Free Casca 2: God of Death by Barry Sadler Page B

because of a blood feud. There in his own country he had killed by himself eleven men, all with large families. With the number of blood relatives thus seeking revenge, Holdbod had considered it prudent to flee; while he did consider himself to be one of the best fighters in the world, he was by no means a fool. In the Hold of Casca he had been accepted with the understanding that if he ever let his terrible temper get the best of him there, Casca would personally tear his arms off and stuff them down his throat. After he had seen Casca in action without the use of weapons, Holdbod believed him and gave him due respect. Holdbod was an excellent man with a blade. Only Vlad came close to him in ability in that respect, and the two seeming opposites perhaps found that between them they made a more complete man, for each had something that the other lacked. Casca was satisfied that the choice of the two to command the other dragon ship was a good one. As for his own ship, the Lida, Olaf was second in command.
    The empty sea stretched before them. For four weeks they saw no sight of land though land there may have been over one of the distant horizons for twice they saw birds they knew nested on shore. But how far these might have flown they had no way of telling.
    One day flowed into another.
    And then the unchanging pattern was abruptly broken.
    On this particular afternoon Casca sat alone, watching the signs of approaching weather. The clouds were growing dark on the horizon. The swells were building. The ship rose to the crest of a wave, then plunged down into the trough. He watched the cycle repeat itself several times. With each rise and plunge of the ship it was obvious the waves were increasing in height. But the ship rode well. Corio had built superbly and both dragon ships responded like well-trained horses to their masters' hands. Up to now the voyage had been uneventful, and the two ships had no difficulty in keeping in formation. By day, of course, there was no problem. They had solved the problem of becoming separated in the night at the very beginning of the voyage by running strong lines between the two ships before dark.
    But this evening Casca could smell the coming storm, and his foresight was shared by several of the crew members who had made their livelihood from the waters of their homelands. The storm struck just before midnight, racing out of the north, still with the feel of the ice from the place where it was born. It drove the ships forward. All hands took cover except for those needed to man the tiller and bail out with leather buckets the sea water that rushed over the decks. Dark clouds rolled in the sky, boiling and ominous in the flashes of lightning. The thunder as much as the wind seemed about to tear the sails apart with the ferocity of its booming reverberations. It was no momentary storm. For three days and three nights nothing was dry aboard ship. Few of the crew had the strength to eat. Nearly all of the supplies were spoiled from the water, and what drinking water that was left tasted strongly of sea salt.
    The wind finally abated. The storm had not been one of the killer storms that could tear a vessel apart, but it had been violent enough to damage the two ships. They needed to be beached and careened for fresh caulking and refurbishing. Also, the expedition had – at most – food for another four days only. Then all would be gone.
    The morning after the storm was bright and clear. The wind was gentle as a maiden's whisper. All but the two men kept at each long-oared tiller were sleeping the sleep of the exhausted when the cry of Land! jerked them back into awareness. They turned their salt-encrusted faces out to where the lookouts were pointing. There on the horizon, rising dark from the sea, was a land mass.
    Casca gave the order to take down the sails and ship oars.
    Closer the rocky coast came until pine trees like those they had left at home were clearly visible. But there was no