Barry Sadler - God Of Death

"Sir," she said, her voice at first cracking a little in fright at her own audacity, "Sir, may I serve you? Anything you wish from me, my lord?" The last was more of a statement than a question.

Casca froze for a moment. The gentle tones of this girl-woman reached inside him and touched his memory of another voice that had been both girl and woman.

He stepped closer to her and stopped where the light of the fire cast soft red shadows over her face. She stood stock still, trying to control the beginnings of a tremor that quivered in her thighs as a virgin heifer does when first the bull begins to close with her. Taking a rag, Casca swabbed it in water and rubbed the soot off the girl's face. He was surprised at the healthy glow that shone through the clean spot. She held her head erect and looked him straight in the eyes.

"May I serve you, lord?"

The voice was now that of a complete woman. In just a few seconds she had left girlhood behind. The touch of Casca's hand as he stroked her cheek had made her fully aware of her power.

Casca spoke softly, as if not to frighten her: "Go and wash, little one. And then, if you still wish to serve me, come to my room. If not…"

She turned and walked away, her step firm and sure, her hips rolling in a way that only women can manage, inviting and female even when virgin. Casca grinned to himself and thought, They must be born with the instincts of a she-cat.

A roaring bellow behind Casca startled him, and his hand went for his blade, but then he recognized the raucous laughter that now filled the hall. He turned to face the now-awake Glam.

"By Thor's great hammer, Mjolnir!" the giant roared joyfully. "It's about time you quit mooning about and took a woman! That little she-bitch has had her eyes on you for weeks. Every time she gets near you her tits tighten up like they were cold," He saw the expression beginning to form on Casca's face, and he raised his hand, palm outward. "Hold, old friend. I mean no disrespect to Lida. I loved her as my own daughter. But she herself would wish you to get over your moaning and start living again."

Glam swallowed a great draft of stale mead and wiped his gray mustache with his forearm. "Go on, you dago dummy, or she'll beat you to your bed. Go and get her!"

At that, Casca let his own laughter come through, and the two friends roared together only as those who share secret thoughts can. They laughed, and with that laughter much of Casca's pain left.

Perhaps the auburn-haired young girl would help even more to leave. The pain might go… but the memories stayed. Casca walked to his rooms past the smoking, flickering torches that lit the way down the gray stone walls. The stones always seemed bleaker in winter, but the tapestries portraying the great heroes and legends of old, the tapestries lining a goodly portion of the walls, provided a little color against the hard stone.

Entering his rooms, he could see that the fires had been kept going through the night against the chill damp. Food and wine sat on the table with the marble top, the one that had come from Rome itself. He crossed the room to his bed and noticed a sizable lump in it. The girl.

Glam was right. She did beat me up here. Chuckling under his breath, he stood close to the side of the bed and looked down at her. Her face was rosy and shining from the scrubbing she had just given herself. Her hair was let loose from its braids and lay about her like a cloud. She smelled good. Apparently before she had come up to his room she had taken sweet herbs and rubbed hair and the secret places of her body with them. The old women would have told her to do so.

Casca smiled down at her. "Well, little one, are you sure?"

She nodded her head, afraid to trust her voice.

"So be it." Casca undid his tunic and let his Nordic loose trousers drop, and before she was really sure what happened he was alongside her under the feather-filled covers, his body colder than hers and giving her a shuddering thrill as she felt the hardness of his stomach and legs move against her.

Gently, Casca put his arm around her and pulled her close. She snuggled her face into the crook of his neck and squeaked in small tones, "Be gentle, master, you are the first." Taking her breast into his calloused and rough hand, Casca gently kissed the nipple, sending delicious quivers racing through her.

"gentle it shall be," he said softly.

And gentle it was… until the ending when she begged him to enter her deep and tear her apart with his manhood. The small pain of her torn flesh was as nothing compared to the desire she felt to have him thrust ever deeper in her warmth.

Old Glam was right.

The pain eased…

The weeks until the green of spring would break on them seemed all too short for the work that had to be done. This was to be no ordinary raiding voyage. This was to be a Nordic odyssey. The amount of preparation involved was staggering.

Had it not been that it was Lord Casca leading them, few would have dared to venture forth on such an expedition, but these young men had been raised on tales of their strange and mysterious lord. He had bounced them on his knees when they were children, and he had taught most of them their first use of weapons. From their earliest memories he had been the same: changed perhaps, but never older. The greatest change was that of the sadness that had come when his lady, the daughter of the brutal Ragnar, had died. The sadness… and the sense of time running on forever…

As children, they had seen him in his armor, with his famed short sword, leading their fathers and their elder brothers out to do battle with those who dared to challenge the right of their lord to his domain and Hold. Many were the nights when they had listened to old Glam tell of his and Casca's adventures when Glam was young… how they had found their way to an ancient keep after Ragnar had blinded his own daughter because she said she had eyes for no one but Casca… how Casca had taken his terrible revenge on Ragnar… and had brought Lida to this spot. Here he had devoted himself to Lida, and all who served and loved both him and her made her days good. All were pledged to one great secret: None told the Lady Lida that her man Casca did not age, that while time turned her hair to silver Casca remained as always. He had grown a beard so that his lady could not feel there were no lines in his face from age. All had kept faith with their strange Lord of the Hold. All knew that anyone who broke faith would face his wrath, a great and terrible wrath, for, as Glam had told them, Casca was as one who had been touched by the gods and was not to be taken lightly. But they also served the Lord Casca and his lady as much out of love and affection as they did out of fear and respect for the strength of Casca's arm. To them, they were part of a living legend, privileged to be part of that legend… the legend of Casca the Unchanging.

This morning Casca shaved.

Neither he nor anyone else of his people knew that outside in the cold, men were watching the fort…

The men watching Casca's fort that morning so soon after Lida's death might have thought twice about attacking it had they known of the black grief gripping Casca, or had they known of his prowess with blade and axe. Might have thought twice… but perhaps not. They were not ordinary men. -

They stood in the cold, the icy wind whipping their beards and mustaches. Big men. Outcasts. The thieves and murderers of a dozen different tribes. Their bodies were clad in furs, and they had the feral look of wolves; wolves they resembled so much in temper and taste that no man, woman, or child was safe from them. Their weapons were ready to drink the blood of any and all they could reach. These men-wolves reveled in their bestiality. Now, as they watched the small fort lying below in the valley, they thought it easy pickings. They had watched long, and knew there were no more than forty men in the Hold. The others, as was the custom of this land, were on their farms with their families waiting for the spring thaw to set the fjord free from the ice, for then they could set sail to fish and trade and occasionally raid an enemy land.