by Barry Sadler
Glam couldn't speak. Never in his worst dreams had he ever seen anything that looked like his master did now. He nodded his head in agreement and stepped back to let him enter. As a pebble tossed into a pond spreads an expanding ring of ripples over the surface, silence spread through the hall, as first one reveler, then another, saw the weird and fearful apparition step forward, moving slowly, feet shuffling, as if the beast were terribly weary and running out of strength. The creature came closer to the center of the table. The increasing silence finally reached the ears of Ragnar. He stopped in his feeding. A piece of unchewed meat dropped from his open mouth to land on the table.
Casca stood in the center of the Hall. His eyes, running over the faces of the feasters, stopped on the face of Lida. She was more beautiful than he had remembered. Her head was turned, she seemed to be listening to the silence. A look of wonder played across her features. He moved to lock his gaze on that of Ragnar. Ragnar may have been a cruel brute, but he was no coward. The thing of skin and protruding ribs that stood before him had at first startled him. The bloody axes said that it was dangerous, but no more than many he had faced and killed. And from the look of the creature, it couldn't have much strength in it. Maybe it was some kind of joke.
One of Ragnar's mastiffs moved out from under the table where it had been feeding on scraps. A brindle-colored, thick-necked animal, it moved stiff-leggedly closer to the man in the center of the hall. Its nose tasted the strange odor, and its muzzle curled back in a snarl to show yellow canines. There was something about this man that was wrong.
Casca watched the approach of the fighting dog, his eyes on the animal. His lips, too, drew back in a snarl. A low growl came from inside, never rising to much more than a barely audible level, but enough for the dog to understand and fear.
The beast turned its eyes away from Casca. Its tail going down between its legs, it began to back away. It smelled no fear on this man, only the taste of death. The dog's growls slowly changed to the thin whimpers of fear that it hadn't made since it was a pup and had been faced down by one of the older dogs. It knew it was no match for this man. The dog's body assumed the position of submission, its spine curved and its tail between the legs. It slowly backed away, continuing to make the puppy noises. It would have no part of this. It left the hall to find a place to hide outside.
This more than the filthy starved caricature himself brought a sense of caution to Ragnar. There was a strange feeling to the silent man in this Hall. Something he had never experienced before. An aura that one might find while walking through a field of ancient battles where warriors lay dead with their weapons beneath one's feet.
Ragnar spoke, no trace of humor in his voice now. "And just what are you?" He turned his attention to his guests. "Have some of you thought to play a joke on me?"
The creature interrupted him. His voice was a dry husky whisper that everyone in the room could clearly hear. "What am I? I am the death that walks at every man's shoulder. I am the bearer of silence and the end to pain." He raised the axe in his right hand and pointed the spiked end at Ragnar. "I am Casca."
Lida's lips let free a small cry at the name, but was quickly silenced by Ragnar with a back hand across her mouth. He growled low and dangerously. "This is a poor joke, wretch. And I find it not to my liking. The Roman dog is long dead by my order."
Casca laughed, a thin bitter sound that sent chills up the backs of the less hearty there. "So you did order. But I live... And now, it is your turn to die." He leaped forward, axes swinging. One would not have thought that he would have had enough strength in his thin knobby arms and wrists to lift even one of the heavy-bladed battle axes, but he did and more.
Two men died with their smashed heads laid open and their brains mingled with their dinner. Glam had moved behind the feasting table and was waiting for Casca's move. When it came he was ready.
Casca leaped upon the table, scattering bowls and flagons. Ragnar fell over on his back in his haste to get up, and the bony man was instantly on him. He had lost one axe when it stuck in the brain case of one of Ragnar's bodyguards. With the remaining one, he used the side and knocked Ragnar to his stomach, holding him there with the spiked point at the base of his neck. Glam had moved to cover him. The guests and their ladies did nothing. They knew that to move was to invite death.
Casca stood, sides heaving, over the object of his anger. "You would starve me and blind your own daughter." A beef bone, the size of a big man's forearm, fell from the table to rest beside Ragnar. There were still some chunks of meat on it. Even at this moment, the sight of the first food he had been near in two years was too much. Keeping the spike at the neck of Ragnar, he picked up the bone and began to gnaw on the large knuckled joint. The meat was half raw. If it hadn't been filled with red blood, there would have been no way he could have swallowed it with his dry throat. But the fat and blood aided its descent into his gut, where his stomach juices attacked the first real bite of food they had seen since his confinement. Ragnar squirmed under the point of the spike digging into the back of his neck, his beard and face pressed firmly into the straw covered floor.
One of Ragnar's bodyguards, a man almost as big as Glam with a face as red as his and a full, flame-colored beard and mustache, lunged over the table at Casca to free his master. Moving his axe from Ragnar's neck to face the attacker, Casca swung, bringing the blade down with such force that it split the man's head into two parts and buried itself four inches in the solid oak table.
Roaring, Ragnar jumped up from the floor and scrambled to his feet. Casca, without thinking, let go of the stuck axe and swung the beef bone; he wasn't going to let Ragnar get away. The knobbed knuckle of the bone struck Ragnar across the forehead, reeling him back. Casca switched hands, putting the bone into his right and grabbing Ragnar by his beard, then pulled him onto his knees and came down once more with the bone. This time, the knuckle hit with a crack that could be heard a hundred yards away. Ragnar's forehead split under the blow. He died instantly, faster than Casca would have killed had he had the choice, but no matter; the rotten old bastard was dead.
He tossed the bone beside the body and worked the axe out of the table. No one else had moved. He turned to the stunned feasters.
"You women may leave, and take Lida with you.” Lida began to protest, wanting to know what was happening, but Casca silenced her.
"We will have time later. Obey me now. I still have some work to finish. Now go."
The women obeyed, glad to be out of the room. The door swung shut behind them. The men made no protest. They might have supported the cruel reign of Ragnar, but they were still men of the north and born to battle. They would stay though death would come in the next few minutes.
Casca uprighted Ragnar's overturned chair and sat down, watching the men he and Glam would soon fight. Stretching over, he took a flagon of mead and drank deeply, swallowing repeatedly, his eyes never leaving the faces of the men he would kill. He took a roast bird and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing some pieces and swallowing some of it whole. Even the bones he ground between his teeth. There were no sounds but those of breathing and his eating. Color was beginning to return to his face, strength flowing fresh to withered limbs. His mouth still hungered, but his shrunken stomach could hold no more. He wiped his fingers on the sleeve of the red-bearded man he had killed, to rid them of grease. He would need dry palms for this night's work.
Glam stood behind him, axe swinging slowly to and fro, waiting. He too had waited long for this night; a few minutes more or less made no difference.
Ragnar's men waited also until Casca had finished his meal. It seemed to take much longer than it actually did, but they were in no rush; eternity they knew was not far away.
Casca raised himself from the table, his eyes never leaving the waiting warriors. He spoke with renewed strength. "Well, gentlemen, shall we get on with it?"
One by one, the warriors rose and moved around to the front of the table. There had been eleven guests. N
ow eight stood in a rank waiting. They had drawn their weapons and stood ready.
One elder warrior, with more gray in his beard than the others, looked closely at the face of the man behind the table, and said, "Aye, it is you, though we were sure you died long ago." A smile played at his mouth. "Indeed, you look more like a corpse than old Ragnar does. He, no doubt, did you and the lady a great wrong, and we did nothing to stop him. He was our sworn liege, no matter what he did, and ours was a blood oath. Now, it is up to you. I know that there is something within you that we cannot win against, some force that sustains you when others would die. It has been said the gods have touched you. Perhaps that is so. At any rate, I know that what happens now is in your hands. Whether we live or die is your decision. I know we may not be leaving this room alive, but you will know that you have had a fight against men."
The old warrior raised his sword in salute and threw his cloak back out of the way of his sword arm. Then he bowed and stepped forward. "Let me be the first. As the eldest here, I claim that right...."
Casca moved around the table, Glam close to his side. "Old man, you have proclaimed your guilt through your own lips. Blood oath." The words dripped with contempt from the Roman's mouth. "There is no oath so binding that it justifies pain only for another's pleasure. It was your support that permitted the beast to live. You could have stopped him, but it was easier to go along with him, to do nothing, in the name of an oath. Well, hear mine!
"I swear, before all the gods and demons of the world, that not one of you will leave this room alive. That here and now, you will pay your bill. This night, you have been judged, and the sentence is death."
Outside the Hall door, guards had gathered, ready to attack. They had heard from the women of Ragnar's death at the hand of the Roman. They made no attempt to enter. With Ragnar's death, they owed him nothing. His daughter was now mistress of this house and, on her command, they stood silent, with the others, waiting.
Then came the sounds of battle, swords against axes, cries to the gods and Wotan to give them strength, and, inevitably, the sound of men dying. At first, there were the sounds of single combat only. Then came the cries of multiple voices joined in battle. Then silence, terrible silence that meant it was all over. Still, they waited until the door was opened by Glam, who was torn and cut in a dozen places, his arms and chest covered not only with his own blood, but with that of the men lying in broken profusion inside the Hall. His dripping axe left a trail of thick red spots behind him.
Casca was sitting at the head of the table, one of the dead men's cloaks about him, head between his hands, weary. It was over. The old warrior had been right about one thing. The corpses on the floor were men. At least, they had been. It was done with.
Glam spoke to Lida. "It is over. Go to your rooms. Now is not the time to talk to him, when he still has the smell of death on him. He would not wish it so. Go, and on the morrow all will be made right." He swelled himself to his full height and spoke to all gathered. "Casca, the Walker, is now lord of Helsfjord and master of all that was Ragnar's. He claims this by right of the sword. If any would dispute his claim, let him come forth with sword in hand or leave. Any who remain will serve him, as I do.
"What say you?" The waiting guards raised their spears and axes in salute. "We serve. Casca is lord of the Hold...."
The Field of Runes was named for the stones carved with the angular strokes and squiggles of the northern folk writings. Only a few could translate their meanings, some of which reached far back into antiquity and were said to be the records of the deeds of great heroes and kings.
Of all present, only Hagdrall could read them with any degree of proficiency. Most had been written when the druids were highly respected throughout the northlands and even into Gaul. Now they were being driven back into a few strongholds. Here, in Scandia, and in Britain, they had their last refuge from the edicts of Rome and were determined to hang on to what remained of their influence as they competed with the other gods for the mind of the people.
Once they had controlled the destinies of kings. Now, in most places, they were little more than figureheads, and, like all priests of dying religions that were losing followers, they didn't like it a damned bit.
Hagdrall had spent years establishing his influence over Ragnar and his people, and felt no desire to return to the lesser position of just being around to bless weddings or say the funeral rites over the dead, though he wouldn't have minded doing those rites over Casca. Nothing had been right since the Roman had screwed up their plans to marry Lida off to Icenius - a vantage point from which the druids might have been able to begin to reestablish themselves in their former position of respect and power. Now, there were only a few each year that came to be initiated into the rites and to perform the mysteries.
He hadn't even been asked to perform the wedding ceremony for Casca and Lida. Hagdrall grumbled to himself beneath his beard, "That's all right, Roman, I've not finished with you yet." The wedding proceedings were nearing their conclusion.
The ceremony binding Casca the Roman and Lida of the sightless eyes had come down from the beginnings of the Norse past. At one time when those of the nobility were to wed, there had been much blood shed in sacrifices. In time, due to the unwillingness of the villagers to participate in these activities just to insure the goodwill of the gods and spirits, the practice was discontinued and animals took the place of humans. The ceremony remained about the same. Priests would chant and plead with the spirits, doing the secret things that made them priests, then the animals would be disemboweled and the entrails inspected for omens. Naturally the signs were always favorable, as bad news would have reduced the amount of the gifting the priests would have received from the couples' families and friends.
Casca had nothing against the sacrificing of goats and cattle, as the flesh would be consumed by the wedding guests and not the flames of the sacrificial fires. For the rest, he had seen the same ceremony with minor variations among many peoples during his travels. The villagers didn't mind too much when he said he would use a village elder rather than bring in another druid for the rites.
This last night before his wedding looked like it was going to be a long one. Glam would hear of nothing else. He and the men of the hold would drink and feast until it came time for Casca to enter into the bonds of domestic servitude. Glam, as usual, had nothing good to say about anything concerning weddings. But Casca knew it was all show and that Glam would have happily beat the brains out of anyone who even hinted they would disrupt the ceremony. The old heathen was as happy as a child behind his gruff manner and well pleased to see Casca acquire that which he wanted most in the world, Lida.
A double row of maidens, dressed alike in flowing white robes and fall flowers in their hair, sang songs of love and devotion. A white ram was sacrificed and the senior elder of the largest village was asked to read the signs while its innards were dragged out into the open air.
"That should have been my job. That ignorant dirt farmer can't possibly know the first thing about divining." Hagdrall drew to the rear of the proceedings.
Under the elder's watchful gaze, the couple exchanged salt, earth, and fire - a simple ceremony, and then it was done. They were now one. According to the rites of Mother Earth, they were joined until Father Death separated them.
Casca took his bride into his arms and gently kissed each of her sightless eyes, then her mouth, marveling at the sweetness of her breath.
Glam sniffled in his beard. Being the sentimental slob that he was, he always cried at weddings.
Chapter Ten
It was not too long after Casca believed he had finally settled into the comfortable mold of married life, when he and Glam embarked on a hunting trip to get away from the mounting duties of the hold. Even Lida had insisted that Casca take off a few days and get rid of some of the tension that was building up in him from having to deal with the everyday problems of running even a domain as small as his. She knew that it wasn't the line
of work he was cut out for, but he did do his best to be fair and just.
There was some reluctance on his part to leave Lida behind, but she assured him that she would be well taken care of and that it made good sense for him to get familiar with the terrain around Helsfjord in the event of trouble. Casca couldn't deny that. A good soldier always checked out the lay of the land - though in Glam's interpretation that meant the hottest-blooded woman he could find.
They set off shortly after sunrise, packs slung over their shoulders, swords at their hips, and boar spears held close at hand. It felt good. From the first step out of the gray confines of the hold, Casca could feel the weight of his responsibilities drop off him. As for Glam, Casca wasn't sure the man-beast knew how to worry. Each step out into the woods was lighter than the one preceding it.
Glam thumped his barrel chest and breathed deeply. "Ahhhhh! That's better than the smell of wood smoke and baby piss in the nostrils all day, is it not?"
Casca had to agree.
The day sparkled with a clear crystal sky above them, and the last of the ground fog of the morning rose to be whisked away at the tops of the pines and oaks. Forest sounds gently greeted them as they made their way with no real direction in the mind. The singing of birds and the quick rustling of small animals scurrying away at their approach were welcome sounds to their ears.
They trekked all that day, stopping only once for a short breather. Crossing the ridges and valleys, Casca enjoyed the feel of the strain, the aching of unused muscles. He hadn't had much exercise since the time he had been put in the dungeon, and had damned little after taking over control of Helsfjord except for the delightful exercises Lida put him through. For a woman so fragile in appearance, to his delight she had an amazing amount of strength and endurance. More than once she had forced the tough, lumpy-muscled ex-gladiator to the thumbs gesture asking for mercy, which she seldom granted. A couple of hours before dark they settled on a sheltered glen to make camp. It had a small, clear, cold stream, which fed into a larger one that eventually led to the sea.
