindedness of the males. They could not risk a fire but he lay back with his fighters, black eyes cutting through the dark to watch the Cherubim practicing slow forms, daggers in both hands, on the rock ledge.
“Will they write songs about this climb?” asked one of the Dwarves.
“If we survive,” answered Fritigern. “Otherwise the songs will be about those who held the fort against the savage Northerners until help arrived.”
“They will not write that song,” said another.
“I will write our song,” said the third.
Fritigern smiled, wondering at the movements and strange ways of their guides and letting the soreness sink into his joints.
Years of leading morning drills woke Fritigern long befo
re the dawn and he set to readying their packs in silent efficiency. He found Stratera already awake, sitting cross-legged with her eyes closed facing the east. He knew she could not see him but he wondered if those forest ears could detect his footfalls. He went to sit next to her and watched her meditation in silence. Finally, a smile crossed her face and she turned to him without opening her eyes before moving slowly to drape her legs off the rock face and leaning back to rest on her wings. They watched the night fade and when the sky turned dark orange across the plains she rousted Andrika and grabbed the rope.
The line was heavy, strong enough to hold all of the Dwarves and their load, so she did not attempt to carry it with her. Instead her expert fingers tied a knot in the end and handed it to Fritigern.
“When you see a line falling from the sky, tie it to this.”
Moving to the other end of the rope she showed him how to wrap the line around himself so as to make a comfortable sling.
“When you hear our shout, put on the rope and start climbing.”
He shrugged to demonstrate his understanding and offered her a piece of jerky, which she took along with a slug of water. Then the pair were off and running, kicking off the ground and spiraling upwards in labored circles. The others were awake now and for a time they could see when one or the other swooped in to the rock to rest her wings. Before long they were lost to view and Frigigern sat to wait, watching the rock wall quietly. It was an easier way to pass the time for his sensitive eyes than watching the brightening sky.
After a time he felt something hit the top of his head and he reached up with a laugh to see a tiny fibrous line dropping out of the sky. He tied the larger rope to it as he had been instructed and gave a tug before watching it hoist itself into the heavens. After a few minutes he heard a call from above and looked to the others to decide who should go first. He decided that it must be himself; if this didn’t work he should take the risk.
The others helped him tie himself in so they would know how to do it and then he looked at the wall. He didn’t believe he could climb it, but as his hands struggled to pull himself up he felt suddenly weightless. The Cherubim were pulling too. With their strength added to his own he flew up the wall. When he slipped, he tumbled a few feet before the rope caught and he began to climb again. In his excitement at the success of the method he forgot to look down until he reached the ledge where his helpers waited.
Scrambling over the edge he caught a glimpse of the air beneath him, falling away hundreds of feet to the forest below, and felt his stomach rise into his throat. He froze in a way he had never frozen in combat or in a fight when he had surely faced scarier opponents than the air. He felt a tug on his arm and he rolled onto the solid rock, fighting to control his breathing and his mind. The Cherubim were panting as well; apparently his bulk was more to hoist than their airborne frames had been designed for. Looking up he couldn’t see the end of their climb but he took comfort in the fact that with new climbers there would be more hands pulling from above.
Fritigern watched as Andrika wrapped the end of the rope across her lower back and around a boulder. This gave her the ability to stop a fall by holding the loose rope fast, anchored by the stone. She could also use her full body weight to assist Stratera where she would hoist from the cliff’s edge. He positioned himself in between them, far enough from the ledge so that he couldn’t be pulled over but close enough that he could add his strength. After a few minutes the rope went slack- someone below was climbing. Together they hoisted and heaved and he wondered if it felt as if he was doing this little on his climb. He watched the muscles in his fellow pullers ripple across their backs and arms; he saw how they put their wings into their pulls and the tireless strength in their hands. They have the strength of warriors.
Before the last climber took his turn the six of them pulled up their gear and weapons. With so many to pull it should have been easy, but he could feel the fatigue building in the group. When they had made the final pull they all sat, drinking the heavy water Fritigern had insisted on bringing. He knew they needed it but hadn’t realized how much hauling was going to be involved. They repeated the same process once more before reaching a portion of the mountain where they could make some progress by scrambling and another place where it was too steep for scrambling but not so steep they needed to be hoisted. Here the Cherubim rested the rope as a guide across the tougher sections and the Dwarves walked in a hunched over, vertical fashion, pulling themselves along with both hands on the rope. All of the Dwarves were scared of the heights but all overcame the fear in the same way they overcame the fear of fighting- by compartmentalizing their emotions, relying on their training to keep them moving in the right direction, and practicing the very thing that scared them.
By midday they were exhausted, especially the Cherubim. The long flights and hoisting, particularly the initial pull, drew resources out of their bodies faster than they could replenish them. All for the ability to sneak in through the back door. They rested that afternoon and stopped for the night after reaching the final of three consecutive hoists that would mark their last push to the summit. Andrika led the way to a deep cave where water bubbled up in a black pool.
The cave pond was disturbing and dark, even to the Dwarves, and they filled their skins before settling down for the night in a corner that was safely distant from whatever might lurk inside the cave or under the water. The bones of various animals littered the floor, evidence of Griffins who had brought their kills to that spot and hatched eggs there for countless generations. They lit a small fire that sucked the darkness and danger out of the cave, sloshing shadows across the strange formations and colorings in the walls.
“Gold,” said one of the Dwarves, walking over to scratch the vein with his finger.
“Extra weight,” said Andrika as she braided her own golden hair, her hazel eyes turning orange in the firelight.
“I’d trade all of that gold for a pair of gloves,” said Stratera while she kneaded her rope burned palms.
One of the other Dwarves picked up a piece of charcoal from the fire and began drawing a scene from their ascent with his blistered hand on the wall.
“What is that?” asked Fritigern.
“Its our song, in stone,” he answered without looking away. “Who can say if any of our kind have ever climbed so high or if we will live to tell the tale? Perhaps a Cherub will happen upon this and learn enough to invent our story again.”
The others nodded, too consumed in soreness and thoughts of the coming climb and mission to truly understand. They soon sank into consumed exhaustion as the cave breathed fresh life into their limbs. They slept through most of the late afternoon and on into the night, their bodies working to use the last of their food to repair their tired muscles.
In the morning it was Andrika who was awake when Fritigern rose. He could see her at the mouth of the cave looking cautiously into the golden eyes of a griffin whose home they had temporarily invaded. She hummed, high and clear, spreading her wings to their full length. The smaller animal was the size of a mountain lion with the head of an eagle and wings to match. It recognized the Cherub’s feathers and responded to her hum, laying flat on all fours, three-inch claws retracted. The Dwarf watched in amazement as she stepped forward, reaching out and stroking the beast’s feathers. It nipped playfully at her hair with a beak that was designed to tear flesh from bone. For a moment the two locked eyes, a bond of the air passing between them. Then the griffin smelled the Dwarves and spread its own wings, jumping off into the early morning sky and circling away over the prairie.
Fritigern had always known the Griffins to be hunters, dangerous animals to encounter in the forest. He had seen the Southlanders trap, trade, eat, and even raise them, with Xyerston, the former commander of the Companion Cavalry, having been known to breed them for size and use them in combat. He had never heard of a wild griffin being so tame as to allow itself to be scratched behind the ears like a dog under the table. Shaking his head in
wonderment he set to packing and rousing the others.
The first of their hoisted climbs went well that morning as they loosened up their weary muscles. For the first Dwarf of the second pull, however, the rope slipped from Andrika’s grasp when there was too much slack that had not been taken in around the anchoring rock. The Dwarf fell too far, yanking Stratera off her feet and over the edge. She strained her wings to resist the weight but it was too much; she could only manage to slow the descent. With the Dwarf bellowing and his limbs flailing like an overturned beetle, he hit the rocks below. The Cherub released the rope, gliding in to shake the strain out of her wings by hanging from the rocks.
“Is he alive?” she called down, true concern in her voice.
Fritigern stood over the Dwarf who had made the drawings the night before, a fighter he had known for years. He turned away to look out of the forest to the south and the plains to the east and let the pain hit him before channeling it at the real enemy. The South drove us up here. He stood in silence for a moment before answering.
“No.”
They left the body where it lay, Fritigern wishing they had the time and strength to deliver it to the cave below. They made the final climb successfully to reach the top several hours before dark. They rested, any feelings of success for having made the top lost in the death of their comrade. The higher mountains to the west still blocked their view of Therucilin but they could see north to the unfinished wall and all the way up and down the plains. Andrika and Stratera searched the forest, trying to guess where the caldera that was Devil’s Lake rested but they couldn’t be sure. The lands were empty but the climbers didn’t know that, having never seen the vast cities of the South. To them there was nothing to compare to the untouched beauty of the North and so, in their minds, it simply was. A rugged landscape of obstacles and challenges, crisscrossed by the bleaching bones from a thousand hunts and battles.
Last Stand of the Blood Land Page 4
