Casca 2: God of Death

by Barry Sadler

  Glam held off the invaders with sword and shield until the screaming stopped from behind the door. The archers on the stairs kept their missiles flying and provided cover to take most of Malgak's men off him until his chore had been completed. They also gave the cover necessary for a short rush from the warriors in front to let Glam back in their ranks with the loss of only two men. These were overrun and chopped to pieces by the enraged outcasts. The invaders' disdain for the bow as a coward's and woman's weapon proved costly to them as the slender shafts searched out the tender spots of their bodies and buried themselves up to half their lengths in the fur-clad figures. Less than two minutes had passed since Malgak had entered the room, and already half of his men were either wounded or dead behind the oak doors. Screaming in frustrated passion, he and his horde rushed the defenders on the stairs, trying to tear them from the steps and break through so they could butcher those cowards with the deadly flying barbs.

  Casca joined the others, coolly giving orders. He formed his men in sections, one section to fight and then step back, their places to be taken by the next rank. That way, no one had to fight too long before given a break. This was the Roman manner when the legion formed a square. The invaders could only come at them four or five men at a time while those behind, in their rage, helped hinder the effectiveness of their comrades facing Casca's men on the stairs by packing in too close and restricting their ability to move and fight. Indeed, many of their men were already dead, being held up by the press of the men behind them.

  Malgak sliced with his great axe and downed two of the defenders, leaving one trailing his intestines behind him as he fell to the floor. The dead Viking was quickly dismembered and pieces of his body tossed back up the stairs to let the others know the fate that awaited them if they lost. Smoke sliding in under the oak door lay in a cloud over the interior, the gleam from the fireplace casting a red glow over the men locked in the death struggle. Even with Malgak's urging and threats the outcasts could make no progress on the stairs. They had twice almost reached the door leading off from the stairway to the dungeons below, but had been driven back by fierce counterattacks from the young warriors.

  The invaders took shelter behind shields and overturned tables and benches, anything that could keep those feathered barbs from their faces and stomachs. They kicked and cursed any latecomers who tried to share their shelters. In desperation Malgak opened the oak door, letting clouds of smoke fill the room as he and some of his men entered the hall of death, rushing inside and stepping on the bodies of the dead. Anything to get away from the deadly barbs.

  Casca advanced down to the first steps, dodging a thrown boarspear, knocking it, glancing, off his shield. As he came down he stepped over the bodies of his own slain. The sight of the young faces stilled in death brought a building black rage on him. A hot flash rose from his stomach to his face. His features darkened. Those bright young men ... to die at the hands of scum...

  Glam knocked away another spear thrown at Casca and stood close. "What now?" he asked, his old eyes bright with the lust for battle. "That was good, barbecuing the devils in the hall, but what now? They still outnumber us by two to one. They can't get up to us, and we can't get behind them."

  Casca grunted and pointed with his short sword to the oak doorway. "There," he said to Glam, "their leader, the one with the black teeth." Casca took a deep breath and bellowed, his words echoing around the stone walls: "You in there! The ugly one with no teeth!"

  Malgak peeked around the corner, taking a good look at the one who had insulted him, though insults meant nothing to him. He was beyond any sense of honor or pride. He had only the feral, instincts of a backstabber to guide him.

  "What do you want?" he answered.

  Casca laughed, his facial scar turning white. "I want you, little man. I want to feed you to my hogs while you're still alive."

  Malgak took a closer look at his antagonist, noting the muscles, the scars. The man was obviously a fighter to be reckoned with. He said nothing.

  Casca continued, "Come out to meet me man to man, shit bucket. If you win, my men will let you and your vermin escape back to the cesspools you came from. If you lose, I will still spare your men. Have we an agreement?"

  Malgak's face wrinkled as he thought out the offer. Well, shit, what choice do I have? If we stay boxed up here, those archers will pick us off one at a time. But, if I can kill their leader, perhaps his men will lose heart. Either way, it looks as if I have to face him. Malgak began to psych himself up. After all, he had never lost a fight, and from the number of scars on the hide of his adversary he must not have done so well in the fights he had to get carved up so much. Maybe he's not as tough as I first thought. He made up his mind and called out:

  "Who is it I speak to?"

  "Casca," came the reply. "Lord of the Hold. Will you come out and fight, or do I have to burn you out as I did those inside whom you now visit?"

  Malgak raised his foot off the face of the man on whom he was standing. The sight of the blackened and charred corpse grinning up at him made up his mind for him.

  "Very well, Lord Casca. I agree. If I lose, my men go free. That's all I really care about. If I win, your men must give us food to continue our journey. That's all we really wanted anyway, a little something to eat." Malgak was lying in his teeth, and Casca knew it.

  Malgak called the Marcomanni to him and said softly, "I will try to get the one called Casca close to the doorway. When I do, you and the others rush out and kill him. Once he's down, those on the stairs will be without their leader, and we will probably be able to overpower them."

  The Marcomanni smiled in agreement. "It will be done." He turned and quickly spread the word that when the leader of the defenders came close they were to rush out on him. Their lives depended on it.

  Malgak called out, "Casca, I agree. Tell your men to stop shooting and I will step out."

  Casca gave the word and told the outlaws hiding behind the furniture to join their comrades in the hallway, that he could have none behind him. Malgak ordered them to obey, and they quickly rushed into the open doorway, casting fearful glances behind them, expecting to feel arrows in their backs as they ran – which was only natural, as that was what they would have done if the tables had been turned.

  Malgak stepped forward, round shield on his left arm, his fifteen-pound battleaxe swinging from a leather thong on his right wrist. The axe was single-bladed, with a stabbing spike on the top. Malgak's face was wreathed in a grimy, wrinkled smile. "I am here," he said.

  Casca stepped out. The sight of the wretch gave rise to renewed anger in him. The dirty smile and the black-stumped teeth seemed an obscenity after the clean faces of his own young men.

  "Good enough," he said, adjusting the feel of the round, buckler type shield he was using, one smaller than that used by Holdbod. "Come on, ugly one, and I'll give you a lesson." He stepped into the center of the hall and assumed the gladiator position of the Gallic school, shield held low and to the front, body turned to present a small target, sword held low to the side with the point slightly up, his left foot leading.

  Malgak came closer, swinging his axe in his hand. "That's very pretty," he said sarcastically. "You look like a dancer."

  "It will be the last dance you ever see," Casca rejoined, and struck, first with sword, then shield, then one after another. The whirlwind attack of Casca sent Malgak reeling back in astonishment, frantically trying to cover himself. He had never been assaulted like this before – but then he had never faced one before who had won the wooden sword in the arenas of Imperial Rome, a trained professional gladiator, as Casca had been. Malgak leaped backward over an overturned table to get some space between himself and this madman. Glancing over his shoulder, he tried to see where his men were, how far he would have to move to gain the safety of their numbers or have them come to his aid. Too far...

  Taking a deep breath, he came back at Casca, the great axe smashing against the lighter buckler. Then the axe whir
led again, and Casca was forced back under the weight of the blow. Casca and Malgak locked together, face to face, bodies straining. The sour smell of Malgak's breath seemed to have a carrion stench to it; the raw meat he had eaten was rotting between his teeth. Malgak struck Casca to the ground with a smashing blow from his shield and raised the axe to split his skull. Casca quickly hooked his foot behind the knee of Malgak, and with his other foot striking the front of Malgak's ankle while the one behind came forward, he threw the child killer back and down. Now Casca rose, his gladius Iberius – the famed Roman short sword – flashing as he struck and chopped, trying to beat down the shield guard. But Malgak regained his feet. Dammit. The son-of-a-bitch may be ugly, but he is as strong as any I have met. They closed again, sword against axe, shield against buckler. They whirled and fought, sparks leaping from the blades. They cursed and sweated. The red glow of the fire gave each a demonic appearance. They neared the door, and the Marcomanni rushed out to stab Casca in the back. He was aided in this effort by two other men who fell quickly to well-placed arrows. A shout from Glam warned Casca, and he twisted his body around and fairly leaped into the air, turning into a tumbler's type roll and landing back on his feet. The Marcomanni stood there, an embarrassed look on his face. He still looked that way when Casca threw the sword straight into his stomach where it exited about six inches out of his back, severing the spinal cord.

  Malgak screamed in glee. His man was defenseless now without his sword. Malgak rushed. Casca knelt, taking his arm out of the buckler. As Malgak raced to him he held the buckler like the discus throwers of Greece and let fly from the kneeling position. The round steel buckler spun through the air and smashed edgewise on Malgak's right shin, breaking the leg clean, leaving a three-inch-deep gash through which bone splinters were clearly visible. But even as Malgak fell he tried to cut Casca down by lunging forward.

  Casca was not there.

  Malgak pulled himself to his good knee, black teeth showing as he sucked air in. He shouted at Casca:

  "Come to me! I can't come to you. Come to me, and let me give you a kiss." He brandished the axe.

  "As you wish it," Casca said and moved closer, circling as Malgak did the same, keeping his weapon facing Casca. Fingers spread, bent slightly over from the waist, Casca moved forward. Malgak swung a blow that would have split his target in two, but again Casca was not there. Malgak tried to raise the axe again and could not. Pain from his leg was beginning to blur his vision. Casca seemed to come from nowhere; the smashing blow of his fist into Malgak's face sent the outcast to the floor, the axe falling from his hand, the shield flying across the room. Casca picked up the fallen axe of Malgak and stood over him, holding the weapon close by the head, the long shaft with the leather thong dangling. He grabbed Malgak by his long, greasy hair and twisted the ugly face up to where he could get a good look at him. Cruelty and animal bestiality was all he saw.

  Dark, deep hate settled on Casca. His breath came short and rapid. His heart pounded. His face flushed with anger. He said in judgment:

  "You and your beasts dare to come here and kill my people, the people of Lida? I know you. I have seen your kind everywhere, from Persia to Britannia. You are killers for no reason but pleasure, so I will not deny you the pleasure of your own death being too slow – but it will still be more merciful than you would have shown us."

  Jerking the head, he snapped a sharp kick with his toe into the solar plexus of Malgak. The black-toothed mouth gaped open trying to breathe.

  "Here," said Casca, "here is your axe, barbarian. Then you should have it with you always."

  With that, Casca drove the leather-thonged end of the axe down into the open mouth. Malgak choked as the handle was forced past his esophagus. His thoracic muscles moved in spasmodic involuntary actions trying to do the impossible and regurgitate the wooden shaft back up out of his throat. Casca pushed deeper, holding the axe in and twisting. Malgak's face turned as black as his teeth, and he died without the death rattle.

  The handle of the axe was so snug that not even his death breath could escape. He died eyes wide, unbelieving.

  His men witnessed the death of their leader and slammed the oak door shut, bolting it from the inside. They wanted no more.

  Casca rose from the body of Malgak and turned to where Glam had come near him.

  "Get him and his filth out of Lida's home," he said:

  Weary, drained emotionally by the fight, he walked up the stairs, not noticing the looks given him by his young warriors. Old Glam was right; the Lord of the Keep was not as other men – he was more.

  Glam carried out his lord's orders. Taking a page from the scene that had transpired earlier, Glam had more containers of oil thrown into the hallway from the upper ramp. To help the fire along he had more armfuls of straw thrown in. It was soon over. When the first gray light of the new day rose, the warriors of Casca carried the bodies of the raiders to the beach where they were taken out in small boats and dumped in the sea to feed the crabs. That some of the raiders might not be quite dead hindered their labors not at all; they just made more bubbles. The next day the young men and warriors from the countryside showed up ready for action. They had found the body of the young child whom Malgak had used so badly and had come ready for battle. Glam ordered the household cleansed and their dead buried. He ordered that none should speak of this day unless the lord first brought up the subject. All was as before. The warmer days were coming.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Each day the indicators of the coming spring became more pronounced, and work on the expedition quickened. The young warriors sharpened their weapons, honing the edges ever finer. Old Corio, the shipbuilder whom Casca had brought to his keep, fussed over the two longships that they would take. Like an old hen over her chicks, Corio clucked and scolded, testing every line and seam in the ships he had built for Casca. The ships themselves were a blending of the Roman galleys – less the ram – and the long, shallow draft vessels the local inhabitants used for fishing and commerce. The local vessels used no sails. When Casca had first come to this rockbound coast, he had been quick to realize the value of the sea lanes. The man who could use them more efficiently would prosper, and so would his people. Making use of his many years as a slave on the Roman war galleys, Casca set about to exploit the sea's potential. He bought old Corio the ship builder from a Tedesci chieftain inland who had no use for a shipbuilder. Between the two of them, Casca and Corio, they had designed this mixture of galley and sailing ship. Their new vessel could slide through the waves as light as a sea nymph.

  The way the new design came about was unusual.

  Casca had spent many hours on the coast watching his favorite animals at play, the flashing and twisting sea otters. He had noticed how they turned and twisted their bodies to slide more easily through the rough waters. He had remarked to Corio that if a ship could do the same, it would have a much better chance for survival in rough seas. Corio, then not so old, thought on the problem for weeks. Finally he had the answer. He made use of an ingenious system of interlocking planks that, even when they moved and twisted, still remained water tight. They built the vessel. It worked. They named it the Lida. Sure enough, on her maiden voyage, the Lida slipped like one of the sea otters she was modeled after between the rough ocean troughs and rose swiftly over the peaks of the waves, answering her master's desires quickly and with a feeling of expectancy. Indeed, thought Casca, ships seem to be more alive than anything else man has created. The wind, humming through the Lida's rigging, appeared to agree with him.

  Although Casca's years as an oar slave certainly did not qualify him as a master mariner, they had given him a feeling for what was right in the way a ship moved through different waters. He could tell if there was something wrong in the basic design simply by the way the ship felt and sounded. This instinct, coupled with Corio's years of experience as a shipwright, enabled them to build what would be the prototype of all the Viking long-ships that wreaked such havoc in the civilized wo
rld three hundred years later.

  Now, of the three ships built and lying at anchor, the two largest were being made ready for sea. Corio was as rigid in his demands as a Roman decurion. Everything must be as near perfect as he could make it. After all, he knew these young men who would be going out into the unknown waters with the Lord Casca. He had seen them grow up. He had played with them and taught them seamanship. They were like family, and he would send no members of his family out on the deep without making sure that all was in order.

  When Casca looked out on the combination of his young men, the ships, and the sea, his pulse quickened in spite of himself. You'd think that after all these years it would take more than going to sea to excite me, he thought. But perhaps that is what keeps me from going mad. And thank whatever powers that be that women still can make my blood boil; the thrill has never grown old for me. The little bitch of a scullery maid was the best thing for me. Put my mind in order and finally got my shit together. So ... now... in two weeks we sail. The ice is breaking up outside the fjord, and soon the sea will be clear. When it is, we sail. Two weeks...

  His thoughts turned back to the auburn-haired girl, and he felt a stirring in his groin – and a feeling of being watched. Turning, he looked to the archers' aperture just to his rear and on the second level near where his rooms were. Sure enough, the maid stood there, smiling, her face bright and shining. Since she had become the lord's woman she now had a favored position in the household and took proper advantage of it to see that her appearance was at its best. Casca chuckled and breathed deep, enjoying the feeling in his chest as the muscles stretched and tightened. Well, why not? There's nothing wrong with a nooner. It'll wake up my appetite....