Devil's Horseman Read online

  Casca kept silent. He followed the three armed men in front of him into the countryside, the rumble of the wagons a constant noise behind him. Kaidur had brought along five guards, all armed with the bow and sword, and two drovers and four slaves. Spare horses trotted along, tied to the rear of the two wagons, and he was ready for trouble.

  Casca waited until they had gone for about an hour. He rode up to Kaidur and requested a stop. The small group came to a halt and Casca dismounted, rubbed his aching ass, then pulled off his armor and put it into the first wagon. Kaidur walked his horse up to Casca. “You are not going to ride in just your silken shirt and house garments!”

  Casca shook his head. “I have riding clothes. Ashira, you have them, I trust?”

  The slave girl nodded and grabbed a pile of clothes behind her and threw them, rather forcefully, at him. Casca caught them and stared at her. “If you don’t improve your behavior, woman, I’ll beat you.”

  Ashira smiled falsely. “Yes master.”

  Casca grunted and peeled off his silken shirt. It was fine wearing it in a palace but it wasn’t of much use riding a horse. Amongst the clothes made of animal skins and furs there was a single piece silken garment which Casca threw over his head. It was of white and hung down to his thighs. Every Mongol soldier wore this next to his skin. It was, Casca thought, the most important and clever piece of clothing they had.

  Mongols used the bow in everyday life; they lived on the steppes and herded huge numbers of sheep and goats as well as horses. On the hunt they needed to shoot at their quarries as the open land made concealment impossible, so a fast horse and a true aim were necessary for a successful hunt.

  They transferred their herding and hunting skills to warfare. They were a rapid moving mobile cavalry force armed with powerful composite bows. Arrows filled the air in many battles the Mongols fought. Arrow wounds were the most common to be found in battle, and removing an arrow from the body usually involved tearing huge chunks of flesh apart as the barbed heads were designed for this very purpose.

  By wearing silk next to the skin the arrow, should one hit, it would burrow into the skin taking the silk with it, not breaking the material. Then, when removing the arrow and silk from the wound, the silk was gently rotated as the arrow came forth and the wound would be much smaller and the chance of survival much greater.

  On top of the silk undergarment Casca threw on his riding skins and remounted, glancing once again at the sulky Ashira. So she was pissed at being taken from luxury and had to live in the outside air under the open sky. Too bad, Casca mused, we’re all in the same situation.

  The group moved off once more. Casca came up alongside Kaidur. “Make sure we have scouts both in front and behind. I don’t think it’ll be long before the governor sends some of his men after us with orders none of us are to survive.”

  Kaidur grunted. “It shall be done, master.”

  They rode for some hours before they pulled off the main road. Camp was struck but they departed just as dawn was breaking. Casca reckoned they had about two hours’ head start on any pursuit but with the wagons they would be slowed down. The route they were to take was north-west through the domain of Chaghadai’s Khanate, which the locals called Khurasan, to the city of Otrar, close to the Sea of Aral. Beyond that they crossed the river to a wild land; home to untamed tribes who contested the grasslands in summer and huddled down to ride out the harsh winters.

  Kaidur was a veteran of the first campaign the Mongols had taken past that region. They had been led by Genghis Khan’s general Subedei. Casca nodded. Subedei was an old friend, one who had been with Genghis ever since that fateful day when he had been proclaimed Khan of all Mongols. Casca had ridden with the Mongols as they unified the tribes, often at the point of a sword, and Subedei had been there too. A brilliant strategist and tactician, Casca had spent many a night speaking to the quiet but intelligent man. For over twelve years he had ridden, fought and discussed many things with Subedei.

  Kaidur sighed in remembrance. “Yes, we rode west, pursuing the last shah of Khwarazm, and when he died we carried on, crossing the great mountains into the lands of Rus and at the Khalka we inflicted a crushing defeat on the Princes. But Subedei turned round for it was no campaign of conquest; it was just a reconnaissance.”

  Casca wondered now why an army was being assembled. Kaidur didn’t know either, but both knew that all would become clear once they got to their destination. But it was about midday when the man acting as rearguard galloped up to Kaidur and Casca and bowed low in the saddle. “My Lord, riders approaching from the direction of Samarkand. They are the governor’s men, and are armed for battle.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  There were seven of them, riding in a line abreast, cantering confidently along the main road. The two wagons were stopped, blocking the road, and Casca stood next to these waiting patiently for the approaching men.

  All the others were away from the road, having taken the horses and had ridden out of sight over a nearby rise in the land. Casca had donned his armor and now stood in front of the wagons, watching as the seven armed men closed in. At a signal from the leader, who was the man in the center, the two outermost men on each wing rode wide and strung their bows, angling in from left and right. The three others carried on with their approach.

  They halted thirty feet away and studied the lone man, dressed in his armor and holding his sword. “Are you Casca-Badahur?” the leader barked.

  “I am,” Casca said, keeping one eye on the circling flank men. “I assume you’ve been sent by the governor to make sure I don’t reach my destination.”

  The leader pulled a face. “Where are the others?”

  Arrows suddenly flew through the air, striking the four circling horsemen. They all fell from their saddles and lay inert on the ground, sending up clouds of dust. The three in the center jabbed their heels into their mounts and drew their swords, bearing down on Casca. As they got to him Casca dived under the wagon and rolled through to the other side, springing up onto his feet.

  Two of the horsemen rode round the wagon while the third turned full circle in front of it, waiting to see what happened. Casca jumped onto the wagon and leaped onto the back of the Mongol’s horse, pulling the rider off, the Eternal Mercenary falling too . As they hit the ground Casca made sure he was on top. Getting to his feet he saw the two remaining riders turning their steeds to get back at him. The man he’d pulled off his horse was groaning feebly, but not yet in a position to get up, so Casca left him and sprang into the path of the man to the left, being the closer of the two.

  He was vaguely aware that Kaidur and the other guards were racing down the slope of the hill towards him, but they wouldn’t get to him before he clashed with the first horseman. As the rider passed, his blade struck down towards Casca’s neck. Casca parried and slashed wildly at the horse’s rump as it passed, missing narrowly. He pivoted and the second rider approached. Casca’s position against the wagon meant the rider couldn’t gallop past him, but had to swerve to one side before striking, and for a moment was stationary. Casca blocked the cut aimed at his head, and with his free arm grabbed the Mongol’s jacket and hauled him to the ground. As the Mongol landed Casca stamped down on his head. There was a crunching sound and Casca moved off, leaving the man with a bloodied face to lie there.

  The last rider whirled and came at Casca again, sword raised high. But two arrows thudded into his back and the man arched his back in pain, screwed his face up, and then slid off his horse and crashed in a heap close to Casca’s feet.

  As the riderless horse galloped off, Casca waved aside the dust cloud and approached the first man he’d knocked off his horse. This was the leader and he was groaning, up on his hands and knees, shaking his head. Casca hauled him up and slammed him against the side of the wagon just as Kaidur and the others dismounted and crowded round.

  “Alright you fool,” Casca snarled, “like to tell me why you wish to kill good Mongols, or are you just a dirty t
raitor?”

  The man looked at Casca fearfully. His throat was being pinned by Casca’s arm so breathing was difficult. “You are the traitors!” he gasped.

  “How can I be if I was with the great Genghis Khan?” Casca demanded. “I am to continue his work. If you oppose me, then you oppose Genghis Khan’s legacy. Now who’s the traitor, you pimp?”

  Kaidur’s men grinned. The prisoner stared wide-eyed at them all. He clearly wasn’t going to say anything more on the matter. Casca stepped back, releasing him. “Throw him his sword,” he said to nobody in particular.

  One of his men picked the blade up and tossed it to the man who caught it automatically. Casca faced him. “Now, you have the chance to die like a man. Or you might even defeat me, you never know.”

  The Mongol had a desperate look. On horseback Casca would have bet on the Mongol winning, but on the ground Casca was king. The Mongol knew it too. And he also knew he was fighting a legend amongst his people. He was going to die.

  With a shrill scream the Mongol attacked, blade high. Casca rocked back, dodged the blow and slammed his own blade up inside his opponent’s angle of strike and sank the blade into the luckless man’s chest. He twisted the blade out and watched dispassionately as the soldier sank to his knees, then down onto his face.

  “Good,” Kaidur said. “That’s all of these fools dead. We can continue on our way.”

  Casca cleaned his blade. He watched as the drovers and slaves returned to the wagons, staring at the dead men. Ashira climbed up into her wagon and looked long at Casca. The Eternal Mercenary sauntered over to her. “It’ll be a few weeks yet before we get to where we’re going. We may have more of this to come.”

  “Yes, master,” she said. “Will we be hunted forever?”

  “No, only as long as we’re in the area of Samarkand. The governor of Bukhara a few miles away will welcome us. But I don’t think we’ve seen the end of this. Just be watchful.”

  Ashira nodded and began tidying up the contents of the wagon.

  Kaidur and the others had dragged the bodies off into a pile and had looted them of any useful item. Leaving the flies to feast, and maybe later wild dogs, they moved on, Casca once more dumping his armor in the wagon. It was too hot to ride wearing that and Ashira had been told to clean it from the effects of combat. Casca didn’t want his brand new shiny armor getting damaged before he could help it. War with the Mongols was often frequent, messy and quick.

  They soon passed out of Samarkand’s influence and entered the region ruled by the governor of Bukhara. Casca was dismayed by the devastation he saw. When he’d last been through the region, on his way to India, it had been green and fertile. Now it was turning into a desert. The crops had failed, the vegetation had turned brown and withered, and no sign of grazing animals could be seen.

  “Kaidur, what has happened here?”

  The Mongol looked around and shrugged. “We did not cause the trees to wither and die. I do not know what has happened.”

  But on pressing the warrior, Casca learned the truth. When the Mongols invaded the region, which had been part of the Shah of Khwarazm’s empire, they had sacked city after city as long as they had encountered resistance. It was the same old story. Surrender and live, resist and die. And when Mongols said die, they meant it. Everyone died. The lot.

  Those who tended the land died along with everyone else, and this meant that the carefully irrigated land was no longer cared for. The water came from underground canals, qanats, and if they silted up and became blocked, then no water was available for the land. And so the land died. By wiping out the farmers and irrigation experts, the Mongols had created a desert.

  Bukhara was hardly better. It had foolishly resisted and had been sacked mercilessly. It was a depressing and half ruined city, and they were glad to pass through swiftly. The road wound northwards and they saw fewer people. The land became flatter and the horizon wider and wider. After they re-supplied at Otrar, the last town before the steppes, they left the road, crossed the Oxus River and then were in the tribal lands of the Turkish nomads.

  They followed the Oxus north-west, traveling as fast as the wagons allowed, and at night unpacked the yurt and tents that had been stowed on the back of the wagon and slept under the hides. Casca and Ashira had one tent, while the guards, Kaidur and the drovers the other, bigger yurt. Casca made sure two guards were on duty at all times.

  The nights were warm, clear and balmy. The winds were soft, yet Casca knew that in this part of the world when winter approached it would turn and be hostile; shrieking winds, blowing dust and grit at first, then ice later. Sometimes the winds would blow for days.

  There were the nights, after Casca had made sure the camp was set and everyone settled down, that he would wander slowly under the stars, looking up into the sky. These peaceful times were almost unreal. He was a man of battle, a man of war. He’d taken part in conflicts for twelve hundred years, and often wondered why he kept on fighting. He kicked a loose stone along the ground. It was because that was what he did best, and he got bored of the peaceful life. And, he mused, there was always somewhere someone who needed his skills.

  Right now it was convenient to be once more with the Mongols. But they were bloodthirsty and all too frequently descended into bouts of massacre that sickened him. He’d been in Asia for too long. He felt a change was coming, a need to return to Europe. Maybe a return to the Empire, the Byzantine Empire, remnant of what had been the Roman world, and the last living link to his past. He’d lost track of it since he’d left its domain with the Crusaders a century and a half ago, and only rumors and fragmentary news had come to him from merchants and the occasional traveler.

  The Mongols were heading west from their camp somewhere close to the Volga River, and that meant Europe. Were they truly going to take on the European powers? How would they fare? Europe wasn’t a huge open plain; it had mountains, forests, rivers. Hardly suitable to Mongol cavalry tactics. And their armies weren’t lightly armored; they had heavy cavalry and well-armed dismounted knights. He’d have to find out what Subedei and Batu planned. Perhaps his knowledge would be of use once more to the Mongols.

  He grinned and returned to his tent. Ashira was knelt besides a brass bowl of warm water. “I have prepared a wash for you, master,” she said.

  “Very good, Ashira.” Casca unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off. He’d not said too much to her about her outburst of petulance back on the road shortly after leaving Samarkand, and she’d calmed down. He guessed she had wanted to show him she was annoyed at being taken away from luxury and thrust into a harsher world, but as she had said, she was a slave and would go where she was told, even though she didn’t care much for it.

  Casca lay down on the cushions and relaxed as Ashira rubbed his chest with warm water and a damp cloth. He looked at her. Certainly attractive, no dumb low-class slut. She could speak a number of languages and knew her stuff, and that of the world around her. She must have been taken prisoner at some time.

  “Tell me, Ashira, of your past.”

  “Oh, I was born in Georgia, in Tiflis. When the Mongols came fifteen years ago they took me captive and I was taken to Samarkand and grew up as a slave. I know of no other life now. I was only twelve when I was taken away from my parents. They died.” She paused for a moment. “I was raped every day until I learned not to resist, then trained to pleasure men. I was – broken in, like a horse.” She looked up and for a moment Casca saw bitterness, then it was covered up by indifference and she shrugged. “Bought and sold, but always in high circles. I was a prized slave because of my training and my looks. But I am now getting old for a pleasure slave, so I think perhaps this is my fate, to be sent from Samarkand and become an army camp slave.”

  “Is that what you think? I’ll turn you over to the army?”

  Ashira stopped and looked at him, her eyes large and wet. “If it is your wish, then that is my fate.” She bent to wring out the cloth and Casca saw a tear drop into the bowl.<
br />
  Casca put a finger under her chin and raised her head. She was crying. The tears ran down her face as she silently wept. Casca sighed and took hold of her, pulling her to him. “You must think little of me if you believe I’ll sell you off to a bunch of raping soldiers. You’ll remain with me for as long as this campaign lasts, then maybe I’ll see to it you’re freed.”

  Ashira sobbed. “Freed? Where could I go, master? I have no home, my family is long dead, my homeland as foreign to me now as the place we are going to. I could only be freed and live in Samarkand, and we are now enemies of the governor there. I shall be a slave as long as I live.”

  Casca held the crying Ashira tight, and her tears flowed until she could cry no more, and she fell into a deep sleep, exhausted by her cathartic outburst. Casca held her thinking long into the night until consciousness slipped from him, too.

  * * *

  They resumed their journey, passing close to the northern limits of the Sea of Aral. Now they were well into the steppes and the winds of autumn were beginning to blow from the east. Kaidur sent scouts far and wide but they reported seeing nobody. Casca frowned and looked at his companion. “I would have thought we would have seen at least some people here.”

  “I came this way, but on the reverse journey, after our campaign thirteen years ago. We took many of the people here as slaves and the rest fled. Maybe this region has been slow to recover its inhabitants. Also, Casca-Badahur, remember, Subedei and Batu must have come this way recently. We are following in their footsteps to the camp.”

  Casca nodded in understanding. He spent many hours talking to the veteran soldier. He pressed him on the organization of the Mongol armies, wondering if their composition had changed since he had left, or since Genghis Khan had died. Kaidur shook his head. The Mongol army was still broken down into units of ten, the smallest being a troop of ten called an Arban led by a commander elected by that troop. Ten Arbans made up a squadron of a hundred men called a Jagun, their commander being elected by the Arban commanders. In turn, ten Jaguns made up a regiment of a thousand men the Mongols called a Minghan, led by a Noyan appointed by the Khan, and ten Minghans made up a division, called a Tumen, again led by a Noyan appointed by the Khan.