Casca 34: Devil's Horseman (22 page)

“Batu Khan is not far behind. He will reinforce you. Siban’s lancers too. Fear not, help is at hand.” The prince slapped his horse’s rump with the flat of his blade and galloped off to the left. Casca cursed and spat into the ground. Earth was being kicked up and some had gotten into his mouth.

More mounted Mongols rode past, whooping in delight. It was one hell of a mess and units were mixed up. “Kaidur!” he bellowed.

The bodyguard rode over, keeping one eye on the massed Hungarians who were almost ready to charge. “Yes, master?”

“Get the spears and pikes up facing forward. If we don’t we’re dog meat.”

Kaidur nodded and rode off, urging the foot soldiers to stand the butts of their weapons into the ground. Casca ducked as more pots suddenly roared over his head and landed amongst the rearmost echelons of the enemy ranks, causing some confusion and a few horses bolted in every direction. The catapults had been dragged to the bank of the river now, so that they could give maximum cover.

The bridge was still packed with
riders crossing over and now the trumpets blew and a deep roar came from the Hungarians as their elite arm, the cavalry, lowered their lances and began the slow advance that would end in a headlong charge aimed to roll them into the dirt.

The charge struck the infantry hard, driving a wedge deep into their ranks, scattering the lightly armored men in two directions. Casca gritted his teeth and waved his knot of men to follow. The nearest weak point was directly ahead and the Vlach-Bulgar-German mercenaries were collapsing under the hooves and blades of the attack.

The Hungarian knights were well armored, many having visored helms and all over body mail, but others had less protection, an indicator of their degrees of wealth, no doubt. Casca and his ten men rode at the nearest Hungarian group and struck them in the flank, just as they were finishing off a luckless group of sheepskin-clad men who had broken under the attack.

Casca’s first strike sliced into the neck of a man wearing an open-faced helm and the Hungarian jerked upright in pain, grasped his neck and tried to stop the blood spurting out between his fingers. As he slid from his saddle Casca wheeled to his left and bore down on a second who was watching his horse trample a screaming man into the ground. Even with the din of battle Casca heard his spine snap.

Giving the enemy knight no chance to defend himself, Casca slashed down hard again, catching the careless Hungarian across the face. The man screamed and his horse reared up in fright, depositing the man on the ground. Not one to miss dishing out revenge, he allowed his horse to trample the knight as he rode over him. There were a couple of metallic noises and Casca looked down quickly. The man wasn’t dead but his armor was dented badly and he was bleeding heavily from his wound.

A shield suddenly caught him across the head, knocking his helmet off and sending Casca crashing to the ground. He had the wit to roll and keep hold of his sword. The man who’d struck him thrust at him with a long lance but missed. Casca grabbed hold of the lance and sliced a cut into the horse’s hind leg. The beast screamed and fell, dumping its rider out of the saddle.

The two men got to their feet together and faced one another, both holding a sword.

“Devil’s whore,” the Hungarian snarled, “you will pay for killing my horse!”

“Go on then, try it!” Casca snapped in Magyar. It wasn’t a tongue he’d used much over the past three centuries but from what he’d heard from friend and foe so far, it hadn’t changed too much since he’d last been in the lands of the Magyars.

The Hungarian showed surprise, then his mouth turned down.
“A traitor to the king? Then killing you will be a pleasure.”

Casca laughed and struck. The blow was deflected but Casca stepped forward and cut upwards. The knight’s shield blocked the blow and his follow-up attack began with a wide side swipe that was clearly going for his head. Casca ducked, stepped sideways and, with a half turn, brought his sword slashing across before the Hungarian could check his strike and block. The blade sliced into the knight’s ribs, cutting apart the chain mail links and bit into flesh. The knight doubled up and sank to his knees, clutching his wound. Casca slammed the pommel of his sword down on the man’s neck, sending him face down into the churned up black earth.

He swung round and saw Kaidur fighting hard with a man who had tried to ride over Casca from behind, and Lars and Karl were battling furiously on the other side, the three men forming an island. Casca’s horse was standing patiently close by and he grabbed the reins, marveling that the beast hadn’t run off somewhere. But then, as Casca got up awkwardly, he reasoned that the Mongols had trained their beasts to endure noise, and besides, where could the horse go that was quieter? All directions were blocked by a confused mass of men fighting.

The Hungarian charge had been checked by Siban’s timely intervention and the enemy was retreating, gathering for a second go.
Bodies lay everywhere, littering the ground so thickly that it was hard not to tread on a corpse. Casca’s infantry had been cut to ribbons but their deaths had bought time enough for the Mongols to get over in sufficient numbers to stop the first charge, and to replenish their quivers.

Batu remained on the far bank, directing the battle. A large enough space had been cleared thanks to the fire pots and now 40,000 Mongols were packed on the west bank of the river. The trouble was they couldn’t go anywhere. They had to stand and fight – or die.

Casca retrieved his helmet and gathered what was left of his men to him. “We’ll attach ourselves to Siban’s lancers,” he told them, “our infantry isn’t worth a shit now. Those who aren’t dead have run away.”

“Good riddance to them,” Kaidur spat. “Worthless traitors and peasant scum.”

“Maybe so,” Casca said, “but they bought your regulars enough time to cross.”

“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 to. 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.