by Tony Roberts
Casca regarded them carefully. These elders would be the ones to impress in the next few moments. Otherwise… he had memories of being staked out on Helsfjord beach for the crabs to come eat him. He shivered.
The three were wrinkled, white-haired, slow-moving and dressed in long, loose-fitting robes. One had a staff. Perhaps he was a priest. They took up seats behind them, so Erik turned the three prisoners about. Three armed men stood next to Casca to make sure he behaved. They had seen how good he was.
The one with the staff asked Erik for details. The Viking described the raid, of how Ivar had spent it fornicating with one of the two sisters while Casca had taken out four of the party. Then he described how Ivar had challenged the prisoner and in the fight had been bested. It was then that Erik said Casca had stated he was The Walker.
There was a muttering from some of those present. Not all knew or believed in the legend, but enough there did. The staff-carrying elder stared at the bound man. “Is this true? Are you indeed he?”
“I am. I was Lord of Helsfjord all those years ago. I have returned.”
There was a moment’s silence, then a wave of noise hit those on the dais. Casca saw more than a few shout at him, furiously. Others looked surprised, while more again asked their neighbors who The Walker was.
“He lies!” Thordein yelled at the head of the assembled people. “He lies to escape justice at my hands! He killed my father, and so I rightly claim blood vengeance!”
Some shouted their support for him. Erik sighed and stood before them. “Ivar was a poor leader; he badly led the raid in which four of us died while he was busy laying this young woman here,” he indicated Hilde, cowering with her arms around Gertrude. “He was challenged correctly. It was a fair fight and this man here bested him. Face it, pup, your father died well. It was just about the only thing he did right in his life.”
Thordein’s face darkened in fury. He ground his teeth together. Raucous laughter rolled about the hall, and the young man snarled, whirled around and stomped out, followed by members of his family.
Erik grinned, then clapped for order. “So, what do you elders think?” he asked the three old men. “Is he The Walker?”
“We cannot say,” the staff-man answered. “It is unlikely, but not impossible, given the nature of the legendary man. The gods move in odd ways, different to what we mortals do. He might be, he might not be.”
Erik grunted and faced Casca. “Well, it seems we have a problem. I think a little pondering on the matter is needed here. I suggest,” he hooked his thumbs into his wide leather belt, “that we keep him under lock and key until we elect a new Jarl, then the Jarl decides. What say you?”
There was a general grumbling but nobody had any better idea, so Casca was taken by two burly man armed with axes and marched to a wooden holding pen to one side of the hall and thrown in. The stout gate was not secured with a lock, but with thick rope. A man stood on guard.
Casca sighed and sat in a corner. There was no privacy here; the gaps in between the ash stakes that made up the walls and roof were wide enough for him to be visible to all if they passed by. “What about if I want to take a piss?” he asked.
“There’s a bucket in the corner,” the guard said irritably. He obviously was pissed off at drawing guard duty. Tough.
Casca dug around the evil-smelling straw that covered the ground and found a damp wooden pail, stoutly made, underneath it all. He left it upright and slumped back in the corner he’d selected as his sleeping berth. “So how long is it going to take to elect a new Jarl?”
“Shuddap,” the guard snapped. “You’ll find out your fate soon enough.”
“Look, idiot,” Casca said, exerting patience, “what if I turn out to be The Walker? You’d be best to keep on my good side.”
“That isn’t likely, is it?” the guard half-turned. “But just in case, the election will be tomorrow evening. There’ll be debating amongst the village, and those who have put themselves forward will then be voted upon.”
“You think Erik will win?”
The guard grunted. “Nobody else in the running.”
“Thordein?”
The guard burst out a short bark of amusement. “Him? Not old enough to hold his own cock yet when he takes a piss. His old man got elected because his family was popular. Ivar has ruined that. Lost all the goodwill they built up.”
Casca grunted. Politics. It seemed Erik had taken an opportunity when Casca had challenged Ivar, and now Casca had removed Ivar, what would Erik do? Erik would see Casca as a danger to his ambition, surely.
He leaned back and contemplated his lot. He was once more in a warrior society, one he felt at home with. Maybe he could one more time settle somewhere here for a while and not have to worry about the fanaticism of the Christian priests. It all depended on Erik. Two figures came into view, escorted. The two girls. They glanced his way, offering him looks of pity.
They were put in a guarded house opposite where Casca was being held. That night he slept fitfully, his dreams punctuated with nightmares, as they always seemed to be. The following day he watched and waited, being fed and watered. The guards were changed regularly but they seemed courteous enough to him. Maybe word had gone out to treat him with a little respect. So they should!
It was that evening that Erik came up to him thumbs hooked into his belt. Two big men flanked him, looking sternly down at the bound man. “Well, my fine friend,” the Viking boomed, “you’ll be delighted to know that I’m now Jarl of Husborg, and that means your fate is in my hands.”
“Meaning?” Casca asked.
“Meaning you are going to have to prove who you are.”
Casca didn’t like the way the new Jarl was regarding him. “And how am I going to do that?”
“Easy. One of the old tales speaks of how you – sorry, the Walker – was tied to tidal stakes and condemned to death, yet survived. You live through this here, and there’d be little argument. What do you have to say about that?”
“Like I’ve got any choice?”
Erik chuckled. “Not really. You see, I did a deal with Thordein’s family. In return for their support as me being elected Jarl, I would hand you over to them to ensure you meet your end. Neat, eh? I get what I want, I get backing from my rivals, and I take care of you. Then I get to hump those two beauties we took prisoner. As Jarl, I get first pick of any girl. They should warm my bed nicely enough. Must go, can’t delay the celebrations marking me as the new warlord nor get in the way of justice.” He smiled at Casca and left with his two guards.
Casca swore at his fading figure as the three men walked over to where the two sisters were being kept. Any further interest in what happened there was ended swiftly, for a harsh rapping on the bars ahead of him brought him whirling round to see four men standing by the gate. He recognized the youthful figure of Thordein, and next to him were two retainers, judging by their garb and weapons, plus an older man with a white beard and balding head.
“So, The Walker,” Thordein sneered. “Well, we’ll see if you are indeed who you say you are.” He waved at the retainers to untie the gate and bring Casca out.
Casca considered breaking a few heads and arms, but decided maybe it wasn’t a good idea and it would be best to lie low and play compliant. After all, he would endure a drowning at worst, and come to when the tide went out. Then he would be revealed as The Walker.
How the Vikings would deal with his legendary presence was another matter. Erik would not be pleased, and Thordein and his family probably the same. But maybe Casca could exploit the rivalry between the two factions? Who could tell? He was taken to the shore and made to wait while some stakes were brought and hammered into the stony ground. It wasn’t as stony as Helsfjord had been but it was rocky enough. Then he was tied to the four wooden stakes, lying on his back, stripped to the waist.
Thordein stood over him, gloating. “I’ll be glad to see you taken by the gods. It’s no more than you deserve, you murdering bastard. To m
ake sure that you don’t get out of this, one final gift from me. Farewell.”
He drew out his sword and slowly, carefully, slid the blade into Casca’s ribs, smiling in glee as he did so. Casca felt a burning pain run through him, then it was replaced by a growing cold numbness. Pinned helplessly, he sank into unconsciousness and knew no more…
CHAPTER THREE
Returning to the waking world was never a pleasant experience. He was cold and wet. He hurt. Coughing, he turned his head to one side and vomited water onto the extremely uncomfortable rocks. It was still dark. The tide lapped about his head and body, and it was obvious it hadn’t been that long since it had receded from covering him. His spluttering brought two men running, men who were on guard duty.
“By Mjolnir!” one exclaimed, stopping in disbelief. “He still lives!”
“What – that’s not possible!” the other responded. Both stood on the boundary of the rocky shore, looking at the slowly moving bound figure, an indistinct dark shape about twenty paces away.
“Well,” the first turned to his companion, “what are you going to tell the new Jarl?”
“I don’t know,” the other shook his head. “Maybe we ought to tell Thordein? I don’t want to interrupt the new chief especially as he’s busy with, you know,” he gestured with one hand.
“Good idea!” the first one agreed. “I’ll stay and watch him.”
Casca was only partly aware of all this as he battled to keep conscious. Waves of pain rolled through his body, centered on the sword wound in his chest. He only really began to understand his surroundings when Thordein turned up, sore as Hades for being woken up. “How in the name of the gods are you still alive?” he demanded, staring down at the prone figure. “Did the tide not cover him?” he asked the two men.
“Yes, completely, for quite a while,” one of them responded.
Casca looked up at the young man. “Got a problem, now haven’t you? I clearly can’t be killed, and your belief that I’m not The Walker has been put in its place. Now free me or you might get even deeper into trouble.”
“Be silent!” Thordein snapped. “I need time to think.” He played with his faint growth of hair on his chin, staring down at Casca. He slowly began smiling. “Hmm, yes.” He waved to the two men. “Knock him out.”
Casca swore and strained at the bindings but they were holding him too tightly, and wet ropes were notoriously tough. One of the men hesitated, shrugged and knelt alongside the prisoner. “Sorry, but orders are orders,” he said as a sort of half-apology.
One sickening blow to the head later and Casca knew nothing more, until the slow ascent to consciousness came once more, this time accompanied with a blinding headache.
He was in a warm room, a chamber, more like. A crackling fire off to his left served to illuminate the chamber and to provide warmth. He needed it, after being immersed in the sea for the gods knew how long. He was still bound, he could feel, but at least he wasn’t now half-covered in freezing salt water. He was dressed in a fur-lined blanket but underneath he had nothing on except a skin loincloth. His clothes were, perhaps, gone or maybe being dried. A long table caught his eye, off to the center of the room with benches along the long sides. From the stout beam rafters a variety of drying plants hung, no doubt for some future pot meal. Iron cooking utensils hung from wall pegs and brackets close to the fireplace.
Casca tested the bindings fixing his wrists behind his back. They were done up tight and had been tied by someone taking no chances.
“Ah, you’re awake,” Thordein’s voice came to him. The young man came into vision, looking down at him. “You understand I had to bring you here before Erik got to hear of your – ah – miraculous fate. Can’t have him distracted on his first evening.”
“Your guards said the same.”
Thordein grunted. “I know my sword’s blow was enough to kill you by itself, yet now there’s hardly a scratch where my blade went in.” He eyed Casca for a moment, then swore under his breath. He produced a skinning knife and reached over, slicing through the bindings. He stepped back and slid the knife back into its sheath and folded his arms. Two more figures came to stand by his side. One was the elderly man Casca had seen in the main hall before, and the other was a young woman, her hair long.
Casca sat up and massaged his wrists. He ruefully looked up at the young head of the family. “So what now? You still seem to dislike Erik.”
Thordein nodded. He looked at the old man. “My grandfather, Jürgen.” He gestured to the woman. “My older sister, Freya. Understand, Walker, that we are not happy to have you here in our house.”
Casca stared at Thordein for a moment. He’d called him by his legendary name. He slowly got up and the three stepped back in reflex. “Alright,” Casca said heavily. “Just what have I gotten myself into here? This village has two opposing families who seem to hate each other’s guts. Want to give me a history as to why?”
Jürgen cleared his throat. “Freya, go get us some mead, please. Come, let us sit and be civilized at least.” They sat at the table, Casca opposite the two men. “When I was a young man,” Jürgen continued, “I was Jarl, but was successfully challenged by Erik’s father, a brute of a man called Halkan. Halkan beat me in a single combat challenge.” He rolled up his right sleeve and revealed a scarred and badly cut up arm. “I lost the use of this arm as far as fighting was concerned. I was no good as a warrior anymore.”
Casca nodded in sympathy. For a man to be emasculated in that way in a warrior society was hurtful to say the least. Freya placed clay cups of mead before the three men and sat alongside her brother, her back to the fire. She had a smaller cup for herself.
Jürgen carried on. “For years Halkan ruled with an iron fist, belittling our family and cutting us out of any reward from raids or trade. Fortunately, many other families hated him and gifted us items in secret. For a long time the village waited for my son, Ivar, to come of age, and take over from Halkan. Halkan himself was killed in a raid eight years ago, and Ivar was elected Jarl in his place, despite Erik’s opposition. To be honest, they would have elected anyone other than the son of Halkan.”
“And Ivar proved not to be the son of Jürgen’s hopes?”
Thordein scowled bur Jürgen nodded heavily. “Alas, my son, these two’s father, was not a Jarl in my mold. He tried his best, but the tactical ability I possess did not pass to him and he lost more battles than he won. Gradually Erik gathered more support behind him, and when the chance came to have him replaced, he acted. I should personally have you flayed alive for killing my son, yet I know you killed him in a fair fight, even if it was part of Erik’s scheme. Clever of him, removing his enemy without doing it himself.”
Casca sighed. “I had nothing personal against him, but it was a fight to the death between two warriors. I wanted my freedom.”
Thordein punched the tabletop a few times angrily. “So Erik is Jarl when it should be me!”
“You’re too young,” Jürgen and Casca both spoke.
Freya spoke for the first time. “But there are no other candidates. Who can challenge Erik but The Walker here?”
“And I don’t want to be Jarl,” Casca said.
“Oh?” Jürgen raised an eyebrow. “Were you not Lord of Helsfjord? The saga says you were.”
Casca nodded slowly. Memories of Lida filled his mind, and he sadly pushed them away. “For many years. I ruled with Lida the Sightless. When she died I departed.”
“And now you have returned,” Thordein finished. “Why?”
Casca spread his hands wide. “I have travelled many lands and seen many wars, many people, many sights. I wished to return to the northlands once more, hoping for peace and quiet, but I can see that’s not going to be possible. I’ve walked right into a feud. So what’s the neighbors like?”
Jürgen filled him in. To the south were the Saxons, as they always had been. The Saxons had recently been subdued by Karl – Charlemagne – and were converting to Christianity at the
point of a sword, but to the east of them were other tribes like the Obotrites who could be a new threat. All the immediate neighbors were Viking tribes who had their own war chief, chieftain or Jarl. Recently, so Casca was informed, an increase in numbers meant wars were breaking out for land almost everywhere, and strong men were needed to hold onto what they had. This was Husborg’s problem. Since Halkan had passed on the village hadn’t had anyone worth his salt.
“So what about Erik?” Casca asked. “He seems to have a lot of support.”
Thordein growled and looked away in disgust. Jürgen sighed. “Only because he’s the only man left to take the title. Thordein here is unpopular only because he’s seen as being too young…”
“Which he is,” Casca cut in. “No offense but that’s the truth of the matter.”
The young Viking snorted and folded his arms.
Jürgen shrugged, a gesture as much in acceptance as anything else. “Also he’s the son of Ivar and people want to forget his rule. We lost almost every battle and have lost land to our neighbors in recent years. Land we need.”
“So what’s the future then?”
“We have to become strong once more and we can only do that by being victorious in battle. That’s why Ivar led that raid which caught you and those two girls.”
Casca laughed. “Hardly a famous victory, is it? Three prisoners, a burned village and four men dead – five including Ivar. I doubt there was much plunder either.”
Jürgen lapsed into silence. Thordein put his head in his hands and sat there dejectedly. Freya eyed both, then shook her head in exasperation. “You two clearly have no idea how to put it to him. So I shall.” She looked straight at Casca. “You are The Walker. We need you to bring luck back to us. The gods have put you in our hands and we need every help we can get. Lead us into battle. Win back our lands, put Husborg back up as the chief hold in the region.”
Casca grunted. He guessed something like this was going to be asked. “Just like that? I doubt Erik will happily let me take over now he’s taken charge. He was all too happy to let me be put to death.”
