Devil's Horseman

by Tony Roberts

  There came a crash from ahead and cheers rang out. More boulders went sailing through the snow and struck the palisade. Word came back that the rocks had done their job and the main barricade had been knocked down in a couple of places and there were now gaps through which an attack could go.

  The banner colored with their unit’s design fluttered in the wind and dipped, pointing at the Hungarian position. Casca stood up, sword in his gauntleted fist. “Rise up! Up! For the glory of the Great Khan, and all of Mongolia! Death to the Hungarians!”

  Two thousand throats roared. Most of them didn’t give a damn about the Khan, and had no idea where Mongolia was. But they as sure as hell understood about the death to the Hungarians bit. As one the odd mixture of Europeans, steppe nomads and Mongols rose up and brandished their weapons; swords, spears, axes, bows and clubs. Then with a rising howl they broke cover and rushed towards the splintered and broken wooden wall.

  Batu’s archers ran to their positions to either side of the rushing mob and began laying down a rain of arrows, arcing high up into the snow laden wind and dropping over the wall into the Hungarian positions. Casca’s odd assortment of men bounded towards the wall, now clearly visible despite the poor visibility, and the leaders vaulted the ditches with their wicked points in one bound and crashed into the wall, scrambling for purchase points to climb up and slaughter the defenders. The nearest gap attracted most of the attackers and the Hungarians had massed most of their men around this spot.

  Javelins and spears flew from the walkway behind the wall and dozens of the lightly armored Vlachs, Kipchaks and Bulgars who had outrun the more heavily armored Mongols and Germans were sent crashing to the ground screaming.

  Casca ran hard for the gap, Lars, Karl and Kaidur close behind him. Lars suddenly sported an axe, and Casca recalled how these Scandinavians loved this weapon. The Swede weighed it in his hand, drew his arm back, and still running, released it. The axe span lazily through the air and buried itself cleanly into the chest of one Hungarian who was thrusting a long spear into the neck of an unfortunate Vlach. The impact of the blow sent the defender flying backwards off the walkway.

  In no time Lars had his sword in his hand and bellowing mightily, was racing Casca to the gap. Casca leaped over a ditch and caught a quick glance of a few bodies impaled on the sticks in the bottom of it, then was at the hole in the wall.

  Broken stumps of wood stuck up, their splintered edges gleaming wickedly at ankle height. Men were battling furiously at the edge of the opening, each side determined to push the other side back, and neither side was giving way. Casca pulled one hillman out of his way. A waft of sweat and goat came to him momentarily, then was gone.

  Before him stood a wall of men. They were clad in iron helmets, leather or padded armor and long leather leggings. Cloaks hung down their backs. Their grim, determined faces were backed up by spears, swords and axes. Casca’s first task was to clear these people out of the way. He raised his sword, and slammed it down at a spearman.

  The Hungarian jabbed forward but Casca had been expecting that. His blow severed the spear clean in two, so that the enemy soldier was left holding a short stick. His reverse blow slashed up across the soldier’s neck and blood spurted out, splashing Casca’s arm.

  He stepped forward, Lars and Kaidur right behind him and Karl just a pace further back, a spearhead that thrust itself into the defensive line. Roaring his challenge to them all, Casca hacked at the next man, a swarthy spear-wielding man with lank black hair. The spear shattered at the first blow, and the man had nowhere to go, hemmed in by his colleagues. Casca thrust his sword deep into the man’s chest and the victim fell forward. Casca used him as a stepping block, gaining a few inches in height.

  The roar of battle was almost deafening, confined by the sheer rock walls and the cloud. The snow was forgotten as all that mattered now was to kill and not be killed. Steam rose from the fighting men, body heat rising up from the writhing organism. Lars was bellowing too, hacking left and right, slaughtering Hungarians as he went. Casca dispatched another defender, and suddenly the front line gave way. Now they faced the better armored guards.

  The Mongol attack broke in and now it dissolved into hundreds of individual clashes. The Eternal Mercenary was attacked by a tall man wearing a red cloak, chain armor and a segmented iron helmet with a crest on top. He looked like some kind of officer. The defender slashed down and Casca blocked, then pushed. The Hungarian snarled and pushed back. Again, the officer hacked at Casca. Block. Casca thrust forward, aiming for the gut. It was deflected down. The Hungarian reversed his swing, hoping to take the scarred warrior’s head off, but Casca had lived too long to fall for that.

  Step back. Regain balance. Attack. Steel rang on steel as the blades met above their heads. They stood, face to face, straining. Beneath, the frozen earth was beginning to churn up and become even more slippery. Casca pushed to one side and the Hungarian had to give way or his sword would have been too far down to recover in time to meet the next blow. The look on his face became more desperate; he knew he was facing a better warrior. Another swing but Casca bent back at the waist and the blade kissed air inches above him. A quick step forward and the blade sank into the Hungarian’s gut and sliced upwards, tearing aside muscle and organs.

  The defender sank to his knees and Casca pushed him over onto the black earth. To one side stood a wooden tower, a crude affair, manned by archers. They were shooting down attacker after attacker and Casca decided they had to be dealt with. He ran towards the simple ladder that led up to the single platform where the three archers were firing from. A Hungarian stepped across his path and Casca crashed into him, sending him staggering back, but Casca slipped too and had to put his hand out to stop himself from falling over.

  The defender regained his balance and came at him again with a shrill cry. Casca swung two-handed and smashed the blow aside, then swung back with all his strength and the defender staggered aside, clutching the ugly gash that was erupting with blood across his chest. He reached the foot of the ladder and an arrow narrowly missed him. He’d been spotted.

  It was ten feet up to the platform and Casca scrambled up one-handed, his sword ready in his right fist. One of the archers appeared at the edge, where the ladder touched the platform, and kicked the ladder free. Casca felt himself falling and let go of the ladder, plunging eight feet to the ground and rolling to break the fall. Another arrow plunged into the ground next to his head and he hauled himself up, cursing.

  He spotted Lars and Kaidur and yelled at them to help him. The two came running over, sweat on their faces. “Help me get this damned tower over.”

  He ran to one of the legs, underneath the platform, and the others joined him. Throwing their weapons onto the ground they grabbed one leg and began pushing hard against it.

  Casca’s veins stood out on his neck as he strained, and the beefy Lars and sinewy Kaidur grunted in effort too. The leg began to give way and suddenly tore free of the platform. They grabbed their weapons and ran out of the way as the unsupported corner of the archer’s tower began to collapse, dragging the rest of it down with it. The three Hungarians clung to the safety rail but as the platform crashed to the ground, let go and fell onto the ruins and the hard ground.

  The three attackers advanced on the defenseless archers who scrambled to their feet and ran for the second wall, set thirty feet behind the first. Most of the Hungarians who had survived the struggle so far now made their way to this and were helped up by their comrades leaning over the top of the parapet.

  The less disciplined of the Mongol force chased the last of the fleeing Hungarians and caught them close to the wall. Casca pulled Lars back and screamed at the others to retreat back to the first wall. Arrows were already cutting down the attackers close to the wall, and there was nowhere for them to hide. “Back! Back to the first wall!” Casca hauled Kaidur round and shoved him on his way. As he retreated, he turned and watched as the last of the Hungarians who hadn’t reached safety w
ere cut to pieces, but then the exultant Bulgars, Mongols and Vlachs became the hunted. Caught in the open they were easy prey to the massed Hungarian archers on the wall.

  Casca slid round the ripped open hole in the wall and caught his breath. It had been a mad thirty minutes but they’d carried the first wall. Losses had been high but so had those been for the enemy. The downside of hiding behind the wall was that they were getting the snow right into their faces. Casca cursed. He called a messenger to him. “Go pass on the news to Batu Khan that we have the first wall, but the enemy is dug in behind the second. We need the catapults to knock that one down too.”

  After the messenger had gone, Casca looked along the line of tired, blood streaked men. He remembered the blood on his arm and looked at it. It had dried but was covering his arm. He scraped off as much as he could and checked the men who were close to him. Lars was fidgeting, keen to get at the enemy again. Kaidur was looking thoughtfully at the wall, while Karl was expressionless. He was wiping some battle gore from his chest.

  The catapults were moved up and loaded up again. They hurled their missiles over the first wall and down at the second. Many fell short, or went long, but enough were soon striking the wooden wall for the cracking and splitting of wood to carry to the waiting men. Batu sent up a huge mass of archers to help. Casca wondered how they’d be able to pin the enemy down, given that there were no platforms to stand on this side of the wall, and the enemy was behind the other one.

  Men were crawling through the broken sections of wall, sobbing with pain, blood marking their route. Some had parts of their legs or arms missing, and one had his brains oozing out through a huge scalp wound. Casca wondered how the hell men still managed to move with such wounds, then thought back to some of those he’d received. Yes, he was immortal, but he still felt the pain and shock of injuries, and it incapacitated him just like anyone else. It was the healing that was different.

  He didn’t know if the Mongols bothered with tending the wounded; most of these were European irregulars, booty hunters attracted to the thought of getting rich on the bodies of the dominant Hungarians. He thought the Mongols would let them die; after all who were they to the Mongols?

  “Either we freeze to death here or we attack,” Lars growled. “What is he waiting for?”

  “Patience, Lars,” Casca said, looking along the line of the mixed bunch of soldiers again. Maybe fifteen hundred were left, out of two thousand who had started out not an hour before. “Here come the archers.”

  A mass of men raised their bows, paused, then on command released a cloud of missiles high into the air. It fell like rain amongst the Hungarians who ducked for cover, shields raised. Screams came to the waiting men by the wall. More crashes heralded another volley from the catapults and a thunderous crack from ahead brought Casca’s head round the corner. He saw through the swirling snow that a huge boulder had taken out a section of wall perhaps six feet wide. It was enough.

  “Right, everyone, there’s a hole in the second wall. It’s going to be hard getting to it, but the archers will have to do their best in keeping the enemy’s head down. Come on!”

  Again, with renewed vigor and hope, the mixed bag of men charged out from cover and raced across the thirty foot gap to the second wall. A last couple of shots from the catapults went off and rocks the size of a man’s head spun lazily through the air to strike the wall and bounce off, leaving splinters and broken logs where they had hit.

  Javelins, spears, arrows and stones came hurtling through the air at the attackers, but most of them were thrown blind, the snow was driving almost horizontally now into the Hungarians’ faces. Casca ran hard, reasoning that if he were going to be hit, he was going to be hit no matter what route he took. So he charged head down, yelling madly, right for the gap.

  Three men were swept aside close to him, one he clearly saw screaming through a crossbow bolt that had gone through his mouth. The image of the fountain of blood that came vomiting out of his mouth stayed with Casca for a while. The fleeter footed ones in the charge got to the break in the wall first and hacked madly at the Hungarians who were half blinded by the snow that was driving into their faces. Casca slipped on an icy patch but kept his balance, cursing the snow and ice, and barged into the back of a fur cloak clad tribesman who was hacking at a defender with a long handled axe.

  Lars roared mightily as he reached the scene, brandishing his four foot length of steel high above his head, and smashed it down on a defender who was locked in a struggle with a Bulgarian hillman. The Hungarian collapsed, his head almost split in two. Casca pulled the tribesman out of his way, determined that the Swede wasn’t going to outdo him, and slammed the pommel of his sword into the face of the Hungarian soldier, breaking his nose and teeth. The man clutched his shattered face and screamed in pain, pulling himself away from the fight.

  No sooner had he staggered away then two more tried to plug the hole. One had a spear that was clearly of no use now that the fight had become a hand to hand melee, but the other was armed with a sword and shield and was the more dangerous one. Barging into the spearman who was desperately trying to bring his weapon down to point at someone – probably Casca – the Eternal Mercenary slashed down hard at the swordsman. His blade bit into the edge of the wooden shield, sending splinters up, and he pulled the sword back and gritted his teeth. This was going to be a case of brute force.

  The teeth-jarring sound of men being struck by steel and wood pounded through his mind as he focused on the Hungarian warrior in front of him. He was wearing a hauberk of chain mail and over the top was a padded jerkin. His face was covered by a face plate, something Casca hadn’t seen before, and he briefly wondered if this were the new fashion in Europe. The shield was decorated with a red lion and the knight – he couldn’t be anything else – was trying to smash it into Casca’s face while at the same time sliding his sword under Casca’s guard and up into his ribs.

  Casca half turned to his left and blocked the thrust with his sword. His right shoulder took the blow of the shield and Casca pushed hard, slashing back downwards at the knight’s chest. The shield was out of the way and the Hungarian’s sword too low to effectively block the attack. Casca’s sharp blade bit into the padded jacket and split it open from close to the shoulder down to the bottom of his ribs. The armor absorbed much of the blow but the links were cut open and were breaking apart as the knight jumped back in shock.

  He grunted in pain. Even though Casca doubted the blow had actually reached flesh, the force of the blow must have been severe. Because of the face plate of the bucket type helm, the Hungarian’s expression couldn’t be seen, so Casca had to guess he was hurt. Now he straightened and came at the worried knight, gaining a few feet. The flailing of the swords had created a gap and Casca had a glimpse of a sheepskin wearing Vlach to his right coughing up blood from a chest wound, falling to one side as a defender went for the kill.

  The ground was becoming even more slippery with half melted ice, mud and blood mixing into one viscid ooze, and it made getting a purchase on the ground difficult. The sucking sound of feet pulling clear of the ooze added to the shouts and cries of the combatants, blows of weapons clashing and the howl of the wind. It was an animalistic struggle, man against man, in which the loser would lose everything. Life.

  Lars had cleared a path with his sheer fury and the soldiers of Batu were flooding in behind him. Casca gripped his sword in both hands and slashed down hard, pounding into the shield, knocking the knight backwards with the sheer force of the blow. Casca stepped forward, feeling his front foot slide briefly, before it stuck and he sucked in another deep breath, raised his blade once more, and struck again.

  The knight desperately used his shield again. It was marked with cuts and holes. More chippings flew up from the blow. The Hungarian thrust forward hopefully. Casca saw it coming. He slammed the blade aside and stepped forward. Now he was very close. Too close to use his sword blade. He pulled his right fist up hard and sent the pommel into t
he defender’s chin, snapping his head back with the force of the blow.

  In a reflex, the Hungarian grabbed Casca, his sword falling into the ooze. Casca twisted and threw the man over his hip to the ground. The Hungarian flailed madly, his shield striking Casca on the arm painfully. Casca knelt on the man’s chest and tore the shield from his arm and flung it aside. He didn’t care if it hit friend or foe.

  A mailed fist came up and struck Casca on the side of his head, making him hear a ringing noise through his left ear. He roared a curse at the Hungarian and grabbed him by the throat. The knight was pushing hard to get up. Casca had slid off his chest and was on his knees in the mud. He punched at the face plate and it moved slightly but stayed there. That had hurt Casca’s hand.

  Now the knight was trying to put one foot on the ground to get a height advantage. Casca got purchase with his right knee and kicked out with his left leg, driving the Hungarian’s right leg out from under the man’s body and causing him to lose balance. The two of them, locked together, fell to the ground and the knight was underneath. Casca put all his weight into turning the man so he was face down, and rammed his head into the ooze. The helm sank halfway into it, the slimy liquid rising up in a thick wave. Casca fixed his teeth in a grimace as he held the writhing, struggling man there, the ooze seeping into his helm, slowly suffocating him.

  Then the man stopped struggling. Breathing hard Casca pushed himself up from the corpse. His sword was lying in the mud. He hadn’t recalled dropping it. As he picked it up, a defender stepped over to him, raising his spear high to impale him and Casca twisted aside hard. The spear slammed into the earth next to him and he kicked out, knocking the spear out of the Hungarian’s grip. He slashed wildly to give himself space to get up and by the time he’d got to his feet the Hungarian had retreated, allowing another to take his place.