Devil's Horseman

by Tony Roberts

  There were no signs around to indicate any keys, or anything that could remotely resemble one. He scratched his head. Well, I’ve got no other choice than to ask someone. The citizens were hurrying home, fear etched on their faces. The tales of massacre and rape had frightened each and every one of them. Casca stepped across the path of one middle aged man, a neatly dressed and black bearded individual wearing a sable fur hat. He looked like a reasonably affluent man. He stopped, alarm in his eyes.

  “What do you want?”

  “Just one piece of information, if you would be so kind, citizen. I’m looking for the Street of Keys. It’s around here somewhere. Can you please direct me?”

  The man became shrewd looking. “You after a good time, heh? You’re a refugee then?”

  Casca decided to play it cool. “You think I’d want to be out there with all that going on?”

  The man nodded. He looked at Casca’s cloak. It was a poor thing, soiled and low quality, as was the spear. But the boots weren’t. Casca couldn’t do much about that; they’d been especially made by the tanners in the Mongol camp. The good thing was that they weren’t unusual in the steppes, having been used by the Kipchaks and the Periaslavians as well as the Mongols. “You have money?”

  “Of course. My boots were falling to bits so I bought these,” he pointed at the leather boots.

  The man smiled. People were desperate and there was a profit to be made. He’d already bought five people and planned to sell them to the Kipchaks for thirty times what he’d paid for them. “And what would you pay me for telling you?”

  Casca sighed. All he wanted were directions, not a potted history of the damned city. “Be on your way, citizen. You’ll not pimp for your time. And I won’t buy. My money goes to those who deserve it or who are worthy. Begone.”

  The man sneered. “You won’t find much in Periaslavl you can afford. You will end up selling yourself for the merest morsel of food. You look as if you cannot afford even the cheapest strumpet.”

  “Be careful of what you say; one day it might rebound on you, my greedy friend.”

  “When you’re ready to sell yourself for food, come to me, Ivan Petrenko. I have a shop in the Street of Cloth.”

  “Street of Flesh, more like. I’ll remember your name and your kindness to a man in need.” Casca pointed a warning finger at him, then smiled in a way Ivan didn’t care much for.

  He wandered off and looked along four or five streets. Finally he got exasperated and grabbed a passing youth, rushing from one place to another. “The Street of Keys, kid. Where is it?”

  “Please – I have to deliver a note from my master quickly!”

  “Well tell me where this damned street is and I’ll let you go. Easy.”

  “Three streets back there,” he pointed to a dark narrow passage Casca had passed a few minutes ago, “and first left. Now please, let me go.”

  Casca let go and watched as the youth ran off fearfully, glancing back once at him. Casca snorted in amusement and trudged back up the slight hill to the passageway he’d gone past and entered into its confines. It was twice as wide as the alleyway back by the gate, but it was still too narrow for carts or wagons. The buildings leaned out toward each other, and some looked in poor repair. A little further along there was a cross passage and here was the Street of Keys. Casca could just make out the symbol of a key hanging from one shop in the gathering darkness.

  The entire street, wider again than the passage he’d just emerged from, was made up of a double row of two-storied houses and shops, all of which had seen better days. The seedy and depressing air was perfect. Casca knew the type of neighborhood very well from his long and checkered past, and smiled. Lights were on in some windows and he sauntered along, whistling tunelessly. He straightened and crushed the cloak off his shoulders so that it hung only down his back, revealing his better quality attire beneath.

  “Hey, handsome, would you like to see what I have for you?” a husky voice came to him from above.

  Casca looked up and saw a woman leaning out of her upper window, revealing a pair of ample breasts straining at the restrictions of her top. “You seem to have what I’m looking for, Madam,” he bowed sarcastically and grinned.

  The whore giggled and pointed at a worn wooden door below her window. “I’ll be down in a moment.”

  She let him in and he was led upstairs without a moment’s pause. Her house was dilapidated and in a poor condition. There was a bed and a rug and a couple of warped wooden items of furniture in the bedroom and little else. “What’s your name, darling?” she said, rubbing up against him. “Ooh, that’s hard!” she said, stroking his sword.

  “Best weapons always are,” Casca said. “I’m Rufus. What’s yours?”

  “Maria,” she said, wriggling out of her linen dress and standing naked before him. She was generously built, and around thirty-five to forty or so. She’d lived hard, it was clear to see, and her best days were behind her. But she was experienced and enthusiastic, and Casca was happy to oblige. He slipped her a gold coin, and she goggled at it. She’d never seen one of those since her youthful days when she’d been slimmer and prettier, and had once been fortunate enough to bed the son of the ruler. Sadly the boy had gone and gotten himself killed when the Tatars had come the time before, and the opportunity for more coins like that had never come again. “Where did you get this?”

  “I’m a rich man, don’t you know? You can have more if you’re a good girl. I want to stay here a couple of days.”

  “Oh, sir, that’s perfectly fine! You a refugee too, like those poor people in the streets?”

  “Oh yes,” Casca affected a pitiable expression. “And I’m looking for someone to comfort me in my hour of need. I’m sure you are the perfect one to do that.”

  Maria giggled. “You mean,” she slipped to her knees and unfastened Casca’s leggings and pulled them down, “something like this?”

  And Casca sucked in his breath and groaned. Oh yes, this was just what he needed.

  * * *

  Maria was very good, and Casca slept well after dawn. He woke and found she had made breakfast. He glanced first at his clothing that had been piled on the floor but was now hanging neatly from a hook against the wall. He’d put the necklace and Stone on the bed post, and it was still hanging there. Good. Maria sat cross-legged on the bed and ate, passing Casca chunks of bread and cheese. She had bought some thin wine, but grumbled at the prices of things. “Everything’s shot up in price, thanks to these refugees and those damned Tatars. Talk is of food shortages, and the merchants are making as much as they can before it’s too late.”

  “Then I think you deserve a few more coins. You’d best make your way out of here and travel to Kiev or somewhere further west. I think those Tatars will be coming this way, don’t you?”

  “Leave my home city? I have a home here and I know of nowhere else. No, I was born here and I’ll die here. I would be like those poor souls out there,” she jerked a thumb at the window, “with no home and bastards to take advantage of them.”

  Casca knew what she meant. He feared for her; like all good whores, she had a heart of gold and he hated the thought of her being at the mercy of the Mongols. Best he didn’t think too deeply on it. He had to do a couple of things that day. He leaned back comfortably against the feather pillows. He wondered where she’d gotten them. “Is there a decent jeweler’s around here?”

  “Why yes, there’s Nikolas just a couple of streets away. He’s just about the best, but not cheap! He paid me well, too,” she chuckled.

  Casca smirked. “I bet! You’re one hell of a woman.” Maria, to Casca’s delight, blushed, pleased. “But I have to see him about an item of jewelry as a matter of urgency. Will have to go soon. Then I must go see the local guard. I’m disgusted at the general lawlessness of the city.”

  “You won’t change that,” Maria said. “The rulers here are stupid and selfish.”

  “Maybe so, but I must try.”

  Aft
er breakfast Casca went to Nikolas the Jeweler, and asked him about a specific job. He hummed and hawed, but eventually, after Casca produced the right number of coins, agreed to do so. It would take a week. Casca nodded and left. He gave Maria the good news that she would have him as a paying guest for a week, then he walked the streets and sought out the city guard, and found it in the citadel, close to the river.

  The commander was a busy man, but he agreed to see the finely-dressed visitor. He complained that there were not enough hours in the day to attend the number of problems, he, a loyal servant of the Prince, had to contend with. He was overwhelmed with the number of refugees and there simply weren’t enough places to house them all. Many were turning to crime and his men were just not able to cope. Casca sympathized and offered a few words of advice. “Go see the Prince; it’s his city and he ought to take more interest in it.”

  “Pah!” the commander looked disgusted. “Everyone knows he’s too busy with taxing us all to worry about our woes. He’s pouring money into mercenary guards and enlarging his retinue. He’s too frightened of these Tatars to worry about us. So the city goes to hell and he protects himself.”

  “If the Tatars come this way even an enlarged retinue won’t help him. Have not the refugees told you of what’s going on out there? I would offer my services myself but I’d be putting a noose round my neck. I’m off west when my time here is done. Take my advice; don’t stay here. Death is coming your way.”

  The commander nodded heavily. “I know that, but I have my duty, and I must stay for the sake of my people and my men.”

  “Take care in that case. I’ll take my leave. I’ve said what I came here to say.” He’d found out enough to know the city was not capable of resisting any attack; it was divided and run by someone who didn’t give a damn about the population.

  A week later, and lighter by a few coins but heavier with other items, he left, pleased that his reconnaissance had been a success. He regretted that Maria would be caught up in the coming storm, but he’d done his best to warn her. There was nothing else he could really do.

  It was time he rejoined the Mongol army and put into place his sneaky plan.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Winter had come once more and the snows fell, blanketing the grasslands. But the army was well fed and provisioned, and the number of prisoners taken in the raids had been more than any of them had imagined. Subedei had indeed contacted the slavers from Egypt and had sold many at a huge profit. The Egyptians told him these people, the Alans, Circassians and Kipchaks, would be trained as slave soldiers, or as they would call them, Mamluks.

  One result of the raids was that most of the surviving Kipchaks had fled the steppes and gone to the Carpathian Mountains, at the far end of the steppes, and crossed into Hungary. Batu and Subedei weren’t pleased about that; they saw the Kipchaks as a subject people and talk was of them sending an ambassador to the Hungarian king, Bela, and demand them back.

  Casca whistled; that would be like a red rag to a bull. Subedei and Batu were spoiling for a fight alright.

  The reinforcements from Mongolia were trickling into camp daily along with more supplies and equipment, and preparations went on to resume the campaign. It was fairly clear the targets were Periaslavl and its sister state just to the north, Chernigov. The intelligence Casca had brought back had been used by Subedei in his planning. That, together with the information he’d got from his other spies, formed the basis of his strategy. He didn’t leave anything to chance.

  Casca was pleased to see Kaidur back to normal upon his return. He was ready to take his place and escorted his master round the camp as equipment was needed for the guard. Casca had befriended the Swede, Lars, and the Austrian, Karl, on the route back to the camp. Both had offered to serve under him and Casca readily accepted. The two former crusaders declined.

  Some of the old armor and weaponry was no longer acceptable and had been thrown away, and Casca had to re-equip his men. Therefore Kaidur and two other guards went with The Old Young One on his errands, making sure nobody took an undue interest in him. Casca was pleased to hear of the resumption of the campaign; after his expenses in Periaslavl and the purchase of the armor, and paying for his men, his funds were beginning to run low. More plunder and loot would be welcome.

  That evening there was a banquet held by Batu, to welcome the continuation of the attack. It was a lavish affair and all the princes sat at the long table, served by female slaves. Each diner had their personal guard stood behind them, all armed with a pole weapon of some kind, many decorated with skulls of oxen or gory trophies of one sort or another. Kaidur was content to stand there with his sword at his side. A sword was faster and if you got inside the reach of the pole weapon, much more deadly.

  Casca for once refrained from wearing his high-necked shirt. Instead he wore a warmer jacket of felt lined with fleece, and he’d recently got round to wearing one of the sable hats he’d seen the others wearing. It was wonderfully warm and cozy, and could be crushed up to put in a pocket if the need arose. The yurt was warm, what with the fires and the number of people sat close together, and Casca unbuttoned the jacket to cool down.

  Subedei, sat alongside, spoke to him about the coming campaign, then stopped suddenly and stared at his open necked top. Usually Casca wore the high necked shirt to hide the necklace, but this evening he wasn’t wearing the shirt, and neither, so Subedei could see, was he wearing the necklace! He stared for a moment, then looked away. If he could notice that, then so could the other princes, including the one who knew he had it on him. Was he asking for trouble?

  Casca seemed oblivious to the fact he was being careless. He took off his hat and shook his hair loose. With the coming of winter he’d let his hair grow longer, and he’d allowed a beard to grow. Better to protect his face and neck in the cold. Some of the Mongols cut their hair in odd patterns, leaving a narrow band around the sides and back of their heads yet shaving the top and front, or letting a narrow fringe run along the brow. There were as much a variety of facial hair on show, and any prince could be identified at a distance just by their mustache, beard, goatee or any or none of those combinations.

  It came to the time of the toast to success. The slaves filled everyone’s goblet, and Batu stood, followed by the others. “Let us drink to success in the coming campaign. Let us drink to many victories and plunder, and the extending of the Empire of the Great Khan, Ogedei!”

  Batu took a deep draught. Everyone stopped, mouths open in shock, even Batu’s brothers. Everyone, even Casca, knew that etiquette demanded that the senior prince amongst them drank first. Batu certainly wasn’t the most senior – his own brother Orda outranked him, and because of the thorny issue with being of an illegitimate branch of the family, the other princes, or at least Mongke and Kuyuk, had seniority. Batu was higher in rank only within the army on campaign.

  Batu paused and lowered his goblet. He looked at the expressions on everyone’s face and suddenly colored. He realized the blunder he’d made. “Ah… I apologize…”

  He was allowed to get no further. Kuyuk, incandescent, threw his goblet across the tent where it smashed against a wooden chest into fragments. “You disrespectful cur, Batu! I may take the insults hurled at me each and every day by this foreigner being here,” and he gestured towards Casca, “but I will not stand for you dishonoring my seniority over you! You forget that I have a strong claim to the succession? You had better remember to treat me with courtesy, for one day, and not too far away, I may well be your master! If you wish to hold onto what lands you are receiving, which may I remind you is thanks to the blood of my men as well as yours, then you will treat me with the respect my position demands!”

  “Kuyuk, I – I”

  “Silence, you fussy old woman! The damage has been done, in front of so many people! You will regret this, you can count on it. I no longer wish to serve in your army. I am going to take my men back to Karakorum and speak to my father about your conduct.”

 
“Kuyuk Khan, perhaps now is the time for cool heads and not angry words,” Subedei stood, concern on his face.

  “Subedei, you may be one of the best generals ever to have served our family, but even you cannot heal what this blundering fool has done. I will take my leave of you now!” and with that he stamped out of the yurt. Buri stood up and thumped the table, face red with anger and wine. “I, too, do not wish to remain here, fighting alongside unworthy people such as an old woman and a foreign spy!” He ran out after Kuyuk, leaving the remaining princes and Subedei and Casca lost for words.

  “I – I can only apologize…” Batu’s voice trailed off and he slumped, ashen faced, into his seat.

  Nobody commented. Subedei turned to Kadan, Kuyuk’s brother. “Will you be leaving us, too?”

  Kadan shook his head. “The insult is nothing to me, but my brother is ambitious and believes etiquette should be adhered to strictly. There will be no point arguing with him. He’ll need time to cool down. My father won’t be pleased, though.”

  “No he won’t,” Subedei agreed, and lapsed into a sullen silence, brooding into his plate of food.

  “Well,” Casca sighed, “that’s the campaign ended, isn’t it?” Heads turned in his direction. Casca shrugged. “If we couldn’t carry on before the reinforcements arrived, we can’t now. Kuyuk and Buri command as many men as we’ve received in replacements this winter. We’re back to where we were three months ago.

  Subedei threw down his dining napkin – he always had it draped over his large stomach, and stormed out. Casca looked once at Batu who was holding his head in anguish, then got up and followed the army commander out into the chill air, Kaidur trotting after him.