by Barry Sadler
Casca checked his own weapons. A sword and light lance. The bow work he would leave to Temujin. There was not anything more to do. They were ready, as ready as they could be now that it was time for the Khitans to move, and they did.
The flankers had reached the woods and dismounted on either side of the defenders. There was no way the defenders could have sent anyone to meet them; they had to stay together. The Khitans in the center began to let shafts fly into the woods to no effect, but it forced the Mongols to stay put as the other Khitans worked their way on foot closer to them.
Casca and Temujin mounted up. Temujin had one arrow already notched to fly. He could let loose an accurate shaft every four seconds. While the first was in the air, the next would already be on its way. Casca had never been able to master the bow to that degree of skill. He could shoot one with normal accuracy, but what the Mongols had was a gift, a talent they were born to. He was better at the close work, where his size and strength would take away the advantage of distance the archers had.
Shadows were reaching long and dark across the field, and the sun was setting in the face of the Khitans. Soon it would be dark, but by then it would all be over one way or the other.
By moving slightly to the front, Temujin assumed command of his less than impressive horde. Casca didn't mind. This could be considered part of the young man's on-the-job training, so to speak. Temujin needed no hands to control his horse. This he could do with just knee pressure. The beast would go where the Mongol wished. Casca would have to kick and jerk reins to get his mount to do half as much. But that was the way it was, and there was no use trying to change it.
Leading the way over the top, Temujin raised the war bow and with the typical style of the nomads of the steppes – with the bow close to his face and pushed forward with the left hand till the cord was drawn taut, his right hand's fingers with the thumb ring holding the notched end of the shaft by his right ear without seeming to spend more than a breath on sighting – he let fly. His right hand was a blur as he drew the next shaft from the lacquered quiver and notched it.
Casca pushed slightly ahead of him, whipping the flanks of his horse with the haft of his lance, trying to get all the speed out of it he could. Without having to ask, he knew that Temujin would pick the next man in line for the next target.
As he drew nearer to his prey, the familiar beat began to pound. His heart picked up the rhythm. He saw the first arrow strike its target. The broad-bladed war arrow of the leaf style went in, the tip horizontal so it could slide between the victim's ribs and sever his spinal cord. Which was exactly what it did. From a distance of fifty meters, the leaf-shaped tip severed the enemy's spinal cord directly between the shoulder blades, slicing through the Chin-style lacquered armor as though it were paper, entering deep, till the bright tip of the leaf sliced open the heart.
The Khitan slumped in his saddle. He knew not why, but suddenly his body went cold. His arms and legs felt incredibly heavy. There was the taste of blood in his mouth and he knew not why. The cold of death was on him as he fell from his saddle to the earth, one foot caught in the stirrup of his saddle. His head hit the earth as his horse shied and whinnied, then raced off to the east, dragging his corpse behind. He knew he was dying but knew not why.
The second shaft from Temujin's war bow hit its target, this time a bit off center, as the other Khitan's horse shied when the first shaft struck. This time the leaf-tipped arrow entered the right lung. A scream issued forth from the mouth of its target, followed by a bright spout of foam-red arterial blood. He was dead, but it took a moment or two longer for Temujin to be certain of it.
Casca was nearing his target, a Khitan with the face of a gargoyle. His front teeth had long since been knocked out by the kick of a horse. His nose rested flat against his face. From the side he had no profile. Wispy strands of hair hung from his upper lip and chin. A helmet of undetermined origin covered a recently shaven pate, probably to rid it of the lice and fleas that normally inhabited his scalp.
The two surviving Khitans had begun to turn. The sound of horse hooves drumming toward them was too clear not to hear. The drumming, combined with the two Khitans who had suddenly sprouted backs with arrows sticking out of them, drew their attention around to their rear.
Casca leaned forward, locking his lance under his right armpit, trying to place his body as close to that of his horse as possible to avoid the possibility of a return shaft hitting him. He could smell the grass underhoof as his horse tore up the ground.
He let himself ride with the animal, adding its speed and strength to his own. The lance was steady; he had picked his man.
The Khitan tried to swerve and move out of his way. But Casca's war pony knew what was expected of it and shifted to intercept the horse. Even if the rider was not a master horseman, the animal knew its job. Nostrils flared, red-rimmed wild eyes rolling, the war-horse locked in on its target. Nothing save death would stop it.
Temujin was unable to lay into the last Khitan on horseback.
The man had dropped over the side of his horse, using the animal's body for cover as he tried to put some distance between him and the unexpected attack from their rear. He was heading to the far end of the glade, where his fellow tribesmen were working their way into the trees. He wanted company.
Leaning forward as far as he could along the neck of his horse, Casca extended his arm almost to the locking point but not quite. He needed to have a little flexibility in the arm when they hit. If the joint was locked, it might break his arm when the lance hit. The Khitan was on the other side of his horse. The only clear target Casca could get was the horse, and that was not what he wanted.
Well, you took what you had, not what you wanted! He dug his heels into the horse's flank, urging the animal for the last spurt of power. The lance entered the neck of the Khitan's horse. The animal screamed as the bladed point exited the other side, ripping through the scalp of the Tatar, who tore off his helmet, taking a patch of flesh with it the size of a man's hand.
Casca's horse never slowed its charge, striking the Tatar's horse like a battering ram. The Tatar rider was thrown free, rolling onto the earth, his hand already drawing out a long, broad bladed dagger of the kindjal style from the Caucasus. Casca flew over the head of his own animal, cursing as he tumbled through the air to join the Tatar on the ground.
Temujin was in a race with the last horsemen, hard on his heels. The Tatar, like Casca's man, was attempting to reach his comrades in the trees. Temujin was nearing him, but if he did not close fast, the Tatar would get away.
Rising up in his saddle, he straightened his legs as much as he could, pushing down on his feet till his ass was clear of leather. He raised his bow, leaving the horse to follow his instincts with some gentle guiding from Temujin's knees. One arrow after another he sent after the fleeing back of the Tatar, cursing his misses and the other's skill at avoiding his shaft. The Tatar came from the same school as he. He twisted and moved, laying his body now on this side of his horse, then on the other. Never staying still, he gave Temujin no target for more than a heartbeat.
With regret Temujin did what he had to do and picked the larger target. He shot the Tatar's horse, something he truly regretted, for horses were always of value. From the rear the shaft entered lengthwise, the point entering the neck just in front of the shoulder. The tip severed the great artery. The horse went down on its front legs as if it'd been poleaxed. Its rider was unable to get free. He had been bent over, leaning far to the horse's right flank when the shaft had hit. The horse collapsed, pinning the Tatar under it as Temujin pulled up, leaping off his own animal to stand at the head of the trapped Tatar horseman.
Casca had no time to see what Temujin was doing. He was involved with problems of his own.
His man had come up off the ground first. Casca's only piece of luck was the torn scalp that covered the Tatar's face and eyes with blood. It ran in a free stream down his face as he shook his head, trying to clear his eyes of th
e sticky liquid. Casca had landed on the Tatar's back, knocking the air out of him. It took all of his reserves just to drag himself wobbling to his feet and to refill his lungs. His right arm was numb and painful. When his horse hit and threw him, it damn near tore his arm off at the shoulder.
The Tatar wasn't in much better shape. He had shaken his head to clear the blood because his right arm was twisted out of shape. Partially clearing one eye, he tried to focus on Casca. When he thought he saw him, he came on, swinging the kindjal like a scythe. Casca had to tumble back to keep the wildly swinging blade from ripping his gut open. Rolling back on his heels, he stumbled and fell. There wasn't anything to do but keep on rolling till he got enough distance to regain his feet. When he came up this time, he had a rock in his hand the size of a baby's head.
The Tatar swung again. His vision was getting a bit better, but he was slow; his injured arm made it difficult to move properly. Casca's breath had come back – at least most of it had – but he was still panting hard as the Tatar tried another lunge. Something most tribesmen don't do. Twisting to the side, Casca put himself on the Tatar's left. It might not have been very elegant, but it worked. He swung the rock against the tribesman's wounded arm, fracturing it above the elbow. The Tatar screamed in pain as he went off-balance; trying to face Casca, he felt a deep, burning vomit-inducing pain below his waist. Casca had landed a full swinging kick in the man's balls, rupturing him. He went down, dropping his blade. The finish was just as messy as Casca beat the Tatar's brains out with the rock.
Stumbling back to his feet, he saw Temujin standing over his still living tribesman. The bow was resting on the earth. Temujin had exchanged it for his skinning knife. Leaning over the Tatar, he sat down on the man's chest, locking the Tatar's arms to his side with his knees and legs.
Smiling pleasantly at him, he began to saw at the man's neck, ignoring the gouts of blood that spurted out of the severed artery into his face. It took a moment longer than it should have. He had misjudged where the connections between the vertebrae in the back of the neck were. He had to saw and twist the head back forth as he cut and ripped at it. At last the head came free in his hand. Temujin stood up, holding it by its topknot, smiling like a pleased child at Casca, who grumbled at him.
"You would have done better to start at the back and work forward. That way you wouldn't have made such a mess of it."
CHAPTER TEN
The two Tatars who had entered the forest to flank the defenders had almost as much bad luck as those who met Temujin and Casca. Of the two, the smartest gave up his attempt to attack, fled back to his horse, and disappeared down a forest trail.
His companion had no such luck. For now he was outnumbered. As Temujin and Casca took care of the horseman, their unknown allies in the woods saw to the lone Tatar. As Casca was critiquing Temujin's head-taking style, screams came from the woods – terrible gurgling screams that could send shivers up the spines of the stoutest warriors, which they did.
Temujin remounted his horse and went to gather Casca's, which had stumbled stupidly back on its feet. Once mounted, they moved to the edge of the line of trees. Between screams they hailed the men in the trees.
Temujin called out loudly and firmly. "Ho, friends! The dogs are dead." Holding up the severed head, he continued. "See, I have brought you a gift. We are not your foemen. I am of the tribe of Yeshugei. Come out and bid us welcome or we go our way without it."
A figure detached itself from the shelter of the pines and moved out into the open, palms up and empty. The man was typical: short, bowlegged, with thin wispy mustaches and the stringiest of beards. A leathern helm set with a band of iron rested on his head. His age was indeterminate, as it was with many of this region. The sun and winds soon cut deep lines into the faces of all, young or old. In his hand was the ever-present laminated bow. A quiver of arrows was slung over his shoulder, and a sword of the Indus pattern was in its sheath, hung at his side, the tip of the scabbard nearly touching the ground.
His voice, when he responded to Temujin's call, was surprisingly deep and strong. "Ho, young warrior. Come and be welcome. Know that you have the thanks of Bolar Khan, master of the tribe of the Borjigin." The Mongol chieftain drew himself up to his full height of five-foot-four, expanded his chest, and pointed to the younger man beside him, who was nursing a deep, ragged slice in the flesh of his upper left arm.
"This is my eldest son, Chagar. He, as I, never forgets a debt of honor. To the death we never forget."
Casca cringed. He'd only too recently heard pretty much those words from Temujin. Perhaps there was something guiding this young man's steps to some great goal.
Bolar Khan tugged at his thin, dangling mustaches. His eyes were as dark as blackest obsidian as he looked over his erstwhile rescuers. After carefully analyzing Temujin, he turned his attention to Casca, his nostrils flaring as he tried to figure out what kind of man he was and from what tribe. Casca did not match up to the physical characteristics of those normally found in these regions, and Bolar Khan had so far in his life found no reason to travel much beyond the boundaries of his pastoral domain.
The screaming was beginning to diminish a bit. Casca was glad. It always unnerved him a bit to hear one in great agony. He had experienced too much of it in his life not to have some empathy, if not sympathy, for the suffering party.
Their host motioned for them to enter the wooded area. Dismounting, they followed Bolar and Chagar to the source of the anguish. Casca saw what the Tatars were so hot after. Bolar had six women with his party, five of them young. The oldest was and had seen no more than sixteen summers.
It was she who was devoting most of the attention to the Tatar staked out at the girl's feet. The older woman, a hag, again of indeterminate years, was coaching the girls in their work.
They were literally dismantling the Tatar while he was still alive. They were taking him apart, a knuckle and a joint at a time. The poor bastard was lying in a dark, widening pool of his own blood.
The best Casca could wish for him was to die soon before the women thought of something else. He was too late. The screaming intensified tenfold.
The young girl had moved her dripping knife to his groin and under the muttered instructions of the hag was removing his testicles. The Tatar gave one great, convulsive scream and passed out as the young girl gave a firm jerk with her left hand and pulled out his testicles. Casca wouldn't interfere. The Tatars had been trying to kill or take them captive, and as long as it wasn't his balls in the girl's hand, he would keep his nose out of it.
Noting Casca's attention to the proceedings, the young girl caught his eye. Smiling shyly, she wiped her face with a bloody hand, moving a stray wisp of hair back from her eyes, forgetting she had the balls hanging from her hand. They slapped her gently across the bridge of her flat nose.
Temujin had moved up beside Casca. His eyes fixed on the face of Bortei. Casca could almost feel the shiver that ran through Temujin's body.
Quickly, as if a child caught doing something embarrassing, she dropped the testicles to the ground. Casca quickly looked away. He was glad for Temujin's presence and the girl's obvious preference for him.
For a Mongol maid, the girl was not bad-looking, but the sight of a man's balls dangling by the tendons from a girl's hand for some reason always made him think of far-distant places and monasteries. He would make certain to keep some distance from her and leave her to Temujin. He wanted no part of Bortei, except as an ally.
Bolar put an ending to the proceedings with a jerk of his hand. Scuttling over to the unconscious Tatar, the hag took the knife from the young girl and expertly slit open the Tatar's throat.
Returning his stony gaze to Temujin, he queried stiffly, "And to what tribe do you belong? I would know that I may send gifts and my thanks to your khan or hetman."
Temujin bent over to take a necklace of large, gummy-looking amber stone from around the neck of the dead Tatar at their feet. Pushing his lips out, he tried it on over his own
neck, smacking his lips in satisfaction at the contrast they made against his tunic. As if he were a Great One already, he barely glanced at Bolar Khan.
"I am Temujin, son of Yeshugei. I am returning from exile to reclaim that which was stolen from me by the dog Jemuga with the help of his first wife's father, Bitkichi of the Buryats. On them I shall extract my vengeance.
"However, know ye that I am the rightful leader of the tribes of Yeshugei, and as such, any thanks you might wish to give shall come to me."
Bolar Khan pursed his lips, sucking on one tip of his straggly mustache. He'd been placed in a quandary. He had made a pledge based upon his honor, and yet he was not certain if this young braggart was telling the truth or not.
Then again, did he wish a quarrel with Ong Khan or Jemuga, neither of whom he had any great fondness for? Yet they were strong enemies for a tribe alone. But if this arrogant young one was telling the truth and if he could rally to him others of his tribe, then it might be worth aligning himself with him.
For he, too, had a debt he wished to collect. Not from Jemuga but from Ong Khan. As he always kept his word, he also never forgot a wrong. He and Ong Khan had a debt to settle that went back twenty years. It would be good to see the dog eat his own filth while he, Bolar Khan, did as Ong Khan had, and taken from him his favorite wife or girl child, Ayii! Yes, that would indeed be sweet.
Now... how to phrase words correctly so as not to dishonor his words but also not commit too much too soon. "Be that as it may, Temujin. I will not yet name you khan, for that has not been proven. If you are able to gather to you those of your tribe who oppose Jemuga, and they name you the rightful khan, and they are in sufficient strength to oppose Jemuga, then I will rally to you with the warriors of tribes and aid you against Ong Khan. For I have my own score to settle with him.