Barry Sadler: The War lord

Wing Sung kept his opinions to himself but addressed the madman once more. "Holy man, there is another of your own race entombed nearby, a great warrior who served the Emperor Tzin. He was put into the great stone sarcophagus there," pointing to the nearby valley where the tomb of Casca lay.

Peter the madman looked to the place where Wing Sung had pointed. "A man of my race you say? Was he a Christian?"

"What's a Christian?" Wing Sung asked.

"A Christian is a follower of the crucified God, Christ." Then showing Wing Sung what the Chinese considered a particularly gruesome item, a small silver crucifix with a man nailed to it, Wing Sung shrugged. "I don't know if he was what you call a Christian or not, but he was entombed with honors due a noble of the royal court by the Lady Li Tsao, consort to the Emperor Tzin."

Peter drew himself up to his full height, his bony cheeks flushed with the thought he might be able to save a soul. "Why you miserable heathen, if he was buried by your idol-worshipping practices, he will never know paradise. The least I can do is say the last rites over him to give his soul a chance for salvation. Show me the way."

Wing Sung did as he was told and showed the ragged messenger of the one called the Messiah to the place of Casca's entombment. The villagers gathered in the background, anxious to see what this weird ragged, pale-faced stranger would do. They squatted in a semicircle, their knees almost to their chest and waited.

Peter, full of righteous fervor approached the tomb. Standing before it he saw the embossed emblems of eternal life and the four-toed dragon, given only to those of the royal household and the tree of life with spreading branches. Raising his silver crucifix, he began to chant and preach, his voice gaining strength as he got into his act. His eyes raised, body twitching, he gained power such as he had never known. The power was on him. His voice echoed throughout the hills and valleys. He got into his thing as he spoke the words of the gospel and finally the words of Revelation.

Nature picked this particular time to let the mountainous rocky plates beneath the earth shift once more, the shock from below traveling to the surface like a stone in a lake rippling its way out in widening circles, cracking the granite boulders into splinters and changing the course of an underground hot spring; the one that fed the baths of the village of Feng Shang. The vibrating waves of the earthquake cracked further the stone tomb, letting the boiling waters of the hot spring flow into the interior, cooking all the assorted vermin that had chosen to make Casca and his tomb their home. Rats as well as spiders, died in a steam that would have driven Casca mad with pain had he been able to feel the heat. The waves of the earthquake reached the surface, the ground swaying as if at sea.

Peter, totally involved with orations, feeling filled with the power of the Spirit of the Lord, took the earthquake to be a manifestation of the Lord's power. He filled his lungs and bellowed even louder, while the peasants, terrified, scurried for higher ground, leaving the madman to his magic. Peter cried out in fanatic fervor: "And the earth shall give up her dead!"

At that moment, Casca's tomb opened. The huge covering stone split down the center, the sides buckled into dusty fragments as clouds of steam poured forth, the earth roared and stones shrieked as they were torn apart-the steam, shocks and air let into the tomb bringing Casca back to awareness.

Peter was really getting off on his sermon when in the center of the steam cloud issuing from the ruptured tomb, a figure stepped out.

Casca, back from the dead and mad as hell, came out of the steam and dust from his wrecked sarcophagus, hair past his shoulders and an even rattier beard reaching to his chest, dead insects in matted knots from his face and hair. The silken robes long since had turned into rotting fragments of their former glory and hung in web-matted shreds. A dead rat dropped from one of the sleeve folds. It had been parboiled and so was Casca, his skin a bright cherry red with pale blisters the size of wine cups standing out. His sword in his hand, Casca was ready to kick ass and take names. The steam and the air, along with the vibrations of the earthquake had restored him and with awakening came instant remembrance. Casca was pissed. The earth gave one more spasmodic surge, heaving several trees up by the roots and then was still.

Peter froze, his mouth hanging open at the apparitions that had come fortH at his words And the earth shall give up her dead.

"A. miracle," he cried, his eyes filling with tears that he should be blessed with power from the Lord Jesus Christ to restore the dead to life. He always knew that he would be rewarded for his piety, but this was more than he had ever dreamed of.

Holding his crucifix high above him, he rang the bell at Casca as he approached crying: "Blessed be the name of the Lord. On your knees and pray."

Casca ignored him.

"On your knees heathen," he repeated, "It isn't every day you're brought back from the valley of the dead."

Casca strode on, bits of cloth dropping from him leaving a trail of silk and bugs behind, and faced the mad preacher. Peter shook his cross in Casca's face and rang his bell even harder. Reaching over, Casca took the bell from Peter's hand and whacked him across the head with it, laying Peter out cold. The preacher lay spread out on the ground, his cross in the dust. Casca gave both a look of distaste and grumbled through cracked lips, "That damned bell was giving me a headache."

Ignoring the prone body of Peter, Casca moved off still grumbling to himself, and peeling strips of burned skin from his face and arms, stripping off his rags as he walked until finally he was naked, carrying only his sword… the sword that Lady Li Tsao had been gracious enough to place in the tomb with him. Spying the fields, Casca made for them and the village beyond.

"Food," he thought, "I need something to eat, anything." His scarred hide had turned almost fish-white during the years of his confinement; only the multitude of scars were lighter in color.

Walking through the deserted streets, there were some signs of minor damage from the quake, but nothing of any import. Wing Sung and the others had taken to their homes when they saw him approach. Whoever the preaching madman was, he certainly had some strange powers.

Smelling cooking rice, Casca entered the third house on the dirt street and walked in, scaring the crap out of the family living there. The mother hid her three children behind her while the father screwed up enough courage to face the pale, parboiled, bug-infested intruder. Performing Kowtow, he bowed low almost bent double in front of Casca and said quivering, "Please lord, we are poor people here and have nothing but the rags we wear and a few grains of rice to eat." Noticing Casca eyeing the cookpot where their dinner was simmering over a charcoal brazier, he hastily scooped out a large bowl and proffered it to the walking deadman.

Casca grunted his thanks between mouthfuls, choking the food down as fast as he could and swallowing water from a handy pitcher. The rice set like cement in his gut, but it was there and soon he began to feel more human. He smiled at the frightened family and spoke for the first time now that his throat was lubricated.

"Thanks and don't be frightened of me," he said in Chinese, "I am no devil or deadman come to life." Knowing the superstitions of the people, he thought it better to feed them a fairy tale.

"I was not dead when I was buried. No. A spell was put on me by a witch and I have slept until the earth set me free." Twisting the silver ring from his finger, he gave it to his host, "Here, this is for your food. Would you also find some clothes large enough to fit me?"