Another Raid

Back on track now. Well. It looks like it another convoy may have been spotted...
Intellectual property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz, and Copyright to the same.
Warnings of Blood and Violence, and Death, but hey, what do you expect, it's Valkyrien...

'Ulfsbluut' I swear quietly, a bullet cracking through the air near my head. They'd made us in our approach. I worm lower, deeper into the leaf litter, and glance up. Above my head, high, high above, a Raven circles. Sensing my gaze, it drops a few hundred feet, then recovers. Check one. I glance to my left. Though I can't see them, I can scent my companions. The dank, earthy smell of the Irish Sidhe, and the Cuain, his hound. From that I can pinpoint my gaze on where they have to be. Not a visible sign. They'll be ready. My gaze shifts to the right. Things have returned to being peaceful. From below I can hear one of the Chechens we tail berating the one who fired. My noze picks up the sharp musky scent of Vixen. I pinpoint her position. Again, no sign. She too will be ready.
We'd zeroed our rifles earlier. Mine had been set to be accurate at a longer range than the others. The Chechens turned to continue moving, and as the last of them turn away, I rise to my knees, fitting the stock against my shoulder. I line the sights up on the man who berated he who fired in my direction. I control my breathing, pulling back on the trigger, applying pressure deliberately. The carved wooden stock slams against my shoulder. It'll bruise, but not for long. The man drops, red blossoming on his camo. I shift the sights to the next warrior to appear to be taking control. Even as I do, I know Vixen and Tyrone and Cutyr will be starting down the hill towards the Chechen flanks. A loud, harsh cry sounds from above me. Seems to be Hugin is on his way as well. A second later a loud crump sounds. Ah, the joys of drop mortars. They're lethal in the trained talons of a Gryffon. Who tend to use them as direct fire weapons. Dive bombing like.
I continue to fire, my rifle cracking out shots steady. Four more rounds before the first scattered fire. It's unaimed, going everywhere bar near me. Or even my companions. I ignore those shots, and continue firing. Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Another five, although not every shot is lethal. AK's are not precision weapons, but I fell a couple before the first of them spot me. Sloppy. I've not exactly been concealed since I took my first shot. On the other hand, I knew this was coming. My thumb flicks the AK to safe, even as I swing it round, slinging it on my back. As soon at it be out the way, I dive down the hill. True, it silhouettes me against the hill. But maybe ten, fifteen feet down the hill, there is a thick tangle of brambles. And I am a Wolf. We have no trouble worming through such places. There is a way, a trick and an art to it. Even as I'm worming my way down, with a haste born of danger, I know my companions, my Sword-Brothers and Sister, are making there assault as well. I can hear their fire, echoing out throughout the valley. The harsh crack of the Rifles, firing rapidly and controlled. The dull crump of the Mortar firing, and then the sound of the exploding shells. The screams and cries of the wounded, the bellowed orders of the Chechen commanders.
I reach a hollow in the brambles, and carefully drag my rifle around. I fire off half a dozen aimed rounds, and then begin to worm my forward again. As the brambles begin to open out, I swing round, descending feet first. As soon as my head is clear, I begin to slide down the hill, firing away. The dust I kick up on my way down obscures my vision, so I begin to concentrate on other senses. My hearing as a man is not good enough to pick rifle targets with, nor is my sense of smell. But taken together, I can attain something resembling accuracy. My nostrils flare, taking in the scents of the battlefield. The pine smell of the forests, the acrid scent of smoke. Both woodsmoke from where the exploding shells have lit up deadfall, and powdersmoke. Cordite and hot lead. The ferric tang of blood, the stink of urine and shit. Each and every man alive smells slightly different. In a mob like they are, it becomes a shade harder to pick out individuals, but it can be done. On the other hand, it's easier to aim for the sudden cracks and flare of cordite that follows a shot. So far I've dropped half a dozen. Vixen and Tyrone have managed to drop as many apiece, and whilst Hugin may not have outright slain as many, he's kept them off balance, dispersed. Those that draw near to the fringe on the left flank fall to Cutyr's fangs.
It's enough. They break. The score, perhaps that are left. Cutyr bounds after in pursuit. Hugin dives low, dropping his Mortar as he gets close enough to the ground not to damage it. He then wings off after the foe. Tyrone is running as fast as his stocky legs can carry him, but he's slow. Vixen and I set off at the hunter's lope. Long, swinging strides, that eat up the miles, and that even a normal can mantain for hours. Our steel slides loose from our belts, so very light in our hands, and then we are amongst them. Swinging axe severs flesh from bone. Vixen's knives, sharp as flencing knives, nick and sever vital arteries. With snarls, Cutyr bounds from corpse to corpse, savaging necks and faces with his powerful maw. The harsh cry of a Raven sounds, as Hugin drops on one man, his heavy, broad-bladed beak decapitating his chosen prey. Before the corpse falls, he's on his next. Taloned forepaws tear a man from neck to navel. Within a few short minutes we find ourselves short of nothing bar enemy. No longer in combat. Such a shame. We didn't even take a wound. After the first ambush we made, it's been like this a lot.
At least a dozen small patrols we have ambushed, felling almost every man in each one. Some have been bearing Arms coming back from europe, or in from Russia. A few, bearing drugs headed the other way. One was carrying Women. Farmers daughters, mostly, kidnapped, or even, in a few cases outright bought from their kin. They all survived, and Illus had them Evaced a few days later. They could not be returned home, but Valkyrien will find a place for them. Working directly for us, if need be. We figured that the Chechens would be getting worried, but it hasn't happened yet. Or at least there has been no sign. If they have noticed something going awry, and by this point they have to have, they seem to have done nothing about it.

Ulfsbluut is a favoured curse of Gorm's. means Wolfsblood, basically. Suitable, no?