They trekked all that day, stopping only once for a short breather. Crossing the ridges and valleys, Casca enjoyed the feel of the strain, the aching of unused muscles. He hadn't had much exercise since the time he had been put in the dungeon, and had had damned little after taking over control of Helsfjord except for the delightful exercises Lida put him through. For a woman so fragile in appearance, to his delight she had an amazing amount of strength and endurance. More than once she had forced the tough, lumpy-muscled ex-gladiator to the thumbs gesture asking for mercy, which she seldom granted.
A couple of hours before dark they settled on a sheltered glen to make camp. It had a small, clear, cold stream, which fed into a larger one that eventually led to the sea.
Glam left Casca to set up camp and headed downstream a ways to see what he could scrounge up for chow. He looked in the shallow waters of the stream until he found what he was looking for. Giving a yell for Casca, the Roman joined him and looked to where Glam's dirty-nailed finger was pointing in the water. Several good-sized trout were lying just under the surface, almost motionless. They moved only enough to keep their position in the running stream. Glam told Casca to keep an eye on the fish while he went a little further downstream. Casca didn't know what Glam had in mind, but there was usually a reason for everything Glam did, even if it did sometimes take years to figure out just what it was.
Glam stopped about fifty feet down and rapidly built a small barricade of stones across the stream. When he had finished, he yelled for Casca to chase the fish down to him.
Casca jumped into the chilled waters, which reached just above his ankles, and started the startled trout down to his bearish companion. With a quick flick of their tails the fish were gone, streaking through the shallows. Casca followed, splashing with his feet and cursing the chill. He arrived in time to see Glam bent over, his arms groping in the stream. First one, then another of the silver bodies were knocked out of the water by Glam's paws.
When the fish reached his small dam, they could go no further and were trapped between Glam and Casca. Casca was sure that Glam had bear blood in him as the barbarian bent over the water, arms swinging as Casca had seen bears do when fishing. They would make a swipe with their paws and send a fish flying onto the shore. Casca left the wet fishing to Glam, who was doing just fine in his groping. He contented himself with keeping the fish from getting past him back upstream, though several did manage to flick their way between his legs and escape. In no time at all Glam had enough fat trout lying on the grass to make a large enough meal to satisfy even his oversized appetite.
That night they fed well on baked trout. Glam had packed the bodies in mud and then put them in the coals of their campfire to cook. Casca cursed between clenched teeth as he burned his fingers in his impatience to get at the succulent white meat beneath the baked mud shell. When he finally got the shells opened, the smell of the fish mingled with the clean odor of the pines, and his mouth was watering in anticipation. They spiced the fish with a touch of rock salt and for once, even Glam seemed content with the quality of the food. It had been a good day and they were tired, but it was the kind of tiredness that felt good. With full stomachs, they slept under the open night sky, enjoying the quiet of the evening, which was broken only by the crackling of the embers in their campfire.
Noon of the following day found them high on a ridge looking out over a primeval forest far below in a valley broken with glades and streams. The wind was cool, giving them a clean, fresh feeling as it brushed over their faces. It was a time to be savored. After the violence and bloodshed of the past months, moments like these were too few not to be treasured.
With, some degree of reluctance they headed back down into the shadows of the trees on the other side of the mountain. Glam whistled off-key between his furry lips, trying to imitate the trillings of the birds with no success, though he thought he performed the act to perfection.
For three days they wandered with no plan, seeing no sign of humans other than the distant smoke of an occasional village, which they avoided. Casca wanted no contact with people. Where men were to be found, so was trouble, and he had no desire to involve himself in anything that would spoil their journey.
At the base of the ridge the deer trail they had been following narrowed, leaving only a small space on which the ledge they were on could be crossed. There their peace and tranquility was broken by the sounds of men coming from the other direction. Casca was about to make the decision to go back the way they had come and leave the deer trail for the quiet of the woods, but it was too late; he had been spotted. A furred, spear-toting warrior that could have been a smaller version of Glam broke into view.
Casca and Glam stopped, as did the warrior, who was facing them from about thirty feet. Rapidly the lone warrior was joined by others until five armed men faced them.
Glam mumbled to Casca to watch out. These were Saxons and they were too far from their own lands to be nothing more than tourists. And they were still inside the boundaries of Helsfjord. The five scowled at them from under shaggy brows. They talked in whispers among themselves when there came another movement behind them and several women and children came into view with another Saxon behind them. Glam spoke softly. "They're slavers. Perhaps the smoke we saw yesterday wasn't from campfires,"
Casca agreed. If the captives were from one of his villages he would have to do something about it. It was his duty.
He called out to the Saxons, "Peace, warriors, and welcome to my lands."
The Saxons talked among themselves a moment, and then one stepped out to the forefront. He was a few inches taller than the others although still shorter than Glam, but he made up for what he lacked in height with the width of his body. Even under his fur robes, thick bands of muscle were easily visible, especially those that led from his neck down to his massive, thick, sloping shoulders. As with all his companions, he had a full growth of reddish-blond beard with a fierce sweeping mustache. He responded to Casca's welcome. "And whose land is that?"
Casca shifted his boar spear to his right hand.
The motion did not go unnoticed by the slavers. They too loosened the thongs holding their axes and shifted their spears to a handier position.
"It is mine, Casca of Helsfjord."
The Saxon called back, "You lie. Helsfjord is ruled by Ragnar."
Glam chose that time to speak up. "It was ruled by Ragnar and Ragnar was killed by this man, who has claimed all that was Ragnar's and has taken Ragnar's own daughter to wed."
Casca cut Glam's oration short with a wave of his hand. He eyed the Saxons opposite him. "Where did you obtain your captives?"
The Saxons preferred not to have any trouble if they could avoid it, and their leader said, "Some day's journey from here where we paid good silver for them."
A woman in the back cried out a name before the rope around her neck choked off any further response. But it was enough. The name she spoke was Lida. Upon closer inspection, Casca discovered that this slave was indeed one of the Lady Lida's personal handmaids.
Glam moved to present a smaller target by turning his body slightly to the side.
Casca called back, his voice friendly. "Why, then, we have no quarrel if you bought and paid for your slaves like honest men. Travel on, Saxons." Casca turned from them only to lower his body down. In the next instant he whipped back around, hurling the boar spear underhanded. Before the Saxon leader had a chance to react the spear had implanted itself in his chest. He wondered briefly about the pain in his back. He died not knowing that the head of the spear had torn clear through him and was sticking out a foot from his spine.