Casca 9: The Sentinel

by Barry Sadler

  This was one of the lakes left by a retreating sea, and now it served as a depository for salt beds. Each year the lake shrunk a bit more, the sun and wind evaporating the waters, leaving an ever-increasing degree of salt in the water and on the dry beds that the water had abandoned.

  Reaching the edge of the salt lake, he waded waist deep into the brine. If he couldn't take the water into his mouth, he would let his pores soak in what they could. At least it would rinse off more than it left on him of the alkaline residue. He put his face under the surface to rinse his hair and upper body, shutting his eyes tight against the salt, which he knew could drive a man mad if he took too much of it into himself.

  When he rose from the waters, the sun evaporated the moisture from the surface of his skin within seconds. His eyes cleared a bit. He saw movement about him in the thick waters. Thousands, no, millions of tiny forms that flickered with changing colors in the water, where nothing should be able to live. Tiny, wriggling creatures by the uncounted millions swam and swirled in vast herds. Most had a reddish tinge. He wondered if they were edible.

  Dredging himself out of the water, Casca walked the perimeter of the lake, coming upon the carcasses of dead birds by the dozens and a few animals of the four-legged variety. All were covered by alkali and salt dust. The birds nearest the edge of the water felt spongy to the touch; those farther away, the older corpses, were as hard as marble, frozen in a crust of white death. He touched his own hair and beard. They too were acquiring the same sponginess.

  Shading his eyes with his right hand, he scanned the horizon. On the north corner of the lake bed, he saw blocks of salt piled high near a mound of stones that didn't have a natural look. He moved to them, lungs aching, sucking in the dry salty air. As he neared, he saw that the blocks were man-cut chunks and that the stones formed a crude hut. This was one of the places where, periodically, slave or even migrant tribesmen would camp. He saw no sign of life around the hut. Still, he exercised a degree of caution. Taking his sword from the scabbard, he tried to move with more sureness than he felt.

  Casca was about a quarter mile away when he saw a figure break away from the hut and run over a small rocky rise to the north. It reminded him of his shadow. He turned to look back the way he had come. There he was, looking as if he were drifting in the air on heat waves.

  Casca broke into a lope. He wanted to run faster but wasn't capable of it. Reaching the hut, he climbed the stones to the roof and looked to the north. A man was riding away on a leg-weary horse, whipping the animal with frantic lashes.

  Climbing back down, he stumbled, slipping on the uneven stones. His face struck a boulder, breaking his mouth open to let the salty taste of his blood mingle with the salt dust in his breath. Wearily, he pulled back up to his feet and entered the uncovered entrance of the hut. It took a second for his eyes to adjust to the change in light from the glare outside.

  The hut was only about ten feet in diameter. Piled in the corner, what he thought at first glance to be a pile of rags and rubble proved to be the bodies of three men and a woman. All were dead. The men had their throats slit, and the woman looked as if her neck had been snapped.

  Nosing around, he found a skin of rancid water under the bodies. The rest of the hut had been cleaned out of anything to eat. It was hard to get his thoughts organized. He knew that he was smart enough to figure out what happened, but the thought just wouldn't take cohesive form in his mind.

  Removing the wood plug from the skin, he drank, careful not to spill even the smallest drop. The rancid, stinging water was ambrosia. It was shocking, the amount of pure pleasure he felt when the moisture cut through the sticky salty film that covered the inside of his mouth and gums. He had to fight the temptation to drink too deeply.

  Moving one of the bodies over to make room, he sat down, removing his burnoose to let his body breathe. The sun was nearly setting. He could feel inside the hut the minute differences in temperature, but it would be several hours before the stored heat in the stones gave way to the chill of the high desert nights. When that happened, he would go on.

  Flies were beginning to gather, drawn to the blood on the throats of the dead. He covered the wounds with scraps of their clothing and closed his mind to the nagging, irritating droning.

  The water he'd drunk began to have some effect, helping to clear the muck away from his mind so that thoughts came through in some order again. The hut and its dead occupants were most probably a family of salt cutters.

  Who had killed them? He didn't move from where he was sitting but let his eyes do the searching. On the dusty floor were the imprints of many feet. Several of the prints were from fine, smooth-soled sandals, not from rough, calloused, bare feet or twisted fibers tied together. Bending over to look closer, he could see the marks of fine even stitching. The sandals were not those of a poor man or even a nomadic tribesman. No nomad would wear shoes so fine in a country like this; they just wouldn't last long enough. He shook his head violently from side to side to aid the slow thinking process. He knew all the answers but couldn't get them out in order fast enough.

  When it all came together, he felt like a moron, for he had known the answer all the time. Gregory had been here. Now, why had one of his men remained behind?

  It took some grinding of his gears, but he came up with a logical solution. The man was bait. He had been watching for Casca and had intentionally let himself be seen riding away, to lure him away from the path of Gregory and the others. Or maybe the man had run away when Gregory had left him behind, because he wanted no more of the killer who was hunting them.

  That presented Casca with a problem. He didn't want to lose any time catching up with Gregory, but the man they'd left behind did have a horse. What shape the horse was in he didn't know. He might lose time going after the single rider, but if he did catch him, he would gain the added pleasure of being able to kill him, even if the horse wasn't any good or had already died. Besides, he had a strong suspicion where Gregory was heading. He would gamble. Uncorking the goatskin again, he drank a toast to himself, pleased at his shrewdness.

  He hesitated a moment, trying to force his reluctant brain to obey orders. He had been in this part of Persia more than once while in the service of Shapur II. He had never been to this salt lake, but the memory of being told about it returned. He knew the countryside, and if the Brother on the horse kept heading north, he would come to a region of volcanic rocks and rubble that stretched for fifty miles. There a man on foot would be able to move faster than one on horseback. Thumping his head to speed his thoughts, he went back outside to look at the countryside with fresh eyes and mind.

  On the horizon, in the glow of the dying sun, were the mountains of the Chorasmia. He was west and south of it; that meant the lava flows were only a night's march to the north. He began to laugh, tickled with the idea that he would be able to kill another one of the bastards. It was good to have a purpose in life!

  Not now, though. He would wait a while, knowing that his speed would be better if he slept a couple of hours.

  The snorting of a horse woke him. Cautiously, he unsheathed his sword, sneaking out of the hut to find a horse tied to a piece of scrub brush. He touched the sides of the animal and the saddle. His hand came away with a stain. He smelled it. Blood. The explanation for this unexpected gift was clear. His shadow had gone after the runaway and had brought back his horse.

  Again he gave thanks to the one who followed after him. Now he could make up for lost time and get a little closer to the object of all his desires.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN - Vengeance Is Mine

  The warm days were giving way to the first thin flakes of snow to fall from the high lands of Sogdiana, to the borders of the Persia and the northern regions, where the hordes of Asia lay in wait, renewing their strength for another move to the west. They were patient; if not this century, it would be the next. He looked down from the same rise where first he had laid eyes on the sanctuary of the Brotherhood of the Lamb. Then there
had been a young boy of the tribes of the Yueh-chih with him, named Jugotai. Then there had been a distant glow from a flame to guide his final steps. Now there was only darkness, but he knew that they were there. He could feel them.

  He didn't like this place. The memories of his last visit were not pleasant. It was here that he had first come into contact with the mad followers of Izram, the thirteenth disciple, and the beginning of a private war that had followed him through the ages. He rose to stand in his stirrups, looking over the countryside. Here the Jaxartes still turned from the mountains to flow to the Aral Sea. Nearby, the silk road ran from the Great Wall to the west, carrying the wealth of the East.

  He had that strange feeling of things that repeat themselves: the short hoarse bark of a desert jackal, the rustle of brush in the night wind. Kicking his horse in the flanks, he began his descent to the floor of the valley, taking his time. There was no longer any need to hurry. Those waiting below would not run any farther; this he knew. There was nowhere else for them to go. In the shadows, the lines of the walls of the sanctuary became visible. Massive, silent, foreboding, the cathedral had been carved out of the living stone of the basalt walls of the gorge. Before reaching bottom, he looked to his rear. It'd been a week or more since last he had seen his guardian angel. Maybe he had gotten lost. It didn't matter.

  Stopping out of bow range, he dismounted, letting the reins of his horse drop to the earth. The animal whinnied through red membraned nostrils, sore from days of breathing thin dry air. Unsheathing his sword with his right hand, he also let slip the strap holding the ax to his side. This he hefted in his left hand as he neared the ruins of a massive door that bore the mutilated sign of the fish. This time there would be no Elder Dacort to offer him drugged food and drink. The only thing he would feed on this time was the pain and blood of those who had taken Demos and Ireina from him.

  The odor of long years of disuse was plain. A pack rat ran by his feet from out of the brush piled in the doorway by the desert winds. He paused to listen, to taste with his mind the aura of the sanctuary. Kneeling down, he carefully scanned the loose sand and dirt that had drifted into the open door. He smiled stiffly. He was right; they were here. The surface of the sand had been swept with a piece of leafy brush to wipe out their footprints, but the evidence of their passing was clear. With the sweeping, they had left patterns on the surface that could not have occurred naturally. He nearly wept with joy. Soon they would pay. Then perhaps the torment that had driven him these last months would ease.

  His left wrist ached with a ghost pain when he entered the broken doors. The air inside the temple was heavy with the mustiness of time and disuse. One step, then another. Inside, to where the only light came from a cold moon whose rays sometimes found cracks in the broken roof to peek through. It was all different shades of gray: gray stones, gray shadows, gray dust.

  He stopped to listen. He could hear something coming from down the hall. He knew what was there: the altar, where his spear had been worshiped as a holy relic for centuries. Absently, he wondered if they still had it. Not that it made any difference now.

  As he neared, he saw a thin glow of gold under the door to the main hall. They were waiting for him. Maybe Gregory was tired of running and had come here to die at the first home of the Brotherhood. Casca wouldn't have thought the followers of Izram were so sentimental.

  As he neared the doors, they swung open from the inside. Torches in brackets illuminated the interior where once the Brotherhood had knelt to pray. Near the old altar, facing him, was Gregory. On either side of him stood two of the Sparthos with bared swords. Removing his loose Arab robe, he let it slide to the dusty stones.

  Gregory had lost weight. Gone was the fleshy face of one who had always eaten well. He was much leaner and stronger looking. The months on the trail had hardened him considerably in the body. Casca looked closely at his face. What was it he saw there? Resignation? Acceptance of the inevitable? He couldn't tell. The eunuch warriors of the Sparthos had no such look. Their eyes were hard and the grip on their weapons sure. Four of them? When he had started out after them, there had been ten. He'd killed four, and his mysterious shadow had probably killed the one whose horse he rode. There should have been another one, unless he had died or gone on from here to somewhere else. Whichever condition was true was all right with him. The important thing was that right now he was within reach of Gregory.

  The ax in his left hand began to swing back and forth. Gregory watched the ax as beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. The Sparthos did nothing. Speaking for the first time, Gregory found his throat dry and the words hard to say.

  "Is there no other way? What could the boy have meant to you? You were not his real father, and they would have died anyway. Surely you, more than anyone else, must know how truly unimportant are the lives of people like them. Their bodies would be turned to dust for ages, and you would still be the same. What are a couple of more deaths to you, who have put uncounted numbers in that state?"

  Casca watched him as he would have a vulture. "Everything you say has some truth to it. The boy was not of my blood. But I loved him as if he were. The woman loved me, and that was enough. However, I am pleased that you put such a low value on mortal life. It should make your own death a bit easier for you to accept."

  Gregory glanced at his remaining guards. "I know we can't kill you. But I also know that you can be hurt. If you are hurt badly enough, you won't recover in time to do me any harm. My mistake was sending men at you one at time. I should have just had them overpower you by the sheer force of numbers. But I panicked. I admit it. But no more! Here at this holy place I will still beat you. These four are to be my instruments of deliverance. They are going to hack off your arms and legs. Then I will have total control over you. And if your arms and legs by some means return, why then, they shall simply be removed again and again."

  Casca grinned, letting the heat build-up in him. "Then let's do it. Come to me, you precious things. I'll give you a kiss that will last you for the rest of your lives."

  The four separated, each to a different side when Gregory nodded for them to go ahead. They were good, steady fighters who accepted their fate. They knew that some of them would die, perhaps all of them, but that didn't matter as long as they accomplished by their deaths that which the master wished.

  Carefully, they began to move in, closing the circle around their prey. They knew that if they wounded him severely enough, they'd have him. Casca didn't let them get too close. He selected the one nearest the side of the hall and went at him, letting loose a scream to give himself strength. He struck out with the sword, going for the eyes, forcing the eunuch to blink by reflex. In that blinking of an eye, the ax in Casca's left hand was already in flight, the heavy, razor-edged blade sinking into the carotid artery, leaving the eunuch's head hanging by some strands of meat and bone at an awkward angle before he fell.

  The remaining guards tried to rush Casca as he took out their comrade. He pulled back to the wall, where they couldn't get at him from the back. The eunuchs were good soldiers, but that was all they were: They hadn't the experience to deal with one like him. But then, they were ready to die if they could just get hold of him The largest of them threw his body at Casca, using it as a shield for the others to come behind. He expected to die, and he did. Casca's sword went through him till the hilt rested against the muscles of his stomach. Before the blade could be pulled out, the other two were on him, slashing and striking. A cut laid his left arm open to the bone: a long, narrow, lengthwise slice from the tip of his shoulder to the elbow. Their attack forced him away from the wall and back into the center of the room, his back to the open altar. It was then he found out where the missing Sparthos was.

  A cry of "Duck!" coming from the doorway made him drop his body to the floor, twisting around. Hrolvath stood there, a light javelin leaving his hand to fly over Casca's head. It missed its target! The missing Sparthos, who had been hiding behind the altar with a bow, didn't
miss. The arrow he had intended for Casca flew across the open room to find the chest of Hrolvath. Casca screamed again. This time, if they wanted him down, they would have to chop him into pieces where he stood. He went at the two eunuchs, driving them both back against the wall. He used no finesse in his sword work. It was the rough work of one who slaughtered beasts for a living. He hacked down their guards. Using his sword like a cleaver, he sliced away arms and faces. As long as they stood, he cut and beat at them, mindless of his own wounds; they meant nothing. He ripped them open as a boy guts a fish, leaving a trail of entrails dragging after them.

  Gregory couldn't move; he was frozen in horror. The deaths he had participated in before had been those where he was the one in control. There was no controlling this raging animal. The Book of Izram was right. Casca was the spawn of Satan, a devil in the flesh of man, an inhuman thing of blood and death for all who touched him. The death blows given to his guards were the only act of mercy shown. And now, he alone faced this madman, with blood dripping off him from neck to waist, both his own tainted fluid and that of the men he had killed. The beast was coming for him, and he couldn't move or speak. Casca, sword raised above his head, red and dripping with the gore of those he had slaughtered, stumbled drunkenly to him. Gregory managed a weak cry of terror and then fainted.

  Casca stood over the unconscious body of the Elder, legs and arms trembling as he sucked in air to feed the furnace of his hate. A moan of pain came to him: Hrolvath! In his passion he had forgotten him. He left Gregory where he was; there would be time for him later.

  The feathers were nearly touching the skin. He knelt down beside his young friend to raise his head from the floor, cradling it in his good arm. Hrolvath tried to smile as bubbles of bright blood rose to his lips to burst with each breath.