God Of Death c-2 Read online

  Goldman let his eyes run over the sea green surface of the mask, examining it millimeter by millimeter. At first he was puzzled by Casca's insistence, for he saw nothing unusual.

  And then it hit him.

  On the left side of the mask, almost invisible, was what appeared to be a thin line where the jade pieces were joined, but on closer inspection, Goldman saw that the thin line was not a break in the jade, but that it had been intentionally carved to represent a thin hairline scar running from the eye to the corner of the mouth.

  Goldman turned back to Casca, and his mouth dropped open in shock.

  The same scar was on Casca's living face: the thin hairline scar that left Casca with a permanent smile or grin or as some called it leer. The correspondence leaped out at the doctor. He looked quickly back at the mask. The rest of the features fell into place.

  "It's you," he said. "That mask is a mask of your face."

  Pleased as though he had pulled a practical joke on the doctor, Casca grinned. "Yes, it's me. And how did I get my face on a Teotihuacano sacrificial mask? Look at the mask, Doctor." Casca's voice took on a commanding quality that was not to be disobeyed. Twice before Goldman had heard that tone of voice. "Look at the eyes of the mask, Doctor. The story is there."

  Goldman turned back to the mask, and the gray-blue eyes of the sacrificial mask seemed to blaze with an inner fire, forcing his attention upon them, pulling him into their glowing depths. As his consciousness sank into the turquoise flames, Casca's voice accompanied him:

  "Remember, Doctor, where I stopped before? I was at the Hold of Helsfjord, and Lida had died. The year was A.D. 252, by the Christian reckoning…"

  TWO

  At Lida's death Casca was inconsolable. The deep black grief that settled over him seemed to have only one remedy: the beckoning sea. Ever more frequently, from his stronghold at Helsfjord, he would sail out his dragon ship, often taking a turn at the oars himself as if by exhausting labor he could rid himself of his pain, but always, always the sea beckoned, the empty sea. The very magnitude of the gray ocean's immensity and its loneliness fitted his need, and the waves, slapping the hull, whispered to him over and over, gently urging…

  There came this day…

  Glam, the gray-bearded and balding giant, turned from the parapets facing the sea and looked at his friend and master, Casca. Forty years they had been together since that time they had met and fought on the banks of the Rhine, and in all those years Glam had remained Casca's man… and friend. Now, Glam's still-powerful frame was beginning to bend, and his gnarled hands could no longer wield the great sword with the same vigor they had known in youth. Of late he had suffered from ague, but he was still a man and a Norseman, a Norseman from a line of heroes. He seemed to sense what his master was going to say before Casca spoke.

  "Glam, it's time for me to leave."

  Glam pondered the face and figure of his master and friend. There were still no lines in Casca's face, and his body was as strong as when they had first fought. Time's ravages had stayed from Casca. The only change was the addition of a few new scars, visible on Casca's body and hands. Glam knew that other man-killing wounds had left their mark under the tunic. But, enough. It was not his affair. Casca was being used by the gods for some purpose. They were always pulling some kind of trick on poor mortals. Still, ever since Casca had kicked his ass by the river he had been firmly convinced that Casca was no mortal man.

  "It is as you say, Lord Casca. When?"

  Casca was gazing at the distant line where sea and sky met. "Soon," he said softly, "soon, my friend."

  That night in the Great Hall, Casca called out to his men. Most had grown up at the Hold. Their fathers had served Casca for years, and they accepted the fact that the Lord of the Hold did not age. As with Glam, who were they to argue with the ways of the gods? Casca was their lord. That was enough. And he had brought victory to the people, and peace and wealth to the area he held in fief.

  Now they waited for his words.

  "Friends and comrades," Casca spoke, "the time has come for me to leave this place. To you, my old friends, I bequeath your lands and homes as your own, with your loyalties to Glam, who will be Lord of the Hold when I leave. To him you will tithe and obey."

  Glam rose in protest. "No, lord! Where you go, so go I, as always. I am still strong, and can serve as well as any of these young bucks."

  Casca put his hand, affectionately on Glam's shoulder. "No, my friend," he said, "you are needed here. I must go the way that my fate dictates. I am going to go a-viking. I will take my long-ships and sail to the west, out beyond the Ice seas, and to the south. The journey may be years in the making, and where or what we will find will call for younger bones than yours. No, my friend, your mind and experience are needed here. To go a-viking I need the seeds of your loins, not you." He turned to the hall, and his voice rose: "Who of the young men wish to sail with me to the ends of the earth? To seas farther than anyone has gone before?" He lifted high his horn of honeyed mead, and his deep voice filled the Great Hall: "Who sails with Casca?"

  The hall roared. Waves of cheers threatened to blow out the great fire where the meat was roasting. In the fed glow of its flames the faces of the young men shone with eagerness, Casca's challenge rushing to their brains like strong drink. This was their chance. It was the thing of which heroes were made and legends born to sail to the ends of the seas with the Lord Casca, the Unchanging One. All raised their swords and axes in response. "Casca! Casca! Casca!" they roared over and over.

  For the young men the years of peace had been dull. It had been too quiet for them for too long. Casca and his followers had long since made their neighbors aware that it was the better policy to leave the gray-eyed lord alone in his domain. The young warriors wanted their own taste of battle and adventure. Their hearts beat faster as they sang the old songs, the words the poets told, the great legends of the north. Of Beowulf. Of the young Glam Graybeard when he had come to the Hold. Even of the gray-eyed man who led them, still young after all these years and all these battles. Now the chance was theirs to become heroes themselves, so that other poets in other times would sing of their deeds. Glam's only son, Olaf, led the singing.

  All that night the hall warmed with their drinking and with the feelings of camaraderie that precede great adventures, but the empty seat beside Casca where Lida had sat served to remind him, alone of all the multitude, that everything ends, yet everything is the same. Once more he must leave. The sight of all those bright young faces of his youthful warriors almost deterred him from the venture. He knew that taking them would mean death for many before their sea road ended. He was tempted to call the voyage off, to refuse to send so many to their deaths. But two hundred years had taught him one thing: Men are what they are, and adventure is the way of the young. If these did not sail with him, why, then, they would go with another. Their fates would be the same in the end. It was not for him to alter the way things were…

  The morning smoke rose in dark, twisting tendrils into the cool damp air brought in from the sea. The rich, wet smell of the salt spray freshened Casca's nostrils and brought an awakening to his entire body. Alone, for most of the young warriors had gone to their homes, Casca breathed deep, letting his gray eyes sweep over the panorama in front of him, the protected fjord where his dragon ships lay waiting for their master and for the wind to breathe life into them and to set their dragon heads out into the unknown. A chill ran up Casca's spine, and he wrapped his muscled forearms over each other seeking a little more warmth. Even as he stood, the wind changed and blew around to the land side, and Casca could smell the coming spring. Only a few more weeks and the snow would start to recede, leaving the earth ready for rebirth. Already the first hardy plants must be beginning their stirring that would eventually force their heads up and out of the still white, but melting cold.

  When the spring is here, we sail…

  He stood looking at the dragon ships, wondering where they would take him.


  When he returned to the Great Hall, the sound of snoring reached him even before he was full into the smoky interior, and he let his gaze stop on the massive form of Glam. The great bear of a man lay face down on the oak table, contentedly slumbering in a wine and mead-induced stupor, his breath whistling out from between his great mustaches, his hand on his ever-present sword. Grinning, Casca recalled the uses that monstrous piece of steel had been put to. Glam was one hell of a man by anyone's standards, and from that time when the two of them had become comrades, Glam's course had always been true. Well, perhaps a little crooked in spots…

  The sleeping Glam was part of what soon would be the past, but so was this Great Hall. Casca surveyed its dark interior. Armor, shields, spears, axes all the paraphernalia of war lay about among the sleeping warriors remaining. On the walls the flags and pennants of their enemies and friends flew, equally honored, for is man not judged by the quality of his enemies more than by those he calls friends?

  Deep in thought, Casca looked down at the sleeping Glam.

  Come spring, old friend, I think our road will finally end. It's best this way. I have known and cared for you too long to wish to see you die. May you find your last battle and have the Valkyrie carry you to your special Valhalla as you deserve. Die with that oversize meat cleaver in your hand shouting to your heathen gods to carry you off to the hall of Odin and Thor. Sighing deeply, Casca shook his head, the thick cords of his muscles standing out as he tensed, then relaxed. Even you, old friend, have somewhere to go to rest at your trails end. He sighed again. I would even rejoice to share your Valhalla with you. But you must go, and I must wait.

  A scullery maid waited in the corner near the fire despite the smoke and ashes that settled on her hair. Young and strong like most of the Norse women, she nevertheless possessed a shy quality about her. She was watching Casca walking among his drunk and sleeping warriors. Unconsciously she spit on her fingers and wiped some of the smudge away from her face. Beneath auburn hair, tied back, her crystal blue eyes sparkled. Her body was just now becoming aware of its power and promise. When Casca approached, she arose and stood erect. Back straight, she faced her lord.

  "Sir," she said, her voice at first cracking a little in fright at her own audacity, "Sir, may I serve you? Anything you wish from me, my lord?" The last was more of a statement than a question.

  Casca froze for a moment. The gentle tones of this girl-woman reached inside him and touched his memory of another voice that had been both girl and woman.

  He stepped closer to her and stopped where the light of the fire cast soft red shadows over her face. She stood stock still, trying to control the beginnings of a tremor that quivered in her thighs as a virgin heifer does when first the bull begins to close with her. Taking a rag, Casca swabbed it in water and rubbed the soot off the girl's face. He was surprised at the healthy glow that shone through the clean spot. She held her head erect and looked him straight in the eyes.

  "May I serve you, lord?"

  The voice was now that of a complete woman. In just a few seconds she had left girlhood behind. The touch of Casca's hand as he stroked her cheek had made her fully aware of her power.

  Casca spoke softly, as if not to frighten her: "Go and wash, little one. And then, if you still wish to serve me, come to my room. If not…"

  She turned and walked away, her step firm and sure, her hips rolling in a way that only women can manage, inviting and female even when virgin. Casca grinned to himself and thought, They must be born with the instincts of a she-cat.

  A roaring bellow behind Casca startled him, and his hand went for his blade, but then he recognized the raucous laughter that now filled the hall. He turned to face the now-awake Glam.

  "By Thor's great hammer, Mjolnir!" the giant roared joyfully. "It's about time you quit mooning about and took a woman! That little she-bitch has had her eyes on you for weeks. Every time she gets near you her tits tighten up like they were cold," He saw the expression beginning to form on Casca's face, and he raised his hand, palm outward. "Hold, old friend. I mean no disrespect to Lida. I loved her as my own daughter. But she herself would wish you to get over your moaning and start living again."

  Glam swallowed a great draft of stale mead and wiped his gray mustache with his forearm. "Go on, you dago dummy, or she'll beat you to your bed. Go and get her!"

  At that, Casca let his own laughter come through, and the two friends roared together only as those who share secret thoughts can. They laughed, and with that laughter much of Casca's pain left.

  Perhaps the auburn-haired young girl would help even more to leave. The pain might go… but the memories stayed. Casca walked to his rooms past the smoking, flickering torches that lit the way down the gray stone walls. The stones always seemed bleaker in winter, but the tapestries portraying the great heroes and legends of old, the tapestries lining a goodly portion of the walls, provided a little color against the hard stone.

  Entering his rooms, he could see that the fires had been kept going through the night against the chill damp. Food and wine sat on the table with the marble top, the one that had come from Rome itself. He crossed the room to his bed and noticed a sizable lump in it. The girl.

  Glam was right. She did beat me up here. Chuckling under his breath, he stood close to the side of the bed and looked down at her. Her face was rosy and shining from the scrubbing she had just given herself. Her hair was let loose from its braids and lay about her like a cloud. She smelled good. Apparently before she had come up to his room she had taken sweet herbs and rubbed hair and the secret places of her body with them. The old women would have told her to do so.

  Casca smiled down at her. "Well, little one, are you sure?"

  She nodded her head, afraid to trust her voice.

  "So be it." Casca undid his tunic and let his Nordic loose trousers drop, and before she was really sure what happened he was alongside her under the feather-filled covers, his body colder than hers and giving her a shuddering thrill as she felt the hardness of his stomach and legs move against her.

  Gently, Casca put his arm around her and pulled her close. She snuggled her face into the crook of his neck and squeaked in small tones, "Be gentle, master, you are the first." Taking her breast into his calloused and rough hand, Casca gently kissed the nipple, sending delicious quivers racing through her.

  "gentle it shall be," he said softly.

  And gentle it was… until the ending when she begged him to enter her deep and tear her apart with his manhood. The small pain of her torn flesh was as nothing compared to the desire she felt to have him thrust ever deeper in her warmth.

  Old Glam was right.

  The pain eased…

  The weeks until the green of spring would break on them seemed all too short for the work that had to be done. This was to be no ordinary raiding voyage. This was to be a Nordic odyssey. The amount of preparation involved was staggering.

  Had it not been that it was Lord Casca leading them, few would have dared to venture forth on such an expedition, but these young men had been raised on tales of their strange and mysterious lord. He had bounced them on his knees when they were children, and he had taught most of them their first use of weapons. From their earliest memories he had been the same: changed perhaps, but never older. The greatest change was that of the sadness that had come when his lady, the daughter of the brutal Ragnar, had died. The sadness… and the sense of time running on forever…

  As children, they had seen him in his armor, with his famed short sword, leading their fathers and their elder brothers out to do battle with those who dared to challenge the right of their lord to his domain and Hold. Many were the nights when they had listened to old Glam tell of his and Casca's adventures when Glam was young… how they had found their way to an ancient keep after Ragnar had blinded his own daughter because she said she had eyes for no one but Casca… how Casca had taken his terrible revenge on Ragnar… and had brought Lida to this spot. Here he had devoted himself
to Lida, and all who served and loved both him and her made her days good. All were pledged to one great secret: None told the Lady Lida that her man Casca did not age, that while time turned her hair to silver Casca remained as always. He had grown a beard so that his lady could not feel there were no lines in his face from age. All had kept faith with their strange Lord of the Hold. All knew that anyone who broke faith would face his wrath, a great and terrible wrath, for, as Glam had told them, Casca was as one who had been touched by the gods and was not to be taken lightly. But they also served the Lord Casca and his lady as much out of love and affection as they did out of fear and respect for the strength of Casca's arm. To them, they were part of a living legend, privileged to be part of that legend… the legend of Casca the Unchanging.

  This morning Casca shaved.

  Neither he nor anyone else of his people knew that outside in the cold, men were watching the fort…

  THREE

  The men watching Casca's fort that morning so soon after Lida's death might have thought twice about attacking it had they known of the black grief gripping Casca, or had they known of his prowess with blade and axe. Might have thought twice… but perhaps not. They were not ordinary men. -

  They stood in the cold, the icy wind whipping their beards and mustaches. Big men. Outcasts. The thieves and murderers of a dozen different tribes. Their bodies were clad in furs, and they had the feral look of wolves; wolves they resembled so much in temper and taste that no man, woman, or child was safe from them. Their weapons were ready to drink the blood of any and all they could reach. These men-wolves reveled in their bestiality. Now, as they watched the small fort lying below in the valley, they thought it easy pickings. They had watched long, and knew there were no more than forty men in the Hold. The others, as was the custom of this land, were on their farms with their families waiting for the spring thaw to set the fjord free from the ice, for then they could set sail to fish and trade and occasionally raid an enemy land.