by Tony Roberts
Other defenders stepped into the gap. Kaidur took on one while Casca went for the other, a short man wearing a bearskin cloak. He had a mace and flailed at the Eternal Mercenary’s head. Casca blocked it and slammed his free hand into the Russian’s face, crushing his nose. The Russian screamed and dropped his mace, clutching his ruined face. Casca slid his blade into the Russian’s side and jerked it out, leaving the luckless man to fall into the churned up mud.
The sheer weight of the Mongol infantry had pushed the defenders back and now the Russians had split in two and were being pressed back on either side, opening out a gap that was getting bigger and bigger, allowing more of the infantry in. Casca hacked at the man opposite him. The defender desperately blocked the rapid strikes, but he’d never faced anything like this before. His sword was raised up across his head, trying to stop his head being cut in two. Casca changed stance, planted his right foot further forward and slashed across the man’s waist.
The Russian folded over in pain and sank to his knees. Casca stepped past him, now clear of the breach and into the street. Kaidur and four of the guards close behind. “Where’s the other one?” Casca shouted above the din of battle.
“He fell,” Kaidur said grimly.
There wasn’t much to say about that, Casca realized. Instead he waved the men on. “Let’s go find that bearded Russian who insulted us.”
They pushed into the city, just as the horde of mounted Mongols came crashing through the gap, shooting off arrows in all directions, riding down hapless citizens. Houses were set on fire and Mongols dismounted to kick doors in and take care of the occupants. Casca pulled a face and led his men up a flight of roughly hewn wooden steps to the ramparts where Casca had seen the bearded man during the parleys.
Here the damage to the walkway wasn’t as bad, although splintered sections littered the route. A few dark entrances to guard houses stood here, and they quickly checked them but found no one. Everyone had gone to try to stop the attack or had fled to their homes.
They went down the next stair case and emerged in between two large log buildings. Mongols raced along the streets, shouting in glee, while buildings burned all round, the sky blackening with smoke. Screams punctuated the air and with eyes watering through the smoke, Casca led his small group along towards the center of the city.
They came across three Mongols pinning a screaming woman to the ground, ripping her clothing off and preparing to rape her. Casca slammed the pommel of his sword into the neck of the first, stunning him, while he backhanded the second, knocking him backwards, splitting his lips. The third got to his feet hastily and Casca rammed his fist into his gut and sent him flying with another blow to the jaw.
“Get her up and bring her with us,” Casca snapped. The three Mongols lay there, either too stunned to know what the hell had happened or paralyzed in fear at the wrath of The Old Young One. “This one is under my protection,” he growled.
A little further on they came across a citizen who’d been pinned to a door and shot multiple times with arrows. They’d used him as target practice. The woman, a sobbing dark haired high-cheeked Slavic-looking girl, stumbled along under the non-too-gentle assistance from one of Kaidur’s men.
There was a domed church at the next corner and a group of Mongols had dismounted and were battering away at the door which had been barred on the inside. Judging by the screams coming from within, it was packed with woman and children. Casca shook his head in disgust. He was a soldier and this sort of thing soured his guts. The worst had been Jerusalem when the Crusaders had taken it. This was likely to be just as bad but there’d be nobody to tell the tale of how Riazan died; at least, hardly anyone anyway.
Further along there were men shooting up into a building on the edge of a square. Defenders were shooting back but they were clearly outnumbered and the Mongols were shooting fire arrows into the openings. Three Mongols lay on the ground lifelessly but the piles of citizens were growing. The ground underfoot was getting slippery with blood, Casca noted. The stench of burning homes and people was everywhere.
A Mongol rode up and blocked Casca’s path. It was Kuyuk. “Ho, Old Young One! Have you found your quarry yet?”
“Not yet, Prince Kuyuk, but I hope to, unless he’s fallen already.”
Kuyuk looked over Casca’s small band. “And what are you doing with that?” he demanded, his sword pointing at the cowering girl.
“Slave. My privilege.”
“You should rape her then slit her throat.”
“Plenty enough of that going on all over Riazan. I feel she has more value in my yurt tending my aches and pains.”
Kuyuk stared for a moment at Casca, then threw his head back and roared with mirth. “Then fuck her every night and remind her who is master! Good hunting!” he yelled and rode off, calling to his bodyguard to ride with him.
Kaidur sighed. “I fear for our Empire should he become Khan. The old values will be lost. Even Genghis Khan arranged treaties with our enemies; Kuyuk knows only how to destroy.”
“But is Mongke – or Batu for that matter – any different?”
“I know not,” Kaidur said, looking around. “Is that not our man?” he suddenly asked, pointing at one of the openings in the building ahead.
From one of the windows a large bearded man had appeared, clutching a boar spear, and sent it hurtling through the air to plunge through the body of a Mongol riding by. The man was pitched from his saddle and crashed to the ground, the spear sticking up from his body obscenely.
“You’re right!” Casca shouted, gripping his sword. He ran forward and pushed aside three or four Mongols who were preparing to shoot up into the building. “I want that big bearded man myself!” Casca screamed at the Mongols. “I command it!”
The Mongols nodded and switched targets. Casca filled his lungs. “Leave him to me!” He ran to the entrance where a squad of Mongols were bashing away at the door. Casca slid his sword into his scabbard and grabbed the log. “Come on,” he encouraged them, “stop being gentle. Be aggressive!”
The soldiers looked in surprise, then gritted their teeth and bent to their task, ramming the door hard with their improvised battering ram. With four blows the door caved inwards. A rattle of arrows came out from the doorway and two Mongols sank to their knees, stuck with the shafts. The rest barged in, kicking the remnants of the door aside, and hacked at the defenders. Casca slipped past the combatants and found the wooden stairs.
The large Russian appeared at the top and recognized Casca. He spat a torrent of what Casca took to be abuse down at him and waded forward, gripping a large sword in both hands. Casca took two steps in one stride and slashed upwards. The Russian blocked and slashed down hard. Sparks flew from the sword blades as they met. Casca’s next blow was for the Russian’s leg but the big man was surprisingly agile and stepped up. Still it had gained Casca another step. He pressed on. As the Russian tried to send his head rolling down the stairs, Casca parried hard, gritting his teeth, then struck back, the tip seeking the defender’s throat.
The Russian avoided it by stepping back again. Now he was at the top of the staircase. Behind Casca, Kaidur and the others blocked the way up, even the one holding the crying Russian woman. Nobody else could pass. Casca pressed forward again. The big bearded man was strong but not very well skilled. Casca forced him back with jabs aimed at the face and gut. As he came into the room more Russians came at him but Kaidur and two of his guards tackled them. Bodies littered the place and arrows were embedded everywhere.
The Russian snarled something and swiped wildly at Casca. Casca ducked and struck up, the blade ripping aside the padded tunic of the man and sinking deep into his chest. Casca held the pose for a moment, making sure he’d done damage to the man, then pulled it out hard. The Russian screwed up his face and leaned back against the wall, then collapsed in a lifeless heap.
The Eternal Mercenary looked round but Kaidur and his men had taken care of what else had been in the room. “Come on,” he
said tiredly, “we’ve done what we set out to do.”
“Sir, may the men take part in the looting?” Kaidur asked.
Casca looked at the expectant faces. “Of course; it’s your right. Go. And you too, Kaidur; work off some of that energy.”
“What about you, will you be alright?”
Casca grabbed the petrified Russian girl. “Yes, just bind her hands together for me.”
Kaidur got some rope and did so, then Casca hauled her up onto his shoulder and carried her down the stairs, kicking and screaming. “Shut up!” he commanded, but the woman carried on.
“What’s Russian for ‘shut up’?” he shouted.
“A blade to the throat, Old Young One,” someone shouted in reply. The Mongols, looting the bodies on the ground floor, laughed. Casca grinned, then slapped the girl’s ass. The woman squealed, then went silent. “There,” he said, “works just as well.”
“Ah, but she may start up all over again. Then you’ll have to repeat it.”
“Is that a problem?” Casca said, and left, sent on his way with gales of laughter. He walked back through the burning town, not wishing to be part of what was happening any longer. He’d got his revenge on the insulting Russian. He’d have to learn the damned language fast, that was clear.
He got to the place where the man was hanging from the door full of arrows when a small squad came at him from the direction of the town center. They had no markings or regimental colors and Casca was suspicious. He suddenly sucked in his breath as the leading man drew his sword and came at him, blade raised. Dropping the once more screaming woman, Casca threw himself flat as the blow meant to carve deep into him flashed past his back. He rolled and sprang to his feet. The three others with Casca’s assailant drew their bows but the first Mongol was in the way.
Casca grabbed his sword arm and pulled him from the saddle. The two grappled, face to face, teeth bared, but Casca was on familiar territory whereas the Mongol was clearly unhappy on the ground. Casca though had to make sure the others couldn’t stick him with their arrows. Behind him was a wrecked building, having been destroyed during the bombardment, so Casca pulled his opponent in that direction.
An arrow narrowly missed him and it was clear that as soon as the man he was struggling with was taken down Casca’d be turned into a hedgehog. He had a knife in his belt. He decided to use it. Pushing his opponent violently away he grabbed the knife hilt and raised it high before flinging it hard at the man to the left, who was the only one who had a clear shot. The Mongol had drawn his bow back when the knife pierced his throat, snapping the archer’s head back. The arrow flew off high into the air and Casca strode forward, sword cutting down towards the dismounted Mongol.
The man blocked and tried to attack but Casca kept on coming forward and was too close now for a sword to be used. His left hand closed around the Mongol’s throat and began squeezing. Now alarmed, the two mounted men wheeled their mounts and tried to work for a clear shot. Casca saw one draw the bow back and swung his choking opponent round. The arrow meant for him thudded into the back of the Mongol and his knees gave way.
Casca let him fall. He was already raising his sword to strike the man who still had an arrow nocked. The Mongol loosed off his shot hurriedly and the missile grazed his helmet. The sword flashed in the air as it cartwheeled away from Casca and plunged into the Mongol’s shoulder, sending him plunging off his saddle.
The last Mongol pulled his sword free from its scabbard and came at Casca, teeth in a snarl of hatred. Without pausing Casca stooped, grabbed a baulk of timber by his feet and swung it up, sending it hammering into the horse’s head. The beast reared and flailed out, the surprised rider slipping off the saddle, and then galloped off unsteadily.
Casca stepped up to the Mongol who had dropped his sword. The man was trying to reach it when Casca’s foot stamped down on his hand, breaking a bone or two. The Mongol gasped in pain, then stared up at Casca.
“Kill me.”
“Not until you tell me who sent you.”
“I won’t tell; you know that. I’m dead anyway – failure of this task will result in execution.”
“Then execution it shall be; the penalty of shame.”
Casca stepped away from the solider and walked over to the wounded Mongol, the one who’d been hit by his sword. The sword had cut a deep gash in his shoulder and chest before slipping out of the cut, and lay close to the still breathing man. He was laying on the ground, breathing heavily, eyes dull with pain. Casca picked up his sword and looked down at him sadly. “Pity you backed the wrong man,” he said. “You’ve paid for it with your life.”
The Mongol grimaced. Whether it was in pain or defiance Casca didn’t know, nor care. The other two were dead. He retrieved his knife, a grisly task, then turned as footsteps alerted him. The man with the broken hand had grabbed his sword again and was closing in. But he was using his wrong hand and clumsily missed. Casca’s backhanded blow, almost made with an afterthought, sliced clean through his throat and the Mongol gargled, clutched the wound, spat out a mouthful of blood, then fell backwards to lie still.
Casca looked round in a full circle and saw only dead or dying adversaries. The Russian girl was cowering against part of the wrecked building. Her clothing had fallen open again, revealing firm rounded breasts and a smooth flat stomach. She must have been about seventeen. Casca ignored her for a moment; she wasn’t going anywhere.
He checked the three corpses and the near corpse. They had various belongings but nothing to tell him whom they were followers of. Sighing deeply he made his way to the girl who shrank back in terror. She whimpered as he pulled her up. Forcing her to stand there he examined her closely. Nice body. Wide staring eyes. Matted, lank hair. Dirty tear-streaked face, but it looked fairly attractive all the same. Maybe a good looking girl, but she’d need cleaning up for him to be sure.
“Come on, woman, let’s leave this place of destruction. There’s nothing for you here anymore.”
She didn’t understand his words but didn’t struggle as he led her through the remnants of the city, up to the smashed walls where the army had come through, over the broken and bloodied bodies where the defenders had been overwhelmed, and back towards the camp.
Ashira was initially pleased to see him, then her face fell as she saw whom he was pulling along with him. “And who is this?”
“A slave. I saved her from being gang-raped and then butchered. I claimed her as a prize from the city. Kaidur and the others are still in there.”
“Do you realize she’s freezing to death? Her clothes are just about falling off her and you tug her along like she was cattle!”
“Shut up, woman, and tend her. She needs a bath and clothing.” Casca waved her off with the captive and pulled the stool towards him and sat down. He was tired, and thirsty, as he always was after a battle. After a slow long drink from his water skin, he sat there thinking long and hard.
Those four men had clearly known who he was and had been under orders to take care of him. The only prince he’d seen had been Kuyuk, so Kuyuk was the main suspect, but there again there had been plenty of men milling about and anyone could have seen him return with the lone girl, unescorted. It wouldn’t have taken more than a few moments to organize pursuit and the attack. He slammed the stopper back in the neck of the skin and shut his eyes. Damn it all to Hades. What had happened to the Mongols? Had they all forgotten already what it took to build an empire? There was little unity here; things were reverting to the bad old ways when he and Temujin had set out together all those years ago to take on the scattered and feuding tribes.
Unity had come only when all competing factions had been eliminated, yet here they were emerging again, a mere ten years after Genghis Khan had died. Only this time it wasn’t tribal rivalries that threatened to split them apart, it was ambition and power. What would happen if one did grab power? He was damned sure the rest wouldn’t take that lying down. God help them all if civil war broke out.
He stood up, kicked the stool in anger, then went to check with the guards to make sure that nobody had come along to take an undue interest in them. Satisfied that all was well, he went into the yurt and threw off his armor. Dressed in his silk shirt and pants, he pushed aside the screen to where Ashira was talking to the Russian girl and was pleasantly surprised to see the girl sat naked in a bathtub.
“Don’t you have any notion of privacy?” Ashira asked acidly.
“Not when I have an interest in my property,” Casca said, again appraising the girl’s body. The girl saw his look and turned away, her eyes going down and a red blush spreading over her face. “What have you found out about her?”
“She’s called Tatiana and is the daughter – or was, should I say – of a minor noble. She’s nobility.”
“Not now she isn’t,” Casca stated, arms folded. “Does she know her status?”
“She worked that out for herself.” Ashira could be damned acidic, Casca decided.
“Tell her she’s my personal Russian tutor. She is to teach me her language. Fluently.”
Ashira looked surprised. “I could teach you. Why do you need her?”
“Two things; one, you’re not a Russian native. You learned it from someone and you probably don’t have idiomatic phrases. I want to learn the language as it’s spoken. Secondly you’re no longer a slave so I cannot command you to do so, and if someone comes along who wants to take you as a wife, then that’ll be it and I’ll be stuck without someone to teach me Russian.”
“Or to warm your bed!”
“Oh, peace, woman! Save yourself for the right man, not someone like me who isn’t interested in settling down, raising brats and scraping a living off the damned soil.”
Ashira gasped in outrage. “You dismiss me so readily, like an unwanted set of clothes. No wonder you’re not married if you treat women like that!”