Casca 34: Devil's Horseman (2 page)

Casca ached. His ass was sore from the ten day ride from the Hindu Kush, a journey all the more unenjoyable because his escort insisted he say nothing, and for the fact they made repeated jokes at his expense about his lack of skill in the saddle. Even his horse seemed to join in, jolting him frequently and testing his ability to stay in the saddle.

Every night when they stopped he was tied to a post that was driven into the ground and a guard posted to make sure nobody came close or that Casca tried to escape. Casca had no intention of escaping – he’d had enough of being hunted and made a slave ever since he’d left the Mongol lands seventeen years earlier and had blundered into the Delhi Sultanate, so he was glad to be back.

But what had changed since his departure? Then, the Mongols had been united under the great Genghis Khan, or as Casca had known him, Temujin. Casca had learned that Genghis had been dead nine years now and his son Ogedei was on the throne at the capital, Karakorum. The empire Genghis had forged at sword point was governed by his sons and grandsons, but from what Casca had managed to understand from his captors’ conversations, all wasn’t well under the surface.

There were competing factions, each vying to put their candidate forward as the next khan, and of course, Casca mused,
that would mean their advancement too. All self-serving. His thoughts were rudely interrupted by a shove in the back. “Up!” his chief captor barked, sword in hand.

Casca muttered darkly under his breath. He was tired and stank. The Mongol guards stank. Sweating under Asia’s high summer sun, Casca climbed the wide stone steps in front of what he guessed was Samarkand’s governor’s palace. The last time he’d been here he hadn’t had much opportunity to look around. He’d been a slave then, too. There were Persian guards at the top, flanking the entrance. Typical Mongol rule, take the top positions and let the indigenous population carry on as before. There again, he knew, there weren’t enough pure Mongols to take every position that mattered.

The interior was cooler and two more guards joined the small party as they tramped down the passageway. Casca stole a look at them. Persians again. He wondered who the governor was. Samarkand was a fairly important city, and a crossroads of trade. Whoever ran the place got rich pretty fast.

At the end were double doors guarded by two more fierce looking men dressed in dazzling scaled armor, shiny conical helms topped by horsehair plumes and holding wicked looking spears. The doors opened inward as if by magic and the small group marched into the governor’s chamber.

Casca was relieved to see it was a Mongol. That ought to make things easier. The guard leader stepped forward and barked out his report, saying the foreigner had been captured in the mountains close to the border with the Sultanate of Delhi, fleeing from soldiers of the Sultanate. He also said the foreigner spoke Mongol and came from Europe.

The governor, a small, smooth skinned man with a long mustache and no beard, and spiky black hair, considered Casca for a long moment. “Down!” he barked suddenly.

Casca looked startled, and was helped, if one could say that, by a blow to the back of the knees and he was suddenly on all fours in front of the governor’s wide marble table.

“You’ll be castrated for that you bastard,” he muttered.

“Silence!” the guard yelled, cuffing Casca around the head.

The governor stood up and slowly walked around the table. He wore soft red felt boots. That was all that Casca could see from his prostrate position. “A foreigner who speaks Mongol?” the governor said slowly. “Speak!”

“Speak what?” Casca demanded, fed up with the entire matter.

“You disrespectful dog!” the governor’s voice rose to a shriek. “Answer me! How do you speak our tongue?”

“I spent years assisting Temujin…” he caught himself, “….uh, I mean Genghis Khan in gathering the tribes to conquer the land of the Mongols.”

He heard the governor suck in his breath sharply through his teeth. Then there was silence for a moment. Casca didn’t hear any command so he assumed a signal had been given, for he was hauled up, none too gently either, and held securely by the two guards in front of a red-faced governor.

“You mock me!” the little man hissed. “You offend our great Khan.”

“I was there,” Casca insisted. “You have heard of the Old Young One, yes?”

The governor bared his teeth. “As have many in my position. You could have heard of the tale and decided to use it to obtain access to my palace and spy on me!”

Casca rolled his eyes. Whoever posted this moron to this position needed their behinds kicked. “It is only seventeen years since I left. Surely there are those who know me by sight still around? The Khan Ogedei would know me.”

“Hah! Now you plan to infiltrate the Khan’s palace and assassinate him!”

“Oh for Jupiter’s sake, man, how long do you think your head will remain on your shoulders when the Khan learns of the treatment I’m getting?”

The governor stared at Casca, seething. Then he made a frustrated growling noise and swung back to his side of the desk. “As a matter of fact I do have someone here who was in the Court of Genghis Khan. My garrison commander, Kaidur. I will send for him and if he does not recognize you my guards will cut off your head and mount it on the gates of this city.”

“Kaidur…” Casca mused. “Kaidur…. hmmm….” he tried to recall a man by the name of Kaidur, but it was a common enough name. After a few moments he remembered one of the yurt guards of Genghis Khan by that name. He’d been a mere foot soldier then, but seventeen years was a long time in the army and the man must have distinguished himself. The Mongol army raised men by merit and not social rank. Yes, Kaidur had one eye lower than the other. He remembered now.

Suddenly more confident, Casca relaxed and allowed a smile to cross his face. The governor frowned, tapping on the desk top in impatience. “You will not be smiling when Kaidur denounces you as a spy!”

“And if he recognizes me?”

The governor stopped tapping the desk. “You lie! You are a spy!”

“Sure,” Casca muttered and waited, looking round the room to pass the time. The room, or to be more accurate, chamber, had obviously been built long before the Mongols had conquered the city. It had been an opulent residence of one of the Muslim rulers of the city. Casca remembered Genghis Khan had been preparing to move west on the region when he had left those seventeen years ago, and it must have been then that Mongol rule had been imposed.

The chamber was showing signs of neglect, but it was still impressive enough. Arabesque screens remained and the ornately curved windows in the white plaster walls showed its Islamic origins. Carpets hung from the walls as well as covering much of the cool stone floor. Some were Persian in composition, but others Mongol. Both of those peoples were renowned for their carpets.

His thoughts were interrupted by a door opening and a guard showed in a man dressed in shiny scaled armor, like that of a carp. A conical helm rested upon his head and large, green baggy trousers ended up tucked into calf length brown leather boots. A sword hung in a scabbard on his left hip and he had the typical Mongol features dominated by a long, wispy mustache and no beard.

The governor came round and stood next to the newcomer. “Kaidur, do you know this man?”

Kaidur took a long look at Casca,
then slowly stepped forward. Casca saw he had one eye lower than the other and nodded in remembrance. Kaidur slowly looked over Casca, his eyes widening. “It cannot be!” he gasped. “Casca-Badahur!”

Casca chuckled.
“A long time since we last met, Kaidur. I see you have done well.”

Kaidur’s face broke into a wide smile.
“By Tengri! This is an honored visitor indeed!” He turned to the governor. “This is the one who the tales speak of!” Laughing now, he turned back to Casca and bowed low. “I am honored to meet you again, Old Young One!”

The two guards to either side of Casca backed off, both faces showing awe and horror; horror they had dared to touch such a man and in less than friendly terms. The governor paled and sweat broke out over his face. “Forgive me, Casca-Badahur, I had no knowledge that you were he.”

Casca turned round slowly and looked at the chamber again. “No matter, governor. I am in need of refreshment and a change of clothes. I am tired after a long journey and wish to reacquaint myself with the great Khan once more.”

Kaidur looked thoughtful and stared hard at Casca. The Eternal Mercenary saw the look and nodded slightly, then turned his attention to the governor who had sat back down, his hands trembling slightly. Casca stepped up to the desk. “Please show me where I can freshen up and be attended to.”

“Yes, yes. Kaidur, please give our honored guest everything he requires.” The governor seemed deflated and waved the garrison commander on his way. He put his head in his hands and shut his eyes tightly. Casca snorted and followed in Kaidur’s footsteps, catching up with him by the door. The Mongol jerked his head and Casca followed him out into the passageway and turned right down another long corridor. As they walked Kaidur leaned towards Casca. “Forgive me for speaking so, but things are not as they were under Genghis Khan. We are no longer working together under one banner. There are factions and I fear we may fall back to the old ways before you and Genghis united the tribes.”

“So soon?”
Casca was dismayed. All that hard work! “”What went wrong?”

Kaidur stopped before a paneled door of white, adorned with a handle of tortoiseshell. “His sons are gaining rival Courts and it is these Courts who ferment trouble. One day the current Khan will die and each group will vie to have their candidate elected Khan. I fear we may fall into civil war unless a strong – and correct – leader comes forward. I’m glad you have returned, Casca-Badahur; we need your wisdom and guidance once more, but I fear some may not greet your return with the same delight as I.” He opened the door and Casca was shown into an opulent room.

Silk drapes hung from the ceiling and delicate looking furniture stood along the walls. A massive bed stood off to one side decorated in rich red silken sheets and there was even a sunken bath in the other corner. Casca nodded in satisfaction. “Is this the governor’s room?”

“Oh no!”
Kairdur flashed his teeth briefly. They were gapped and uneven. “This is the visiting dignitaries’ room. It was formerly a prince’s chamber. The governor has a room down the corridor. I still sleep in a yurt!”

“Good for you, Kaidur. It seems some still stay true to the old ways.”

“I learned from the best, and I’m a traditionalist, not like these soft kids these days!” Kaidur’s voice dripped scorn. “They have no knowledge of what it was like in our days!”

Casca laughed. “I’ve heard that many, many times, my friend. We must talk further, but I’m dirty and badly need a bath and a meal. And can you get me a new set of clothes, suitably befitting one of my
rank?”

“I shall arrange it. I shall also send in some slaves to tend your needs.” Kaidur leered for a moment.
“The best Samarkand slave girls. Then I shall post some of my own elite guards at your door. The governor may try to – interfere. He and I do not agree on many things and he would like me out of his way.”

“Who appointed you garrison commander?”

“Chaghadai himself!” Kaidur drew himself up proudly. Casca raised an eyebrow. Chaghadai was Genghis Khan’s second son. Kaidur shrugged. “Then Chaghadai was recalled to Karakorum and two years ago this strutting fool was appointed by Buri, Ogedei’s son. Watch out for Ogedei’s sons, they oppose many of the traditionalists.”

Kaidur then left, leaving Casca on his own in the huge chamber, pondering on what he’d been told. It wasn’t very comforting. After just one generation they were beginning to revert to their old ways.
He hoped not, at least not for the moment. He wanted to rest and enjoy life for a while. Having been a slave for a decade or more, he now had the chance of relaxing as a free man and being one of the top dogs.

He stood by one of the ornately carved windows and looked down into a courtyard where a fountain gently sprinkled water into a circular trough, surrounded by small trees. Yes, he would stay with the Mongols as long as it was comfortable and he remained one of the elite. His life had taught him that things always change; the wheel of life rotates and good changes to
bad, and bad changes to good. It was just the lengths of each that varies. He’d enjoy the good times with the Mongols, just as he’d endured the bad times in India.

The door opened and in came three girls, all dressed in long silken robes and wearing head dresses of cloth with tassels. A guard shut the door behind them, and Casca felt even more relaxed. Good men to guard him and women to enjoy! He looked at the three who were now on their knees, heads bowed.

“Well, let me have a look at you,” he commanded in Mongol.

Two of the girls looked at him in confusion, while the third thrust her head back and her chest forward. The fabric over her breasts bulged. Casca repeated the command in Farsi, and the two others did likewise. “Very nice,” he said almost to himself. “Well, girls, you’ve been told what your duties are?”

“Yes, master,” the girl who’d understood Mongol replied. She spoke fluent Farsi and Casca reckoned she was Persian, judging by her appearance. None of them were Oriental. “We are to serve you as long as you are here.”