by Tony Roberts
Sighing, he picked it up and slid it into the fur-lined wooden scabbard and hung it on the post nail next to his bed. Tatiana approached, holding a small tray with two drinks on it; tea. She’d developed a taste for the Chinese drink, and it had become something of a late night ritual for them to drink just before going to bed. “Why do you carry that beautiful necklace with you wherever you go? You never let it out of your sight.”
“Tatiana, please do me one favor if you don’t do any other. Don’t mention this to anyone. You’ve never seen it, it doesn’t exist. To own this is to invite trouble beyond your wildest imagination. Do you understand?” He spoke gently but the words were lined with steel.
She nodded, suddenly afraid. Why this was so, she wasn’t sure. He was clearly worried, worried that she might find something out. “I’ll not tell anyone ever. I promise.”
“Good. Now, let us drink and then you can teach me more of your language. Tomorrow I’m due to meet a Russian prince.”
“Really? What are you going to say to him?”
“Something along the lines of ‘Die you dog’ or something like that. He and I have something unfinished and I intend to correct that.”
Tatiana’s face fell. She didn’t like the fighting, but she knew better than to complain. Things were good for her and even though she didn’t have the freedom of the camp, she’d never had much in Riazan where her family had cosseted her, keeping her away from the everyday life of the city, preparing her for the day when she was to marry into a richer and more noble family. As a result she’d not had much freedom. The change to living with Casca-Badahur had hardly made any difference to her. Except for the nights.
But she felt an odd unsettled mood fall upon her as she lay with him that night; battle was coming. Was she worried he might fall? She had been told it was not possible for him to do so, but that was silly. Anyone could die at any time, even this man! She fell into a troubled sleep, but her dreams didn’t give her any rest either.
* * *
The following morning the catapults redoubled their efforts at pounding the gates. Subedei assigned one prince to each gate, to lead the attack there. The defenders would be overrun by sheer weight of numbers. He and Batu sat on horseback directing the attacks, signaling by flag, while Baidar, Budjek, Berke and the young Buri had responsibility for one gate each. Casca had made it clear to all that Prince Mstislav was his, and his alone. The mood he was in he was likely to cut down anyone who denied him the pleasure. Even as he watched, the gates slowly folded inwards and toppled, broken by the bombardment.
With a howl the Mongols stormed forward towards the ruined gates of Vladimir. Casca had Kaidur and three of his guards with him, all armed to the teeth and intent on finding the prince and dealing with him. Kaidur and his men took special pleasure in their task; it wasn’t every day they were given permission to hunt a prince!
Mounted Mongols circled close to the walls, shooting off arrows and retreating, peppering the defenders, trying to keep their heads down, while the infantry charged the gates. Casca was amongst those charging the so-called ‘Golden Gate’, the one that faced west. It had been here Prince Mstislav had insulted him, and Batu had put Berke, his own brother, to direct the attack. Berke’s archers showered the Russian defenders but they continued to hurl missiles at the onrushing men. Casca flinched as a rock took out the man two feet away to his left, the skull splintering under the impact.
As the Mongols reached the wall they leapt forward like wild animals, tearing at the walls and shattered gates, pulling them apart. Spears thrust at them, impaling dozens, but more and more black-clad men jumped at the desperate Russians, hacking down with their swords or axes, butchering as they went.
Casca scrambled up the still warm corpses of the fallen and pulled himself up over the wreckage of the gate. Four men were standing on the other side, pikes and spears ready to thrust forward. Six Mongols were already lying dead at their feet, as were two Russians. To either side men grappled in the dance of death, neither asking for or indeed giving quarter. Casca landed on both feet, sword in both hands, and parried the first thrust from the man on the extreme right. Behind them banners fluttered and Casca thought he caught sight of one with a huge red cross.
Screams filled the air. Steel met steel as Casca slapped aside the second man’s attack and twisted to one side as the first came at him again, a desperate snarl on his face. Behind him Kaidur and the others were coming to his aid, and suddenly Casca had just the one to face.
The pike was long and had a very sharp point. It had a long reach, but once Casca was inside he had the advantage. The pikeman swung the shaft, trying to brain the scarred warrior, but Casca was wise to that one. He ducked and as the shaft flashed above his head, thrust up, straightening his knees. The sword sliced deep into the defender’s stomach, angling sharply upwards, cutting through the diaphragm and tearing into the lungs.
Casca planted one boot on the dying man’s chest and thrust him away, pulling his blade free as he did so. A quick glance told him Kaidur and the others were coping well with their enemies. Ahead were more defenders, grouped round a hastily erected barricade. Here banners fluttered, and behind one he caught sight of Mstislav. “Ah, organizing the defense, is he?” Casca growled.
“Kaidur, clear the walls and get archers up on them, then shoot down onto those Russians,” he barked.
“Yes, Casca-Badahur,” Kaidur said, breathing heavily. He snapped commands and the men following began swarming up onto the remnants of the ramparts to either side of the wrecked gate. The gate was torn aside by Casca and the other guards and more Mongols came flooding in.
To either side the hand to hand fighting was swaying back and forth but the attackers were making progress, paid for in bodies; as it always was. Archers began shooting down on the barricade and bodies fell, some pierced by more than one arrow. Mstislav realized they were in an exposed position and ordered his men to attack. It was a desperate call, but there was little else he could do.
“Here they come!” Casca shouted and stood in the path of the onrushing Suzdalian soldiers. Kaidur, the other guards and a host of Mongols rushed forward, screaming battle cries. Swords fell and the ringing of steel filled the air as did the softer sound of flesh being sliced open.
Casca saw one unlucky Mongol speared right in front of him as he’d tried to decapitate one enemy. A Russian came sprinting past, wild-eyed, almost frothing at the mouth in desperation. Casca sidestepped his sweeping strike and slashed at his side as he passed. The Russian crashed to the ground and slid a few feet before coming to a rest against the remains of the gate. He didn’t move.
A second came at him, roaring in fury. Blades met above their heads and Casca pushed hard, moving the soldier backwards. Another blow. Sparks flew as the blades kissed again. Casca sliced at the face and it was blocked. The Suzdalian grunted deeply, summoning up reserves of energy. His attack was aimed for Casca’s neck but the Eternal Mercenary stepped sideways, planted his right foot down and blocked. With a backhanded sweep Casca followed up. The Russian couldn’t get his blade back in time. The blade cut deep into the soldier’s chest, down the left hand side. The blade cleared the body and arced through the air, shedding blood.
The Suzdalian stood staring at Casca for a moment, then fell face forwards and lay at his feet. A man staggered past his line of sight, clutching his guts, pursued by a felt-clad Mongol. Casca strode forward. The Russian attack had faltered and the fight was dissolving into small personal duels. Casca pushed one grappling duo aside and strode towards the banner ahead of him. There, the prince was trying to rally those who were falling back.
“Here I am!” Casca announced. A Russian soldier swung round but Casca cut him down before he could defend himself. “You think you can cut my head off? Then try it!”
Mstislav drew his sword slowly and came at him, contempt on his face. “Filthy traitor! What is a Christian like you doing with these devils?”
“I’m no Christian. I’m of n
o religion.”
“Then your soul will burn in hell! Prepare to die!” Mstislav clutched his sword tight and advanced on Casca.
Casca smiled emptily and whirled into the attack. His blade slashed at the Prince’s neck. It was blocked. He then swept a low blow up from the waist towards the heart and Mstislav parried this too. The Prince’s sword was beautifully decorated, and the golden hilt shone as it moved through the air. The jewels that encrusted the pommel and hilt could almost buy a kingdom, or so Casca thought as he stepped back a pace and deflected a blow aimed for his head.
Just to his right he caught sight of Kaidur impaling one of Mstislav’s guards and the banner fell. “It’s all over,” Casca said to the Prince. “The city’s ours.”
“Not while I live!” the Russian snarled and his face twisted into a mask of hatred, slashing down hard twice. Casca blocked both and riposted, almost getting through. Mstislav only avoided being skewered by jumping back violently. Casca’s blade missed him by inches.
“Nice sword,” Casca commented, sucking in a few deep breaths. “I’ll have that after I kill you.”
“You fiend,” Mstislav replied, sweating despite the cold. “Burn in hell!”
“I probably will,” Casca said and stepped forward, striking left and right. He stepped over one of the fallen and went for the neck. Mstislav knocked the blow up and swept back, cutting down towards Casca’s chest. The Eternal Mercenary stepped quickly to his right, slammed his blade against the blow and now was inside Mstislav’s guard. Grabbing the Russian’s sword arm and holding it away from him, Casca slid his own blade into the prince’s ribs, pushing hard and holding him close, in an embrace of death.
The Prince of Vladimir stared into Casca’s eyes but saw only a hard determination. He slowly slid to his knees, slowed by being held, but Casca eventually released him and the prince lay at his feet, staring up at the feet of the Mongols rushing past him. His eyes failed to follow the movement.
Casca sighed and picked up the Russian’s sword. It was beautiful. It was straight and perfectly balanced. He quickly undid the sword belt from the dead man and threw his own aside. Buckling it on, he adjusted it to his own size, then waved the new sword in the air a few times. “Yes,” he said in satisfaction, then turned round. Kaidur and the other guards were standing there waiting. Some had minor cuts but all had survived the fight. “Give the signal for the rest to come. The walls have fallen.”
“It shall be done,” Kaidur bowed and clicked his fingers at a nearby soldier and pointed upwards. The soldier grabbed his unit’s banner and scrambled up to the parapet, waving the flag furiously.
“Come on, the fight isn’t over yet,” Casca said and led the others in the wake of the Mongols who had charged into the streets. As the mounted men galloped into the city, they found the streets restricting them into narrow channels, and the defenders weren’t giving up without a fight. Casca led his men into one house that had people in the upper floor hurling rocks, javelins and household implements down onto the attackers.
An unarmored man met him in the hall, slashing madly with his sword. Casca stepped back, then forward and ran him through. As the Russian sank to the stone floor, Casca stepped over him and made for the stairs. “Look out!” Kaidur shouted. Casca jumped back, just as a spear meant for his guts flew past and embedded itself in the wall.
“Bastard!” Casca breathed and bounded up the stairs. A defender was standing at the top holding a short pike. He thrust it at Casca but missed. The scarred warrior grabbed the shaft and pulled hard. The surprised Russian came tumbling down the stairs and got a kick from Casca as he rolled past. Leaving him to Kaidur behind him, he ran up into the upper gallery and checked all around him. Three doors led off from this and sounds were coming from two of them.
He kicked the first door in and found himself in a bedroom with two men throwing down objects onto the Mongols outside. Casca gritted his teeth and ran at them, slashing down at the first who had turned to block him, and he barged the second hard from behind and knocked him clean out of the window. The man screamed and fell, his arms wind-milling, to the ground. He hit it hard and was immediately pounced on by the furious Mongols who hacked him to pieces. The screaming stopped abruptly.
Looking round he saw the other man lying on the floor, his life blood seeping into the rug. He hadn’t long to live. He quickly checked the room but it was bare of any obvious valuables, so he left and checked the second room. Kaidur and another man had taken care of this one. Another corpse lay on the floor here and they were rifling through a chest they had discovered. “Hurry up and rejoin me downstairs,” Casca said and checked on the third room. This one had a woman occupant and the two men who’d gone in there were pinning her down and preparing to rape her. Casca grabbed the first and threw him back to the doorway. The second turned in surprise and got a fist round the forehead. “None of this crap!” he shouted. “If you wish to do this then go join another unit! Nobody in my guard does this!”
The two guards scuttled out quickly. They feared the wrath of their master. Best to loot the ground floor, at least nobody there would beat them for that, surely!
Casca looked at the sobbing and terrified woman. She was about in her mid-thirties, he guessed. Probably the woman of the house. “I can’t guarantee your safety,” he said to her. “Your only chance of not being raped is to become a slave right now. Your choice, dama.”
The woman shook her head, sobbing even more. Casca sighed heavily and grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her savagely up and off the bed. “I’m not staying here to guard you, you silly woman! A slave is the best you can hope for.” He pulled her down the stairs to where the two guards he’d chased out of her room a few moments before were looting a cupboard. “Here,” he thrust her at one of them, “you wanted her? Well make her your slave. Get her to carry the loot. Rope her to you. That way she won’t be raped.”
The guard nodded, pleased. She wasn’t ugly, and she was reasonably clean and had enjoyed a comfortable life and was healthy. Kaidur and the other man came down the stairs, stuffing items into their tunics.
“Everyone ready? Then let’s go.” Casca led them out into the street where a fight was still going on. The Suzdalians had barricaded the street a little further up and were using fire to block the advance.
“Those of you with loot return to the camp and let your comrades come here. Kaidur and I will wait at this spot. Go.”
The three Mongols ran off, clutching their loot. Kaidur smiled and checked his newly gained possessions. There was a sable hat and a necklace of amber. “Good yes?”
“Yes. Going to give them to Ashira?”
“Why, yes!” Kaidur beamed.
“You going to marry her?”
“You think she’ll accept?” Kaidur was hopeful.
“Oh yes; you’re a brave warrior and a loyal follower, and the sort of man she may well be looking for. I’ve seen the way she looks at you. Good luck to the two of you.”
Kaidur looked extremely pleased with himself. “I shall have sons and they will grow up to be strong and healthy!”
“Of course they will, my friend,” Casca grinned. He looked along the street where the Mongols were ineffectively trying to advance. The wall of fire the Russians had put up was being fed by more wood. It was a desperate tactic to stop the attackers, but eventually they’d run out of wood and then there’d be nothing to stop the increasingly bad-tempered Mongols from exacting their revenge.
Three more guards from Casca’s squad turned up, eager to join in the plunder. He led the four others down a side street. Bodies littered the street and debris lay amongst them. One or two moved feebly but they ignored them. Time for them to be seen to later, if they survived. If they didn’t, then it didn’t matter. Screams came from houses they passed and Casca led them on quickly. He didn’t want to get involved in the butchery of civilians or rape. Neither had ever appealed to him. Or at least, since he’d received the Curse. If he had prior to that, he couldn’t reca
ll.
To the left another street appeared. Like the other streets, this was of hard, rutted frozen earth. Sounds of battle came from further up and he led the group towards the sound. A few horses lay dead and their riders were scattered about in the shapelessness of death around them. Some dead Russians lay by the side of the street; one or two had had their throats slit.
Just a few houses further up a group of Mongols were shooting arrows at a line of upturned carts that were blocking the street. An occasional arrow came back from behind the carts. Casca grabbed the officer directing the attack, a squat, flat-nosed man wearing a poor quality hide armor jacket. “Stop using your arrows, they’re not working. Grab your spears and jab at these bastards. My men will rush them and push the carts aside. Got it?”
“Yes, Old Young One!” the commander bowed, pleased someone as high ranking as the Old Young One was with them. The Mongols grabbed their discarded spears and rammed them at the barricade, poking them through every little gap, forcing the defenders back from the carts. Casca gathered his four men in a knot and pointed to a gap where two carts didn’t quite meet. “We’ll rush that point there, and push with all we’ve got. Ready?”
The others nodded and Casca counted down from three, then they ran hard at the cart and Casca’s meaty shoulder crashed into the edge of one cart while Kaidur hit the other. With the weight of the other three behind them, the carts were shoved aside and Casca stumbled past, straight into the path of two Russians who were holding spears of their own.
Slashing upwards with his blade, he knocked both weapons up out of the way and came on, taking one under the ribs with his shoulder, knocking him clean off his feet. As he regained his balance he pivoted, the sword in both hands, and carved a half circle in the air with the blade. Three Russians jumped back in alarm, avoiding the blow, but Casca had done what he’d wanted, gaining space.