Read Casca 34: Devil's Horseman Online
Authors: Tony Roberts
Casca 34: Devil's Horseman
This is a book of fiction. All the names, characters and events portrayed in this book are Fictional and any resemblance to real people and incidents are purely coincidental.
CASCA: #34 Devil’s Horseman
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Copyright © 2010 by Tony Roberts
Cover design by Greg Brantley
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BARRY SADLER
Barry Sadler was a legend amongst fighting men everywhere. A special forces and Vietnam veteran, he rose to fame with his hit song Ballad of the Green Berets and his phenomenally successful action adventure series Casca: The Eternal Mercenary, writing the first 22 novels in the series. He also wrote numerous military thrillers including Phu Nam, Seppuku, The Shooter and Run For The Sun.
His sudden and mysterious death in 1989 shocked the world, but the name of Barry Sadler will live forever through his dramatic and authentic novels.
TONY ROBERTS
Briton Tony Roberts, like Barry Sadler, was born in the month of November. A long-time fan of the Casca series, he started the Casca website www.casca.net in 2000 and through it established a world- wide network of fans and contacts. His life-long interest in history and writing gave him the chance to continue the Casca series when offered the post in 2005. His first novel, Halls of Montezuma, established him as a worthy successor to Barry Sadler as author of the Eternal Mercenary series.
Casca: Devil’s Horseman is Roberts’ eighth Casca novel. He still lives in the city of his birth, Bristol, where he shares his home with his partner Jane and a tabby cat called Nero, and continues to run the popular Casca website, as well as fitting in time for a full-time job with the British Civil Service.
Table of Contents
Continuing Casca’s adventures, book 35 Sword of the Brotherhood
Somewhere in the Hindu Kush, Summer, 1236
The dust flew up from the horse’s hooves as it raced across the dry, dusty canyon. Its rider was a large, bulky man in loose fitting robes and stained, dirty baggy trousers tucked into felt-lined calf-length leather boots. He wore no helmet; it had fallen off way back in the hills when the pursuit had begun, and he now cared little except to escape the group of men behind him.
And they were closing in on him, slowly, inexorably.
Casca Rufio Longinus cursed his luck again and again. He was no skilled horseman, and the men pursuing him certainly were. He’d been certain that he’d escaped that bitch back in Delhi yet somehow she’d guessed where he’d been heading and sent some of her slaves after him to kill him. They weren’t there to recapture him. Oh no, not this time. No more a slave in the Sultanate. This time they were out to get him and deal with him permanently. He knew far too much about Radiyya and her habits behind the damask screens of the palace. While he lived as a slave – her slave – in the palace she could control where he went.
But not now, not when he’d just escaped and made a break for freedom. Radiyya couldn’t take the chance he’d talk to someone and in those days of uncertainty about the succession to the dead Sultan Iltutmish, bad press wasn’t welcome whether it be fact or falsehood. And Casca knew everything about that bitch. So she’d sent her grunts after him to shut him up. Forever.
Casca set his teeth firm and glanced once over his shoulder. Two were close behind to his right and two were to his left. The other six were a little further back in a ‘V’ formation, taking turns to take the lead, thus pacing
themselves. It was only a matter of time before they caught him. Then there’d be a flash of a tulwar and his head would be cut from his shoulders.
That gave him the shivers. Yes, Casca was immortal, and couldn’t die, thanks to that vindictive Jew he’d speared on the cross. But he sure as hell didn’t want to be beheaded. How would he function? Would he be in limbo until his body was reunited?
Or what? He didn’t want to find out.
The ravine narrowed and loose rocks and boulders became more frequent. The land fell away ahead, the mountains of the Hindu Kush peeling away to left and right as he burst forth from the mountains that separated India from Central Asia. He knew he wasn’t in Sultanate territory any more but this made little difference to those humorless types on his ass. They’d follow her orders to the end, pursuing him to the Pillars of Hercules if necessary.
A pox on them.
He was armed; the curved and well-balanced blade in his scabbard bouncing off his left thigh would hold off one or two, but not ten. It wouldn’t be long now, he reckoned. He steered his horse close to one side of the ravine, making sure that at least they couldn’t come from that direction. The route ahead twisted and curved; the riverbed he was thundering along was winding its way off the mountains and finding a course down to the plains below. In springtime it would be a raging torrent as the winter snow and ice melted from the peaks of the Kush, but now here in late summer
everything had dried up to a mere trickle. It was only a few inches deep and a few feet wide, filled with silt and stones.
The pounding of the horses’ hooves of his pursuers could now be heard more distinctly. Casca felt their intent, their only purpose, reaching out to him even though they were still fifty yards behind.
Death to Casca. They’d leave him hacked to pieces on this bare, lonely mountain and return to Radiyya, holding aloft his head as proof of their success.
Panic began to eat at him. He’d suffered death many times before in his twelve hundred years but always he’d returned to life, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. Mostly it had been painful. Immortality has its drawbacks, and the agonies he’d endured made him dread dying. But this time he knew his immortality might not help him. How many centuries would he suffer as a head on a pike? What would happen to his body? Would it re-knit and walk back to Delhi? How could that be explained?
His horse was blowing now; it was exhausted. Casca realized there was no escape, so he brought the suffering beast to a halt and swung round to face his pursuers. They slowed too, and spread out into a half circle and slowly began to surround him.
As the ten closed in on him one suddenly grunted and slid off his horse to crash to the ground in a heap. Casca stared in amazement at the body. Sticking out of the corpse’s back was an arrow. A black feathered arrow. Casca had seen those before.
A second rider gasped and jerked upright, then fell forward and slid off his horse, one arm trying to grip his steed’s neck but failing. Another arrow was protruding from him too. The other horsemen came to a confused halt and wheeled their mounts, staring hard in all directions, trying to find where the danger was coming from.
Three more arrows streaked through the air and two hit. The remaining six riders now spread out, hunched low over their saddles, wheeling and kicking up clouds of dust. Two came for Casca, intent on finishing off the job. Casca jabbed his heels into the flanks of his steed and the beast gamely sprang forward. He needed momentum to deal with the attack.
The horses whinnied and men grunted. More arrows were flying through the air and now Casca could hear a drumming of hoofs from the direction the arrows had come. The two riders heading for him closed, their tulwars raised to finish him off. Casca met the nearest head on, his blade blocking the strike of the first. They passed each other and Casca was faced with the second man almost immediately. He gritted his teeth as he flung his sword up to meet the down stroke of the rider, and sparks flew as the shiny blades clashed.
He wheeled, as he knew the enemy would have done. He faced the two men, his back to the direction the arrow firing intruders were approaching from. “Come on,” he said breathlessly, the ride having taken its toll on him, “get it over with.”
The two men, both dark skinned and sporting mustaches, snarled and sprang forward, both alongside the other, intent on catching Casca in the middle so that one would get him while the other was blocked.
An arrow thudded into the chest of the left hand rider, and Casca breathed a word of thanks to the mysterious archer, concentrating on the remaining rider who closed fast. Casca swung his own blade up and connected with his enemy’s blow. As the man rode past Casca executed a rapid second stroke, his edge catching the Indian rider across the back. Casca had needed to stand high in the saddle to get the necessary purchase and strength to execute the blow as well as grip the pommel of his saddle with his free hand.
The movement of his own horse plus the swing of the blade overbalanced him and he lost purchase.
“Shit!” he snapped as he felt himself fall off his cantering steed. He braced and struck the stony ground hard, winding him.
He lay there for a few seconds, then slowly rolled to his side and slid his legs underneath to get up. Shadows fell across him and he looked up into hard, pitiless faces. Slanted eyes, long mustaches and tough looking darkened skin.
Mongols.
Casca threw his sword onto the ground and stood up slowly, looking at the gathering Mongols in the eye. They wore fur-lined jackets and conical caps, and more than one sported the ubiquitous bow of horn and wood.
“Who are you and what were they chasing you for?” the leader snapped in Mongolian.
Casca cleared his throat. “I escaped from their capital where I had been a slave. I know too much gossip about their Queen.” She was a Sultana but he didn’t know if they would recognize the title.
“A woman leader?” the commander said in surprise. “Huh!” He looked down at Casca. “You speak our language fluently. You are not
Mongol!”
“No,” Casca agreed. “I am from Italy.”
“Italy? Where is that?”
“Europe.”
The word seemed to interest the Mongol. He leaned back and stared long and hard at Casca. “In that case you are my prisoner,” he smiled without humor, “and you will come with us to Samarkand.”
Casca sighed. A slave he’d been. Now he was a prisoner of the Mongols.
Cracow, Poland,
Autumn 2003
The haunting sound of the trumpet filled the square in front of the massive church of St. Mary’s. The square was full of tourists, people from all round the world keen to sample the delights of one of Poland’s most attractive cities. Some ignored the trumpeter standing high above them in one of the towers, but others had stopped to listen.
Then, suddenly, half way through playing a note, the sound ceased. The trumpeter calmly lowered his instrument and stood to attention for a moment, before turning and passing out of sight to the people below.
Two men stood there, fascinated. One was tall but elderly, slightly stooped with age, white haired and wearing glasses. The other, a young man in his prime, was shorter, darker, and dressed smartly. The younger man turned to his companion. “I’ve never heard that before, Uncle. Did he forget the rest of the tune?”
The older man smiled. “No, Danny, I’m told it’s deliberate. Every hour on the hour they do this.”
“So why?”
The older man nodded towards a row of tables to the left of the square, each protected by a large parasol. “We’ll find out from the man we’re about to meet over there. You ready for this?”
Danny stared across to where one man was sat alone, facing them. Even though it was a fair distance and people frequently crossed his line of sight, he could see that the man was a powerfully built individual. It was a little bit intimidating. He shivered slightly. His ‘uncle,’ no blood relative but someone he’d known all his life, had told him about this remarkable man time and time again ever since he’d been old enough to sit on Uncle Julius’ knee. He’d thought these tales fairy stories, then tall stories told by men to impress their friends.
But now he was supposed to meet a man two thousand years old.
The two walked towards the tables and as they neared, the man stood up, throwing a newspaper down. Danny could see a scar ran down the right hand side of his face from the corner of his eye to a point level with his mouth. It was eye-catching and gave the man an even more sinister aspect.
He smiled and held out his hand to the older man. “Doctor Goldman, pleased you could make it. And this must be Danny Landries.”
Danny felt his hand being gripped hard and shaken. Even though he was no weakling, the grip had been as strong as anything he’d experienced. And another disconcerting sight had struck him; there was a scar circling his other wrist.
“Uhh, yes. Uh, Sir.”
The scarred man grinned. “Not many have called me ‘sir’ recently. Carlos will do.”
“Carlos?” Goldman asked, sitting down. “What happened to Casey?”
Carlos grunted as he sat. “Casey Romain is no more. He’s lived too long. Agencies might start to get inquisitive if the name continues. From now on I’m Carlos Romano of Argentina.
Buenos Diaz!
”
He ordered three drinks and after the waiter had gone, nodded up at the looming church. “So, what did you think of the musical entertainment?”
Goldman shrugged. “Unique. Danny here is full of questions.”
Carlos turned to the younger man. “May I offer my condolences, by the way, about your late father? I was at the funeral a few months back. Cancer is a dreadful way to go.”
Danny nodded in acknowledgement. “Uncle Jules here said you’d been there. I was too grief stricken to notice, I’m afraid.”
“Uncle Jules?”
Goldman cleared his throat. “I’ve been like an uncle to Danny. After this young man was born a couple of years after we came back from Vietnam poor old Bob and I met on many occasions – mostly because of you – and I got to know Danny quite well. He’s into computers, don’t you know?”
“Is he now?” Carlos leaned forward with interest. “You’ll have to tell me just what you do, Danny.
But later, not now. Now, the explanation as to the odd abrupt ending to that tune. It’s played by the Cracow Fire Department these days, but on the hour every hour someone plays that alarm call and has done so for hundreds of years.”
“Alarm call?” Danny asked.
“Yes. First played in April, 1241. The man who sounded the alarm was skewered through the throat by an arrow before he managed to complete the alarm, and so just as they get to that point of the call, the trumpeter stops.”
“Who did it, and why?” Danny was interested. History hadn’t been one of his pet likes at school; he’d been more into the sciences and mathematics, and then computers.
Goldman knew a little but he knew what was coming. He placed a cassette recorder on the table and then waited as the drinks were served. The three took a sip of the refreshing lager beer before Carlos cleared his throat.
“I wasn’t here in 1241 but I was part of the horde they came from. I was elsewhere but the story was told to me shortly afterwards by my comrades. It was one of the most remarkable campaigns in history, yet it’s relatively unknown. By the end of it three nations were reduced to their knees and their history was forever changed. Let me take you back to when it all began, the summer of 1236. I was being escorted from the Himalayas to Samarkand, under guard.” Carlos caught the two men’s gaze and his grey-blue eyes seemed to bore into theirs, sucking them in, drawing them down into a spiral from high in the clouds, down, down, down towards a glittering city that had caravans of camels coming to and plodding away from it.
Their attention centered on three men in front of a large building. Two were short men wearing fur jackets and caps and light trousers, while the man in the middle they realized was none other than Carlos – but his name was different.
Casca Rufio Longinus. One-time soldier of
Rome, cursed to immortality by Jesus at the crucifixion.