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 the storms came and the thunder and lightning rumbled through the stone walls for Casca and Lida to feel one or two small bodies climbing into their bed and snuggling close to the lady and master for comfort. These were the children whose fathers and mothers had died. They were the children of the hold and would never know the want or the lack of love. There would be no beggars in the land Casca ruled, no children slaves. In his house, they would grow strong and not be cast out as were the orphans of Rome and the civilized world. Those outcasts were destined to roam the streets and alleys or be sold as slaves to the highest bidder, becoming the playthings of perverts and deviates who would contaminate them with their own sickness of spirit. In Helsfjord, they would grow as normal men and women. These were the children of Casca and Lida, and they were loved as such. Still, it was a little irritating on those nights when Casca and Lida wanted to make love to have to stop because of a small voice saying "I'm scared." But it was a small price to pay for the pleasure they gave Casca and Lida as they watched them grow and learn.
Casca's beard grew longer, as did his hair, until he looked the part of a barbarian chieftain. If he was to live among these people and rule them, it was best that he looked the part. The beard served to conceal the fact that his face did not wrinkle with the passing of years, though Lida often remarked on what good condition he kept his body in.
Winters came and passed and the young children became men and women and were replaced by others as they went to form their own households. Forty years of love and sharing went with the seasons, and each was better than the last. The fact that Lida was nearing sixty did nothing to lessen her beauty in his eyes and he took no other woman. To him, she was as ageless as he. And she still had the figure of a young girl and a mind as sharp as a Roman senator. She was beautiful, and even at her age she brought forth sighs from young warriors who admired her and even envied Casca his wife.
One thing did eat at him as the years passed, and that was the knowledge that one day she would leave him and he would be alone again, even more than ever before. And he wondered if even centuries could ever fill the void he knew there would be when she left him. This thought bothered him more than anything else… When she left, he would be alone…
Casca stood on the beach on rocks smoothed down by centuries of washing waves that came and went. He looked out to the deep waters and wondered what lay beyond. Several fishing boats were heading out to the open sea to hunt for seal or to spread their nets for fish. They were long, shallow boats that were easy to handle. He wondered how these same boats would do if he could have a couple made a little larger and rigged them with a single bank of oars. The shallow draft of the boats would enable them to go almost anywhere, and if they were large enough they would probably do all right in the open sea. He made a mental note to question Corio about combining some of the features of the galley with those of the shallow fishing boats.
His meditation was interrupted by the druid. Casca didn't like the man much and knew he had been trying to stir up trouble for him among the villagers, claiming that Casca was a usurper and had no rights to the hold and the domains of Ragnar. The old bastard tried his best to carry off the image of a man of great wisdom and magical powers. Casca knew he was a phony and was only feeding his own ego, but others did believe in him and the fortunes he cast. Lately, he had been forecasting doom and misery in several assorted varieties if they didn't get rid of the Roman.