Barry Sadler - God Of Death

"Glam, it's time for me to leave."

Glam pondered the face and figure of his master and friend. There were still no lines in Casca's face, and his body was as strong as when they had first fought. Time's ravages had stayed from Casca. The only change was the addition of a few new scars, visible on Casca's body and hands. Glam knew that other man-killing wounds had left their mark under the tunic. But, enough. It was not his affair. Casca was being used by the gods for some purpose. They were always pulling some kind of trick on poor mortals. Still, ever since Casca had kicked his ass by the river he had been firmly convinced that Casca was no mortal man.

"It is as you say, Lord Casca. When?"

Casca was gazing at the distant line where sea and sky met. "Soon," he said softly, "soon, my friend."

That night in the Great Hall, Casca called out to his men. Most had grown up at the Hold. Their fathers had served Casca for years, and they accepted the fact that the Lord of the Hold did not age. As with Glam, who were they to argue with the ways of the gods? Casca was their lord. That was enough. And he had brought victory to the people, and peace and wealth to the area he held in fief.

Now they waited for his words.

"Friends and comrades," Casca spoke, "the time has come for me to leave this place. To you, my old friends, I bequeath your lands and homes as your own, with your loyalties to Glam, who will be Lord of the Hold when I leave. To him you will tithe and obey."

Glam rose in protest. "No, lord! Where you go, so go I, as always. I am still strong, and can serve as well as any of these young bucks."

Casca put his hand, affectionately on Glam's shoulder. "No, my friend," he said, "you are needed here. I must go the way that my fate dictates. I am going to go a-viking. I will take my long-ships and sail to the west, out beyond the Ice seas, and to the south. The journey may be years in the making, and where or what we will find will call for younger bones than yours. No, my friend, your mind and experience are needed here. To go a-viking I need the seeds of your loins, not you." He turned to the hall, and his voice rose: "Who of the young men wish to sail with me to the ends of the earth? To seas farther than anyone has gone before?" He lifted high his horn of honeyed mead, and his deep voice filled the Great Hall: "Who sails with Casca?"

The hall roared. Waves of cheers threatened to blow out the great fire where the meat was roasting. In the fed glow of its flames the faces of the young men shone with eagerness, Casca's challenge rushing to their brains like strong drink. This was their chance. It was the thing of which heroes were made and legends born to sail to the ends of the seas with the Lord Casca, the Unchanging One. All raised their swords and axes in response. "Casca! Casca! Casca!" they roared over and over.

For the young men the years of peace had been dull. It had been too quiet for them for too long. Casca and his followers had long since made their neighbors aware that it was the better policy to leave the gray-eyed lord alone in his domain. The young warriors wanted their own taste of battle and adventure. Their hearts beat faster as they sang the old songs, the words the poets told, the great legends of the north. Of Beowulf. Of the young Glam Graybeard when he had come to the Hold. Even of the gray-eyed man who led them, still young after all these years and all these battles. Now the chance was theirs to become heroes themselves, so that other poets in other times would sing of their deeds. Glam's only son, Olaf, led the singing.

All that night the hall warmed with their drinking and with the feelings of camaraderie that precede great adventures, but the empty seat beside Casca where Lida had sat served to remind him, alone of all the multitude, that everything ends, yet everything is the same. Once more he must leave. The sight of all those bright young faces of his youthful warriors almost deterred him from the venture. He knew that taking them would mean death for many before their sea road ended. He was tempted to call the voyage off, to refuse to send so many to their deaths. But two hundred years had taught him one thing: Men are what they are, and adventure is the way of the young. If these did not sail with him, why, then, they would go with another. Their fates would be the same in the end. It was not for him to alter the way things were…

The morning smoke rose in dark, twisting tendrils into the cool damp air brought in from the sea. The rich, wet smell of the salt spray freshened Casca's nostrils and brought an awakening to his entire body. Alone, for most of the young warriors had gone to their homes, Casca breathed deep, letting his gray eyes sweep over the panorama in front of him, the protected fjord where his dragon ships lay waiting for their master and for the wind to breathe life into them and to set their dragon heads out into the unknown. A chill ran up Casca's spine, and he wrapped his muscled forearms over each other seeking a little more warmth. Even as he stood, the wind changed and blew around to the land side, and Casca could smell the coming spring. Only a few more weeks and the snow would start to recede, leaving the earth ready for rebirth. Already the first hardy plants must be beginning their stirring that would eventually force their heads up and out of the still white, but melting cold.

When the spring is here, we sail…

He stood looking at the dragon ships, wondering where they would take him.

When he returned to the Great Hall, the sound of snoring reached him even before he was full into the smoky interior, and he let his gaze stop on the massive form of Glam. The great bear of a man lay face down on the oak table, contentedly slumbering in a wine and mead-induced stupor, his breath whistling out from between his great mustaches, his hand on his ever-present sword. Grinning, Casca recalled the uses that monstrous piece of steel had been put to. Glam was one hell of a man by anyone's standards, and from that time when the two of them had become comrades, Glam's course had always been true. Well, perhaps a little crooked in spots…

The sleeping Glam was part of what soon would be the past, but so was this Great Hall. Casca surveyed its dark interior. Armor, shields, spears, axes all the paraphernalia of war lay about among the sleeping warriors remaining. On the walls the flags and pennants of their enemies and friends flew, equally honored, for is man not judged by the quality of his enemies more than by those he calls friends?

Deep in thought, Casca looked down at the sleeping Glam.

Come spring, old friend, I think our road will finally end. It's best this way. I have known and cared for you too long to wish to see you die. May you find your last battle and have the Valkyrie carry you to your special Valhalla as you deserve. Die with that oversize meat cleaver in your hand shouting to your heathen gods to carry you off to the hall of Odin and Thor. Sighing deeply, Casca shook his head, the thick cords of his muscles standing out as he tensed, then relaxed. Even you, old friend, have somewhere to go to rest at your trails end. He sighed again. I would even rejoice to share your Valhalla with you. But you must go, and I must wait.

A scullery maid waited in the corner near the fire despite the smoke and ashes that settled on her hair. Young and strong like most of the Norse women, she nevertheless possessed a shy quality about her. She was watching Casca walking among his drunk and sleeping warriors. Unconsciously she spit on her fingers and wiped some of the smudge away from her face. Beneath auburn hair, tied back, her crystal blue eyes sparkled. Her body was just now becoming aware of its power and promise. When Casca approached, she arose and stood erect. Back straight, she faced her lord.