The Sentinel Page 5

  Casca flexed his muscles under the robe, trying to loosen them. The ache was different this time. It was good to feel the blood in his veins and the movement of muscle under his skin. Without speaking, he rose to dress, leaving off his coat of steel scales. Habit forced him, without being aware of it, to reach for his sword. It was in good condition; rust hadn't eaten away too much at the blade. He was glad of his habit of always oiling his weapons, and here in the heights, it was not as damp, even when it snowed. He placed the sword in its scabbard and lay it back down.

  Ireina watched him from the corner of her eye, wanting to ask him a thousand questions yet knowing that it was better if she waited.

  Casca cleared his throat to find the words. "How long?"

  She smiled at him. "How long what?"

  "How long have been ... ah, have I been asleep?"

  She looked serious, trying to figure out how to give him an answer. "I don't really know, but it has been a long time. My great-grandmother knew of you when she was a child and told of the way you saved our village and how you would come again when danger threatened."

  Casca thought for a time, but his mind was still not working very quickly. "And has danger come again?"

  She laughed, a tinkling sound. "You know that it has, else why would you not still be asleep? That's a silly question. Now eat." She shoved a wooden bowl at him. "You need to get your strength back."

  Casca obeyed her imperious demand and filled his mouth with food. Not until he had finished did he notice that she ate nothing. "Why don't you eat?"

  Ireina flipped her hair back out of her face to lie in a tumbled wave along her back. "I don't need much, and you do." Casca took her sack and looked through it. There was only enough for two or three small meals left. It meant they would have to leave the cave and go down into the valley if they were to have food.

  Sitting cross-legged in front of her, across the fire, he said, "Tell me why you are here and what is going on below us."

  Ireina's face took on a serious expression as she related the events in her village. She didn't say anything about what had happened to her; it was of no importance. She knew that the one who had hurt her would be punished without her saying anything. That was just the way it had to be now that he was awake.

  Casca nodded his shaggy head in understanding. Nothing had changed, nor, he feared, would it ever. But there was something about this girl who trusted him that touched a distant memory of another he had known with hair like hers, and what they had shared. Without answering, he knew that he would do as she wished, but in order to do it, he needed some time to regain his strength, and only food could do that. Food and exercise, neither of which he could get in the cave.

  From the way Ireina looked at him, he suspected that there might be exercise of some sort in the offing, but he didn't want to push it. Besides, he wasn't sure he had the strength for such an undertaking; she looked damned healthy. It would be best if that waited too.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The close association with Ireina in the confines of the cave made it increasingly difficult for Casca to keep his eyes off her breasts and ripe hips. He knew that he was getting better.

  Their food supply was gone. They had no choice but to go down into the valley. In a way he was relieved, for he knew that he wasn't ready to handle a girl such as this. It would be better if they waited before doing the inevitable.

  Casca was still stiff. Muscles cracked and ached with every movement as he stuffed their few possessions into her sack. They would leave as soon as it was fully light. As they stepped out of the cave, he took one look back at what had been his refuge for so many years. He didn't know how many, and Ireina was of no help in the matter. There was a sense of dread as he took the first steps that would bring him into contact with the world below.

  With Ireina trailing, he began the journey back down the path that led to the valley. Ice crunched under his feet as he broke through drifts piled against the wall of mountains by the storms that continuously raged in the upper regions, where ice was eternal and never shallow and not even an eagle flew through the vaulted corridors of wind and snow.

  This was his first real excursion out of the cave, save for a few short trips to stretch out the cramped tendons that gave him a gait similar to that of an ape. The going was slow, but he knew that he was getting better. His legs were straightening out to normal, even if they were still somewhat weak. Ireina kept her face covered to the nose by a rag, leaving only her eyes exposed to the cold winds. By the time they reached the foot of the trail, Casca was covered in sweat under his moldy fur robes. It was too late to continue any farther; soon the dark would be on them.

  They had to find shelter for the night. A small protected patch of ground between several large pines would give them cover.

  He scraped away the surface crust of snow until he reached the soggy bed of pine needles below. Laying one of their robes over them, he cut branches to form a shelter, tying the ends together with strips of leather from her bag. It wasn't much, but it would do. In the morning he'd take a look at the village and then decide what they would have to do. He wished there had been some way he could have just taken her and headed south to the warm lands, but the passes were closed and the only food to be had was in the hands of the raiders. He would have to go there. He was still tired and knew that he wasn't up to anything near his full strength, but there were no other options. The raiders in the village would have to be disposed of. Stomach gurgling from hunger, Casca pulled her closer to him, put his arms around her, and slept uneasily, regretting that which would have to happen in the next days.

  Several times that night he woke to the distant cry of a lone wolf singing in the distance. He knew that the cry was not that of a hunting animal but merely the death song of an old lone wolf. Waking with first light, he pulled himself out of the shelter, cringing when a pack of snow broke free from the branches overhead and slid down his back. He took out of their pack a few twigs of dried wood and used them to start a small fire in the mouth of the lean-to, where he sat slicing his old bearskin into strips and braiding the strands into a rope.

  Ireina woke, eyes heavy with sleep, when the glow of the small fire warmed her face. There was no trace of concern in her features as she smiled pleasantly at her scowling companion. She knew that he would do all that was necessary.

  Casca had to do something, and soon, and so he might as well get on with it. Grumbling for her to stay put until he returned, he took only his spear, sword, and hairy rope as he trudged out over the snow to where he could see several tendrils of smoke rising over the trees.

  It took nearly three hours to cover the two miles to the clearing that in spring would be used by the villagers' cattle for grazing. From there he could see the puny log palisades that were supposed to provide the villagers with protection from the outside world. It had taken longer than he had thought it would to get this close. The day was too bright for him to attempt to cross the open space at this time; he would have to come back again after dark.

  Returning the way he had come, he found Ireina sitting up, fresh as a spring flower; her hair was set in long silver braids around her head. The small brass pot she was stirring with a wooden spoon gave off a tempting aroma. Beside her, he saw the hide of a hare. While he had been scouting, she had been hunting, and with more success. They would eat this night.

  He wanted to take a leg and start eating, but she made him wait till all the meat had boiled off the bones to thicken the broth. She knew that this would give him more strength than eating plain meat.

  Once more their bodies supplied the warmth. He didn't sleep, afraid that if he did, he would wake too late to get into the village before light came. He wondered, too, about the strange girl whose head lay on his arm.

  He wondered why she had such a fixation on him, such a blind belief that he could make all things turn out right. He looked away, up to the clear crisp winter sky, ablaze with pinpoints of light. What would she say if she kn
ew all things about me? The question had no answer, but he was certain of one thing: Sooner or later pain or death came to all who got too close to him.

  He rose while Orion was still high in the sky. He would have six hours before daylight. By then he would have to be finished with whatever he was going to do.

  The return trip was the same as the one he had taken earlier. Getting up to the wall in the dark gave him no problems. The guards were not in evidence, though he was certain they were there. But if they were, as he figured, then they were interested in keeping an eye on the villagers inside the compound and not worried about anyone outside. They knew that it would be several months before the passes were clear enough of ice and snow for anyone to make it through.

  He waited by the north corner of the wall to catch his breath. Straining his ears for any sound on the wall, he counted to a hundred. Hearing nothing, he used his bear rope to lasso one of the ends of the logs over him. Then he quickly climbed up to the top and dropped over with a thump. He slid on a patch of ice, nearly breaking a leg.

  Casca froze where he was, sure that someone must have heard the noise he had made. Nothing.

  Once he had made certain that he hadn't been detected, Casca pulled his rope back up for future use. If there were guards on the walls, the best way to find them was to walk the perimeter till he found them. Moving slowly, bent over so that his body wouldn't show above the ramparts, half walking, half crawling, he slid forward on the slick walkway. At the junction of the north and east walls he caught sight of a dark figure hunched under his robe, sitting on a stool and trying to keep warm, facing the inside of the compound.

  If that was the case, there was probably only one more guard on the walls at the junction of the south and west corners. Lowering himself down to his belly, Casca began to snake forward, one inch at time, never taking his eyes from his quarry. The guard never moved, except to wrap his robes around him a bit more snugly to keep out the chill.

  Casca looked to the sky. He was in luck! The clouds were still covering the face of the winter moon. Slowly he rose to a half crouch, took a firm grip on his spear, and picked his spot: the junction where the neck joins the head. If he hit right, there should be no more noise from the guard than the escaping of air from his lungs. Drawing a deep breath, he set the point of the spear six inches from the guard's neck and then thrust forward, his full weight behind the spear. He drove the blade clear through the guard's neck and out the other side, pinning him to the wall. As he'd expected, there was little sound. The man died quickly and easily, making no fuss about it.

  Now for the other man. He removed the dead man's helmet, a bell-shaped thing of hammered iron, exchanging it for his own. Then he took the already stiffening bloody robe from around the corpse and draped it over his own shoulders. He didn't have to use the same technique to reach the other sentry. This time he just walked up to the man casually, taking his time, keeping the robe where it covered all of his face but the eyes.

  The remaining guard thought nothing of the approach of the familiar figure. It wasn't unusual for them to meet and talk a bit to pass the hours on watch. They knew that there was no real threat from the cattle sleeping in their huts. It would not have been a bad winter at all if Herac had been a bit more reasonable, and had not forced them to take turns standing watch in the cold. But the Greek had been right too many times for any of them to argue with him about it.

  He gave a shiver and farted as he called out to what he thought was his friend. "How much longer till spring do you think it will be, Jorgaus? I have had it with this stinking pigsty and its ugly women and tasteless food. Perhaps Herac will take us south for the next season; then I won't have to endure another of these damned northern winters."

  Casca was close enough to him to see the individual hairs in the man's beard. He grunted non-committally to the guard's statements and then feigned a slip on the icy walkway, lurching forward and bumping into the sentry, who reached out a hand to steady him. Casca let his weight fall full on the man, dragging him down to the walkway with him.

  The sentry started to laugh and then cursed at Jorgaus for being a clumsy ox, when a cold burning suddenly pierced through his abdomen. His screams were muffled by his robe being stuffed into his open mouth. The pain struck twice more, the last cut severing the aorta. He would have spat up a mouthful of blood if his mouth hadn't already been stuffed full with his robe.

  Casca held him down, cursing the racket the dying man's heels made as they drummed on the walkway. Removing the knife, he pulled the body up to where he was sure it wouldn't roll off. Then he walked the perimeter of the compound one more time to make certain that there were no others on the wall whom he might have missed and to get a good look at the layout of the houses and storerooms. Using the ladder to get down to the bottom, he moved swiftly to the longhouse that was normally used for bachelor males. It was the largest structure in the village; it stood to reason that Herac and most of his men would be sleeping there.

  It looked peaceful enough: snow on the thatched roofs, a covering a foot deep over the rest of the grounds, except for the most commonly used paths going from one hut to another. Smoke drifted up easily from chimneys to climb in gray columns to the sky. There was a smaller fenced enclosure near the north wall where the cattle and goats were kept, protected from the worst of the winds. One thing was missing. Dogs! Where were the village dogs? He would need to know that. If the animals started to bark, they could give him away. Not seeing any of them bothered him. He made one more pass around the walls, staying close to the sides. He didn't see or hear anything, neither dogs nor people.

  Using what cover was available, he moved to the longhouse.

  It was the same as any of the others in a hundred other villages. He risked a peek inside, having to bend over to get into the small entrance. Inside, he could see men lying about in robes and furs. Which one might be Herac he didn't know. Doing a fast count, he came up with the number. Twenty! He had taken care of two on the walls, which meant that he was missing a couple. They might be anywhere in the village, or they might be dead. He knew that one of the guards on the wall would have come down to wake the reliefs, and so there was little chance that he could catch another one on the outside.

  First things first. He would need some help. He picked a hut at random and swung open the door. Inside, three figures were huddled together on the community bed, using each other for warmth. Two were women: the man's wife and her mother. At the intrusion, the man started to roll to his feet, thinking that one of the raiders had come by for another hit on his wife. But this time he was going to fight even if they killed him.

  His attempt to rise was halted by a rough hand pushing him back to the bed. The beginnings of a wail from the women were silenced with a harsh, "Shut your damned faces or I'll do it for you!" Hissing at the man he held down, Casca whispered, "I'm not with the bandits. Ireina has brought me to help you, but I need some help too. Are you with me?"

  Molvai, grandson of old Hogar, nodded his head in agreement and then started to stutter when he recognized the features of his guest. It was the warrior from the cave. He was alive. So that was where Ireina had gone when she'd run off. He should have guessed. The girl had always had a soft spot in her head about the warrior, saying that he lived and would come down the mountain one day. His grandfather, too, had said the same thing.

  Casca had to restrain the man to keep him from falling to his face in supplication. Jerking him back up, he said, "Knock that shit off. I don't have time for it. You know which huts have men in them. Get them for me and be quiet about it. Also, I want to know if any of the raiders are sleeping in huts other than the longhouse."

  Molvai told his women to stay put. He and the warrior had things to do this night.

  Once outside in the cold, Molvai started to move into the shadows, where he would be out of sight of the walls.

  Casca spoke slowly. "Don't worry, I've already taken them out. There's no one on the walls but dead men." Shiv
ering, he tried to get Molvai moving a bit faster. "Now get me some men, and hurry. I don't know how much time we have. I'll wait near the longhouse. Bring them to me there, and be quiet about it.''

  Molvai hastened to obey, racing from one hut to another. He would enter, wake the sleeping man, whisper in his ear, and then have to argue a few moments with him about the warrior. There were no weapons among the villagers except for one small knife that was permitted each family for the cutting of meat. All axes and other implements were kept by the raiders in the longhouse.

  After the first three men, Molvai quit trying to explain about the warrior and just told the men that help had come and they were to gather outside.

  Molvai led each man to Casca and then left to gather more, leaving each newcomer to wonder at the legend that had come true. The warrior had come down from his mountain to save them. Casca had difficulty restraining their outbursts of enthusiasm, till at last he felt it was necessary to thump a couple of them gently on the head to enforce silence.

  Once the men of the village were gathered, he made up his mind about their course of action. In the words of the legion, it was always best to keep it simple.

  They had to have some way to keep the men inside the longhouse from getting out. If they did, many of the villagers would die.

  He whispered his orders to the men, sending them off to gather what he needed. The men went to their huts and storerooms. In less than twenty minutes they had returned, each bearing his load. Dry wood, precious oil, even articles of clothing were added to the growing pile. Logs were ripped from the palisade walls and brought to the entrances of the longhouse and placed in front of them, blocking any egress from the structure. Casca urged them to greater speed. The rest of the flammable items were placed evenly along the bottom of the longhouse, filling the area between the ground and the floor set on pilings. Oil was spread, and then basins of coals and fire were brought from a dozen houses. These were set under the wood at each corner to ensure a good even burn. Pitchforks and clubs were in the hands of all the males in case any of the raiders managed to get out of the longhouse. The fires began slowly at first and then grew quickly as the small blazes caught and merged. Smoke began to drift up and around the sides of the building, seeping into the interior. The sounds of coughing soon came from the inside.