Casca 34: Devil's Horseman (21 page)

They moved silently into position before daybreak. Spring was in the air and the birds heralded their approach to the river. Horses blew through their nostrils and harnesses jingled and creaked, and the deep but soft sound of thousands of horses’ hooves on the dewy grass was but an overture for the day’s battle song.

The Mongols were all prepared, their faces reflecting a steely determination. These were tough, hard people, used to living in severe conditions in weather that many city dwelling people would not believe was endurable. They hadn’t yet been softened and corrupted by living in cities, but in Samarkand Casca had seen the start of it. As long as they lived as steppe nomads, they would continue to be hard and pitiless, much as their living conditions were.

Batu wanted Casca close to him. He felt an extra wave of confidence and pride when the Old Young One was by his side. Besides, he was often taken into the scarred warrior’s confidence when discussing tactics, something Batu felt left out of when the other leaders, particularly the princes, talked about a coming battle. He keenly felt the contempt they showed towards him.

Today was his day, his battle. Subedei was not here; the Old Young One was.

Casca watched as the light grew and the stone bridge came into view, then the guards and pickets on the far bank. With a start they suddenly spotted the ranks of Mongols sitting quietly in their saddles. Thousands of them! The alarm was sounded and Batu raised his right arm. Around him, the yak-tailed standards flicked in the breeze, and the colored flags of the many units that made up Batu’s army were held aloft.

Batu’s arm cut down through the chill morning air and suddenly the air was rent by hundreds of voices as the first Mongol unit sprang into action, galloping for the bridge. Two more units were waved forward, arrows nocked to bowstrings, and once more the terrible Mongol war machine lumbered into action. Casca turned in his saddle and looked behind him.
Slowly coming towards them over the gently undulating plain were the catapults, already assembled, and on wheels.

Slaves were pushing the war machines, heads bowed, and whips were always ready to strike across the backs of any who looked as if they were lacking the enthusiasm to push the wooden machines onwards.

Ponies, too, were helping, and behind the machines of war came more beasts of burden, camels and oxen, laboring under the engineers’ equipment and missiles. Casca nodded to himself in satisfaction and turned back to watch as the archers wheeled in two huge circles, shooting off their arrows at the shouting Hungarian defenders. At the same time the attack unit galloped onto the bridge and came crashing to a halt against the pikes and spears of the defenders. Men and horses spilled to the ground, and more than one toppled off the bridge to splash into the thirsty waters of the river, staining it red.

The sounds of battle and death came to Casca as he sat on his horse, watching the game being played out in front of him. Even as he watched, more men came running half
-dressed from the Hungarian camp, and added to the hard-pressed men defending the end of the bridge. As more and more men arrived, it became clear that the mounted lancers of the Mongol army weren’t going to make any headway.

“With your permission, Batu Khan,” Casca said, “I’d like to try to hack my way through with the foot soldiers.”

“Yes,” Batu nodded, his stomach knotted with tension and worry. “Do it now!”

Casca grinned and vaulted off his horse. By the gods! Was he glad to be off that animal! Bellowing mightily, he called his men to his side. Flags lowered and were raised by Batu’s position, and the Vlach, Bulgar and European mercenary units came scuttling to Casca’s side.

The Mongol lancers withdrew to lick their wounds and wait with hate in their hearts, hoping they would have another go at the dogs who defied them at the bridge. Casca drew his sword out and raised it high. “There stand your enemy. Your task is simple; smash them aside to allow the rest of the army to cross, and glory will be yours!”

Hundreds of throats roared their defiance and as one they rushed down to the bridge approach, dotted with feebly moving men trying to crawl to safety, trailing blood, dropped equipment and body parts that had been cut apart in the battle.

Casca leaped over one man who lay there, hands over his head, sobbing in pain, and chased a couple of particularly filthy tribesmen from the Carpathians who had agreed to ally themselves to the yak standards, hoping for glory and loot. The Hungarians had massed themselves at the far end of the bridge, spears and pikes thrust out in front to block the narrow route over the last few yards of the crossing point, and were spread out in an irregular mass on the banks on either side, shields thrust out to stop the deadly rain of arrows that were falling amongst them.

With a yell, Casca ran onto the bridge, vaulting over bodies of men and horses. The press of men slowed him and now they were one heaving mass of humanity, pushing hard at the enemy ahead. He saw Lars just ahead of him, roaring at the men ahead of him to get of his damned way and allow him to crush the skulls of the defenders. Nobody could move
, it was that jammed with soldiers.

Arrows came hissing through the air to cut down the men on the bridge. The Hungarians had Croatian archers in their ranks and these tough men were sending deadly shafts into the ranks of the attackers, adding to the pile of bodies helping to block the bridge. Casca picked up one corpse and heaved it over the side into the river. “Get these dead men off the bridge!” he shouted. Others around him bent to pick others up, some of whom were still alive, and more men were sent plunging into the cold waters below. Those still alive protested but in the din of battle they went unheeded and joined the dead in the river.

Casca pushed hard through the pack and kept on shouting orders. Kaidur, Karl and Lars struck men out of their way to stay close to their commander, and suddenly Casca was there, faced with a wall of points and a three foot high mass of bodies. He raised his sword above his head, much in the way he’d seen the knights of the crusader states do over fifty years ago, and slammed it down at the spear points, hoping to smash them out of the way. Lars arrived with a bellow and used his sword in one hand and his axe in the other, flailing like some deadly windmill. Karl and Kaidur were more orthodox, thrusting forward at the line of points but there were too many defenders.

Casca got one stab in the left arm and stepped back, looking at the immovable line of spearmen. There was simply no room to maneuver; the bridge was perhaps eight feet wide and nobody had the room to get across. More men were falling to the Croatian archers and Kaidur crouched, a desperate look on his face. “This is impossible!” he shouted. “We are going to die here for nothing!”

“I know. Get the men back!” Casca pushed him away and shouted at Karl and Lars to retreat. Karl withdrew but Lars was screaming in battle fury and smashing down with axe and sword at the grim-faced spearmen. Two had been cut down but it made hardly any difference and more defenders than ever were massing at the far end, ready to repel their hated enemy.

“Lars, you damned fool, retreat!”

Lars made no sigh he’d heard. Cursing, Casca grabbed the Swede and tugged hard. It was like trying to move a bullock. Lars swung on Casca, enraged. He almost swung his axe down on Casca but the Eternal Mercenary stepped back in time, realizing Lars was in a berserker battle rage. “
Zurück, sofort!
” he shouted in German, hoping the switch in language made some impression on him.

The giant Swede glared for a moment at Casca, then snarled and walked backwards, facing the Hungarians, screaming obscenities at them. Casca half ran, half walked and led the still seething Lars back towards the waiting line of Mongols. Kaidur and Karl joined them. “Go help Lars calm down,” he told them, “he’s in battle rage.”

Lars was led off, the giant man shaking his head in disbelief that the attack had been called off, and Casca walked up to Batu, sweat, blood and dirt streaking his face.

“It is impossible, Old Young One,” Batu commented.

“So we need to use my plan now. Time is our enemy.”

Batu held Casca’s gaze for a moment,
then nodded curtly. He made a sign to his signals officer who dipped another flag. The catapults were pushed forward, this time only by slaves, the animals having been unharnessed, and brought to a halt behind the command position. There were seven catapults. The engineers now laid out a number of small pots around each machine and the long throwing arms were cranked down by rope and wheel and locked into place.

Casca refused to get back on horseback. He preferred to stay on his feet and watch developments. This was something new he was trying; in all his years of combat, he didn’t think this had ever been tried, but he’d not had as much experience of warfare in China as in Europe. The Europeans hadn’t had any knowledge of what he was about to unleash on them, as far as he knew, and he wanted to see its effect. The only weapon that he’d seen close to this was what the Byzantines had, something they called Greek
Fire.

The signal to unleash the new weapon was given and the small, dark shapes hurtled through the air, trailing smoke, and landed on the bank, or the bridge. Some landed with splashes into the river.

Seconds later the pots exploded with huge bangs and flames shot out in all directions. The Hungarians shuddered and stepped back; some were engulfed in flames and screamed, falling to the ground or running wreathed in fire. One or two leaped into the river. Batu looked down at Casca. “They are afraid!”

“As I hoped.
Europeans haven’t seen these before.” The Chinese had used fire crackers to mark celebrations for centuries, but some bright soul had thought they’d make a good weapon, and so the Mongols inherited that knowledge when they had attacked and invaded China. Now they had brought it westwards. A new and terrifying weapon of war.

The Hungarian spearmen were backing away, fear in their eyes. These strange fire pots were like nothing they had ever encountered before, and they didn’t like it one bit. Another ragged volley from the catapults sent the pots sailing overhead. One exploded in mid
-air and caused the Mongol archers underneath it some distress. Two horses threw their riders. Batu swung on the artillery officer, his face thunderous. “Which dog was responsible for that one?”

“I apologize, Master!” the officer went white as a sheet. “The man responsible will lose his head!”

“Make sure of it, or yours will be next!”

Casca opened his mouth and worked his jaw to clear the ringing in his ears. That close one had been deafening. What it was like to be on the receiving end was something he could only wonder at. One pot smashed into the side of the bridge and covered the stonework with flames. That would make things awkward if they had to fight on the bridge again.

More explosions erupted like small volcanoes amongst the spearmen and four were sent spinning in terror and agony as flames burst out all over their clothes. The Hungarians backed off, clearing the area near the bridge, leaving small areas of fire and a few huddled lumps that once could have been men.

Batu waved his archers forward and they began to close in on the bridge, still firing off their shafts. The catapults now were ordered to move forward, and Casca could see placed on the front of one the still draining head of the unfortunate who’d let the pot explode too early.

Casca waved his men forward again. This time the Mongol army as one advanced towards the bridge. The archers were keeping the enemy at arm’s length while the catapults were wheeled into their new positions, then another launch from them sent the fire pots landing amongst the defenders again, sending them fleeing in terror. That was the moment Batu had been waiting for. His standards dipped, then rose again, and the archers poured across the bridge, fanning out on either side, sending deadly shafts into the backs of the fleeing enemy.

Casca grabbed the reins Kaidur pushed at him and reluctantly hauled
himself up into the saddle. He kicked the flanks of his steed and rode in the wake of his men who were charging towards the bridge. There was a bit of a log-jam at the bridge but he soon got through and rode forward to the edge of the area cleared by the catapults. The whole place was a confused mass of men and horses milling about, and if the Hungarian king got his army sorted out fast they could hit them hard and give them more than just a few problems.

Casca kicked a particularly filthy hill man aside and roared at the gathering foot soldiers to form ranks and stand firm. Ahead he could see the gathering enemy army forming up just out of catapult range. It looked like the nobles were collecting their various retinues into one huge force that would be aimed right at the Mongol center and it was clear to the Eternal Mercenary that their plan was to split Batu’s army in two, pin each half against the river and smash them to bits.

“Come on, Batu!” Casca growled anxiously, looking to the bridge. The Mongol archers were firing fast at the Hungarians, trying to disrupt their forming lines but they were running out of shafts, and more were retiring to the river bank and waiting for orders.

Kuyuk came riding past and halted for a moment. “Can you give my men just a few minutes to re-arm and rejoin the fight?” he yelled. Anyone had to shout above the din of men and horses to make
themselves heard.

“We’ll do what we can, but those damned Hungarian knights will knock these irregular hill men and brigands clean out of the way.”