Chapter 35

Castiel sat up at the scream, blinking the sleep from his eyes as he looked around their small camp, the last of the light fading from the marsh pool.

"What happened?"

Dean felt Alis pull back against his arms, letting her go, barely able to see her move back to her bedroll. He sat up slowly, perversely glad of the deepening darkness, hiding his expression, and hers.

"Nothing, Cas. Just a näkki visit," he said quietly.

He closed his eyes. He could give up on any ideas of sleep now, he thought, the sense memories strong and insistent and lighting him up even as his body settled into a familiar throbbing ache he knew would last for a while.

"I told you not to look," Alis' voice came out of the darkness, low and throaty and shaken.

"Yeah," he acknowledged resignedly. She hadn't been wrong about the water spirit's ability to pick what the victim was least able to resist. Only the sight of his mother could have gotten him to cross the circle, to go willingly into the water. Even knowing that it wasn't real hadn't been enough to overcome the need to see her again.

"Dean? You sound strange."

He snorted softly at the understatement of the observation, lying down again, pulling the fur over him. "I'm okay, Cas."

He wasn't okay. He couldn't pick apart the tangle of emotions that were making his heart ache and his head pound, and with the angel and Alis lying there listening in the dark, he couldn't do anything about his physical discomfort either.

The day had dawned grey and cold, the strong briny smell of the sea competing with the equally strong scent of pickled herring, blowing over Sam from the aft quarter, where the sailors ate the fish straight from a small wooden barrel.

The seas were long, and not high, their foaming crests white against the shades of grey that seemed to fill every other corner of his vision. The wind had been steady for two days now, and he thought they were more than halfway to their destination, whatever that was. Two more of the Scythians had disappeared during the night, washed over the rail, Ásbjorn had told him in passing, although he had his suspicions that they'd been pushed overboard by the Norsemen, the unmistakable signs of decomposition too much for the sailors who were ruled by superstitions.

He dragged his thoughts back to the prophecy, brow furrowing as he forced himself through it again, trying to wring more information from it. Lucifer's rising would be presaged by a celestial event. The Sun brightening tenfold … solar flare? A very big one might be visible, the earth's magnetic fields would be disrupted … perhaps the northern lights would be affected. He chewed on his lip. There was no way he could be sure of what it meant. The second part was easier. A day without a night, a night without a day. An eclipse, solar rather than lunar. He wondered when it would be. If he could get a single glimpse of the night sky, he might be able to tell. Or at least make an educated guess.

Cesare wanted to use them for the living sacrifice. The prophecy had said three heavenly children, he was sure of that. They might all have angel blood in their veins, but they were a long way from being children. How could that work? What was wrong with the children he had already trapped and was using? Or were the Fates using them up too quickly? He swallowed, pushing away the images that rose in his imagination.

The mage had been talking to the Fates, or talking to someone at any rate. He knew just enough about the three of them to be able to figure out where the potential weaknesses in them lay. Sam grimaced as he remembered the last conversation with Cesare. He'd been too shocked at what the mage had been saying to hide his reactions, to temper his answers, and he'd given the sonofabitch even more information.

He leaned his back against the thick thwart behind him, memory and thought and feeling swamping him as he thought of the sorcerer's accusations. Would any of it have happened if he'd just killed Jake when he had the chance? No dying. No deal for Dean. No Hell, no broken seal, no broken brother, maybe no Ruby and demon blood and the invincibility he'd felt when it was fizzing through his veins and lighting up his brain.

The knowledge that the chain of events had been planned, orchestrated even, was no help to him. His choices had led him down the path they'd taken, his decisions, his thoughts and feelings driving him to ever worse outcomes. He'd been angry with Dean when his brother had told him about the deal. It had been a long time later when he'd realised that he could've prevented that decision, that deal. He ran a hand through his salt-stiffened hair and sighed.

It was easy to see the mistakes with hindsight. It hadn't been so clear when he'd been in the middle of it. He'd been a fish on a hook for most of his life, played expertly, allowed to run a little, drawn back in and maybe that absolved some of the blame that lay on him, and maybe it didn't. He had a chance now to set those things right, to wipe out that future that had destroyed his family and most of his friends and the innocent bystanders who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time. If he could figure out how it was going to go down.

A mortal man born of an angel and a demon who will be the doorway. The wording bothered him, nagged at him. A doorway was not a vessel. A doorway was a doorway. What if … what if in this rising, Lucifer didn't want him. What if he only needed him to come through? What if he weren't there? Could the angel come through anyone else? He didn't think so. Would the angel manifest in his own body, like the Watchers, if he could come through the doorway? A body that could be killed? As mortal as the rest of the fallen.

He looked up as Samyaza crouched beside him. The Watcher's eyes were clear, silver-grey and his own.

"You need to eat something, Sam." He glanced back to the sailors, his nose wrinkling slightly. "I realise that it does not smell the best, but you cannot go without food."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "If I eat that, it'll just go over the side to feed the fish, Samyaza."

"I believe that if you hold your nose and swallow fast you will not taste it." The Watcher's face was earnest. "It will be at least three more days at sea."

Sam smiled. "Do you think it matters to me if I die on the way?"

"It should. You cannot fight if you are dead."

He felt his eyes widen very slightly at the Watcher's words. "Lucifer cannot come through if I am, either."

"Don't believe that." The Watcher paused, feeling someone come up behind them.

Sam looked over his head, nodding to Ásbjorn as the Norseman stopped behind the Watcher. He watched a faint frown pass over his face as he looked down at Samyaza and wondered what he'd noticed.

"You need to eat, ørlendr. There is some salted beef as well, although the herring tastes better." Ásbjorn looked at him, humour glinting in the blue eyes. "I will bring it, you will eat."

It didn't sound like a question to Sam and he nodded. It would probably break his jaw to chew the stuff, but it wouldn't make him want to hurl. He watched Ásbjorn turn away and looked back Samyaza.

"How do I know you're not lying to me? You have before."

"You don't." The Watcher stood, glancing over his shoulder. "You have to ask yourself what reason I would have for lying."

He turned away as Ásbjorn returned, carrying a deep bowl of dried jerky strips. The seaman passed Sam the bowl, and lifted his foot to the thwart, fiddling with the rawhide lacing that kept the fur pelts around his calves.

"That man has something in the back of his head," he said softly. "Something that should not be there, I think."

Sam lifted a piece of jerky from the bowl, biting into it then tucking it into his cheek as he looked forward up the ship. "What does it look like?"

"A bead of stone, a bright stone, a jewel."

The device that Araquiel and Gadriel had told Castiel of. He looked back Ásbjorn, raising the bowl.

"Thank you."

"Eat." The Norseman turned and looked behind them, along the eastern horizon where a thin black line showed above the waves. "We might make the island before that reaches us, but I would not count on it."

Elbek, Geny and Torgva leaned on the wall at the top of the watchtower. The valley had been quiet for two days, the demon bodies drained of blood to make more blood metal, then incinerated. Thick black smoke had risen into the still air, shadowing the village and finally dissipating this morning when the northern wind began to blow down the valley, icy cold and filled with the scent of coming snow.

"You know how to use the machine. The blood metal spears will kill the Scythians and the demons inside of them."

Elbek glanced at Geny and nodded. "Is Kirill staying with the cat-a-pull?" he asked, sounding out the foreign word slowly and carefully.

"Yes. For another three days he and Lev will stay, in case the army of Armaros regains its courage and returns." Torgva sighed. They had only two of the bombs left anyway. "After that they'll leave. The other army will not be standing around doing nothing. If they are clearing the rockfall in the southern pass, we will need it to defend the southern villages. The scouts will return to Deep Ice in a few days' time. We will know more then, I hope."

"When are you leaving?" Geny looked at the blacksmith.

"Tonight. After Vasiliĭ is …" Torgva stopped, looking down at his hands as they rested on the stone wall, waiting for the thickness in his throat to ease, "… is sent to the gods."

The single pyre burned furiously in the strong wind, flaming against the darkness of the surrounding mountains. Torgva watched the fire, his heart aching for the passing of his friend. Like his father, Vasiliĭ had died too young.

The field was filled with people, the villagers of Black River, and the warriors brought from the south, watching the fire burn in silence. In normal times, the death of a leader like Vasiliĭ would have been more elaborate. All the leaders of the villages along the long valley would have been there. War took more than life, when it came. It took the very traditions that helped ease grief and sorrow, it took the promise of the future and the memories of the past and gave no one the time needed to make sense of the changes.

The logs fell in on themselves, sending a shower of sparks up into the night and Torgva straightened, turning away from the fire, and the village, the two hundred warriors who were leaving with him, following him across the river to the camp.

Ruane was standing on the palisade wall, waiting for them when they came down the long curving road toward the village. Beside her, she heard Valenis' long exhale. The gates were open, and several cooking fires had been lit outside of the walls, to feed the men and women who would not be staying, but continuing their journey south to get back to their own villages.

Torgva rode in through the gates, followed by the warriors and hunters of Deep Ice. He dismounted in the crowded square, his eyes searching through the mass of people for one. Valenis smiled as she walked between two horses, and he released the breath he'd held as he enfolded her in his arms, feeling her strength pour into him, and the deep sense of contentment he felt when she was near to him. She knew the pain he was feeling, would be able to offer comfort as no other could, and he would finally be able to sleep again, with her lying against his side.

Ruane came up hesitantly behind the healer. Torgva looked at her, and straightened slowly.

"He died quickly, Ruane. Bravely," he said quietly, and she nodded, her eyes bright with tears that she did not let fall.

"Is the northern army defeated, Torgva?"

"No. Chased off for the moment. Not defeated." He glanced down at Valenis. "There are thousands of them, Ruane. They will come back, until they have found what they are looking for, or have wiped us out."

"Will the people of Black River be able to withstand them?"

"I think so. The demons couldn't breach the walls. They have more warriors there now, enough to move the stores into the keep and be able to keep up their defences."

"Good." She looked away, at the men and women who filled the square, stripping off their armour and settling their horses. "The scouts have not returned from the south yet."

"A day or two more, I think." Valenis looked at the young woman gently. "It is several days to Stone Well and they must be very careful beyond that."

Ruane nodded, taking the blacksmith's hands in her own. "It is good to have you home, Torgva."

"It is good to be home, Ruane." He gestured to the carts now trundling in through the gates. "We have a lot of demon blood. I will be making swords, arrowheads, spears for the ballista, Lev has an idea for a bomb that does not need the explosive powder."

"Good. The more ways we have of killing these demons, the more quickly we can rid our world of them." She turned away from them, heading for the keep, threading her way through the people and horses.

Torgva looked at his wife. "She has changed."

Valenis watched Ruane disappear up the path. "Yes."

The eastern horizon had darkened very quickly, and Alis watched it carefully, pushing them to move faster as they cleared the outer edge of the marshes and came into the low rolling hills, wide plains and winding streams to the north.

"What's wrong?" Castiel came up beside her, following her gaze as she looked to the east again.

"I'm not sure, Casteel." She looked around them, the gently rolling countryside showing little cover in any direction. "We have to find some cover, something to protect us."

"Why?"

"My mother told me about a wind, a wind that brings ice and death, a wind that comes from the north east." She shook her head. "She called it the poorga."

Castiel's head snapped around. "From Siberia? Sabirs?"

"Yes."

"I have heard of this wind. You're right, we need to find cover." He looked back at Dean. "We have to move fast."

Dean watched them push their horses into a canter, then a gallop and closed his legs on his mare's sides, feeling her stretch out to catch up to the others. What was going on now?

They kept heading north, driving the horses on until they began to slow, letting them to a walk or stop briefly to graze and regain their wind, then pushing on again. The forests were spaced out, there were no settlements on the open plains, and Alis had started to think of how they could build a shelter that would be strong enough and safe enough to keep them alive if they were trapped out here.

"Why are we running?" Dean looked at Castiel, as they stopped again.

Castiel pointed to the eastern horizon where the darkness had thickened and was visibly moving closer. "The poorga is a wind that comes out of Siberia. It is ferocious and dangerous in our time, but in this time, the Siberian high is much bigger, edging well past Russia and across Poland, even stretching as far as west as Germany or sometimes Belgium. The high draws down extreme cold, from the stratosphere, sometimes higher, the cold of space, Dean. In winter, most of the time the high is stable. That depends on other things but in this time, the high is not always stable, the forces that affect it are not stable."

Dean stared at him. "So another snowstorm? Like the buran?"

Alis led her horse back to them, and for a moment he saw the stark fear in her eyes. "Much worse than the buran. Much worse. That was a winter storm." She lifted the reins over her mare's head, swinging back into the saddle. "To be outside in this storm is to die."

Castiel mounted, waiting for Dean. "In our time, your time, you heard the discovery of the mammoth, found snap frozen with the grass still in their mouths?"

Dean frowned. He had a vague memory of hearing that at some time. Possibly at school. "Maybe."

"Those mammoth were killed by a storm like this. Snap frozen as they ate."

The angel's words sank into him. "If we can't find shelter?"

"We'll try to make a shelter. Or we'll die."

They rode up over the crest of the hill, eyes frantically searching the valley before them for anything that would keep them safe. Alis looked along the valley where the hillside gentled out, thinking that it would be the place to start digging. She felt her chest hitch up with a half-sob as she started down the long slope.

Castiel followed her, staring at the ground. The soil was hard here on the hill, the vegetation stunted and scrubby. He had the feeling that the ground would be well-frozen for at least a dozen feet. He wasn't sure how they would be able to dig into it.

Dean turned to look back, feeling the icy outriders of the storm that pursued them, and was catching up, cutting through the thick fur around him. He looked back to the valley, pushing the mare slowly down the slope, letting his gaze drift over the landscape, looking for differences, looking for anything that broke the pattern of the vegetation, the rock, the soils, the way the streams meandered along the bottom of the valley. The urgency of their situation beat against him, and he pushed it aside, not seeing Alis and Castiel trotting down ahead of him, just looking for any break in the broad valley floor.

He saw it as he reached the halfway point, his eyes suddenly narrowing at the different colouration of the thin trees and shrubs less than a mile away.

"Cas, Alis, over there." He cantered down after them, accelerating as they turned to look. On the valley floor it was difficult to see the subtle difference between the trees that were shallow-rooted due to the permafrost, and those that couldn't push their roots deep due to the blocks of stone that lay under the thin topsoil. He kept his gaze fixed on what he'd seen, felt the mare gather herself and jump the stream along the path, heard the hollow thunder of the other two horses' hooves behind him.

As they got close, the ruins became visible and obvious. The town or settlement had once been quite substantial, built of the grey and rose stone that broke through the thin soils of the region, the masonry accurate and smooth, if not elaborate. Castiel looked around as they rode between the fallen buildings, wondering what had destroyed it.

Alis pulled up in what might have been a square, once, sliding off her horse and stringing her bow. She looked up at Dean.

"Can you shoot?"

He nodded, dismounting and bracing the recurve bow against his hip as he slipped the string over the notched end. They gave the reins to Castiel and moved fast through the buildings. Stone wasn't enough, Alis thought feverishly. They needed to be deep, under the ground. The last building on the corner of the square had what she was looking for. Inside the still-standing corner between two walls, was a square of black, the wide, shallow steps leading down into the darkness.

"Here." She grabbed a dried and dead branch from the stunted and twisted tree near the wall, snapping it off at the fork and Dean pulled out the flint and steel he carried everywhere now, lighting the end. The simple torch was already fluttering with the gradually increasing wind, and they hurried down the steps.

The basement of the building had been built nearly thirty feet under the ground, a wide, rectangular room, with several walls helping to hold the foundations of the building above it. Moving through to the last one, Alis nodded.

"This will be enough, I think. If we can keep it warm, a big fire, the wind cannot reach in here."

She left the torch burning against the wall, and followed him up the stairs.

The seas were mountainous, the longship slowing as it struggled up the high sides of each wave, and quickening when it surfed down the long slope following, the prow far out over the trough when it balanced on the cantilever point, teetering on the crests, only to be pushed forward again by the wind. The drop was steep and horrendously loud, making even the Norsemen pale.

Overhead, dark clouds scudded past them, ripped into shreds by the icy wind that was blowing from the south east. Sam looked at the faces of the seamen, seeing their terror, locked down, as they moved around the ship, checking the rigging, easing the sail when they could, or hauling it in tighter when an extra knot of speed meant the difference between making it over the wave or rolling off the side and plunging into the trough.

Ásbjorn was on the tiller, his long hair lifted and tossed, bright as a flame against the darkness of sea and sky, the huge muscles of his arms and shoulders flexing constantly as he wrestled for the control of the boat with the sea. The sail was still fully set, the yard and mast moaning loudly with the stresses on the timber, the rigging thrumming like piano strings as the wind pushed hard against the sail. Sam looked at the crude ringbolts that held the rigging to the hull, watching them work in the holes, rattling when the sail eased momentarily, slamming against the timber when the wind filled it again. Could the ship take this punishment? And if so, for how long?

Samyaza sat next to him, braced between the thwarts, his face smooth and hard as he watched the crew, watched the storm catching up to them. He'd told Sam about it, an ice storm, unheard of in this sea, a storm in which the wind and the cold would rip them to pieces if they couldn't outrun it.

Another Scythian had been lost, catapulting over the bulwarks when the first gust had hit and the ship had spun on her long axis, sending the men crashing to the deck, into the hull. Two of the crew were lying on the deckboards, one with a broken leg, as he'd been thrown against the thwart, the other with broken ribs from the impact with the rail. Sam had felt the boat drop off the crest and had been lucky that he'd braced himself the right way, the force of the hull hitting the trough below them and spinning around had shaken his teeth and knocked the breath from his lungs.

Ásbjorn screamed his orders against the rising wail of the wind and the crew obeyed instantly, dragging the long yard arm to one side as the red-haired man had lashed the heavy rudder to the other side, the ice in the wind already burning in their lungs, and Sam saw the crackle of white appearing along the horizontal surfaces of the ship, frost forming as he watched. He was surrounded by the men a moment later, as they pushed into the narrow wooden frame between the mast and the thwarts and the thick pinrails in between. From the mast chest, the spare sail came out and was thrown over them, the heavily waxed cloth that Ásbjorn had given him was pulled down over the sail and tied off to the exposed ribs along the hull, until they were in darkness, bodies pressed close together and furs and clothing, wet and dry, covering every inch of skin possible. Ásbjorn was the last in, drawing in the coverings tightly behind him, the incredibly thick and heavy polar bear pelt he wore spread out over himself and those around him.

Through the ragged breathing of the men huddled together, Sam heard the voice of the wind suddenly rise, shrieking through the rigging and around the mast, and he felt the cold drop over them, piercing the cloth and the furs and sucking the heat from their bodies. The ship had lifted and for a second the sound of the sea along the hull vanished, leaving them in a terrifyingly eerie silence. Then they fell, ten feet, twenty, thirty feet and hit the trough, water forced through the planking of the hull, the timbers cracking like pistol shots, and over that, the explosion as the sail burst, the woven cloth unable to take the pressure against it.

The men were thrown against each other, fingers closing tight on whatever was closest to them, crowding close as the longship rolled drunkenly at the bottom of the wave and was slowly lifted again, the following sea roaring under them as they raced down the long slope, slewing from one side to another, the lashed-down rudder taking them across the slope of the wave instead of straight up and straight down.

Water sloshed underneath them, slow leaks from the cracked planks in the hull, more thrown over the bow and stern as the ship surged over the rolling waves, driven fast before the wind against her bare pole, even the noise of the wild flapping of the shreds of the sail drowned under the eldritch haggish scream of the storm. In the darkness and the cold, Sam felt their fear as clearly as he felt his own, the muttered prayers to the to the Sækonungar, gods of the sea, of the winds and storms and sky, for their deliverance, no different from the prayers in his heart to whatever had lifted him and Dean from a convent in Maryland as Lucifer had risen, to come to his aid again.

Even mortal fear cannot be sustained indefinitely. As the hours went by, and the ship continued to surf and skate and skitter over the seas, neither broaching nor sinking nor breaking into a thousand pieces, the minds and bodies of the men began to shut down, exhausted by emotion, by effort, by cold.

The man walked up the frozen track, a dark staff in his hand, his cowled and hooded cloak drawn closely around his face, leaving it in shadow. His boots left tracks over the white hoar, and the dim grey light of the approaching dawn cast his shadow pale and long across the slope beside him. Only a short way ahead, the double palisade wall of the village followed the curve of the road, and he saw the guards positioned at intervals along its length, heard their calls as they saw him come along the road.

He stopped by the closed and barred gates, looking up at the narrow gatehouse that sat slightly out from the wall.

"Show your face, traveller."

A dozen arrows lifted as the man raised his hand, pushing the hood back from his face, revealing long dark hair, a strong tanned face, with dark winged brows and blue eyes, as bright as the desert sky.

"What is your business here?" The guard looked down, frowning slightly in partial recognition.

"I have come to offer my services to the village of Deep Ice and its leader."

He watched the men turning, looking behind them as someone else came up to the rampart, pushing past the archers to lean over the wall.

"Penemue?" Ruane looked down at him, her expression a mixture of surprise and relief.

"In the flesh." The Watcher glanced at the gates to his right. "I've been walking for a month. Is there any chance I could come in and we could have this discussion in front of a fire with something to eat?"

"Open the gates." She called to the gatekeepers, turning and racing down the ladder to the square.

The Watcher walked in through the narrow gap opened for him, and looked down at the young woman in front of him, lips compressing slightly as he took in the changes in her since he'd seen her last.

"Is Cas around?"

She shook her head. "A lot has happened since we left you. Come, there's a fire in the hall and food and tea."

He followed her up the half paved path to the keep, using his staff to keep his footing over the glazed ice that coated the slick mud.

Ruane glanced back at him. "Are you staying?"

The Watcher nodded. "For as long as I'm needed."