Ignatius recognized that she had been heroic, but he was meant to be the hero, not Erithea. She was meant to love him, to remind him who he was and that it was going to be all right. He looked down, brushing a red curl from her face, and felt a tear fall from his face onto hers so that she shared his pain one last time. Then he rose to his feet, knowing that now was a time to live and fight as she would want, not to mourn while he could still make a difference. Looking back at the Elf, he nodded, and together they charged across the sand, past huddled and crying Northerners, past those that needed their warriors.
They found Strato and a few Cherubim cornering a few remaining invaders, fighting hard to clear the village so they could join their fellows on the wall. One of Ignatius’ throwing knives took a Man in the throat, his tomahawk coming through to hack another in the arm, opening a hole for his pointed wingblade to puncture an eye. In the gap left by the Men he found a Dwarf, a crown on his head and a hammer in his hand. Strato was there, about to cut the mangled little warrior down, but Ignatius shouted to stop him.
“Wait!”
Strato pulled back his own tomahawk, his tattooed arms dripping with his own blood, his blade dripping with the blood of his enemies.
“You know him?” panted the bedraggled Cherub.
Ignatius took in the white skull that peaked out through the Dwarf’s crown, evidence of an old Centaur scalping. He saw the missing eye socket and the hatred that raged in the remaining black eye, the crooked line of the broken jaw opening to reveal a menacing smile.
“King Jamais,” said Ignatius in disbelief.
“An old enemy,” said the Dwarf bitterly.
“You led them over the mountain?”
Jamais laughed a vengeful laugh, coughing up a little blood from an arrow that had punctured his lung.
“I remember two cloaked Men, their wings hidden, who came into the Dwarven lands. Did you think I had forgotten Alman?” He pointed to his missing eye, spitting out “did you think I had forgotten this?”
Ignatius had not forgotten. He had not forgotten how Donus had killed the Dwarf King Alman, king to both Aram and Fritigern, in a fit of vengeance. He had not forgotten how he himself had taken out Jamais’ eye when Jamais had tried to kill him.
“Where it not for your violence,” said Jamais, “I might not have led Vespasian’s Men over the mountains and your tribe might have survived. You have wrought this destruction on the Cherubim, and the Dwarves shall be avenged.”
Ignatius drew his dagger, remembering a conversation he had had with Parfey. It seemed like a lifetime ago, but he remembered what the old Pathmaker had said that day- ‘You should have killed him and been done with it or restrained yourself. There is no in-between.’ He drove the dagger into Jamais remaining eye, following the body to the ground. There is no in between. He knew in that moment that by hurting Jamais, both physically and his pride, then letting Jamais live, he had created a terrible enemy. The South is such an enemy. Oberon let them live but hurt them, hurt their pride. In that moment he knew that by resisting, and resisting well but not winning, the North had created the worst kind of enemy.
“We can hold them here,” said Strato, pulling Ignatius off the dead Dwarf. “But you must go to Oberon. They are marching on us from that front, and if they break through, we will never hold out here.”
Ignatius nodded, whistling for Kaizen, reeling from Jamais words. He climbed aboard, urging his steed into the air while he tried to reason out what it meant that his violence, that Donus’ violence, had pushed these Dwarves to side with the South. Were it not for us, perhaps they would not have guided the South here to destroy us. He could see the cycle of it clearly, how the violent destruction of their enemies was the answer as well as the question that created the need for an answer. But how to escape?
He circled the burning village, watching the defenders rushing from the beach to reinforce the wall. He could see thousands of solders fighting there, trying to push back into the city, and he knew that they couldn’t hold out for long. There were so many bodies, so many of his people who had already died, so much destruction, he knew he needed to help Oberon secure the trails leading to the city or there was no hope. Once he was airborne, it became clear how truly desperate their situation had become. Flying high above the lake, he could see a three-pronged attack squeezing the forest stronghold.
Far to the east, Vespasian’s main force was marching towards the city, tens of thousands of soldiers who had spent the winter in Therucilin unmolested, their supply trains passing north without disruption. This group would be the last to hit the Cherubim’s village, and were it alone, they could have evacuated with days of notice. The second force, which Ignatius and Sage had helped to repel, had cut south from Therucilin and, with Dwarf and Caipora guides, had made a surprise attack on the village from the North by passing over the mountains. This group far outnumbered the defenders and was actively working to retake the outer wall. From his vantage, it was clear to Ignatius that Strato was coordinating a slow withdrawal from the beach, away to the southwest where the old, young, and wounded could take temporary refuge among the Nymphs.
The third prong of the Southlanders attack was sure to prevent any Northlanders from escaping. Kaizen flew with graceful pumps of his great wings towards where a thousand Men were flooding through the forest from the northeast. This route would have been impossible had they not taken Fort Hope first, and Ignatius wondered for a moment what had become of Fritigern and his students who had never surrendered their positions in the tunnels there. The thought of more loss brought back the horrible truth that his mother had left the world, and, with neither of his parents remaining, he knew there was no one for him to trust with the questions only a parent can answer. Now, in Ignatius mind, the question was no longer how to save his home, he could see it would fall. The question is how to buy time.
Darting along in front of the approaching soldiers, Ignatius could see a few dozen Cherubim and Nymphs, Plainswatchers and members of Albedo’s raiders who had moved up to stall the attack but who were now being driven back. That winter, Ignatius had seen the strength of a mobile insurgency, had seen how their familiarity with the terrain and preparation had allowed them to choose their battles. Now, he could see that mobility and preparation had been lost as the South closed in on a target that could not melt into the forest. My village.
Ignatius rode Kaizen down towards a river crossing where he could see his forces coalescing. He knew there were hidden, underwater bridges built for times such as these. From the air, he could see the shimmering outline of one of the bridges where it rested beneath the surface of a river. Their forces were already crossing, preparing to make their own stand here where the Southlanders would be forced to slow down and find a way across the waters. With his griffin clinging vertically to an elm that overlooked the river, the Rider watched as Nymphs, several Giants, and a small number of Dwarves lined up to wade across the icy, melt heavy river. Many of them were wounded, and all were short of breath. The sight of them trying desperately to escape, their weapons bloody and their armor disheveled, told Ignatius their chances of holding this position for more than a few minutes was small.
Then, as he watched the first Nymphs reaching the other side, a trio of Cherubim darted through the trees. They were shooting arrows over the shoulders and shouting, trying to provide cover for their escaping comrades. Running along the forest floor, Ignatius spotted Caldera and Oberon, the war chief’s katana dripping blood as he dueled and darted, fending off a mix of Dwarves and Men who represented the furthest tip of the Southland spear. Arrows were streaking through the trees now, arcing down on the warriors from up and down the riverbank and from deeper into the woods. Oberon was blocking arrows that would have killed his mate, her spear joining his blade to create the only gap preventing their forces from being completely overrun.
Ignatius saw two of the Nymphs who tried to get across the river take arrows, falling into the rushing water and drifting away as i
f they had never existed. The last stand of the Blood Land. He set Kaizen loose, feeling the cat in his steed pounce down on the unsuspecting soldiers that were crowding the forest below. The griffin’s talons crushed down, his armored beak slicing left and right to chop Men in two against trees. Ignatius howled with his catbird, drawing his katanas and spiraling down to Oberon’s side where he cut clean through the arm of a Man who had grabbed Caldera’s spear.
“TAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYAAAA!”
The look of panic and fear left Oberon’s eye when the war chief’s river blue gaze met Ignatius forest green eyes. Then, they were back to back, wingblades flashing while three katanas cut a swath through the dispersed hoplites that pressed down upon them. Ignatius had never felt such blood lust, such unquenchable creative destruction as he killed to avenge his mother. He entered a flow state of power, melding with Oberon as they darted and weaved, bouncing up and down the trees, stabbing and slashing and separating in a song of pain and ending. Dozens of soldiers feel to their blades while arrows from the Cherubim above and enemies below fell down in a confused rain of death.
When there was finally pause, Ignatius looked up to see they had been pushed back to the very edge of the water, piles of Southlanders falling down into the water off the bank. He turned, watching the last of the Giants cross while he listened to the sounds of the Southlanders regrouping for the final attack that would drive them into the water. Caldera was there, her blond hair turned blood red, her chest bleeding, an arrow in her thigh. Ignatius looked up at Oberon and felt Kaizen’s deadly presence behind him.
“The village?” asked the chief.
“If we cannot hold them here, it will fall quickly.”
Oberon nodded. “The captives I allowed to live guided them in, showed them where the hidden bridges would be.”
Ignatius could hear the regret, the remorseful understanding. He knows. Oberon had let the female prisoners go when Vespasian had agreed to his terms, had let thousands of Southlanders that could have been slaughtered go. Even the building of these bridges, bridges designed to let their allies escape, had been Oberon’s decision. And now we don’t have the time to save our tribe. He could see the awareness on Oberon’s face, could see the way he looked at Caldera. Ignatius knew Caldera’s father was gone, killed with Oberon, and with the falling of the Cherubim, her tribe, all of the tribes of the north that had resisted, would be lost one by one.
“Can you take her?” asked Oberon.
Ignatius frowned.
“I can organize the defense here. Can you take care of her?”
“No,” said Caldera. She staggered to his side, using her spear to stand. “We are one,” she whispered, “and I will never leave you.”
Arrows were falling again, and Ignatius reach out instinctually, blocking two with his bracer then sheathing his swords.
“I can take her back, we could use her on the wall,” said Ignatius. “You can hold here, then fall back faster without her and we will hold them together on the west wall.”
“Yes, perfect,” said the chief and Ignatius watched for a moment as the two kissed. Caldera was too weak to catch onto the ruse, only understanding that she would be less of a burden and make Oberon faster if she left.
Ignatius pushed her up into the saddle and felt Kaizen’s tail sweep forward to take out a pair of charging Men. Out of time.
“Use it,” said Oberon. Ignatius could see the light had gone out of his brother’s eyes for good. “Donus was right, you were right. You must use it.”
“I will watch over her, and I will make them pay,” said Ignatius.
A second great pain settled into his heart while he climbed into the saddle. Kaizen pulled them out of the trees, and he felt Caldera slump against him, unconscious. He circled up, watching the defenders being driven back from the west bank of the river, watching Oberon fighting, falling back in slow steps onto the bridge. The first pain was his mother’s passing, a natural absence that he had always known would come, a part of the world. But the second pain felt worse, unnatural. It was a pain of knowing. He knew that someone who wanted to be good, who believed in a third way, had existed, and the world had killed that belief. Oberon had died while he still lived, and Ignatius had seen it happen.
With Kaizen circling a final time, Ignatius watched Oberon’s last stand. He fought to give his tribe, the tribe that had trusted him, just a few more moments so that, hopefully, just a few more could escape. He fought with bravery, the water rushing past his feet as he deflected arrows and dueled with one Southlander after another. They fell around him, his katana never anticipating, never faltering, his balance perfect. Ignatius saw it all, the perfection of his fighting, hundreds of Southlanders stalled as they tried to take the bridge. Finally, with the overwhelming press of Men, an arrow found its way past the Cherub’s spiraling hands and he fell. The war chief’s body drifted, his life blood returning to the land that had united behind his vision for a free North, the stone headband of the war chief slipping beneath the waters. Ignatius remembered that vision, writing and trade and farming and choices for their tribes, and he remembered the third way even if Oberon no longer could.
Kaizen followed the river that now flowed with Oberon’s blood, carrying them South towards the castle of the Riders. Ignatius knew that his home was being overrun, that the world he and fathers had fought to save was coming to an end. His friends and family were dead or dying, his home burning, a moral and committed chief drifting away into nothingness. The pain and confusion were overwhelming, his anxiety and fear returning to drown out whatever peace and contentment he had achieved in his own heart. Why?
With the spring forest drifting away, he knew the answer. We are forced to this because no one has ever had the strength to force the South to be as good as Oberon. He knew the Elves had resisted, the Mere-People, the Centaurs and his own people. The Caipora had fallen, as had the Yeti and the Dwarves. Now the Cherubim were lost along with the last of the Giants and next would be the Nymphs and the Northmen. There has never been anywhere to hide.
By the time he reached the castle, he knew what he needed to do. Placing Caldera in Orion’s caring hands, he slid from the saddle and moved to the kudzu vine storage building where they kept the kudzu pods. He found Calma there with her griffin Saguaro, her dark skin and beautiful, wise Nymph face could see the resolved look in Ignatius. She frowned, watching as he retrieved four kudzu pods from their stores, stepping out into the failing late evening light. The pods pulsed a gentle red, revealing the koona that had survived the winter insulated within.
“Calma, tell me what will happen to these pods?”
“Soon,” she said cautiously, eyeing the blood that still stained Ignatius from head to toe. “Soon the koona will emerge. When the weather is warm enough, they will emerge, but the pods will die because we did not bring a male kudzu down to pollinate them.”
“And where will the koona go?”
“To the female plants we kept warm through the winter, to feed and attempt to pollinate them.”
“And if there were no female plants?”
Calma crossed her arms and Saguaro shifted nervously. “It is forbidden.”
“Why?”
“You know. It is why Taragon insisted on sending me to watch over you and Sage, so that you would honor the old ways that have protected us.”
“Tell me again.”
“In the first days of the kudzu, we brought them down from the mountains, male and female. But we could not control them, here in the warmth out of the lower altitude they spread, and the koona spread with them. They nearly destroyed the forest, feeding out of control until the snows stopped them. If it were not for the kudzu to draw them in, we could not have contained the koona.”
Ignatius nodded, turning away from Calma to walk back to his griffin.
“You will take them South?”
Ignatius did not turn, gently adding the kudzu into his saddle bags to his saddle as an answer. He moved in a surreal dream, leading
the mighty griffin down from the meadow of his childhood and the great kudzu pagodas that should have been the future of the Riders and finally towards the castle that represented his past. He found Rondo there and gave the Blood Born Rider instructions for evacuating the griffins and their eggs, as well as their kudzu and whatever writings they could. He told him to take them over the western mountains, beyond the reaches of the South, to evacuate whoever of the survivors he could.
Sequoia was there as well, and Ignatius told him to write, to write what his heart told him so that someday someone could learn whatever lessons the writer had gleaned from the resistance, could read whatever messages he could send across time from a people who had tried a third way. Then, with the sun setting over the mountains, turning the far stretches of the prairie to gold and the mountain peaks a soft shade of pink, he sat on the edge of the wall overlooking the forest, working to understand what Donus and Oberon had been trying to teach him. His heart ached and he felt a tear fall, then another. Then he felt the weight of his blades for the first time in many moons, and he breathed in. As he exhaled he let go of fear and anxiety, feeling contentment slip in to replace his doubts.
After a time, he climbed into the saddle and felt Kaizen waiting for his guidance. He thought of Sage, knowing that he needed to go before she returned, or he never would. In that moment he also knew that if he wasn’t willing, no one ever would be. As the last rays of the setting sun lit up a dying land, he launched his steed into the cool spring air and arched out over the falls to the east, then turned south towards the only way he could see forward. It was his own way. It meant leaving the war path that his people had been born for so that he could take another path. He would be the Pathmaker that would end the North’s suffering once and for all by destroying the South with a weapon so powerful, no one but Ignatius had dared to dream of it.
The End of Book II
Book III
The Conclusion of the Blood Saga
Last Stand of the Blood Land Page 51
