Chapter 34

"You are cold?"

Sam looked up at the deep voice, seeing Ásbjorn standing next to him. He was hunched into the narrow space between two of the thick half-log thwarts that sat amidships, out of the downdraught of the sail, but still caught periodically by the spray as the side of the ship hit a wave, the chill water soaking him, exacerbated by the wind that had freshened in the last few hours and was blowing from the quarter at a steady twenty five knots now.

"Just wet." Sam shrugged, looking at the soaked leather and homespun and furs covering the other man. The Norsemen were tall, for this time, but still several inches under his own height, something that had raised their brows when he boarded the ship. They were heavier though, with broad shoulders and deep chests, muscle built over a lifetime of hard, physical labour and scarred from the battles they'd fought along the long coastline and on journeyings into the inland waterways. Ásbjorn moved around his ship like a cat, his balance and reflexes automatic with each roll of the vessel over the sea, anticipating the movements with ease.

He reached past Sam to a deep wooden chest that stood behind the mast, lifting the lid and taking out a tightly woven length of cloth, waxed and smooth. As he closed the lid, he spoke quietly to Sam.

"It is not our way to see a man chained like a dog. If anything should happen to the ship, you will be not be dragged down to drown, I will see to it."

Sam kept his eyes on the cloth in his lap. "Thank you."

Ásbjorn straightened up, and gestured to the cloth. "That will keep the water off. And the wind out."

He turned away and returned to the tiller, glancing at the Scythian soldiers as he passed them, his nose wrinkling a little in distaste. As Sam had thought, the constant moisture was accelerating their decomposition and they stood downwind of the crew, lined up along the leeward bulwark, no more happy to be there than the Norsemen were to have them there.

Sam unfolded the cloth and wrapped it around himself. The wind was cut out immediately, and he could feel his body heat returning. The spray from another wave slapped against the outside, running off the cloth. He pulled it further around, angling himself away from wind and water and closed his eyes. An unexpected ally, that was good.

He listened to the wind's low moan through the tight rope rigging and the rush of foam under him, the creak and groan of the hull timbers, and the low laughter of the men further aft, feeling his body warming, tiredness creeping in. Sleep was a welcome respite and he gave himself up to it.

Lev stared down at the round casings, counting off the feet of the fuse as Dean had taught him. They wanted the casings to land on the ground before they went off, not to explode in the middle of the air. He had to get this right or they would be wasting their most valuable weapon.

Behind him, the catapult had been moved into position, Kirill calculating the distance and trajectory several times before he was satisfied that the round metal objects would land where he wanted them to. He missed Sam and the way the younger man's mind could do this almost without effort. Twelve years of mathematics, Sam had told him wryly, knowing that the word had no meaning to the smith, but the concept of calculation, of measurement and accuracy would. The machine was slightly behind the top of the rise, hidden from view from the ground, but with the additional height, more than capable of reaching the target.

Torgva waited in the thick forest a half mile away, with Vasiliĭ and their small army. He would lead a hundred of the warriors straight to the gates, and take Kirill's other machine as well, as Vasiliĭ led the others to flank and drive the Watcher's horsemen from the field, harrying them from the forest edge while the bombs exploded around them. It was a good plan, he thought. The horses would panic, the men as well, even the demons inside them would panic at the noise and the fire, not being able to see the extent of the threat in the darkness.

Kirill glanced over at Lev, watching him using his forearm as a standard measure for each length of fuse. He would have to ask the hunter to tell him about this, he thought. If they were successful and they both made it out of the battle alive.

"Are they ready?"

Lev looked up and nodded, carrying the first of the casings to the metal cup that had been cranked down at the rear of the machine, setting it inside and unwinding the length of fuse.

Kirill nodded to his apprentice and the young man opened the small clay box, positioning the red ember it held to the free end of the fuse. The fuse lit immediately, sparking and crackling as the flame consumed it. Kirill released the lever and began winding the heavy beam back down to its firing position immediately, his head turning to watch the casing lift into the air, the fuse still flaming, in a flat arc over the river and into the field in front of the village. Lev lifted the second casing into the cup as the bomb exploded, sending the demon army into chaos, killing at least two of the horses and riders who had been close to where it landed, the shrapnel from the casing moving fast in the outward blast, penetrating everything it encountered.

After the third explosion, Vasiliĭ led the warriors through the trees, screaming their battle cries and galloping toward the Scythians, the archers firing from their horses as they got close to the confused soldiers. The army turned from the attack, wheeling away together. The darkness, the noise and bone-jarring shock of the explosions, the flaming arrows flying through the air convincing them that a much greater enemy had arrived. Nearly a quarter of the men were on the ground, thrown or falling from their horses as the casings hit the earth around them, the concussive waves and showers of dirt sending the animals into a frenzy. They pulled their swords free, demon eyes black, to find that the warriors that galloped and ran to them were carrying black swords, and a single killing stroke lit up the bodies in red and gold, the demons locked inside dying.

Torgva nodded to his warriors as the eighth casing fell, and they rode out from between the trees, crossing the river at a hand gallop, the ballista bouncing and rumbling behind the horses drawing it.

On the palisade wall, Geny and Elbek stood and watched as Dean's bombs fell onto the army from the night sky, and hundreds of warriors appeared from the river, yelling and chasing the fleeing troops up the northern slope. Geny turned as he heard the rumble of heavy wheels on the frozen track, recognising the round shield of the leader.

"Open the gates! Open the gates!" He shouted to the gatekeepers, running toward the ladder that led down to the square. Elbek followed him, bow raised to provide covering fire if any of the Watcher's army turned back. None did, and he watched Alis' father riding under him, through the gates with a hundred men and women, and the war machine behind them.

Vasiliĭ watched the riders, loose horses and men running north, and turned his horse, cantering across the churned and littered ground, the men and women under his command turning and following as he passed them. He didn't see the Scythian rising from the ground until his horse was on him, the man's hands gripping his cloak and belt and pulling him down as his horse snorted and leapt aside.

He rolled free of the grip, pulling his long sword from its scabbard, shaking his head slightly to clear it, watching the man's flat black eyes gleaming in the semi-darkness, a hundred small fires over the field reflecting in them.

The soldier was about his own size and weight, and he watched his hands, the short akinake held in one, a longer, curving bronze sword held in the other. Two-handed fighter, not from the steppes but further west, he thought. He pushed aside thought and focussed on the man, glancing from side to side for a shield as he backed slowly toward the forest.

When the attack came, it was fast, and he felt the akinake slice through the leather of his pauldron, barely able to keep his fingers around the hilt of his sword as pain sheeted down the arm. He twisted away from the follow up move, the longer sword stabbing past him, and swung his leg out, the heel driving into the side of the Scythian's knee and bringing him down. Vasiliĭ clenched his jaw as he tightened his grip on his sword, swinging it around in a flat arc but the Scythian had anticipated the move and was already gone, rolling backward under the sword and coming to his feet a few feet away.

Vasiliĭ stared at him, flexing his fingers around the hilt. There was numbness in the arm, and two of the fingers were no longer responding, the cut had taken out some nerves. The demon stared back at him, watching the older man's wariness, seeing the hesitation to move in for an attack and it smiled.

The river had narrowed as the level of the ground dropped in a series of broad, flat steps that had created several passable fords. It was no more than sixty feet to the other side here. Dean watched as Alis led her horse across the topmost ford, the broad rocky shelf only two or three feet below the surface, its underwater surface firm and scoured, the rough rock providing a good grip. When she climbed the far bank, she turned and waved, then led the mare up the narrow trail and into the forest that crowded the other side.

Castiel glanced at him and waded into the water, feeling the strength of the current against his legs, and moving slowly along the path Alis had taken. When the angel was halfway across, Dean followed him, swearing at the frigidity of the water as it rose quickly up his legs, shunting aside the discomfort and concentrating on reaching the other side.

The horses bounded up the bank, following Alis along the trail. She'd already lit a small fire where the trees opened a little off the track, and was rubbing down her legs by its warmth, her wet boots and pants spread over a dry branch to one side, spare clothing next to her. She looked up and pulled on the dry pants and boots as they tied the horses and walked to the fire, stripping off the wet clothing before it could freeze on them, dragging on spares from their saddlebags.

"That wasn't as bad as I'd feared." Castiel looked over the fire at Alis.

She nodded, putting the small iron pot over the flames. "My mother said it was a safe place to cross. Further up the river the water is much faster." She put a handful of the restorative tea into the pot. "We will reach the marsh just before nightfall, I think."

"Do we go straight in?" Castiel asked.

Alis shook her head. "No, we will make camp in the forest and go in by day. We will have to spend two nights in the marsh, it is very wide, but the less hours of darkness we are in there, the better our chances of surviving it."

Dean wrung out his wet pants and set them close to the fire to dry. "Awesome. What's in the marsh that's going to try and kill us?"

Alis looked over at him. "Whisperers."

He remembered her description of the creatures from their first conversation in the hall. Crocottas. He sat down, and rubbed his hand over his face. Just what they needed.

They drank the hot tea when it was ready, and packed away their mostly dried clothing, mounting and heading due north for the marshes after the short rest. Alis rode point, Castiel in the middle and Dean brought up the rear, the horses used to their places, leaving a length's gap between themselves and rarely needing to be pushed or slowed on the trail.

Dean watched the horses in front of him, his senses alert to the sounds of the forest around them, his mind fully engaged in trying to determine what had happened the previous night.

When dawn had come that morning, Alis had risen without showing the slightest sign that anything had happened between them in the night. She had made the tea, and the porridge, passed him the food, spoken to both himself and Castiel without any hint that there was anything wrong. Except, he thought, that the small measure of trust, of companionship, that had been building very slowly since they'd left the village, had gone.

He hadn't been mistaken, going over the memory of that drawn out moment again. It had been desire he'd seen in her eyes. He didn't know what had gone wrong, in less than the space of an indrawn breath, but he was positive that he wasn't mistaken about that. He felt a return of the frustration he'd felt then. What had he done wrong?

She'd been with two of the men in the village in the ten months he'd known her. He didn't think it had been fear or a lack of knowledge of what had been about to happen that had driven the reaction. Because he was a foreigner? A stranger? It was possible, he guessed, but that hadn't seemed like a problem for the women of the village on midsummer's eve. And it hadn't been the first time he'd seen the response from her when they'd been close, he remembered. In the storeroom, on the ladder, there had been that same feeling, as if time had slowed down, standing close to each other, that same awareness, before she'd looked away and hurried out of the room.

He shook his head slightly. Was it him? He couldn't remember doing anything or saying anything, not even thinking anything, just feeling. And he knew, he knew, that she'd felt the same. He'd had enough experience to know what a woman was feeling, to know when it was mutual, and when it wasn't.

Whatever it was, whatever he'd done or she'd felt, it was done. He pushed the memories away, and looked around, focussing his concentration on the woods to either side, on the dangers of the marsh in front of them, on whatever else he could think of.

"Sam, wake up."

Fingers gripped his shoulder, shaking him. For a moment, caught between deep sleep and waking, Sam thought he was in the car, scrunched into the corner between the door and the seat, warm and sleeping, that it was his asshole brother trying to wake him.

"Sleeping, Dean," he slurred with a soft resentment. "Leave m'alone."

The deep chuckle beside him brought him back to consciousness immediately.

"Ah, yes, Dean. Your brother." The voice was deeper than Samyaza's, the Watcher's smooth baritone deepened to bass, the inflexions archaic, formal. Cesare.

Sam lifted his head, opening his eyes and looking into the red-tinted silver irises of the possessed fallen angel.

"He'll be coming for me, you know." Sam stared into the mage's eyes. "And you don't want to be in his way when he's pissed."

Samyaza smiled. "You have a lot of faith in him, that's touching. I'm surprised actually, considering that he hasn't really protected you from anything that's happened in your life." The Watcher glanced past him briefly. "Your father didn't manage to either."

"You don't know anything about my family." Fear rose up his throat, hot and acid and foul-tasting.

"Oh, Sam, I do. I do now." The eyes gleamed red. "I know a lot about you now. I know that your brother failed to stop you from being killed, and had to make a deal with a minion of the underworld to bring you back. I know that he failed to convince you that a demon was leading you to release the devil from his prison."

"Those weren't his mistakes, Cesare, they were mine." Sam's hands lifted involuntary and they both looked down at the chains for a moment as they clanked against the thwart.

The Watcher's smile broadened. "And yes, you. You've failed him time after time as well, haven't you? Thinking that you were strong enough to kill a demon, thinking you were clever enough to fool him, thinking that your brother wasn't as strong as you were, couldn't handle the truth, couldn't handle your strength. I'm surprised he's even following you, he would be better off wiping his hands of you and making his own way in the world."

Sam flinched from the words. They were no worse than the things he'd told himself, but hearing them spoken aloud felt as if his skin had been laid open.

"He won't make it here, you know that, of course. He's in the marsh right now, and if he makes through that, the angel will lead him to my old fortress … and I can assure you, none of them will make it out of there alive. All my traps are still intact, still holding the creatures, still lethal. No one has been in there and made it out yet."

Sam stilled. Dean was following. And Castiel with him. The marshes were more than halfway, there would still be time. He wondered if he should tell the mage that his brother was the Corival. It might shake him, might take the armies out of the mountains and save the people in the villages. But it might give the mage warning, might give Lucifer warning, might focus their attention on his brother and get him killed before he could do what he had to do. He sat silently, his thoughts spinning chaotically through his mind.

"You've never come close to winning, Sam." Samyaza watched him. "You don't have the strength and neither does your brother. Your weakness will be your undoing this time as well as all the others. And his. And while I would be merciful enough in any other circumstances to let you die together, unfortunately my need to keep a tight control over the Fates does not allow me to give you that release. You and your brother and the angel will last a long time as the living sacrifice."

The Watcher stood, swaying against the motion of the ship. "Nothing is going to stop me, Sam. Nothing is going stop the Lord of Darkness."

Valenis stared fixedly into the dark water, not seeing or feeling the tears that rolled down her cheeks, splashing softly on the smooth wood of the table. The images were clear, rolling on and on, showing her detail she would rather not have known.

Black River had been saved. She straightened as the water became clear again, wiping her face impatiently with the back of her hand. The Watcher's army did not know that they had only two of the bombs left. But if they returned to the village, they would feel again the explosive blasts and she hoped that they would draw the obvious conclusion.

Vasiliĭ was dead.

She felt her sorrow rising again and pushed it away. There would be time to grieve for the fallen when the people were safe. To give in to her feelings now would only make her weaker. And she could not be weak now.

She thought of the leader's daughter and wondered what Ruane's reaction would be. Leadership was not hereditary in the villages, leaders were chosen by common consent, but it often followed that a leader's son or daughter had the strength and the courage and the wit to follow them, and to build on what their parents had achieved. Vasiliĭ's father had been the leader of Deep Ice before he'd been killed.

Ruane was already bearing sorrow. The healer stood up slowly, uncertain of whether or not she should add to that now. She sighed. Sooner or later, the girl would find out. It would be better for everyone if she found out from someone who cared about her, than from someone who didn't know her well, didn't know about Sam.

Torgva would be returning now, she knew, he would leave Elbek with the ballistas and Kirill with the group defending the war machine on the hill, and he would come back to them. She turned and left the room, hurrying up through the square to the keep. There was a lot to prepare with the warriors returning to the village, and decisions to be made about what to do next.

The marshes felt warmer to Dean than the surrounding countryside. He looked down at the frozen reeds, the thin glitter of the ice at the edges of the pools, the hard crusts of frozen mud, and shook his head at the proof that it probably wasn't. It still felt warmer than the forests and occasional open fields they'd spent the previous day riding through.

His mare picked her way through the shallow ponds of standing water, over the soft tussocks of dead grass, and around the rotting trees, following closely behind Cas' horse, both of them sticking to the trail that Alis was leading them along. The lonely cry of a loon sounded toward the edges of the forest, and he looked around, realising that they were leaving the forest behind quickly despite their slow pace, he could no longer see the river bend where they'd entered the bogs.

He couldn't see the signs that Alis was following, the whole damned place looked the same to him. Trust hadn't ever been something that had come easily to him, or that he took lightly, and he found it hard to trust Alis' assertions that she could lead them safely through the swamp and quickmud, that this was the quickest way to Sam.

They'd ridden into the marshes after dawn, the mists rising from the moist ground clinging to them for hours until the sun had gained enough height and heat to dissipate them. Now, as it rode low near the horizon, the mists were rising again, filmy and tenuous, spiralling lazily above the stretches of flat, silvered pools, gaining strength as the heat disappeared from the air, and cool blue shadows began to fall across the land.

Less than half an hour later he squinted through the thick grey mist, unable to see Castiel for more than a few minutes at a time. He pushed his mare forward, until she was crowding the rump of the angel's horse.

Ahead, Alis stopped on an islet, barely big enough to contain the three horses and themselves.

"We will have to stop here. It's too easy to lose the path now." She glanced around the silent country. "And the Whisperers and näkki will be stirring soon."

Dean frowned. "Näkki?"

"Water spirits. Sometimes they're malevolent, sometimes not. It is better not to take a chance with them."

She dismounted, moving the mare to the centre of the islet, untying her saddlebag and pulling out several small pouches. Without looking at either man, she began to walk around the perimeter of the solid ground, spilling a fine grey powder from one of the pouches, moving clockwise.

Dean and Castiel slid from their horses, holding them and watching her as she moved around them in a circle.

"What is that?" Castiel looked at the trail she left.

"The barrier for the protective circle we will need tonight." She glanced up at him, stopping as she reached where she'd started. "This will keep us safe. You must not leave the circle. You will not find your way back to it once you are outside of it. It does not make us disappear, exactly, but it makes us very hard to see."

Dean looked down at the grey powder along the ground. He'd made protective circles before, of salt, of symbols. He knew the way they worked.

She opened the second bag and walked the other way, a pale pink powder dusting the ground over the grey line.

"Stay away from the line. If you break the circle, I cannot remake it and we will be seen."

There was no possibility of a fire, and the frozen elk meat remained in the hide bags as they chewed on flatbread and dried fruit. The air was damp and cold, the horses moved restively, but remained within the circle. None of them felt like prolonging the evening, climbing into bedrolls as soon as the scant meal was finished. Dean looked over at Cas, the angel taking the first watch, sitting hunched against the damp, moist air, his eyes watching the darkness. Alis was little more than a lump under the furs of her bedroll and he looked away, shifting his shoulders against his saddle, trying to find a place where the tussocks didn't dig into his ribs.

It was an hour past midnight when he woke suddenly, hearing his brother's voice on the still night air. He sat up, looking around.

"It is the Whisperers, Dean. They have been calling for some time now." Alis' voice came out of the darkness to his right.

He stared into the blackness surrounding them, unable to see anything, not even his hand as he lifted it in front of his face. The mists were still there, he could feel the clammy touch of the moisture on his skin.

"Is it warmer here?" He thought they'd be sheeted in ice by this time of the night.

"A little, the marshes give off a small amount of heat all the time as the plants rot inside of them."

He looked around again, hearing the drip of water and odd, intermittent pops and crackles from the bogs around. It took several minutes for his eyes to register the thread of light that outlined a pond several yards away, a greenish white light that was brightening very gradually. He frowned at it, trying to see what was causing it.

"Alis? Do you see that?"

He heard the whisper of the fur as she turned toward him.

"Näkki. Don't look at them." Her voice was low, the command sharp. He turned from the phosphorescent light reluctantly.

"What do they do?" he asked, realising that behind him the light was continuing to brighten, he could make out the edge of the fur around him, the quarters of the horses standing to one side of the circle. The thought of something moving behind him, emerging behind him, strummed on his nerves. He tightened his control over the desire to turn around and look at whatever it was that was there.

"They are … shapeshifters, appearing to those who come near as loved ones or as a man or woman of great beauty to seduce them," she said. "They draw their victims back into the water and drown them, then eat them."

"Huh. Nice." Dean looked toward her. "So they won't attack us?"

He could see the outline of her profile now and he saw her shake her head. "No, they cannot cross the circle." She glanced his way, her gaze on the ground. "You should go back to sleep."

He nodded, lying down and pulling the fur over his shoulder, closing his eyes. Against the lids he could see the light shifting and he wondered if Alis had her eyes closed against the näkki, or if she watched them emerging from the pools. He opened his eyes again, seeing her face clearly now, her eyes closed tightly and turned away from the light.

The movement was in the corner of his vision and he turned toward it involuntarily. The woman stood, ankle deep in the water just outside of the circle. His eyes widened as he looked at her, his heart starting to hammer against his chest. The light faded from the smooth pale flesh, and he saw long blonde hair, with its distinctive curl at the ends. Her face was oval, the jawline clear and delicate, yet still strong. Large blue-grey eyes looked at him, the darker lashes framing them against her fair skin. He watched as his mother smiled at him, a gentle love in her eyes, the way he remembered her looking at him when he was sick, or in bed, ready for sleep.

"Dean? Come on, it's time to get up, time to go, baby." The voice was Mary's, neither high nor low, made memorable by the soft burr in it, warm and filled with tenderness.

He lay there, hunched under the fur, staring at her, knowing it was a trick, it was a monster under her face, but unable to look away, unable to deny himself the chance to see her again, the way he remembered her, would always remember her, young and beautiful and comforting, the last remnant of his world when it had been safe and secure and his biggest problem had been deciding on what kind of pie he wanted for dessert.

"Dean, come with me, sweetheart, we'll make it just as it was." She was on the edge of the circle, the vague outline of clothing resolving into the white cotton nightdress he'd last seen her wearing, the crisp white material bright against the smooth, golden summer tan that had persisted even into fall. He didn't feel himself moving, didn't feel the fur slide off his shoulder as he sat up.

She took a step back, into the water and he leaned forward, his attention, his senses, every fibre of his being completely focussed on her. The longer he looked at her, the more likely it felt that it was his mother, alive somehow in this time, this place, come back for him.

"Dean!"

He heard the voice distantly, some part of his mind registering the urgency in it, but pushing it away as he watched his mother take another small step backward into the water. She couldn't be leaving, not now, not again, not when he needed to tell her so much, ask her so many things.

"Dean! Turn away!"

The voice was closer and he saw the face of his mother change slightly, brows drawing together and lips lifting away from her even white teeth. He felt fingers dig into his shoulder, pulling him hard, and he shook them off, rolling onto his knees as Mary stepped back again.

Hands against his chest, shoving him backward, and someone blocked his view, his mother disappearing behind a face and a loose cloud of auburn hair. He fell onto his back against the saddle, a body lying on top of him, then warm lips against his mouth, the thoughts of Mary fracturing into a thousand pieces as Alis kissed him, the urgent demand of the kiss igniting a heat that spread out through him and crackled along his nerves.

He heard a high, wild scream from the marsh behind her, followed by a loud splash, but this time, he didn't open his eyes.