Devil's Horseman

by Tony Roberts

  “Oh hell,” Casca said, leaning forward. “Sneaky bastard!”

  A cloud of arrows rose into the air, and fell like straw in the wind. Scores of Mongols were struck, none of them having shields. The men of Chadhak’s unit muttered and a wave of impatience rolled along their line. They wanted to get at the impudent enemy for daring to strike back.

  Casca kept his eye on the Grand Duke, sat on a white horse dressed in a deep red kaftan. Although he couldn’t make it out, he knew the Duke would be also wearing chain armor underneath it. Atop his head there was a round iron helmet with a plume. Two large banners fluttered at his position; one depicting the haloed head of Christ, the second a depiction of the Virgin and Child.

  The Mongol archers wheeled and came again, this time directing their shots at the Russian archers. The river was crossed in both directions with hundreds of deadly missiles, and the bodies began to mount on both sides. Sometimes a Mongol horse was hit and the rider was thrown to the ground. Most of the time they got up, cursing the enemy, but sometimes they lay still. It was easy to break your neck falling like that on that iron hard surface.

  The ground directly in front of Casca and the others was kept clear; the archers didn’t ride across their path, so to give them a clear uncluttered route to the enemy. The only obstacle was the narrow river, perhaps twenty feet wide. How they expected to charge across the ice and not fall in was something that was worrying Casca. Surely the numbers and weight would break through. Subedei was usually much more careful in his planning than this.

  Once beyond the river the land rose and then leveled out. The enemy was fifty yards beyond the bank. Anyone crossing the river would almost certainly be hit with a counter charge and driven back into the river. Grand Duke Yuri had chosen his ground well.

  Another flag was waved from Budjek’s command position and yet another force of Mongols came galloping out, this time to the right. They were angling in towards the path of Chadhak’s Minghan’s route to the enemy. Casca frowned. If they did this they’d cross it at about the river’s edge. What were they up to?

  Arrows rose up ahead of the charging force, and pattered into the ground around the nearest enemy soldiers. Shields came up and a few archers switched their aim to the new group. As the Mongols came close to the river, more archers turned to shoot.

  “Our unit signal, look!” Kaidur said, excitement rising in his voice.

  Casca twisted and looked again. Sure enough, the yellow flag signal was raised. It signaled the unit to ready themselves. The ranks muttered and gripped their reins, and lances rose to the vertical. Chadhak took a few steps forward and raised his hand, looking hard at the flag.

  Casca gripped his reins and took a few deep breaths. Then he caught sight of a small group of men running behind the Mongol archers who were down by the river. They had been amongst them but had been left behind in the charge. They were running awkwardly, carrying rolled up lengths of wood, two to each roll. The wooden pieces weren’t thick, but they appeared to have been fixed together like matting.

  Matting!

  He laughed wildly. The clever swine! “That’s our way across the ice, Kaidur!”

  The matting carriers reached the river’s edge, having got there safely thanks to the sacrifice of the mounted archers. Losses were mounting amongst them as they traded shots at a suicidally close range, but the matting carriers got to the bank and began unrolling the wood, pushing it out onto the ice, unfurling it as they went. There were twenty of them and suddenly the Russians spotted what they were doing.

  The Grand Duke desperately signaled to his archers to cut them down, but losses had been heavy amongst them and the suicide archers were still firing as though their life depended on it, milling about the bank, sending shaft after shaft into the Suzdalian archers.

  But their ranks were being thinned too, and they’d lost perhaps half their number. The pile of bodies on the river bank was getting higher, just off to the right of where the matting was being unrolled. Arrows began to strike the matting carriers, and three lay where they’d fallen, halfway across the river. Now the other archers, those to the left, closed up and began sending clouds of missiles into the Suzdalian archers. Caught between two sets of archers, they dissolved into panic and fled for the safety of the shields, leaving nearly five hundred of their comrades dead or dying behind them.

  The matting was unrolled right to the other bank and the brave men turned and fled back to their side of the river.

  Then the yellow flag was lowered and Chadhak’s arm cut down dramatically, and he dug his heels into the flanks of his horse. Casca hauled out his sword and slapped his mount on the rump with the flat of his blade, yelling in excitement, and behind him Kaidur and five of his guard shrilly added their voices to the roar from the Mongol lancers as the entire unit began moving down towards the crossing point that had been bought for them with the lives of the men lying by the bank.

  Chadhak formed the point and Casca rode close to him, just behind him. Then came the guard units of both men, and behind them the lancers in a gradually widening wedge formation. The matting was maybe thirty feet wide which would allow at most six horses abreast, but once over they would spread out in time to hit the Russians, who were beginning to set themselves to take the charge.

  Casca held his breath as his steed clattered onto the wood, and the noise of the hoofs changed to a lighter, higher sound. He was across in hardly the blink of an eye, right on the tail of Chadhak, and screamed as he galloped up the slope towards the waiting enemy.

  Behind him, as they reached the firm ground over the river, the lancers lowered their points and bore down on the horrified Suzdalian soldiers. As he closed in on the front of the enemy formation, Casca picked out his first target, a masked warrior clad in chain armor, a red tunic with a barred cross motif, and armed with a sword similar in style to his.

  He raised his sword high, and brought it down as he came alongside. The blow was parried, but Casca didn’t stop. Plowing into the ranks of the Russians he hacked left and right, aware that Kaidur was right behind him. Chadhak was battering away at a man right in front of him and the charge slowed as the weight of the defenders blocked their way through. The lancers came on, barreling into the defenders, and a sickening splintering sound rent the air as dozens of horses and men crashed into each other.

  Casca hacked down and down again, beating away at a rider who had appeared, armed with kite shield and sword, and riding a horse whose mane had been plaited with green ribbons. The shield was raised to block the blows and the Russian’s sword came round in a vicious arc. Casca met it with a swing of his arm, then cut down from the block, striking the warrior in the face, denting the helmet and knocking the man off his horse, blood splattering on Casca’s blade. Swinging his horse round he got a vision of a maddened sea of men and horses battling away at each other, shouting, cursing, screaming. The horses’ whinnying and screams of pain were added to it, and the smell of sweat, urine and blood was almost overpowering.

  Casca hacked at the exposed back of one man who was beating down one of the lancers, and he fell off with a cry. A quick check to see if Kaidur was alright, which he was, and on to the next man. A Russian blocked his route, a bearded man with blond hair. He had a mace and swung at Casca. Casca’s attempted parry only glanced off it and the mace head struck him on the left shoulder.

  A bolt of agony shot through him and Casca lashed out in fury and pain. The Russian clutched his throat and his beard was engulfed in a shower of red. Wheeling round and round, Casca roared at the top of his voice in agony. Kaidur came alongside and acted as a shield while Casca got himself under control.

  “You are wounded!” the Mongol shouted above the din of battle.

  “I’ll be fine – just a blow to the shoulder. My mail absorbed much of it.”

  Kaidur didn’t answer; he was distracted by a boyar who had seen Casca and, spotting he was a senior officer, thought he could gain glory by finishing him off. Kaidur met him face-on a
nd the two traded blows. Neither was going to give way. Casca hefted his sword and gritted his teeth. The pain would go but his left arm was too numb at present to be of any help.

  A Russian came at him from the crowd, sword raised high, yelling. Casca roared at him and jabbed his horse hard. Startled, it shot forward and Casca bent low, his sword suddenly an extension of his arm, and sank the blade into the enemy’s ribs, twisting as he passed. The Russian was pulled from his saddle but so was Casca. Keeping a tight grip on his sword, he fell with a loud “SHIT!” onto his back.

  He rolled at once and got to his feet. Cursing his numbed left arm which meant he hadn’t been able to grip his reins properly, he looked left and right to where danger would come from. Left. A horse came alongside and a Suzdalian attempted to slice his head from his shoulders. Casca met it with a crossed blade and struck back, surprising the Russian.

  Every time Casca struck at the Russian, he screamed out in effort, adding to the strength of the blow. Appalled, the Russian tried to retreat but his horse was blocked by two others fighting each other on the other side. Casca saw his chance and rammed his blade up into the side of the warrior, impaling him. The Sudzalian cried out and folded over against the blade. Casca pulled it out and stepped back as the stricken man slumped onto the ground.

  Above him Kaidur was still fighting the boyar, and a lancer rode past, streaming blood but still grimly on his mount, now using his sword, the lance having been snapped in the initial charge. The wedge had partially worked. There was a solid block of Mongols now fighting in the center of the Duke’s force, widening the gap with every moment. To Casca’s left there were only Mongols now, fighting their way through towards the back of the Duke’s lines. When they reached it they would have succeeded and the enemy would be doomed.

  There came the sound of trumpets and the Duke’s elite guard crashed into the lancers, knocking them backwards. Now the fight became a desperate melee, neither side asking for or giving any quarter. Casca felt his left arm coming back to life, throbbing in pain, and flexed it. It was once again useable. Good. One of Casca’s guards came alongside and held his horse that hadn’t strayed too far, and Casca got back up awkwardly. Nodding his thanks, he allowed the guard to get back into the fray which had moved off some yards in the time he’d last fought someone.

  Now back up on horseback he could see better. The battle was coming back his way. Chadhak’s lancers had done their best but were tiring. Now would be a good time for Budjek to send reinforcements. Casca looked round. Behind him lay a sea of corpses with the occasional staggering or feebly moving wounded soldier. To the left the Mongol mass was giving ground and retreating towards him. To the right Kaidur and the boyar were still fighting, but both were nearing exhaustion. Ahead was the immediate problem. Three Russians had cut down two Mongols and were now looking to charge through and take out Casca.

  He had to act fast. Pulling his mount round he rode across Kaidur’s flank and slashed down at the boyar, opening his jugular. The Russian clutched his mortal wound and Kaidur took the chance to run his through. “To your left!” Casca screamed.

  Kaidur whirled and saw the three Suzdalians bearing down on him. He turned and Casca came alongside, leaving no gap for anyone to get through. The Russians peeled left and right and came at them from two directions. Casca had just the one to deal with while the tiring Kaidur had two opponents.

  Casca’s enemy wasn’t too skilled and the Eternal Mercenary blocked the down stroke with a cross blade, then back handed his blade across the Russian’s face, the blow jerking the luckless man’s head round. He slumped across his saddle, dropping his sword, and the horse trotted off, his rider lying limply across his neck.

  Turning, Casca came at the nearest of the two fighting a desperate Kaidur. The Russian saw him approach and swung round but he was too late. Casca struck hard and the Russian’s arm fell to the churned up ground with a wet thud. The man screamed and lost interest in the battle, clutching his spurting stump.

  Kaidur was tired. His arm was heavy. His block was too slow and the third Russian got through, chopping down at him, the blade cutting through the mail and silk shirt. Casca saw his guard commander hit and yelled in rage. Turning quickly he came at the last Russian and cut hard and low. The Russian managed to block it but was right up close with his sword low and away from his face, so Casca took the opportunity to head butt him.

  There came the satisfying crunch of splintering cartilage and the Suzdalian emitted a bubbling shriek, his face ruined. Casca reached out and grabbed the man by the arm and pulled hard, sending him flying off his horse to land heavily on his back.

  Casca dismounted and ran to Kaidur’s side. The Mongol had fallen off his horse and was lying, his face twisted in pain, against the body of the boyar he’d just slain. Casca checked the wound. Blood was welling up from a cut a foot long. It was nasty, but angled from the shoulder close to the neck outwards down to about halfway down the ribs. The left pectoral was badly cut and this was what was bleeding the most. Casca tore a length of clothing from the dead boyar and rammed it against the cut. “Don’t move, my friend.”

  Casca stood up and looked round. More cheering reached his ears, and he saw to his delight fresh Mongol units riding into the wedge, relieving the ragged survivors of the lancer Minghan. The Russians staggered back under the fresh onslaught, and then suddenly a cry went up that the Grand Duke had fallen. The Suzdalian army broke up in panic and the Mongols began chasing the routing army. Casca lowered his sword. He knew what was in store for the Russians now. Death.

  There came a deep groan and the Russian who he’d headbutted got to his feet, streaming blood from his pulped nose. “Still want to fight?” Casca challenged him. “Well, come on, you whoreson!” He’d liked that insult Tatiana had taught him. She’d been shocked herself that she’d known it, but she’d heard someone in the street outside her bedroom once use it. Her father had rushed out into the street and beaten the man who’d hurled the insult at their house with a stout staff, giving him such a beating that he’d never come near their house again. The teaching of it had made the girl go red in the face.

  The Russian evidently understood it, for he too, went red in the face. Or, so Casca saw, red in the places that were still uncovered by the stream of blood. “So be it, you unclean pig,” he said thickly, spitting out blood.

  “I’ll give you unclean,” Casca snarled. “You wounded my friend. For that you die.”

  “I hope he dies slowly,” the Russian said, then attacked, gripping his sword in both hands. Casca deflected the blow aside and struck back, aiming for the chest. The Russian clumsily knocked it up and away, but once again had left himself open. This time Casca smashed his left fist into his jaw, snapping his head back. The Russian staggered back and fell onto his ass, stunned.

  Casca waited for him, swinging his sword. The Suzdalian wiped his bloodied mouth and got up again, dribbling blood, grunting with the effort. He ran at Casca, his sword pulled back for a huge swinging blow, but Casca contemptuously stepped away, and as his opponent passed in a lurch, slashed the Russian across the midriff which almost cut him in two.

  The warrior collapsed to the ground, onto his knees, and doubled up, his head touching the messy ground. He shuddered a couple of times, then lay still. Casca turned and checked on Kaidur again. The Mongol had watched the fight with fascination. “Do all those in Europe fight as you do?” he gasped.

  “No,” Casca smiled. “Not that many. At least, I’ve not met that many who can better me in a fight. There had been one, a Frenchman serving in the household of a crusader Lord’s retinue, a man called Meutrier, a one-eyed mean bastard, and it had taken a dirty trick to best him.” Casca shook the memory from his mind.

  “That is well, for if they did I think we should turn round and go back to Mongolia.”

  Casca chuckled. “Have no fear of that. You stay still and we’ll get you seen to. Before you know it you’ll be back on your feet ready to have another go at these Ru
ssians.”

  “Ashira will be angry with you for letting me get hurt.”

  “Ashira will have her hands full in tending you,” Casca said, looking round. Mongols were beginning to check the fallen, slitting the throat of any enemy they found who was still alive, and looting the bodies.

  A few came their way and Casca recognized them as his guard. Only three of them, though. The other two must have fallen. He ordered them to fetch a wagon and sheet, and send for Ashira. Casca wiped his blade carefully and slid it back into its scabbard. The battle was over, and they had emerged victorious.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The sun felt good on Casca’s back. He stretched and looked out over the sprawling camp, nestled in a valley close to the River Don. Grasslands flowed in all directions and the horses were content, grazing until their bellies were full. He flexed his arm and was pleased that there was no stiffness, no pain. The blow that had numbed his arm in the battle at the Sit River had indented his shoulder bone, but it had straightened out in the weeks and months since.

  Kaidur was almost back to full fitness. There would be a deep scar running down his chest but he said it was a mark of honor and wore it with pride. Ashira was still fussing over him but the warrior was more like his old self. It had been a worrying time soon after the battle, when his loss of blood had made him very weak. Fortunately he had a devoted carer, and he pulled through.

  Subedei had congratulated Budjek on his victory but it had been costly; most of the lancers had died, including brave Chadhak, along with half of the archers who had given the engineers covering fire at the river. What with deaths from the elements, the inevitable desertions and losses from the sieges, numbers were well down from those that had been at the beginning. And then there had been the humiliation of losing the vanguard outside Kozelsk. The Mongols had been ambushed and lost about 3,000 men. Subedei had flown into a rage and had ordered the city wiped from the face of the earth. It had taken seven weeks but in the end they had their revenge. Nobody had survived. Casca had kept out of that one; he knew all too well what would happen. He spent his time with the recovering Kaidur and Tatiana.