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Pleased as though he had pulled a practical joke on the doctor, Casca grinned.
"Yes, it's me. And how did I get my face on a Teotihuacano sacrificial mask?
Look at the mask, Doctor." Casca's voice took on a commanding quality that was
not to be disobeyed. Twice before Goldman had heard that tone of voice. "Look
at the eyes of the mask, Doctor. The story is there."
Goldman turned back to the mask, and the gray-blue eyes of the sacrificial
mask. seemed to blaze with an inner fire, forcing his attention upon them,
pu~ling him into their glowing depths. As his consciousness sankinto the
turquoi~se flames, Casca's voice accompamed him:
"Remember, Doctor, where I stopped before? I was at the Hold of Helsfjord, and
Lida had died. The year was A.D. 252, by the Christian reckoning...."
TWO
At Lida's death Casca was inconsolable. The deep black grief that settled over
him seemed to have only one remedy: the beckoning sea. Ever more frequently,
from his stronghold at Helsfjord, he would sail out his dragon ship, often
taking a turn at the oars himself as if by exhausting labor he could rid
himself of his pain, but always, always the sea beckoned, the empty sea. The
very magnitude of the gray ocean's immensity, and its loneliness, fitted his
need, and the waves, slapping the hull, whispered to him over and over, gently
urging..
There came this day. .
Glam, the gray-bearded and balding giant, turned from the parapets facing the
sea and looked at his friend and master, Casca. Forty years they had been
together since that time they hao' met and fought on the banks of the Rhine,
and in all those years Glam had remained Casca's man . . . and friend. Now,
Glam's still-powerful frame was beginning to bend, and his gnarled hands could
no longer wield the great sword with the same vigor they had known in youth.
Of late he had suffered from age, but he was still a man and a Norseman, a
Norseman from a line of heroes. He seemed to sense what his master was going
to say before Casca spoke.
"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
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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 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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