Last Stand of the Blood Land

by Andrew Carpenter

  He looked back down the lakeshore at the fighters he had left behind. The morning sun was fully up now, and he sniffed at it, smelling the fall leaves and the shifting north wind. He tried to clear his mind again but could still feel his blood raging against the freedom Ignatius insisted on despite the cost to the tribe. With his emotions still roiling, he moved into the large cave that had housed the somber council of elders and now served as the primary planning quarters of the Northern tribes. The once quiet semicircle of ancient Cherubim, who, in years past, would have occupied the carved benches, was replaced with a hectic conglomeration of Nymphs, Cherubim, Giants, a Dwarf, and a Centaur, but no Northmen. At times there were more of the Men, fewer Giants, but Oberon always wished there were more of each race. More means more news. The Northmen were with them, and he trusted Ryogen, Caldera’s father, but the Dwarves were divided. I can count on Fritigern, but Ignatius has hurt us with King Jamais.

  The fires burning in both fireplaces kept the cave uncomfortably warm but provided light by which the various figures could scan maps. If we can hold on a few years while Sequoia learns to write perhaps they will be able to read messages in this room. He moved among the tables, talking to the various messengers and planners, incorporating each new piece of information into the evolving plan that balanced the needs of the various tribes with the logistics of food, weapons, and terrain. He had instructed the elders to build several table sized maps of the Blood Lands after seeing the huge map the Companion Cavalry had used to plan their raids on the Centaurs. One map was always kept up to date with the latest news. Oberon eyed it warily, looking at the massive pile of stones that represented the Southlands. When that one starts moving north we will see if the planning has worked.

  He moved to a second map that was identical to the first. Each night he returned here with Hadrian, Rebus, Hael, Taragon, or anyone whose council he trusted. They would work through endless scenarios, moving Wotan’s Centaurs to pin the Southern army against Therucilin or using the Nymphs in an ambush at the Canyon Lands. Each time, as the mock battles were fought, and an endless series of possible situations played out on the table, the conclusion was the same. Either the South must send a small army, or we must only fight when we can kill hundreds of their warriors for each one we lose. Hadrian had said the South could send fifty thousand warriors or more to the unrulier provinces. The North could only muster a few thousand even including the as yet uncommitted Dwarven armies.

  The chief pushed his curly black hair over his shoulder, thankful that the others respected his need to think. He had an idea he wanted to test out but first he surveyed the situation. The Nymph army was camped in the woods to the east of Devil’s Lake where their warriors were building a series of defensive walls. Further to the east, the crucial crops of the Giants, crops that could sustain the North for a year or more, were nearing harvest. Aram held Therucilin and Fritigern held Fort Hope, loyal allies even if the Dwarven nations south of Therucilin still needed convincing. Far to the North, Caldera’s people were preparing for war, but it would take them weeks to join the fight without more advanced warning. He smiled for a moment at the thought of Caldera and shifted his eyes south to where she would soon be working with the Plainswatchers to prepare traps and keep a lookout for the invaders in the forest. The Centaurs would be massing somewhere out on the plains near Hadrian’s unfinished wall, a wall that was constructed to keep them from sweeping south, waiting for the signal that might come at any time. Since Ryogen’s men had captured the wall, the Centaurs could move through it to strike and then retreat to safety in the North. It’s all working, if only the South will wait. He didn’t think they would come in the dead of winter and so each passing day brought them closer to the protection of the snows.

  “Looking at it won’t stop them,” came Hael’s familiar voice. In his concentration the Cherub hadn’t seen his father enter the cave. The Angel’s bright blue eyes made him seem larger than life, even next to the Giants.

  Oberon sighed. I’d rather keep things the way they are, but I have to change them to get them back to the way they were. He moved the stones representing Galatia’s forces north, sweeping them through the Giant’s fields to cut off the North’s food supply before splitting the army to attack Fort Hope with a smaller force while the bulk of the army moved on to take Therucilin. Thus far all of the experienced warriors had agreed that this would be the South’s plan, to sweep through, divide their forces to capture the forts that could shelter them through the winter, and then to wage a war of attrition starting the following summer. At this point the North usually counter attacked, eating away at a portion of the invading forces in each battle and striking at smaller groups when they ventured out of Therucilin. This time, however, Oberon moved a small portion of their forces south.

  “What would you pull them away from the battlefields for?” asked a Giant knight.

  “To attack their supplies.”

  Hael nodded excitedly. “They will be exposed on the plains. Hitting them there would starve their army.”

  Oberon moved his finger south along the forest to a point where the mountains jutted out into the plains.

  “Can you prepare a weapons and food cache here?” he said to the knight whose head nearly hit the ceiling.

  “I’ll have Atlas send runners to establish a base as soon as I get back,” said the Giant while looking down at the map. “We can send a small force South to hit them where they are exposed, the outpost will serve as their base.”

  Oberon thanked the Giant and studied the board for a while longer, imagining scenarios where the Southlanders were cut off from supplies for the winter.

  “It won’t happen how you think,” said Hael, encouraging his son. “But the same is true for them.”

  “Our fighters are brave,” answered the Cherub, wondering how many wars his father had fought in when the Angel’s protected the Giants and the Dwarves from the Centaurs. “This is our home, that will make a difference.” He said it with confidence, but Nestor’s words came back to him. Will this plan preserve the old ways or am I destroying them?

  That night, as he lay alone in his tree home, he wished Caldera were there to ease his worried mind. Instead he knew she was sleeping on the ground somewhere with the Plainswatchers, tired from a day of trap making and training. He wished there was more game to tide them over until the harvest came in. Instead, he knew that the influx of warriors had pushed the over pressured animals to the fringes of the forest, just as the South had pushed resistance to the fringes of Hadrian’s map. At least fewer deer are setting off our traps. With so much on his mind the young warrior couldn’t rest and the thought that his exhausted body and mind would need to do it all over the next day, the training, the decisions, the wondering, made him worry all the more. Please give us until the harvest. The biggest concern in his heart was that they would come before they were ready, before they had a chance, and he lay awake watching the moonrise over the village thinking about war. How could we ever be ready?

  Oberon sat with Strato and Albedo, young fighters whose capability as warriors, proven at Therucilin, was tempered by a restraint that the chief trusted. Both of the Blood Born warriors had taken wives from the captured Southland females, demonstrating to Oberon that they were willing to find a third way when the reality of war made lesser warriors chose either slavery or monstrosity. The third way is always harder, more complicated. The respect he felt for these two had caused him to appoint them as commanders of two strike forces, each containing seventy Cherubim warriors. As he listened to their reports of the progress their units were making in preparing for the coming battles he was thankful he had delegated command of the strike forces to these fighters and he encouraged them to appoint unit commanders of their own.

  Oberon’s eyes fell on Strato’s tattooed arms where they held the steel heads of his tomahawks as he used their handles to draw in the sand. He outlined the efforts of his unit to create a trail that would allow them to rapidly cross th
e mountains that ringed the north of the forest. The series of platforms, ropes, and camps they had stocked with food and weapons would make it easy for them to move north to strike at the Southlanders when they inevitably lay siege to Therucilin. Then, like ghosts, they would be able to retreat to the safety of the forest to recuperate. Or so the plan goes. They would have to pass through the homeland of the Dwarves, south of Therucilin, and King Jamais was still uncommitted.

  Albedo’s white wings fluttered in the afternoon breeze, catching Oberon’s eye while the second commander discussed the efforts of his unit. Small groups of ten warriors were training to spread throughout the forest and into the Canyon Lands to the northeast, setting up ambush sites and hidden enclaves where they could rest. As these forces became intimately familiar with their individual territories, each group would send runners to create a web of strike forces that would shirk front on conflict with large numbers of prepared, coordinated Southland phalanxes. Instead, they would hit from the sides, the rear, strike at foraging parties, and harry the fringes of larger forces to push or draw them into ambushes and booby traps set in coordination with the Plainswatchers. Or so the plan goes.

  Oberon knew from his conversations with Hael that it would take experience, coupled with skill and planning, for his forces to execute his battle plans effectively. The planning and skill are in place, nothing can be done about the experience. He simply smiled and nodded his approval to the duo before dismissing them with a wave of his hand. He watched their broken rhythm as they glided and bounced down the rocks away from the vantage point high atop the western bluff. From here the chief could see the rising wind kicking up whitecaps across Devil’s Lake. He smiled, admiring the fact that the cold northwesterly wind left calm waters in front of the village, positioned as it was on the northwest corner of the lake with trees to stop the wind. Even if the world swirls, my people can keep calm.

  The thought passed from his mind in an instant when he happened to glance up towards the opposite bluff. There, just over the tree tops, above the horizon, two griffins could be seen making their way towards the lake against the force of the fall wind. Even from this distance he could tell they were too large by far, and something about their shape did not make sense to his mind. Riders? Rising to his feet, the chief watched them shoot over the bluff, wings bigger than those of any Angel powering beast and rider alike effortlessly against the wind. To Oberon’s eye the novel sight looked primal, and for the first time in his life his position in the natural order was shaken. Prey.

  Steeling his resolve, he avoided the temptation to spring from his perch to sound the alarm. Instead he glanced across the ridge to see look outs lighting their signal fires, the message spreading from the east to the village where an orderly defense was being prepared in case the approaching riders happened to be foe. A trained response, not a reaction. He nodded his approval and returned his gaze to the sky. The griffins were majestically terrifying, diving now, swooping across the waves toward the training ground. With his initial surprise replaced by a calm confidence that his people could handle any challenge, the chief took his own dive down the bluff to meet riders on the sands of the lake.

  He arrived just in time to watch the griffins hit the beach and the moment he spotted his old friend, sitting calmly in the saddle, so many of his questions were answered. This is where Bennu and Rondo went, this is where Ignatius has been. He felt rising anger boiling his blood, pushing away his amazement at the size of the animals whose bulk towered over the assembling warriors. His logical mind battled with his pride, the problems the griffins could solve for the North crashing against Ignatius’ lack of communication or cooperation. The icy gaze of the griffin pushed away his emotions and he broke eye contact with the creature before spotting Onidas, clinging to Ignatius back. The fear on the face of the Dwarven archery instructor told Oberon the warrior was still new to flying. His eyes moved to the second griffin and the beautiful blond Nymph who sat confidently atop the smaller mount. Ignatius’ griffin stepped forward aggressively and Ignatius stroked the animal’s feathers before handing the reigns to Onidas.

  The warrior dropped from the saddle and strode forward but did not reach for Oberon’s arm. Oberon locked onto the warrior’s eyes, noting their green depths looked as hard as those of the griffin. They walked together down to the water and sat on a smooth, black stone. They looked together, out across the calm, protected patch of water where the bluffs blocked the wind, toward the whitecaps that rolled away towards the southern shore. Oberon tried to keep calm and present the self-assured face of a leader but he struggled not to look back to the griffins where they had settled onto the sand to eat a meal provided by the Nymph and Onidas.

  “The wind will change soon,” said Ignatius, “and those waves will be crashing on our shore.”

  “The time for metaphor is over. Why have you gone and done this without talking to me first?”

  Ignatius frowned without removing his eyes from the waves. “I took Therucilin for our people, now I have returned with the weapon we need to give the North a chance and still you question me.”

  “We must work together.”

  “I don’t need your permission to find my own path.”

  “If you desire complete freedom you will never have the support of a tribe, a family. You have the freedom to choose what you will bind yourself to, what you will commit to. That Nymph won’t stay with someone who refuses to share a path. Choose your people.”

  “You are making the people weak!” shouted Ignatius.

  Oberon was taken aback for a moment and took a calming breath, trying not to respond to the verbal attack as he would a physical assault.

  “It is not weakness to refuse to do to others what our enemies have done to us. It is strength.”

  “You are unwilling to do what it takes and so I have done it for you. We have riders now, we hold Therucilin, we have the secret food source of the Nymph’s to sustain us through the coming wars because I was willing to do on my own what you will not do for the tribe.”

  Oberon felt the Blood Born rage that he had felt at the wall when he had killed to defend Caldera. He took another deep breath, struggling to ignore the insult so he could lead this warrior and his tribe forward.

  “What food source?”

  “The Nymphs have a plant they call the kudzu that can grow more food than we could ever need, and with the griffins we can get more of these plants if we are willing to betray the promise I have made to Taragon.”

  “You sound like Donus.”

  Ignatius was quiet for a moment, Oberon’s words seeming to snap him off of the path he was on. Oberon watched his friend watching the water and waited for him to speak.

  “Donus is inside of me, yes, but I am learning to calm my mind so that I may listen to that part of myself without being controlled by it. You don’t even listen to that part of yourself.”

  Oberon thought about the brutal warrior that Ignatius had killed the year before, he thought about the monster that he had become and knew that Ignatius was right.

  “He is in me too, perhaps a smaller piece of him than is in you. Sometimes I wonder if it would be easier to have hundreds of warriors like Donus, warriors who could kill without mercy. Then the rest of us, those that hate the killing, wouldn’t need to take part. I think you did the right thing in killing him and we need to keep his ghost from leading us down the path of least resistance in this war.”

  The pair sat quietly thinking about their dead comrade and the part he still played in their lives. The grey clouds had parted over their corner of the forest, warming them and the hard rocks they sat on while the cold north wind, overcast skies on the horizon and churning black lake made the rest of the world seem inhospitable. Oberon could hear Ignatius breathing deeply and knew the warrior was emptying his mind, searching for peace. When the Rider spoke, brushing the feathers in his braided hair over his shoulder, he knew that peace had eluded his old friend.

  “Fritigern says Jam
ais will not fight with us. Let me send one of my Riders to kill him so that he will not turn the other Dwarven King’s against us.”

  “You say they are your Riders. Is that why you have chosen to station them at the castle? So that you can control them outside of your people’s wishes?”

  Ignatius was quiet again, his own anger subsiding as he tried to remind himself that Oberon was on his side.

  “I know I can hold the castle, we have kudzu there. I do not believe you can hold this place if the South attacks here.”

  Oberon looked back at the Nymph and the Dwarf where they sat eating with the great griffins. Some of the Blood Born still lingered to watch the riders from a distance, but most of the village had returned to their duties. I have to lead him. Turning back to his friend the chief decided to set the insult Ignatius’ insubordination had caused aside and make the first move.

  “You have done well for our people, and these griffins and the kudzu may tip the tide for the North. I understand why you are at the castle and not here, I want you to keep command there. Can you work with us, can you follow my plans, if you are to be the captain of the riders?”

  Ignatius frowned, clenching his fists, but nodded just the same.