Last Stand of the Blood Land

by Andrew Carpenter

  She giggled, her laugh telling him that she liked it; she loved him and his beasty ways because she knew he was a mate who asked her counsel and respected her as an equal. He sighed, his guilt assuaged, and lay back with the cares of his people nowhere in his thoughts. They lay, a cool spring breeze calming their sweating bodies while the light from the sun filtered through the branches to dance across their entwined bodies. He only let himself relax for a dozen breaths, his dream in his arms, before she could feel the weight of the world return to his body. He stiffened, beginning to rise, but she pushed him down and kissed him, pleased that he could make her feel small in bed but big in life.

  He felt his heart swelling while he kissed her but then sprang out of bed. She understood he could not linger when the fate of the North rested on his wings. He was grateful she did not make him feel bad for the shortness of his time. They dressed together, for she had her own commitments to training, working, and fighting with the Plainswatchers. He watched her climb down the ladder in her battle attire, light leather armor covering the sensual skin he had so recently held. Her spear on her back, she headed to the pens where her buffalo waited to be saddled for the ride into the forest. He jumped into the trees, looking over his shoulder after her and pleased to find her doing the same. With the knowledge that something was right in his world, he headed for Rebus’ cave up the slope.

  He found him there, sweat from the morning’s training dripping down his face while he lifted off his horned helmet to reveal pointed ears. Oberon helped to remove the strange interlocking pieces of armor that protected the Elf’s arms and body, freeing the warrior to remove the greaves from his shins and protecting plates from his thighs. He hung the armor respectfully on a log cut to include the limbs and head of an Elf, finally moving to the rear of the cave where they climbed into a hot spring that would soak away the strains of their respective battles.

  “Your warriors learn fast,” said Rebus. “They will count for many times their own number in the coming battle.”

  “Will it be enough?”

  “Only if you are willing to fight in a way the South is not.”

  Thinking he was referring to the underwater bridge, Oberon became defensive.

  “They will not find the bridge and we will need the Dwarves and Giants who can cross it if we are to stop them.”

  “The bridge is just one chink in your armor my friend,” said the Elf. “Your battle plan calls for sacrifices I do not think you are capable of making.”

  Oberon thought of the real battle plan, the one Rebus had discussed with the council of all the races but which had not left that conference. Rebus did not think they could hold Therucilin, Fort Hope, the wall, the Giant’s settlement, or maybe even the forest. All would be swept away by the numbers, engineering, and experience the Southlanders had used to conquer more lands than the North could even dream of. Oberon had argued at first that they could hold those positions, attacking the South’s supply lines until the winter forced them to withdraw. Soon, however, like the enveloping darkness of the cave in which he now sat, all of the others had seen the truth.

  “The fighters that hold those positions must fight to the last, costing the South as much blood as possible to take each position,” said the Elf. “Would those fighters have agreed to your plan if they had known it meant certain death?”

  Oberon thought of Atlas, how the village he was building would be the first to be burned. He thought of Aram when he watched Therucilin being encircled, knowing he could not stand against the South’s war machines.

  “Their leaders knew the risk and made the choice.”

  “Yes, and you must prepare to make the hard choices that come when you decide to fight a war you cannot win in open combat. Your only hope is that the will of the South to endure the losses you inflict breaks before you lose the will to throw the people of the North against impossible odds.”

  Climbing out of the pool, Oberon felt his body relaxing but his mind reeling. All of their defenses were designed to grind down a Southern force they knew they could not stop. They would always be able to conduct their hit and run raids, but the toll the tribes would have to endure was beyond comprehension. They walked to the mouth of the cave, Rebus sliding his swords into the belt of his kimono.

  “We will not become the South to defeat the South,” said Oberon, repeating what he had always told the Elf as he stepped into the light. “We will outthink them. This is our land, and we will bleed them out. But when the time comes to make the hard decisions I will always look for a third way.”

  “When that third way is death or enslavement I hope you are willing to do what is necessary even if you find what is necessary repugnant.”

  Down the bluff they could see a long line of animals and warriors, stretching from the lake all the way up the trail to the eastern bluff. It was Ignatius returning with the pillaged war material they desperately needed. Oberon and Rebus watched Strato and Albedo, anxious to meet their recently bonded brothers in battle, racing ahead of them. Workers from around the village stopped to join in welcoming the returning warriors, but the celebration would be short lived; there was too much to do and not enough food for a feast.

  Oberon found Ignatius where he was hugging Baasha, the war bear he had received from Fritigern. He looked puny wrapped up in the grizzly’s hug, the two of them rolling around the enclosure like cubs. The other bears looked on in amusement, as did the six Cherubim who were as bonded to Ignatius by combat as he was to Baasha. Oberon stopped to look, unaccustomed to a Cherub who did not report to him when returning from a mission. He looked to the treetops where two griffins crouched. He recognized them from his time in Therucilin but could not be sure if they were keeping an eye on Ignatius or eying the livestock. Bennu noticed him, on the edge of the corral, and spoke to the chief.

  “We have captured the city” he said, naïve excitement in his voice revealing he had forgotten that Albedo and Strato had already filled him in.

  “And brought home a bounty of goods I presume,” said Oberon. When Bennu nodded excitedly Oberon continued, loud enough so Ignatius could hear.

  “Some of them you would expect us to ride?”

  Bennu nodded while Rondo laughed behind his back.

  “He means the women,” said the easygoing fighter, wiping a stray blond hair behind his ear.

  “Yes,” said Oberon. “The women,” a frown on his face as he surveyed the healthy, unbound captives.

  Ignatius, covered in slobber, flew out of the enclosure looking sternly back at the judgmental face of his old friend.

  “That gem matches your eyes,” said the Cherub, motioning towards the band Oberon wore to signify his leadership. “Let us hope it matches your judgment as well.”

  “Let us talk,” said Oberon.

  Albedo and Strato followed the two Cherubim and Rebus to a secluded meeting room in the trees. Rebus was an excellent climber and made the jump from tree to tree to grasp the bottom of the ladder with all the nimbleness Ignatius remembered from the time he had fought the Elf on the rooftops of Therucilin.

  “You executed the Men!” Oberon was shouting before the others were even all the way into the room. Ignatius could feel the rage building inside him and so said nothing, his fiery green eyes doing all of the talking.

  “You had our warriors execute men who had surrendered?” he continued, already knowing the answer. “That sounds like something Donus would do.”

  Ignatius was on his feet at the mention of Donus’ name, his fists clenched with anger. I wish Donus had been there that day; it would have been easier. He still did not speak. The anger at judgment from someone who was not there, from a tribe that needed warriors like Donus but didn’t have the stomach to face what they asked them to do, was too much. He looked at Strato and Albedo. Strato looked down, but Albedo spoke.

  “There had to have been another way.”

  Rebus shook his head. “You cannot even feed yourselves. To win you have to kill any and all Southla
nders in your land. The alternative is death, or worse.”

  Oberon looked between them, his jaw clenched in frustration. Suddenly he remembered a fight at Hadrian’s Wall, three soldiers who had dropped their swords. His mind hadn’t been there but he had killed them, the image of one of their faces breaking beneath his bloody fists played before his eyes. Maybe I am no different but I can still lead them to expect more from themselves. He let the matter fall for the moment, he could not condemn or condone and could not think of a third option and so he paused.

  “Bring in Hadrian.”

  Strato and Albedo ran to get the Southern commander.

  “Wise,” said Rebus to Ignatius, “to bring him here. He could be the most useful weapon to come out of taking the city.”

  The words calmed Ignatius. He sensed Rebus was on his side and he searched for the peace of an empty mind that could fend off the blood born rage he was feeling; this was not the enemy, this was not the place. He breathed in, closing his eyes, recognizing that he had escaped death to be there. Exhaling, he focused on his breath - breath that he no longer took for granted.

  Strato and Albedo didn’t have to force the short, black haired Southerner to get him to move where they wanted him. The Man had been cooperating since they left Therucilin as if his life depended on it; he had no reason to suspect it did not. They did, however, have to take him the long way around the treetops via Caldera’s ladder. The stocky commander had been a thinker his entire life and that role had prevented him from acquiring a warrior’s natural athleticism.

  While they waited, Oberon’s thoughts turned to the women. He couldn’t blame Ignatius for sparing them while condemning him for executing the soldiers. Letting them go from Therucilin would have been the same as killing them but bringing them to Devil’s Lake posed other problems. He couldn’t let them go now that they had knowledge of the routes through their defenses; they would require food and guarding.

  “What would you have me do with the captives?” he asked, certain Ignatius hadn’t thought that far ahead.

  “We need more warriors,” said Ignatius.

  Oberon thought of the pressure the tribe was under to produce warriors. Then he thought of Caldera and knew he could never force that on the women. The tribe’s numbers were going to be reduced in the coming battles; everyone of breeding age was out there fighting. Perhaps they could be made to care for the young.

  “If you won’t kill them you must assimilate them into the tribe,” said Rebus. “They cannot leave.”

  “The third way,” said Oberon, recognizing assimilation as the solution but doubting its practicality.

  When Hadrian walked through the door he wondered if he could be assimilated into the tribe as well. They watched him stand awkwardly in the corner, looking at them with tired eyes. He wore wool pants and leather boots below a cotton shirt, Southern made goods, and a Northern fur lined jacket that gave away his discomfort with the cold climate that differed so greatly from his home.

  “What do you want from me?” asked the Man.

  Oberon looked at Rebus but the Elf offered none of his experience as an interrogator.

  “What will the South do?” asked Oberon vaguely.

  “I don’t know,” he answered.

  When Oberon didn’t have a follow up question Rebus spoke.

  “He’s worried that if you don’t like his answer you’ll kill him.”

  Ignatius looked to the man and could see the Elf was right.

  “Don’t worry,” said Ignatius. “We sparred you so you could help us understand what we are facing. Do that and you will be treated well.”

  Hadrian nodded. The uncertainty of what would happen if he did not help them understand combined with his knowledge that escape from these remote lands was beyond his power to motivate him to tell what he knew.

  “They will send an army.”

  “When?” said Oberon.

  “I don’t know.”

  “We need to know when,” insisted the chief.

  “You have no conception of the size of the South. They have other conquests, other wars. When they come will depend on the situation in the South but they will come. We,” he stopped himself, wanting to separate himself from the enemy. “They have never ended a conquest in defeat.”

  Rebus had told them this, had tried to explain that the world of the Cherubim only stretched to the borders of the North while the outside world, the world the South operated in, was so much greater. Their tribal minds, having grown without a reference for existence on that scale, did not understand.

  “How many will they send,” asked Ignatius.

  “Enough,” answered the Man.

  Oberon shook his head, looking at Strato and Albedo then stepping to look out the door at his village, the preparations they had made seeming futile. How do you win a war when you cannot comprehend the enemy?

  “How can we defeat them?” asked Ignatius.

  Hadrian shook his head, his educated mind recognizing that a different tool was needed if he was to make them understand. He reached inside his jacket and produced a large leather bound notebook, the only remnant he had from the capture of Therucilin. The Cherubim had looked at it when they took him away. His notes and figures meaningless to them, they had allowed him to keep it. From a pocket in the back cover he produced a map that he spread on the floor in the middle of the room.

  The map showed the Blood Lands, the North. It was familiar to all of them save Strato and Albedo but even they understood the basic features. The long mountains of the west ran down the length of one side of the map while the ocean bounded the territory in the east. Mountains came down the center dividing the valley of Therucilin on one side from the plains running to the ocean on the other. The kingdoms of the Dwarves were there below the big city, Fort Hope and the wall, the Canyon Lands, and even their own forest. Ignatius noticed Ryogen’s village was misplaced and key locations like the Angel’s castle, Devil’s Lake, and the mesas of Wotan’s homeland were unknown to the mapmaker.

  Holding the corners flat, Hadrian looked up at them. “This is your world, everything you do and think, all of your battles, the tribes you interact with, it all happens in this world.”

  They nodded. Rebus knew what was coming next but he had never shown it to them. He needed the North to resist to accomplish his vengeance on the South and he wondered if they would fight and die for the freedom to control their own lands after they had seen what Hadrian was about to show them.

  Holding the map with one knee to free his hand, the Man pulled a calfskin from his notebook. This one was much larger and more elegant than the simple parchment he unfurled it over. It had been folded many times over to make it fit and was done in multiple colors with writing throughout. It lay flat on its own, covering a good portion of the floor, and Hadrian stood so he could take it all in.

  “This,” he said, “is the world of the South.”

  The Cherubim looked at the lines and oceans, mountains and cities, still not understanding, the scale meant nothing to them. Hadrian walked around the map so that he stood at the top. He pulled a golden necklace from around his neck and used it to highlight to borders of a tiny portion of the map. The area was obscure, sitting on the fringes and marked simply with a Centuar. It represented just a few square inches of a map that was a yard square.

  “This,” he said, “is the North.”

  Oberon felt his head spinning. Strato sat down, his wings surrounding himself in a protective cocoon. Ignatius breathed out through his mouth, the edges of panic pushed away as he forced himself to empty his mind. The picture was too huge, their land too small. Albedo seemed to accept it the quickest, kneeling down and tracing his finger south from where the golden necklace marked the boundary of the North.

  He followed a small line and looked up at Hadrian. “The path to the Southlands?”

  “Yes.”

  The Cherub continued to slide his finger until he hit a territory further down the map.

 
; “The South?”

  “No, merely a province.”

  Hadrian pointed below the province, which was larger than the Northlands, and Albedo followed his direction, moving his finger over a checkered border into a massive territory.

  “The Southlands,” said Hadrian. “But that is not what it is called there.”

  “What do they call our lands?” asked Ignatius.

  “The North, but for them they are not south of the North, they are at the center.”

  The Cherubim could see lands in all corners of the map, each more vast than their own. There were massive oceans, inland seas, and thick rivers stretching across continents.

  “These areas,” said Hadrian, pointing to territory after territory surrounding the Southlands, “are all controlled by the nation we call Galatia, the land you call the Southlands. To it, the North is just a little territory at the fringe.”

  They could see how powerful a nation they faced, how the scale of their enemy made them immortal, undefeatable, everlasting. Oberon still held hope.

  “Even a nation as powerful as Galatia would refuse to conquer a territory if the price were too high,” said the war chief.

  “Or if there were other, less bloody, prizes to be had,” added Strato.

  Hadrian had forgotten he was a prisoner, caught up in the excitement of their understanding.

  “They know these lands are rich in gold, it has been shipped south for decades now,” said the Man. “That makes the North a valuable prize worth paying for. For them, conquering the backwards local tribes and runaway scum that have settled here is a matter of course, the work of a few months of campaigning and a small garrison to occupy the territory.”