never endure the idea of years of confinement in this one dark silent cell without going mad. It was worse than when he had been a slave in the mines of Greece. At least there he had work. It was something to do besides sit and watch the passing of light to dark from the single aperture cut in the wall, the only access to fresh air and mist from the fjord. It was too narrow for him to climb through and too high to reach. He lay there for days, watching the change from thin light to blackest dark, one cycle after another. He learned to turn his mind back on itself. To take a thought, isolate it, turn it around, and look at it from a thousand angles.
His beard grew, as did his nails. The beard, he did nothing about. At least it gave him some covering. His nails he chewed off and ate. Never was a word spoken to him. In obedience to Ragnar's orders, there were no visitors allowed. Not once did he even hear anyone pass by his cell. He knew they believed him dead by now-long dead, and no more than a shriveled husk lying withered in some corner, falling apart one joint at a time. Increasingly, he turned in on himself. Several times it was as if his soul had left his body and would float above the floor. He could look down, out of the spirit's eyes, and see himself in startling clarity. He saw filthy matted hair and beard, and ribs sticking out from the chest as if they were embarrassed to be of this body and wanted to find a new home.
He wished now he had listened to the words of Shiu, the yellow sage from far Khitai, a little more closely. The yellow man would have had no problem dealing with the isolation. He knew how to use his inner consciousness to live inside himself. He'd often said that that was all one really had to begin with and all that one would have to end this plane of existence with. The circle was always complete. One had merely to accept the idea that the mind was all. Time and the body were nothing. Desire was the single most item which caused all of man's grief and pain: the desire for wealth or power; or to have a horse, or to eat better food. Once man had rid himself of all physical desire, then he would find peace and be able to develop the only thing of true value… the mind. Man's only true purpose for existence was to think; for in the mind were found the answers to all questions and time was meaningless. If in one's life a man can but find one truth, and pass it on to those who come after him, he has done well.
But Casca was no philosopher, and try as he might to find the peaceful state of mind that Shiu counseled, it was hate that sustained him. The desire to have Ragnar's throat between his fingers was food-for his soul; and the hope of vengeance satisfied him more than a handful of grub could ever do.
The only sounds he had ever heard were those faint trickles that crept through the aperture, distant and far. He had never made a sound. Not a word had come from his lips in two years, for he had a sense that told him it had been about that long. The corridor, connecting his cell to the rest of the dungeon, was similarly as quiet. He rested on the floor, his head lying on his forearm, facedown. His body was only half the weight it had been before his confinement, and most of that was from his bones. The elbows, knees, and wrists were swollen to twice their normal size, but it was only the shrinkage of the tissue around them that made them appear so large and deformed. His cheeks were drawn into the sides of his face, eyes sunken into deep hollows, hair hanging to his shoulders in dirty clotted Medusa tendrils, matted and held together from the two years of accumulated filth and body grime.
But he knew he would not die, and for once that pleased him. He would survive. He didn't understand or even care about the mechanics of his survival or how his body made the most of every atom of nourishment he consumed. He hadn't had a bowel movement since he had come there, A small blessing-at least he didn't have to add his own waste to the stink already present.
One thing he hadn't lost was all of his strength. What was left of him was twisted, knotted sinew and stringy muscle tissue. Most of every waking moment he exercised to keep away the weakness that would come if he merely stood idle, waiting. He knew he would one day have need for every ounce of strength he could muster.
The creaking of rusty hinges, followed by the thump of a door closing, made him jerk his head up from his arm. Rising, he stood beside the door. He waited, holding his breath, his heart pounding in his chest. Was this the day? Were they going to open the cell? Gruff voices, amused, came to him.
Two warriors were laughing at the sound of someone's misery. He could hear the sound of a man being dragged down the stone corridor. He almost bit through his lower lip in anticipation. They must open this cell. They had others, but this must be the one. If they passed by this time, when would he have another chance? It might not come again for years. They were near. It sounded like they were going to pass him by. He ran a dry tongue over his lips and gave a slow, soft whistle, once, then again. On the other side of the door, he could hear that the dragging sounds had stopped. Good, they were listening. He whistled again, slightly louder-just a strange, whispering trill.
The men on the other side cocked their ears at the sound. There were no prisoners in this corridor, unless someone had been moved without their knowledge, and that was unlikely.
One guard said to the other, 'Isn't this the cell where Ragnar put the Roman?'
His associate responded in the affirmative. 'Aye, but that was two or more years ago, and as you well know he was to starve. There has been no one permitted in the area since then. It must be something else. Maybe a bird flew in through the air hole.' They started to move off again.
Panic seized his mind. 'No, they can't.' Casca gave a low grunt, the kind a rooting hog might make. The sounds of movement stopped again.
One spoke to the other. 'That was damned sure no bird. We'd better check it out.'
The other hesitated. 'I don't know. Ragnar said that cell wasn't to be opened.'
His friend laughed. 'What are you worried about? There's nothing in there but the bones of a man long dead.'
Footsteps again, nearer, then stopping. There was a grunt, as the man outside strained at the locked bar of the cell. It had been so long since it had been moved that the wood had swollen shut. Casca closed his eyes. Please, open. He heard a sliding sound, and the exhaling of the man's breath, straining to force the bar back. It took an eternity, longer than the years he had spent there, for the door to creakingly and laboriously swing open. One guard entered, his axe held low in front of him, although he wasn't really expecting any trouble. He was only being cautious and curious about the sounds that had come from inside the cell, which was supposedly unoccupied. Bony fingers wrapped around his throat, and thick fingernails dug in deep and squeezed until the cartilage crumpled. The man's fingers loosened their grip on his axe. The weapon fell with a dull thud onto the straw-matted floor, and still the squeezing continued until the world ended for the man in a burst of sparkling lights, then darkness. Casca let his first victim down and picked up the axe.
The dead man's companion called to him from where he was still holding the ropes of their prisoner near the next cell. 'What is it? What did you find?'
A fearful apparition stepped out to answer his question. A terrifying, twisted, muscled skeleton of a man stepped forth, swinging an axe. The blade struck once at the collarbone and sunk midway into his chest, splitting him open. The last thing he felt was a foot on his chest as the blade was pulled out. Casca stood, the dripping axe in his hand. Covered with a crust of filth and dirt, his eyes wild, he raised the axe above his head and screamed. The new prisoner fainted.
Casca screamed again. The years of hate and frustration burst forth in a cry he couldn't stop… 'Lida!'
In the Great Hall above, it was feast day-a day to celebrate the coming of the summer solstice under the auspices of a druid priest. For a moment, several of the guests stopped their drinking. What was it that they heard coining to them faintly above the clamor of the revelers? Probably nothing. But still, for that moment it left them chilled. Then they returned to the business at hand, drinking and feasting in honor of their host.
Ragnar sat at the center of the table. He had heard nothing. As was his pleasure, his daughter sat beside him to play hostess, with her sightless gaze resting upon nothing. For her, the world was as dead as her eyes, and she cared not what she did.
Another had heard the sound and felt not a shiver of fear, but one of anticipation. Glam stood near the corridor leading to the Hall. He moved to the guarded, bolted door in the feasting room that led to the dungeon below. As always, there were two armed men standing there. The door could only be opened from the outside. Several times he had tried to figure a way to get to the dungeon below, but there were always too many sentries on duty to insure any chance of success. And the men at the door weren't the only ones so employed; there were others below them. He had obeyed Casca's last words and waited, but now the waiting was about to end. The faint cry of Lida's name, reaching through the din of the feasting, told him Casca was coming and he must make ready to help him. Glam smiled a death's-head leer at old Ragnar's back and loosened the thongs holding his great axe to his side. Soon, you swine. Casca is coming, he thought. Glam moved closer to the guarded doorway, smiling at the
