Chapter 10

Dean held the head of his mount, absently stroking the long nose, his hands warmed by the horse's breath. Around him, the fifty remaining fighters of Deep Ice village were loading salt and iron onto the pack animals and into the carts, re-settling their shields and weapons, tightening the leather girths on the crude saddles and loading the armour, weapons and personal possessions of their dead friends and neighbours on top of the loads in the carts.

Vasiliĭ stood apart, watching as well. Dean could see the deepening of the lines that seamed the leader's face, grief and responsibility etched permanently, and more silver showing in the long black hair that was bound at the nape of his neck.

They had lost fifty men and women in the attack; husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, sons and daughters, skilled hunters and fighters and craftsmen, people who were essential to their continued survival and prosperity in the mountain country. There would be grieving when they returned to their valley, and even that could not last long as the ground had to be turned, the seed planted and tended, or they would starve over the following winter. And, Dean thought unhappily, the village had to be protected, taking more people and time.

Alis led her horse up beside him. The horses of the steppes were thick-boned and slightly smaller than he was used to seeing in his own time. They had evolved over millennia to survive in one of the harshest environments on earth, the high windswept plains that lay between Russia and the Middle East, where the winter temperatures were frequently forty below zero, and the short summers were dry and desert-like, the temperatures rising above forty degrees and the grasses burning away. They were able to survive in the worst conditions and even now their coats were thick and soft, ribs and hips covered comfortably despite the long winter. They would be very useful additions to the villages, for transport and sending messages, and harnessed to the simple ploughs and hoes, to make the planting and harvesting more efficient and faster.

"Are you ready?" she asked him. He nodded, looking around for Sam. He saw him on the other side of the clearing, holding his own horse and talking to Kirill. The blacksmith of Black Valley had taken Sam on as an apprentice of sorts, and in return, Sam had filled the man's mind with ideas, radical and unheard of in this time, commonplace and well-known in their own.

Dean passed the split leather reins over his horse's head as Vasiliĭ's people began to mount, tucking his foot into the simple stiffened leather loop that served as a stirrup, and springing up and into the simple saddle. He rubbed the bay mare along her neck, under the thick black mane. Years ago, he'd done a few weeks work at a cattle ranch in Colorado, just after Sam had gone to Stanford. Regular work, not hunting, and had enjoyed it, developing a liking for the horses that had been used extensively on the ranch, and skills that he could put into practice again now. His fingers lay lightly on the reins, which controlled the horse's head not by a bit but through pressure on the nose, cheeks and neck, and turned the mare around with his legs, waiting for the carts and pack horses to pass first.

The return journey, though they had to take a different path, lower down the sides of the mountains where the ground was easier and the paths wider, took a day on horseback, instead of the four it had needed on foot. Without the threat of attack, and the crushing grief of losing their own, the ride might have been pleasant. Instead, they hurried along, alert and silent, wanting to be home.

They reached the village wall at dusk, the torches already flaming on top of the palisade wall, the gate fires already burning. Sam dismounted stiffly, the muscles of his legs and his seat bones protesting at the change after twelve hours of sitting in one position – more or less. His mount blew at him as he walked up to its head, rubbing the ridge above its eye hard against his shoulder. He braced himself and smiled. Even though they weren't comfortable, were sometimes intractable, insisted on doing much of the thinking about trails and routes themselves, he found himself liking them.

Dean rode up beside him and dismounted, stretching out his back and thighs as they waited for the rest of the party to go through.

"Well, I'm kind of glad Dad never got me a pony for Christmas now," Sam said softly.

Dean laughed. "It just takes a few days for your muscles to get used to it." He looked back down the trail they'd ridden in on. "And it beats walking, carrying a load yourself."

They led their horses into the square, finding a spare pen for them, tying them and unsaddling them. Two of the villagers brought armfuls of hay for them, and they slipped the bridles off, and stood by the rails, watching them eat for a moment.

Dean picked up the saddle and bridle, holding them over his arm as he turned around. Sam did the same, a little more awkwardly.

"Alis? Where can we put this stuff?" Dean called out as he spotted her. She held her own saddlery over her arms and jerked her head sideways. They followed her down to a large timber barn, built against the palisade wall and put down their loads.

"Vasiliĭ wants to see you – and your friend, Casteel, as soon as possible," she said quickly, hurrying from the barn.

Dean looked at Sam. "Pow-wow time."

Sam nodded.

Vasiliĭ sat on a pile of furs in front of the fire in their room, talking to Castiel. The low table was covered with platters and bowls of food, and their stomachs rumbled and growled as they walked reluctantly past to seat themselves close to the angel.

"Demons?" Castiel looked at them. "Here?"

"Yeah, an army of demons," Dean clarified, trying to ignore the scents that wafted toward them from the table. "And they were bound, locked into the meat–" he stopped, glancing at Vasiliĭ. "… uh, into their flesh."

Castiel looked at the village leader, a frown drawing his brows close together. "In the last ten years, have there been any massacres, or disasters, taking many lives, over a thousand?"

Vasiliĭ's eyes narrowed as he thought. "Yes, there was one such event, three years ago. A force from the far east, the yellow men, came and killed many, many people, in the lands southeast of here, at the end of the mountain range."

"Azerbaijan," Castiel commented to Dean and Sam. "Did they stay, and conquer those lands?"

Vasiliĭ shook his head. "No, my cousin, who lives close to the border, said that they came and spilled blood, and then left."

"How many people were killed, Vasiliĭ, and where was the massacre?" Castiel leaned toward the leader, his expression intense.

"From the foothills on the southern end of the mountains, to the shores of the great sea that lies to the east, to where the desert begins in the south." Vasiliĭ closed his eyes, recalling the fear and talk that had spread after the invasion. "Two or three hundred villages, towns, were sacked and destroyed. No one was left alive."

Dean felt a trickle of cold dread spread down his spine at the man's words. If each village held one or two hundred people, and the towns maybe more – he was talking about tens of thousands, not thousands. Sam's expression mirrored his own.

Castiel leaned back, nodding slowly. "It takes a great deal of bloodshed to open a gate. And there was – is – a gate in the lower Caucasus, near the Caspian Sea. Someone planned this, brought this to pass." He looked at Dean. "The gateways to Hell exist over the earth. They are locked but have cracks, some wide enough for demons to get through, from time to time, in very small numbers. But when a gate is opened, many can come through, as you know."

He closed his eyes, his head tipping back as he drew every memory he had of this time. "The gate was sealed in my time here. There were no records of it ever having been opened." His eyes flew open suddenly, staring fixedly at the fire in front of him. "Something has changed. And it changed before we were pushed here, so perhaps the push wasn't by someone trying to thwart our plans, but by someone trying to stop whatever is happening here."

Turning his head, the angel looked at Vasiliĭ. "You said that the Scythians began to attack two years ago, corresponding with a new weather cycle?"

Vasiliĭ nodded uneasily. "We had two very bad years, long winters we know, but not this long, and too much rain in the spring, not enough in the summer. The crops died in many places south of here. And the people died too, of famine, of sickness that had no name."

Sam looked at Castiel. "Please tell me the Horsemen haven't been summoned."

Castiel shook his head. "No, when the weather changes and the crops fail, famine and sickness always follow. There's nothing … unusual … about that."

"Then what's going on?" Dean looked from Vasiliĭ's worried face to Castiel.

"I don't know," Castiel said slowly. "Someone has opened a gate to Hell and released a lot of demons. They've bound them into the bodies of the Scythians, sometimes called the Kurgans, for the burial mounds that are scattered across their realm. In our – in my experience, the Scythians invaded to the east of their lands, the steppes, into Asia. They did not turn west." He sighed, and rubbed his forehead. "Someone has altered the course of events, and is using the demons to achieve something that was not written in the destiny lines. Someone who is powerful enough to control them, to work the spells of the binding links, of the possessions."

Vasiliĭ looked at the angel's face worriedly. "You are talking no sense, my friend. Who has such power to control demons? Or to change destiny?"

"I don't know, Vasiliĭ," Castiel admitted. He looked at Dean again. "But every settlement, every person who lives in these lands is in danger. The Scythians were – are - renowned for their ability in war. They are mounted and skilled at fighting on horseback, and they were born of the high desert, with the stamina and survival skills of the horses that carry them. They are a formidable enemy."

Dean took a deep breath. "That's just freaking great, Cas."

Sam shook his head. "With the blood metal weapons we can make, we can at least hold them off. But we can't fight the main army head to head; there aren't enough people who can be spared here."

Vasiliĭ nodded. "We will see what the scouts say, when they return. It is unlikely that these mountains are the target of an attack like this. We are sparsely populated, spread thin-"

Castiel looked at him. "But a road through here, to the north and west – the lands of the west are rich, and heavily populated."

Vasiliĭ shrugged. "There is a good road to the west in the far south – the yellow men and all the traders use it, they do not have to cross over mountains this high."

"The Silk Road," Sam said quietly, and the leader nodded.

Vasiliĭ looked around at the table. "The food is cooling. We must eat."

Dean licked his fingers and leaned back against the edge of the table, his feet extended to the fire. Vasiliĭ had left them and the food had been good, still hot and delicious after the days of trail provisions. He picked up the cup of warm wine, sipping it, letting the taste sit on his tongue as Ruane had told him to. The herbs and spices that infused the rich wine added a multitude of tastes over and above the earthy taste of the grapes themselves. He let it trickle down his throat, closing his eyes.

Alis opened the door, coming in with a heavy earthenware jar in her hands. She put it on the table and looked from Sam to Dean. "My mother thought you would like this. It is from her homeland." She held out her hands for their cups and they finished the contents quickly, handing them to her.

The liquid she poured from the jug was a deep golden brown, the smell was sweet and rich with cinnamon, but with an underlying smell of mustiness. Dean looked at it suspiciously. Sam leaned forward.

"Mead?" he asked. Alis nodded, looking up as Ruane came in with another two cups. She poured them out and stoppered the jug, picking up her cup and sipping the spiced sweet drink.

Sam took his and tasted it, swallowing a mouthful when he realised that it wasn't too sweet.

"What is it?" Dean picked up the cup and looked at it.

"Mead, alcohol made from honey," Sam said. He looked at Alis and Ruane with a slight smile. "Skol."

Alis' smiled widened as she raised her cup. "Skol."

Ruane looked from one to the other, unsure of the joke.

Dean lifted the cup and dipped the end of his tongue in. The taste was sweet but not overly so, cut by the spices. He drank a little, wondering briefly if he was supposed to let this sit in his mouth before swallowing as well. He didn't think so. He didn't think much of the alcohol content, but it went down easily enough.

He looked behind him, to where Cas lay on the furs.

"Cas?" He leaned toward the bed. "You awake?"

Castiel moved slightly, raising his head. "Yes."

"You wanna try some of this? It's pretty good." Dean rolled to his feet, taking the cup to the angel.

"Mead?" Castiel looked down at the thick liquid.

Dean frowned. Did everyone know about this stuff except him?

"Yeah." He sat down next to the furs, watching as Castiel sipped at the drink. "Vasiliĭ was right. Who in this time could control demons, raise an army of them?"

Castiel shook his head. He didn't know, not for sure. And he couldn't think of any way to verify it. Or what the possible purpose could be for it.

"There are the Watchers," he said at last, reluctantly.

"The who?" Dean looked up as Sam crouched down beside them.

"The Watchers. In your time, they were sometimes called the Eighth Choir, but that isn't right." Castiel swallowed the remaining mead in the cup and handed it back to Dean. "They are … were … angels, who fell to earth. Some of the Fallen fought with Lucifer and were cast down with him. Some remained out of the conflict, and swore to watch over the human race, to teach them the knowledge and skills of Heaven. Some remained neutral in the war of Heaven but were ambivalent at best, or at worst, malevolent about humanity."

Alis brought the jug from the table, refilling their cups. "These Watchers, where are they?"

"Mostly Syria, some in Jordan." He looked up at her, seeing that the names were meaningless. "In the deserts to the south, that lie along the edge of the western sea."

"Are they giants?" She stared at Castiel.

"Some are." He nodded. "Have you heard of them?"

She nodded. "I thought it was … you know, tales to tell children, to make them afraid, but my mother said they were real, they lived far away and they were more than men, living for hundreds of years."

Dean looked from Alis to Sam to Castiel. "So there are fallen angels around here, a few of which hate humanity?"

Sam was frowning, chasing down an illusive memory. "Noah's great-great-great-whatever grandfather wrote about them, didn't he?"

Castiel sighed. "Yes, something of them, at any rate."

"They took human women for wives, and had children." Sam closed his eyes as the memory crystallised. "And God sent the flood to wipe them out."

Dean looked at Sam. "Didn't read that in the bible."

Sam shook his head. "It's in one of the non-canonical texts – the Book of Enoch. Quite a lot about the 'sons of God' – the angels who fell deliberately, because they wanted to be a part of humanity, have families."

Castiel shrugged. "Bearing in mind that it was written a long time ago and has been mistranslated several times since, but yes, that's the gist of it."

"So we could be up against a fallen angel, who's pissed generally at humans, and what? Wants to wipe us out? Finish what the flood started? Bring Hell to earth?"

"I don't know, Dean," Castiel said, impatience edging his voice. "I'm not even sure that it is one of them we seek."

"But they're around at this time, and they have means and motive. Angels could control demons, and it's a good bet that's why the demons are locked in." Dean looked from the angel to Sam.

Ruane watched the conversation, feeling a dread rising in her heart. She edged closer to Sam, shivering a little as she heard the uncertainty and uneasiness in their voices. Sam turned, seeing the expression on her face. He shifted his legs, slipping an arm around her and drawing her close.

"Yes, it would explain that," Castiel agreed reluctantly.

Valenis pushed the door open and walked over to them, her hands settling on her hips as she took in the expressions on their faces.

"Castiel, you should be resting." She glanced at her daughter. "You are all so young and healthy that you do not need sleep for the work you will be doing tomorrow?"

Alis rose to her feet, and picked up the jug of mead. Ruane rose as well, sorry that Valenis had chosen this time to interrupt them, the warmth where Sam's arm had lain upon her shoulders now cooling.

Dean and Sam stood slowly, going to the low table and gathering the bowls and dishes from their meal and stacking them onto the flat wooden trays, leaving Valenis alone with Castiel, as they carried them out and back to the kitchen.

"You must rest, Castiel." She crouched down beside him, laying the back of her fingers against his temple, and then his neck. "Guin will be here tomorrow, to make sure you are resting."

He looked at her, her face shadowed, the fire at her back. "I was resting -"

"You think the Qaddiysh are responsible for the demons?" she said, using the Aramaic term.

Castiel looked up at her slowly. "Yes, maybe."

She nodded. "It is possible. There is someone I can ask, someone who could confirm it if it is true."

"Who?" Castiel struggled to a sitting position. Valenis looked at him in frustration.

"Lie down, rest." She pushed him down and pulled the furs over him again. "In the mountains, a long way to the west and south, near the headwaters of the ancient river, a man lives. He is not a man, you understand, he has lived there for a long time. He has been a friend, someone who helps when he can. His name is Penemue."

Castiel nodded, a slight smile lifting the corners of his mouth. "I know of a man who is not a man called by that name."

She nodded. "I will contact him, in the water, and ask. But only if you rest now, and tell your friends to let you rest."

Castiel settled back against the smooth fur and allowed her to tuck the edges against him. Penemue. It had been a long, long time since he'd seen his brother.

When Dean and Sam returned to the room, Castiel was asleep, his breathing light and steady. Sam laid more wood on the fire, wondering if he'd ever feel really warm again. Dean took off his boots and clothes, and stretched out on the soft furs, feeling the room sway very gently.

Guess the mead had a bit of a delayed kick, he thought, as sleep stole in and pulled him away.