by Barry Sadler
Time was slipping away from him, past and future. He began to find it difficult to tell which was the real now. Only once did he go to the grave of Lida at the field of Runes where they were wed and where he had destroyed the Saxon invaders. The spot where he had lain her body was gone. There was no way to tell exactly where the grave was; only the monolithic Rune stone with the writings of the Druids on it assured him that she was close by.
He stood by the Rune stone, the wind whipping his beard, sending small bits of frost to collect in the hairs, then melt under his breath. He saw her again as she was the day they wed. Hair of moonlight set with wild flowers of gold and blue, maidens singing as they shared the moment of joining and he kissed her sightless eyes.
He didn't notice the wetness that ran down his cheeks leaving a path through the grime and smoke until they path lost in his beard to turn into small frozen drops of loneliness. He seldom went near the field after that.
The winter storms began in earnest; gales of ice and snow changed the place into a magic frozen land of crystal palaces and ice orchards. He moved through the Hold, stopping now and then, cocking his head to the side as if someone had asked him something. Then he would snort and move on, making a small noise under his breath.
At times he would find himself sitting on the walls of the fort looking out at the cove which now was frozen over. He could hear the ice cracking under its own pressure as the ice forced against itself, expanding. It was in one of those moments he first heard the wolves in the distance.
He got to where he thought he recognized individual animals from their tones ... the way they held a cry then wavered it on the end, letting the notes drift off to be lost in the cold night skies. If the mood hit him he would join them in their singing, raising his head, ignoring the crust of frost that gathered on him from the bitter sea mist. He would face the moon, imitating the wolves, and laugh in childish glee when one or more would answer him.
That winter wrapped itself about him; he no longer bothered to try and wash or shave off his ragged, hairy face. Even the scar on the side of his face running down to the corner of his mouth was partially lost in the hair and grime. His eyes sunk in, the gray blue turning darker to the shade of pale coal. He cared nothing for the seasons, as winter slowly gave way to the spring. They were all the same to him. Another winter, then one more, until he lost track of them. Each day had a sameness to it that increasingly took his mind further away from reality.
Then came the winter of the freeze that split trees down the center. Even giant oaks ten feet around had their sap crystallize and expand until they burst open.
Casca hunted like an animal. When he saw seals on the ice, he wrapped himself in a fur robe, then would crawl out onto the ice. Twisting and turning he moved closer to them, imitating their movements, until he was close enough to make a cast with his spear. He seldom bothered to cook meat anymore; it took too much effort. And if the meat was fresh, he would sink his teeth into the still steaming carcass and tear off chunks of rich red flesh, half chew it, throw his head back and gulp it down the way bears or wolves do.
His hair had grown long enough to reach the small of his back and his beard hung in matted knots to his chest. His hands turned into claws. The nails, yellow, thick and curving, were talons with which he could tear meat from a kill and not have to use his knife. He had become half man, half beast. All those unfortunate enough to stumble upon him would surely think the creature before him was some kind of monster. And for that reason, no human being was safe in his presence, for Casca's mind was no longer his own.
Seasons turned one to the other. He gradually quit even trying to clean up the area he lived in. The Hold had been well on its way to becoming a cobweb; insect, and rat infested heap when he arrived, and by the end of the second year, that was exactly what it was.
The scraps of his meals lay about on the floors until rats hauled them off to their corners to feed on, until they learned that the strange animal that shared their home wasn't interested in them. Then they would just feed wherever they found food, even at his table while he was there. The more courageous of the pests would leap to the top of the table, give him a look of disdain, and drag a meaty bone off right under his nose.
The kegs of beer and wine Casca left alone, not wanting to drink what little remained of them, for then there would be no more. He just took a small cup once in a while to taste something besides water or bloody meat.
It was spring when company came to stay for a while.
Casca was sitting in his chair in the Great Hall nearly dozing when he heard a scratching sound near him. He sat still as he focused his eyes. A bitch wolf was standing in the open doorway. They watched each other the yellow eyes of the wolf and the shadowed ones of the man. He saw that she was holding her front left paw off the floor, small drops of red dripping from it to the dust. Her sides were swollen, but her flanks were gaunt. She had been hurt and was obviously pregnant. He made no move as the wolf took one tentative step inside, then another and another, until she had crossed the hall and went into the dark space under the stairs that led upstairs to his room.
This was interesting. For the first time in longer than he could remember something had caught his interest. Why had the wolf come in here? Normally they avoided the Hold. True, when winter was at its hardest, some of them did come to the courtyard to take the scraps of his kills. Perhaps that was it. The bitch knew food was here. Probably she had hurt her paw and couldn't keep up with the pack, and from the way her sides heaved, he knew that her time for giving birth was not far off.
Rising from his chair, he took a couple of steps near the stairs, only to be met by a low warning growl. He backed off and went to his table. On it was a haunch of venison, fairly well chewed over, but there were still several large chunks of red meat on it. Picking it up, he tossed it under the stairs in front of the wolf. She made no move for the meat. Shaking his shaggy, dirty head, he went on up the stairs, leaving his new guest to her privacy.
Casca went out on the hunt. He found he was near the marsh following a deer trail. Stopping, he watched the wisps of vapor hover, float, rise and fall. Tendrils of mist reached out, then were whisked away to have their place taken by others.
Leaning up against a large rock, he saw it was the Rune stone and backed away from it. As he did he nearly stumbled when his foot bumped into a head sized stone. He caught his balance, then nearly tripped over another. Looking down he saw the ground he was standing on was a depressed area about ten feet long and four wide. He had found Lida's grave. Slowly, he first knelt then lay down lengthwise on the grave, burying his face in the rich earth. He cried out for her as if his voice could bring her back to him, up from the pit in which she now lay for eternity.
Great wracking sobs tore at him until he could stand no more. Eyes blind, he rose and started to run, not knowing where. His legs had become leaden, not wanting to do his bidding. They were heavy, warm, wet things that pulled at him. He had run into the marsh. Pulling out of the mud pit, he fell down on a grassy hummock, chest heaving, mind torn. Sitting up, he ignored the slime that clung to him. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. He just wanted to be left alone to forget. To get away from the pain of his existence and the terrible loneliness of his soul.
The mists moved in around him, touching him with fingers of damp air. He heard something. Tilting his head, he heard it again. Something familiar reaching out to him. The mists lightened then darkened, one then the other, blinking, turning one way then another, taking forms that meant nothing....yet something...that seemed to call to him from the shadows.
He heard his name ... Casca, it came as a whisper over and over, Casca ...
A face danced in the ground fog, then another. Somehow he knew them all. It came to him that they were the men he had killed. All around him they beckoned, many of them with the wounds he had given them still on their faces.
Jubala, whom he had killed in the arena of Rome, threw his head back and laughed, pointing
at him, then was replaced by Malgak, then Teypeytal, King of the Olmecs. Faces rushed at him one after another, each pushing the preceding one away. Jeering faces filled with dead eyes of hate. Then they were all there.
Dozens of dead faces crowded around him, all pointing with accusing fingers. Goths and Vandals, Huns, Saxons, Persians ... faces he didn't even recognize, but he knew it had been he who had given them their deaths.... All mocked him with their dead eyes and gaping mouths that spoke only in his memory where he couldn't cut them out.
He screamed for them to go away, to leave him alone, but their laughter just increased, building to a crescendo of pain as they called for him to join them in death.
Tears ran down to his beard in rivers. He sobbed out, "You know that I can't. I would if I was able but He won't let me die, blame Him, not me...."
They were gone, silence. Then another voice touched him, one that he had laughed with in the past, one that loved him well.
Glam was there, standing in the mists, a horn of mead in his right hand, his great ax in the other. Throwing back his head, he roared in laughter. "Don't let them get to you, old friend. They're just jealous. If you hadn't done them in then someone else would have. They all needed killing and deserved what happened to them. They are where they belong, each in his own special hell."
Glam drained his horn and threw it over his shoulder. He put a large wispy hand toward Casca. "You have friends waiting for you. Come to me. I have saved a place for you by me in the Great Hall of Valhalla. Come to me, my friend ..."
Casca repeated his earlier plea. "I can't. You know that. I would if it were possible."
Glam nodded his head, another horn appeared in his massive paw. He drained it in one draught, then wiped his walrus mustache with the back of his hand.
"There is another who is also waiting for you. She couldn't come but told me to tell you that she will wait for you. Lida said she will wait ... a thousand years...."
Glam began to fade. His voice a distant echo, he called to Casca, "A thousand years, old friend, a thousand years. Come to us when you can...."
The mists whirled around faster and faster, taking his mind with it in a speeding whirlwind that had no beginning or end. It sucked him into it, drawing his soul out of him into the spirals of twisting vapor.
CHAPTER FIVE
When Casca came to, he was back at the Hold with no memory of how he got there. For the first time since he had returned, he felt lonely. The fort was an empty place, fit only for the dead, or lost memories, and his memory was back, crowding him.
He watched the skies, knowing his time here was growing short. He couldn't stay.
Two weeks later, he stood upon his walls wondering what fate had in store for him next. The wolf had departed that morning with three new cubs; she had become strong, with Casca's help, and had given birth on the fourth day. Casca was almost sorry to see this little family leave; he was beginning to crave companionship for the first time in years.
Suddenly, a shadow in the brush by the base of the walls moved. His eyes clicked to it. It moved again. He dropped back behind one of the archer's slits to see but not be seen. Out of the brush a man staggered, holding his gut, weaving on weakened legs. He was obviously trying to reach the gate.
Casca ran down the stairs to the inner courtyard, then to the gate, which was locked from the inside. He put the side of his face to the thick wood and listened.
After a few moments, he heard the shuffling steps of the man outside. A weak pounding on the door followed by a young voice saying, "I ask for the rights of hospitality." Then a groan, a sliding sound, and silence.
Casca cautiously opened the gate a crack to peer out. His guest was lying face first in the dirt. Casca didn't know why he brought his visitor inside; the last guests here had not fared very well. Perhaps it was that the young man in his arms had claimed the ancient rights ...
He carried the young man into the hall and laid him on a pile of straw. Then he brought water to wash away the crust of grime and blood on his guest's face; under it were the features of a fine looking man of around twenty, fair haired, good cleancut features, who had obviously had the crap beaten out of him. Not only that, but once Casca had removed the boy's hands from his gut, he saw that there was a deep stab wound in his abdomen. He had noticed the rest of the dark stains on the boy's tunic but just thought they were from the beating he had taken. On closer examination, Casca saw there were a number of other lesser cuts.
His guest had been in one hell of a fight, and it looked like he had come out second best. Well, he had seen men beat up before. But it was the stomach which concerned him. If the wound was not too deep, the youngster would have a chance to live. But if the stomach itself were punctured, then the boy would surely die.
He left him there and went out into the fields to find the things he would need. There was no great rush for the boy would either live or die, no matter what he did. While searching, he stopped to drink at a still pool and saw his reflection looking back.
He didn't recognize himself under the beard and hair or recall the last time he had seen his reflection in this same pond. It was a shock to see himself in this manner. He thought out loud, "If the stomach wound doesn't kill the boy, he will probably die of fright when he gets a good look at my face."
He returned to his foraging and returned to the hall where he put what he had gathered into a battered copper pot to boil. Then he set about scraping and hacking the growth of years from his face and head. It was a painful thing, for he had no razor and constantly had to rehone his knife, but still the blade tugged and pulled until his face felt more tender than the fanny of a newborn babe. At last he had most of it off, though there were still a few patches on his cheeks. His hair had been hacked off to a ragged shoulder level. By the time he had finished doing this, his pot was well aboil and the pungent aroma of herbs and wild onions filled the hall.
With a wet rag he wiped away the crust of blood from the youngster's stomach, exposing the cut. He then cleaned the boy's face and wet the youngster's lips. His guest came to, with a frightened look, but was calmed by being informed that he was being shown the rights of hospitality and had nothing to fear.
Casca raised him to a sitting position, his back against the wall, and went for the pot. Carrying it over to the pallet, he set it down and dug a wooden spoon out of the straw. With this he fed the boy his mixture of onions and herbs from a cup. Then he put his head down to the wound, pulled the edges apart and sniffed at the cut for a moment, then repeated the process again, making the youngster eat still more of the pungent mixture.
Again he pulled at the cut, opening it a bit more, and put his nose down to sniff. Satisfied, he wiped off the cut again, sat back on his heels, and spoke to the boy who was looking at him as if he were mad.
Casca smiled so as not to frighten him too much. "No, I am not insane and I think you will live. If the blade had penetrated your stomach, I would have been able to smell the onions and herbs at the wound. There was no smell; therefore, you have a good chance to grow a full beard." The boy started to speak but Casca stopped him.
"There will be time for talk later; first I have to take care of your wound." Casca gathered some fresh cobwebs, of which there were plenty in the Hold, placed them around the cut after washing it again, then bandaged it as best he could with some of the cleaner strips of cloth available.
After finishing his medications, he told the boy, "Now you can talk, but there is no need if you do not wish to. You are welcome here."
"I am Rugisch," the boy began, "son of Torgau, sent to take the words for the tribes to send their leaders to a great gathering to form an alliance against the Huns."
Casca nodded in understanding. He always knew the day would come when the Huns would move farther west. The fact that they had come far enough that tribes from the North Sea regions were being asked to give aid surprised him.
Rugisch continued with his tale, "I was on my way to meet with the tribes west
of the Danube when I lost my way. After many days of wandering, T was set upon by four men not too distant from this place. I killed one but was hit in the gut before I could make my escape. I have ridden one whole night and part of this day. My horse died under me this morning, just before I saw the walls of your fort."
Rugisch looked about the hall at the ruins and wreckage. "Are you the only one here, good sir?"
Casca asserted that it was so. Feeling no need to go into any extended explanations, he just said simply, "I found this place the way it is now and have spent some time here, for I had no need to go elsewhere and the isolation suited me well enough. That's all there is to my being here."
Rugisch accepted his host's explanation. Of course he had no other options if he wanted to keep breathing.
It was good for Casca having this young man there to take care of. It did much to return him fully to himself and the dreams had finally stopped coming to him. He was returning to reality though for a time he still felt as if he had been spiritually purged and drained.
He had been right about the wound it stayed fresh with no sign of rot. Rugisch was up and moving about in two days, though slowly at first. But by the week's end, he had regained most of his strength and was ready to go on with his mission.
He spent some time trying to get Casca to go with him. Between the two of them, they would have a better chance of reaching all the tribes of the Rhine and Gaul. There was no longer any reason for Casca to remain in the Hold, so he agreed but said they would have to wait a few more days. He didn't want the wound to tear open and have to carry Rugisch a hundred or more miles.