into the wicker. A half dozen of Casca's men fell to the ground mortally wounded or dead because they hadn't gotten their shields up fast enough. But the brunt of the axe attack was absorbed by the wicker shields.
Immediately behind the throwers came the rest of the Saxons. By the sheer force of their numbers, they forced their brothers in the front into the trap. When they hit the hidden pits then eyes went wide, as the ground that had looked so solid a moment before broke beneath their feet and sharpened stakes penetrated their legs and stomachs. A hundred Saxons died in that first rush onto the trench. Those behind didn't hesitate a moment. They used the bodies of their dead comrades as bridges to cross the gap, only to meet the large shield of wicker that was forming a solid wall forcing them back into the pits. The second ranks' spears darted and stabbed. The young warriors of the center were doing their job. For a moment the Saxon line wavered.
Casca knew the signs. He had seen them often enough when fighting with the Seventh Legion on the other side of the Rhine. Now was the moment. He called to his trumpeters again. Two short blasts were sounded over the din of the battle. The wings of the left and right flanks, those with the older, more experienced warriors under the leadership of Glam and Sifrit, rushed forth using the wicker shields as footpaths over the sharpened stakes. They rushed, axes swinging, the thirst for revenge driving them on. Men fell by the dozens, disemboweled and dying, as the men of the hold paid back a blood debt. The Saxon flanks were crushed and Glam's warriors joined with those of Sifrit in closing the pocket.
The Saxons turned to flee, only to find every possible way out blocked by grim-faced men with spears and axes. The numbers were about equal now, but the spirit of the Saxons was diminished by the unexpected turn of events. Instead of an easy victory over their outnumbered opponents, they had lost half their men in ten minutes. They huddled together, back to back, weapons facing out in a circle inside the pocket. They had nowhere to go. Several threw themselves at the surrounding men only to find their death a little sooner than the others would.
Casca stepped across the trench, using the bodies of dead Saxons instead of the wicker bridges. Hrolthar watched him. Casca signaled again, and the trumpets blew three blasts. His men stopped fighting and pulled back a little. The field was silent again except for the labored breathing of the fighters and the groans of the dying or wounded.
Casca called to the Saxon chieftain, 'Are you ready to face me now, baby killer?' Hrolthar waved his axe at the Roman. 'You wanted me to come to you earlier. Now if you want me, come to us. We will take many of you with us before this day's bloody work is done.'
Casca knew he spoke the truth. When men are surrounded with no way out and no hope for surrender, they have only one choice-to fight to the death and take as many with them as they can. Casca called out to Glam, 'Show them the way out.'
Glam obeyed and his men stepped back, leaving a corridor to the tree line. It was a corridor lined with steel, but still it represented the only choice other than certain death. Casca pointed. 'There is your way out.' He knew many would probably escape, but that was better than having too many of his own killed just for revenge. Besides, the survivors would tell their tale and in the telling, the story would grow. Then perhaps fewer would dare to attack the Roman and his men in the future.
'Saxons, there is your way home. Take it or die where you stand.' He raised his short sword above his head and cried out, 'Attack!' His young men dropped their shields of wicker and drew swords and axes. They closed in on the Saxons; only the way out was uncontested. The Saxons made their decision and rushed for the corridor, stomping each other as many fell to the ground in their haste to get away. Glam's and Sifrit's men did bloody duty, with little loss to themselves as they cut down any that came too close to the wall of steel.
Casca lunged forward, grabbed Hrolthar's shoulder, and swung him around, making a sweep with his short sword. It sliced through Hrolthar's right arm at the wrist, dropping the hand still holding the axe to the ground. Hrolthar screamed and before Casca could cover his eyes, Hrolthar used the fountain of Tyr to blind him. For a moment the red, spouting arterial blood from the severed wrist covered Casca's eyes. He reeled back and by the time he had wiped them clear, Hrolthar was gone, holding his wrist tightly with the other hand. He had made his way through the corridor to the tree line and escaped into the woods.
But most of Hrolthar's men had no such degree of fortune and lay gape-mouthed with vacant eyes, waiting for the ravens to pick them clean. In the end, only fifty-four Saxons returned to their homes. The rest were now no more than fertilizer for the field of Runes. No prisoners were taken. All wounded Saxons were put to the sword. It was a hard life and compassion was not a survival factor in these lands…
Casca only regretted that he wasn't able to finish off Hrolthar. But one thing was for certain: the bastard would never use an axe with that hand again. He kicked the severed limb into the ditch to lie there with the dead Saxons until the rest of the casualties had been thrown into the pits and the trenches covered over.
Casca led his men back to the hold carrying with them the spoils of their victory. There were shields, weapons, some bracelets of hammered copper and silver, and a few scraps of bloody armor.
They also returned with their own dead. Carrying them on shields, held high on their shoulders, they returned their own fallen heroes to their families.
Lida stood on the ramparts facing inland, sightless eyes staring in the direction from which she knew they must come. Her ears, grown more sensitive since her blindness, had heard the thin distant sounds of metal striking metal before the waiting guards caught sight of anything with eyes. She called out below to the courtyard. 'He comes! Casca is returning!' Somehow she knew that it would be him and not the Saxons that would come to Helsfjord this day.
Chapter Fourteen
The years that followed the battle of the field of Runes was, for the most part, quiet. There were a few more skirmishes with wandering bands of raiders, but the word went far that the pickings at Helsfjord were not worth the trouble it would take to get them.
Casca's young men grew into full-fledged warriors, and they took to the new discipline that he introduced, though not to the degree that the more civilized regions of the world had submitted to regimentation. But they had taken to it still more than any others in their parts. And it served them in good stead when, time and again where they were less in number, they'd won because of the basic obedience they'd given to Casca's orders. The wild blood for battle was still in their breasts, but the history of victory they had achieved made it plain to the most unruly that Casca was right in what he wanted from them, even if it went against their grain. They would obey.
They knew now that there was something strange about their foreign lord, and Glam had explained it in terms they could understand. Casca was one touched by the gods to walk the earth, and by that name, he became known throughout the northlands as 'Casca the Walker.' They had also made one blood oath to him. They knew that to disobey or break their oath would bring his full anger upon them, and not even the ones who had the touch of berserker about them wanted to face him in his full wrath.
That oath, sworn on the heads of their children, was to never reveal to the Lady Lida that Casca did not age, that he was as he would always be. And this oath was kept by all-not only out of fear of him but out of love for the blind 'lady of the hold.' They had in their hearts a noble sensitivity that loved a good tale and legend and knew that they were participating in one of the moments of magic the bards sang of. Some of their songs would be of Casca and Lida. They were the hold's secret, and jealously guarded against outsiders. As their lord protected them, so they would die to keep pain away from his lady and kill any who attempted to speak to her of Casca's condition and curse. And indeed, several strangers that heard vague stories of the strange master of Helsfjord found their tongues silenced forever when they visited the domain of 'the walker' and let their tongues wag too much in the taverns.
As for Casca, his was the best life he had ever known. Sometimes he could forget for weeks what he was and just be a doting husband. He enjoyed the hours he could spend with Lida, walking with her in the spring through the fields and valleys while being her eyes. Telling all that he saw was a pleasure he didn't willingly share. And she taught him the meaning of strong gentleness. Their only sorrow was that there were no children. Casca wasn't sure, but perhaps that was best. Though Lida wanted his child, he was sure it would never happen. He often wondered if a child of his would inherit his sickness. That was too great a burden to put on anyone.
But Lida never complained. There were the children of the hold for her to care for, and they knew that if they needed anything they were always welcome at the home of Lida. Indeed, it was not uncommon on the nights when
