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As he headed up to her, he thought, I'll have to do something for her before I leave ... to reward her and to make sure that the other women of the Hold don't get on her ass after I'm gone. Women are so much damn meaner than men. I'll give her a dowry. That will guarantee a good husband. Pleased with himself, he continued up to where the girl was already in his bed.

  She, too, was pleased with herself.

  Glam wandered through the keep like a grouchy old walrus. He strongly resembled the same, barking at everyone who got in his way. Nothing pleased him. The young men did not have proper respect for their elders. They had no real values. All they wanted was to party. No sense of responsibility. Discipline, that was what they needed. Casca was too easy on them. I'm going to talk to him about that. If they're going to be warriors, they have to learn to take orders and obey.

  Bursting unannounced into Casca's quarters, he got a quick glimpse of his master well-mounted in the saddle.

  "By Loki's bloodshot one eye, man," Glam exclaimed, "I said a little roll in the hay with a sweet girl would be good for you; I didn't mean for you to make it your life's work! Now roll your over-muscled carcass off that sweet young thing and come on down to the hall. We need to talk."

  Not waiting for an answer, Glam headed for the hall, grumbling to himself that a man Casca's age should know better. But then Casca always was a strange bird ... even bathed two or three times a week. Ah, well, there's no accounting for those the gods have touched.

  Casca joined him shortly. The two sat over a bowl of wine, and Casca took the chiding that Glam gave him, acknowledging that he had been too easy on the young men, but that beginning in the morning he would give them some of that good Roman army discipline and whip them into order in double time. They were good men at heart.

  The next three weeks – for the spring did not come as quickly as Casca had at first anticipated. Casca gave short order drill that would have delighted the heart of Augustus Caesar. He gave the young men their first real taste of discipline, of obedience to orders at all costs. He taught them that orders were more important than friends and that to disobey an order was the greatest shame and dishonor they could know. Each man must depend on the knowledge that his comrades would respond as ordered. None could break and act independently. Such was the great secret of success of the Roman legions, and Casca made sure that every man in his command understood it perfectly. These men already had the ability to handle weapons. Weapons they had been raised with. But the concept of obedience to whomever was in command was something new. Twice Casca relieved men whom he had put in charge of work details when they failed to enforce their authority and let their friends get away with infractions of the rules the lord laid down. Their punishment was to be denied the right to go on the voyage. They would be left behind. These two examples, more than anything else, reinforced the youngsters' readiness to obey.

  By the time the longships were ready to sail the young men were already taking pride in their new discipline and order. And when Casca told them that to disobey on the voyage meant death or abandonment at sea, they understood fully the deadly seriousness of having order. It was an effort, but they managed to constrain their wild Nordic spirits.

  Extra sails were stored aboard the two ships, and salt fish and smoked meat packed in Greek type amphorae were stowed carefully below decks. Fresh water, dried vegetables – all the supplies and equipment needed for a long voyage were laid in. As of late the tone at the keep had become more somber as the reality of leaving took the last feelings of childhood from many of the teen-aged Norsemen.

  In their homes, the night before the sailing, wassail was sung and farewells made and gifts given. The parents knew that some of those sailing would never return, but like all parents they hoped and prayed to their gods that their own sons would be among those who sailed back to the fjord with the stories and spoils of the voyage.

  The time had come.

  In the morning they would sail.

  That night Casca made his farewell to the auburn-haired girl and gave her a large enough dowry to wed a baron if she wished – or to make her independent, if that was what she wanted.

  Glam, though, was something else.

  The old warrior sat in his cups, despondent because he was being left behind. Casca took him by the arm and ran the others out of the hall with the words that they would heed their sleep. Alone with Glam, he said:

  "Glam, old friend, listen to me. We have gone on a long road together, but the time is here for us to part, not because I wish it, but because that is the way of it. I need you here to keep things safe for me until I return. It may be years or even decades before I come back, so it is for you to see that I am not forgotten. Sometime in the future I may need the Hold again, and it is for you to see that my coming back will be welcome. You are my Keeper of the Hold, and when you go to Valhalla, before you go, you must be careful to select one who will honor your charge and keep faith with me. Though I be gone a century or more, he – and each Keeper of the Hold in his turn – must swear to honor my claim and wait for me to return, as I will one day."

  Glam raised his red-rimmed eyes to his lord and friend. Snuffling, he said, "I know that what you say is true. I know that I am too old for the sailing you are going on. But my heart goes with you. You have never told me why you are what you are, and I am not even sure of exactly what that is, but you have been friend and brother to me for over forty years, and now with my age I feel more to you as a father would even though you are much older than I. So, my son of the ages, I will keep your Hold in your name and will see that all who follow me do likewise. Someday you may need this place, and it will be here for you. The only request I have is that you take my son Olaf with you."

  Raising a horn of honeyed mead, the old barbarian cried out with a voice that rang through the hold:

  "Wassail! And farewell, my friend!"

  There was one final moment for Casca.

  In the early hours before the sailing he sat alone beside the fire he and Lida had shared so often. Lida... without her the Hold was an empty shell. Thirty-one years he had lived here with her.

  Casca drank deep from a flagon of honeyed mead, his thoughts flowing through his mind. The fire crackled and sparks leaped forth to die untended on the stones.

  The road has been long and will, I fear, be much longer yet. But I could not stay here. Everywhere are things that remind me of Lida. Perhaps somewhere out there on the sea I will be released either from my life or my memories.

  Memories ...

  They crowd in on me at times. He stared into the flickering fire, made drowsy by the flames, and just before sleep overtook him he set the flagon of mead down on the warm stones. The face of the yellow sage, Shiu Lao Tze, was appearing in the red coals just before his eyes closed. Casca slept.

  In his sleep dreams and memories rushed into his brain one after another, appearing and then quickly vanishing to make way for others. At the beginning there was the Jew on the Cross whom he, Casca Rufio Longinus, had struck with the spear ... and the Jew had condemned him to live until they met again. That life flickered through his brain like the flames in the fire he had just watched ... the slave years in Greece where he had lived in the mines like a blind mole for over fifty years ... the Roman arena and the giant Nubian Jubala ... the detailed scene came back to him of how he had killed the black with his bare hands using the art taught him by the yellow sage from the land of Khitai beyond the Indus River. Casca's own thoughts appeared in his dream: Shiu Lao Tze always tried to teach me more than I could understand of his beliefs and philosophy. He always said that life is a circle that goes on and on, endlessly repeating itself. All that was will be. Perhaps so. It makes as much sense as anything else I have heard.... When he had killed Jubala he had won the wooden sword from the hands of Gaius Nero himself. It had made him a freeman – for a short time. Then a slave again... ship after ship as a galley slave.... Then more years. And Neta, the first woman he had loved. How he had to leave her when he saw the wor
ry in her eyes as her hair turned gray and the wrinkles came yet Casca remained the same, unchanging. The legion again.... The great battle at the walls of Ctesiphon under the Consul Avidius Cassius – and still Casca was denied death....

  The distinct image came to him of how he had walked from the legion that day as the city was burning and the inhabitants being marched off to slave pens in Syria.... More years whipped by ... old Glam standing on the banks of the Rhine, daring him to come out. He had. They had marched along together. Then Lida ... twenty years old and fresh as the spring breeze. She entered his life and heart. Lida was the only one who could not see that he did not change with the years. Casca had loved her to the end, and she was all that had made life bearable. Now she was gone, and he must leave again. The wheel turns....

  The images faded from his brain, and in the welcome blankness his soul knew peace.

  Casca slept.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The longships moved their dragon heads out to the open sea, out beyond the sheltering walls of the fjord, riding up and over the small breakers. The crew chanted in time as they worked the great oars. Not until the ships were in the clear, and the wind blew from landward, would the great red and white striped sails be raised.

  Behind, on the rocky beach, Glam and those who stayed watched the ships reach white water.

  These were ships designed for the deep water. There were no rowers' benches. Instead, there was a wide ramp on either side from which the rowers would work standing up, twenty men to a side, forty oars worked by half of the eighty men assigned, for there were two watches. Each ship carried a complement of one hundred men. Those not now at the oars either stood on the foredeck looking forward toward the immense sea and thinking of the unknown destination toward which the ship was carrying them or looked back at the receding shore and the figures of their families and friends growing ever tinier. It was mostly the younger men who looked back, thinking of the security of homes left behind, momentarily knowing uneasiness and the quick taste of fear; but the fear soon passed as the greater excitement of the sea reached out to claim them.

  Casca stood with the steersman and watched his men as they strove to drive the hundred-and-twenty foot ship forward. The feel of the ocean breeze was clean and fresh in his face. The slapping of the oars set their rhythm against the slapping of the waves. Then they were clear and in the open sea. The entrance to the fjord was behind, and so was their past. Now for the future.

  On Casca's ship the ship master shouted: "Set sails!" and as if on cue, as if an echo, across the water from the other ship came the same cry: "Set sails!"

  The cloth filled with the wind, red and white stripes brave against the sky. The oars were banked and stowed away against a future need. The wind was with them and drove them forward toward their unknown destination somewhere out on the rim of the world. The sea was open, but a few ice floes were still drifting their uncaring way with the currents.

  On the third day they sighted and passed the Orkney Islands to the south of them. To the north was a small group of rocky land masses. Once clear of the Orkneys, they began to bear to the southwest, passing the fabled Isles of the Hebrides. Britain lay unseen in the distance, behind a bank of fog protecting the last of the Druids. Only in Britannia did the Druids hold supreme positions as they had for so many centuries on the mainland when the Celtic tribes had migrated and settled so much of Gaul and Germania.

  Onward, ever onward, the dragon ships sailed. Fishlines were always cast out, and brought a welcome respite from salted and pickled pork and beef. Those not on watch or with no duty to perform spent most of their time in the leather bags they had brought for sleeping. These were well-oiled with the renderings from seal and the long-toothed walrus. Water could only seep in at the fastenings. Every small detail had been accounted for, every possible problem anticipated. But what of the impossible problems? They would be sailing past the regions of known waters out into the unknown where all men knew that monsters slept in the deep and would attack even ships of their size and drag them into the murky depths. They had not prepared for monsters....

  Olaf at twenty, already over two hundred pounds of muscle, proved himself every bit as capable as his father in the handling of men. Several times in the early days of the voyage he had to prove himself to the others. His quick fists and thumping feet settled all arguments rapidly. Casca would allow no use of blades at sea, but he understood the youthful vigor and temper of men and how they must try each other, so he had no objection to this kind of combat. The process gave his men confidence in each other's capabilities, and what anger there might be in a fracas soon passed with the leagues. They all had a greater foe to contend with ... the ocean.

  Two weeks passed, the wind always carrying them farther and farther southwest. The ice was left behind, and they saw no sight of land, only the endless reaches of the sea.

  One by one the dominant Vikings began to make themselves known.

  Commanding the other dragon ship was Vlad the Dark. His constant companion was Holdbod the Berserker, a giant of a man with red, flowing mustaches reaching below his chin and a beard that Poseidon might have envied as it flowed with the sea wind. Holdbod had come to the Hold of Casca when forced to leave his own country because of a blood feud. There in his own country he had killed by himself eleven men, all with large families. With the number of blood relatives thus seeking revenge, Holdbod had considered it prudent to flee; while he did consider himself to be one of the best fighters in the world, he was by no means a fool. In the Hold of Casca he had been accepted with the understanding that if he ever let his terrible temper get the best of him there, Casca would personally tear his arms off and stuff them down his throat. After he had seen Casca in action without the use of weapons, Holdbod believed him and gave him due respect. Holdbod was an excellent man with a blade. Only Vlad came close to him in ability in that respect, and the two seeming opposites perhaps found that between them they made a more complete man, for each had something that the other lacked. Casca was satisfied that the choice of the two to command the other dragon ship was a good one. As for his own ship, the Lida, Olaf was second in command.

  The empty sea stretched before them. For four weeks they saw no sight of land though land there may have been over one of the distant horizons for twice they saw birds they knew nested on shore. But how far these might have flown they had no way of telling.

  One day flowed into another.

  And then the unchanging pattern was abruptly broken.

  On this particular afternoon Casca sat alone, watching the signs of approaching weather. The clouds were growing dark on the horizon. The swells were building. The ship rose to the crest of a wave, then plunged down into the trough. He watched the cycle repeat itself several times. With each rise and plunge of the ship it was obvious the waves were increasing in height. But the ship rode well. Corio had built superbly and both dragon ships responded like well-trained horses to their masters' hands. Up to now the voyage had been uneventful, and the two ships had no difficulty in keeping in formation. By day, of course, there was no problem. They had solved the problem of becoming separated in the night at the very beginning of the voyage by running strong lines between the two ships before dark.

  But this evening Casca could smell the coming storm, and his foresight was shared by several of the crew members who had made their livelihood from the waters of their homelands. The storm struck just before midnight, racing out of the north, still with the feel of the ice from the place where it was born. It drove the ships forward. All hands took cover except for those needed to man the tiller and bail out with leather buckets the sea water that rushed over the decks. Dark clouds rolled in the sky, boiling and ominous in the flashes of lightning. The thunder as much as the wind seemed about to tear the sails apart with the ferocity of its booming reverberations. It was no momentary storm. For three days and three nights nothing was dry aboard ship. Few of the crew had the strength to eat. Nearly all of the supplies we
re spoiled from the water, and what drinking water that was left tasted strongly of sea salt.

  The wind finally abated. The storm had not been one of the killer storms that could tear a vessel apart, but it had been violent enough to damage the two ships. They needed to be beached and careened for fresh caulking and refurbishing. Also, the expedition had – at most – food for another four days only. Then all would be gone.

  The morning after the storm was bright and clear. The wind was gentle as a maiden's whisper. All but the two men kept at each long-oared tiller were sleeping the sleep of the exhausted when the cry of Land! jerked them back into awareness. They turned their salt-encrusted faces out to where the lookouts were pointing. There on the horizon, rising dark from the sea, was a land mass.

  Casca gave the order to take down the sails and ship oars.

  Closer the rocky coast came until pine trees like those they had left at home were clearly visible. But there was no apparent harbor. For a time the two ships searched their way around the coast until Casca pointed out a likely landing at a spot whose smooth beaches indicated calm water. There were forests nearby, so game could probably be found. The dragon ships inched their way in against the tide, bit by bit, the men putting in a backbreaking day of labor on the oars. But finally the job was done and the anchors let down. They had been five weeks at sea without a landfall, but Casca would not let a single man go ashore until weapons were cleaned and ready for action. Blades were shiny, axes sharp, and the bowmen took from waterproof bags made of seal bladders the strings for their deadly bows. Quickly they strung their weapons and refletched such arrows as needed. At last all was to Casca's liking.

  He sent a party to reconnoiter the landing site. The men piled into the coracles of animal hides, made their way to shore, beached the coracles, and then their horned and furred figures disappeared into the forest. Casca thought they were taking their own sweet time, and he was about at the point of doing something about it when they finally reappeared on the sandy beach and waved to the others to come ashore. So another party was launched from each ship, and this time Casca himself went ashore. The unexpected feel of the unmoving land beneath his feet gave him a quick sense of nausea, but the queasiness soon passed when he saw that his men were carrying a good-sized buck deer that one of the bowmen had shot.