Casca 2: God of Death (5 page)

He gave the order to attack.

Weapon ready, the Marcomanni led the way into the hall leading to the source of the laughter. The rest followed, crowded shoulder to shoulder in the narrow passage. They moved step by step. Slowly. Closer and closer. A single torch lighted the way down the hall. They smiled to themselves. They would have no problem in disposing of the drunken household. It would be easy.

Swearing under his breath,
Malgak moved to the front alongside the Marcomanni. He grunted a command. The invaders prepared to rush inside the room. From here Malgak could make out at least four men slumped over tables in drunken stupor, and another two laughing over their cups while they tore at chunks of beef and washed it down with great mugs of mead. Raising his fifteen-pound axe above his head, Malgak readied himself.

Shouting his tribal
battlecry, he rushed into the room followed by the packed body of his men. The apparently sleeping defenders all too quickly awoke and raced to the back of the room. The two drinking did likewise and ran to the walls. Malgak and his men stopped in the center of the room in surprise. Their fur-clad bodies sweating from the night's labors and their eyes wild, they looked like brute animals. They stood thus for only a moment, and then a flight of arrows from the walls reached out for them, striking into unprotected throats and stomachs. The archers' orders were no fancy shooting, just aim for the largest part of the body and put as many out of commission as possible. Feathered barbs pinned a dozen of the invaders before the fact that they were in a trap registered in their minds.

Glam and ten men raced from the entranceway nearest the door through which
Malgak and his wolves had entered. Another twenty formed a line in front of the stairs where the invaders would have to come at them a few men at a time. Glam struck out with his great two-handed sword at the nearest of the invaders who were still trying to get into the chamber with their comrades. Three fell with one thrust as Glam made a great sweeping slice that startled the ones behind and froze them in their tracks for a moment. A moment was all Glam needed. With the aid of two Vikings he swung the hall door of stout oak shut in the faces of the invaders, locking them out of the room. When this happened, at the other end Olaf, Glam's son, slammed that door from the outside, locking at least half of Malgak's men packed into the dark and narrow confines of the hall. The invaders beat at the doors with sword and axe. Their first sense that all was not well was quickly confirmed – and true panic set in – when a flickering light dropped from above. The grinning Casca had lit a lamp of seal oil and tossed it burning onto the straw they had recently soaked with oil. Fire raced under the feet of the invaders. Crying, they alternately tried to stamp out the growing flames, and cursed when they burned their feet and tried to avoid it. To no avail. Smoke filled the hall. Choking, tear-starting smoke filled their lungs, taking the place of life-giving air. Casca grinned once more and disappeared through the small doorway and joined Olaf, Vlad, and Holdbod. Swiftly they moved through the passageway to the feasting room where the archers were doing such deadly work. The cries for help from those choking to death in the hall reached deaf ears. None could save them. The flames licked up and set fire to leggings, and then bodies. Many beat their own comrades to death with axes and swords trying to escape the choking smoke and body-searing flames. Smoke works fast. Casca had time to look over the situation below from where he and his men had come out of the passageway. The crying stopped, and the stench of burning hair and flesh reached them. In the hall almost a hundred bodies were piled on top of each other, mouths black, noses groping for air that would never come, those on the bottom charred from the flames, their dead fingers empty of weapons they had dropped when they covered their mouths and tried to expel the thick, oily smoke that filled their lungs and took them to their own individual hells.

Glam held off the invaders with sword and shield until the screaming stopped from behind the door. The archers on the stairs kept their missiles flying and provided cover to take most of
Malgak's men off him until his chore had been completed. They also gave the cover necessary for a short rush from the warriors in front to let Glam back in their ranks with the loss of only two men. These were overrun and chopped to pieces by the enraged outcasts. The invaders' disdain for the bow as a coward's and woman's weapon proved costly to them as the slender shafts searched out the tender spots of their bodies and buried themselves up to half their lengths in the fur-clad figures. Less than two minutes had passed since Malgak had entered the room, and already half of his men were either wounded or dead behind the oak doors. Screaming in frustrated passion, he and his horde rushed the defenders on the stairs, trying to tear them from the steps and break through so they could butcher those cowards with the deadly flying barbs.

Casca joined the others, coolly giving orders. He formed his men in sections, one section to fight and then step back, their places to be taken by the next rank. That way, no one had to fight too long before given a break. This was the Roman manner when the legion formed a square. The invaders could only come at them four or five men at a time while those behind, in their rage, helped hinder the effectiveness of their comrades facing Casca's men on the stairs by packing in too close and restricting their ability to move and fight. Indeed, many of their men were already dead, being held up by the press of the men behind them.

Malgak sliced with his great axe and downed two of the defenders, leaving one trailing his intestines behind him as he fell to the floor. The dead Viking was quickly dismembered and pieces of his body tossed back up the stairs to let the others know the fate that awaited them if they lost. Smoke sliding in under the oak door lay in a cloud over the interior, the gleam from the fireplace casting a red glow over the men locked in the death struggle. Even with Malgak's urging and threats the outcasts could make no progress on the stairs. They had twice almost reached the door leading off from the stairway to the dungeons below, but had been driven back by fierce counterattacks from the young warriors.

The invaders took shelter behind shields and overturned tables and benches, anything that could keep those feathered barbs from their faces and stomachs. They kicked and cursed any latecomers who tried to share their shelters. In desperation
Malgak opened the oak door, letting clouds of smoke fill the room as he and some of his men entered the hall of death, rushing inside and stepping on the bodies of the dead. Anything to get away from the deadly barbs.

Casca advanced down to the first steps, dodging a thrown
boarspear, knocking it, glancing, off his shield. As he came down he stepped over the bodies of his own slain. The sight of the young faces stilled in death brought a building black rage on him. A hot flash rose from his stomach to his face. His features darkened. Those bright young men ... to die at the hands of scum...

Glam knocked away another spear thrown at Casca and stood close. "What now?" he
asked, his old eyes bright with the lust for battle. "That was good, barbecuing the devils in the hall, but what now? They still outnumber us by two to one. They can't get up to us, and we can't get behind them."

Casca grunted and pointed with his short sword to the oak doorway. "There," he said to Glam, "their leader, the one with the black teeth." Casca took a deep breath and bellowed, his words echoing around the stone walls: "You in there!
The ugly one with no teeth!"

Malgak
peeked around the corner, taking a good look at the one who had insulted him, though insults meant nothing to him. He was beyond any sense of honor or pride. He had only the feral, instincts of a backstabber to guide him.

"What do you want?" he answered.

Casca laughed, his facial scar turning white. "I want you, little man. I want to feed you to my hogs while you're still alive."

Malgak
took a closer look at his antagonist, noting the muscles, the scars. The man was obviously a fighter to be reckoned with. He said nothing.

Casca continued, "Come out to meet me man to man, shit bucket. If you win, my men will let you and your vermin escape back to the cesspools you came from. If you lose, I will still spare your men. Have we an agreement?"

Malgak's face wrinkled as he thought out the offer.
Well, shit, what choice do I have? If we stay boxed up here, those archers will pick us off one at a time. But, if I can kill their leader, perhaps his men will lose heart. Either way, it looks as if I have to face him
. Malgak began to psych himself up. After all, he had never lost a fight, and from the number of scars on the hide of his adversary he must not have done so well in the fights he had to get carved up so much.
Maybe he's not as tough as I first thought
. He made up his mind and called out:

"Who is it I speak to?"

"Casca," came the reply. "Lord of the Hold. Will you come out and fight, or do I have to burn you out as I did those inside whom you now visit?"

Malgak
raised his foot off the face of the man on whom he was standing. The sight of the blackened and charred corpse grinning up at him made up his mind for him.

"Very well, Lord Casca.
I agree. If I lose, my men go free. That's all I really care about. If I win, your men must give us food to continue our journey. That's all we really wanted anyway, a little something to eat." Malgak was lying in his teeth, and Casca knew it.

Malgak
called the Marcomanni to him and said softly, "I will try to get the one called Casca close to the doorway. When I do, you and the others rush out and kill him. Once he's down, those on the stairs will be without their leader, and we will probably be able to overpower them."

The
Marcomanni smiled in agreement. "It will be done." He turned and quickly spread the word that when the leader of the defenders came close they were to rush out on him. Their lives depended on it.

Malgak
called out, "Casca, I agree. Tell your men to stop shooting and I will step out."

Casca gave the word and told the outlaws hiding behind the furniture to join their comrades in the hallway, that he could have none behind him.
Malgak ordered them to obey, and they quickly rushed into the open doorway, casting fearful glances behind them, expecting to feel arrows in their backs as they ran – which was only natural, as that was what they would have done if the tables had been turned.

Malgak
stepped forward, round shield on his left arm, his fifteen-pound battleaxe swinging from a leather thong on his right wrist. The axe was single-bladed, with a stabbing spike on the top. Malgak's face was wreathed in a grimy, wrinkled smile. "I am here," he said.

Casca stepped out. The sight of the wretch gave rise to renewed anger in him. The dirty smile and the black-stumped teeth seemed an obscenity after the clean faces of
his own young men.

"Good enough," he said, adjusting the feel of the round, buckler type shield he was using, one smaller than that used by
Holdbod. "Come on, ugly one, and I'll give you a lesson." He stepped into the center of the hall and assumed the gladiator position of the Gallic school, shield held low and to the front, body turned to present a small target, sword held low to the side with the point slightly up, his left foot leading.

Malgak
came closer, swinging his axe in his hand. "That's very pretty," he said sarcastically. "You look like a dancer."

"It will be the last dance you ever see," Casca
rejoined, and struck, first with sword, then shield, then one after another. The whirlwind attack of Casca sent Malgak reeling back in astonishment, frantically trying to cover himself. He had never been assaulted like this before – but then he had never faced one before who had won the wooden sword in the arenas of Imperial Rome, a trained professional gladiator, as Casca had been. Malgak leaped backward over an overturned table to get some space between himself and this madman. Glancing over his shoulder, he tried to see where his men were, how far he would have to move to gain the safety of their numbers or have them come to his aid. Too far...

Taking a deep breath, he came back at Casca, the great axe smashing against the lighter buckler. Then the axe whirled again, and Casca was forced back under the weight of the blow. Casca and
Malgak locked together, face to face, bodies straining. The sour smell of Malgak's breath seemed to have a carrion stench to it; the raw meat he had eaten was rotting between his teeth. Malgak struck Casca to the ground with a smashing blow from his shield and raised the axe to split his skull. Casca quickly hooked his foot behind the knee of Malgak, and with his other foot striking the front of Malgak's ankle while the one behind came forward, he threw the child killer back and down. Now Casca rose, his gladius Iberius – the famed Roman short sword – flashing as he struck and chopped, trying to beat down the shield guard. But Malgak regained his feet.
Dammit. The son-of-a-bitch may be ugly, but he is as strong as any I have met.
They closed again, sword against axe, shield against buckler. They whirled and fought, sparks leaping from the blades. They cursed and sweated. The red glow of the fire gave each a demonic appearance. They neared the door, and the Marcomanni rushed out to stab Casca in the back. He was aided in this effort by two other men who fell quickly to well-placed arrows. A shout from Glam warned Casca, and he twisted his body around and fairly leaped into the air, turning into a tumbler's type roll and landing back on his feet. The Marcomanni stood there, an embarrassed look on his face. He still looked that way when Casca threw the sword straight into his stomach where it exited about six inches out of his back, severing the spinal cord.