Atlas awoke soaked and shivering, his armor covered in a thick coating of frost. It was still pitch black on the plains and the steady rain had given way to snow flurries that the Pathmaker could just make out as they wafted down to the brown prairie grasses. All around him the others slept, great boulders partially concealed by the grass. Next to him Omri lay with his hands behind his head, scanning the sky for the Riders whose coming would herald the hour of the attack.
“I remember,” whispered the knight, “countless nights like this with your father. The cold, the anticipation, the years away from family. And through it all, he never complained, always remembering he did it for the tribe.”
Atlas hung on Omri’s words, picturing his father here with them in the dark, waiting to ambush Centaurs.
“And he was fierce,” continued the knight. “Powerful, a thing of nature in battle. Just as you will be.”
The young Giant didn’t reply. Laying there, shivering, and staring up at the punishing fall night, he tried to picture delivering these supplies to the Giants he had led into rebellion, tried to picture being like his father in battle. He could see himself as that being in his mind, and he held onto the warmth of it until he heard the soft flutter of wings. The two knights rose creakily to their feet, shaking life back into their limbs and hating the wind while they roused the others. We are exhausted, half frozen, and few. But we are Giants.
“Their cook has lit the first fire,” said Bennu. From the back of his Griffin the little Cherub could look down at the Giant and Atlas could see the golden glow of his steed’s eye through the darkness.
“The Centaurs?”
“They are with us.”
Looking off to the South Atlas spotted the cook fire through the slowly falling snow and noted how quiet it had become, almost beautiful, now that the wind had gone still.
“Fleuron is taking care of the sentry.”
Atlas nodded and, with a single look back at Omri who roused the others, started to move towards the beacon out across the plains. He could hear the frost covered grass crunching underfoot and winced. Nothing we can do about it. The air swirled overhead as the Griffin took off into the night sky and then they were alone; a small column of big warriors heading towards battle without a sound save for the odd squeak of armor and the crunching of their footfalls. The Pathmaker had never felt so alive, so coiled, and he relished the chance to raid instead of being raided. He lost sight of the fire for a time when the roll of the plains took them down, but when they reappeared he could smell the fire again and make out wagons. Lifting his visor, he could see their timing was perfect, with the plains just light enough for an attack but without the approach of dawn to wake the enemy. He broke into a slow trot. He was less concerned about staying concealed, anyone in camp could see the conspicuous Giants now, and more concerned about closing the remaining hundred yards before archers could target the unarmored members of his party. When he had taken twenty loping steps he hit his stride, bearing down on the tents outside the circled wagons.
Sensing the coming fight, his owl took flight even as shouts began to breakout from the cook and a lone rider could be seen galloping away to the southeast. The last thing he saw before he dropped his visor was a griffin diving out of the clouds, flakes swirling around the Cherub and his steed, and the outstretching talons as they dove towards the rider from behind. Then his world was reduced to a slit and he no longer felt the cold, just his own hot breath and the plunking of arrows as they bounced off his armor.
He didn’t even draw his sword when he bore down on the first two soldiers. The first crumpled as his knee pushed forward, connecting with the man’s face and crunching his helmet down through his nose and cheekbones. The second soldier prodded him with a spear, but the Giant’s momentum overwhelmed the man and he fell backwards where Atlas stomped on his unarmored face, killing him instantly. He could see the wagons now, assorted tents with archers between him and them, and he drew his sword with a bellow.
“BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”
Out of his peripheral vision he spied a grey form rounding the wagons, charging towards the unarmored Giants following in his protective wake. Planting his foot, Atlas pivoted towards the threat, sensing the other knights continuing on towards the archers. He could see the Rhino now, it’s breath melting the snow in the air as it ran, its horn lowering to brush parallel to the grass where it could thrust upward to knock him into the air. A wild-eyed shirtless soldier, wielding twin short swords, was mounted on the unarmored beast and shouting his own battle cry. But Atlas didn’t hear the cry- he was focused on the animal. To Atlas, the soldier looked insignificant in comparison with the great horned Rhinoceros that outweighed the Giant by a thousand pounds or more.
Storming forward, the knight raised his father’s nine-foot broadsword over his head and, striking down with all his might, drove the blade into the forehead of the charging animal directly between its ears. The force of the strike buried the blade in the creature’s skull and drove its great head into the earth while lifting its hind quarters into the air and launching the rider directly at Atlas. The Giant drew back his shoulders, plunging his head forward, and head butted the man directly in the chest while the man’s swords clanged off his helmet. The soldier’s chest caved around the steel helmet, his legs smashing into Atlas’ chest plate as blood sprayed out from both Man and rhino, covering the Giant in a mist of red.
Despite the mighty blow and the loss of its rider the rhino fought on instinctually, rearing its head and wrenching the embedded blade from the knight’s grasp. Simultaneously, with the body of the Man tumbling down to his feet, Atlas looked up to see a second rhino and rider charging at him from around the edge of the encampment. Between the charging foe and the writhing rhino he knew he was hopelessly out of position and, in desperation, punched the rhino in the face and tried to withdraw his sword. Too slow.
Then, just as he braced for the impact of the second rhino, he heard a scream from above and saw Fleuron hit the other Man just before his griffin’s talons raked the rhino’s head, slicing towards the eyes and diverting the charging creature. Saved for the moment, Atlas turned his attention back to retrieving his sword. That he had allowed it to be taken from his hand was a subconscious blemish on his honor that he didn’t have time to dwell on. One of Fleuron’s tomahawks buried itself in the Rhino’s eye and the animal began to thrash all the more violently, rearing up and dislodging the great sword when it landed. Knocked to the side, Atlas rolled towards his sword, sliding in the snow slicked grass, and came up to bury the point of his blade in the Rhinoceros’ shoulder. With the animal finally slumping to the earth, he turned in time to see Fleuron finishing the rider with a slice of his wing blade.
The Cherub flew into the air and caught ahold of his circling steed. Atlas pulled the little winged warrior’s tomahawk free and tossed it to him, watching him snatch the handle deftly from the air. Then, his heart pounding, the knight turned back towards the main fight. He could see the Centaurs engaging the cavalry soldiers in an attempt to keep them from even reaching their horses where they were picketed just to the west of camp. The Giants were hard pressed, several of the unarmored warriors were down. The men were getting organized now, more were fully armed, and they were forming up into small shield walls and groups to try and isolate the raiders. Some of the younger Giants were getting tangled in the tents and, losing their mobility, were far less effective and far more vulnerable to the archers shooting at them from on top of the wagons.
Atlas dashed towards them, taking a small group of Men by surprise, and cut through two warriors with a single swipe of his sword. The others ran, and he rushed on to help unite his scattered troops. Arriving just in time, he cleaved another solider that was about to smash a club onto a downed Giant. Sheathing his sword on his back, the Pathmaker squatted low and lifted his comrade onto his feet. Taking in the arrow wounds and lacerated shoulder of the Giant, he simply shouted.
“Fight!”
/> The young warrior responded, charging after his leader through the tents towards two more of their fellows who were surrounded by ten soldiers that, keeping their distance like a pack of wolves, were trying to bring the Giants down with spears. Like a herd of buffalo joining a solitary calf, the new forces turned the tide and the four Giants cut into the men that didn’t flee back into the wagons. Now the four of them were running, cleaving any soldiers in their way with abandon. When they reached Omri he was leading five more of their party and Atlas knew the Men in the camp would be completely routed. Just as long as the ambush forces don’t realize what is happening.
He set two of their group to finding the missing members of their party and ordered Omri to lead the four remaining warriors to mop up any remaining resistance. He led the others towards the wagons, most of which already had mules and oxen harnessed for the day’s journey. Atlas was thankful the Cherubim had timed the assault so that their enemies would complete most of the hard work for them and made a mental note to use that tactic in the future. He set his companions to tying the wagons in a line so that his force of fifteen could drive the twenty wagons and still defend their rear should the two hundred Southlanders pursue them as they made their escape into the forest.
While he was surveying the wagons five soldiers ran towards him in terror as Omri’s force closed in from one side, the Centaurs from the other. They paused in the middle of the circle of wagons when they saw Atlas, uncertain of how to escape. He drew his sword and stepped towards them, the blade held at the ready. The men stuttered, stepping backwards away from the ferocious sight only to be hemmed in as their pursuers poured in between the wagons. Atlas watched with grim satisfaction as Omri worked besides the antlered Centaurs to butcher this group of survivors. They men resisted, fighting bravely, but without great numbers, unorganized and leaderless, they were no match for the races arrayed against them. When it was over, neither band of raiders waited to savor the victory. Bennu circled overhead, pointing out over the plains to the east.
“We lead away!” shouted one of the Centaurs.
With that, the Horse-Men ran out of the circle and Atlas knew Omri had been won over. They risk their lives to protect our escape. Within a minute the wagon train began to unwind, the lead team moving towards the safety of the forest to the northwest. They were still loading their injured into the trailing wagons when they started to move. Six of their party worked to scavenge weapons, tents, anything of use, tossing the priceless gear into the now moving wagons. Last came the soldier’s horses, tied in a long string by Giants who were more comfortable with their buffalo than these warhorses. When the long procession finally set off, Giants pushing carts that got stuck and running between wagons to keep each team moving, Atlas looked at Omri where he stood. There was nothing left of the encampment save bodies and a few burning tents they couldn’t load. The Centaurs had disappeared over a rise, and the pair finally lifted their visors.
“We did it,” said Atlas.
“We’re not into the woods yet,” said Omri with a tired grin.
Atlas grinned back, laughing at the reference turned on its head. The Giants didn’t care for the woods, they were too confining for the big race, but now that the South had driven them from the plains, it was home. They set off to help keep the rag tag group on track towards the forest, both warriors now, for the first time, feeling the ache of battle. It was warmer with a blanket of dreary, rainless clouds heralding a more seasonable fall day. The group moved painfully slow and left an obvious trail. As the minutes wore on and the forest didn’t seem any nearer Atlas could only hope that the Centaurs’ skill at drawing their enemies where they wanted them would work today.
For the next hour, and the next, they worked to speed the wagons by retying the lines that guided those without drivers, but they had neither the time nor the expertise to swap out the oxen and mules for horses. In the end, they resorted to pushing and pulling the wagons themselves, taking slight course corrections from the Rider above. With the morning waning, Fleuron appeared skimming along the plains, flying low to the ground to avoid being spotted by the cavalry he had seen closing in from behind. The Cherubim didn’t need to tell Atlas to hurry; he knew that their pursuers had shaken the Centaurs. Survivors must have told them how small our band really is.
Then, with the safety of the forest coming into view and the first Southlanders appearing on the horizon behind them, word came down from the leading wagons that a Cherub had been spotted up ahead. Atlas ran to the front and quickly recognized Andrika where she was running and gliding towards them. She wasn’t alone. Flanking out behind her like a flock of geese were twenty more Cherubim. The Plainswatchers.
Andrika knew they weren’t going to make it, the Giants were moving too slowly. Even though most of the female Cherubim fighters were fighting in support of Fort Hope, preparing to capture the besiegers herd if they could and harrying the soldiers felling trees for their siege weapons, she knew she had to intervene to save the raiding party. Now, racing across the grasses, she felt the safety of the forest, where she had spent her entire life, receding. The memory of the attack on Fort Hope, brutal though it was, gave her confidence that the female Cherubim could be as deadly a force as any in the North. Today is our day. She knew that, despite the contributions they had already made, the female fighters would always have more to prove than their male counterparts.
The Plainswatchers washed over the wagon train, moving around and over the wagons in a flurry of wings and bows. Andrika glided down where the warhorses trailed the Giants, tethered together by their bridals to the last wagon but unsaddled. She picked out a big roan and, walking with it, brushed its face while the steed took in her scent. All around her the Cherubim were letting the war horses get to know them, then untethering them and climbing up to ride the animals bareback. In a flash, Andrika was riding, using her legs to bring her mount around and, with a squeeze of her leggings, set off at a gallop towards the approaching Southlanders. Her wings made it easy for her to stay comfortable and secure as the rolling plains shifted beneath her horse’s hooves. She reached into her quiver and drew an arrow, her eyes noticing every detail from the iron tip to the speckled fletching. She held the bow and arrow with her left hand, her index finger keeping the arrow nocked in place while she raised her right hand over her head, urging her companions on with a high-pitched war cry.
“HAAAAALALALARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”
Her blond Mohawk blustered back in the wind as their speed increased. She locked her eyes on the foremost enemy rider. She sensed an incoming arrow but ducked instead of raising the thick leather bracer on her arm to block it. She knew the bigger bows of the approaching men were more powerful, with a bigger range than those the Plainswatchers carried. She also knew that, if her plan worked, that range would soon be negated. Now, with the force that outnumbered hers by ten to one, she finally loosed her arrow. She didn’t watch as it arced towards the foremost rider but when she drew her second arrow she saw the Man’s horse, the saddle empty, rush past. Standing up on the bare back of the horse, her wings unfurled to hold her in position, she fired another arrow down into a rider as he swiped at her with his sword. The sword forced her to jump, and with her wings pumping, she glided above the unfolding fray.
Rolling to the side she could see a wedge of Plainswatchers driving into the larger Human force. She could see them jumping, gliding, even switching horses in turns as they used their advantage in mobility to inundate the enemy. Landing lightly astride her ride she fired another arrow then deflected a blade with her bracer. We’re over extended. With that thought in her mind and a growing anxiety she felt a shift in her own horse and an anxious shudder run through all of the combatant’s steeds. Looking up, she saw a Man flying through the air, his arms and legs flailing until he smashed into another soldier directly in her path. The rider and horse tumbled to the ground and Andrika’s war trained horse performed a perfect capriole, hurdling them just as Fleuron and his gri
ffin skimmed across the intermingling cavalry forces.
The screech of the griffin, and the sight of Bennu and his griffin tossing yet another soldier up into the air, his armor pierced by sword length talons, caused the Men to stop their charge. Andrika seized the moment and her horse made a flying change in response to twisting guidance from the Cherub. The move rippled back through the Cherubim, sending them off at a diagonal towards the woods. With daggers and arrows flying, they fought their way out of the Southlanders who had turned to focus on the Griffins above. The Men had never seen such a sight even though they knew Xyerston, a Southland commander, had bred his own Griffin’s for war. The sight struck fear into the Men, sewing uncertainty even though they were on the verge of overtaking the Giants and retaking the supplies that would be so critical to their forces.
Andrika was breaking free into the open plains and shooting arrows back over her shoulder at any Men that stood between the other Plainswatchers and escape. Moments later, all twenty were galloping in an arc back towards the Giants, firing as they went, with many of their party riding the horses of fallen soldiers. She could see the front wagon was entering the forest, Giantesses guiding them onto a preordained path and taking over from Parfey’s exhausted forces. The Griffins were climbing now, menacing the riders below even though Andrika knew her brethren Riders could not risk another attack with their precious steeds of the sky. They were circling, higher and higher, shooting arrows but having little true effect.
Seeing that the Griffins were moving out of range, the Cavalry packed together tightly and continued their charge after the wagons. With her horse running full out to stay ahead of them, Andrika couldn’t believe the Southlanders were still attacking. Plainswatchers, Giants, Griffins, and they keep coming. With the Men hot on their hooves the Cherubim handed the reins of their foaming, sweat drenched steeds to a pair of young Giantesses. The Giants led the horses into the trees, following the wagons into the enveloping fall foliage. Andrika fired the last of her arrows at the approaching soldiers to provide cover for her companions as they flew up into the safety of the branches. Then, with one arm deflecting a hailstorm of arrows, she grabbed a line tossed from above. With her wings and a running start powering her, she swung up towards the leaves of a great beech. Alighting on a beam, she felt immediately at home. Moments later she was grabbing a fresh quiver of arrows and a javelin that had been stashed there weeks before and taking off in a dash along the branches. She could see three knights defending the retreating wagons, their great silver frames clogging up the entire trail. The soldiers aimed their mounts around in an attempt to outflank the defenders, taking them off of the trail and through the dense underbrush. Perfect.
Last Stand of the Blood Land Page 32
