by Tony Roberts
CASCA
THE VIKING
This is a book of fiction. All the names, characters and events portrayed in this book are
Fictional and any resemblance to real people and incidents are purely coincidental.
CASCA: THE VIKING
Published by arrangement with Eastaboga Entertainment, Inc.
Printing History
2017
Americana Books
A Division of Lonewolf Group Inc.
Copyright 2017 Eastaboga Entertainment, Inc.
Cover Design by John Thompson
All Rights Reserved
Including the rights to reproduce this book or portions thereof
In any form or format without permission.
For information contact
Americana Books
P.O. Box 210314
Nashville TN 37221
ISBN 978-1513622576
Printed in the United States of America
TONY ROBERTS
My mother was my unlikely route into becoming a Casca fan. On one shopping trip she bought me a copy of Casca 3: The Warlord. Number 3 was not a great place to start but I devoured it anyway, loved the character and the sense of history made real. Then followed 13 years while I collected the original series; without the help of the internet. Then what to do? The series was over! I started to write my own Casca novels, and set up my website www.casca.net, building a worldwide base for Casca fans and contacts.
My first Casca novel, Halls of Montezuma, was published in 2006. The Viking is my twenty-first novel in the series.
I live in Bristol, with my partner Jane and a fluffy cat called Cassia.
I also publish other books in the UK. To see these, visit my website www.tonyrobertsauthor.com
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
EPILOGUE
Casca series available new in paperback
Available from author’s Casca website - www.casca.net/shop
PROLOGUE
Near the Frisian coast, Northern Europe, 797AD
The autumn sun shone weakly in the sky and offered little in the way of warmth to the lone traveler trudging his weary way northwards. He had a wooden staff in one hand that was used to test the ground for marsh and quicksand, for there were no roads or pathways here.
He paused, resting for a moment, his gray-blue eyes scanning the horizon, but nothing moved. He was content, for he had no wish to meet anyone at that time. He had come here, to this virtually uninhabited place, on his own volition. He was tired of being around people, of their discontents, their grumbles, their conflicts.
Conflicts.
He had been warring on and off for the lands he had just left for something like sixty years, and he was weary of it all. Let the king extend his domain where he liked, he had enough of it all.
The traveler’s face was lean but hard, dominated by a scar that ran from the corner of his left eye to his mouth. His expression neutral, but he was always watchful. His long life had made him so. How old was he? He leaned on his staff and pondered. Must be nearly eight hundred years now. He’d been a Roman legionary, a barbarian, a gladiator, a mercenary. Yes, that’s what he was, a mercenary. A man who hired his sword arm out to anyone who could pay him. He had served Byzantium that way, then the Lombard Dukes, and even the hated Brotherhood of the Lamb, his sworn enemies. But that had been enforced and not of his own choosing.
He’d served alongside the Arabs in their incredible surge out of the Arabian Peninsula as they conquered Palestine, Syria and Egypt, then the Moors as they swept across Spain.
And so to the court of the Frankish kings, where he’d been soldier, Count, and who knows what else? He’d campaigned with Karl, the king who wanted to conquer all in the name of God and the Franks, across the Rhine into Saxonia and the Alps into Lombardia. He’d helped smash the Avars beyond the Danube.
Now he was tired of it all and wanted peace and quiet. The only time he had found this during his time in Europe was in the north, when it had been known as Germania. Now? The Saxons had cut down much of the forest, turning it into farmland. The land was populous and not the sylvan paradise of a few centuries back. Still, there were always places where one could find solitude, and the Frisian coastline was one such place.
Here and there a few clumps of trees stood, offering shelter from the wind that blasted across from the Saxon lands of Britannia - what was it now called? He thought back to the Court of the Franks and the envoys that came from the former Roman province. Ah yes, the name came to him suddenly, like a lighted lantern being thrust into the night. Angle-land, the Land of the Angles, the tribe that had invaded the island together with the Saxons. They could hardly call it Saxonia could they, since much of Germania took this name? How did they pronounce it? Eng-land. Typical of a bastardized Germanic language.
He walked on, avoiding the swamps, up to a clump of trees that stood on higher ground than the surrounding marsh, and sat down. It was late afternoon and the sun would shortly dip beneath the flat horizon to the west, bringing the coldness of night. The man, Casca Rufio Longinus by name, pulled out his thin blanket and wrapped it about himself. Fumbling in a bag that hung from his belt he extracted a leg of a chicken he had cooked a few days back and gnawed on it.
He’d have to find a place where food and fresh water were available soon. This was the last of his food and his water skin had perhaps a day’s supply left. Plenty of water about, he mused, but none of it fit to drink. The last thing he did before turning in for the night was to check on his sword, wiping the blade with a cloth and honing the edges with his whetstone. After all, he was a warrior and warriors always looked after their swords.
He had slept perhaps an hour or so when a sudden scream brought him awake with a start. He was instantly awake, his eyes alert in a flash. He rolled up onto his knees and scanned all directions into the blackness of night; the sound had come to him from the north, towards the sea, carried by a wind that had veered and was bringing with it the chill of the north.
There! A glow sprang up not too far away, something being put to the torch. Trouble. Another scream, a terror-filled feminine one, got him to his feet. Cursing, he loped off towards the sound, guided by the spreading glow. Now he could see a low stockade that he’d missed in the fading light earlier. A small fishing village, perhaps? Whatever, it was being put to the sword and women and children slaughtered. That always got his blood up.
He scampered closer, using the marsh grasses as cover, but whoever was attacking the village was too busy killing and plundering to bother about anyone approaching from without; besides, the night hid Casca from the brightly lit village. He used the stockade as cover and moved to the right where a wide beam of flickering light betrayed a way in. He peered round the edge and his eyes hardened at the familiar sight of a successful raid.
There were perhaps fifteen thatch buildings clustered in a small area. The rest of the space inside the circular stockade was given over to domestic animals like chickens and pigs. A few bodies lay scattered in the huddled attitude of death Casca had seen all too many times, some with broken off shafts of spears sticking out of them. One or two were children. The screaming was still coming from the far side of the village so Casca scuttled in and scanned left an
d right. Blazing buildings roared but nobody alive was in sight.
He moved quickly, sword in his right hand, shield gripped in his left, moving left close to the stockade. The sea came into sight, marked with a row of small fishing boats, some of which were foundering as he watched. What caught his attention was a longer boat beached alongside; a sleek, single masted vessel with a prow carved into the shape of a dragon’s head. The sail was red and white; the light from the flames was sufficient to show this. The last time he’d seen a vessel like that was over four hundred years back, when he’d been returning from the land of the Teotec with Olaf Glamson and his Vikings. He’d been washed overboard before they had got close to Helsfjord.
Vikings? Casca edged to the right and caught sight of a knot of men clustered around a struggling woman, her legs spread-eagled and one of the raiders knelt between them, thrusting away. Rape was as much a part of plunder as death. Five men were too many for him to tackle, but their garments seemed vaguely familiar. Long woolen cloaks covered their backs but what armor they had seemed to be the normal chain type. Their helmets were certainly not that of the Saxons, Avars, Franks or Arabic troops of that time. Segmented iron conical pieces fixed together, with some sporting odd eye-protectors so that the raiders peered out from oval shaped metal holes.
They wore long beards and mustaches, a fashion not of the Franks, and many had red or fair hair. Definitely from the North, then. Vikings, they must be. Some more came out of a long hut carrying spoils of victory and began loading them onto the ship. One made a comment about the man raping the sobbing victim and the others laughed. Casca decided to end the ordeal and moved to the back of the hut, creeping into the shadow created by the burning hut next to it. No doubt the long hut would be put to the torch shortly.
He edged down the far side and reached the end. Peering round he saw the crowd had mostly dispersed, helping with the plunder. What they found valuable in a poor Frisian fishing village he didn’t know. Two men were now engrossed with the women; one had finished and was retying his leggings and the other unfastening them ready to subject her to yet another painful experience.
“Hurry up!” a large man snapped as he passed, speaking the language of Helsfjord and the land of Scandia, a tongue Casca hadn’t heard for centuries, “we haven’t got all night. We must be away soon if we are to get out to sea before dawn!”
As the area cleared Casca made up his mind. Running swiftly forward he closed in on the two and swung his blade. The man who’d just finished looked up in alarm, timed perfectly to meet the slash of Casca’s blade. The edge sliced deep into the Viking’s throat, sending arterial blood spraying in all directions and the hole made an obscene sucking noise as he fell backwards.
As his body hit the ground the second tried to get up but was entangled with his leggings and had no weapon nearby. Casca raised his blade, now bright red, and sent it spearing down to sink deep into the shoulder of the helpless man. The blade sank down, angling in between the ribs and cut into the heart, severing the organ. Casca planted a foot on the man’s neck and yanked the blade out savagely. The Viking grunted once and flopped back, his limbs jerking spasmodically.
The woman cried out again, blood over her inner thighs. At least her ordeal had been cut short, but what her future was God alone knew. It appeared she was the only survivor. “Get that man!” a voice screamed from the boat.
Casca whirled and saw a finger pointing at him accusingly. Now the game was up! He reached for the woman’s hand and pulled at her hard. She cried out again, not really understanding that he was trying to help her. She pulled herself free and staggered away, screaming. Casca had no time to run after her, and besides, she was blundering into the advancing knot of Vikings who were coming for him.
One of them backhanded the woman, knocking her to the ground. Casca picked up a spear lying on the ground and hefted it. Ash. It would do. With a grunt and a convulsive heave, he sent the missile arcing through the night sky and into the chest of the leading man. He was sent backwards, colliding with the one behind and both went down in a heap.
The others fanned out, grim-faced. One opponent should be easy to dispose of. They carried axes, swords and spears. On their left arms they had the familiar round shields, iron-rimmed and with an iron boss in the center. Two attacked him, axes raised, intending to split his skull.
The speed of their attack didn’t surprise Casca, for he had spent many years using the very same weapons and tactics centuries back. Twisting away from the first man’s downward blow, he stepped to the left, met the down-blow from his opponent, then stepped one pace to the right, swung his blade back and slashed deep into the man’s shoulder and chest.
Blood flecked his blade and the Viking groaned, falling to the ground, teeth clenched in pain. The other man swore at Casca, casting doubts as to his ancestry. This man now attacked again, sweeping hard in at waist level. Casca blocked again, stamped on the man’s foot and cut through the warrior’s throat. The man spun and crashed heavily to the ground.
“We haven’t time for this kind of shit!” the Viking commander roared. “Cut him down!”
Three more advanced, spears in hand. Casca cursed. They were looking to stick him, and stick him good. There wasn’t much space for Casca to retreat to, for behind him the hut that was there was burning away quite merrily, so any retreat there was out of the question.
The first spear came at him like a shaft of lightning, and he barely managed to dodge it, but it meant his balance was upset and the second spear took him through the shoulder, spinning him round. Yelling in pain, he struck the ground hard. His sword went somewhere and he got to his knees, trying to tear the spear free. A blow to his head ended any further effort and he sank into pitch darkness.
CHAPTER ONE
A slow, gentle rolling motion was the first thing he was aware of as he surfaced from the pit of unconsciousness. Creaking of wood, the sound of water. Salt smells, sweat, wet ropes. His eyes opened and he tried to focus. His arms were tied behind his back, that was something he quickly realized. Grunting with discomfort and from the pain of his headache, he rolled over.
A pair of feet met his eyes, covered in fur-lined wrappings bound with twine. “Stay still,” came a harsh command. “Or I’ll put you out again.”
Casca looked up. From a prone position, looking up at someone was difficult, but he saw a big barrel-chested man with a bushy beard, long hair plaited around the ears, wearing fur and chain armor. “Am I permitted to speak?” he asked. The use of the tongue of the Northmen was hard, having been some five centuries since he’d last spoken it to any extent, and in that time it would have changed slightly. No doubt his words would be accented and a little archaic. He would have to listen to adapt to the modern use.
“If you stick to respectful talk and not get on anyone’s nerves,” the Viking said. “So, who are you and what were you doing coming to the help of those people?”
“I’d be able to speak better if I could sit up with my hands free,” Casca said.
“What, and have a maniac loose on my boat? Stay where you are and answer my question!”
“Then you’re not going to get any answer.” Casca glared up at the man.
“You’re not in any position to argue,” the Viking replied testily. “want me to throw you over the side for the fishes to feed on?”
“Go ahead, if that’s what you want to do.” Casca wouldn’t die – he’d just go into a kind of suspended life until the day he washed up somewhere. “At least I’d be free of seeing your badger-ugly face.”
The Viking swore long and violently. “By Thor’s hammer,” he exclaimed, “you’re either brave or incredibly stupid. What’s so funny?” he added, seeing Casca laugh.
“Long time since I’ve heard that, Thor’s hammer. So good to hear someone not singing the praise of the Christian God.”
The Viking stared down at him, puzzled. “You’re not one of those Christians?”
“Not if I can help it. Had enough
fighting in Karl’s armies hearing God this and God that. Got heartily sick of it. Give me a whole set of gods to curse and swear by any day.”
The Viking rubbed his hairy chin. “Oh, fuck it,” he said. “It’s not as if you’re going to be able to go anywhere in this boat.” He produced a knife and cut Casca’s bonds.
Casca breathed out in relief and sat up, rubbing his reddened wrists. He looked around at the rest of the crew, all diligently rowing away, some staring at him, some not. He stood, spreading his stance to counteract the swaying of the vessel. It was a classic Viking longboat, with graceful sweeping lines to the narrow prow with a carved dragon’s head facing the way they were going. A single mast supported the huge striped sail and behind this was a solitary hut-like feature. A steersman stood to the rear, making sure the ship was heading in the right direction.
Off to the right he could see a low coastline with clouds enveloping it.
“So, you going to tell me who you are and what you were doing in that village fighting my men? You killed a couple of them, you know.”
Casca shrugged. “Valhalla will have accepted them by now. They died like true warriors.”
The Viking nodded. “You have that right.”
“Very well. My name is Casca, and I’m a mercenary. “I was wandering minding my own business when I heard the sounds of dying, and came to investigate.”
“So why attack my men?”
“I don’t like rape or picking on women and children.”
“Now you’re sounding like a damned Christian.”
Casca spat over the side of the boat. “Nothing to do with any religion. It’s just something that pisses me off enormously. Anyone holding a sword or spear, then yes, I’ll fight, but not a defenseless woman or child.”
“Oh, someone with a conscience? A weakness, my friend. We take what we want from who we want, and to the underworld with anyone who opposes that.”
“True warriors don’t wage war on women and children. You might think it fun to butcher them but a true warrior protects those unable to defend themselves. They look to proper men to do that.”
