Casca laughed, the tension of the previous night broken by the good-naturedness of Glam. "What women, you great hirsute mongrel?"
Glam shrugged. "How should I know? But somewhere there are always women; we just have to find them, that's all."
The trees closed around them, and once more the Rhine was left behind them.
Chapter Five
The two men stood, dark figures in stark contrast to the blinding white of the snow-covered fields and valleys below. From their aerie in the heights, overlooking the sheltered valley, they watched with wary eyes.
The ice wind from the sea, racing in from the frozen waters to the far north, whipped at their fur robes and leggings. Both men wore beards and mustaches. What skin was exposed was darkened from the months of exposure to the elements. Wisps of frozen breath rose from their mouths and nostrils, small steaming clouds of vapor that rapidly disappeared in the gusting winds of the Nordic winter. On the horizon, dark clouds were gathering to once again assault the rocky crags and valleys with new waves of snow and ice.
Casca pointed to the stone buildings below, his words punctuated by renewed bursts of frozen breath. "Do we go down?"
His companion grunted, as was his habit, in the affirmative. "Aye, we don't have much choice in the matter. There's nothing behind us but that which we have left-endless woods and starvation. And I'm hungry enough now to consider boiling down my own furs for supper."
The thought of Glam trying to digest his own louse and flea-infested robes brought the beginning of a smile to him, but it passed as rapidly as it had come. "I don't know. From what I've heard, the old bastard that rules here at Helsfjord is not the most gracious of hosts."
Glam nodded. "Aye, but still one thing he has to do is honor the laws of hospitality. Anyone from outside his lands who claims shelter before he can kill or declare them enemies must be given three days of shelter before he has to leave. In that time, the master of the hold may not give him injury without just cause."
Casca responded, "And just what might those below consider just cause?"
Glam reflected a moment. "Almost anything that would remotely resemble an affront to his honor. If we go down there, we'll have to walk slowly and speak carefully. These weapons of ours, made of good steel, are wealth enough for Ragnar to have us killed or fed to the crabs at the tide stakes."
Casca eyed the walls of the hold, built with native stones quarried from the sides of the surrounding fjord. Smoke rose from several fires and chimneys and in his mind, even from this distance, he thought he could smell the odors of roasting meat. They had had none in the last four days since they had killed and eaten their last horse, a bad-tempered semi swaybacked beast that tried more often than not to take a plug out of Casca when he came too close. Casca enjoyed the thought that he had at least had the last bite where the foul-minded beast was concerned. It had been tough and stringy, with too little fat on it to give a man strength. True, the soup they had made from the marrowbones had been satisfying, but with Glam at the table, there wouldn't have been much left after one or two feedings even if they had been eating an elephant.
Glam put his long, double-bladed, two-handed sword back into its sling on his back and hitched the battle-axe, hanging from a thong at his waist, a little higher.
"Well then, if it's settled, my little Dago titmouse, we might as well get our asses down there and see what kind of greeting we'll get at the gate."
Casca shifted his pack up on his shoulders a little higher, bitching at the weight, and Glam responded with a lack of understanding as to why Casca hadn't long since sold the contents. He could see no good reason for the Roman to hold onto the legionnaires breastplate of boiled leather with heavy iron rings sewn to it. True, it had come in handy a time or two when they had pawned it for enough copper or silver to see them through until they could get their hands on some money or find a job. But the Roman always went back for it. Why?
Casca said nothing about his reasons, though he sometimes questioned himself about his holding onto the armor. Perhaps it gave him a sense of identity that he needed from time to time. The legion, for all its faults, had been the only home he had ever known. It was where he had grown into manhood, those years when his personality had been formed. No matter how far away from the legion he might run or for how many years or even centuries, it was the same for him as for other men who were raised in a settled home with family. You could never completely lose them. In the remote recesses of the mind, home would always be with you, and the legion was his home.
Stumbling and sliding, they worked their way down through thigh-deep drifts of snow, tripping and falling over hidden roots and limbs, then rising only to slip and fall again. When they reached the last fifty feet, they just gave up, picked out a long, icy slide, and, like children, sped down the last of the climb to the bottom of the valley floor 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."