on their butts.
Working their way through the drifts, they finally reached the gray walls of Helsfjord. Their lungs were aching from the cold. Ice, frozen on their beards, gave them a look of frozen corpses lately risen from some frigid grave.
Their labored breathing from their exertions spoke of life, though, and the red blotchy patches on their cheeks showed that warm red blood still coursed through their veins. Even now, that slight sign of color was fading back into pale gray patches as they caught their breath and began to breathe more easily.
A head above them peered out over the rampart. The head was covered with the fur of a muskrat turned inside out to put the fur next to the skin. A dirty face with watery eyes and grimy skin spoke. 'Who is it? What do you want at the gates of Ragnar of Helsfjord?'
Glam spoke first, quick to give the man on the rampart no chance to say anything else. 'Two travelers who claim the ancient right of hospitality.'
The man on the wall groaned, knowing he had been outsmarted, which, to be honest about it, had never been particularly hard for anyone to accomplish. His ass would be in trouble now. Again he called down to the two men waiting for the doors of the hold to open and admit them. 'Who are you that cry for the mercy of Ragnar? Are you beggars that you come pleading at his door?'
Casca started to respond angrily, but a touch from Glam's paw restrained him as he whispered in Casca's ear, 'Don't screw things up now. We got him where we want him and he's just trying to get us pissed off enough to say or do something stupid so they can deny us shelter. Remember, just take it easy and we'll have at least three days in which to warm our bones before they can throw us out.'
Glam repeated his request in gentle, well-mannered words. The face above, knowing he had been outwitted, did what all underlings do-he called for his superior. 'You two wait there,' he shouted, and disappeared from sight behind the gray stones of the wall.
A few minutes passed, which Glam and Casca spent stamping their feet and slapping their arms against each other to pound some warmth into their bodies. A few flakes of fresh, clean snow were beginning to fall.
A new voice spoke to them from the wall. The face that went with it was much neater than the other. He repeated the same questions and received the same answers. He scratched his chin and lowered his voice. 'Would you fellows like a little advice?' Not waiting for a response, he continued. 'It would perhaps be better if you didn't claim the rights of hospitality and went on about your business. You might find the weather outside not to be as cold as the reception you'd receive behind these walls. This is a stern household and doesn't make many welcome.'
Casca had made note of the cleanliness of this man's appearance in contrast to the underling they had first spoken to. For, over the years he had come to realize that a man who took care of his appearance and body usually had more brains than those who didn't. Casca wanted to respond to this fellow. 'We still claim the rights, warrior, though we give you thanks for your advice. But we would not willingly spend another night in the open, especially with a new storm brewing on the horizon.'
The watcher on the ramparts glanced behind him at the gathering darkness of rushing clouds, which spoke of a major storm's approach. Looking back down, he said, 'Well, I can't say I really blame you for that, and if you're determined to enter, then lay aside your weapons at the portal before entering and the gate will be opened. Remember, no weapons allowed inside, and that includes your eating knives. I'll meet you at the entrance.'
Casca called before the man could leave. 'And what is your name warrior? I would know so that one day perhaps I will be able to repay you for your courtesy.'
The man looked back down, clear blue eyes set over a strong nose. 'I am Sifrit, son of Olaf Scarbrow.'
Glam and Casca moved to the door, where a small window in the gate opened for them to hand over their weapons. Casca was still reluctant, but Glam assured him that they would be returned when they left, providing they were still alive and able to leave.
Once the handing-over was accomplished, they were admitted entry through a creaking wooden door that showed a dire need of having its hinges, which were of hammered native bronze, oiled.
The man called Sifrit gave them a quick search for any hidden weapons and motioned for them to follow. Casca liked the looks of the man-medium-height with wide shoulders and narrow hips that rode on strong, muscled legs. A sword of fair steel rode in a homemade leather scabbard at his side.
The gate closed behind them.
Chapter Six
Sifrit escorted the weary travelers into the central structure of the hold down a narrow corridor with a strong door at each end and a walkway at the top from which attackers could be ambushed if they got this far into the fort. Casca wrinkled his nose. After weeks in the open air of the forests, the smell of the hall assaulted his nostrils. Ragnar evidently was not one much concerned with hygiene. The straw on the floor of the hallway was at least a year old and the spongy feel of it under his leather sandals said there were several more layers covered up under the latest batch of decaying straw. Sifrit hesitated a moment before showing them through the last door leading to the Great Room, which the feasting hall and common room were called.
Speaking softly Sifrit said, 'Listen, you guys. I don't know anything about you, but I do know that if you give the master any excuse at all to claim you have broken faith so he can call off the laws of hospitality, he will. And neither one of you will see daylight again. I take that back. It's not often that he uses the dungeon below, as he's too cheap to waste even leftovers on someone who doesn't show him a profit. More than likely you'll end up on the crab stakes in the fjord.'
Glam shuddered at the words 'crab stakes.' Casca, confused, asked what Sifrit meant by that, and Glam told him. It was common punishment for crimes ranging from short-changing the chief to treason. They would tie you to a wooden stake at low tide, and when the waters came back in, so did the crabs. They would eat the unfortunate person on the stakes inch by inch. Quite often, all that was left when the waters again receded would be the victim's head. They were always very careful to place the stakes far enough up on the beach so the victim would not be given the mercy of drowning if he lived long enough for the waters to reach that high.
Casca understood the shudder and gave one himself. 'And they thought that being crucified was rough!'
Sifrit continued. 'The only thing that might help you is to claim to be mercenaries and in exchange for hospitality, you'll give him the service of your blades. But watch him. He might put you to the test.'
Casca and Glam both nodded their understanding and followed him into the Great Hall. It may have been great by the standards of the northlands, perhaps, but it was a poor place of ruling by any civilized standards. Ragnar had certainly never seen the Palace of Imperial Nero or even the Asian Despot, Herod.
The floors were even filthier than in the hallway and stank with the sour-sweet odor of decayed meat. The source of the odor was evident from the number of chewed bones on the floor. These locals had the habit of tossing anything they didn't consume onto the floor for the dogs to fight over. The walls were spotted here and there with some lonely trophies-a few spears and leather-covered shields and a couple of tapestries that had seen much better days. But still, they served to give a little color to the otherwise drab and gray surroundings. A roaring fire in a hearth, large enough to roast an entire ox in, gave out the only source of warmth. Narrow, open slits set high in the walls let in some air and also let out some of the smoke from the fire, half of which seemed to find its way into the room and not up the chimney.
The master of Helsfjord was easy enough to spot. He was the biggest and meanest bastard sitting at the oaken table, stuffing his face with roast pork still steaming from the fire. The juices from the half-cooked flesh were dripping down his mouth into his beard. On either side sat a half dozen of his senior warriors; they were all hard- looking men with the scars of battle on them and the look of killers in their eyes.
Ragnar farted and wiped his fingers on his beard and in his gray hair, making sure that he paid special attention to his bald spot, for he knew, as all did, that pig fat was good for growing new hair. The significance of fact that he had been smearing his balding patch with the stuff for fifteen years with no noticeable results never occurred to him.
Ragnar squinted at them, one eye screwed up as if trying to focus. 'Well,' he grunted, 'what do you want here?'
