Casca 9: The Sentinel (4 page)

The chill set in deeply. Her lips turned blue and her limbs numb; she knew what she had to do. Wrapping her robe closer to her body, she left the cave and went back down the trail for two thousand feet until she reached the treeline. She gathered fallen branches from under the snow and hauled them back to the cave. Three times she made the trip, ignoring the pain of her wounds and the cramping in her loins and stomach.

Once she started moving, the cold wasn't so bad, but she knew that if she stopped, she would never rise again. At last she had the final load and sat, breasts heaving, in the cave as the sightless eyes of Casca looked over the emptiness of the new winter.

Finding rocks in the rear of the cave, she piled them as high as they would go in the entrance. Hesitantly, she managed to take the stiff frozen bearskin from around Casca's shoulders and use it to plug the small opening that remained.

That accomplished, she took flint, steel, and lint from her pouch to start a small fire. Sparingly, she fed the tiny flame, knowing that it would not take much to warm up the small confines of her shelter. She didn't want to have to make the journey back down the mountain for more wood any sooner than necessary.

Slowly, the cave began to warm up for the first time since it had been formed millennia before. It passed the freezing point a few degrees and then a few more.

Ice began to melt in Casca's beard, and melted frost ran in tears down his unmoving cheeks to lie in tiny puddles on the stone floor.

Ireina slept deeply from her exertions. The heat built rapidly in the small confines of their shelter and lulled her into deep slumber, but another was beginning to awake.

With the increase in temperature, the thick sluggish blood in Casca's body began to flow a tiny bit easier through arteries and veins that were regaining some of their flexibility.

His heart warmed under the flow of blood, giving a slightly stronger beat and then another, gradually picking up the tempo of true life. With the increase of his heartbeat, blood was forced down into the
lower regions of his body where it had been drawn away to feed the body cavity and heart when first he had sat down to freeze.

His lungs gave a jerking labored movement as they sucked in a large quantity of the warming air involuntarily. The intake of oxygen fed the blood cells, sending a burst of sensation down into his extremities. The thick fluid behind the gray eyes thawed as thousands of small vessels and capillaries opened to welcome the unfamiliar surge of warmth. One eye blinked and then the other. His face began to gather spots of color around the cheekbones. His lips lost their gray paleness, and with the return of blood came pain.

His entire system came to life in one spasmodic effort. It was too much too soon for organs and vessels that had shrunk from the century he had slept, each year using up a tiny bit of their remaining moisture.

His mouth opened, though his mind had not yet awakened, and a scream came forth. He was on fire, the same pain a man feels who has had frostbite and then warms the frozen limb too rapidly.

The guttural screams woke Ireina in a panic. Had the brigands followed her?

When her eyes focused, she saw the source of the cry of anguish. The warrior's mouth was open, filling his lungs again and again to let out his cry of torment as the warmth of his blood thawed the cells of his body.

His sword dropped from stiff fingers, his back arched, and for the first time in over a hundred years he straightened out his legs and screamed once more. Then he fell onto his back unconscious, letting his system complete its job of restoring him to humanity. Ireina watched in shock as the warrior went through his agony. She wasn't frightened, only stunned by his resurrection.

Then it came to her. All that she had prayed for had come to pass. Her childhood dreams were becoming reality. The sentinel was awakening, and he would protect her and punish those in the valley below.

The training of her youth in the cold of the mountains took over. She knew instinctively what was causing part of the warrior's pain, and she began to treat him as she would one who had spent the night in a snowdrift.

She covered his body with her own robe, not trying to remove the rusty armor from his body. Then she tugged at him to pull him farther inside. She thought that he would have weighed more, not knowing that the gradual loss of fluid in his cells had wasted away thirty pounds. From her sack, she removed a small copper pot. Moving Casca's bear robe aside, she scooped snow from outside to fill the pot, and then she set the pot over the small flame.

Into the pot she put shaved strands of dried meat to simmer along with herbs and a small amount of precious salt. At this altitude, even though the mixture boiled fiercely, she knew that it was just past being lukewarm. But that was well enough. Something too hot might hurt her patient, who was silent now, his breathing a bit easier, though she knew from the expression on his unconscious face that he was still in great pain. His legs and arms trembled and twitched spasmodically, his hands opening and closing of their own accord as his body shook.

She removed his helmet, noting the deep lines sunk into his forehead where the steel brim had rested, its weight pressing ever deeper until it almost reached the bone of the skull. A strip of loose skin came away from his nose as she pulled the cold steel from his face.

Touching his skin, she was surprised to feel how dry it was. There was no suppleness to the tissue. She pinched the back of his hand, pulling the skin up only to see it remain there, not going back to its original position. She knew from the old women that was a sure sign of lack of fluids. Gently, she moistened her fingers in the pot and patted the broth onto his lips, careful not to crack them.

The fluid sank into the parched lips until she was able carefully to pry them back a bit and slip half a wooden spoonful into his mouth. Then she waited a moment before giving him another. The broth was absorbed into the dried membranes of his mouth, bringing flexibility back to the gums that had pulled partially away from the teeth.

His system welcomed the new flow of energy, attacking the broth greedily as she was able to spoon the contents of the pot faster into him. At last a spoonful made it all the way into his stomach, where it started the flow of digestive juices that had long lay dormant.

She then set about removing his armor and clothes, her fingers stumbling over the unfamiliar straps and buckles that held it to him. Once she had managed to free him of that encumbrance and had set it aside by his shield, sword, and spear, it was easy to get the rest of his clothes off. She sucked in her breath at the sight of his body: not at his nakedness but at the wounds that had been inflicted on him.

She refilled the pot and set it to warm the snow; then she tore a piece of rag from her clothes and soaked it in the warm water and began to wash his body. He was like a piece of sun-dried parchment. The fluid on the rag never left a wet mark on his skin as his pores soaked it all in to feed his starving tissues. She saw this and, not understanding the reason, knew what she had to do. Not dipping this time, she poured the water into her hand and began to rub. She refilled the pot seven times before she saw a glow and suppleness return to the flesh. She never noticed that the winter sun had set as she labored over her man, for that's what he was to her mind. Had she not brought him back to life?

All that night she fed and bathed him in turn. To her, it was a miracle the way his features changed. He was still thin, but there was life behind the sleeping, twitching lids. She wondered whether he dreamed and, if so, of what.

At last, too weary to continue, she lay down under the robes with Casca after first putting a few more twigs on their fire. She snuggled close to his naked body. Putting her head on his shoulder, she slept content. Sometimes dreams do come true, and now all would be well.

The unconscious agony of his rebirth passed. Casca slowly felt his eyes open, burning slightly, sticky and heavy. The lids seemed to have weights holding them shut. As of yet, his body was a distant foreign thing, and there was pressure on his body and chest. He moved his head to see what it was.

His eyes were still fogged. All he could make out was a blurred halo of silver lying in waves around a face. Blinking, he tried to focus. Slowly the face came into view. He felt like he was having some kind of strange dream, where the taste of it stays with you long after you awake and it takes some time before you accept the fact that it all happened in your sleep.

Ireina moaned softly and shifted her body closer to him.
The warm feel of her full breasts next to his bare chest and the firm leg thrown carelessly over his assured Casca that this was no dream.

What had happened to him returned gradually to his fogged
mind. How long he had been in the cave or what had happened during his long sleep, he didn't know. His mouth was dry, and his tongue felt the size of an ox's. He needed something to drink. Stiff muscles and joints cracking, he moved out from under the robes, careful not to wake the girl. As he moved out from under the robes, he could see, even in his dizzy state, that she was a real beauty. The flickering of the small fire cast gold and red shadows over her white skin, accenting the smooth valleys and curves of her body.

He moved to the opening of the cave and pulled his bear robe out of its hole to look outside. A blast of frigid air hit him, causing him to blink in renewed pain for a moment before he could replug the gap; then it passed. He looked for his gear and saw with some surprise that it was all still there. By the fire he found her pot. In it was water warmed by the flames. Casca drank it all in one motion, letting the fluid slide down to ease the parched membranes. Water had never tasted so good, not even during the time when he had been lost in the wastelands of the Persian desert.

Even that small effort wearied him. Silently, he returned to lie under the robes. Carefully, he placed her head on his arm and rolled over to face her, his mouth close to hers. He could smell her breath. It was like the fresh grass of spring, clean and sweet. His eyes closed, and he held the silver girl in his arms. They slept as two children do, holding each other for comfort against the dark.

With the dawn, the fire went out and they began to stir, their bodies seeking each other's warmth. As one, their eyes opened to look into the
other's, the gray blue of the warrior's and the crystal lakes of the girl's. Casca forced words from his throat, dry and croaking from long disuse: "Welcome, whoever you are.'

Ireina didn't answer immediately but moved closer to him and placed her lips on his. A still touching, devoid of passion, yet the touching she wanted, to show that she cared and needed him, the innocent kiss of a loving child who needed to be reassured.

They lay for some time until Ireina rose from their rough bed to dress and rekindle a flame from the coals. Casca watched her as she swept back a wayward tendril of hair. To him it looked a liquid flow of purest silver.

She was happy for the first time in days, and the memory of her abuse at the hands of Herac didn't matter anymore. It was done with; she had more important things to think of now as she prepared a meager meal of boiled dried meat and barley. She was cooking for her man. It never occurred to her that he might not want her to.

Casca flexed his muscles under the robe, trying to loosen them. The ache was different this time. It was good to feel the blood in his veins and the movement of muscle under his skin. Without speaking, he rose to dress, leaving off his coat of steel scales. Habit forced him, without being aware of it, to reach for his sword. It was in good condition; rust hadn't eaten away too much at the blade. He was glad of his habit of always oiling his weapons, and here in the heights, it was not as damp, even when it snowed. He placed the sword in its scabbard and lay it back down.

Ireina watched him from the corner of her eye, wanting to ask him a thousand questions yet knowing that it was better if she waited.

Casca cleared his throat to find the words. "How long?"

She smiled at him. "How long what?"

"How long have been ... ah, have I been asleep?"

She looked serious, trying to figure out how to give him an answer. "I don't really know, but it has been a long time. My great-grandmother knew of you when she was a child and told of the way you saved our village and how you would come again when danger threatened."

Casca thought for a time, but his mind was still not working very quickly. "And has danger come again?"

She
laughed, a tinkling sound. "You know that it has, else why would you not still be asleep? That's a silly question. Now eat." She shoved a wooden bowl at him. "You need to get your strength back."

Casca obeyed her imperious demand and filled his mouth with food. Not until he had finished did he notice that she ate nothing. "Why don't you eat?"

Ireina flipped her hair back out of her face to lie in a tumbled wave along her back. "I don't need much, and you do." Casca took her sack and looked through it. There was only enough for two or three small meals left. It meant they would have to leave the cave and go down into the valley if they were to have food.

Sitting cross-legged in front of her, across the fire, he said, "Tell me why you are here and what is going on below us."

Ireina's face took on a serious expression as she related the events in her village. She didn't say anything about what had happened to her; it was of no importance. She knew that the one who had hurt her would be punished without her saying anything. That was just the way it had to be now that he was awake.