Casca 34: Devil's Horseman (5 page)

Most of the soldiers of the army were mounted archers, but there were also the shock troops, heavy lancers, and more recently introduced a corps of engineers, many of whom were captives from China and Persia.

Kaidur smiled into the winds. “Ah! It is good once more to be on the open steppe rather than slowly rot in a city. I prefer to live like this, feeling free and not suffocated in that stinking place. You truly have done me a service in taking me with you. I shall enjoy once more being a part of the army, conquering more of the known world. If I am to die, then I will be happier that it is in battle, rather than shitting
myself mindlessly in old age, not knowing who I am, let alone anyone else!”

Casca laughed. He knew what Kaidur meant. The warrior wasn’t that old, yet he was old enough to have already lived longer than many Mongols who took part in the great wars. Kaidur was one of the traditionalists, unlike the newer Mongols who were now coming through. This newer generation had many who had been born in cities and were used to living there, rather than in the wilds in tents. The traditionalists looked down on them, saying they were soft and weak. Casca thought they had a point; urban life did take the edge off the harsh behavior the nomadic peoples displayed. Casca wondered if he was witnessing yet again what had happened
to many in the past; a vibrant, energetic race who at first carried all before them, yet when they were absorbed into the city life they became soft and corrupt and fell from grace.

Still, there
were enough of the old order around yet to prevail.

They were six weeks into their journey when they at last came upon others. A group of horseman saw them and changed direction, fanning out into a wide arc as they approached. Casca stopped and motioned to Kaidur and the others to remain still. The approaching riders were Mongols and were armed to the teeth. Any stupid move would result in all the party being cut down in a blink of an eye.

Casca slowly moved forward and waited at the head of the party. The Mongols formed up on three sides and covered them with strung bows, arrows waiting to be loosed on command. The patrol commander examined Casca critically. “Your name, and purpose in being here?”

“Casca-Badahur, wishing to meet up with his old comrade in arms Subedei.”

The Mongol sat up in his saddle and his eyes almost popped out of his skull. “You mock me? You mock the great history of my people? You will die slowly for such words.”

“I speak the truth. Subedei will confirm my words are true. We have ridden from Samarkand since the summer to be with him. We are tired and hungry.”

The commander chewed on his mustache. He was in a quandary; he could kill this foreigner now and be done with it, or take him to the camp and pass the problem onto his Noyan. As there were but few of the group he decided it was safe to take the latter course. “You will follow us. Any false move from any of you and you will all die.”

“Of course,” Casca said. He’d expected nothing else. The good thing with dealing with these people was that they were consistent and reliable. You behaved and did as you were told or you’d die. At least, he would be ‘killed’ for a day or so before coming back to life. But he also had the responsibility of the lives of the others behind him, and besides, he didn’t particularly want to come round in the middle of a vast open plain with nothing other than soiled and ruined clothing on and no armor, weapons or equipment. It would be a long walk to anywhere.

So they made their way across the grasslands towards a mighty flowing river. In the distance, off to the right, the dark blur of mountains could be seen, but they were moving away from them. The land rose and fell in gentle waves, and finally, three days after meeting with the patrol, they crested one last rise and looked down on the immense army camp of the Mongols.

Word of their approach had reached the camp long before they reached the patrolling sentries on the camp’s edge. The army was huge. Casca reckoned there were at least thirty thousand there, and the number of tents arranged in neat rows went beyond his quick calculations.
Probably more than forty thousand. It certainly smelled like it; the inevitable odor of ordure, both human and animal, had reached them long before they’d sighted camp. Mixed in with this were the more pleasant aromas of cooking and smoke from the hundreds of fires.

An immense corralled area to one side of the camp was where the majority of the horses were, and down the avenues in between the neat rows of tents camp fires were scattered about.

Towards the center there were larger tents and marquees. This was where the leaders would be together with the supplies and commissariat. Casca also noted the huge number of blacksmith huts. The ringing of metal reached his ears when he was still some distance from the camp.

Soldiers came running towards them and formed two informal rows so that they had to pass down the middle. Curious eyes looked up at Casca and the new arrivals, and most of them, Casca could see, were young. At a barked command they halted and eager hands grabbed the reins, so the escorted men had to dismount and wait for their guard to similarly get off their horses and line up on either side.

Casca stood in the center, Kaidur on his left, and the tallest of the other guards to his right. Behind them came the other guards, and finally Ashira, the other slaves and the drovers. Then there came another bark and they set off walking, down the wet pathway that was slightly churned up towards the camp center. More soldiers were running from all points of the compass to watch, and the further they went the more the crowd pressed in, causing those on guard duty to push against them and shout for space to be made.

The tents receded on either side and suddenly they were in the vast open square in front of the commander’s pavilion, a huge marquee held up with multiple poles and ropes. Men in thin shirts or even naked from the waist up paused in their cleaning or repairing of equipment to stare at Casca, some pointing at his scarred face and nodding, many of them showing wonder or even awe.

Two heavily armored guards holding multi-bladed pole arms stood by the entrance flap, and out from the tent came a bandy-legged man of middle age, bare headed, showing an unusual hair cut in that his pate was bald except for a line around it level with the top of his ears, and the usual long mustache. He wore the classic Mongol armor of scales and wide flaring hips. On his hip rested a sword and his right hand gripped the hilt, ready to draw in an instant.

The assembled mass went quiet and out from the tent emerged three more men. The hush that came told Casca that these were very senior indeed. All were tough looking, with haughty expressions. One was very young, hardly out of his teens, while the other two were in their prime and in their late twenties or early thirties. Obviously they were used to giving commands and expecting others to obey them.

Casca stopped and looked sideways at Kaidur. The veteran was sweating and chewing on his lower lip. He was clearly nervous. The three leaders now stepped up to the bald headed man and one muttered in his ear.

“My master is curious,” the bald man said in a clear, loud voice that carried to everyone’s ear, “as to whether you are truly the Old Young One as you claim, or whether you are a foolish imposter.”

“I will speak to him who questions me, and not his servant,” Casca replied calmly.

There was a muttering that rolled around the assembled army, and one of the two older men stared at Casca in outrage for a moment,
then strutted forward three steps. “Very well, stranger,” he said, trying to imitate the clear voice his junior had used but failing. “I, Kuyuk, son of Ogedei Khan, demand you speak to me!”

“Well met, Kuyuk, son of Ogedei Khan,” Casca bowed respectfully. “I am indeed, Casca-Badahur, one time comrade in arms of your grandfather, the mighty Genghis Khan.”

Casca refused to kneel in front of this upstart. His rugged face was similar to those of the tougher looking soldiers who crowded in to left, right and behind. He wasn’t tall, yet had a tough physique and looked as though he could handle himself well. Then, all the Mongol princes really ought to be able to, if they followed the traditions of their race.

“So you say,” Kuyuk almost
hissed, his doubt clear to all. “Although you carry the marks of him, how can we be certain that you are who you say you are, and not a spy from the princes of the Russian states?”

“Subedei knows me, noble prince. He will identify me.”

“Subedei is away to the north, subduing the city of Bulgar. I am in command here while he and Batu are gone.”

Casca felt dismay. The only man who could identify who he was wasn’t there, and instead there was a man who probably had received a note from the governor of Samarkand which almost certainly would have painted Casca in the blackest possible color.

Behind Kuyuk the other two now stepped forward. They both whispered into Kuyuk’s ears and then stepped back. Kuyuk looked at the two for a long moment, then turned round, his face twisted into a scowl. “It would seem wise to wait for the return of Subedei who will then confirm if you are who you claim. Therefore you will be shown to quarters suitable to guests. But you will be escorted wherever you go. I have to be cautious.”

Casca nodded. It made sense. Kuyuk wasn’t the top man and when Batu and Subedei returned, they would make the decision as to what to do with Casca and his small party. Kuyuk either wasn’t convinced, or, more likely, he knew damn well Casca was genuine but had been warned by that weasel of a governor not to expect support for his bid for the title of Khan. He wondered who the other two behind Kuyuk were. They obviously were commanders of Tumens, probably princes like Kuyuk, but not as senior as he. There was some sort of pecking order Casca had to work out.

The yurt they were housed in was big enough, and all of them fitted in comfortably. Rugs and cushions were scattered about the floor and screens hung from ropes to partition off the interior to allow some privacy. Casca put Alisha next to him in the same partitioned-off area and left Kaidur and the others to sort out their own accommodation. The other slaves were Kaidur’s and he soon had them tidying up the place he’d sequestered for himself.

Casca left Alisha to sort out their area and pushed through the entrance flap and stood outside, watching the camp bustle to and fro. Some of the soldiers were still hanging around, curious. There was much debate as to whether he was the man of legend, but Casca was sure Subedei would remove all doubt once he returned from his attack on Bulgar.

Two tough looking men came walking up from their yurt, located directly opposite. Both were armed whereas Casca and his party weren’t – they had been relieved of their weapons – and were clearly there to go with Casca wherever he decided to go. Some places would be barred to him, and he wondered what they would be.

Ah hell, might as well go look around
. He nodded at the two Mongol guards and sauntered down the walkway, looking with interest at the soldiers and their equipment. Many of them looked the part. As a soldier of many centuries, Casca had gained an insight into what a good experienced soldier would look and act like, so now he could largely look at a man and know whether he was an old hand or a new recruit.

There was an open area where soldiers mounted up and raced down a track, shooting arrows at full gallop into straw targets, their arrows sinking deep into them unerringly. Casca admired their skill, honed for years in hunting in the wide open grasslands of Mongolia and High Asia. No wonder they were feared in battle.

What interested him were the engineers. This was a new development from the army he’d known under Genghis Khan. These were conscripted people, not Mongols, and were under guard in a separate part of the camp. When Casca made to pass through the wooden fence that divided them from the main part of the army, he was refused access.

“I would like to see these engineers for myself,” he explained.

“My master has ordered I am not permitted to allow you access,” the senior guard explained. He was polite, but firm. Casca didn’t press matters; he was certain he would be allowed access once he was recognized by Subedei. The center of the camp was similarly barred, but he was informed if he wanted to speak to Kuyuk or any of the other princes then he was to write his request and it would be passed on in the usual manner. He had been given ambassadorial status and ambassadors were always highly regarded amongst the Mongols.

Casca smiled to himself.
Ambassador of what? He returned to his quarters and threw himself down on the piled-up furs Alisha had neatly arranged. It was comfortable. The good thing about these nomadic people was that they knew how to make living under tents comfortable and colorful. Alisha was brewing up a stew and it smelt good. It even brought Kaidur and the others round. Soon they were all spooning up the delicious broth. They ate from wooden bowls of about a foot in diameter, the surface of the wide rim being decorated with carvings of animals. The broth had chunks of meat and bone in it and the men eagerly grabbed for the biggest chunk they could see without burning themselves. Alisha used her ladle to restore order and one or two of the guards eyed her with dislike, rubbing their hands to try to dispel the pain. Casca grinned and attacked his meal. One thing he knew about this army was that they wouldn’t go hungry, not even in winter.

They discussed the situation after their meal and Casca emphasized to them all not to worry. Kaidur had recognized Casca and so would Subedei. Kaidur nodded. “So, master, when all is sorted what will you do about a bodyguard?”

“Bodyguard?” Casca hadn’t needed one the last time he’d been part of the Mongol horde.

“With respect,” Kaidur went on, “here we have factions. Kuyuk leads one faction; Mongke leads another, and there may be other factions. Does Batu belong to either or does he have his own agenda and therefore stand as the head of a third faction? What faction, if any, will Subedei favor or will he be the master of yet another? Will you stay neutral, and so become another faction, or seek to join one already in existence?”

“I don’t know, Kaidur. I’ll have to see what each man says and believes. I see what you mean though. If I take sides then I earn the enmity of the rival. In which case I ought to have a bodyguard. Yes.”

Kaidur said nothing but looked intently at Casca, almost pleading with his almond shaped eyes.

Casca laughed and clapped the veteran on the shoulder. “Of course, Kaidur! You will be the commander of my bodyguard.”

Kaidur smiled and bowed. “It will be an honor, Casca-Bahadur.” He puffed out his chest with pride. His guards nodded and smiled. It was good. They, too, would as a result be part of Casca’s elite guard.

As the season dragged on and the winter approached, the temperature dropped and the first snows came. The winds blew hard across the plains and the yurts became crammed with furs and carpets. The fires were almost constantly lit now, fueled by dried animal dung, the smoke billowing up through the small circular hole at the apex of the roof. Casca waited impatiently for the return of his old acquaintance.

One morning, early in the winter season, he was summoned to the command yurt, and went without Kaidur who was brusquely ordered to remain inside, and Casca trudged through the snow, the wind whipping at his brown tunic and hair, under escort to the huge marquee.

He was shown in and another guard led him to a screened-off area which was covered in furs, cushions and rugs. Seated upon some of the many chairs there were Mongols he’d not seen at the camp before. He was invited to sit opposite them and once comfortable, was questioned.

“I am Mongke, Noyan and Prince, son of Tolui, grandson of Genghis Khan,” the man in the middle introduced himself. “I have just returned from a long ride to find you here amongst us. My cousin Kuyuk has already spoken to you, but I wish to see for myself who you are and whether you are as you claim!” He was lean, tall for a Mongol, with an angular face and a shock of unruly black hair. He looked slightly younger than Kuyuk.

“And, Prince Mongke, are you convinced of my identity?”

Mongke smiled. “You look like how the legend states you look, yet your appearance is not how I imagined. You are too young, but legend states you do not age. Instead, your wisdom ages so that you are without equal as a tactician.”

Casca slapped his legs in amusement. “Hardly without equal, noble Prince! I’ve met many who have an instinctive talent for battle. I’m but a humble soldier who has experience of war far greater than any of you here, and it may well be I have knowledge that can assist you and the army in the campaign to come.”

“That may be so,” Mongke acknowledged, “but I believe a man with your knowledge could be of invaluable assistance to us. If you are Casca-Badahur, then you can be not only of great tactical assistance, but to the ordinary soldier amongst us, a great morale booster. With one such as The Old Young One with us, how can we fail?” He took a drink from a cup of wine that was standing on a small table next to him. Casca knew a great weakness of the Mongol leadership was for the drink, and it had already accounted for Jochi, Genghis Khan’s eldest son. Rumors were that Ogedei Khan himself was descending into drunkenness.

Mongke smacked his lips before continuing. “But should you not be who you say you are, then I still believe you have value. You would be asked to divulge what knowledge you have of Europe and of their military tactics.”