Last Stand of the Blood Land

by Andrew Carpenter

  Pushing thoughts of what he wanted away, he reached the Caipora he had dueled and untied him from the others. Oberon nodded at him in the twilight and thought they did not speak the same language, the Caipora nodded back in understanding. Flexing his tail and stretching the cramps out of his newly freed paws, the captive followed easily as Oberon grabbed the rock-hardened vines and flapped his wings. Together they alighted in a crouched position on the narrow walkway that rose up to the tops of the maple forest. To the west, a full moon was rising over snowcapped peaks. A storm, lit by the moon, was rolling far off to the northeast. Oberon knew a similar storm would soon roll due east, sealing the forest in for the winter and protecting them until summer. To the north, the fires of the village twinkled down in the chasm around the lake. As they watched, the moonlight hit the unblemished layer of ice that had coated the water, reflecting up to light the rocky bluffs. The Caipora reached into his pouch and pulled out his ever-present pipe. Oberon watched him packing it and spoke even though he knew this captured scout could not understand.

  “You don’t see this place as I do.” The Caipora continued his work, drawing out a flint with the awkward help of his damaged tail and his curved claws. “You don’t see that this is the forest where our young collect syrup. You don’t see that fire there and know it is a Nymph forge kept aflame by the labors of elder Cherubim who should be telling stories. You don’t see that empty tree home and know that it’s occupant is off fighting in some strange place instead of putting the seal on a cask of extra food to share with those in need this winter.”

  The Caipora handed him the lit pipe with a cocked head, and Oberon wondered if he could be made to see. He took a draw of the smooth, earthy, smoke, its burning terroir a messenger from a foreign land. He exhaled, watching the smoke drift away out over the lake and dissipate as he feared his people would dissipate into the cold abyss.

  “Can you see what we would build here if we did not have to fight you? Sequoia would give us talking leaves so that we could write our stories. The Giants would sow great fields of food, the Dwarves would build great castles. Together the North would remember the knowledge of the Angels and teach it to our children, safe around our fires at night.”

  The Caipora took the pipe back, looking out on the land with the eyes of a foreigner, eyes that did not see the past that made meaning out of everything that surrounded the war chief. Eyes that could not see Oberon’s imagined future. The Cherub knew this Caipora had come here to destroy him and sitting there in what was once his home, he knew Nestor was right. He could feel a single change in himself. Hate.

  Moving down towards the lake, Oberon knew the scout would make no trouble with his comrades as hostages. Still, he struggled with his hate of the warrior, feeling the anger and rage he felt eroding his confidence that he could manipulate the Caipora to his own ends. Only the thought of a greater victory, a victory his people could be proud of, kept him from considering a simple execution. The stories told around the campfires will be of bravery, not murder.

  They reached the pen that had been created for the Southland women who refused to integrate into the tribe and together with Rebus as translator, the Caipora and Oberon spoke while the new captives were added to the pen.

  “Why,” Oberon asked the Caipora, his anger rising hot at the sight of a pen where before had only lived free Cherubim, “why would you leave your homes to come here and fight us?”

  After a moment of translating, Rebus spoke the answer.

  “They come because the Caipora are the South’s best fighters. Their service ensures their tribe, their kin, are honored, favored with gifts and respect from the Kings of Galatia.”

  “And if they don’t fight?”

  The Caipora answered without speaking. He raised his tail up over his shoulder, pointing the stump towards the cage where his warriors were struggling to find space among the beleaguered Southland women.

  Looking towards the captives, seeing the look of shame covered with a thin veneer of a false warrior’s pride, he knew his hate was misplaced. The tyrants, not those that succumb to tyranny, are the enemy. The chief stood with Rebus and the unnamed Caipora, all of their people’s victims of the South, and he knew the difference between himself and Donus. Donus hated the weakness of the victims as much as much as those that enslaved them. I will not hate the victims even if I must kill them.

  “Ask him if he will take a message to Therucilin for me.”

  Rebus looked down at Oberon, startled. “This cage will never hold Caipora, none will. If you set this one free and leave these alive, it will be your destruction. He will lead them right back.”

  Oberon looked up at the red armor surrounding the ancient pale face of the elf that had trained him and wondered if he could possibly know more than an Elf.

  “They expected to be caught,” said the Cherub, moonlight illuminating the frozen earth and glowing off his grey wings. “Perhaps they planned to escape and destroy the village, or maybe they are here to free the women. Whatever they expected to do, it did not involve carrying a message to the Southlanders.”

  Rebus thought for a moment, his hand resting on his sword hilt, the patient breath of a revenge that had waited centuries condensing inside his mind. “What is the message?”

  “Tell him he has already dueled for his freedom and, if he will carry my message, his brothers will also be allowed to do the same in time. Tell him I respect that he spared me through this custom and that, perhaps, the Cherubim can become the Caipora’s of the North. Ask him to tell the Men that, when the time comes, the North will choose reason instead of death.”

  “You cannot send this message of weakness,” hissed Rebus. “They must know you are willing to do whatever it takes, pay any price. The South has corrupted this race with pipes and herbs and gold and a thousand other addictions with less meaning than freedom. You must be like the Elves, the Centaurs, incorruptible. They must know this.”

  The Caipora watched the discussion from the cage, unable to understand, but suspecting their fate was being decided. Standing nearer, the scout watched on with his violent glowing eyes, his stump of a tale twitching back and forth.

  “We must be incorruptible,” agreed Oberon. “What they must know is that we are another backward tribe that will choose the yoke over the blade. I gamble that sending him will show the Men that we are reasonable so that our swords will teach them to reason with us.”

  Rebus pondered the deception for a moment. After a time, he spoke to the Caipora, relaying Oberon’s words. The Southland scout looked at Oberon in surprise upon hearing that he would be set free if he would carry a message, and in even more surprise when he heard that the message was that the North would one day reason with the South. Still, he nodded, reaching out his tail to grasp the Cherubim’s forearm.

  Once again, the enemies locked eyes, only this time it was a gaze of mutual respect and understanding. With a quick bark to his comrades, the Caipora turned North and dashed away into the night.

  Running with the freed captive to the Northern wall above the village, Oberon steeled himself for the destruction of the Caipora. They must die if we are to live, if we are to stop the South. Watching the creature race towards the mountain passes he would need to cross ahead of the snows, the Cherub wondered if his deception would cause the South to underestimate his people.

  With the doubt of a Pathmaker in his mind, doubt that a third way that had never succeeded could work, he flew away into the night, preparing to take the war to the king that had brought these battles to his homeland.

  Chapter 20

  I gnatius turned his exposed eyes out of the freezing wind, looking away to the northwest. The full moon hung just over the western mountains past Therucilin, lighting up the valley and peaks for hundreds of miles. In the white light, the Cherub could see that snow had taken the northern parts of the valley and blanketed the mountains that separated Therucilin from the plains that ran to the ocean. The snow had not yet reached the great
city of the North, but he could see that the city was engulfed in flames. The dark smoke reflected the moonlight like a monstrous flock of birds hanging over the city and he smiled. Resistance. The Cherub could remember flying down these mountains towards the city with Donus the year before and he regretted that he could not be in two places at once. If Donus were here, we could be.

  Turning his attention back into the rushing wind, he nestled his chest flat against Kaizen’s warm shoulder and looked forward to where pine trees were rushing past. The Cherub could see Sage riding Katana off of Kaizen’s great white wing tip, her bearskin robe wrapped tightly around her, covering her entirely. Behind the Nymph Rider, one of Albedo’s Blood Born warriors sat pressed against her, his wings folded in to protect him from the freezing air. Ignatius felt a hint of possessive anger, then smiled at himself, remembering the scent of the pines when he had held her while their griffins slept above.

  He looked to a second Cherub who held onto Katana’s tail where he used his own wings like a kite, stealing a ride up and over the deep snows of the mountain below. The griffin clutched a third warrior gently in her talons, his wings providing a small amount of lift as he skimmed dangerously close to the tree tops.

  Ignatius knew the warriors were suffering. At this altitude, this late in the year, with the wind generated by the speed with which they flew, it was impossible not to shiver. Behind them, down the mountains that separated the Cherubim’s homeland from the realm of the Dwarves to the North and the plains to the west, the rest of Albedo’s force was struggling through the drifts towards the peak. The Riders knew they would never reach the summit in time, and so suffering was required to air lift them up and over the peak.

  Ignatius turned his head, looking to where Onidas rode his little griffin, Neap, off Kaizen’s other wingtip. The younger, smaller Griffin fit the Dwarven archer. She was submissive and careful, gentle and sweet, a sensitive creature that was perfect for a rider that feared riding although she was too small to carry the same weight as Kaizen or Katana. In addition to Onidas and a single Cherub, she carried only a few sacks of kudzu pods. Hopefully there will still be warriors to eat them.

  Ignatius looked forward, watching through teary eyes as the pines thinned, becoming smaller as they neared the alpine. The snow rushed by, giving way to grey rocks where the wind had swept the mountain peak bare. He could see the shadows of the trio of griffins, moving like great geese in a tight formation through the frozen night. He could see snow crystals drifting across the rocks and his mind drifted with them towards Fort Hope. He thought of his friend, Fritigern, and the young Cherubim training there. Let it not be too late. Ahead he could see the snow flowing off the peak into nothingness and he knew they were about to find out if his decision to disobey Oberon would save their allies.

  The Riders shot over the peak, their griffins gaining a burst of strength from the knowledge that they would soon be descending. The peak gave way beneath them to a dark canyon, it’s walls shrouding the stream that wound down to Fort Hope from the moon that had lit the mountain tops. In the darkness, Ignatius could see bright lights the like of which none of his people had ever dreamed. There, arrayed on the plains where he had walked with Oberon and Donus, sat the Southland army. Their siege weapons looked like great beasts surrounded by torch light. In the air, a series of flaming projectiles arced up and towards the fort, streaking lights in the mountain’s shadows that illuminated a path as they flew.

  As Ignatius watched, one of the trebuchets flared to life as its missile was lit. He could see the projectile did not burn while it sat on the ground, but instead sprang to fiery life when air rushed into it as it flew. The Riders watched the bombs in horror where they smashed into the Fort, balls of fire erupting where they crashed into the ruins of the buildings behind the wall. How can anyone survive in that hell? Even as the thought crossed his mind, Ignatius knew that at least some of the Fort’s defenders must have survived for the bombardment to be necessary.

  Now, with the griffins arcing in a wide circle out over the plains, he could see columns of soldiers moving up towards the fort, their phalanxes converging into a bottle neck where stairs had been built so they could climb directly towards the wall. They looked small, harmless, from this altitude. But Ignatius knew the Men of the South were deadly in their discipline. Pinched between the relentless enemies of fire and Men, he knew that even with the bottle neck caused by the fort’s terrain, no force could hold out for long. But we are Blood Born.

  The Griffins were spiraling now, directly above the battle. He could see his brothers looking to him, could feel the blood lust of the warrior that rode behind him. With a nod towards the others and a squeeze of his legs, he felt Kaizen release the Cherubim he carried, one in each talon. He felt a sudden emptiness behind him as his passenger spread his wings, lifting silently into the air. All around him the warriors were spilling from the Griffins, joining in the spiral. Kaizen could sense the anticipation of his pride, the thrill of the kill. He was a hunter, fearless, and Ignatius drew power from a predator’s ignorance of fear. Limitless will.

  Ignatius longed to push his mount into a dive, to feel the terror in the enemy as the lions of the sky plucked them from the earth. He knew the beleaguered defenders below needed a moments rest, needed a flicker of hope. Need a guardian Angel. The thought took him back to the fight in the Canyon Lands when the Angels had saved him and his comrades. He could still see them circling, diving out of the clouds to bring justice to the invaders. Now, pulling Kaizen out of the spiral and back towards the peaks to retrieve the rest of Albedo’s warriors, he knew the Blood Born were the Angels their forces needed.

  He looked over his shoulder at the diving Cherubim. The air was filled with fire all around them as they plummeted towards the battle, their wings tucked. He lost sight of their angelic forms when the Riders banked up over the canyon, but he could still see them in his mind. They were the best fighters the North had, full grown Cherubim berserkers who had been born for blood with the power of the Angels and the speed of the Nymphs. Just three of them, Oberon, Donus, and Ignatius, had changed the fate of the North. Now eight of them were diving into the breach where Cherubim youths and Fritigern’s students had managed to hold off tens of thousands of Southlanders for days. They will make Donus proud.

  Onidas dropped the sacks of kudzu pods from Neap’s saddle bags into the safety of the canyon behind the fort. Then the three riders nestled themselves down into the protective robes that would shield them from the mountain winds on their trip back to retrieve the rest of Albedo’s force. Ignatius regretted sending others into battle, but he knew the Griffins were serving their purpose and that, in this battle, he could make a more strategic impact as a Rider than as a warrior.

  Flying back into the moonscaped alpine, his thoughts turned to Oberon. The war chief’s weakness had made this airlift necessary. Without Taragon’s forces, Ignatius knew the Plainswatchers had been unable to draw the Southlanders away from the fort, had been unsuccessful at raiding their herd. Rondo had flown to the fort in the first days of the siege and had carried Fritigern’s plea for reinforcements to Oberon. But Oberon had held the forces back, searching for the Caipora, and now Ignatius was forced to intervene. To do what Oberon is unwilling to do. He had found Albedo’s warriors waiting for word, for orders to reinforce Devil’s Lake against invasion or to reinforce Fort Hope as the leaders of the North had agreed. Ignatius had made the decision for them, telling them this was what Oberon had wanted when, in reality, he had not spoken with the chief. Our people must be a weapon now, must be fearless. Ignatius knew Oberon wanted them to be something else, something more than Donus had been, but he had become willing to do whatever it took to save the Blood Lands.

  He felt the wind finding its way through his robes and watched the ease with which the unburdened Griffins glided down towards the tree line on the other side of the mountains. The contrast, between the screams and fires of the battle they had left behind, and the silence and pea
ce of the mountains, was striking. The Cherub knew Oberon saw a future that looked peaceful, but he feared the leader was ignoring the nightmare they must fight through to reach it. He took comfort in the thought of Sage, her kestrel nestled in her bosom, her weapons and forest mind flying with him, and tried to steel himself for the consequences of his choices.

  When they reached Albedo, Rondo was there with word from the castle and from Oberon. He rode Paladin, a big male that kept an uneasy truce with Kaizen as the second most dominant Griffin in the pride. Rondo told Ignatius of the fight with the Caipora, how Oberon had freed their leader and spared the scouts, had sent the Nymphs to aid the Plainswatchers on Fritigern’s flank, and how the other Riders were hard at work training the remaining griffins. When he heard the news, Ignatius looked around the clearing where they had landed. Watching the Blood Born where they sat around their fires, waiting for their turn to ride into battle, he smelled the frozen pines and growled into the darkness.

  “GrrrrrrrrrrrraaaaAAAA.”

  “I know,” said Rondo in agreement.

  Albedo shook his head, his snow-white wings making him appear invisible where they wrapped around his body. “There is nothing we can do about Oberon,” said the Cherub commander. “He is doing his best for the North, we must focus on our fight now.”

  Ignatius nodded, reaching down to pull the commander up into the saddle behind him. He pushed his growing frustration with Oberon’s weakness from his mind, focusing instead on the Riders and what they could do to save Fort Hope in this moment. With four griffins, they could take thirteen Cherubim at once, but he didn’t know how many trips their steeds could make without rest. I guess we will find out.