Casca 34: Devil's Horseman (16 page)

Nobody took much notice of the scruffily dressed man entering through the Chernigov Gate one late afternoon that autumn. He was wearing a long dull green fur-lined overcoat, to protect him against the chill of the evenings and nights, and he leaned on a poor looking spear as he passed under the arch into the city.

Casca suppressed a grin as he shuffled past the bored looking guards. To them he was just another refugee, fleeing the horror and terror of the Tatars, as they were being called, amongst other things. The city of Periaslavl was being flooded with people, as were the others in the region, and the Prince was sending urgent letters to his neighbor to the west, Kiev, asking them to send an army to help in the fight against what surely was a plague on mankind.

Subedei’s plans were working marvelously. His intention to spread fear ahead of him had resulted in the cities being swelled beyond their capabilities to feed them adequately, and any siege would therefore succeed much faster when the population starved sooner. The stories being spread were being magnified and exaggerated, and Casca helped in embellishing things he said he’d seen. Strange half man, half horse beings that ate children raw; fire breathing monsters upon which others rode, destroying crops and buildings in an instant; legions of horned devils obeying the Tatar leader’s commands. He found people all too willing to believe him.

The city was unknown to him, standing on the northern bank of the huge Dnieper River at the western edge of the Principality. It was the first Russian territory to the west of the open steppes where the Mongols had camped, yet it was over five hundred miles away. Casca had ridden with four others, all Europeans in the service of Subedei. Casca was surprised, yet he shouldn’t have been. There were plenty of people willing to fight for anyone if the pay was good enough, and these
days people could go much further if they were determined enough. The crusades had opened up Asia to the Europeans, and even though they were a mere trickle, enough found their way to the court of the Great Khan to offer their services.

Two were former crusaders having gotten fed up with the way things were going. They told Casca that only a narrow strip along the coastline near the city of Acre remained from what had once been the Kingdom of Jerusalem, and they believed its days were numbered. One was a former merchant’s mercenary guard from Austria. His former master had tried to cheat a Kipchak Turk and had been garroted for his pains. Unemployed, the Austrian had finally gone to Batu who seemed the best bet for money and employment. The last was an adventurer from Scandinavia, a real Viking, or at least someone who lived up to their tradition. The Viking days may be over, but individuals still had that in their blood and sold their services to
whomever wanted them.

However, none of them spoke Russian so Casca was the obvious choice to infiltrate the city and to spy out the garrison and layout. Casca leaned on his spear and surveyed the packed street. Finding a place to stay was pointless; every spare room would be taken up and the rent people would be asking for their pig sties would be ridiculous. He wouldn’t be surprised to find some refugees selling themselves to whomever could afford, or be bothered to afford buying one for whatever reason they may have, just so they could feed their stomachs. It was a pitying sight.

But Casca wasn’t there to feel sorry for the people. There was much worse coming their way. He had much more important things to do. He slipped into an alley that led off at right angles from the packed street. The alley was wide enough to admit one person at a time, and Casca pressed in deeper. It smelt of rotten food and feces, and the darkening sky made things difficult to see. Lamps were being lit in the houses, but their back rooms looked out onto the alley and precious little light found its way down there.

Eyes followed his progress, predatory eyes.
Eyes that weighed up his condition, clothing and status. Alley scum, despised by the citizens of Periaslavl, skulked away in this twilight underworld, never daring to show themselves for fear of being chased from the city. It had been known. These were the thieves, murderers, outcasts of society. They didn’t fit to the conformity of the establishment, so they existed as a sub-class underneath that of slaves and servants. They lived off each other, or if someone was unlucky or stupid enough to stumble across them alone, then all would turn on them, and the victim’s friends and family would wonder what happened to them. One day a body would turn up somewhere isolated and be brought to the city guard, but by then there would be no clothing or possessions on them, and it would be hard to identify someone decomposed for three or four months.

So these eyes assessed the lone figure shuffling along the alley and decided it was unfit to defend itself. Bodies rose up from heaps of trash, or from deep shadows, and converged on the oblivious man. He deserved to die for being so idiotic.

Three thin but filthy figures closed in, two from behind, one from the front. As the front one rose up, clutching a stout club, the figure suddenly exploded into life. Casca threw his cloak over the club wielder, tangling him up for a moment, and turned sharply. His spear came down and he sent it point first into the throat of the nearest back stabber. The second halted, suddenly afraid of the sword that had appeared in the supposed victim’s hand. Their supposed victim was also wearing shiny chain armor, such as the Boyars of the city did, and he turned and fled.

Casca swung back and dragged his cloak off the struggling club man. He whacked the figure over the head with the flat of his blade and closed his free hand round his throat. The man was grotesque. His teeth were rotten and blackened – what ones that were left. His clothing was in shreds and hung from his skeletal frame, and he stank of urine and feces. He drooled down his chin and abscesses were visible on his face through the black grime. Black hair covered his face and hung down in knotted, greasy lank lengths from his scalp.

Fighting the urge to throw up from the smell, Casca shook the creature. “The whores, where are they? Tell me and live.”

“Whores?
The Street of Keys, river quarter. Who are you?” The man slurred and mumbled, but Casca could just about make out his words.

“The Devil’s Horseman,” Casca whispered into his face. The stench made him instantly regret getting that close. He dropped the figure and stepped back to the corpse. He hauled the spear out of his throat and threw his cloak back around his frame. “I was never here.” With that he walked off, pleased he’d gotten his information so quickly.

It was harder to find the Street of Keys. He made his way to the river quarter, which wasn’t too difficult, once he worked out how to avoid the milling aimless crowds. He had to slap one or two out of his way, and one persistent fellow tried to beg too much. He got a fist to the mouth.

Further away from the gate it was easier to move and the smell of the river guided him. There was a square where the market was held, and an animal trough stood in one corner. He went up to this and took a couple of handfuls of water from it. He got a disgusted look from a passer
-by, but Casca ignored that. He couldn’t catch anything and the water was good enough to drink. Nobody was going to poison the animals, were they?

There were no signs around to indicate any keys, or anything that could remotely resemble one. He scratched his head. Well, I’ve got no other choice than to ask someone. The citizens were hurrying home, fear etched on their faces. The tales of massacre and rape had frightened each and every one of them. Casca stepped across the path of one middle aged man, a neatly dressed and black bearded individual wearing a sable fur hat. He looked like a reasonably affluent man. He stopped, alarm in his eyes.

“What do you want?”

“Just one piece of information, if you would be so kind, citizen.
I’m looking for the Street of Keys. It’s around here somewhere. Can you please direct me?”

The man became shrewd looking.
“You after a good time, heh? You’re a refugee then?”

Casca decided to play it cool. “You think I’d want to be out there with all that going on?”

The man nodded. He looked at Casca’s cloak. It was a poor thing, soiled and low quality, as was the spear. But the boots weren’t. Casca couldn’t do much about that; they’d been especially made by the tanners in the Mongol camp. The good thing was that they weren’t unusual in the steppes, having been used by the Kipchaks and the Periaslavians as well as the Mongols. “You have money?”

“Of course.
My boots were falling to bits so I bought these,” he pointed at the leather boots.

The man smiled. People were desperate and there was a profit to be made. He’d already bought five people and planned to sell them to the Kipchaks for thirty times what he’d paid for them. “And what would you pay me for telling you?”

Casca sighed. All he wanted were directions, not a potted history of the damned city. “Be on your way, citizen. You’ll not pimp for your time. And I won’t buy. My money goes to those who deserve it or who are worthy. Begone.”

The man sneered. “You won’t find much in Periaslavl you can afford. You will end up selling yourself for the merest morsel of food. You look as if you cannot afford even the cheapest strumpet.”

“Be careful of what you say; one day it might rebound on you, my greedy friend.”

“When you’re ready to sell yourself for food, come to me, Ivan Petrenko. I have a shop in the Street of Cloth.”

“Street of Flesh, more like. I’ll remember your name and your kindness to a man in need.” Casca pointed a warning finger at him, then smiled in a way Ivan didn’t care much for.

He wandered off and looked along four or five streets. Finally he got exasperated and grabbed a passing youth, rushing from one place to another. “The Street of Keys, kid. Where is it?”

“Please – I have to deliver a note from my master quickly!”

“Well tell me where this damned street is and I’ll let you go. Easy.”

“Three streets back there,” he pointed to a dark narrow passage Casca had passed a few minutes ago, “and first left. Now please, let me go.”

Casca let go and watched as the youth ran off fearfully, glancing back once at him. Casca snorted in amusement and trudged back up the slight hill to the passageway he’d gone past and entered into its confines. It was twice as wide as the alleyway back by the gate, but it was still too narrow for carts or wagons. The buildings leaned out toward each other, and some looked in poor repair. A little further along there was a cross passage and here was the Street of Keys. Casca could just make out the symbol of a key hanging from one shop in the gathering darkness.

The entire street, wider again than the passage he’d just emerged from, was made up of a double row of two-storied houses and shops, all of which had seen better days. The seedy and depressing air was perfect. Casca knew the type of neighborhood very well from his long and checkered past, and smiled. Lights were on in some windows and he sauntered along, whistling tunelessly. He straightened and crushed the cloak off his shoulders so that it hung only down his back, revealing his better quality attire beneath.

“Hey, handsome, would you like to see what I have for you?” a husky voice came to him from above.

Casca looked up and saw a woman leaning out of her upper window, revealing a pair of ample breasts straining at the restrictions of her top. “You seem to have what I’m looking for, Madam,” he bowed sarcastically and grinned.

The whore giggled and pointed at a worn wooden door below her window. “I’ll be down in a moment.”

She let him in and he was led upstairs without a moment’s pause. Her house was dilapidated and in a poor condition. There was a bed and a rug and a couple of warped wooden items of furniture in the bedroom and little else. “What’s your name, darling?” she said, rubbing up against him. “Ooh, that’s hard!” she said, stroking his sword.

“Best weapons always are,” Casca said. “I’m Rufus. What’s yours?”

“Maria,” she said, wriggling out of her linen dress and standing naked before him. She was generously built, and around thirty-five to forty or so. She’d lived hard, it was clear to see, and her best days were behind her. But she was experienced and enthusiastic, and Casca was happy to oblige. He slipped her a gold coin, and she goggled at it. She’d never seen one of those since her youthful days when she’d been slimmer and prettier, and had once been fortunate enough to bed the son of the ruler. Sadly the boy had gone and gotten himself killed when the Tatars had come the time before, and the opportunity for more coins like that had never come again. “Where did you get this?”

“I’m a rich man, don’t you know? You can have more if you’re a good girl. I want to stay here a couple of days.”

“Oh, sir, that’s perfectly fine! You a refugee too, like those poor people in the streets?”

“Oh yes,” Casca affected a pitiable expression. “And I’m looking for someone to comfort me in my hour of need. I’m sure you are the perfect one to do that.”

Maria giggled. “You mean,” she slipped to her knees and unfastened Casca’s leggings and pulled them down, “something like this?”

And Casca sucked in his breath and groaned. Oh yes, this was just what he needed.

* * *

Maria was very good, and Casca slept well after dawn. He woke and found she had made breakfast. He glanced first at his clothing that had been piled on the floor but was now hanging neatly from a hook against the wall. He’d put the necklace and Stone on the bed post, and it was still hanging there. Good. Maria sat cross-legged on the bed and ate, passing Casca chunks of bread and cheese. She had bought some thin wine, but grumbled at the prices of things. “Everything’s shot up in price, thanks to these refugees and those damned Tatars. Talk is of food shortages, and the merchants are making as much as they can before it’s too late.”