The Sentinel

by Barry Sadler

  Then a single cry of alarm woke the sleeping raiders. In a panic, they rushed to the exits, only to find them blocked by the logs. One man reached out his hand to try to push his way through. Molvai grabbed the hand, pulling it out as far as he could, and then began cutting it while a friend held it steady. The short knife had a hard time sawing through the tendons between the wrist and hand, but patience prevailed and the hand came off, accompanied by the screams of its former owner. This served to keep the others inside from repeating the same procedure.

  The flames grew, spreading over the bottom of the longhouse, filling the room with thick acrid smoke that ate at the lungs. Herac tried to get his men organized. They took axes and swords to hack at the walls, trying to cut a new way out. Several fell, to lie on the floor where they had died, their lungs filled with smoke.

  Herac screamed in fear and rage for his men to break out. They concentrated their efforts on one spot, and even the stout logs began to give way to the frantic hacking of a dozen blades. The first small gap in the walls soon grew into one that a man could crawl through. One warrior attempted this, only to have his skull smashed by a sweep from a pitchfork. This did not deter the others. Fresh air entered, giving them a chance to breathe. With increased strength, they attacked the hole, widening it even farther till it could take the whole body of a man. It would have been best if they had expanded the opening even more, but blinding panic was riding them. They had to get away from the growing fires that were eating the floor out from under them, threatening to collapse at any moment, sending them down into the raging furnace beneath. The heat and flames licked through cracks in the boards, searing their feet and climbing the walls of the longhouse, transforming the interior into a flesh-blistering inferno.

  Casca responded to Molvai's cry that the raiders were breaking out. Taking sword and spear, he rushed the spot in time to see a man thrust his body out of the wall, ax in hand, clothes smoldering. Wild-eyed, he'd struck down a villager who was too slow in moving out of the way. Casca speared him as he would have a pig.

  Once the first man made his break, the others began to pour out, some on fire, others coughing and unable to breathe. Casca was concerned that too many of them would get out, but this wasn't to be. The floor of the longhouse collapsed, sending at least half of those inside crashing through to be roasted alive in the fire. The sounds of screams and sizzling flesh mingled with the new burst of oily smoke that came from human bodies being consumed.

  Those who escaped the fire were mobbed by the village men, who had rallied their courage. Most of the warriors were still too weak from a lack of air and coughing to put up any resistance, even though they were better armed. They fell to flails, clubs, and pitchforks. Village men piled on them in twos and threes, hurling them to the ground to beat their brains out or stab them a hundred times with their short knives. It was bloody, unprofessional work, but it did the job. Herac was in the center of a group that burst out of the longhouse. He stood with two men, side to side, their backs to the flames and their eyes weeping rivers of smoke-agitated tears. Their skin showed the marks of fire: red welts over most of their exposed bodies. Their hair seemed near the point of bursting into flames.

  Several men tried to get to them, forgetting to their eternal loss that they were facing killers who'd had a lot of practice at their craft. Herac and his surviving raiders cleared a space around them and then began to move out to the walls, where they hoped to be able to escape into the countryside. Three men, with weapons taken from dead. raiders, attempted to face them down. They died in less time than the telling of it takes. Herac was no tyro at the fine art of slaughter and provided the base for his two surviving men to work from.

  The villagers had formed a living wall around Herac and his men. The women had come out from the huts with the news that the raiders were being killed and had joined their men in trying to keep the raiders inside the walls. Several women threw themselves at the swordsmen and were cut down with no hesitation.

  Casca had been inclined to let the men of the village do the rest of the dirty work for themselves. But once the women got into the act, it changed things for him. Women were just too temperamental, and he knew that they would only get killed and confuse things even more for their men: He had to take a hand in the mess once more.

  Pushing his way through the mob, he smacked them with the flat of his sword till they cleared a path for him directly in front of Herac.

  The mob grew silent. The two men faced each other. Herac, hair smoking, skin black from ash and smoke, eyed this new danger through red-rimmed lids. Spitting out a hunk of phlegm, he grunted, "You must be the cause of this. Why are you here? You obviously have nothing in common with these sheep who would be men. "

  Molvai answered with a triumphant yell: "This is the sleeper, the warrior from the mountains who has come to kill you."

  Casca wished he hadn't been so dramatic about the announcement. It was embarrassing.

  Herac wasn't convinced. He'd heard the legend of the sleeping warrior but thought nothing of it. This man most probably was using the tale to his own advantage to take over power in the village.

  Casca moved closer to the three, swinging his sword easily, point held low to the earth. He answered Herac's unspoken misgivings. `What I am really doesn't matter because you're not going to leave here alive. So let's get it on and over with. I'm tired."

  Herac knew that he was a dead man. Even if the scar-faced warrior in front of him didn't kill him, it was unlikely that he would be able to get out alive with only two men. The rest of his band was being turned into charred stinking cinders in the burning coals of the longhouse.

  Not waiting for any further dialogue, he struck, his two men alongside him. Casca was slower than he thought he'd be. The long years of idleness had stiffened muscles that refused to respond properly to the brain's signals to move. He knew what to do; he just wasn't fast enough. Herac opened up a slice in his gut, along the left side, cutting through the thin plates of the rusted scale armor. Casca closed with him, holding him to his chest. The two henchmen tried to cut Casca down from the sides but were dragged down by enraged villagers. The women were especially vengeful and received full payment for the use of their bodies and the deaths of their men and children.

  Casca didn't complain about their assistance. He had all he could do to hold on to Herac. He was too weak to use his normal strength against the half Greek, but he did recall one of the things he had learned long ago about close-in fighting. Twisting his hip, he half turned to Herac's left. Letting go of his sword, he put his right arm under Herac's armpit and, with the twist, flipped him over his hip to land flat on his back, with the wind knocked out of him. Casca decided that it was time to end the show and gave Herac a full-bodied kick in the balls with his right foot. This kept his opponent immobile long enough for him to retrieve his sword and, without any further ado, cut the raider chief's throat to the applause and cheers of his village audience.

  Casca was a bit disappointed in his performance, but the villagers thought he'd been sent from the gods to protect them and destroy their enemies. If he had said the word, they probably would have burned down their own village.

  Casca yelled for them to quiet down and to put out the fires. He was tired from his labors and told Molvai to take a couple of men and go after Ireina. It was time she came home.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Ireina returned with Molvai, not the least bit concerned or surprised. Why should she be? Hadn't everything turned out as she had always known it would? Her sleeping warrior had come down from the mountain and freed her people. There had never been any doubt of it in her mind. Why should she be surprised at what was only natural?

  Casca was tired. Molvai turned over his own hut to him and Ireina, moving his family out to stay with one of his uncles. Casca didn't waste any time dropping off to sleep. The night had been long, and he was still weak. The fights had taken much from his slim reserves of strength, and he needed time to rebuild
them. Ireina accepted the deference shown them both as no more than their due. She was the woman of the warrior, the one who had awakened him from his long sleep. She was his, and he was hers; of that there could be no doubt in anyone's mind.

  While he slept, the villagers cleaned up the mess once the ashes had cooled enough for them to go in and haul out the charred bodies of the raiders. These they removed to the edge of the forest for the wolves and bears to feed on, provided that they had a taste for meat that was slightly overcooked.

  There was a festive mood in the village for the next few days as they enjoyed the novelty of being their own masters again. Of Casca they saw little. He stayed to himself, resting and eating. He had no desire to be gawked at or pointed to. All he wanted was to be left alone for a time, until he readjusted to being among the living.

  Ireina helped in that respect. He was glad that he had waited a few days, gathering strength before he gave in to the inevitable. For him it was a pleasant if exhausting joining. For Ireina it was the final establishing of her claim to him, and she was determined that her man would have no reason to look elsewhere for companionship.

  Once he did come out into the open. The villagers wanted to make him their chief. This he refused gently but firmly. He wanted no responsibility for them. Ireina gave him a disapproving look, but said nothing. If he didn't want to be chief, he must have a good reason.

  His reason was that he knew that he couldn't stay with them. Once the passes were open, he would have to leave. It was a constant irritation to be watched, pointed to, and whispered about. He had to give orders that offerings were not to be left at his door anymore, but that didn't stop the custom completely. It was not unusual for him to find a piece of smoked meat or a few eggs when he opened the door. If it had just been food, he wouldn't have been so concerned, but there were also signs that the offerings had been made to him in what they thought of as his aspect of being a half god. Small clay figurines of the earth mother or other local deities were usually placed near the offerings.

  Casca did not wish to be anyone's god. It was too great a burden. The only good thing about the way everyone treated him was that he was able to sit on his ass for the rest of the winter, taking it easy. Just as the weather was beginning to warm, he had a moment of consternation when he noticed that Ireina was beginning to put on a little weight and walked around most of the time with a smug expression on her face. It didn't take him long to figure out that she was pregnant. This bothered him a bit. He knew that he wasn't able to sire any offspring and wondered whether she'd been messing around.

  A little conversation with Molvai explained the circumstances of the rape by Herac. But, he figured, what the hell? If she wanted to think it was his, why not?

  It was spring when the child was born to Ireina: A fine healthy boy with fair features and dark eyes. Casca had by this time come to think of the new arrival as his own and was as anxious as any expectant father.

  For him it was a new experience to put out a rough finger and feel the small fingers of a baby tug at them and try to suck them.

  He swore that he would give the baby all that a father could. He would have stayed in their high mountain valley if the villagers had accepted him as a normal man and not some type of supernatural being. The women would bring their children to him and plead for him to touch their heads to bring them luck. The way they treated his son was no different. The baby was an object of awe and wonder. If they stayed there, the child would have no chance to grow up normally. When the day came that he discovered that he was only mortal and not the child of a demigod, it would bring him nothing but grief.

  When Demos was six months old, Casca decided that he was strong enough for them to leave the mountains. He hated to do it but felt that there was no other choice. Ireina didn't care. As long as she was with him and had her child, she would go anywhere without complaint. Her dreams were all coming true.

  The horses and what silver the raiders had on their bodies, Casca claimed as his due for services rendered. There were no complaints from anyone. The only problem was that they didn't want to let him go. But they also knew there was no way to stop him. He did make one concession, promising to return one day.

  With Ireina on a horse behind him and Demos nestled in his scarred arms, they began to descend to the warm lands below, where snow seldom fell and winds were gentle.

  The horses he sold at Aquileia. The money he got for them was enough for them to live comfortably for several months. He wanted this time to watch Demos grow. Every day was a new adventure for him. The first unsure steps rapidly passed into overconfident little stumbling steps. Casca was constantly afraid that Demos was going to break his head open every time the baby climbed to its feet. Ireina took all this in stride. Like most mothers, she knew instinctively that her child's rubbery, flexible body was nearly indestructible and that in spite of all the falls and bruises, he would grow stronger each day.

  The only fly in the ointment was that with each day their reserve of money grew lower. What work Casca was able to find was a poor supplement to the growing needs of his family. For a time he worked as a bouncer in several local taverns, until his reputation grew so bad that it started driving off customers and he was fired. The only other work to be had which paid as well would have taken him away from Ireina and Demos. That he tried to avoid for as long as possible, for he had found great pleasure in the growing child. He took an inordinate amount of pride in each of the babe's accomplishments, such as climbing to his feet by himself. Casca swore that anyone could see that never had a child done such things so young or so well.

  Ireina never lost her childlike simplicity or her belief that Casca and she were part of some fairy tale. No matter how many times he tried to reason with her, she would just smile smugly as if to say, "Go on and say anything you want to. I know the truth, and nothing will change it." Sometimes he wondered if perhaps she'd been hurt more than was obvious by her rape. She never mentioned the raiders or Herac again, and if he brought up the subject, she just looked at him with a blank expression and went on with whatever she was doing.

  He had no problems with Ireina. It wasn't that she was stupid. There were just some things that she didn't understand, and he was foremost among them. In their daily life she was pleasant and attentive and could argue with the butcher over the price of a piece of meat with the best of them. He managed to keep them with shelter and food on the table until Demos was five by taking any work he could find. His strong back was always welcome where fields had to be cleared of stones or wood cut and hauled to different cities, but that was only enough for them to barely survive on, and he wanted more for them than just an existence of living hand to mouth.

  Casca knew that soon he would have to find better-paying employment. He dreaded the idea, but there was no way to avoid it. Inflation and rising prices had rapidly depleted their resources. He was going to have to go back to work, and there was only one way he would have a chance to make enough to give him what he wanted for Ireina and Demos.

  He would have to sell his sword for a time. Then, when they had saved enough, he'd buy a farm for them, where they could be kept away from the evil of the world. He also knew that the day would come when he would have to walk away from them, to leave them on their own. When that happened, he intended for them to be taken care of. That was a hateful thought but one that couldn't be ignored. Perhaps this time he would be able to do it gently and not have them hurt because of him.

  He would have to make a lot of money to accomplish that. He had wished several times that he had been a good businessman, but he had no talent for it and knew it.

  There were not many places where he could get a good price for his labor. He would have to go where they were hiring. It wouldn't have done any good to go to Rome, which was ruled by barbarians and had little need of paid mercenaries. The only place he knew that had the money to afford professional mercenaries was Constantinople. There were always more trouble spots than the regular legio
ns of the Eastern Empire could take care of. He would have to sign on with one of the mercenary captains.

  He didn't like the idea of taking Ireina and Demos with him to Constantinople, but he didn't want to leave them where he couldn't take care of them in the event of trouble. The world was as dangerous a place as it had been under Gaius Caesar.

  Others were at work also. In accordance with the orders of the Elder, men had been sent out from every province and city to question, to follow every rumor about any man of unusual abilities or extreme longevity. The description of Casca was indelibly impressed on their memories. Every scar-faced man was subject to question.

  It was while tracing down the origin of one of these stories that followers of the Lamb came to the village where Casca and Ireina had lived. When the passes opened up to the highlands, merchants and travelers came and went as usual. The villagers delighted in the telling of the story of their own special demigod who watched over them. Most who heard the story took it as no more than that, just another of the wild fables that people who are isolated for much of the year through long winters seem to produce in endless quantities. The men of the Brotherhood did not take the story as a fable. When Molvai sat with them, he told them of the strength of the sleeper and of his scars, especially the one that ran from the edge of his right eye to the corner of his mouth, and how another circled his left wrist like a bracelet.