Moving to the southwest, cutting across difficult and trap ridden territory, he flew towards a rendezvous point. As he moved away from the front line, he realized how quiet the forest was, how peaceful. He paused, looking back and thinking of his mate, of the Plainswatchers. Looking ahead, he could see Giants and Taragon’s forces preparing for their raid with the help of the Dwarves who would guide them in. Overhead, a flock of Cherubim darted west, heading towards much needed rest after two days of heavy fighting. The sights and sounds of the warriors reminded him of how quickly the tribes had changed while the forest reminded him of how things used to be. Only the very young, or the very old, would be at Devil’s Lake, and even they would be working to organize captured weapons, to tend to the wounded, and to prepare food. Nestor’s words came to him once again, and he knew the blind old elder had been right about change.
Moving to the ground, the war chief walked slowly through the forest. He moved along one of the few safe trails, taking in the forest while heading towards his assembling raiders. He felt the late afternoon sun on his wings and felt the weight of his sword where it rested between them on his back. The war chief smiled, remembering how much time he had spent trying to make the sword fit in addition to his quiver. Caldera had laughed at him, asking if it was the vanity of a new chief or the practicality of a flying warrior that made him fuss. The thought was in his mind as he walked into the gathering of warriors, and he became suddenly mindful of their appearances as he reflected on what he must look like.
The first warrior he saw was a Nymph male. He was young, and when Oberon met his eyes he nodded in a way that told the chief he could count on his blade. A bald eagle sat on the Nymph’s shoulder, which was covered in protective leather. The Cherub nodded back at the warrior, taking in his pointed ears and brown skin, the daggers in his belt and the blowgun on his back. He saw the lean speed in the Nymph’s exposed arms and knew that these people of the forest could move through the trees almost as well as his own and they were just as deadly with a blade.
Stepping forward he passed a Dwarf where the stocky fighter was applying wax to the bowstring of his cross bow. The little fellow looked up with his all black eyes and nodded with grim resolve. Oberon took in the deep-set eyes, frightening in their lack of color, and thanked himself for moving a small force of the warriors from Fritigern’s tunnels out onto the plains and into his forest. Now we will kill even their rest. The Cherub felt respect and support in the nod of this soldier as he looked at his tattoos and the thick leather covering his chest and arms. He knew if these Dwarves were successful the remaining clans would join with them.
He was moving into the heart of the assembling warriors now, and he noticed that they were all nodding, one after another as he passed his eyes over them. His heart sang at the sight of the respect and commitment conveyed in those nods, and he knew they were with him to the end. They were sharpening swords, adjusting pilfered armor to fit new owners, and sharing rations. His eyes fell onto a Giant and a Cherub and, at first, the sign brought a smile to his face. The Cherub was perched on a tree branch above the warriors while the Giant stood on the ground. This brought the Giant’s face directly in line with the winged warrior, and the war chief could see the Cherub was applying war paint and braiding the Giant’s gnarled, curly hair so that it would stay up and out of the way in the coming battle. The pair were talking about their homes, about the coming battle, and about what they would have to eat. The sound of their conversation made Oberon chuckle, but then they spotted him and turned so he could see their faces. So young. The Cherub was perhaps fourteen, the Giant roughly the same age. He recognized the Cherub female from Devil’s Lake where he had seen her playing with youths. The Giant was too young for war as well even though he outweighed even the biggest human warrior by hundreds of pounds. In Parfey’s time, this warrior would have been sent to labor for the Old Alliance for another five years before going to battle. In the old days, the Cherub might not have even left the Castle, where she lived with her Nymph and Angel parents, for another year. Yet here they are. The Giant carried a club, the Cherub a bow and daggers. The smile left Oberon’s face and he felt the weight of the war descend as he considered that his decisions had led this generation of youths to war.
A great hand was on his shoulder then, and he looked up to see Atlas face peering down at him from his open visor, his owl watching from his armored shoulder. The knight’s dark brown eyes reminded him of Parfey and he realized that he and Atlas had still been young when they followed the deceased Pathmaker to war. Atlas looked nearly as big as his father had been and Oberon noted the longsword where it rested on his hip. The Giant nodded, and Oberon knew the young Pathmaker was with him even if it meant sending his own youth into the fray.
Taragon joined the leaders without a word and Oberon realized that the warriors that had assembled for the raid were getting to their feet and stowing their weapons, pressing in to await the command of their chiefs. A white morph gyrfalcon sat on the Nymph’s shoulder and Oberon admired the way its black spots stood out against its white plumage. The tanned leader reached up to a small tube that was tied to the falcon’s leg and pulled out a roll of birch bark. The bark was as white as the bird’s plumage, thin and crisp. Taragon passed the bark to Oberon and the Cherub looked down at the charcoal markings that were etched there. They were beautiful, with shapes laid out in small groups and neat lines.
“What does it mean?” asked Oberon.
“It says, ‘Soldiers, come now, Calma.’”
Oberon shook his head in astonishment. “Sequoia’s work?”
Taragon nodded, and Oberon realized that the chief of the Nymphs and the Pathmaker of the Giants were with him, that they believed in his vision for the North. And here it is, dreams turned life. The written words on the bark didn’t say much, but they spoke a deep meaning for the war chief. He knew this written language was worth fighting for. He knew the warriors that watched now would speak of the talking bark that had allowed a hawk to carry words across the forest and how those words had sent them into battle.
“This is our third way,” he said, holding the bark aloft. “This is the written language of the North.” The warriors crowded in, Giants, Cherubim, Dwarves, and Northmen, craning to see the paper. “Here are words written in a language created by a Northerner. Here lies the seed that will grow into a future for our tribes, together, not as vassals of the South, not as people’s whose only purpose is killing. This is the third way, a way in which warriors can give birth to farmers who will in turn give birth to thinkers, artists, and inventors. We will use these written words to record what it is you do today and why you fought so that your ancestors will know why you fought. Not to destroy the South, not to free the North, but to free the North so that your children can build something greater than we could. We will win a future where free Northerners can be more than warriors, where they can make their ideas into reality.”
All around him he saw the fighters nodding, telling him they could see his vision for the North. With his tribe behind him he led the way out into the twilight of the forest. The fighters fell into a solemn line behind their chief. Their weapons were padded so as not to give away their position and their fur lined boots were nearly silent on the hard-packed snow. Moving northeast, Oberon could see the fires of the main Southland forest lighting up the edges of their great camp. Tens of thousands of the invaders were at work fortifying their perimeter, building fighting positions, and even outlining the edges of what would become forts. They were clearing a wide swath of forest, a defensible road from the plains into the forest where their phalanxes would be effective. Oberon hated the idea of allowing the main force to go un-assaulted, but as his strike force passed within earshot of the soldiers, he reminded himself of his own plan.
He knew his own information about the movements and positions of the enemy were so complete that the Southlanders didn’t even realize that scores of their Men were cut off and lost, trying to make it back to th
e main force. Attacking these Men, with darkness closing in when he could achieve numerical parity, was smarter than harassing the larger force. Oberon knew that Vespasian knew there could only be, at most, a thousand Northlanders defending the Cherubim homeland. Even if the Men took heavy casualties, even if their soldiers suffered traps and poison and terror in the night, they would prevail eventually. Thus, clearing a road, building fortifications, and accepting casualties would win Vespasian the right to say he had conquered the savages of the North. But you can’t conquer nature. Oberon knew Vespasian’s plan would work if he tried it in the spring, but he hoped that the King had underestimated winter.
Oberon forced himself back to the moment, breathing a sigh of relief as the trail arced away from the Southlanders, turning North to cut through dense forest. The brush was thick here and rocky outcroppings made it difficult to take a straight trail. The Cherub, however, had hunted these hills many times, and the game trail he followed was intimately familiar. He recognized trees where he had scanned for game, side trails that led to trout streams where he had fished hidden pools, and thickets where deer he had shot had laid down to die. He knew the smell of the woods, the sounds of the birds, and the long shadows cast by the setting sun did not scare him. They fear the forest at night because of predators like me. He paused instinctually, feeling the warrior behind him bump into his feathers. Looking up, he saw a Cherubim Plainswatcher perched in the crook of a gnarly ponderosa pine. He felt the column behind him go silent, two hundred ears straining to catch the sound of the enemy. It was too dark for him to make out the details of the scout’s face, but from her body language, Oberon surmised the soldiers they were hunting were just over the top of rocky outcropping that hid their own force from the gully on the other side. The Cherub motioned with her hand, indicating that the enemy was indeed on the other side of the hill. Then she began to flash her hands open and closed, spreading her fingers to indicate the number of soldiers. Her hands flashed once, ten, twice, twenty, over and over, until she stopped at either one hundred and ninety or two hundred ten, Oberon had lost count. He knew she was estimating as well and he began to wonder if one hundred of his own forces would be enough to wipe out all two hundred of the enemy.
The war chief waited there, one hundred of his forces suspended in bated anticipation, wondering what to do. He knew they had the advantage of surprise, of mobility, and that the enemy was cut off. They could surround them, hit them from all sides including from the trees, and they had Giants. Still, he hesitated to commit such a large number of his warriors when he wasn’t completely certain. As he was thinking, he heard a faint flutter above and saw one, two, three Riders dart overhead. Their presence gave him confidence and he realized that, in war, there was no certainty. He had maneuvered his pieces to take every possible advantage, and now he had to roll the dice.
Oberon turned, signaling every other warrior to his right or left so they could flank out around the hill and surround the enemy camp. They moved, swift and sure as only forest dwellers could, their feet crunching softly through the hardening snow. When two thirds of his force had spread out, Oberon signaled the remaining warriors to follow him directly up the ridge towards the tree where his scout was waiting at the base of her lookout pine. It was getting dark now, the sun having set completely while they hiked, so that the forest took on a haunted half-light. In the dimness, he could see the beautiful features of the Cherub warrior, her shaved Mohawk, the bow that looked so natural on her back. Her arm was tied up across her chest, wounds covering her shoulder, leg, and face. Such grievous wounds, but she stayed at her post. He imagined the ambush gone wrong that had given her these injuries, thinking about her courage and the countless other Northerners who would be marred for life. Oberon tore his eyes from the female who had turned so quickly into a warrior and scanned the clearing below. He could see hundreds of Men trying to set up camp in the falling light. It was obvious they were lost, tired, and disorganized. Perfect.
“Can you gather more Plainswatchers to serve as reserves?” he whispered to the scout.
She shook her head no, drawing a tomahawk with her good arm and gritting her teeth.
“Go.”
“You need every fighter, the Plainswatchers will never make it in time.”
Oberon grinned at the disobedient young female, realized the Plainswatchers had an independent streak he would never fully contain, and caved. He nodded, saying no more as he turned to watch his warriors dispersing out along the ridge. Below, the soldiers were starting fires and pitching tents, cooking food and preparing to post guards. So far, the alarm hadn’t been raised.
Drawing an arrow from his quiver, Oberon nodded to a nearby Northman who pulled a torch from his back and used his flint to start it. The war chief touched his arrow to flame, igniting the pitch that had been smeared there. Taking aim, he fired the projectile on a tight arc, down into the camp. The path of the flaming arrow was obvious, cutting its way through the night sky until it connected with the tent below. Suddenly, dozens of flaming arrows began to rain down in response to his signal arrow, embedding themselves throughout the densely packed soldiers and starting their tents on fire.
Oberon watched the surreal scene with sad resolve, suddenly realizing the feelings that were running through the Southlander’s minds. His hand went to his face, touching the black and blue war paint there, then to his sword poking up above his wings like a horn. Monsters. Here they were, these Men of the South, thousands of miles from their homes, surrounded by strange and terrible enemies, lost in the forest as night was falling. The Cherub knew the character of the professional soldiers, he knew their blood bond to each other, their trust in the Man fighting next to them, would give them courage. But only for so long. He thought of Ryogen, Caldera, they too were Men and Northmen were not so different from their smaller brethren. The war chief knew that Cherubim weren’t so very different from Men either, and for a moment his heart ached for his enemy. Empathy makes it harder.
Then he saw the Cherub youth, the female who had been braiding the young Giant’s hair. She was taking flight on his left flank, joining the smattering of Plainswatchers and Nymphs as they climbed into the trees. The young warrior was so small, so innocent and out of place, that his heart hardened, and he knew that even the best warrior must do bad things. Rage makes it easier.
“BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRR!”
His war cry echoed out across the forest and the savage shouts of response from his forces ignited the blood born fierceness of his fathers. Drawing his bow, the chief spread his wings and flew off the ridge, bounding across the branches of trees where they stood at eye level. To his left and right flaming arrows darted past, streaking down into the camp. He fired as he ran, lobbing arrows towards a formation of soldiers attempting to rally their superior numbers where boulders and trees provided some cover. He could see them, illuminated by their burning tents, dragging their wounded and dead in, and arming themselves with spears and shields.
Ignoring the arrows flitting past, Oberon focused on a soldier who was shouting orders as he worked to organize the defense. He could see the Man’s eyes, glinting and assessing. Pulling back the bow, one foot resting behind him on a trunk the other positioned on a lower branch, his wings pumped to hold him at a downward angle. In the moment where he held his breath, sensing the proper trajectory more than seeing it, he knew what the Man was thinking. Not of home, nor of fear. He was a leader, thinking how he could help his comrades to get home, how he could help them overcome their fear. Oberon could not hear his words, but he knew the Man could tell from the number of arrows that he had numbers on his side, that their initial casualties could be surmounted if he could keep his forces responding effectively. Then, the arrow was flying, targeting not an enemy, but an idea. An idea can be killed, accepted, or reasoned with. Watching the Man slump to the ground Oberon accepted that there was a time for killing as well as accepting, but he knew he preferred the third way.
Releasing the
grip his wings held on the air, Oberon felt gravity pull him down head first towards the cluster of Men before another leader could arise to fill the void. His bow was stowed in the same moment that he drew his sword and he felt his wingblades connecting with flesh as he rocketed into the fray. For a moment, he wished Strato or Albedo’s force were here, a sizeable number of Blood Born would tear through these enemies, but the press of battle was soon upon him, driving away all save the moment. Rebus’ lessons were there, muscle memory coursing into his katana. The Men were pressed in tight, but the boulders and trees preventing them from bunching so tightly that the Cherub couldn’t take them one by one.
He cut up and under the helmet of a Man who held his shield towards the darkness surrounding the camp, attempting to protect his comrades from the arrows that continued to rain down around them. He parried a hacking blow from behind with his wingblade then deflected an arrow and spun forward, slicing off the arm of a Man in front of him. Then he was darting up onto boulders, flying away into the night towards another cluster of warriors.
In front of him a Man swatted at his neck, a Nymph dart protruding there. Three Men appeared around their comrade, their shields forming a containing circle that pressed Oberon back. Before they could close, he felt his back hit a tree and he jumped, using the extra boost of his wings to jump higher than any Man. He kicked off the tree, spiraling out and over the heads of the three Men so that he could attack them from behind. As he moved through the air, he sensed a looming figure in front of him and found himself looking into the otherworldly face of a Yeti. The glaring violet eyes and curved horns filled his world too quickly for him to think. His wings fought to take him up and over this gigantic foe, but even his lightening quick reflexes were too slow.
Last Stand of the Blood Land Page 46
