Last Stand of the Blood Land

by Andrew Carpenter

  Ignatius had found that above the clouds the griffins could make better time, taking advantage of thermals to glide easily from one updraft to the next without worrying too much about being seen or adjusting for the changing terrain below. Following landmarks they had known well from the ground, but that had to be deciphered from the air, the riders were able to make the trip to the Nymph’s homeland in far less time than it had taken them riding double on Kaizen. Landing, Katana failed to account for the extra weight of her charge and stumbled, jarring Sage who nonetheless dropped to the sand to fetch the head and neck of a deer Rondo had felled the day before. Katana munched her reward happily, cracking the bones open next to Kaizen. Funny, how easily a hunter can be turned into an obedient worker.

  She had already chosen the second Nymph rider and she found her in the arbor, hunting with her golden eagle while Ignatius waited to make sure that their winged steeds didn’t try to eat anyone. Calma was a middle-aged Nymph and Sage had chosen her because she was well known within the tribe as a healer and expert cultivator of kudzu. Like all Nymphs, Calma was a deadly knife fighter and expert with a bow, longer range killing skills that the riders knew would be crucial if they were to take their griffins into combat. The dark-skinned Nymph hadn’t been sent to fight with the bulk of the Nymph army and she was quick to climb aboard Kaizen with Ignatius, leaving behind one life for something grand and uncertain. That feeling of starting something new and amazing must be overwhelming her.

  Sage eyed the Cherub as he saddled up next to the older but still attractive Calma, winking to let him know not to squeeze too tightly as they journeyed back to the castle. Within a few days Rondo and Stratera were talking their first flights and with Calma’s help the kudzu were producing so much food that all of the riders could focus on training their griffins and preparing their saddles. After a few weeks the military efficiency was quickly turning the castle into a base of operations that could support the nine riders with food, shelter, and training for the next generation of griffins. Ignatius had insisted that they retrieve a specific Dwarf, Onidas, to become the final rider. The master archer would represent a third race among the riders and would give them an expert to begin developing the tactics they would need to use their griffins in war.

  Ignatius, Sage, and Rondo would make the trip to Fort Hope to talk to Fritigern and see if Onidas, who was stationed there, would join them at the castle. Sage smelled the air, feeling the thrill of the diverse new village that was growing in the ashes of the Angels. The ability to fly was the most important change and the closeness she was developing with Katana was settling into her spirit. She kept her food supplies in the saddlebags, a bow tied where she could reach it while flying. There was meat there that had been hunted by the Cherubim and Archeo, and she was constantly retrieving small bits of it to reward her animals. She sat on Katana’s back, watching Rondo and Ignatius pack their griffins for the longer flight to the outpost to the northeast on the edge of the Canyon Lands and felt the excitement in the rest of the riders. We are our dreams, the dreams of our tribes, the fulfillment of the North. Calma came over and squeezed her ankle from the ground, her dark brown eyes and tan freckled face grinning up at her mounted kin.

  “That one doesn’t take his eyes off of you,” said the older Nymph motioning to Ignatius with a chuckle.

  Sage felt a different type of excitement rising out of her stomach and into her throat and couldn’t help but glance over at Ignatius. He was indeed looking at her from his steed and he nodded when their green eyes met. She smiled back, unconsciously reaching up to adjust her hair.

  “I’ll bring more kudzu pods as soon as I can,” said Sage. “Try to keep these Cherubim in line while I’m gone.”

  “I’ve already been giving lessons to Rondo,” said Calma.

  Sage jerked her gaze back down at the middle-aged Nymph in surprise, Rondo was decades younger than the healer.

  “Don’t look so surprised, how else do you think we will pass the time up here this winter?”

  Sage laughed and grabbed the reigns, pulling back and taking flight with the smaller Currar and Tulma joining her. Catbird and rider circled slowly, watching Rondo’s mount follow Kaizen’s lead as the easy-going Cherub prepared for his first journey. Beneath them the others cheered, watching the party set out on their longest mission to date. As the trio of Riders and flock of five griffins set off away from the mountains, Sage felt the exhilaration of adventure and the confidence that the riders had the tools they needed to shape the destiny of the Blood Lands.

  Chapter 13

  O beron paused on the balcony of his tree home when he felt fall’s first chill in the air. It made him look back towards his bed where Caldera’s smooth figure still rested, warm beneath their fur blankets next to the orange embers in the hearth. The pause gave Oberon’s mind a chance to breathe as he reflected on the tiny home that contained all he really needed. In that moment he knew that a belief was all that prevented him from climbing back into bed. It was the belief that the freedom of his people was more important than comfort, too precious to risk. Strange what happens when you truly believe something. He thought of the changes the tribe had undergone that year, all the result of their belief that the North would have to unite to prepare for the South. The belief brought focus, but focus made it easy to forget why they prepared. How many mornings have I stood here, preparing for the days labors without noticing the pink sky in the east, the scent of my home, the feel of my moccasins?

  The mindful moment continued as he threw himself into the pre-dawn sky. His hands, wings, and feet worked in concert to send him darting through the branches, along walkways, and into the gaps between the trunks on his way to the training grounds on the beach. He was the first Cherub to hit the sand, but Rebus was already there meditating on the cold beach, his horned helmet and katanas silhouetted against the still water where steam from the hot springs drifted in the moonlight. Oberon waited patiently for the master to finish his moment, his own moment replaced by concerns. Time, information, resources. The trifecta of shortages that kept the war chief’s mind occupied was always the same. Time was always against them, the uncertain deadline of Galatia’s army forcing the tribe and their allies to assume they could arrive at any hour. Resources seemed plentiful after sacking Therucilin and the reports from the Giant’s portended a bountiful crop, but it wouldn’t be enough to have food, weapons, animals, and warriors for this year or even the next. Oberon knew that once the South arrived, it could take years of hit and run fighting to dislodge them, years when farming, hunting, building, and training would be replaced with running, hiding, and killing.

  Information was his greatest concern because he felt it was the only challenge they should be able to control. Coordinating the efforts and needs of six races across hundreds of miles of untamed wilderness was a task they needed to master to have a chance of mustering forces in precisely the right place at precisely the right time to leverage the land and the weaknesses of an army they had yet to encounter. An army that will outnumber us. A force that has concurred the world.

  The soft sound of feet on sand brought him to attention and the concerns he battled in his mind gave way to the figure of the Elf where the mist from the lake and the steam from the hot springs shrouded the beach, obscuring the horns of his helmet and the red interlocking plates of armor. Oberon wore what he would wear to war and he felt the familiar weight of his bow and the comforting presence of the daggers on his belt. He bowed in the moonlight where it mixed with the rising sun without taking his eyes off of Rebus whose own bow was made threatening by the horns that pointed toward the Cherub. They paused for a brief moment of respect; respect for each other, respect for the training, and respect for the purpose of their efforts. The sound of wind on feathers reached the duo as the Blood Born began to descend through the trees, homage to the importance of their training dictating that the training ground should be their first stop of the day.

  Oberon stepped back, and his mind cl
eared once again. His hand went to the sword on his hip, a three-foot masterwork of folded steel crafted by the Nymphs under the tutelage of the Elves. Ignatius had perfected the technique for smaller swords designed for flight and they had used the volcanic sand from his favorite locations to make a full-sized version for Oberon. The war chief drew the blade and raised it over his head as Rebus had taught him, assuming a fighting stance that had been modified from the ancient method of the Elves. Centuries of training had made the pointy-eared warriors masters at rooting themselves to the ground, using their footwork to keep the balance they needed to strike with power at angles their opponents could not deflect. Many of these lessons applied to the Cherubim but, because of their wings, staying rooted to the ground was a rule they could break.

  Rebus looked like a dragon with his horns, vapor from his breath rising like smoke from his moon shaded features. Each warrior paused for a moment of tense possibility before Rebus began to circle. Oberon pivoted his front foot to follow the Elf’s motion, wings extended halfway so they could pull him in or push him out. He recognized the Elf’s attack when it came, perfectly powerful moves coming in rapid succession in a linear attack designed to off-balance a ground bound opponent. Sensing it was too easy, Oberon parried the moves in a seamless flow, ignoring the temptation he felt to fly over attacks he believed would allow him to finish the master. A trap.

  But there was no trap; just a basic sword form that the Cherub had learned so early in his training that he assumed the master would only use it as a feint. Oberon’s responses were crisp, his speed matching Rebus’ perfected form. He pushed on his opponent’s sword, the extra strength of his wings driving the Elf’s larger frame back so that his feet skidded across the sand before digging in. Oberon squatted low and pushed up, sending Rebus onto his heels. The tiny off balancing put the Elf ever so slightly off his form in the ensuing attacks and Oberon uncoiled one attack into the next with controlled yet ferocious passion, feeling the balance his wings brought to his movements. The Cherub had learned enough from the Elves over the previous year that his form, when combined with his wings and speed, made him too much for the Elf.

  With his attacks slightly ahead of the ancient warrior, Oberon pressed himself in, hooking the hilt of his sword under Rebus’ own and lifting it over his shoulder where the Elf couldn’t cut him. Oberon knew that, normally, a ground bound fighter would take this opportunity to knock his opponent to the sand in a powerful throw but, because of his wings, the Cherub didn’t need to. Instead he jumped into the air, sliding the flat edge of his blade up along the Elf’s arm until he felt it connect with the throat. He landed behind the master, facing the water, in a crouch, feeling the mists swirl around them and the coolness of the sand as his mind returned from emptiness. Sad that someone can be killed, their ideas and thoughts can be destroyed, because their body isn’t as strong. He thought for a moment, blue eyes locked on the reflections of the sky in the placid water, about thousands of years of ideas that would have been bleeding out of Rebus neck had he used the sharp side of the blade. He remembered the Angel’s castle where Sequoia was learning to unlock the knowledge of writing, so the death of an individual didn’t mean the death of his ideas. Finally, he turned to face the master and the duo bowed once again before Rebus spoke.

  “Don’t anticipate. Warriors with less training won’t follow the forms I have shown you. If you anticipate an untrained warrior’s attacks you may defeat yourself.”

  “Thank you,” he answered, looking past the Elf to the dozens of Cherubim who now surrounded the training ground. Each one represented an independent killer; deadly self-contained assets who could single handedly tip the scale in any battle. “Will they be ready?”

  “Of course not,” answered the master quietly. “It is war.”

  Of course not. Oberon knew he hadn’t been ready when he had gone into battle.

  “But they will be more ready tomorrow than they were today,” added the Elf before turning from the chief to begin the morning practice.

  The Cherub joined the others for a time, endlessly drilling along with fighters of all ages. Many of them had trained for the old fights in the village and had an instinct for the positioning and aggressive attacks that the new training required. In previous years they had rehearsed kicks and punches until their form was perfect but now their hands held wooden swords, blunted tomahawks, and rounded spears. Here and there Rebus moved, guiding those who demonstrated enough control to use live blades; the numerous cuts the Cherubim suffered testified to the fact that Rebus was rushing their training. Better rushed training than no training.

  Late in the morning, when the male and female warriors transitioned to training to block arrows with their bracers, Oberon moved down to the lake and jumped into the cold waters to wash away the sand that had accumulated on his sweat drenched skin. The frigid lake felt good on his hot body, and he shook his wings in it before returning to the beach for his vest, headband, and weapons. He had been training for hours already but his day was just beginning and the gemstone reminded him of the weight of responsibility. Training is easier than worrying about the needs of the tribe. He took one last envious look at the fighters who would represent the core of their army in the coming battles and shook his head. Silly to envy warriors because they don’t have to worry that their decisions will kill others.

  Walking away from the training grounds he carried his moccasins so that he could wipe the sand from his wet feet in the forest leaves on his way to the council chamber. He found Hadrian there, beneath the great trees that grew among the boulders. The South-Man sat with his back against a trunk while Oberon pulled on his clothes.

  “You won’t beat them,” said the Man, “but I wouldn’t want to be in the phalanx that comes into this forest to root you out.”

  Oberon looked up at him, wondering if a captive’s conversion could ever be trusted.

  “All tribes have a price they refuse to pay,” answered the chief.

  “Not Galatia.”

  “Perhaps no one has ever made them pay a high enough price.”

  Hadrian crossed his short arms and cocked his head with a subtle grin.

  “Perhaps. But they are patient as well. Have I ever told you how they conquered the Mermen?”

  Oberon leaned back, feeling the warm fall sun dry his hair. He took a drink of water from the skin he carried before answering.

  “What’s a Merman?”

  “A man who lives in the water. Instead of legs he has a fish tail.”

  “Where do you find these waters?”

  “In one of the countries Galatia conquered. All of the tribes of that land surrendered except the Mermen, thinking that the invaders couldn’t follow them into the lakes and rivers where they lived. They resisted for years, striking men who approached the water with stones and dragging them down to drown.”

  “I can see how our mountains, our forest, are like the Mermen’s water. How where they overcome?”

  “The same as it always is with the South. Divide them, give them the choice between the blade and trade.”

  “But how do you divide a people that lives in the water?”

  “Very slowly. They built damns to trap a few of them in shallow water, then they captured their children and raised them in ponds. For generations they raised them, training them to fight their own ancestors. Then when they had enough, they armed them with better weapons, steel weapons that could not be forged in the water and sent them into the deep to wage war against their own kind.”

  Oberon furrowed his brow, trying to image the ruthlessness that could drive a people to such cruel patience, such control.

  “The Merfolk in the lakes and rivers didn’t stand a chance against the steel weapons. One by one their clans fell until there were none who weren’t loyal to the South. Once there was a big enough army, they began to attack the Mere-People in the oceans.”

  “Some must still resist?”

  Hadrian shrugged. “Perhaps, in the deep c
orners of the seas some still hide, but the world does not grow larger. Now the Merfolk are addicted to steel they must get from land dwellers.”

  Oberon nodded, the story too abstract from his reality to sway him from his course. Over the months that Hadrian had been with them there had been many such stories. Stories of the Elves, the Yeti, the Caiporas, and others. Hadrian had always pointed out the places where these tribes lived, scattered across the massive map, and Oberon had thought how strange it was that the Cherubim could be added to the list. Just another conquered people. The human tribes that were taken into the Galatia’s empire always seemed to fair better than the others. Hadrian said this was because it was easier for them to be absorbed into the South’s culture, to lose their outsider status.

  “I would like to see a Merman someday,” said the Cherub, scrambling to his feet before his muscles could tighten.

  Hadrian shook his head sadly before making his way off around the lake towards the forest where he would advise the Plainswatchers and work with the Nymphs where they were building living walls that would be petrified into defensive fortifications around the eastern rim of the lake. Oberon headed towards the council chamber where he would meet with scouts, messengers from the other races, and the Elders. The thought of the Nymphs turned his mind to Ignatius and he walked slowly, trying to feel the earth beneath his feet while he took time to gather his thoughts.

  Word had come with the Nymphs that Ignatius was alive and that it was through his efforts that Taragon had been swayed to send the full force of his people to join in the war effort. The Nymph leader wouldn’t say what it was that Ignatius had done to move him to commit to the complete unification of the North and Oberon had been left guessing, not knowing when or if the renegade warrior would return. Though he was grateful to have five-hundred new fighters, fighters who were deadly fast and knowledgeable of the forest, he couldn’t help the growing anger that he felt for Ignatius. Focusing on the resentment he felt for the warrior he needed by his side he was distracted from his footfalls and lost track of the present moment, finding himself at the entrance to the Council’s cave without noticing the journey that had taken him there.