Chapter 33

Elbek leaned back against the cool stone walls as Kiya cleaned the blood from his face and smoothed the healing paste over the long shallow cut.

"You have to rest, Elbek, you have had no sleep for too long now."

"I'll rest in a while, Kiya." He straightened up and looked around. "How is everyone in here?"

"They are calm, they believe in the defences, in our warriors."

He shook his head slightly. The defences were holding, the demons had repeatedly tried to breach the walls and had repeatedly failed, unable to even get ladders up against them with the salt and iron resisting them. But two days they'd been fighting now, trying to make some sort of impression on the numbers that filled the forest around them, and failing, several buildings had burned to the ground, people were dead, and each hour that passed everyone grew more and more weary, made mistakes, some of which would be fatal.

He stood up, leaning forward to kiss her lightly. "There are too many of them, most of the time we are forced to take cover from the arrow fire, and sooner or later they will succeed in destroying our stores."

"The signal fires were lit. Vasiliĭ, Mikhail and the others will come to our aid."

"When they get here they will be facing an enemy that outnumbers them a hundred to one, Kiya." He went to the narrow slit in the stone wall, able to see a fraction of the grassy field that lay outside of the walls. Everywhere within that constricted view, he could see the Scythian horsemen.

Kiya watched him, seeing his exhaustion take his hope.

The sound of drums, deep and heavy and steady, came from the north and they both turned, eyes widening, running for the door, and the watchtower.

Elbek came up beside Geny, and looked past the high tower walls to the long sloping field that led to the forest, and beyond it to the narrow defile they called the Throat. It was filled from side to side with horsemen, more than he'd ever seen in his life, moving in formation down the snow covered incline, a man in the lead, taller than the rest, with copper-bright hair flowing over his shoulders and back.

"Armârôs." Elbek recognised the man from Lev's description. The soldiers kept coming out of the forest behind him, filling the slope, filling the field around the village, filling the woods to the east.

Geny looked at him. "How are we supposed to hold them off?"

"The Dneiper." Castiel sat on his horse looking at the long, slow river in front of them, thickly forested on both sides.

Alis nodded. "Mother River."

Dean looked at them. "And we have to cross it?" He looked at the far shore, at least two miles away, possibly further.

"Not here." Castiel turned his head, heading north. "We'll cross higher up."

Alis followed him without comment, and Dean looked at the river for a moment longer before wheeling his mare around and trotting after them. The snow lay deeply in the lowlands along the river banks, but was thinner in the forest, and they were making good time, at least.

For the next six days, their days fell into a routine of travelling and camping, a situation that Dean felt was completely surreal given that they were rushing to save his brother and the world from the resurrection of a genocidal angel. They couldn't go any faster, couldn't do any more, but he couldn't reconcile the predictability of their days with the urgency that filled him.

They camped each night an hour or so after sunset, setting up the shelter, gathering wood, cooking their food, repairing their gear, sharpening their weapons, oiling the saddles, their boots and gloves. Castiel took the first watch, till midnight. Alis took the second from midnight to four. Dean took the last watch, from four till dawn. At dawn they ate, packed up the camp and were on their way again. Through the day they rode at a steady trot mostly, stopping for fifteen minutes in every hour to rest the horses, to hunt for game in snowy fields and forests, to eat. Alis talked casually of the animals they saw, their habits and their tracks, Castiel spoke occasionally of the history of the land, or the geography of what they would have to cross next. And always, to their left, the huge river rolled by them, showing no signs of getting any narrower, any easier to cross.

As the days passed, he found it was easier to keep his worry about Sam locked down, found it easier to listen to the conversations, to absorb the information, to keep his thought and feeling separated and although the urgency remained, the tension that had accompanied it was lessened. At least, it was easier to keep his feelings about his brother separated. He hadn't asked her to look in the water again. It was better not knowing.

He stretched out, waking a few minutes before his watch, looking at the low flames of the fire. The last time he'd done this, been in this kind of steady day-to-day life, he'd been fourteen. Him and Sam, staying with Bobby for two months, he remembered, when his father had been hunting somewhere with Jim. That had been in the summer, and Bobby had taught them to track through the woods. He shook his head slightly, rolling over and sitting up.

Alis turned her head at the sound, relaxing as she saw him pull on his boots, buckle the belt around his hips.

"Anything out there?" He came and sat beside her, pulling the heavy fur around his shoulders.

"No, it is quiet tonight. Not even the wolves have been around." She glanced behind them at the fire. "Do you want some tea?"

"Yeah, thanks." He shifted as she got up, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, his back to the fire.

A moment later he heard her soft footfall and looked up, taking the warm cup she offered.

"How is your shoulder?"

"Better." He sipped the hot liquid, rotating it reflexively. "It doesn't hurt to move now."

"Good. We should try to get fresh meat today."

He watched her walk to the shelter, pull off her boots and the heavy fur cloak and spread it over her bedroll, wriggle under it. She had been doing most of the hunting, because he hadn't been able to draw his bow back far enough to get either power or accuracy. He flexed the shoulder again now, feeling the stiffness and a soreness under the joint, but no pain. It would stand some work, might even help if he didn't overdo it.

He settled himself comfortably on the log, letting himself become still. In this watch, these darkest hours before dawn, he could think clearly, and he'd come to welcome the quiet hours with no distractions, his body and senses remaining alert, while his mind turned over the problems, old and new, looking at them, studying them, analysing them.

He tried not to think about the prophecy. Until they reached the sorcerer's island, there was nothing that could be done about it, and he'd already exhausted all the possible literal meanings he could think of to explain the impossibilities of becoming a dragon, of magic swords and imprisoned heavenly children and his brother being a doorway to another plane. It was a waste of time and energy to keep going over those passages, trying to find meanings in them without some new information.

Cas had said that in this world, magic was stronger, more easily accessible because people still used their imaginations. Sympathetic magic, to bring luck to their hunting. Symbolic magic to avert disaster and appease the gods who controlled the weather and the seasons of the earth. Psychic power to see things that happened in distant places, to draw energy in the body and from the elements together for healing. The angel had told him that people had those powers, locked away and latent in the largely unused part of their brains, even in their time, but in the modern world, there were too many distractions, too many diversions for them ever to become active. Magic required concentration.

He wasn't sure he bought it all, but at some level, it made sense to him. The people here lived very close to the natural world. There was little to distract them, to divert them. Entertainment came strictly from their own imaginations, their own creativity. He wondered if, under these circumstances, magic was going to make it possible to defeat the archangel.

Sam could smell the scent of the sea, rising up over the hills in front of them on the fresh north-easterly wind and blowing over them as they descended through the low, scrubby vegetation, much higher grey peaks rising to either side of them, capped with snow.

The land was silent and dark, cloud spread overhead cutting the sunlight, the colours drab, deep green and grey and black. He slowed down as the slope steepened, and they came around the bend in the narrow valley, the deep still water of the fjord reflecting the solemn mountains above.

He couldn't see any signs of a settlement along the flatter fields and forest that lay against the deep inlet's sides, and he wondered if Samyaza's travel arrangements had fallen apart.

The Watcher walked with a long, swinging stride in front of him. Cesare hadn't returned to the man's body for several days now, but Samyaza hadn't quite been himself, either. The five remaining Scythians flanked them both, bows strung and arrows nocked on the strings, watching to either side for any signs that they weren't alone in the silent valley.

They crossed the stream that zigzagged across the open ground, and the valley twisted further to the right, more of the deep water coming into view. Sam saw the Watcher's shoulders drop suddenly, as they approached the shore and saw the longboat, tucked in against the natural rocky quay.

He turned to look over his shoulder at Sam, smiling slightly. "Last leg. Weather permitting, this should only take six or seven days."

Weather permitting, Sam thought sourly. Their destination was not Iceland, then. That must be closer to a thousand miles. He looked at the men sitting on the boat. There were eight of them, tall, heavily muscled, their long hair loose down their backs, held back from their faces in narrow plaits, red and gold and black hair, their eyes the blues and greys of the Aesir.

So much for monsters taking care of his guards, he thought with an inward sigh, following the Watcher down over the crushed stone beach and onto the rock shelf, to the boat.

"Thought you might have gone, Ásbjorn." Samyaza said to the big man whose hand rested lightly on the carved tiller.

"We thought we would have to, but the storm veered south," Ásbjorn answered with a shrug, his eyes turning to Sam as he walked to the side of the ship, dropping to the chains that held his wrists and ankles.

"Will the weather hold for us?" Samyaza kept his gaze on the big man's face, ignoring the obvious curiosity.

Ásbjorn laughed, the sound booming out and echoing over the water, the crew joining in. "Ask Ægir, we do not know the will of the gods over sea and wind and storm."

Sam saw the Watcher's eyes narrow slightly and realised that these men were not possessed. Samyaza had hired them, obviously, but they were not under his control. He felt a slight surge of hope trickle through him.

"Can we leave now?"

"No. We will wait until near sunset. The currents will turn then, and speed us on our way." Ásbjorn looked at the Scythians, the blue eyes becoming thoughtful. "Your men do not look well, ørlendr."

Samyaza glanced over his shoulder, seeing the horsemen as the Norseman did, their skin grey and shadowy where it was beginning to slip from the muscle underneath.

"They will last the journey, Ásbjorn. Other than that, you do not need to know." His voice was curt, and the flame-haired man smiled and shrugged.

The fjord was dim and filled with deep blue shadows when the boat slipped her moorings and the men ran out the oars, Ásbjorn guiding the sixty foot long vessel down the centre of the deep water. The tides had turned and the whirlpools and vortexes that made the entrance to the fjord dangerous at certain times had vanished. Sam leaned against the thick bulwark, seeing the rills against the smooth water, the tidal current now curving outward from the coast, carrying the ship out and away from the rocks at the base of the cliffs, propelling them toward the open sea.

The breeze freshened as they cleared the coast, and the men unfurled the massive mainsail, the tightly woven fabric bellying out as it caught the breeze, the mast and hull creaking and groaning softly as the sheets were tied off and the sail tautened, transferring the pressure to the mast, to the keel and lifting the boat. They stowed the long oars and tidied the cordage, moving easily around the ship, used to the gentle roll and pitch as she pushed into the swells. Ásbjorn looked up at the sail, and leaned back against the long tiller, his face settling into lines of contentment as his ship barrelled along comfortably.

Sam looked at the sky, still louring and dark with cloud, and wondered how the Norseman was navigating, without view of the stars. He looked back at their wake, running perfectly straight behind them to the coast. There must be some way, he thought absently.

Samyaza came to stand beside him, the Watcher staring over the sea. "And God said, let the waters under the heaven be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry land appear: and it was so." He looked at Sam. "Have you ever seen the waters of the earth, Sam? They cover most of this small planet. Most men have no idea of how much water there really is."

Sam looked at him. "Yes, I've seen it."

The Watcher shook his head. "God gave the planet to mankind, to live and multiply, to learn to become more than any other of his creations. Lucifer hated them, could never see the beauty or the promise in them. The war in Heaven … it went on for a long time, Sam. A long, long time."

"How can Lucifer be released before his time, Samyaza? Before the proper time of punishment has ended?"

The Watcher shrugged. "I do not know, Sam. Cesare has found a way, through changing the lines of Destiny, but I do not know how he found it, or why it works against God's will, his Word."

"A back door, maybe," Sam mused, mostly to himself. There were always loopholes for those prepared to search for them. Four years of pre-law had made that clear to him.

Vasiliĭ lay on his stomach, concealed within the stands of tall bracken that swathed the forest floor, staring down at the field in front of him, his heart pounding against his chest. So many of them, he thought. Already the ground was churned over, the snow ground into the mud and the mud frozen and broken apart again. The walls of Black River were still intact, although from this vantage point he could see that many buildings inside had been destroyed. He hoped that Elbek and Geny had been able to move their winter stores inside the keep before they'd lost too much.

Beside him, silently watching the army, Torgva's eyes were narrowed and thoughtful. The machines that Kirill had built could do some serious damage here. They would need to be placed to their best advantage, however. And they needed several attacks, each one undermining the army, confusing it so that they could get more people into the village, to let the defenders get rest.

They moved slowly backwards, inching their way through the undergrowth to prevent any movement of the plants that sheltered them. When they were safely below the crest of the hill, both men rolled to their feet and made their way down through the forest and across the river.

Kirill stood beside the large machine, rubbing quantities of fat into the axles. He turned and straightened as he saw them approaching.

"Well? Can we get to them?"

"How far will that thing throw, Kirill?" Torgva stared at the heavy timbers, the wheels and ropes that criss-crossed the underside of the heavy beams.

"I have only run a few trials, Torgva, but depending on the weight of the object, it will reach," he turned, looking around them, "from here to the line of trees there." He pointed at the forest, five hundreds yards distant.

Torgva nodded. "And from a hill? Will it go further?"

Vasiliĭ looked at him, seeing the shape of his thoughts. He turned to Kirill.

"Yes, maybe. The distance will be increased perhaps half again from a reasonable height."

Vasiliĭ looked at the machine. "To the south of the village, in front of the signal peak, there is a well-forested hillside. We can defend it, the slope rises steeply on the river side." He turned back to Kirill. "Can we get this thing up there?"

"If you give me enough horses, yes. It needs a clear area to fire, Vasiliĭ."

"That is not a difficulty."

"The army will see us if we take too long to do this, Vasiliĭ." Torgva rubbed his hand over his beard, thinking through all the possibilities for the attack.

Vasiliĭ nodded. "We clear the trail to the top now. Tonight we take it up. Those bombs that Dean made. They are not too heavy for the machine?"

Kirill started to smile. "No, they are very light, they will go a long way."

"Lev knows how to set the fuses," he stumbled over the unfamiliar word slightly. "If we can panic the horses, panic the men, it will give us enough time to break the lines, get a hundred men into the village, with the other machines."

Torgva nodded. "Those are more accurate."

"We need to make it impossible for them to stay close to the village, make them withdraw beyond the reach of the machines."

Kirill nodded. "How many of the bombs do you have?"

"Ten." Vasiliĭ wished that they had more. Torgva knew how to make the gunpowder and the casings but being able to move around to collect the guano, the sulphur from the volcano, that was not possible now. He thought that it would be enough, to reinforce Black River and convince the army that they would not be able to break through.

"If this works, it will be a feat worth telling, Vasiliĭ." Kirill grinned at the leader.

"If it works, it will not be our feat, my friend." He turned away, gesturing to the warriors who waited for their orders.

Torgva looked at Kirill. "How many horses do you need?"

Dean leaned against the tree trunk, his head turned slightly, Alis in the corner of his vision several trees away. The young bull was oblivious to them, pulling the leaves from a shrub, ears flicking back and forth, but not really worried about being disturbed.

He caught the movement as she rose slowly behind her own tree and began to inch his way up the trunk, fingers closing around the smooth shaft of the arrow nocked onto the string, sweat beading on his forehead with the effort of remaining completely silent.

He saw Alis nod and they stepped out from behind the trunks at the same time, the elk lifting its head, nostrils flaring as the arrows hit its body together, grey fletching standing out against the thick dun coat behind the shoulder, the heads buried in the great muscled walls of its heart. It dropped in a staggered slow motion to the ground, forequarter falling first, then the hindquarters crumpling. They walked to the body, Alis pulling the long knife from the sheath at her hip, as Dean pulled both arrows from the animal.

The blood was shockingly bright against the snow, congealing almost instantly with the cold, and he lifted the long coil of rope from over his shoulder, tying the hindlegs together and throwing the free end over a thick branch a few feet away as Alis stepped back.

Dean hauled the dead elk across the ground, the rear end lifting as he started to take the full weight up. Alis stood close to him, her hands interleaved between his on the rope, both pulling together to lift the animal from the ground and into the air. His shoulder was twingeing a little at the weight; damned animal weighed near five hundred pounds, he thought as the shoulders then head came up.

"How high?" he grunted at her as the hooves got close to the bottom of the branch.

"That will do." Alis looked up and took the tail of the rope, wrapping it several times around the base of the tree and tying it off. "You can let go."

He loosened his grip, seeing the rope stretch slightly as the weight took all the slack out, then stop. The blood was running freely from the opened throat and he looked around the silent forest, wondering how long it would take the predators to show up.

"How much are we taking?"

"As much as we can carry. It will freeze and stay frozen now, unless we are very unlucky. It will feed us for a long time."

He watched her as she stropped the blade of her knife over the leather strap that was looped through her belt for that purpose. Everything she did had an economical grace that he sometimes found compelling. Shunting the feeling aside, he looked back up at the bull. The animal was young, he thought, studying the barely branched antlers. Any older and he didn't think they'd have gotten it into the tree.

"I'll get the horses." He turned away, heading down the forest trail to the clearing where they'd left them.

Alis watched the blood running out as she sharpened the edge to razor keenness. It would have been better to let the animal hang for a day or more but they didn't have that much time, and the opportunity to get enough meat to keep going for so long couldn't be ignored. The wolves and the scavengers would eat whatever they couldn't take, she reminded herself. Nothing would be wasted. She had thanked the animal for giving up its life for them, and the gods for allowing the hunt to be quick and clean.

Dean walked fast through the trees, the bow in one hand with an arrow already nocked onto the string. He'd gotten faster at getting his arrows onto the string and firing. with practise, but it was easier to carry the bow loaded if he really had to move fast. He moved his shoulder around, feeling a faint throbbing in the muscle that lay under the hole in it. He wasn't certain that the ache was no more than the effort of lifting the weight of the young elk, not any damage. It'll either get better or worse, he thought.

The two horses stood patiently in the small clearing, looking up at him when he walked up to them. He slipped the reins free and mounted his, turning her and leading the dun, following the trail back at a steady jog.

They'd done some hunting with Bobby, when they were kids. Mostly rabbit, some duck. Bobby hadn't been able to convince either of them to kill deer. There'd been no need for the meat and killing for the sake of killing hadn't appealed to either brother. He smiled slightly, remembering the old man's sour expression when he'd realised that they were missing the animals deliberately.

The horses snorted softly at the smell of blood as he rode into the snowy clearing. He slid off and tied them, looking over as Alis worked the hide off the hindlegs and down off the back. She'd stripped off the close fitting hide jacket and all but one of the homespun shirts under that, her arms bloodied almost to the shoulder, a bright smear over one cheek.

The animal had been gutted, the internal cavity empty and clean. He walked toward her, ready to offer some help, when she looked over at him and shook her head.

"It is easier if I only have to worry about where my hands are, not yours as well." She glanced around the perimeter of the clearing. "Keep watch. I will need your help soon to cut loose the meat."

He nodded, and moved behind her, watching the trees, trying to hear over the tearing and slight sucking noises behind him as she cut and pulled the hide free, the knife slicing through the thin white membrane that attached skin to the muscle.

He glanced back at the sound of the pieces of the heavy hide hitting the ground, hearing her loud exhale as she straightened up. She cleaned the knife in the snow and started sharpening it again. Cutting through hair and hide invariably blunted the edge more quickly than through the meat.

"How are we carrying it exactly?" He looked at the skinned carcass.

"We will cut it up, wrap it in the pieces of hide." She shrugged slightly as she tested the edge against her thumb and moved back to the elk. "It will keep it clean."

It took nearly another hour to cut enough meat free to fill the hide, and Dean lifted the pieces of skin, holding them together, wrapped around the meat as she bound the bundles tightly. There were four large bags when they were done, and she tied them together, the two of them lifting the heavy bags over the front of the saddle bows. Dean untied the horses, leading them to the edge of the trail, and she released the rope, the remains dropping to the ground. She freed the hindlegs and coiled the rope up slowly.

Dean looked at her, seeing the tremor in her muscles from the sustained effort of the work.

"You okay?"

She looked up at him with a weary smile. "Yes, it is tiring, to have to go fast like that." She dropped to her knees in a clean patch of snow, picking up handfuls and rubbing them over her arms, washing the dried blood from her arms and hands. She wiped her hands over her face, and stood up, pulling on the thicker shirts, the jacket and the fur cloak.

He stood behind her as she leaned briefly against her horse, moving around to her side and offering his hands to give her a boost into the saddle. She looked down at them with a slight smile and put her knee into them, bracing herself and swinging her right leg over as he straightened up.

He looked up at her. "Next time, show me what to do, and I'll do it."

The laughter in her eyes was gentle. "Yes, when we are not in such a hurry, I will show you."

Castiel looked up as they rode back into the camp. He'd ridden a little way along the river while they'd been gone, seeing the narrowing of the banks only a few miles ahead. They could cross over in the morning, and they would be barely a day's ride from the marshes.

The roasting meat smelled delicious, filling the campsite as Dean hung the remaining hide bags high in the trees, out of the reach of most predators, to freeze in the night. They ate as much as they could fit in, the rich grease dripping from their chins. The meat and fat was an easily absorbed source of energy, essential to resisting the cold, to having the strength to keep up the physical demands of the travelling. Dean looked at the chunk of meat in his hand, wondering how Sam would have felt about a meat-only meal. He stretched back against his saddle, licking his fingers, as he finished the last of it.

"Cas and I will take the watches tonight, Alis. You should get a full night's sleep."

She looked at him in surprise. "I can take my watch, Dean."

He shook his head. "You did all the work today. You deserve a night off."

"If you insist," she said, shrugging. A full night's sleep would be a luxury.

Alis woke at midnight, then remembered she had the night off. She rolled over in her bedroll, closing her eyes again, listening to the snap and crackle of the fire. Her eyes opened again as she heard the soft grunt of pain.

Dean winced as he shifted his position. The shoulder had been fine until he'd hauled the hide bags into the tree, he thought, moving it slowly as the ache spread through the muscle.

Alis sat up, turning around to look at him, her voice quiet. "What is it?"

He looked around at her. "I think I just twisted it the wrong way when I getting the bags into the tree." He lifted the arm, feeling the point where the muscle hurt. "You got any of that paste here?"

She pushed the fur cover back and went to her saddle bag, crouching beside it and pulling out the small clay pot. The mixture helped deep muscle injury, any injury where the skin was unbroken.

"Where is the pain?" she spoke softly, walking over to him.

"Doesn't feel like it's all way through, mostly this side." He looked down at the front of the shoulder, over the pectoral muscle where the arrow had entered. Alis looked down at the arm.

"Can you lift your arm, without it hurting?"

He shook his head. "No."

"Strain in the muscle lower down then." She nodded, gesturing to the fire. "Get close to the fire."

Dean sat closer to the fire, pulling off the leather and plate cuirass, woollen surcoat, then the thick shirt under that. Even next to the warmth of the fire, the cold reached for him, and he turned slightly, moving his bare skin closer to the flames. Alis put another couple of logs on, and drew the edge of the homespun shirt he'd left on down far enough to see the wound and just below it.

She put the jar close to the fire to soften and warm it, her fingers gently probing the muscle that he'd said was painful. She could feel it, a slight thickening of the muscle under the wound.

"It is a little swollen." She reached for the clay pot and scooped the paste out with her fingers. "Did you have to pull suddenly?"

He thought about lifting the bags up and remembered the rope slipping through his hands, he'd tightened his grip and yanked down then. "Yeah, it slipped a little and I overcompensated."

She nodded, and smoothed the paste over the skin, her fingertips moving in slow circles as she worked outward, then back in. "Is there any pain in the back, behind the shoulder?"

"No."

He sat completely still, watching her fingers move over the muscle, her scent mingling with the sweet smell of the paste, filling his head, his awareness stretched out. The world had drawn in around them, narrowed down to the half-circle of firelight that enclosed them. The circling of her fingers slowed further, and subtly, the touch changed, from firm massage to a softer caress. He looked at her face, hearing the increasing beat of his heart in his ears, drowning out the other sounds, as she watched her fingers moving over his skin.

"Alis …"

She lifted her head, and his breath caught in his throat, his heartbeat stuttering uncomfortably as their eyes met. The camp around them was gone, time telescoping out, the seconds hesitating too long. Her face was soft, vulnerable, and the aching desire he felt flooding through his body was mirrored in her eyes. He lifted his hand, his fingertips touching the curve of her cheek, trailing down to the line of her jaw and he leaned closer to her, her breath fluttering against his lips, his gaze holding hers.

She blinked, shifting backward abruptly, turning away from him, her breath ragged in her throat. Her eyes were tightly shut as she gestured to the pot by the fire, her voice low. "You can do this, work it into the muscle, whenever it feels sore."

He dragged in a deep breath, watching as she rolled to her feet, moving quickly back to the shelter, to her bedroll, pulling off her boots and sliding into it without looking back at him.

What the hell had just happened?