Well, I finally got around to writing more Valkyrien Tales. Or at least, another Valkyrien tale. I have also come up with a cunning plan for more backstory. It may involve a pub. And a decidedly Valkyrien drinking game. Anyway, Intellectual property of Myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz. Bewarned of Blood and Violence and Death, and (Technically not, but close enough) Cannibalism...
Three of the four of us caught the scent at the same moment. Black Tyrone glanced over at us, Myself, Vixen, and his Elfhound, the Cuain Sidhe called Cutyr, as our heads raised, sniffing at the air. "Ya smell summat?" He asked us, and we nodded. Even the dog nodded. "Manflesh." I growled, my voice low. Vixen gave more detail. "Oiled Steel. Powder. Mules." A Chechen party most likely, in these parts. If possible, we gained even more stealth, filtering through the trees with nary more noise than deer. The trail went through a ravine, and we took up our positions at the edge of the rise above it, lying prone and watching. Four score warriors trooped past, leading four mules. One of the mules carried a mortar, and another munitions for it. The sight of it made us salivate, for by our commanders orders we were nigh unarmed, naught bar sidearms and melee weapons. Between the four of us we had a hand axe, three combat knifes, Vixens langsaex, and a shillelagh. Oh, and Cutyr's fangs and claws. We would bak oursleves against that number in melee, but each of them carried an assault rifle, one of Michael Kalashnikov's Avtomat Kalashnikov 47's in every pair of hands. And, as it happens, a 7.62mm bullet will leave considerable holes in even a Werewolf of the North, let alone a Kitsune of the east, or a Sidhe of Old Eirin's Isle, perhaps even enough to fell one.
So, we whispered our council. Twas a given that we would try something, regardless of our orders. Had Illuss meant us to the follow them, he wouldn't have teamed the four of us together. We could not take them in a stand-up fight, so we would need to rely on stealth and stratagem. But, lay hands on a mortar, and a few AK's, and we would be a force to be reckoned with, with or without Illuss' approval. So, we set off up-trail, to scout. The Chechens, they moved at a walk. We moved at a lope, in the long swinging stride of the wilder folk, an effortless pace that devoured the miles. After a time, the track joined a few others, and grew, until it was a dirt road. We stayed within scent range of our quarry, but out of sight, constantly searching for something of use. In the end, we decided that our best bet was a night attack. Stampede the mules, slaughter as many as we could, and then withdraw. So, we tailed them until they stopped to make camp, and then we settled down to watch. They camped on the banks of a river, shallow and swift, the water white where it wasn't clear. For perhaps a hundred yards on each bank the ground was flat and clear. Over the next hundred or so it began to rise gradually, and the conifers began to build. Outside that distance, it was steep, and the trees were thick and dark.
As the sun fell, and the sky turned black, we continued to watch. None of us were of those sorts that has difficulty seeing at night. Our prey posted few sentries, and they could be bypassed or slain with ease, if necessary. All a sudden, I felt a shadow drift overhead, and I glanced up, craning my neck to see. I scanned the sky, but could see nothing. Still concerned, for we had heard no owls, and little else flies at night, I kept watching, and there, I could see against the sky a black silhouette, covering the stars.
It drew closer, and I could make out more of a shape. It was to large to be a bird, but not large enough to be an aircraft. I hefted my handaxe, ready to throw it, and Vixen and Tyrone looked at me. "What is it?" They hissed, as the shadow dropped. 'Twas the Black Gryffon, Hugin Ravensblood. No mistaking that broad, heavy, knife-shaped beak, the blocky head, the Reddish eyes. He looked at us, his head swinging from side to side. "Breaking Ordersss Are We?" We glanced at each other, knowing there was no way to hide what we had planned. Nor from him. "Ilussss sshould have thought of who it wasss he commandss", Hugin continued, The beak making him hiss a bit. He noticed this, and concentrated on his speech, enunciating properly now. "To ask the Blood of the wolf not to slay, is like asking a fish not to swim. No fear. I've come to aid" We didn't ask how he knew our intent, or even how he found us. Not for nothing were the Ravens considered the spies and messengers of the Allfather. They can see and tell things few others can. We waited till midnight, till it was as dark as could be, spending the intervening time coming up with our plan. Vixen and I stripped, lashing our blades loosely to our sides, and shifted fully. Where once there had been a pair of human warriors, now there was a bundle of discarded clothing, a grey wolf, and a red fox, the former a shade smaller than normal, the latter a shade larger. It had taken us centuries to figure out how to adjust the form we assumed, but it was worth it. A short length of rope was tied around each of our necks, stretched along our spines and anchored around the bases of our tails. From the rope along our spines were hung our blades. Within minutes we had vanished into the blackness, moving with the instinctive stealth of the beasts we were.
Meanwhile, Hugin, Cutyr and Tyrone took their places, where the forest began to thin. A hundred yards they would need to cross, of ground with little cover. But that was not an issue. Cutyr and Tyrone had fey blood. They didn't even wait for the signal, striking across the no-mans land, hidden by naught but skill, and the few small powers the fey still possessed. Hugin wormed after them, moving with the stealth of the panther he was in part. They were just approaching the sentries when the Mules, catching scent of me, panicked, straining at their leads. The noise distracted the sentries, if only for a moment, but that was all that was needed. Cutyr savaged the throat of one, Tyrone felled a second with a single blow form his shillelagh, and Hugin lunged forward, twisting his neck as he did. His beak snapped shut with a clack, severing a third sentries neck. As for the rest of them, well, as soon as the mules had began to bray I was beginning to shift, and the handaxe came out its loop. Even before I was fully in Wolfman, it had left my hand, taking the fourth, and final sentry in the skull. As soon as it left my hand, I began to rampage. The combat knife too slid from its sheath, and with that in one hand, and the claws of my other, I began to slay the sleeping. Vixen was doing the same, Langsaex in one hand, combat knife in the other. Whilst we did so, Tyrone cut the mules free, Cutyr skillfully herding them out of camp, avoiding the kicks they threw his way with a deftness born of long practice. Guess he and Tyrone had been rustlers in a past life...
I'd only slain some half a dozen before enough of the Chechens were rising to cause problems. Hugin was harrying them from the air, wheeling and diving. He wasn't as powerfully built as some Gryffons. He couldn't, for instance, lift a man and carry him off. He could however, using the speed of a dive, lift a man high enough that the release would throw him far and hard. And he did this. repeatedly. As the first bullets cracked through the air around us, Cutyr and Tyrone followed the plan, fading back into the woods. Between the five of us, we'd felled a score and a half already, some by blade and claw, more by shillelagh and elfhounds maw. A number of bodies could be heard moaning from in the river, but even for those that weren't carried off there was little hope. Vixen and I didn't see him withdraw, couldn't hear the bullets. We were blood-drunk, lost in the slaughter. As I slew the last individual in my reach, I settled enough to realise things had gone awry. The survivors had formed a rough line between us and the wood, blocking our escape. True, we could probably cross the river, but one slip up would kill us. They held their fire, waiting to see what we would do. I glanced at Vixen. I could see her looking back at me, see her eyes assenting with what she doubtless read in mine.
The fate of Norns awaits us all. They wove the skeins of our lives long ago. If death is to meet us, naught can waylay it upon the road. Tails wagged. Lips curled up in a snarl. weapons were thrown aside and we made our charge. Outnumbered a score and a quarter to one, we didn't care. On all fours, we rushed forward, low to the ground. Chechens tend to favour the spray-and-pray method. Their rounds tend to go high. This was no different. True, a few struck, but they struck unimportant things like limbs. With our blood up, and the fact that they were naught more than flesh wounds, the only result was to stagger our rush a bit. There wasn't time for more than a few shots at us, for we covered the distance in maybe four bounds. And then a fifth pouncing leap, carrying us over the line of fire, and dropping us on the heads of those who were firing. Clawed feet struck first, punching holes in chests, and driving bodies to the ground. Perfectly synchronised, our upper limbs descended, bringing us into crouches, taloned forepaws tearing throats. A rise to our feet, and a spin to the outside, fingerclaws leading. Skin and muscle and cartilage tore, blood sprayed, and feral howls fled our lips. Spinning back, we felled the two warriors stood between us with swift blows to the face, heads snapping back as spines cracked under the strain.
Grabbing the corpses by their harnesses before they fell, we swung the bodies to our backs. There is little cover better than that afforded by a nice fresh corpse. Bounding off into the shelter of the trees, we could hear orders being shouted behind us. From the fact that they didn't follow, I would figure they were not to follow us. We met up shortly afterwards in the place we had agreed to meet after the fight, if we got seperated. Almost half our foes had been slain in the one skirmish, we reckoned as we took stock. The dead Vixen and I had dragged with us still, through some miracle, had their AK's attached to them by the shoulder straps, and a few spare magazines apiece. A couple of Frag grenades, and a pair of long knifes, almost short machetes, completed the haul. In exhange, Hugin had lost a few primaries, and Vixen and I had a few bullet holes apiece. Nothing vital, nothing that couldn't wait until after we'd fed to be attended to. As for food, well, Tyrone would have to content himself with MRE's, but the rest of us, we had fresh meat. It spoke well of him that he made no comment as his companions, even the supposedly civilized ones, buried their snouts in what was left of beings who, not an hour before could have held a conversation with them.
And in closing, I daresay I foresee a spot of tracking. Can you imagine those four (five now) With a Mortar?
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