Last Stand of the Blood Land Read online

  “Grrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.”

  All around him he could see the well-trained demons that were the Cherubim. They had lost all resemblance to the regal and powerful Angels whose blood roiled in their veins. With their war painted faces and naked bodies, now covered in blood, and wings of various colors covered in blades, tomahawks and daggers in their hands, they looked like the terrifying killers their fathers never wanted them to become and the savages the Southlanders believed them to be.

  To his left Ignatius could see Rondo, wavy blond hair tied back in braids. The tall Cherub’s face, normally childlike and controlled, showed a calm brutality that belied how unfazed he was by the turmoil around him. Rondo brought a tomahawk down from his back and smashed the pointed back end through a soldier’s helmet and into the man’s skull in one fluid motion.

  When the body tumbled backwards into the city it revealed Crusoe, among the largest of the Cherubim, where he was using that size to sever a swordsman’s arm. The man sank to his knees while the Cherub caught the falling sword and used it to decapitate the solider. Blood sprayed onto the warrior’s brown wings and, seeing no one else in his vicinity to kill, he turned his brown eyes, alight with the rising sun, to Ignatius.

  Ignatius nodded at his warriors, knowing the time for fear and uncertainty would come later, after the battle, when it wouldn’t impact their willingness to do what needed to be done. He turned and ran along the crenelated battlements until he reached the wooden hoards he knew contained the gatehouse. Jumping into the air he sensed an arrow in the air between himself and the entrance. In past fights he would have let the arrow speed over his shoulder, but with six of his warriors following him he knew such a maneuver would endanger those who followed because his body blocked their view of the approaching projectile. He swept his arm up in the familiar arc, using speed inherited from his mother, speed honed over countless hours of practice, to refract the arrow with the hard leather bracer which all of his fighters wore on each forearm.

  The arrow deflecting harmlessly into the dawn, Ignatius sprang off the wall and pumped his wings to propel himself towards the archers who guarded the entrance to the gatehouse. Daggers were in his hands before he realized it and they flew straight into the terrified, wide-open eyes of the defenders. He was upon them before they hit the stones, retrieving the grisly blades with the Cherubim alighting all around.

  Ignatius had been through the city gate just once but Fritigern, the Dwarven instructor who had trained the Cherubim all winter, had been able to fill out his memory with details of the gatehouse, allowing the strike force to rehearse their attack with precision. Crusoe opened the door then crouched low with Rondo as the two prepared to defend their escape route while the others followed Albedo, a smaller, white winged Cherub, down into the gatehouse. Ignatius would have preferred to always be at the front but he knew he needed to develop more leaders with fighting experience so they could command future missions. For this portion of the attack, he brought up the rear.

  Stepping down into the hallway he could see his fighters making short work of the archers lining the tunnel. Stepping over one of their bodies he looked to the east through the arrow slit. He could see a long line of Centaurs, with their terrible painted faces and thundering hooves, charging across the open ground towards the city. He knew Wotan was out there, leading his bucks, and that only the special bond that had been forged when they spared each others lives could allow the warlord to trust that the Cherubim would open the gate. If they did not, many Centaurs would die in the killing zone around the castle with no way to break inside.

  Turning back to the tunnel he could see Fleuron, Albedo’s brother, moving in front of him. The Cherub’s grey wingblades stood out against his all black wings. Ahead of him Strato and Bennu were using their tomahawks with deadly effect. The weapons were dangerous in any fight but in such close quarters against unarmored archers their steel heads were downright barbarous, smashing through veins, arteries, and bones with a sickening crunch. Ignatius drew his own tomahawks, feeling how the short, top-heavy instruments moved in his hands, knowing his speed would make them unstoppable.

  The warriors spilled into the heart of the gatehouse where two burley Southlanders were in the process of lowering the portcullis behind the exterior wooden gate. Strato charged the men while Albedo and his brother flew across the room to where archers were knocking arrows. Bennu looked back at Ignatius and followed his gaze across the dark room where a dozen soldiers had escaped notice, hidden behind the chains, levers, and weaponry that made up the mechanics of the gate room.

  Bennu hesitated for just an instant before taking the opposite path around the room’s obstacles towards the soldiers. The two converged on the men too late to prevent them from locking shields and raising their spears. The Cherubim circled, just outside of range. Ignatius noticed an opening and watched with satisfaction as his dagger found a home in the vein just outside of one man’s groin. The Southlanders were disciplined, however, advancing around their comrade as he bled out onto the red bricks. In the confined space there wasn’t enough headroom to fly over the advancing men who would quickly press the Cherubim into a corner.

  Ignatius dove over the spears and scrambled up a pair of shields, moving flat against the ceiling and supporting himself using his wings and feet on the heads of the men. Stabbing down with his daggers he connected deeply in the space above one soldier’s collarbone and felt two others go down in a pile under his weight. Bennu spilled into the gap in the soldiers like water filling a cup, his wingblades and tomahawks connecting while he spun in and through the men.

  Ignatius was pinned, deflecting a boot and then a spear with his only available arm while struggled to free himself. The weight only grew as two more bodies fell under Bennu’s onslaught. The remaining solders were quickly dispatched when Strato and Albedo hit them from the rear. While they pulled the bodies from their leader Fleuron reversed the course of the portcullis and jammed a spear into the gear to keep it up. Standing, Ignatius looked at Bennu and nodded, noticing for the first time how much the six-foot tall warrior resembled himself; even his feathers were gold and brown. The crazed look of war on his face was frighteningly familiar.

  Looking back to Fleuron he wondered why there had been so many soldiers in the now blood soaked gatehouse. Someone was expecting us. He pushed the thought from his mind and followed the others down a narrow murder hole designed to pour boilng oil or spears on any besiegers who made it past the outer gate while they were stuck behind the portcullis. The others had already rolled out of the way when he hit the ground, just as they had practiced over the winter. He turned with Fleuron and Albedo, tomahawks at the ready, while Bennu and Strato put their efforts to disbarring the gate behind them.

  Looking over his shoulder into the city pumped fear through what Ignatius had grown to believe was a fearless heart. Charging towards the Cherubim were hundreds of armored soldiers on horseback. The miscalculation was obvious; they would be smashed against the inside of the gate in seconds. Without thinking he charged forward, two steps taking him into the air and a third adrenalin fueled pump of his wings hurtled him at the first Southlander. This time his war cry had no control.

  “GRRRRRRAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

  He deflected the rider’s helm with one tomahawk before catching the man’s throat with the lower back edge of his other tomahawk’s blade. It caught on the man’s spine, hauling him from the saddle and crushing his windpipe as it whipped Ignatius around to land on the soldier’s still charging mount.

  Riding forward with the charging defenders his heart soared as he saw Centaurs plowing through the now open gates. The armored Horse-Men surged around him, the Cherubim struggling to avoid being crushed in the hoof filled confines underneath the gate house. The Centaur’s rode a wave of fury, centuries old, into the street to meet the Southlander’s cavalry. It was from this stronghold that so many raids had been conducted against their people. It was from this city that the Southlands
had launched a campaign to build a wall that would prevent them from coming south into their ancestral homelands. It was this place that so many generations of their warriors had dreamed of sacking. It was this generation, finally, that would not be denied.

  Ignatius reached down amid the turmoil to find Strato’s arm, covered in tattoos from the Dwarves over the winter. He launched the Cherub up and watched his path as he flew to join Crusoe and Rondo where they struggled to hold the battlements. Ignatius turned his steed to follow the tide of Centaurs while craning his neck to witness Albedo and Fleuron making their way back up the murder hole. Using his wings for balance he stood in the saddle, scanning the carnage behind the gatehouse.

  He finally spotted Bennu, hard pressed by three soldiers who had knocked him to the ground down a side alley. Ignatius heaved his tomahawks one after another, throwing over a much longer distance than he could have with his daggers. The heavy weapons took two of the Men in their backs. Trapping the third mans ankle with his arm, Bennu pressed into his shin with his own shoulder. The man toppled sideways as his leg gave out and Bennu rose while keeping control of the Southlander’s ankle. Ignatius saw the Cherub slashing the artery on the inside of the man’s leg before he turned to join the other Cherubim on the wall.

  Bennu jumped his way up the wall opposite them and glided down from a tall building to join the Blood Born warriors. Below, the Centaurs were pushing their way into the city, the bodies of Southlanders, Giants, Dwarves, and their families filling the streets. Bennu handed Ignatius his tomahawks and the two met eyes. He is younger than I, but memories of fights like this one age us all to the same point. He eyed his companions while they caught their breath. All of them had small wounds, a few were serious, but none would take them out of the fight.

  “Good work,” said Ignatius. “One down, two to go. That was the toughest gate, the other two should be easier to get open.”

  He hoped it was true. The extra soldiers in the gatehouse and the cavalry below had nearly stopped their plan; whoever was commanding the defense had planned nearly well enough.

  With the Centaurs only point of attack being through the main gate, the city wall was now devoid of defenders and the Cherubim were able to move freely along the battlements. When they had crafted their plan of attack that winter, Ignatius had suggested that the Cherubim should join the Centaurs in their push through the city. Wotan had disagreed, telling them in his own broken version of their language that it was a waste of the Blood Born to use them in open combat when there were so few of them. Ignatius had protested that this meant the Centaurs would do the bulk of the fighting and dying. Wotan had nodded that it had always been this way and Oberon had agreed, as had the council of Elders. So it was that Ignatius led his force around the battle towards another gate that blocked the invader’s access into the heart of Therucilin.

  They reached the inner defenses quickly, running and gliding over the rooftops in the fashion so natural for their people. A small battle was being fought thirty feet below in front of the second gate between two groups of Giants and Dwarves. Ignatius frowned at the disunity that meant some of the northern tribes were still loyal to the Old Alliance, still under the thrall of safety and security at the cost of no longer being able to spend their lives as they saw fit. Turning away he knew the blood of the Northlands being spilled was not his primary concern. Shuffling quickly and quietly down the length of the wall the Cherubim could see archers moving into place to dispatch the revolting Giants and Dwarves outside the inner gate.

  Crusoe flung his muscled bulk over the first archer, striking down with a wingblade before throwing the second man out into the air, which meant a deadly fall for any race save the Cherubim. Albedo and Fleuron did the same, moving up and over and into the ground bound soldiers. Their arms, wings, and legs were finding their natural fighting stances, dancing with their weapons and tearing through the archers with calm grace. Ignatius never even lifted his hand this time, gaining satisfaction that they could keep their comrades below from being slaughtered from above.

  Looking down to where the gate was barred by two massive oak beams and supported by three carts of stone as well as perpendicular supporting wooden trunks, he realized they had miscalculated again. Some mind behind the defense had realized what had happened at the outer gate and had reinforced the inner gate with something the Cherubim could not kill- pure weight. The score of soldiers standing in the street they could attack directly, but even if they could conquer them, it would take the Blood Born warriors hours to move all that stone and wood. In those hours the remaining soldiers would surely counter attack, preventing them from opening the gate for the Centaurs and ending their hopes of taking the city in one swift blow. The North could not afford a protracted battle here, not with what the South would be sending next.

  Looking up the cobblestone road that led to the citadel, Ignatius noticed two familiar Giant knights chained flat on their backs to large carts. He recognized Meggido and Omri, two of the Giants he had fought with when their party had been ambushed en route to Therucilin the year before. Their full body, Dwarven crafted suits of armor, made their otherwise easy to target frames invulnerable but under the Old Alliance the protection was earned at a high cost; five years of labor on Hadrian’s wall, meant to keep the Centaurs trapped to the north, and five years of brutal fighting in Theseus’ army. Apparently those years of service hadn’t made these knights trustworthy enough to walk free in the inner city when some of their tribe was in open rebellion in the outer city.

  His brothers gathered around him, their many colored wings draping over the wall and the now risen sun shining on their sweat and blood matted backs. Ignatius breathed in the smell of war, panic and viscera and rage, before telling the Cherubim his plan.

  They split into two groups, moving low and unseen across the rooftops on either side of the road. The men below had by now noticed their archers were dead, and knew the cause, but were looking to the inner wall for the savage winged attackers rather than further into the city. The Cherubim picked their targets, men guarding the Giants, and dropped out of the red sky like owls hitting mice. Heels crushed into collarbones and smashed through helmets before daggers finished the broken bodies at their feet. Ignatius ran to the heads of his former companions and spoke while the others searched the bodies for keys to release the Giant’s binds.

  Speaking with his head in between the helmets of the Giants he said, “It is Ignatius, the Cherubim who saved your life Omri, the warrior who avenged Parfey by killing his own brother, Donus. It is I who fight beside Atlas, Pathmaker of the Giants, son of Parfey. I fight for the freedom of all the tribes of the North so that your sons may no longer toil and bleed for the South.”

  At the bottom of the cart he could see Rondo and Strato removing the chains, the others turning to face soldiers in open combat as they charged their position.

  “Fight with me now!” he yelled to the Giants as they shook off their bonds. “Fight with me now to take this gate and our comrades in oppression will take the city as our tribes will retake the North!”

  As Omri rose to his feet Meggido lifted the visor on his helmet, revealing a face with the missing eye that had seen so much combat against the Centaurs. Centaurs Ignatius asked him to now fight beside.

  “We fight for our people,” said the knight. “If you fight for the Pathmaker we will fight with you.”

  Picking up swords the size of trees from where they lay on the cart they rose to their full height, standing more than twice as tall as Ignatius. With the combined weight of their bodies and armor, they weighted as much and more than many of the biggest Centaurs. Bellowing with rage the knights charged towards the gate.

  “RAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!”

  The Cherubim fell in behind them, picking off those who were not cleaved in two by the sweeping arcs of the Giant’s steel. Many of the remaining soldiers tried to run, turning down side alleys or into buildings. The charging Cherubim ignored them, focusing their att
acks on those with fight enough to resist in the face of such ferocity. These were cut down swift enough, tomahawks punching through steel and wingblades finding exposed necessities.

  The Giants made the barricades in just a dozen of their romping strides, sheathing their swords as they came to a halt. Omri used his plated knee to smash one last defender like a bug. Ignoring arrows and spears bouncing off their armor, the Giants set to work heaving the reinforcing beams and carts of stone from behind the gate. The Cherubim fought behind them as reinforcements arrived from the citadel, charging down en mass to prevent their stronghold from being cracked.

  Ignatius knew this was the most dangerous position for his fresh, unarmored, Cherubim, who only carried light weapons. One missed arrow, one unchecked blow, would end a warrior whose potential for strategic intervention in the coming battles would never be realized. The risk was great, but the reward represented by the swift capture of Therucilin was greater. They would need to hold the city by the time the South sent its armies north or they would have no hope of achieving their war plans.

  A chunk of stone hurtled over Ignatius head, crushing through several soldiers. The Giants were nearly there. He spun, blocking a blow sideways with his bracer, his other arm pushing a shield aside and his wingblade slicing under the man’s armpit to sever an artery in a killing blow he had learned from Rebus, the Elf Chieftain, that winter. Then the men were running, fleeing towards the citadel. Ignatius turned to see what had caused them to run and felt first a shudder of fear and then a wave of relief that he now fought with the Centaurs rather than against them.