by Tony Roberts
The two privates gaped in shock, one fumbling for his rifle, but Casca was too close and the bayonet sank deep into his guts, stopping any yell he may have been trying to make. At the same time he swept his left hand up in a hard, vicious blow that took the third under the chin and snapped his head backwards, sending him falling against the trench wall. The bayoneted Bulgarian folded over the blade and took it with him to the ground.
Casca forgot about that one – he wasn’t going anywhere. The third man shook his head and reached for his rifle. A shot would ruin everything. Casca grabbed him by the throat and squeezed hard. The man tried to lever the Eternal Mercenary’s hands away from his throat but it was impossible. The man was a common countryside peasant who’d been drafted into the army while Casca had two thousand years of combat experience and was twice his size.
It was no contest and the soldier died quickly, his tongue protruding from his mouth and his eyes wide in horror. Casca felt sorry for the young man; somewhere he’d probably be leaving a widow and children – but war did that. More voices came from behind and Casca ran, leaving his bayonet in the second man’s guts. The soldier was not dead and could talk long enough to alert everyone.
He passed more barbed wire and a second trench, and then crested a rise and was in a supply depot. It ran downhill, and was in complete darkness. Shouts came from the rear and he knew everything would be up in arms in moments. He had to get as far as he could to the rear before it was too late.
There was a pile of boxes in his path and he skirted them, seeing lights coming from a low dugout directly ahead. He ran up to it and peered past the half-open flap. Two men were in there huddled around a fire, sharing a bottle of alcohol. They looked like support staff. No weapons could be seen so he plunged in, the flap bulging in his wake. The two men stood up, alarmed, and Casca’s initial swipe with his Lee Enfield floored the first, out cold with a blow to the head. The second went to scream but Casca reversed the rifle and jabbed the barrel into his stomach. The Bulgarian doubled up, gagging, and a blow to the back of his head sent him to the same world as his companion. Casca felt better about not killing them; at least he wouldn’t be a total widow maker.
At the back of the dugout there was a second exit which was wider and higher than the one he’d come in by, and he guessed it was where the munitions were brought in from outside. He pushed aside the canvas and looked out to a mud track, rutted and frozen, that ran past a gated guard post, and then the countryside ran free. Casca grinned and pushed through the canvas and into the open air.
The guard post was badly run. All the guards were inside sheltering from the cold, and Casca boldly strode past and pushed aside the gate, gently allowing it to shut behind him noiselessly. He was now through the lines of the Bulgarian army and into the country beyond. He could now disappear, provided he could lose the uniform, and probably the rifle too.
He’d do that at the first farm he came to.
But the main thing was he was free again, free from those who had been hunting him these last few months. Laughing, he loped off into the darkness and the safety of the Balkan countryside.
Continuing Casca’s adventures, book 34 Devil’s Horseman
The Mongols are on the move again and Russia is their target. Casca rejoins the Horde after an
absence of nearly twenty years and finds the unity that Genghis Khan brought them is beginning to fracture. Rival factions vie to promote their candidate to succeed the ailing Ogedei Khan and
Casca is dragged into the murky world of Mongol politics when he is given the coronation stone to guard. Even as the Horde plunder their way through Russia, slaughtering as they go, Casca has to
watch his back as one faction or the other send agents to take the stone.
It is only when his woman is kidnapped by an unknown faction that Casca decides to take matters into his own hands and make his choice as to who should succeed on the throne. But first a war must be won and on the plains of Hungary the final confrontation takes place as the campaign reaches its bloody climax.
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