Devil's Horseman

by Tony Roberts

  Now they were resting in the Don Basin, recovering their strength and feeding up. The winter campaign had left its mark and many were glad of the rest, despite their protestations when the return south had been announced.

  Batu had returned shortly after they had reached the edge of the forests and had admitted he’d been defeated by the elements and had been unable to get through to Novgorod. Casca caught Subedei’s eye and the old general bowed once to him in acknowledgement. Maybe the next time he’d consult Casca.

  Careful to make sure his silk shirt covered the necklace, he made his way over to Kaidur’s yurt. After so many casualties there had been a surplus of these and Ashira had appropriated one for the purpose of caring for the wounded Kaidur. Casca had supported the request and so now hers had been set up alongside Casca’s. It also gave Casca and Tatiana more privacy.

  They’d split the guards and slaves down the middle. Casca had even announced a contest for those who’d wished to join his household guard to replace those fallen. He’d set up an archery contest in the wide open spaces bordering the camp and said that the five best shots would have the honor of being his personal guard. There had been a flood of applicants and the contest had gone on most of that day. Subedei and the others had come to watch, as had many of the camp, and it had been a day out for many, eating as they watched.

  Eventually after thousands of shots, the best five had emerged victorious, and Casca had greeted each triumphant winner with a prize of gold coins, something he’d picked up as his share of the loot, and a place in his household guard.

  Batu had been so impressed that he declared he would hold a similar contest the following month. It seemed Casca had started something of a trend. Subedei merely smiled and invited his senior officers to a banquet that evening in honor of the day’s excitement. Casca decided to take three of his guards – two of the old hands and one of the newcomers.

  He nodded to the two guards at the entrance to Kaidur’s and Ashira’s yurt and pushed his way in past the flap. Kaidur was resting on a lounger, something someone had procured from one of the many cities plundered, and Kaidur had bought it off the camp merchant. Ashira was rubbing an ointment into his red jagged scar. Kaidur went to stand but Casca waved him back. “You stay there and enjoy the touch of your woman. I came to say I’m going to attend a banquet tonight, and will take three of my guard. You keep an eye out while I’m away, and teach the newcomers what to look out for. I want them trained up to our methods as soon as necessary.”

  “It shall be done, Casca-Badahur. I should be fit to resume my duties very soon.”

  “I have no doubt of that, my friend. Don’t rush it.” He grinned and made his way to his tent where three men were waiting. One had his ‘dress’ armor in his hands. Casca wore a chain mail hauberk over his silk shirt for social occasions. He had no wish to receive a sneaky dagger from someone who wished him ill. Thankfully nobody had tried to have a go at him since the failed attempt in Vladimir.

  Subedei greeted him with a wave of the arm and bade him sit next to him. The evening was warm and a huge platform had been set up outside the yurt to accommodate all. Low stools or benches had been arranged for the guests, suitably decorated with cushions. All a long, long way from the humble beginnings he and Temujin had known before they had united the tribes. Victory brings its own rewards.

  “How is your man, Kaidur, Old Young One?” Subedei asked politely, picking up a slab of goats cheese from a platter.

  “Recovering. He should be back to normal within a couple of weeks, I’d say.” Casca sat down, nodding to the others. Most returned his greeting, but some still gave him the benefit of a frown or scowl. Kuyuk would never forgive him, he supposed, and that extended to his brother Kadan, and the young Buri who practically hero-worshipped Kuyuk.

  Baidar was pleasant enough, if a little reserved. Mongke was strictly formal, honoring him with his title and deferring to him as etiquette amongst the Mongols demanded, but that was as far as it went with him. Budjek was a little warmer, probably as Casca thought because he’d fought under him and done well in difficult circumstances.

  As for Batu and his four brothers, they were a mixed bag. Batu clearly was overawed that Casca was in his presence, and tip-toed around him. Casca believed if he lost his temper at the Prince he’d probably shit himself. Siban and Berke seemed to have more pragmatic views, and accepted him as a warrior, albeit one who was useless on horseback. Rather than mock him or show contempt, they took it with a resigned air of ironic humor. The gods obviously had decided to play a trick on him; give him battle skills to rival any of them, yet make him the world’s worst rider.

  Orda was cool towards him. The oldest of the siblings, he even outranked Batu, but had deferred to him, being content with his little khanate to the east of Batu’s. He was here to help his younger brother extend his dominions, and he clearly disliked the other princes. Casca guessed the illegitimate issue had soured him, and he saw Casca as a representative of the Mongol system that had disadvantaged him. If seniority had been allowed, then Orda would have been khan. That left young Sinkur. He said little and humbly trotted in the wake of his older brothers. About the same age as the fiery Buri, he couldn’t have been any more different.

  “I have sent a messenger to Ogedei Khan,” Subedei announced between mouthfuls. “For replacements to replenish our losses. They will take some months to arrive. In the meantime you can select an area to ride out and ravage, but avoid the cities. I do not want a repeat of the episode of the City of Sorrow.” That was what the Mongols had renamed Kozelsk. “Is that clear?”

  The princes murmured their agreement.

  “If I find any one of you has ignored this command and lost your men, then I shall dismiss you and send you back to Karakorum in disgrace, and you will say farewell to this campaign of conquest.”

  Casca grinned and picked up a steaming haunch of goat. The juice dribbled down his chin as he bit into it. The taste was delicious. He had to put it down as it was still fairly hot and his fingers nearly got burned.

  “You find the prospect of one of us being dismissed amusing, Old Young One?” Kuyuk asked silkily.

  “You know your orders,” Casca replied, wiping the juice off his mouth and chin. “Only a fool would disobey them. Do you believe you’re a fool?”

  There were a few smirks around the table. Kuyuk glared hatefully at Casca.

  “I’ve seen men disobey orders many times, and it nearly always ends up in trouble. War is a costly business, Prince Kuyuk.” Casca spoke to Kuyuk, but he was also addressing the others. “To go to war costs much. You have to pay the soldiers, you have to pay the engineers, the pioneers, the makers of weapons, the manufacturers of war machines,” he jerked a thumb at the skeletons of the catapults, now in their disassembled parts in the fenced off area where they would remain until the Mongols moved off again.

  “Then there is the cost of lives. Wars always costs lives. All of you here have seen that. Even victorious wars costs lives. What price a victory if it costs you your best troops?”

  Nobody spoke. They were all listening intently to him, even Subedei.

  “To make war should not be an easy business. It should be only taken after careful consideration of many things. Can a war be afforded?” He looked at Baidar. “Your father is chancellor to the Khan, yes? Then he would know the cost of war. Yes, victory is good, for it refills your coffers. But consider this, Prince Kuyuk; you disobey an order from Subedei here and attack a city. You get wiped out. You have lost hundreds, maybe thousands of valuable men and horses, and given the enemy a morale boost.” He looked at Kuyuk, then briefly the others. “All because you could not do a simple thing like follow orders. If you do become khan, how would you feel if your orders were not followed by someone who thought they knew better, and it cost you men and prestige?”

  Kuyuk sneered. “I would have them put to death.”

  “Then look favorably upon Subedei here and follow his orders. He is very skilled i
n the art of war and knows much. I hope all of you here learn even a little bit from him. That would be the best thing you ever bring back from this campaign. More valuable than a few trinkets or bloody trophies from the battlefield, I can tell you.”

  Kuyuk smiled without warmth. He looked away, but Casca knew the prince’s hatred towards him had just gone up a few notches. Subedei nodded slowly. It had been a long time since such wisdom had been spoken at his table, and he bathed in its warmth. Batu shivered, but it was a pleasant feeling. He felt as though something wonderful had just passed through him. He had visions of him administering a huge empire, and all of the Russias would be a magnificent domain. He would ensure that wealth would flow to his capital, and make it a Golden Empire. A Golden Horde.

  “You show me great favor, Old Young One,” Subedei said solemnly. “The princes here will raid the area around here, ravaging everything and bring me prisoners. You have knowledge of many things. Tell me, I believe I will have too many captives for use here with the army. Who would be the best to sell them to?”

  Casca took a goblet of wine and sipped it for a moment. “Well Europe is not the place; they don’t really go for that sort of thing. Not officially anyway, and I doubt they’ll trade with you. The Islamic lands are much better; slavery is a way of life there.”

  “And whom should I send an ambassador to?”

  “There’s a Caliph at Baghdad, or there was the last time I looked. He’s more of a spiritual leader these days, a puppet. You need to deal with the money men. The Turks are a possibility, or Egypt.”

  “Egypt? They are wealthy?”

  “Incredibly. Big land, lots of people. Ancient kingdom. You want to deal with them? Send an ambassador to Cairo. I bet there’s a dealer in the Crimea to the south of here. That land is Kipchak territory, isn’t it? They’re slavers. Bet they’ve got Egyptian traders in their cities.”

  “I shall arrange it,” Subedei nodded. “Is there anything you wish? I know you’re a man of action, and we will be here for many months yet, perhaps even into the winter. I notice you get restless if we remain in one place for too long.”

  “You’re right. I’d like to scout out west with a small group of men. Gain you intelligence on what’s up ahead. And I’m no Mongol. I could pass for any European. I’d need non Mongols to accompany me. Can you arrange that?”

  Subedei thought for a moment. “I shall see what I can arrange.”

  After that the drinking got serious and boisterous, and Subedei decided it was time he retired. He left the others to get drunk, and Casca got up and left too, mostly because Kuyuk was getting louder and louder and more arrogant. If he said too much then Casca would flatten the jerk, and that would land him in hot water.

  He walked away but caught the majority of an insult hurled at him in a very slurred voice. Casca decided to let it slide. If Kuyuk wanted to behave like a child, then that was his prerogative. Casca wanted to play with grown-ups, and Tatiana was one grown up he sure wanted to play with at that moment.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Nobody took much notice of the scruffily dressed man entering through the Chernigov Gate one late afternoon that autumn. He was wearing a long dull green fur-lined overcoat, to protect him against the chill of the evenings and nights, and he leaned on a poor looking spear as he passed under the arch into the city.

  Casca suppressed a grin as he shuffled past the bored looking guards. To them he was just another refugee, fleeing the horror and terror of the Tatars, as they were being called, amongst other things. The city of Periaslavl was being flooded with people, as were the others in the region, and the Prince was sending urgent letters to his neighbor to the west, Kiev, asking them to send an army to help in the fight against what surely was a plague on mankind.

  Subedei’s plans were working marvelously. His intention to spread fear ahead of him had resulted in the cities being swelled beyond their capabilities to feed them adequately, and any siege would therefore succeed much faster when the population starved sooner. The stories being spread were being magnified and exaggerated, and Casca helped in embellishing things he said he’d seen. Strange half man, half horse beings that ate children raw; fire breathing monsters upon which others rode, destroying crops and buildings in an instant; legions of horned devils obeying the Tatar leader’s commands. He found people all too willing to believe him.

  The city was unknown to him, standing on the northern bank of the huge Dnieper River at the western edge of the Principality. It was the first Russian territory to the west of the open steppes where the Mongols had camped, yet it was over five hundred miles away. Casca had ridden with four others, all Europeans in the service of Subedei. Casca was surprised, yet he shouldn’t have been. There were plenty of people willing to fight for anyone if the pay was good enough, and these days people could go much further if they were determined enough. The crusades had opened up Asia to the Europeans, and even though they were a mere trickle, enough found their way to the court of the Great Khan to offer their services.

  Two were former crusaders having gotten fed up with the way things were going. They told Casca that only a narrow strip along the coastline near the city of Acre remained from what had once been the Kingdom of Jerusalem, and they believed its days were numbered. One was a former merchant’s mercenary guard from Austria. His former master had tried to cheat a Kipchak Turk and had been garroted for his pains. Unemployed, the Austrian had finally gone to Batu who seemed the best bet for money and employment. The last was an adventurer from Scandinavia, a real Viking, or at least someone who lived up to their tradition. The Viking days may be over, but individuals still had that in their blood and sold their services to whomever wanted them.

  However, none of them spoke Russian so Casca was the obvious choice to infiltrate the city and to spy out the garrison and layout. Casca leaned on his spear and surveyed the packed street. Finding a place to stay was pointless; every spare room would be taken up and the rent people would be asking for their pig sties would be ridiculous. He wouldn’t be surprised to find some refugees selling themselves to whomever could afford, or be bothered to afford buying one for whatever reason they may have, just so they could feed their stomachs. It was a pitying sight.

  But Casca wasn’t there to feel sorry for the people. There was much worse coming their way. He had much more important things to do. He slipped into an alley that led off at right angles from the packed street. The alley was wide enough to admit one person at a time, and Casca pressed in deeper. It smelt of rotten food and feces, and the darkening sky made things difficult to see. Lamps were being lit in the houses, but their back rooms looked out onto the alley and precious little light found its way down there.

  Eyes followed his progress, predatory eyes. Eyes that weighed up his condition, clothing and status. Alley scum, despised by the citizens of Periaslavl, skulked away in this twilight underworld, never daring to show themselves for fear of being chased from the city. It had been known. These were the thieves, murderers, outcasts of society. They didn’t fit to the conformity of the establishment, so they existed as a sub-class underneath that of slaves and servants. They lived off each other, or if someone was unlucky or stupid enough to stumble across them alone, then all would turn on them, and the victim’s friends and family would wonder what happened to them. One day a body would turn up somewhere isolated and be brought to the city guard, but by then there would be no clothing or possessions on them, and it would be hard to identify someone decomposed for three or four months.

  So these eyes assessed the lone figure shuffling along the alley and decided it was unfit to defend itself. Bodies rose up from heaps of trash, or from deep shadows, and converged on the oblivious man. He deserved to die for being so idiotic.

  Three thin but filthy figures closed in, two from behind, one from the front. As the front one rose up, clutching a stout club, the figure suddenly exploded into life. Casca threw his cloak over the club wielder, tangling him up for a moment, and turned sh
arply. His spear came down and he sent it point first into the throat of the nearest back stabber. The second halted, suddenly afraid of the sword that had appeared in the supposed victim’s hand. Their supposed victim was also wearing shiny chain armor, such as the Boyars of the city did, and he turned and fled.

  Casca swung back and dragged his cloak off the struggling club man. He whacked the figure over the head with the flat of his blade and closed his free hand round his throat. The man was grotesque. His teeth were rotten and blackened – what ones that were left. His clothing was in shreds and hung from his skeletal frame, and he stank of urine and feces. He drooled down his chin and abscesses were visible on his face through the black grime. Black hair covered his face and hung down in knotted, greasy lank lengths from his scalp.

  Fighting the urge to throw up from the smell, Casca shook the creature. “The whores, where are they? Tell me and live.”

  “Whores? The Street of Keys, river quarter. Who are you?” The man slurred and mumbled, but Casca could just about make out his words.

  “The Devil’s Horseman,” Casca whispered into his face. The stench made him instantly regret getting that close. He dropped the figure and stepped back to the corpse. He hauled the spear out of his throat and threw his cloak back around his frame. “I was never here.” With that he walked off, pleased he’d gotten his information so quickly.

  It was harder to find the Street of Keys. He made his way to the river quarter, which wasn’t too difficult, once he worked out how to avoid the milling aimless crowds. He had to slap one or two out of his way, and one persistent fellow tried to beg too much. He got a fist to the mouth.

  Further away from the gate it was easier to move and the smell of the river guided him. There was a square where the market was held, and an animal trough stood in one corner. He went up to this and took a couple of handfuls of water from it. He got a disgusted look from a passer-by, but Casca ignored that. He couldn’t catch anything and the water was good enough to drink. Nobody was going to poison the animals, were they?