While the thought was still in his mind he heard a sharp crack, like the banging of a gong. He turned to see the knight who had been standing at his side just a moment earlier, topping backwards and falling to roll down the layers of reinforcing sand and brick, tumbling back into the fort. A giant-sized arrow, really a spear, protruded from the knight’s chest, extending clean through his back. The spear tip snapped as he tumbled, but Fritigern knew the warrior was dead. His head snapped back to the battlefield, searching for the source of the projectile. He saw it there on the road at the base of the slope where it had been concealed by the soldiers. A ballista. The Elves had warned him of this device, capable of launching an enormous arrow with tremendous power, but in their focus on the tip of the phalanx, they had missed it. Fritigern knew the knights were a precious, powerful, battle changing element of his force. And I allowed him to be killed.
He didn’t have time to dwell on the loss. Instead he compartmentalized the pain, shrugging off the guilt for now and focusing on the wooden structure that was now approaching their position. It was a v shaped device made of two great wooded pieces hinged together by leather straps. Each piece was made of freshly hewn, thick cut beams that had been nailed together with smaller timbers that could not be broken with stones. Fritigern’s mind raced to imagine how the device would be used.
“Yeti!” shouted one of the archers who had been at the battle the day before and had seen one of the great creatures cut down by Wotan and a Giant knight.
The Dwarven commander caught flashes of monstrous looking curved horns and hot breath steaming from the fanged mouths of the beats through the slats in the great ladders. Here and there an arrow poked its way through and a roar emitted from the enraged Yeti, but the V shape of the hinged ladders and marching rows of soldiers that preceded their approach prevented the defenders from slowing their attack. Should we attack? The idea of charging down to assault the Yeti and their improvised ladder seemed insane, but less insane than fighting the men who would use it to climb up and onto the battlements. Fritigern could see spikes protruding from the underside of the device and was certain they were intended to help secure it to the battlements.
A shout from down the wall prevented him from making any decision about what to do. He followed the outstretched finger of one of the Cherubim and saw that the catapults had launched a fresh round of stones intended to clear the battlements of any defenders. The Cherubim were already taking flight, up and out of harm’s way, while the slower Dwarves were just beginning to respond.
“Move!” he shouted, scrambling to move laterally down the wall without taking his eyes off the approaching boulders. Some of the Dwarves dove back down after the fallen Giant, crawling and jumping back down the uneven sand and stone behind the wall. Others ducked behind their shields or tried to run with their Commander to the sides, out of the impact zone. The stone exploded into the wall behind Fritigern, shaking the warriors from their feet and sending shattered debris into their eyes. A solitary archer who had been two slow was cut in two by a jagged piece of the battlements while another was crushed by half of a stone that splintered off on impact. Dazed, the defenders got to their feet, and tried to reassess what to do next.
Fritigern could see the Yeti were now too close for the catapults to fire another volley, but his forces were in disarray. He watched in horror as the intensely powerful, fur covered creatures lifted what was surely an incredibly heavy burden over their heads. They propped the twin ladders flat, so the V shape lay flat against the rubble that protruded from the shattered gate. The slotted construction of the ladders made it easy for soldiers from the phalanx to grab ahold as they jumped and climbed there way onboard. Beneath them, the Yetis began to heave the front of the siege device up, inch by inch.
“To the wall!” he shouted at the reserve forces back in the fort. He could see the Men there as well as his archers dashing up the stone stairs and climbing up the backside of the wall in an effort to follow his order. Turning, the Dwarf picked up a battle axe that some warrior had dropped and jumped up onto the wall, preparing to fill the breach when the Yeti made it possible for the men to begin climbing up the double wide ladder into the fort. He could see the Yeti each time they hoisted the beams and slid them higher towards his position. Looking at their violet eyes, savage complexions and white winter coats, with the golden shields and short swords of the Men menacing him from above, he knew the only choice a free warrior had in the face of such beasts and committed soldiers was to rage, rage into the storm that was breaking over his fort.
“AYYYYYYRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”
He felt the war cry giving him power and he raised the axe over his head, shouting his defiance against the unstoppable enemy at his gates. He saw the look of doubt come across the faces of the foremost soldiers on the great ladder and prepared to jump down between them to have it out before they could crest the wall.
Then he felt the rush of wind as Cherubim flew past his shoulders like arrows from heaven. Children though they were, their vicious little forms had timed their dive perfectly and they shot through the gap between the sandy debris the great ladder just as the Yeti hoisted it open. Fritigern heard the screams from below as the little Blood Born warriors attacked the great beasts in the confined space beneath the ladder. Sensing the approach of the ladder had stalled, the foremost soldiers jumped at Fritigern.
His axe caught the first in his helmet, crushing it in and caving the man’s skull. Fritigern didn’t have time to strike such a powerful blow against the second man, but rather pushed against his shield, sending him toppling sideways off the ladder. Arrows were coming in now, hitting the men on the ladder as they tried to scramble the last few feet up to the battlements where the wooden hand holds they had been climbing hadn’t yet reached. Swords slashed down from Fritigern’s comrades, blows struck by Northmen with the Southlander’s own swords. How long can we hold them here? Beneath the ladder an epic struggle was going on between the little Cherubim and the Yeti and Fritigern knew that they couldn’t hold out forever.
Suddenly the ladder jumped up and smashed down into place, its great hooks digging into the stony rubble that now covered the battlements. The Men pushed harder now, and Fritigern cut down two, then four, and five before he saw the great broadsword of a knight swing in with a sweep that cleared the upper part of the ladder. He stepped back to let the Giant do his work and looked to where two of the four Cherubim who had attacked the Yeti were fighting their way out from beneath the ladder, covered in blood. One of their wings was broken and the other limped, but two more of their fellows were soon flying down, fighting to defend them so they could escape off the sides of the cart path and inch away across the steep slope. Ropes were lowered and the Cherub with the broken wing was hoisted while the others flew back to the safety of the fort. Fritigern looked on at their heroism but knew in his heart that the loss of two Cherubim and the wounds of the others was damage that could not be undone.
Looking back, he could see the Giant was being overwhelmed, his sword finally getting bogged down by the bodies of the men, and still on they came. They swarmed the battlements, hurling themselves onto the defenders, smothering their weapons while still more of them forced their way up the ladders. Then the Giant was down, and the Men began to flood down the backside of the wall, hemmed in on the two sides by the archers who continued to fire there and the Cherubim whose battle prowess could not be matched. Just when Fritigern thought all was lost, he heard the pounding of hooves and saw Brogdar’s forces charging down through the fort and smashing into the men, driving them back up the stones. With them came the three remaining knights and three Giants, the knights slicing Men in two with their swords and the unarmored Giants clubbing or simply knocking soldiers aside with their massive power.
The knights cut their way through the men to reach the wall and, lifting together, the three of the them hoisted the great ladder in an incomprehensible feat of strength. Men toppled backwards from the wooden rungs
and a few brave soldiers tried to cut into the Giant’s armor, but they were soon filled with bolts. With a humongous crash the ladder toppled sideways and split in two, tumbling down the steep slope with parts breaking off as it rolled to a stop far down the approach to the gate. There was no time for celebration as bloody, hand to hand combat erupted in the courtyard. Fritigern found himself dueling with a fiercely competent old soldier, the look of resolve in his eyes over his shield telling the Dwarf that this one was a fighter to the end. He almost felt sorrow for the Man when, without the protection of the phalanx, he was killed from behind by a Cherubim’s tomahawk. Fritigern dashed forward, fighting his way towards the battlements where the soldiers were still trying to gain a foothold where they could drop ropes to their fellows below.
The fifteen Blood Born youths who could still fight proved to be too vicious for the Men who had made it into the fort, and together with the Centaurs, Fritigern’s forces had soon retaken the wall. He joined them there, watching the retreating men as his archers peppered them with arrows, and listening to the shouts of his victorious students turned warriors. Even as they celebrated the young master began to tally the dead in his mind and looked to where the Southlanders continued to build new siege weapons. Two Cherubim lay dead beneath the wall with the twisted bodies of several Yeti and he knew that the cost to repel just two waves of Southlanders had been far too high. What will come next? Looking out over the Canyon Lands and the retreating soldiers he knew that his little beleaguered force couldn’t hold out until winter. Perhaps not even another day.
Chapter 18
A tlas was watching the plains. The freezing fall rain dripped down in front of his face at irregular intervals as it soaked through the course wool cloak he wore to fend off the chill. He shook his shaggy brown beard briefly and adjusted his long brown hair so he could get a clearly view of the misty, rain drenched plains. Returning his hand to his sword hilt he was once again still save for his thumb rubbing the red gemstone embedded in the hilt. Breathing deep from the decaying forest that surrounded him, he strained to see something, anything, moving out there to the east, and thought about his father. Parfey had made a path for him and now he was extending that trail for his people, but he would never get to ask his father if he had been as conflicted as Atlas had become since the South had returned. He might not have had the answers but at least I could have asked. Atlas knew the real value of his tribe, the Giants themselves, had escaped into the forest, but it was hard not to feel like everything Parfey had built had been lost when the South took over their village.
Scanning the dark grey skies, he was thankful that the Riders had enabled them to evacuate their food and possessions to Devil’s Lake; the South would pay dearly if they tried to follow them there. While he was thinking about the black lake where the last remnants of his race were trying to rebuild their lives, his owl suddenly looked up from its place of slumber on his shoulder. He had named her Catori and had grown to trust her instincts, especially at night when she was always on watch. Now, Atlas followed her hardened gaze, certain that he would see what he had been searching for. Out of the mists came two great shadows, the catbirds that gave his people so much hope, and he watched their ethereal forms gliding over the tops of the trees. The Pathmaker turned to stride through the forest with the power of his ancestors and the hope of his descendants, still wondering what his father would think about this new war that he had helped to start.
The mountains reached out further into the plains here than anywhere else until Forth Hope, many leagues to the North. Atlas moved past pines and groves of blood red aspens but also great slabs of triangular stone that erupted up out of the forest. This landmark was where he had told Bennu he would meet him when the Cherub rider had come to alert his people that the South was approaching. Now, walking past the Giant youth that guarded the approach to camp, he found his raiding party nestled in a cave that had formed beneath a natural arch when a piece of the arch had broken away. The drifting mists and ceaseless rain coupled with the pointed pillars and slabs of stone that jutted out of the forest gave the place an ominous feeling. The setting reminded Atlas that he and his tribe were separated from the warmth of a hearth and the safety of a home by time and space, by a war with no end in sight.
The Cherubim landed their griffins on the arch and glided down, jumping from stone pillars and running down the faces of stone slabs before alighting just in front of Atlas at the entrance to the small cave. He recognized Bennu’s face, the brown hair and his golden wings, but had yet to meet Fleuron though he had heard of his exploits in taking Therucilin. The Cherub’s black wings were unmistakable and, when he shook the little Blood Born warrior’s arm, he thought he saw something of Donus in him. Better to have them on our side this time. The thoughts of Donus sparked anger in the Giant and he turned to lead the way into the cozy cave without a word.
Seeing his warriors arrayed there, cleaning armor, sharpening swords, and drying their cloaks over a tiny fire warmed his heart. He sat down there among them, watching the smiles and nods on their faces. Seeing their trust, their belief in him, he resolved that he wouldn’t show them his doubts. Taking a roasted turkey leg from the knight Omri he smelled the delicious aroma then handed it to Fleuron. The Cherubim huddled down next to the fire, steam rising from their braided hair, and, while Fleuron ate, Bennu explained what he had seen.
“They are brining great supplies for you,” said the Cherub, taking the turkey leg from Fleuron and biting off a chunk. “Food, weapons, clothing for winter, tents. Mostly food.”
“We need food,” said Omri with a chuckle.
“We will have to take it,” said Fleuron as he fanned the fire with his black wings. The stoked flames illuminated his face, shining off his wingblades. “Four rhinos, twenty cavalry, maybe fifty soldiers on foot.”
“Are they too many?” said a young Giant, clutching his spear and looking around the cave at the fifteen giants and two Cherubim.
“Not for Giants!” roared Omri.
“Well,” continued Bennu through a mouthful of meat, “there are two hundred more men tailing the supply train.”
“An ambush for an ambush?” asked Atlas.
Fleuron shook his head. “Yes, but we will cut down the rider they send to alert the ambushers, and we will guide you into position.”
“And the Centaurs?” said Omri, his long black hair dangling down to get lost in his equally long black beard. The knight was the oldest, most experienced warrior in the cave and everyone could tell from the way he held his sword when he asked the question that it was hard for him to trust the Horse-Men.
“Wotan was wounded in battle at Fort Hope, he won’t make it,” said Fleuron. “Twenty of his bucks are out there,” he motioned towards the plains, “with their eyes on the supply train. They will hit them when you do.”
Omri frowned, a lifetime of fighting against the Horse-Men was hard to forget, but Atlas nodded. He had grown up with the fear of Centaur raids, and had fought against them with Oberon, Donus, and Ignatius. But he had also fought with them in the Canyon Lands and had seen their raids replaced with trade.
“Remember,” said the Pathmaker softly, his hand on Omri’s shoulder, “the South made us slaves, made us believe the Centaurs could not be our friends. The Centaurs trade with us, and now they fight with us. I’ll take them over the Men.” Raising his voice so that he addressed the whole room and slapping Omri on the back he continued. “And if the Centaurs turn on us, I’ll know exactly who to set loose on them.”
“You sound like your father,” said Omri, laughing with the rest of the Giants while the red-tailed hawk on his shoulder stole a bite of his food.
“Enough talk then,” said Atlas to cover the emotion rising in his chest.
Reaching for his armor Atlas eyed two young Giants whose job it was to alert the females waiting in the forest further north that the supplies would be there soon. They dashed out, eager to prove themselves, and began to load the extra supplie
s and traveling clothes onto the pack mules that had carried their heavy armor south. Hopefully they will live to fight their own battles. The protective padding of Atlas’ gambeson felt good, helping to insulate the stiff, cold Giant. He knew that, once the plate armor was added and he began hiking, he would be uncomfortably hot, even in the dreary fall weather. Still, his short tutelage with the knights had made him more comfortable in the heavy armor, and as he donned his helmet, he felt invincible.
The Cherubim returned to their griffins after setting the fifteen giants, including just four knights if Atlas were to be counted, on a northeasterly course across the darkening plains. Despite his doubts about Oberon’s plan to starve the South of supplies, Atlas trusted in the winged warriors. He knew many in his clan thought he was foolish, especially given how his father had been killed, but Atlas’ knew this was the path Parfey would have chosen and so chose to trust the Riders, to trust the Centaurs, and to focus on the real enemy. With the night growing colder and the endless plains melting into a single, rolling void, he was thankful for Bennu’s frequent visits. The Cherub would swoop down and point them a little to the left, a little to the right, guiding them closer and closer to the ambush site. When the Rider finally stopped them, they could smell the cook fires of the camped Southlanders and, as they bedded down in their armor on the cold, wet, grass for a few hours of sleepless waiting, the entire war party tried to trust in the Riders to help them pull off what had to be a flawless raid.
Last Stand of the Blood Land Page 31
