Perhaps Toltec. Or even Maya.'
Casca smiled, an odd, tolerant Goldman would have swom ironic twist to his lips… as though he knew a secret the doctor did not.
'No, Doctor, that is not where the mask is from. It's from the city of Teotihuacan in the Valley of Mexico hundreds of years before the Toltecs. There, when the shamans sacrificed special victims on the most holy of days, a mask was made in the likeness of the victim's face, and the victims would wear these masks when they were brought up to the altar on the pyramid and had their hearts cut out with flint or obsidian daggers. The mask was then taken and placed in a shrine along with all the others that were worn on similar occasions. Actually, only seven were ever made, but they were held as holy objects something like the relics of the saints that the Europeans worshipped and thought had mystic powers.' Casca's smile tightened, became even more ironic. 'But, look closer at the mask, Doctor. Look closer. What do you see?'
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
