Chapter 25

The sun had not yet risen when the village went down to the fields, but the sky was pale to the east, fine ribbons of cloud showing rose and silver along their edges, promising a fine day with some breeze, the dew on the stalks wetting boots and pants, murmured conversations competing with the first birdcalls.

Dean looked at the fields, the stands of the wheat and barley and oats hip-high, the grain-heavy heads bowed slightly at the tops. He couldn't help with the cutting, the simple scythes needed the full movement of the upper body, both arms and shoulders, and he was a long way from being able to achieve that. Even the small sickles needed a better range of movement than he had. He couldn't help with raking or drying either, unable to make a decent fist with his left hand that didn't send shards of pain through the healing muscle. He could lead the carts, up and down the rows, collecting the dried stooks as they were gathered and bound. He could sharpen the blades, as the men came in from the fields, swapping blunted tools for razor keen ones. He sighed slightly as he walked to the heavy timber tables set along the edge of the poplars, where they would shaded through the morning, joining the older inhabitants of the village.

By the time the sun had risen a hand's breadth above the rim of the eastern peaks, half of the first field was cut, and the women followed the harvesters slowly along the rows, raking and gathering the stalks into sheaves, binding them quickly and leaving them upright along the row.

"What a face, Dean." Mya laughed beside him, her wrinkled face nut brown, her dark eyes bright. "You will be with the men next harvest, not with the old women."

He turned to her, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "And miss out on your company, Mya? Nah, I'll just break a leg before harvest."

"You be careful with your flirting with us, Dean, we could take you up on it and then you'd be in trouble." Katya grinned slyly at him, her strong white teeth belying the fact that she would reach her ninety-eighth birthday this year. He smiled back and shrugged, looking along the edge of the long blade and handing it over to Elbek as the hunter passed him another, the edge dulled down, Elbek's grin creasing his face as he caught the last comment.

"Time for you to be loading anyway, young man." Anton gestured to the wagons trundling out on the fields. "You leave these girls to the men with the experience to handle them."

There was a chorus of laughter and cat-calls from the women and Dean stood up, shaking his head as he walked onto the field, taking the reins and leading the small, high-sided wagon slowly along the row. On the other side of the row of bundles of sheaves, young women, young men and children picked up the sheaves and threw them into the wagon.

As the wagons were filled, the handlers led them to the threshing area, where the flails were used to separate the grains from the stalks. Dean watched the women working as the wagon was unloaded, two of the men shovelling the mix of grain and chaff into the wide, shallow winnowing baskets. With the arrival of the mid-morning breeze, firm and constant down the length of the valley, the lighter chaff blew off the grains as the baskets were lifted sharply and the contents rose into the air, while the heavier grains fell back into them.

Valenis had told him that normally the grains would go into the store rooms outside of the village walls. But this year, they were storing all that they could harvest inside the village, making room in the barns and the keep, in the houses and workshops and in hastily built temporary storehouses, framed in timber and walled with twigs and straw and rushes plastered heavily together with river and glacier mud over the light staithes in between the framing timbers. The roofs were thatched, with alternating layers of birch and straw, to a depth of almost four foot. It had been the quickest he'd ever seen a substantial building go up. The season had been good for them, no late frost to blight the grain or damage the fruit and vegetables, and for the past two weeks, the air around the village had been sharp with the scent of vinegar and salt, as the excess produce from the gardens was pickled and dried and salted.

After the grains were in, there would be fruit to pick, the plums and pears already ripe and sweet, the grapes soon after, then apples. He nodded at the young boy who waved him on, leading his horse back to the field, thinking that he'd learned more about agriculture in the last five months than he'd ever known. The funny thing about it was that he cared about it. He still felt vaguely hungry most of the time, the food was good, and there was plenty of it, but everyone spent almost all day on their feet, working, and it was used up well before the next meal. Knowing that they would have enough for the winter was important. And making sure that there would be no pickings left for an invading army was very important.

He tipped his head up to the sky, closing his eyes against the bright sunshine, breathing in the rich scents that surrounded him. Sam would laugh, he thought, if he knew what he was thinking about. His brother, perennial bad ass, enjoying the morning, thinking about fruit and storehouses and wheat and straw and hay and barley. He smiled, a small self-deprecatory smile, as he slowed down to walk the wagon along the next row.

Sam caught the smell of salt on the air and lifted his head. As they came around the cliff wall, he saw the glitter of the sunshine from the waves, saw the long coastline unwinding in front of them. The small village at the edge, between the sea and the mountain, held a dozen roughly built houses, some built right against the edge of the rock plateau that dropped into the clear blue water.

Tied against the roughly hewn rock quays three boats were tied. He frowned as he looked at them. Double-ended, and big, they bore a remarkable resemblance to the paintings and reproductions he'd seen of Viking longships, the high prow and short masts, shallow curving bellies and doubled floors, providing bilges below the decks. There were three of them, and he felt his heart sink as he caught sight of one of the men leaning on the bulwarks of the closest, the flaming red hair and beard of a Norseman, and the dead black eyes of a demon.

Samyaza drew rein and waited for Sam's horse to come alongside his.

"I hope you have a strong stomach. The next leg will be by sea." The Watcher waved at the boats.

"A bit late in the season for the Black Sea, isn't it?" Sam had no idea when the best time to sail on this inland body of water was, he just wanted some time to get used to the idea.

"No, this is a good time. Another month, and perhaps not, the easterlies begin to bring storms across the sea then. But now, it will be very pleasant."

"If you say so." Sam shrugged and looked at the rest of the crew, now vaulting over the bulwarks and settling themselves around the deck.

The Watcher glanced sideways at him, a humourless smile stretching his mouth. "You'll have to do better than that, Sam. We will have plenty of time for you to think of interesting things to divert me with on the way up the northern river." He dismounted, handing his horse to one of the Scythians and vaulted easily into the first ship.

Sam looked down as the chains were unlocked and drawn free, and he was pulled from the horse. The two guards, who had not slept at all on the entire journey, caught his arms and dragged him down to the ship, lifting him over the rail and pulling him to seat in the middle of the boat. The chains were locked again, around the thwart that he was sitting on. He looked down at the chains and then out over the water. Even if he could get the chains off, where the hell would he go once they were out of sight of land?

By sea, it was somewhere around five hundred miles, due north to Odessa – or at least where Odessa would be in the future. Did Samyaza mean to travel up the Dneiper? Or the Volga? He shook his head. Did it matter? Five hundred miles on foot, by horse, would take weeks. But with a following wind, or any breeze that was aft of the beam, this ship would take them across the sea in six or seven days. He closed his eyes. Castiel might have reached Penemue by now, if the sandstorm had died off in hours rather than days, and nothing else had stopped them. It wouldn't help. By the time the angel reached the village and Dean, he would be halfway across the Ukraine, and they would never be able to catch up, not in time, not before winter buried the north in snow and ice.

He lifted his head, opening his eyes, watching as the six crew members readied the boat for leaving. All six were possessed, and he could see the binding links on their arms clearly. Samyaza and four of the Scythians were on board as well. He turned his head to look at the ships behind them. The remaining Scythians and the horses were loaded on them. Not all of them, though, he did a quick recount. Only fifteen. The others were staying … or returning to the army … or … hunting different game. The Corival, Castiel had said. The challenger. A man, an ordinary man, according to the prophecy.

Now that they had him, there was no reason for the armies to be hesitant. They would sweep over the mountains and leave nothing alive.

The camp was ringed by guards, four of whom escorted Castiel, Ruane and Rascha to the largest tent, near the centre. The angel ducked as he passed under the low flap of the loose door, looking down when he felt the change in the surface underfoot. The floor of the tent was spread with rugs, brightly coloured and woven tightly from camel and goat hair yarn, soft and yielding but tough enough to withstand the abrasive sand.

The man who stood in the centre of the tent was tall, the iqal around his head holding three cords, his face carved and seamed by the desert wind, the skin a deep brown, like a polished nut, his eyes almost black. Castiel stopped and lowered his head.

"As-Salāmu `alayk."

The man smiled, and bowed his head. "Wa `alayka s-salām."

"We saw your lights. We are travelling north, to the mountains."

"You are welcomed. I am Zilabias Hadji. Rest here and be my guests."

Castiel bowed his head and touched the fingers of his right hand to his forehead. "My name is Castiel. Your hospitality is very generous."

"The hospitality of the host is honoured by the guest, Casteel." The man looked around and gestured abruptly. Food was brought and placed on the low table to one side of the tent. "Join me. Eat."

"We couldn't impose on your generosity."

"It is my pleasure to speak with people who are travelling, please, sit, join me."

"We wished only to pay my respects, we do not require refreshments."

"But I insist. Sit, you are tired from walking over the desert. I can see it. Join me for coffee and tell me of your travels."

"Your generosity will be remembered in our prayers."

"Ah. Yes."

Rascha and Ruane were introduced and they sat cross-legged at the table. The ritual of coffee making was observed. Castiel was careful to keep the conversation strictly to personal matters of the sheikh and enquiries after his family and herds. Business talk could come the following day, outside of the tent.

When they left the black tent, the guards showed them where to set up their own shelters. Rascha smiled at Castiel as they sat cross-legged in front of their small fire.

"You seem very practised with the customs of the bedouin?"

"I … I lived in this area for many years, and I was curious about … men. I always thought that the nomads were the most interesting people, their code of honour and their dignity, in the harshness of this environment, seemed to speak of the good things that mankind was capable of."

"Have you seen them in battle?" Rascha lifted a eyebrow.

The corner of Castiel's mouth lifted. "I have. You think they're bad, you should see angels in battle."

He lay back on the thick woven bedroll, pulling the blanket over himself. "I think we will be safe enough here, to sleep without watches, Rascha."

"You are right. But I like to think in the darkness, Casteel. I will think for a while longer."

"Dean?"

He opened his eyes and looked up, as Elbek crouched beside him. The deep shade under the spreading hornbeam had been soporific, and he realised he'd been almost asleep.

"Time to get back to work?" He started to sit up and the hunter smiled, shaking his head.

"No, relax. I brought you another cup." Elbek handed him the cup of cloudy cider, ice cold from the river. "I wanted to thank you."

Dean tilted his head slightly, looking over the rim of the cup at the other man. "For what?"

Elbek looked at him, the one-sided smile dry. "For releasing Kiya."

He shook his head, not wanting to get into this conversation. "It wasn't working, it happens."

Elbek sat back on his heels, his face curious. "So it didn't have to do with anyone else?"

Dean snorted. "How much free time do you think I have?"

The hunter smiled reluctantly and shrugged. "Lev thought … never mind."

Yeah, never mind, Dean thought. "Vasilii said something about you two moving to another village?"

Elbek nodded. "Black River needs another healer, and more men."

"You're going to Black River?" Dean straightened up slightly. "I need someone I can trust there, to set off the bombs in the Wolf's Mouth, if the army start heading that way. When do you go?"

"As soon as the harvest is finished."

"Shouldn't you be helping them with theirs?"

Elbek shook his head. "Black River doesn't have the soils to grow crops. They trade with us for grain instead, fur and metal and skills."

"Right." He thought of the timing. "Well, consider a part of your evenings cancelled from now until the end of the harvest, you and Lev. I need to train you to use the explosives."

"I will tell Lev." He looked at Dean for a moment. "Thanks again, for … you know."

Dean closed his eyes, leaning back against the roots of the hornbeam. "Yeah, sure."

He heard the other man's footfalls receding through the thick grass. He wouldn't make it too complicated. Just how to set and lay the fuse. And why it was important to get the casings deep inside the rock. And how to make sure they had enough get away time. Simple.

She would be back here. The thought snuck in. He felt a peculiar flutter in his chest, followed by a spreading heat as a memory filled his mind. He pushed it away, sitting up and swallowing the down the cold cider. It had been almost a week, not long in the overall scheme of things, but long enough surely to be … to be past this. After all the practice he'd had, burying things, not looking at them, ignoring them even when they resurfaced in his dreams, how could it be so goddamned difficult to pretend it had never happened, that he hadn't seen, hadn't felt.

He rolled onto his feet, and walked back along the river to the fields. He didn't have time for anything other than what he had to do. He flexed his left hand, making a fist, and feeling pain leap in his shoulder, wiping the last traces of the image from his imagination.

The wheat was harvested and half of the barley. They would be finished with the grain harvesting by the end of the week, and he would ride back up to the Wolf's Mouth, go see if he could find any sign of the northern army, take Lev and Elbek and get those bombs settled in place, train the two of them on the way. The sense of time slipping away, of events speeding toward them had been growing in the back of his mind over the past few days. It might have been a reaction to being in the village, being involved in the normal seasonal activities … but it might not.

Sam turned his head to one side as the spray was blown back from the bows and covered him in fine droplets. His skin was crusted with salt from the repeated dousings, drying his lips and dampening his hair and clothes in the heavily moist air. The easterlies were a little early this year, he thought, watching the grey seas heaving around the boat. Above him the big sail bellied out, smooth and taut with the pressure of the wind, and through the planking of the hull he could hear the rush and bubble of the water as it raced along under them.

Behind and to either side, the other two ships were following close, the high bows crashing into the waves, sending sheets of spray high into the air. The wind was increasing, he thought, feeling it against the back of his head, warring with the downdraught from the sail. Samyaza leaned against the bulwark, eyes narrowed as he watched the sea, the sky. With mountains on every side, strong winds could turn the sea into a wild ride, whipping up the water into short, steep waves that could overturn even a deep-keeled vessel, let alone the shallow-draughted ships they were in.

The Watcher caught his eye and grinned like a shark. "Relax, the wind is backing, it will drop by tomorrow."

Sam turned away with a shrug. The four Scythian soldiers were leaning out over the leeward rail, their faces drawn and various shades of green. Even demons couldn't keep their bodies from feeling the stomach-churning disorientation of sea-sickness, he thought, taking some small measure of satisfaction in their discomfort.

This was the third day and they were surrounded by water, no land visible at any point of the compass. The wind had picked up through the night, and he thought they might be making six or seven knots, even against the chop.

"We've made three hundred miles, Sam." The Watcher lurched across the deck in time with the lift and drop of the bow, sitting next to him on the broad thwart. "By tomorrow morning we'll see Sarych on the horizon. From there we will be in more sheltered waters."

"Where is your master?" Sam looked at the man beside him. Samyaza had taken off the kuffiya and iqal, and his hair was long and black, bound at the nape of his neck.

"Ah … at the end of the world, Sam. He lives at the end of the world where there is nothing but fire and ice and water."

Iceland? He'd finally remembered where he'd heard the term the prophecy had used. The island lay between the British Isles and Greenland, it would mean crossing most of Europe to get to the closest point on the coast. "So we'll go west when we land?"

Samyaza turned to him with a faint grin, and for a moment, he saw something else in the Watcher's eyes, something old and unclean and sly, watching him. It disappeared abruptly as if it had seen that he had noticed it.

"No, north is our course, due north to the end of the world." The Watcher looked away, and compressed his lips slightly as he felt the wind falter against his skin and then strengthen. "We will just make it before the first winter snows, I think. Your friends will not."

Sam stared at him, and the Watcher's gaze returned to him, his face twisted suddenly, in his eyes something that looked like panic.

"It must happen as it was foreseen, Sam." Samyaza's voice was low and urgent. "It must."

"They are very fine camels." Hadji looked at them, walking slowly around the animals. "Yes, I think we can trade for these."

Castiel nodded non-committally. "They have served us well, but our needs will be different in the mountains."

"Yes. Camels are not suited to the lands of the north." He turned to his sons and told them to bring the horses.

Ruane gasped softly as the four horses were led around from behind the tents. They weren't large horses, perhaps a little smaller than the steppes animals. Two were chestnut, with lighter manes and tails, one with a small white star on its forehead, the other solid. A bay and a grey, dappled over the shoulders and rump followed them. Their heads were fine, large, dark eyes looking around curiously at the strangers, arching their necks and stamping small, hard round hooves.

Castiel looked at the deep girths, the straight, slender legs and nodded to the sheikh. "These horses are the finest I've seen, Hadji."

Hadji smiled politely. They were the least of his herd, although all strong and fit and well-trained. The trade was equitable. He nodded to his sons and they took the camels and the horses away, to transfer the loads, and saddle the animals, Rascha following them to help with the loading. When they returned, the horses stood quietly, knowing that once the saddles were on, it was time to work.

"Your generosity has eased our journey. May your table be always full, your family in good health, your battles end in victories."

"And yours, Casteel." Hadji stretched out his right hand, pulling the angel close to him as he took it. Castiel forced himself not to stiffen at the closeness of the man, returning the kiss on each cheek, lifting his hand to rest against his chest over his heart as Hadji stepped back.

"Good hunting, my friend." Hadji looked up at him as he sat on the grey. "Evil times demand great courage, great heroes."

The angel looked down at him for a long moment, wondering what the desert dweller really knew. Hadji's face was open and sincere, but devoid of any greater knowledge, at least that he could discern. He nodded and turned the grey away, Ruane following him, and Rascha her, leading the other chestnut. One shelter cloth had been left, along with the food that would perish in the moister air of the mountains.

To the north, they could see the outlines of the mountains that divided Syria from Turkey. They could now avoid Halab, Castiel thought, cross the mountains to the east of the city, and push on fast for Penemue. He felt a strong desire to see the Watcher again, to listen to his counsel. Penemue had lived here for a long time, amongst men, he had acquired a critical faculty that Castiel felt he was lacking in the ways of humankind.

He looked up at the cloudless blue sky, wondering if anyone was looking down at him, watching him as he'd watched. He had healed; the long slow trip had returned his vessel to health. But he couldn't feel Heaven. Couldn't feel the power of the souls when he reached out for it.

He looked down at the black and grey mane in front of him, unwilling to face the possibility yet that he was no longer an angel, that he was simply a mortal man.