Of the hundred that had started, barely fifty were behind Raza as he reached the top of the hill.
The area was high. It reminded him of his beloved Afghanistan, now under the boot of the Allah-Be-Damned Americans. The last few kilometers had been through low brush, covered in snow melting in the rain. And it was high. He could tell by the thin air, the cold clear of the mountains he knew and loved.
The rain wasn’t like Afghanistan, though, still spraying in his face and the wind was rising. It was going to be a cold, wet, night. But they had beaten these pig Keldara to the Pass. And he intended that they not pass.
“Get up you sons of pigs!” he cursed, kicking the nearest Chechen who had slumped to the ground as soon as he reached the top of the hill. “We have digging to do. Those Keldara you so fear will be here soon and we will give them a hot greeting.”
Mike cursed as firing broke out to his front. Initially, most of the fire was from AK type weapons, the familiar “back, back, back” if the relatively slow firing AK. The response, however, was almost immediate as the higher, faster cycling, SAWs and SPRs of the Keldara responded to what was clearly an ambush.
Team Sawn was in the lead with the other five teams following. The area was still woodland but the underbrush, in most areas, was thick. He knew that the Chechens were going to know the trails and easy ways better than the Keldara, making them faster moving, but all they could do was bull their way forward, hoping for the best.
“I don’t know where they came from,” Vanner panted behind them. “Nothing on the intercepts.”
“Just because it isn’t on the map, doesn’t mean it isn’t going to be there,” Mike pointed out.
The Keldara hadn’t even stopped moving. Their orders were to bull through light opposition and Oleg’s team had, apparently, already switched to point without orders. So Mike’s command team soon reached the ambush site.
The majority of Team Sawn were coming back down the hill, most of them carrying weapons which were being tossed on a pile. Others carried bodies. Those, too, were dropped with the weapons.
“Ten,” Sawn said as Mike walked by. “They tried to run when we counter attacked. None got far.”
“I take it none tried to surrender?” Mike asked.
“I wasn’t asking,” Sawn replied. The pile of weapons and bodies was apparently complete and he tossed a thermite grenade on it. The white light definitely gave away their position but it also sent a message; this is what happens when you face the Keldara. For once, the smell of burning pork didn’t give Mike a sick stomach.
Other members of the same team were putting bandages on the wounded while there was already one bodybag zipped shut. One of the wounded, Stephan Ferani, one of the MG team assistant gunners, was pretty bad. The rounds had ripped in from the side through the arm-hole of his armor and he was bleeding like a pig. He was still conscious, though.
Mike stopped and took the Keldara’s uninjured hand.
“Hey, Stephan,” he said, grinning. “What are you doing laying out?”
“Just catching… a quick… rest, Kildar,” Stephan replied, the words spotting bright blood on his face; the rounds must have hit the lungs.
“Well, the good news is somebody else gets to carry you back,” Mike said. “Riding along like a king. Kildar Stephan, yes?”
“Yes, Kildar,” Stephan said, grimacing.
“Hang in there, buddy,” Mike said, getting up. “We’ve got another evac site up ahead. You get to ride in style.”
Mike trotted to get back to his place in line, Vanner tagging along right behind him.
“Think he’ll make it?” Vanner asked when they were past the ambush site.
“Not a chance in hell,” Mike said. “What’s the status on the birds?”
“They’re back at base,” Vanner said.
“At least they made it.”
When the door slid back, a wave of blood splashed to the graveled heli-pad.
“Varlam and those three to the other choppers,” Gretchen said, detaching the defibrillator. “Then give me a hand with this one,” she said, gesturing at Viktor’s stetcher.
All the available men and women of the Keldara were gathered at the landing pad. Which meant that both Mother Makanee and Mother Silva, their mother by birth, were present as Gretchen and three other girls lifted Viktor from the helicopter.
Father Jusev, the Orthodox priest from Allerso walked over as Gretchen was unloading. She wasn’t surprised, Jusev was a good man and… understanding. The Keldara turned up on Sunday for church, tithed of their food and handiworks and he ignored the fact that in the dark of night they performed other ceremonies.
What she was very surprised to see was Father Kulcyanov in his full vestments. A tiger skin was flung over his shoulders, pinned at the neck with a silver brooch in the form of an axe. In his right hand he carried a large battleaxe and in his left a bunch of dried mistletoe. She had only seen him dressed that way at the “secret” rites of the Keldara. She couldn’t believe he was so dressed in front of Father Jusev.
“He was hit coming back from the mission,” Gretchen said as Mother Makanee and Silva walked to the stretcher. Mother Silva was crying, quietly, but Mother Makanee’s face was smooth and oddly serene.
“May the Lord Bless and keep this soul,” Father Jusev said, sprinkling the body with holy water. He recited a prayer in Greek then looked at the body bag. “Who?”
“Sion,” Gretchen replied. “He was hit in the battle.”
As the Blackhawks lifted off, filling the air with dust, Father Kulcyanov bent on arthritic knees and took one of Viktor’s flaccid hands, wrapping it around the hilt of the battleaxe.
“From these Fallen Lands you leave,” Father Kulcyanov recited. “Into the Halls of Feasting you go. Raised up on wings of the Valkyr to battle and sing until the day of fire, the final battle, when you ride by the side of the Father of All and Frey. You have faced the fire and been unburnt, you have faced the Reaver and been unafraid. Clean of body, clean of soul, pure of heart. True Keldar. True Son of Battle.”
As he spoke he brushed the boy’s body with the golden mistletoe.
“Let the Mothers bear him up and prepare him,” the old man said, using the hilt of the axe to help him to his feet. “Raise him up like the Vakyrie though your son is gone. Know, though, that he lives ever in the Halls and that in the days to come you shall see him again, pure and glorious, a warrior born and eternal.”
Gretchen bowed her head, trying not to shed tears in front of the Priest of the Father of All. She knew her brother was in the Halls of Feasting and was probably looking down at her in pity. But she was going to miss him. Did miss him already, terribly.
She’d known Father Kulcyanov her whole life but she’d never really seen him as he was now. This was the High Priest in truth, not serving over a rite of spring but sending the souls of warriors to fill the hosts of the Father of All.
And about that she had one small doubt.
“Father,” she said, touching his arm as he was going to perform the rites for Sion.
“Yes, my daughter,” Father Kulcyanov said.
“Father, I have been given a rank,” Gretchen said, biting her lip. “But… I am afraid. Not of battle, but… Women of the Keldara have never been spoken of as warriors.”
“And you fear the Cold Lands if you fall in battle?” Father Kulcyanov said, nodding. “Fear not, Daughter. You are a warrior as much as any of these fallen. Does not your weapon even now smoke? Do the technicians not rearm it? Are those bullets I see being fed? Did you not engage in battle on this day?”