'What did you say?'
Lida repeated her words. 'I have eyes for none but Casca.'
Ragnar thrust the burning torch straight into her face. With his other hand, he held her steady as she screamed under the flames. Ragnar laughed an insane cackle. 'Then by all the gods, you will have your wish and have no eyes.' He released her to fall on the floor in a faint. The smell of burnt hair and scorched flesh floated through the Hall.
Casca howled and tried to lunge forward, only to be beaten unconscious by the clubs of his guards.
The guests were silent and slowly began to leave, until only Ragnar sat at his table, breathing heavily, eyes red-rimmed, and mad, cursing to himself as he had done when he'd smashed the brains out of Lida's mother.
Even Hagdrall left. There was no dealing with Ragnar when he was like this. But the brute had screwed up his deal with the druids of Britannia. The prince would not take a compromised woman, especially a blind one.
Lida's housemaids carried her to her room and put warm poultices of herbs and saltwater on her burns to help heal the blisters on her face. These would fade with time, but when she opened her eyes, they would be only clear milky orbs looking out at nothing. She was blind and would be until the day she died.
Casca came to, his head feeling as if it were trying to burst from the inside out. He tried to move his hands, but couldn't. Slowly, the realization of his predicament came to him as the smell of the sea hit his nostrils. He was chained to a tidal stake. He was completely alone, just him and the waters a few feet away. The tide was coming in and with it would come the flesh-eating crabs with pincers and their hungry, constantly opening-and-closing mouths.
Thoughts of Lida plagued him. Those and his hatred for Ragnar were of more concern to him than the approaching waters that now tickled the toes of his feet and rushed back, only to come again, each time a little higher.
He wondered when the crabs would come and how long it would take for them to tear him apart, one tiny nip at a time. Even more important was, would he die if they did dismantle him?
How powerful was the curse of life put on him by the crucified Jew? He had received wounds that should have killed but yet, he lived. When he'd tried to commit suicide outside Ctesiphon, death had again been denied him. But what would happen now?
There was nothing he could do but wait. He knew the answer to his questions would not be long in coming. The water had reached his waist and he felt the small things of the sea slithering and crawling over his feet and legs. The water was reaching his chest and waves were lapping up to touch his chin. The worst was the cold, which numbed the body and brain.
Then he felt the first tentative nips at his flesh. The crabs were there. He felt a large one crawl over his bare feet then another using his claws to creep up his thigh to his waist. One sting, then another, and another. He knew he was bleeding into the water, tiny rivers of blood from a dozen pincer cuts. He waited for the rest of the crabs to come in, for they would come in dozens and even hundreds to pick his bones clean. The waiting was the worst part, but the crabs did finally come. Like herds of lice they swarmed over his body, each taking one tiny bite and no more.
And then, as blood stained more of the water surrounding him, the crabs began to leave, as did the small fish that had come with them to claim what scraps they could. They went back to their holes in the crevices and rocks of the fjord. There was something about the man on the stake that wasn't to their liking. The fish kept their distance, too. The scent of his blood served as a shield to ward off even a cruising shark, who opened his gapped, thousand-fanged mouth, took one taste of the blood, and fled back to deep water. This one was not to be touched.
The cold and fatigue took him, and his head nodded down as darkness wrapped itself about him.
When the tide receded, a curious warrior from the hold came to inspect the remains, took one look and yelling, ran back to the fort. Soon, others came to see if what the warrior had said was true. A crowd gathered on the stones of the beach and waited. They did not know why. They only knew that something had happened that had never occurred before. The murmurs brought Ragnar and the druid to the scene.
Casca's body was covered with hundreds of tiny bites, but that was all. No bones showed through his rib cage. The Roman survived.
The druid made signs to ward off evil and Ragnar chewed his beard in confusion. Making up his mind, Ragnar called to a couple of his spearmen. 'If the crabs won't have him then you finish him off. Use him for target practice.'
But at this, Hagdrall had to interfere. In his own way, he believed in magic and spirits and the curses that could come if the laws were broken. Raising his staff, he stopped the spearmen. 'No! Ragnar. The law says that any who survive the tide stakes may not be killed.'
Ragnar thought about the situation for a few moments, then made up his mind. 'All right, if that's the way of it, then I won't do him any harm at all.' He laughed a nasty sound. 'By Wotan, I won't lay a hand on him.' Motioning to his spearmen, he said, 'Take him to the dungeons and leave him there. No one is to ever enter his cell and he is not to be given food or drink. If I can't kill him then I'll just let him do it for me. After all, I can't be held responsible if he starves to death, now can I?'
Casca heard his sentence, and tried to speak, but dropped back off into the darkness.
Chapter Eight
Consciousness slowly crept back to him. The throbbing in his head threatened to keep the darkness with him. Filth from the straw-covered stone floor filled his mouth with a bitter taste. He rose to all fours, shaking his head to clear it of the cobwebs trying to drag him down.
Slowly, painfully, he forced his eyes open, only to see black. The dungeon was as dark as his thoughts. He dragged himself to the side of the wall, feeling his way with blind hands. Slowly, bitterly, full awareness came to him.
Remembrance..!
Rising, he stood in the dark and screamed, 'Lida… ' Even from the depths of the underground chambers, his cry could be heard faintly in the halls above: 'Lida… ' Battle-toughened veterans shivered and made the two-finger sign to ward off evil spirits.
After a time, he grew used to the darkness. There was a thin blue-tinged glow in the cell where a minute amount of light came in from a single narrow slit, high on the wall. There was nothing in the cell-no cot or pallet, no blankets or anything to cover his nakedness with. There was only the filth encrusted straw, which he knew from the sour odor of urine hadn't been changed in years. Going through the straw, he found a single wooden bowl; though from what Ragnar had said, he would never have food in it.
He was to starve. Hate settled on him, forcing the pain from his mind, taking him over with one thought and goal. One day he would come out of this crypt. Those above would think him dead soon and, though it might be years, he would be silent. There would be no sound from him to tell Ragnar he lived; and one day that door would open and when it did, the Hall above would run red with rivers of blood. He would take his vengeance then.
He was used to going days without food, but the lack of water was unbearable. There was nothing, not even a drop of moisture to dampen his lips with. It was three days before he discovered the dung beetles living beneath the decaying layers of packed straw on the floor. Each beetle had a tiny bit of moisture in its body.
It was a hunt. Casca would lie on his belly, fingers groping through the refuse, until he would feel the cool, hard shell of one of the insects. At first, he would pop them into his mouth as quickly as he found them, but he found later it was more satisfying to wait until he had a handful. Then he could taste the moisture. After chewing slowly, he would swallow them, shells and all, anything to fill the void in his gut.
Days became weeks and the weeks changed into seasons, and still Casca endured. He cursed himself for taking so long to discover that there was moisture to be had on the stone walls of his cell. There lingered cool beads that collected on the stones when the mist came in from the sea.
During the winter, he found warmth by crawling under the layers of impacted straw and lay there for days, forgetting even to lick the dew from the walls or eat his ration of beetles. Nearly comatose, he rested in a form not dissimilar from the hibernating animals of the forests. In the first months, he had several times thought he could
