The flames licked upwards slowly, the smoke curling in graceful waves into the chimney. Then, with the flames spreading to consume the tinder like a flash flood consuming a river bed, he added larger sticks and then split logs. With a final breath to stoke the fire, he closed the door to the stove and rose achily to his feet. A trickle of light slipped out through the vent and cracks around the door, allowing him to see the simple furnishings of the room. He stepped forward, knowing the fire would heat the room long into the night, and crawled under the bearskin blankets.
Sage’s body felt cold, and he pulled her in tight so that her back tucked in against his chest. Slowly, their body heat began to fill the blankets and he forced himself to stay awake as her shivering slowed. He watched the fire, thinking about the war they had left so many miles behind and how here, in the warmth of the cabin, he was safe from both external enemies and inner demons. With the fire warming the cabin and the storm raging outside, he fell into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.
Ignatius woke in a panic. He found himself sitting straight up in bed, not recognizing the familiar walls of his childhood and still hearing the sounds of battle. There were flames, monsters in the night, and the faces of Men who knew they would not die. He could hear the screams of the griffins and feel the heat of the burning tents. Then the roaring of the Yetis was replaced with the howling of the blizzard, the heat of battle with the low warmth of the wood stove, the bodies of the Men with the body of a Nymph. Safe in a bed many miles from the front. The Cherub lay back in the covers, feeling Sage’s heart beat next to him, and stared at the charred wood planking that made up the roof. How can the North go on?
Sliding smoothly from the comfort of the bed so that he did not wake his partner, Ignatius shuffled across the cold wood floor to a small basket of wood. He grabbed two small logs, noticing the cuts on his hands as he added them to the stove. Then, feeling the ache in his back and arms from the blows he had taken and given during the fight, he moved to brew a small pot of the black coffee that he had taken from the body of one of the Southlanders. When he drew his tomahawk to crack the ice on the water bucket he noticed the Nymph’s beautiful face looking at him from the covers. He saw her looking at his body and realized that he was wearing only a loin cloth, the cuts and blood of war still smeared across his battle hewn frame. She licked her lips and he smiled self-consciously, then turned to add the kettle to the stove. With several kudzu pods frying along with captured bacon for their breakfast, he returned to bed.
Sage opened the blankets for him, revealing her naked form underneath. Battle weary and anxious that he was, the Cherub couldn’t help but become aroused at the sight of her breasts, the curve hips where they met the tightness of her body, the strength in her slender legs. For him, the best part was the way she looked at his body with the same lust, the same sexual desire for the hard, brutal warrior’s body, a body that could still brave the morning chill to make breakfast. The Cherub fell into the bed, feeling the smoothness of her skin with his groin, moving a hand to cup her head, another to hold her hip as she pulled the wool blankets closed around their aroused forms.
He remembered her reluctance after the victory on the plains and waited to take her, running his fingers down her cut back and checking her muscles for tears while his eyes checked hers for wounds of a different kind. The Nymphs were a playful, pleasant race when not in combat and Ignatius could see that it was unnatural for her to share the pain she felt about the death she had seen, the deaths she had caused. Then, with a blast of wind and snow rocking the cabin, she pulled him in, arching her back as his hand moved into her hair and he whispered in her ear.
“Are you ready?”
She licked her lips again, reaching up to pull his wings down so they could stroke her legs.
“You told me we could pull some good out of all this killing. I’m hurting, but go ahead and pull, my Blood Born Rider.”
He felt the anxiety falling away as he took what he wanted there in the mountain cabin, forgetting the weight of the war. The smell of the bacon and the coffee mingled with her pine-scented skin and the warmth of the bed to push him into a sensual mode. He took her slowly, gentle but firm as he massaged her legs and rubbed her neck. Her lithe arms moved up to grab the wooden frame of the bed and he felt her eyes closing, her pain receding as she drifted beneath him. Soon his abdominals were rubbing her as he moved slowly in and out, and he felt goose bumps on her skin as she climaxed.
Her fingers dug into his back, pulling loose a feather and opening an old wound there. The pain flared up a new tone of aggression in the formerly sensitive Cherub and his muscles tensed, pulling on her hair and grabbing her around her waist to take her in a fit of aggression. Her eyes went wide for a moment and he released, a mix of satisfaction and regret bursting through his tingling skin as he heaved on top his mate.
“I’m sorry,” she said, putting pressure on the blood on his back.
“No,” he answered, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that someone as beautiful as you had to become a warrior, had to become a Rider with someone as violent as me.”
She shook her head, sending her unbraided hair cascading onto the blankets. With a smile Sage put her finger to his lips and kissed his cheek, then sprang from the bed. He watched her supple form, amazed at the lightness of her limber movements as she collected the fried kudzu pods and poured coffee into ancient Angel’s mugs. Ignatius stared in amazement as she returned to bed, handing him a plate of thick bacon.
“What do you think the future holds?” she asked him as he chewed.
He watched her sipping her drink with two hands, amazed at her resilience, the way her mind kept moving forward.
“We have to rest the Griffins, or they will never breed. We need more cubs, more Riders, or we will never hold this place. Eventually the Caiporas will find us.”
She cocked her head and he pulled his eyes up from her breasts to her arms, tracing the way up to her dancing green eyes.
“You don’t believe in Oberon’s third way? You think our alliance won’t push them to a truce?”
He looked up to where Archeo was perched above the door, his blue head tucked into the red feathers on his back.
“Too many of them, too few of us. There are only so many Wotans, so many Metatrons. Peace will always be temporary, unless…” he trailed off, unsure if he should be thankful that Oberon had spared him the guilt of destroying all of the South.
“Wotan dreamed of a free North, so did Donus. They were willing, you are willing and wise. If there is a third way, you will find it. If not, you will do what is necessary to protect your family, the tribes of this land.”
“My family?”
She smiled again. “Perhaps.”
He smiled back, wondering if it wasn’t just the griffins that should be resting so there would be cubs this year. Then his smile turned to laughter and she was laughing with him, their arms and wings intertwining as they rolled on the straw mattress. They kissed, deeply, with the passion of the storm and the war that raged in their world. Then they rose, achy limbs slowing them as they began to pull on their frozen clothing. Ignatius poured another cup of coffee from the stove. Lastly, they pulled on their weapons and stood before the door, listening to the howling pain that they had to choose to enter. He wrapped his arms around her for a moment and they stood as one, Nymph and Cherub, feeling the pain of nature and the pain of memory together for a moment. Then her hand was on the handle and she turned it.
The pair stepped into the frozen alpine wastes, feeling the shock of the alpine storm. The snow hadn’t abated but the wind had slacked. They could see the depressed traces of the trail where the accumulated snow was uneven as it filled in their footsteps. Sage led the way east and then south, turning away from the abandoned cabins of the meadows and leading the way towards the great pagodas Calma had crafted that fall. The structures appeared suddenly out of the whiteout, a pair of five level, terraced towers looming up higher than the castle walls. Ignatius was amaze
d to see them, amazed that they would grow even taller in the coming years as the fertilized female kudzu pods continued their rampant summer growth.
Passing into their shadow, the duo reached the stables and moved to check on Kaizen and Katana. The Cherub watched the way Sage’s affect changed, the pain and uncertainty leaving her as Katana affectionately snuggled her Rider. Nymo joined them, rubbing up against Sage who reached down to pet the little griffin cub while Archeo pecked playfully at Katana’s neck. Kaizen looked on in muted stoicism and Ignatius merely placed his hand on the gigantic catbird’s shoulder. His steed looked down at him and snorted a steaming jet of air before returning to the mountain goat carcass he was devouring. Ignatius spent the rest of the morning there in the stables with Sage, both of them sharpening their blades, repairing their saddles, and tending to the wounds of the pack. Caring for the griffin armor was tedious, with endless buffing and oiling to remove the rust that appeared after even a single day in the field. Brushing the enormous griffins and sharpening their helmets took even longer. Ignatius was happy to see Orion appear later in the morning, his young hands anxious to help while he and his griffin, Sabu, soaked up knowledge from the older members of the pride.
“Did you really use Sequoia’s words in the battle?”
Ignatius nodded, looking at the young Man’s eager brown eyes, assessing the way he related to his griffin.
“Ryogen was lost at Therucilin,” said Ignatius. “You will honor his memory when you fly home on Sabu.”
The surprise and pain were clear on Orion’s face as was his attempt to remain strong. He nodded, pulling Sabu into a comforting hug. “How?”
“Caipora.”
The young warrior knew more than to pry now, there would be time later. They worked together through the morning, each thinking of the comrades that had fallen for the freedom of the North, their movements heating the stable as the snow continued to fall. Around noon Rondo appeared at the door, snow swirling when he stepped into the room. He nodded to them, silently indicating that they should follow him with his characteristic, easy going smile.
They followed him out into the wind, moving up towards the castle. They passed the kudzu vine storerooms that held their kudzu pod food supplies, past training grounds where they worked with the griffins, and past nests that held another generation of eggs awaiting Riders. A dozen Nymphs had moved to the castle to assist with the endless tasks involved with keeping the warriors of the sky in the fight while also growing their numbers and preparing the next generation. They prepared meat, tended the kudzu, and were learning how to train the griffins. What would we do without them?
Ignatius took hold of the kudzu vine ladder, following the others up and into the empty castle. The walls reminded him of his father, and he wished he could ask the Angel what to do, if taking the koona to destroy the South was the right thing or if it was better to try Oberon’s way. He thought of Sage, and Orion, and he knew he had to be the one with the answers for them, for all the Riders. Even if I don’t know, it’s more important that they trust that someone knows. The thought was still ringing through his mind when he looked up to find himself in the Angel’s hall. He couldn’t remember the walk there, but he smiled to see the rest of his forces had already arrived. This is no longer my father’s hall, it is my time.
He smiled at them, arrayed there on the wooded benches, then felt his eyes drifting up towards the antler chandeliers that hung down from the rafters and hammocks where Angels had slept after feasts in days of old.
“Let’s get those taken down,” he said, thinking of Wotan and wondering if perhaps the Angel’s hadn’t been so perfect as the Cherubim thought them to be. Augustine was.
He moved to the head of the table, taking his father’s seat and looking down the wooden table, scanning each face. Rondo, Bennu, and Fleuron had fought with him at Therucilin, Sage in the plains and in the forest. Orion and Sequoia were as yet untested, their griffins still in training. Stratera had proven herself taking Fort Hope, and Onidas’ renown as an archer was known throughout the North. Two new members were known to Ignatius but unexpected.
“Welcome Maraki,” he nodded at the young Cherub who had been stationed at Fort Hope. “And you too Nicolo, I trust you have heard that Ryogen has fallen?”
The look on Nicolo’s weathered face told Ignatius that, like his kin Orion, the Northman hadn’t heard the news.
“You could go back to the north this spring. Your people will need a leader like you.”
“I came to be a Rider.”
Ignatius nodded, understanding that this Man was a scout, not a leader. I need scouts.
“And you Maraki? What news from Fort Hope?”
“Fritigern has gone to ground, there were just too few of us to hold it. I came North to join the Riders so that, someday, there would be enough to supply a place like that indefinitely.”
Ignatius knew the little Cherub had suffered greatly, had fought bravely, and that the arrival of the Riders must have meant life to her. She wants to share that life with the rest of the North. Typically, he had chosen Riders from among the tribes, warriors he knew and trusted. But, looking at Nicolo and Maraki, one older and the other younger than the typical Rider, he decided it was time that a few warriors chose to be Riders. His eyes paused on the violet spotted wings on Maraki’s back, the xiphos in her belt, and the green cloak and wise look in Nicolo’s eyes. Perfect. He sensed the Nymph’s that were not Riders pressing in, and he waved them to join them at the table.
“Fort Hope has fallen then, as have many of our leaders. But it does not matter. We have one chance.”
Rondo pounded the table. “What’s the plan old Man!?”
The Riders and Nymphs laughed, all eyes moving from the likable Cherub to Calma who swatted her lover faster than he could move. The assembled warriors laughed at the way the younger Cherub looked chided by the beautiful, middle aged Nymph.
“The plan,” said Ignatius, “is simple. We drink until the storm ends, and then we ride down to the forest and kill Southlanders until…” He paused, looking around at them all, taking in the beauty of the different races, the stories written in the stone walls. “We just ride down and kill Southlanders.”
The hall was quiet, the warriors expecting more. The Northerners knew what he storm meant, how deep the snow would drift in the forest. The Riders among them knew how extended the Southlanders were, how exposed. From the air, the Men looked like a long thin string winding away from the plains into enemy territory, exposed along the entire route. They need a reason.
“It’s a lot to ask,” said Ignatius, wishing things were simpler. “To ask a tribe to kill. The Riders are a tribe now, just Northerners, no long Cherub or Nymph, Man or Dwarf. We have set the stage to kill Southlanders, we have moved the pieces that will allow us to do something horrible. Something no being should ever have to do.”
Ignatius could see that Nicolo understood, Calma and Onidas too. Orion, Bennu, they were too young to understand. Sequoia looked on, and Ignatius knew that this was mostly for him, for his talking leaves.
“When I was among the Southlanders, they had a war cry. “‘They will remember us!”’ he shouted it ferociously, startling many of those assembled visibly. “It was their way of reminding those that were about to go into battle that, if they were to fall, their people would remember their deeds, their bravery, the way they fought.”
Sequoia had Ignatius attention now and Ignatius looked at the books, papers, and charcoal he had set on the table next to his bow.
“No one is going to remember us.”
He could see a look of recognition come across a few of the faces. Rondo, Fleuron, Maraki, Sage. Those that had seen things they didn’t want to remember, those who had done things they wished they could forget. He could see them remembering, the pain there on their faces, the understanding dawning on them of what it would mean to ride down and attack the Southlanders.
“No one is going to remember us because we want our
descendants to live free, free from the South, free to pursue the lives they choose, but also free from the memory of what that freedom cost. Sequoia will write of our deeds, and there will be tales, but they will never know what we had to become, what it really means to break the will of an enemy. To remember us as we are would be to fear us, to hate us.”
Onidas nodded, and Ignatius turned his eyes to Sage. Looking into her eyes, he could see that she understood that keeping it from their children would help, would make it possible to face the next generation.
“We will kill them all because we must. But just because we are willing does not mean that our descendants cannot be better, that they must be the same as us. The Angels wanted us to live in peace, and we must hold onto that idea. Warriors may remember together, but none of us will tell those that remain to remember us. In our silence, we will protect our children from what we have become.”
They nodded, sensing that Ignatius understood why warriors are reluctant to talk. The idea that those they killed for could be better allowed them to hold out hope that, while they followed in Donus’ footsteps, their children could follow Oberon. To be willing to be Donus when we must, but to strive to be Oberon when we can, even if only through others.
Ignatius was lost in thought, thinking about his father and his vision for the Cherubim. Then he was lost in the moment, breathing in the air as he realized who he was. After a time, when he opened his eyes, he could see that Rondo had passed around the mead the Angel’s had left behind and that the older warriors were raising their horns in recognition. To his left, Sage held out a horn and, as he grasped it, he could see the uninitiated joining in.
“To the next generation,” said Onidas in his thick accent, the blackness of his eyes twinkling in the firelight that burned at each end of the Great Hall. “May they always have better memories than the last.”
Last Stand of the Blood Land Page 48
