meat was half raw. If it hadn't been filled with red blood, there would have been no way he could have swallowed it with his dry throat. But the fat and blood aided its descent into his gut, where his stomach juices attacked the first real bite of food they had seen since his confinement. Ragnar squirmed under the point of the spike digging into the back of his neck, his beard and face pressed firmly into the straw covered floor. One of Ragnar's bodyguards, a man almost as big as Glam with a face as red as his and a full, flame-colored beard and mustache, lunged over the table at Casca to free his master. Moving his axe from Ragnar's neck to face the attacker, Casca swung, bringing the blade down with such force that it split the man's head into two parts and buried itself four inches in the solid oak table.
Roaring, Ragnar jumped up from the floor and scrambled to his feet. Casca, without thinking, let go of the stuck axe and swung the beef bone; he wasn't going to let Ragnar get away. The knobbed knuckle of the bone struck Ragnar across the forehead, reeling him back. Casca switched hands, putting the bone into his right and grabbing Ragnar by his beard, then pulled him onto his knees and came down once more with the bone. This time, the knuckle hit with a crack that could be heard a hundred yards away. Ragnar's forehead split under the blow. He died instantly, faster than Casca would have killed had he had the choice, but no matter; the rotten old bastard was dead. He tossed the bone beside the body and worked the axe out of the table. No one else had moved. He turned to the stunned feasters.
'You women may leave, and take Lida with you.'
Lida began to protest, wanting to know what was happening, but Casca silenced her.
'We will have time later. Obey me now. I still have some work to finish. Now go.'
The women obeyed, glad to be out of the room. The door swung shut behind them. The men made no protest. They might have supported the cruel reign of Ragnar, but they were still men of the north and born to battle. They would stay though death would come in the next few minutes.
Casca uprighted Ragnar's overturned chair and sat down, watching the men he and Glam would soon fight. Stretching over, he took a flagon of mead and drank deeply, swallowing repeatedly, his eyes never leaving the faces of the men he would kill. He took a roast bird and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing some pieces and swallowing some of it whole. Even the bones he ground between his teeth. There were no sounds but those of breathing and his eating. Color was beginning to return to his face, strength flowing fresh to withered limbs. His mouth still hungered, but his shrunken stomach could hold no more. He wiped his fingers on the sleeve of the red-bearded man he had killed, to rid them of grease. He would need dry palms for this night's work.
Glam stood behind him, axe swinging slowly to and fro, waiting. He too had waited long for this night; a few minutes more or less made no difference.
Ragnar's men waited also until Casca had finished his meal. It seemed to take much longer than it actually did, but they were in no rush; eternity they knew was not far away.
Casca raised himself from the table, his eyes never leaving the waiting warriors. He spoke with renewed strength. 'Well, gentlemen, shall we get on with it?'
One by one, the warriors rose and moved around to the front of the table. There had been eleven guests. Now eight stood in a rank waiting. They had drawn their weapons and stood ready.
One elder warrior, with more gray in his beard than the others, looked closely at the face of the man behind the table, and said, 'Aye, it is you, though we were sure you died long ago.' A smile played at his mouth. 'Indeed, you look more like a corpse than old Ragnar does. He, no doubt, did you and the lady a great wrong, and we did nothing to stop him. He was our sworn liege, no matter what he did, and ours was a blood oath. Now, it is up to you. I know that there is something within you that we cannot win against, some force that sustains you when others would die. It has been said the gods have touched you. Perhaps that is so. At any rate, I know that what happens now is in your hands. Whether we live or die is your decision. I know we may not be leaving this room alive, but you will know that you have had a fight against men.'
The old warrior raised his sword in salute and threw his cloak back out of the way of his sword arm. Then he bowed and stepped forward. 'Let me be the first. As the eldest here, I claim that right.'
Casca moved around the table, Glam close to his side. 'Old man, you have proclaimed your guilt through your own lips. Blood oath.' The words dripped with contempt from the Roman's mouth. 'There is no oath so binding that it justifies pain only for another's pleasure. It was your support that permitted the beast to live. You could have stopped him, but it was easier to go along with him, to do nothing, in the name of an oath. Well, hear mine.
'I swear, before all the gods and demons of the world, that not one of you will leave this room alive. That here and now, you will pay your bill. This night, you have been judged, and the sentence is death.'
Outside the Hall door, guards had gathered, ready to attack. They had heard from the women of Ragnar's death at the hand of the Roman. They made no attempt to enter. With Ragnar's death, they owed him nothing. His daughter was now mistress of this house and, on her command, they stood silent, with the others, waiting.
Then came the sounds of battle, swords against axes, cries to the gods and Wotan to give them strength, and, inevitably, the sound of men dying. At first, there were the sounds of single combat only. Then came the cries of multiple voices joined in battle. Then silence, terrible silence that meant it was all over. Still, they waited until the door was opened by Glam, who was torn and cut in a dozen places, his arms and chest covered not only with his own blood, but with that of the men lying in broken profusion inside the Hall. His dripping axe left a trail of thick red spots behind him.
Casca was sitting at the head of the table, one of the dead men's cloaks about him, head between his hands, weary. It was over. The old warrior had been right about one thing. The corpses on the floor were men. At least, they had been. It was done with.
Glam spoke to Lida. 'It is over. Go to your rooms. Now is not the time to talk to him, when he still has the smell of death on him. He would not wish it so. Go, and on the morrow all will be made right.' He swelled himself to his full height and spoke to all gathered. 'Casca, the Walker, is now lord of Helsfjord and master of all that was Ragnar's. He claims this by right of the sword. If any would dispute his claim, let him come forth with sword in hand or leave. Any who remain will serve him, as I do.
'What say you?' The waiting guards raised their spears and axes in salute. 'We serve. Casca is lord of the Hold.'
The Field of Runes was named for the stones carved with the angular strokes and squiggles of the northern folk writings. Only a few could translate their meanings, some of which reached far back into antiquity and were said to be the records of the deeds of great heroes and kings.
Of all present, only Hagdrall could read them with any degree of proficiency. Most had been written when the druids were highly respected throughout the northlands and even into Gaul. Now they were being driven back into a few strongholds. Here, in Scandia, and in Britain, they had their last refuge from the edicts of Rome and were determined to hang on to what remained of their influence as they competed with the other gods for the mind of the people.
Once they had controlled the destinies of kings. Now, in most places, they were little more than figureheads, and, like all priests of dying religions that were losing followers, they didn't like it a damned bit.
Hagdrall had spent years establishing his influence over Ragnar and his people, and felt no desire to return to the lesser position of just being around to bless weddings or say the funeral rites over the dead, though he wouldn't have minded doing those rites over Casca. Nothing had been right since the Roman had screwed up their plans to marry Lida off to Icenius-a vantage point from which the druids might have been able to begin to reestablish themselves in their former position of respect and power. Now, there were only a few each year that came to be initiated into the rites and to perform the mysteries.
He hadn't even been asked to perform the wedding ceremony for Casca and Lida. Hagdrall grumbled to himself beneath his beard, 'That's all right, Roman, I've not finished with you yet.' The wedding proceedings were nearing their conclusion.
The ceremony binding Casca the Roman and Lida of the sightless eyes had come down from the beginnings of the Norse past. At one time when those of the nobility were to wed, there had been much blood shed in sacrifices. In time, due to the unwillingness of the villagers to participate in these activities just to insure the goodwill of the gods and spirits, the practice was discontinued and animals took the place of humans. The ceremony remained about the same. Priests would chant and plead with the spirits, doing the secret things that made them priests, then the animals would be disembowled and the entrails inspected for omens. Naturally the signs were always favorable, as bad news would have reduced the amount of the gifting the priests would have received from the couples' families and friends.
