Casca had made note of the cleanliness of this man's appearance in contrast to the underling they had first spoken to. For, over the years he had come to realize that a man who took care of his appearance and body usually had more brains than those who didn't. Casca wanted to respond to this fellow. "We still claim the rights, warrior, though we give you thanks for your advice. But we would not willingly spend another night in the open, especially with a new storm brewing on the horizon."
The watcher on the ramparts glanced behind him at the gathering darkness of rushing clouds, which spoke of a major storm's approach. Looking back down, he said, "Well, I can't say I really blame you for that, and if you're determined to enter, then lay aside your weapons at the portal before entering and the gate will be opened. Remember, no weapons allowed inside, and that includes your eating knives. I'll meet you at the entrance."
Casca called before the man could leave. "And what is your name warrior? I would know so that one day perhaps I will be able to repay you for your courtesy."
The man looked back down, clear blue eyes set over a strong nose. "I am Sifrit, son of Olaf Scarbrow."
Glam and Casca moved to the door, where a small window in the gate opened for them to hand over their weapons. Casca was still reluctant, but Glam assured him that they would be returned when they left, providing they were still alive and able to leave.
Once the handing-over was accomplished, they were admitted entry through a creaking wooden door that showed a dire need of having its hinges, which were of hammered native bronze, oiled.
The man called Sifrit gave them a quick search for any hidden weapons and motioned for them to follow. Casca liked the looks of the man-medium-height with wide shoulders and narrow hips that rode on strong, muscled legs. A sword of fair steel rode in a homemade leather scabbard at his side.
The gate closed behind them.
Chapter Six
Sifrit escorted the weary travelers into the central structure of the hold down a narrow corridor with a strong door at each end and a walkway at the top from which attackers could be ambushed if they got this far into the fort. Casca wrinkled his nose. After weeks in the open air of the forests, the smell of the hall assaulted his nostrils. Ragnar evidently was not one much concerned with hygiene. The straw on the floor of the hallway was at least a year old and the spongy feel of it under his leather sandals said there were several more layers covered up under the latest batch of decaying straw. Sifrit hesitated a moment before showing them through the last door leading to the Great Room, which the feasting hall and common room were called.
Speaking softly Sifrit said, "Listen, you guys. I don't know anything about you, but I do know that if you give the master any excuse at all to claim you have broken faith so he can call off the laws of hospitality, he will. And neither one of you will see daylight again. I take that back. It's not often that he uses the dungeon below, as he's too cheap to waste even leftovers on someone who doesn't show him a profit. More than likely you'll end up on the crab stakes in the fjord."
Glam shuddered at the words "crab stakes." Casca, confused, asked what Sifrit meant by that, and Glam told him. It was common punishment for crimes ranging from short-changing the chief to treason. They would tie you to a wooden stake at low tide, and when the waters came back in, so did the crabs. They would eat the unfortunate person on the stakes inch by inch. Quite often, all that was left when the waters again receded would be the victim's head. They were always very careful to place the stakes far enough up on the beach so the victim would not be given the mercy of drowning if he lived long enough for the waters to reach that high.
Casca understood the shudder and gave one himself. "And they thought that being crucified was rough!"
Sifrit continued. "The only thing that might help you is to claim to be mercenaries and in exchange for hospitality, you'll give him the service of your blades. But watch him. He might put you to the test."
Casca and Glam both nodded their understanding and followed him into the Great Hall. It may have been great by the standards of the northlands, perhaps, but it was a poor place of ruling by any civilized standards. Ragnar had certainly never seen the Palace of Imperial Nero or even the Asian Despot, Herod.
The floors were even filthier than in the hallway and stank with the sour-sweet odor of decayed meat. The source of the odor was evident from the number of chewed bones on the floor. These locals had the habit of tossing anything they didn't consume onto the floor for the dogs to fight over. The walls were spotted here and there with some lonely trophies-a few spears and leather-covered shields and a couple of tapestries that had seen much better days. But still, they served to give a little color to the otherwise drab and gray surroundings. A roaring fire in a hearth, large enough to roast an entire ox in, gave out the only source of warmth. Narrow, open slits set high in the walls let in some air and also let out some of the smoke from the fire, half of which seemed to find its way into the room and not up the chimney.
The master of Helsfjord was easy enough to spot. He was the biggest and meanest bastard sitting at the oaken table, stuffing his face with roast pork still steaming from the fire. The juices from the half-cooked flesh were dripping down his mouth into his beard. On either side sat a half dozen of his senior warriors; they were all hard-looking men with the scars of battle on them and the look of killers in their eyes.
Ragnar farted and wiped his fingers on his beard and in his gray hair, making sure that he paid special attention to his bald spot, for he knew, as all did, that pig fat was good for growing new hair. The significance of fact that he had been smearing his balding patch with the stuff for fifteen years with no noticeable results never occurred to him.
Ragnar squinted at them, one eye screwed up as if trying to focus. "Well," he grunted, "what do you want here?"
Sifrit explained that they claimed hospitality. Ragnar stroked his white-streaked dirty beard with even dirtier fingers. Grudgingly he knew he had to give in. One day he might have to make such claim himself, and if he ever refused it to anyone, it would never be granted to him. The law was the law. "Well then, you have three days and then you get your asses out of my house. I'll feed no useless mouths here."
Casca sized the man up. Anyone that disagreeable was bound to have more than his fair share of enemies. "Lord Ragnar, if you would grant us permission to winter in your lands, we would pay you back with the aid of our arms, should anyone come to attack you."
Ragnar thought it over. He had always been a little short of manpower. As soon as his young men got their size on them, they headed for better paying hunting grounds. Ungrateful bastards! And these two did have the look of experienced fighters about them, though he didn't like the looks of the smaller man. He was far too clean in appearance-like that fop, Sifrit. But no matter. If he could get them cheap enough, he might make them a deal. And anyway, it was always possible for them to break some of the laws, and if they didn't break any, it could always be arranged so it looked that way.
Slyly, he forced a little good humor into his voice, though it fooled no one, not even himself. "Well then, that's a different matter. Anyone will tell you that old Ragnar is a fair man to anyone who wants honest work and is willing to give fair exchange. Tell you what I'll do. You can winter here and we'll see how it works out. I'll supply your food and drink and if you work out all right, there'll be something to put in your purses when the spring comes. Now, what could be fairer than that?"