Casca 13: The Assassin Read online

  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: #13 The Assassin

  Casca Ebooks are published by arrangement with the copyright holder

  Copyright © 1985 by Barry Sadler

  Cover: Greg Brantley

  All Rights Reserved

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  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Continuing Casca’s adventures, book 14 The Phoenix

  CHAPTER ONE

  By the beard of the Prophet! I'll have their asses for taking so damn long!

  Mamud ibn Said, slaver, had run out of patience with his Mamelukes, the hand-picked slave soldiers of the Faoud Pasha. They had ridden far on this raid into Circassia, and up until now everything had gone smoothly.

  But at the moment a scruffy little handful of Circassian warriors, positioned in a nest of large, smooth granite boulders, had them pinned down. A simple little raid for slaves had developed into a full-scale fight.

  Why?

  Mamud intended to find out.

  Only his eyes showed from the carefully-placed fold of his turban, set so it protected his mouth and nostrils from the dust stirred up by his horsemen. They were dark brown, almost black eyes, and they flickered now with the fire of his impatience, a sure sign there was going to be hell to pay for his Mamelukes.

  He kicked his horse in the flanks and rode to where he could get a better view of what was going on. True, some delay was to be expected when one wanted captives, not kills. But this was taking entirely too long. His men outnumbered the men in the rocks five-to-one. And they were better armed. Better trained.

  The rocks should have been overrun and the captives hooked up into the slave coffle and on the trail for the markets at Baghdad on the banks of the Tigris over an hour ago.

  It did not occur to Mamud to expect treachery from his Mamelukes. True, this raid was against their fellow countrymen, the Circassians. But that made no difference. What was the saying: Set a thief to catch a thief! Then set a Circassian to catch a Circassian.

  Once they were properly broken in and trained, Circassians made excellent and loyal slaves, few of whom would take their freedom if offered it. Not if it meant they had to return to their old lifestyle, which was not much above that of the animals they preyed on. No, something other than treachery was holding up this operation. Mamud had ridden far with his “bought ones" on this raid, and he did not intend for things to get screwed up now. A slave raid was too profitable for that. There was always market for fighting men to fill the ranks of the Emirs, Pashas, and Sultans who followed in the way of the Prophet Mohammed.

  Blessed be His Name!

  So why the delay?

  Suddenly Mamud got his answer.

  Damn!

  A light lance with a reed shaft and brass head suddenly whistled so close to his own face that his eyes blinked from the breeze it made in passing.

  Always the professional, danger or no danger, Mamud noted the details of the weapon that had just missed killing him. In appearance it was much the same as the jirads of his own men, though not as well made, naturally.

  More important, the man who had thrown it obviously knew what the hell he was doing. So Mamud tried to spot him in the rocks.

  There he was, in the process of heaving another of his shafts. This time his target was a Mameluke light archer astride a bay gelding. Mamud had to grant the barbarian spearman grudging admiration for the throw. It was nearly a hundred cubits, yet the lance hit with such force that it pinned the Mameluke archer's right leg to the side of the horse, killing the animal.

  Mamud thought sardonically, Indeed, a fine, strong cast. Also expensive. After all, a trained war-horse cost almost as much as a Mameluke.

  Damn!

  Instantly Mamud regretted his wool-gathering thoughts.

  One of the defenders in the rocks had handed the spearman another javelin, and this time the target was Mamud himself.

  The throw was so fast, the aim so accurate, that Mamud had to throw his body toward the back of his horse and lie in a less-than-dignified position to avoid the streaking dart, which passed through empty air where only a split second before his chest had been.

  "This has to stop!" he bellowed.

  Crying out to one of his squad leaders, Mamud pointed to the spearman. ''Get me that man! The one with the scar on his face. I want him alive. Do you hear? He owes me much, and I will not be cheated of my dues. Take him, and the rest will lose heart."

  The Mameluke notched an arrow capped with a blunt, rounded tip designed to stun rather than to kill.

  He pulled back on the bow, sighted on the scar-faced man, and fired.

  Casca rolled off the boulder to avoid the stun arrow, cursing himself under his breath for ever returning to within even a hundred leagues of the borders of Persia.

  These lands had never brought him anything but trouble.

  He landed in an open space between two smaller boulders, but as he did, two horsemen attempted to run him down. Scrambling crab fashion, Casca barely avoided the iron-shod hooves.

  Damn!

  He whipped around to catch the rear horseman by his long, green-bordered tunic. He jerked the Mameluke out of the saddle and beat his face in against the nearest granite rock.

  The lead horseman had trouble turning his animal.

  Just as Casca whirled toward him, a rock twice the size of a large man's fist flew from one of the defending Circassians and hit the Mameluke squarely between the shoulder blades. Casca could hear clearly the brittle crunch of a spine breaking. A five-pound rock, thrown downhill at a distance of less than twenty feet, is a deadly instrument.

  Time to get out of here! To Hades with the Circassians! There wasn't much more he could do now than try to save his own ass.

  Casca grabbed the light, curved scimitar of the Mameluke whose face he had just crushed and leaped on the back of the dead man's horse. Dodging a flight of barbed shafts from the Mamelukes who apparently had momentarily forgotten they were to capture him, not kill him. Casca slapped the horse across the rump with the flat of the scimitar and tried to break for open ground. There he could at least get a running start, hoping the slave hunters would content themselves with the men still in the boulders, thinking them to be easier and more profitable game than the one fleeing man who had done such damage in his escape.

  After all, six Mamelukes did lie dead or severely wounded thanks to "the scar-faced one with the gray-blue eyes and square body." Most of the Mamelukes would have been well-content to have seen the last of him.

  Not Mamud.

  Casca tried to run him down.

  It was a close thing. Mamud had to hit the ground, rolling quickly to get protection behind a sun-baked boulder to avoid the ho
oves of the scarred one's horse.

  Indignity upon indignity!

  Mamud fumed. Not only had the barbarian killed many of his men – not only had he, Mamud, been nearly punctured by the scarred one's lance – but as he got to his feet and brushed himself off he discovered that there was now a large hole in his robe that would be difficult to mend.

  That was the last straw!

  Mamud's robes had been fashioned from the rare and costly silk of Chin. A gift of honor from Nizam al Mulk, Grand Vizier of Baghdad and advisor to the new Caliph, Malik Shah.

  Intolerable!

  "Get me that man!" Mamud cried to his captain, his voice roaring like a whirlwind. "Get me that man, or you will take his place on the block!"

  Bu Ali, the captain, had no desire to lose his favored position and return to the status of a field slave... or, even worse, to be sent to the copper mines of Khorramshahr. He took five men with him and raced after the would-be escapee.

  Across the plains they galloped, spreading out to keep the scar-faced one from being able to turn to the north and reach the ranges of the Caucasus Mountains.

  Casca urged his mount on. The men behind him were gaining. He couldn't seem to get any more speed out of the horse. Instead, it was slowing down. Red flecks of foam blew back to stain Casca's legs. Bloody bubbles blew from the flared nostrils.

  Damn!

  Looking down, first to the right side of his mount, then to the left, Casca knew he wasn't going to make it. The feathered end of an arrow protruded from over the horse's left shoulder.

  The animal was lung shot and dying.

  Got to find shelter. Quick.

  But everywhere Casca looked there was no shelter. He was in the open with no place to hide.

  The horse stumbled. Nearly fell. Regained its balance for a moment. Tried to run. Then fell head over tail, its forelegs collapsing under a weight it no longer had the strength to carry. Casca flew free from the saddle, scraping off a broad patch of skin as he rolled into a clump of thorn bush. Rising to his feet, he hefted his sword, though he knew it was not likely that it would do him much good against the mounted archers. They could simply stay out of range and fill him with arrows.

  Bu Ali signaled his men to circle their doomed prey. The Mamelukes started to notch war arrows onto their strings, but Bu Ali ordered them to use the blunt headed shafts instead. Mamud wanted this man alive, and that was the way he would get him.

  All five Mamelukes took turns firing their bows.

  All were accomplished archers, and the target they shot at presented no challenge to their skills.

  Casca tried to dodge and duck, but every time he avoided one shaft two more hit him. Had the arrows been tipped with points the force of the compound blows would have driven the missiles completely through his body. As it was, he felt two ribs crack under their impact.

  Bu Ali took his own shot. The target was growing weary and was hurt. Drawing the bow string back to his ear, Bu Ali sighted carefully, waiting until the scar-faced one's attention was elsewhere. Then when his target turned to avoid another shaft, he let fly.

  The blunt-tipped missile flew straight to its target, striking the man square on the skull, tearing open a flap of skin, and dropping him as if he had been poleaxed.

  That did it!

  Bu Ali motioned for his men to get on with the job and secure their captive. They dismounted, taking strips of rawhide with them to bind their prize. Running to the prone figure, they started to tum him over on his back so they could tie his hands.

  Three men got to him first. And just as they began their task, Casca's hands came up, each taking the throat of a Mameluke into its grasp. There was no attempt at finesse or refinement. Casca squeezed with all his strength. His thick, strong, warrior's fingers crushed throats and vertebrae. And he was coming off the ground, going for the third Mameluke, when two more blunt-tipped arrows hit him in the head, finishing off what Bu Ali had thought was a knockout from his shaft.

  Bu Ali shook his head in a combination of awe and anger. The man must have a skull as thick as a camel's. His shot should have rendered the scar-faced one unconscious for at least an hour. He watched his men cautiously approach, then securely bind the downed Casca. Well, this time they had done it.

  When he got back to Mamud the other barbarians in the rocks were kneeling at the feet of their new master. With Casca gone they had realized the futility of their struggle and given up.

  Mamud himself was back where he belonged, on his horse where he could better survey those he had taken prisoner. It was not with pleasure that he added up his profit and loss for the afternoon's work. He had eleven prisoners; but he had lost seven men and three war horses. Disgusting! If it hadn't been for some successful raids earlier he doubted if he would have shown a profit at all to compensate him for all his efforts and time.

  Seeing the returning Bu Ali, Mamud spurred his horse over to meet his captain and inspect the prisoner.

  In a fit of pique he lashed Casca' s back with his riding crop of rhinoceros hide, instantly regretting the act which spoiled his image as the commander above human frailties. He excused his action by explaining to himself that it had been a bad day.

  "Put him in line with the others," he ordered Bu Ali. "But keep an eye on him. He is a troublemaker, but I don’t want him killed or crippled. I think that this one, when properly trained, could bring enough gold for most of our losses. Nizam aI Mulk has need of strong fighters."

  This last he regretted saying almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth – he hadn't intended to be so familiar with his captain, to take this underling into his confidence. By the Prophet! It was definitely not his best day.

  Camp was made on the spot. Fires were lit and meat set out to cook horsemeat from the Mameluke's own dead animals. The slaves were not to be fed, nor would they be for three more days. And, until the third day, they would receive only enough water to keep them going. By the third day of hunger and thirst they would be much easier to handle. This also gave Mamud an opportunity to size up his catch. Hunger and thirst would show him who were the strong ones and who were the weak ones. Efficiency! That's what made for a profit.

  Mamud's tent was prepared for him, and he performed his evening ablutions, regretting that he was down to the last of his rosewater with which to freshen his face and hands.

  He checked the sky.

  It was time for the faithful to be called to prayer.

  Placing his prayer rug to face toward Mecca, he and his men – except those on guard – knelt and bowed their heads to the earth as Mamud cried out:

  "Allah bismillah Mohammed. Allah Akhbar!" Allah is God, the only God, and Mohammed is His Prophet. "lmshallah," His will be done...

  Once he was changed into fresh robes and sitting on civilized cushions where he could at least have a decent view of the sunset, he permitted Bu Ali to serve him his meal ... a simple warrior's dish of stewed lamb with a touch of sage robbed into the tender flesh, set on a plate with curried rice and cakes of wheat touched with just a breath of honey from Syria .... Ah!

  His men dined on the fare he considered best-suited to their less sensitive palates: curds and horsemeat washed down with water.

  The taste of the cakes was sweet in his throat as he lay back on the cushions. Back to Baghdad! It was with no sense of regret that he was at last going to be able to leave these wild, inhospitable lands for the refined environment of a civilized city. These rugged, barren lands were not even fit for the uncouth Franks – as were called all ignorant and ill-mannered men of the West, whether they came from the Rhine or from Italy, whether they came as merchants or as pilgrims to Jerusalem. Franks ... They had no part in the future destiny of a simple slave trader. Or did they?

  Mamud's beard itched from the bite of sand fleas, and he took it as an omen – one of the lesser blessings of the Most High to let all know that, no matter what their station in life, the greatest of His creations could be hurt by the least .... Ah! Yes ...

>   By Allah! It would be good to have a bath and a massage to rob away the miles he had traveled on a saddle fit only for a Kurdish tribesman. It would take weeks to rid his buttocks of the thick pad of calluses that had attached themselves to his flesh.

  Through the open flap of his tent he could see his Mamelukes guarding his slaves. It was a good harvest of strong men who would bring fine prices. The thought of the fine prices warmed Mamud's heart; but the reason for the high prices bothered him.

  Of late there had been an ever-increasing demand for men who were not of Persian or Arabian descent to be used as bodyguards. It was all due to those accursed fanatics of Hassan ibn Hassad, the Sheikh al Jebal. Hemp-eaters. Assassins.

  Assassins. One never knew when they would strike, and there was nothing that could be done to scare them off. Indeed, when captured they went to their deaths eagerly, joyfully. How can one deal with men who do not fear death? What was the power the Old Man of the Mountain had over his followers that they obeyed his every wish without consideration of their own lives?

  Mamud warmed his tea from a brass pot and sipped, luxuriating in the small comfort it gave him. At any rate, the Assassins were good for his business. Newly captured slaves such as he sold, being not only foreigners but infidels as well, were not likely to be followers of Hassan at Sabah, and so they made good guards. And, since the Assassins of Hassan at Sabah might be one's own body slave – or even men of noble birth – no wonder there was such a market for men pure of the unclean contamination of the Assassins who had, to Mamud's knowledge, never failed to make their kill, usually after warning the victim in advance with a gold-handed dagger ....

  Thinking of the scar-faced one he had lashed earlier, Mamud looked again to his catch. It was as he turned his head that in the corner of his vision he saw the flash of light in the now-darkened western sky.

  A shooting star? An omen from Allah?

  Thinking as he was at the moment of profit and the new slave, Mamud chose to consider it an omen of good fortune. The scar-faced one was very strong.

  Mamud would take him to Baghdad and offer him up to Nizam al Mulk. The Vizier was known to be a connoisseur of fine fighting men. He would pay well for one such as this.