Devil's Horseman

by Tony Roberts

  “As it should be,” Kaidur growled. “Now we teach these fools what it is to face a proper Mongol army!”

  Casca smiled wryly and turned to Lars. “Get ready for some heavy stuff.”

  “Good! That’s how I like it!”

  Casca grinned and checked on Karl and the four other Mongols with him. All looked ready to rejoin the fight. He led them over to where Siban was regrouping his men. These were the heavy shock troops of the Mongol army, a recent addition to the usual style of Mongol horseman. Now, as well as the archers that any Mongol army had, here were the big boys, the guys who got in close and slugged it out. Heavily armored and armed, these were the ones nobody wanted to mess around with. It was all very well, Casca mused as he approached the sweating, steaming mass of men and horses, to gallop about with bow and arrow, shooting off the right testicle of a mouse at three hundred paces, but if you got in a melee you were as good as dead. The Khans thought so too, and so they’d trained up some of their younger men as melee cavalry.

  Conquests in China and the Islamic lands of Asia had brought them new technology and tactics. Armor was made by the master craftsmen of High Asia, and the Steppe ponies used by the archers were discarded in favor of bigger, tougher steeds from Persia and Khorasan. These horses too were protected by the same rippling scale armor that the lancers wore, making rider and steed look like they wore carp scales that shone in the sun.

  These men took pride in their ability to stand up to the best that other kingdoms and empires could send against them, and Siban was the perfect leader for this new branch of the war machine; young, smooth skinned, he sat tall in the saddle and had the classic Mongol clipped beard and long mustache. Unlike many Mongol generals, he had a ready smile and was approachable. His men adored him and would ride into the jaws of hell if he led them, so the saying went around campfires.

  He greeted Casca and his few men with one of his beaming smiles. Age and eating sand-filled food had not yet worn his teeth down, and so he still had many of them in prime condition. “Greetings, Old Young One! You honor us with your presence.”

  “We want to fight alongside you and your men this day, Siban Khan, if it pleases you.” Casca had decided if he was to get into a brawl with armored knights, then these boys were the best ones to have around him.

  “The honor is all ours!” Siban said with pleasure. “Would you lead the right? Our commander there fell a few minutes ago and I was pondering over who to appoint in his place. You would be the perfect choice.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Casca waved to the prince. “Looks like we’ll be busy today.”

  “Indeed. The eyes of my brother Batu are upon me and I would not wish to disappoint him!”

  “In that case let’s show him how Mongols can fight close up, rather than using the enemy as target practice.”

  Siban roared with amusement. Casca decided he could get to like the young prince. Pity he wasn’t going to stay around long enough to do so. He’d not really had enough time with each prince alone to find out what they were really like away from the one-upmanship and back stabbing they all showed to one another. Get them away from the crowd and they were so different. Even Kuyuk showed brief flashes of being human. But they were usually surrounded by their inner retinue and guards and always in the company of one or more of their brothers or cousins, and Casca really still didn’t know which ones to trust and which ones not to.

  The men of the right flank were pleased to see Casca and they nodded amongst themselves. They would show everyone that it was fitting he should lead them in the battle. Casca arranged his small knot of men to stand either side of him, in the center of the formation. He checked his armor, belts, buckles and his helmet. It had a small dent in it but was fine apart from that.

  The trumpets sounded again and the Hungarian cavalry lumbered into motion. They were determined to drive the impudent Mongols back across the river, and besides, they knew that if they failed their homeland would be razed and their womenfolk and children at the mercy of these invaders.

  The archers showered arrows down on the attacking cavalry, sending scores toppling off their mounts, but there were too many to stop. “Lancers!” Casca yelled, raising his sword. Hundreds of swords were drawn, the lances having been shattered and lost in the first attack, and visors or nose guards clattered down as the men readied themselves. Taking one last look along the line of men to left and right, Casca gave the signal to charge.

  He wrapped his left fist around the reins and dug his heels into the flanks of his steed and it shot forward, excitement showing in its flared nostrils and wide eyes. The sound of thousands of hooves thundering over the same patch of ground was like thunder, drowning out the sound of anything else at that moment. Dung and urine splashed on the earth, adding to the mix of dirt, blood and water. Things were getting pretty well churned up underfoot.

  Their charge took them into the flank of the attacking wedge. Men were sent hurtling off their saddles with the impact, to be crushed underfoot. Screams came faintly above the yells and whinnying and the clash of swords. Casca knew that to lose balance now would be something he’d regret. How many times would he come to and be trampled all over again if he fell?

  A Hungarian suddenly came into view and Casca slashed at him. Then he was past. A second came at him from the left, sword raised, and Casca turned his horse and met the cut high above his head. He countered, hacking at the man’s chest. His sword bit into his shield, right through the symbol of the Hungarian cross, with its curious double bar, and he tugged the blade free hard. He didn’t want to be stuck with his blade caught while his adversary chopped him at leisure.

  Snarling he cut a blow under the shield and struck the man across the midriff. The rider cried out and slid off onto the ground and was lost to view in an instant. He got a flash of Lars pounding down on a Hungarian knight’s shield, teeth bared in a rictus of effort and concentration, and Kaidur close behind expertly flicking aside thrusts from another enemy rider.

  Casca tugged on the reins, pulling his mount round. A Mongol horse rolled over close by, screaming in pain, a lance embedded through its side, the rider pinned through the thigh with the same lance. The lancer was crushed beneath the kicking horse as it thrashed its last flicker of life away. The man who’d speared him had tugged out his straight-bladed sword and was looking round for his next victim. Casca screamed his challenge and closed in on him. The enemy knight met the attack head-on, a half smile, half snarl on his lips. Their blades met as they closed and they stood mere inches apart, hacking at each other, each intent on sending the other down onto the sea of churned up mud.

  The red-cloaked Hungarian had a plate of steel across his chest, an expensive looking item, and it was engraved with some sort of heraldic beast. Casca noticed this briefly as he sought to break through the man’s guard. Another slash aimed at his throat almost got through, and the Eternal Mercenary swung another blow back from his left shoulder across the Hungarian’s upraised blade, changing the angle suddenly and ripping up across his left arm.

  The Hungarian sat staring stupidly at his severed stump, then his eyes rolled up into his head and he fell backwards off his horse, spurting blood over the beast and the saddle. Kaidur came into view and wiped sweat from his forehead. “They are retreating.”

  Casca checked all round and saw only Mongols. The enemy had turned round and ridden back to their fortified campsite again. “Come on, back to our lines.”

  Fresh bodies marked where they’d fought the enemy, and the Mongols were thankful the fight had been over quickly. They needed rest. Siban raised a hand to Casca as the scarred warrior got back to the main lines and Casca waved back, tired. They’d lost a few men but they’d stopped the charge which was what they’d needed to do.

  “Kaidur, make sure the others are alright, and see if you can get hold of some water. The men and horses will be thirsty.”

  “Yes, master. I believe the enemy will try again soon.”

  “They have t
o. If they don’t knock us over they’re dead men and they know it. Where the devil’s Subedei? He should be here by now!”

  Kaidur looked over to the north-west, along the river. There was no sign of the other Mongol force. “Perhaps he has been held up.”

  Casca puffed out his cheeks and flexed his sword arm. “Well he’d better hurry up; we can’t hold off the entire damned Hungarian army for long.”

  He looked round at Batu, visible on the far bank with his entourage, directing – or rather trying to direct – the various units across the river. He stood on horseback, his features too distant to make out. Looking back at the lancers around him, many looked tired and drawn, and blood or dirt streaked their armor or faces. They needed rest badly, but he doubted King Bela was going to co-operate.

  The Hungarian camp was a mass of tents reinforced by wooden fences and barricades, and the majority of the enemy army was arranged in front of this. Their cavalry regrouped behind them, and then once ready, rode back out, reformed and then charged. All this would take time but it wouldn’t be too long before they were ready for the next charge.

  The archers rested, trying to recover their strength, and took quick pulls from their water skins. Once the enemy looked ready for another charge, they would once again seek to keep them at bay. Casca recognized one banner fluttering from the Hungarian camp; the white cross on the black background of the Knights Templar. He grimaced and his mind went back some fifty-five years when he’d been in the lands of the crusaders. He’d fallen foul of one particular nasty individual who’d supported the Templars, and his experience of that military Order hadn’t been pleasant. One thing he’d learned about them, though; they were fanatics and fought like bastards. They’d stand and die no matter what.

  Kaidur reappeared, his mount puffing. “Everyone is good; the water is being brought from the river. It’s nice and cold.”

  Casca grunted. “It’s full of melt water from the mountains we crossed a couple of weeks back. That’s why the river is so full.”

  Kaidur nodded. “So it is with the rivers of my homeland.”

  They spent a couple of moments sat in companionable silence, watching as the Hungarians gathered for a new assault on them, then Lars trotted up, his right arm soaked in blood. “You hurt?” Casca asked, staring at him.

  “No! This is one of their men’s. I chopped his head off. You see the Templars are there?”

  “Yeah, I saw. You fought them before?”

  “No, not me! Know of their reputation. Not the kind to cross.”

  “Well, you’ve crossed them alright today. I’ve a feeling we’ll have to deal with them before the days out.”

  Lars nodded. “Look out, here they come again!”

  Sure enough, the Hungarian cavalry had regrouped, and at a command from their garishly-dressed commander, a prince by the look of things, they broke into another charge, screaming madly. No sooner had they set off when a fresh shower of arrows plunged down on them. The archers didn’t need to be told when to shoot. Casca rode up to the front of the lancers and raised his sword again. Where’s Subedei?

  “Lancers, ready yourselves!”

  The clattering of steel rose up as swords were drawn. Casca eyed the charging Hungarian knights. Again they were heading for the same spot, trying to split Batu’s force in two. Arrows fell amongst them and horse went tumbling, pitching their riders headlong to destruction, but many more poured forward, roaring their hatred of the invaders. Casca admired them. But it was kill or be killed and he wouldn’t be merciful.

  Now!

  He cut his sword down through the air and the mass of men alongside him sprang forward, yelling out their war cries, announcing their arrival onto the field of combat. Casca was left slightly behind, and he urged his steed in their wake, cursing his inability to match their brilliance on horseback. Lars whooped in delight and passed him to his left, while Kaidur respectfully stayed behind and to his right where he would always be. Karl and the other Mongols were to the rear, formed in a small wedge.

  Thundering across the mud, dung, corpses and crushed vegetation, they hit the Hungarian cavalry in their left flank, driving deep into their ranks, breaking up their charge. Casca slammed his gauntleted fist into the face of one rider who came past quickly, blood on his blade, and the man was knocked clean off his seat. He landed hard on his back and Kaidur altered direction slightly to ride over him. A thin scream came to Casca.

  A second Hungarian appeared across his path, a red shield with a white bar on it presented to him, and a shining steel sword raised high. Casca jabbed his feet into his steed and the horse leaped forward to the challenge. As Casca passed he struck out and pieces of wood flew from the shield.

  He turned sharply and the Hungarian wheeled to meet his second attack. They clashed once, twice, and then had to turn their horses to continue the duel. The tumult was deafening; it seemed to Casca that the entire plain was full of maddened horsemen hacking away at each other. The Hungarians fought with the knowledge that if they fell so would their loved ones, and so they struck and struck again.

  Casca deflected a wicked strike that would have cut his neck open and grabbed the man’s gauntlets, their blades aloft above their heads. They struggled and pushed at each other. The knight’s breath stank as it whistled out through gaps in his teeth, and Casca gave him one extra hard push and they separated. When Casca turned to meet him again the Hungarian had vanished. Instead there were ranks of retreating enemy horsemen and the Mongols let them go; they didn’t have the strength to chase them.

  Casca led the exhausted men back to their start positions, but this time their ranks were thinner and the bodies more numerous that they had to avoid. Lars came riding up, puffing, his cheeks stained red. Even he was finding it tough. “God, these swine don’t know when to stop!”

  “Neither do these boys,” Casca waved a tired hand at the Mongols, many of whom were walking their horses back to the lines, heads bowed. They were close to their limit, and one more attack by the Hungarians would surely break through. Come on, damn you, Subedei!

  Siban nodded to Casca as he came up alongside him. “Truly is this a struggle of strength this day, Old Young One. My men are just about at the end of their endurance.”

  “The enemy hasn’t yet used the Templars. They have fresh units waiting to be used.”

  One of the staff officers with Siban suddenly pointed to Batu’s signaler. More flags were being raised, the one with the Mongol symbol of a diamond with a horizontal line through the center. Siban looked at Casca and shrugged. Over to the left and right the horse archers of Kuyuk and Budjek fanned out and stretched their front. Siban waved to his men and they slowly made their way to a position directly behind the archers but also in a long thin line. The right hand edge of the front now reached the river bank and the left hand one curled round to a point that faced the river bank, so that the entire force resembled a long, thin half circle, the focus of their attention the Hungarian camp.

  And in the distance they could hear the horns of Subedei. At last!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The Hungarians were surrounded. Subedei’s men had also formed a half circle and the tips met close to the river. Opposite that, facing the only solid land route away from the battlefield, a small gap was allowed to remain. It clearly said to the Hungarians here you are, if you want to run, this is your way out. Judging by the look on the faces of the archers, he didn’t think they would allow them to go unhindered.

  Gratefully he dismounted and walked stiffly over to Siban. “Ahhh, gods! My ass. How do you do it, sat on your mobile torture racks all day without a single damned sore spot forming?”

  Siban laughed briefly. “You are too soft, Old Young One.”

  “I’m not going to argue with you. So,” he looked at the Hungarians who were now having what seemed a conference, or more accurately, an argument. Their raised voices drifted to his ears, carried by the wind. He couldn’t make out what they were saying but the garishl
y dressed prince was gesturing violently all round at the Mongols while another man was shouting back at him. “What now? Do we ask for them to surrender?”

  “I do not think Batu Khan will be so generous. We have lost a lot of men this day.”

  Siban was right. Hundreds of men, maybe thousands, were laying still on the ground, some half covered with the glutinous mud that had gotten worse throughout the two hours the battle had lasted so far. Casca was standing in relatively untouched ground but he saw the ground close by was maybe ankle deep or worse with the black viscid ooze.

  “And what of Subedei? He’s not had a single blow to worry about so far. He and his men will be itching for a fight.” Casca stretched, cracking his shoulders, and turned in grateful surprise as Kaidur passed him a water skin. After a mouthful of fresh, cold water that made his teeth ache, he passed it back and smacked his lips. That was better! He watched as Subedei rode round towards the bridge and Batu finally moved, crossing the bridge with his entourage. He didn’t look pleased. Casca gave his excuses to Siban and made his way over to the Mongol commanders, high stepping to squelch through the mud, but he was damned if he was going to get on horseback just yet.

  Subedei reined in a few paces from Batu who stared at the elderly general with a furious expression. As Casca approached, he caught the first words spoken.

  “You are late! I’ve lost a quarter of my men!” Batu complained.

  “We had to build a bridge – it took longer than I anticipated. I apologize for that, but we are here now and we can finish it.”

  “No,” Batu shook his head vehemently. “My men are tired and they have fought as long as they can. We must call a truce.”

  “A truce?” Subedei was astounded. “Have you lost your sense of reason, Batu Khan? We have them! They, too, have lost many men. Judging by the bodies they have lost more than you! We must attack now!”

  Batu glared at Subedei. He drummed his fingers on the pommel of his saddle.