Casca 22: The Mongol Read online

  That power would not save them. He would return like the Buna, the eternal avenging bird, rising from its own ashes. He would one day sweep down on all who had offended him. With sword and flame he would cleanse his honor. For that, too, had been written, but the usurpers had chosen not to listen to that part of the prophecies.

  However, before that could come to pass, there were other things yet to take place. There was one he had yet to encounter. A man he had never seen. But he would know him when their paths crossed.

  The scarred one of the pale eyes like his. The Old Young One, who would tell him of the secrets that would give him his power and strength. This, too, was foretold. They would come to each other in a time of trial and danger. Together they would be more than their separate parts and the scarred one would make he, Temujin, whole.

  The first making of the whole would be when he took vengeance and reclaimed that which was his: the leadership of the clan. And that would be only the beginning. He would repay in kind all things a thousand-fold.

  Jemuga, he of the black eyes and quick grin – may his bowels rot inside his body and his instrument of pleasure wither into a dried reed – had taken away that which was his.

  But it would not be forever. He would return, to rescue his brothers from Jemuga's oppression under which they were now living. Jemuga thought that by keeping members of his family in the tribe, and therefore hostage to his whim, he would be able to keep Temujin from his heritage.

  Fools! True he had great feelings for his brothers, but if they were in his way, he would trample them into the dust as readily as he would Jemuga. As long as they kept faith with him, he would do so by them.

  And it had been his brother, Chagatai, the next eldest after Tushi, who had said that it was best if they stayed in the tribe instead of leaving with him. There, they would try to do what they could to prepare the way for his return. He was the chosen one, and they would endure the insults and shame until the time of his return and vengeance.

  Yes, he would return; when he did, Jemuga – and even the powerful Bitkichi-khan – would be his to do with as he pleased.

  The dreams were good. They covered his soul, feeding it, giving it warmth from the screaming winds of the night. The winds were nothing – they would pass, all things would pass, but he would continue till he met the scarred one.

  For now he would seek a bit more shelter between the red-veined granite boulders, wrap his thin body in his one poor robe of muskrat skins, and sleep. On the morrow he would begin the trek to Qura-Qurom by the River Orkhon and the gathering; perhaps with a bit of luck he might even be able to steal a horse on the way. Traveling on foot was the worst punishment one of his race would know.

  "Ah, shit," Casca mumbled as he stepped on a sharp stone. The night winds had uncovered a plain of wind and sand honed to razor edges, a field of volcanic rock.

  Zhoutai paid him no attention as he half-dragged Casca along behind his horse. The rocky plain was not that great a distance to cross. With luck, they would be over it and into the foothills by sunset. Then one more day through the pass over the Khanghai Mountains and they would begin the descent to the river plain of Qura-Qurom, where the gathering was to be held.

  If the storm had not come, he knew he would already have seen signs that others were already moving to the valley. But the storm had scoured the face of the earth, leaving it naked and burning under the high sun.

  Casca was dragging ass by the time they saw the first tendrils of smoke rising by the River Orkhon. If they had gone on much farther, he would have been tempted to agitate Zhoutai into stabbing him and leaving him for dead. But after seeing the diet the Tatar lived on and recalling tales of cannibalism among them, he decided not to try it. Death, even when temporary, was a very serious matter.

  The mud huts of Qura-Qurom were about what he expected. This part of creation was definitely the asshole of the world, and the people surrounding the asshole were well suited to that purpose. Most of them resembled mobile pieces of some form of hairy intestinal tissue, filthy, ragged barbarian tribesmen who, as long as they existed, would be forever a threat to the Western world and the empires of the East. Some of the nomads looked wilder than the beasts he had seen in the circus of Rome.

  Camels, donkeys, horses, and sub-humans had left their droppings everywhere. These lumps were immediately surrounded by hordes of blue-green flies the size of his thumbnail. Yurts of felt and tents of animal skins dotted the plain by the river, each tribe setting its own boundaries.

  There was peace at the gathering, but it was still not wise for one of another tribe to venture into his neighbor's area without invitation. The laws of hospitality were thin at best, and one never knew...

  He saw, here and there, fair-colored heads of shoulder-length hair, belonging to traders from Rus and the Baltics and occasionally a robe of clean bright silks of Chin, belonging to a trader of that land who had come to bargain for rare furs, but they were definitely in the minority among the dark, hard faces with obsidian chips for eyes that never smiled, except when blood was being spilled.

  Tatars, Mongols, and Turkomen dominated the scene, each trying to outdo the other as they whipped their horses and camels in never-ending races, raising clouds of dust to the heavens, beneath which the rest went about their labors, paying no attention to the dust that settled on their faces, clothes, food, and drink.

  Zhoutai led his small caravan unerringly to a place near the river where the Tatar tribesmen historically kept their encampments. He was not greeted by any of his own race. Even among them he had a bad reputation. Ignoring them as unworthy of his attentions, he found a place in which to pitch his tents and water his stock, including Casca, whom he made certain was well and securely chained, then went off to find out the schedule of events and when the fights between human slaves and champions would be held.

  Casca was more than happy to see him go, leaving him for a moment so he could soak his feet in the waters of the Orkhon and cleanse some of the filth from his body.

  The sound of a camel fight in the distance didn't take his attention away from his stroking and petting his feet and torn soles. That they would rapidly heal didn't make them feel any better. He was getting pretty tired of Zhoutai's shit, and knew that it was just a matter of time before he handed the Tatar his head on a plate.

  Sooner or later the bastard would make a mistake, and when he did, Casca promised himself he would tear Zhoutai's arms off at the shoulders, then beat him to death with the bloody stumps. After that he was going to hurt him a little bit.

  Zhoutai made the rounds of the different encampments, ignoring the cries of hawkers offering their wares. He was interested only in those who had other champions to pit against his animal. It took three hours of haggling with a Qura-chitin before he arranged the contest between his beast and the champion of the Black Khitan, a huge, heavy-fleshed man from behind the Great Wall. The Khitan weighed nearly half again that of his beast. But that did not overly concern him. He had seen Casca defeat more than one of this size in the past. Still, it would be best if he made his beast keep its body covered until the final wagers were made. If they saw the knotted muscles in his arms and chest and the crisscrossing of dozens of battle scars, it could put the odds off a bit.

  His beast definitely had the look of a professional fighter about him, and to have survived that many wounds meant he was tough to kill.

  Yes, it would be best if he hurried back to his own campsite and gave the animal something with which to cover its body. A large, sacklike affair would be best, something to conceal the width of the shoulders and power in the heavy thighs and legs. One of his women's dresses! It might even help with the betting. For no true man would ever wear the black shapeless sack of a woman.

  Searching through his bags, he found a dress suitable for Casca. Taking it and a bowl of lumpy, grayish gruel freshly stewed by his women, containing lumps of mutton floating in thick grease and onions, he approached the limit of the beast's chain and pla
ced the dress and stew where Casca could reach them.

  "Put on the dress and eat, animal. Tomorrow before dark you fight."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Temujin came into Qura-Qurom footsore and weary. The calves of his legs burned, muscles cramping from unaccustomed foot-travel. He was getting much stronger and even had a certain satisfaction that he could cover the leagues without the aid of a horse. Some satisfaction, yes, but not enough. He swore by the sword that he would have a mount before he returned to his tribe.

  In the crowds of Tatars, Mongols, Uighars, and Turkomen he was just another unknown face. There would be some here from the Merkit and Kereit, but they shouldn't prove to be too difficult to avoid, as long as he stayed away from their encampment. And there was the fact that he little resembled the boy Jemuga had driven out. The weeks alone, crossing over the mountains and deserts, had much changed him. To begin with, he was even more filthy than most of his tribe, and his face had been drawn tight into a mask of skin covering the bony prominence of his skull. Unless one looked very close, it would be difficult to place him as the son of Yeshugei. And if he was spotted, the laws of the gathering should protect him for long enough for him to escape back into the mountains.

  Different from Casca, the smell and sound of the gathering were to Temujin exciting, different. The hordes of flies and clouds of dust meant nothing. He stopped to watch a camel fight, two lumbering beasts slapping their snakish necks against each other, each trying to position its ugly, loose-lipped face where it would get a bite with its strong, heavy yellow teeth, which could eat through cactus spines with no difficulty at all.

  At last one beast, still with part of its winter pelt hanging in shaggy clots from its shoulders, caught the other by the throat, and those great yellow teeth reached deep through the other's tough hide to sink into the jugular. Violet blood flowed forth along the tall man's arm, spraying the delighted onlookers as the winning beast shook the other's throat till it fell to its knobby, callused knees, head hanging limply. The winner screamed and screamed in triumph as only a camel can. A shrill blubbering sound between blood-frothed, fleshy lips.

  Temujin laughed in delight at the spectacle, for the moment forgetting the angry gurgling of his stomach. The losing beast twitched in its death throes as the bettors cried in delight or in agony as they paid off their wagers.

  Temujin wandered through the makeshift bazaars. His eyes and stomach both watered at the sight of reed baskets filled with the sweet dates of Samarkand, figs from the Colchis Mountains, and jars of sweet honey from the mountain bees of Tarbagatai. All of these delicacies were kept relatively clear of a coating of flies and gnats by constant sweeping with horsetail whisks by the vendors. This was not done for any sanitary reason. If they had not kept the insects constantly moving, no one would have been able to see their wares.

  None paid much attention to the gaunt, ragged boy as he wandered through the stalls and crowds of nomads. Past jongleurs and soothsayers of many kinds, those who read the burned, cracked bones of sheep and those who sat in the dust rocking on their heels as they stared into the high, clear sun and spoke with distant voices of the customers' futures.

  He would have tried to steal something to eat, but to do so and be caught would mean at least a public whipping. That he would not chance; it was not as if he had not had food recently. He had become a master at snaring hares and desert rodents, though without salt they had little to offer in the way of taste. It was therefore with reluctance and discontent after seeing the delicacies of the bazaar that he found a place outside the bustle of the camp to eat his last piece of cold, half-raw partridge. A well-cast stone two days earlier had provided him with the morsel, and this was the last of it. At least it had aged enough that it had a bit of flavor to it. Licking his fingers, not to clean them but to obtain the last bit of thin grease clinging to them, he smiled. The gods or fortune would provide. Of that he was certain, for did he not have a great and glorious future awaiting him?

  The gathering would last at least five days; somewhere in that time he felt that chance would present itself to him. Perhaps he would find one who wandered off alone, drunk from the partaking of too much kumass or the unaccustomed wine of Chin or Persia. Or there could be one who would leave the gathering early, then he would be able to ambush him and thereby gain for himself a horse and valuables. Patience was all that was needed.

  He sat himself to wait between a row of yurts where there was shade. In the afternoon there would be combat between men, wrestlers, and perhaps even swordplay. He enjoyed that almost as much as the buzkashi, where opposing teams tried to take the carcass of a calf from one end of a field to the other. It was not uncommon for men to be trampled to death by enthusiastic players as they whipped their horses back and forth across the field, each tugging at the carcass of the headless calf, often tearing it in two with their efforts. During this time riders would even trample one of their own team if he was between them and the headless calf. The one who had the largest portion of the animal was the one everyone else went after, whipping at his face and hands, attempting to make him drop it. The only restriction to the game was that only horse whips could be used. No edged weapons or clubs were permitted. A good sport for warriors, but that was not scheduled till four days hence. It would be the last real event of import during the gathering, something to talk about for another season during the long winter nights and on the endless treks as the nomads followed the animals from pasture to pasture in search of grazing lands. The game would be retalked and critiqued ten thousand times before the next gathering.

  Zhoutai led the way. Casca, in his black, shapeless woman's dress, hands and feet chained, escorted by two of Zhoutai's men, followed after him. He tried to ignore the jibes and vulgarities cast at him as they passed through the crowd, waiting for the sport to begin. Zhoutai was pleased that the audience did not take his entry very seriously. It would drive the odds up. Already he had made several wagers at very favorable points, and there would be more before he took the woman's dress off his animal.

  The site of the event was near the bazaar, no more than a slight depression in the earth with a vaguely oval shape, surrounded by onlookers. As soon as they arrived, Zhoutai left Casca under the wary eyes of his guard and went in search of more bettors. Around the depression, voices rose shrilly in a dozen tongues, and bets and odds were offered and accepted or argued over.

  Casca was content to rest and wait until his turn to fight. First there would be a contest between two wrestlers: a thin, wiry Tatar and a dark, sinewy-muscled Uighar, with hair hanging in a long braided pigtail to his buttocks. Bad mistake, Casca thought. The Uighar was just giving his opponent a convenient handle. These two were not well skilled in the art, they were simply two nomads who wished contest.

  It was pretty much a foregone conclusion who the winner of the first contest would be. The Tatar had it all over the pigtailed Uighar. The game probably would not have gone to the death had it not been obvious to all what was going to take place, and everyone wanted to see the ending.

  The more agile Tatar moved quickly with a leg trip to fell his larger opponent, then proceeded to strangle him with his own pigtail. That was novel enough to please even the most jaded aficionado, but when the Uighar lost consciousness, the Tatar whipped him over to his back, unwrapped the pigtail from around his throat, and began stuffing it down the Uighar's throat. When the man's jaws clamped in spasm, the Tatar leapt quickly to his feet and with two rapid kicks broke his jaw, dropped back to the man's chest, and proceeded to stuff the rest of the knotted hair into the gaping maw. All this was to the delight of the spectators, who roared in glee, slapping hands and whips against their own thighs in appreciation. Even those from the Uighar's own tribe did nothing to stop the killing. As with the others, they saw the humor of the situation, though several did decide to shorten their own hairstyles.

  When the fighter for the Black Khitan appeared, the odds rose again in Zhoutai's favor, nearly five to one. This w
as the day when Zhoutai hoped that he would become a man of true property. Everything he had hoarded in his life was wagered on the game. Almost a full bashlik of silver. Enough to buy thirty-five horses.

  If his animal lost, then he would at least have the pleasure of killing the beast slowly if the fighter for the Black Khitan did not, and thereby derive at least some small pleasure in compensation for his losses. And if he won, then he would certainly be able to sell another bashlik or two of fine silver. With seven bashlik he would be free to live as, if not a king, at least as a prince among his kind.

  As with all nomads, wrestling was a favored sport, but it was wrestling in the Greek style. Here there were no rules except that weapons other than your own body could not be used. The Black Khitan led his fighter around the inner circle, crying his praises and taking all bets placed against him. As with many of his race, he, too, was addicted to gambling and had, when he saw Zhoutai's entry, wagered all he owned on the outcome of the fight.

  He would not even have accepted this match with the Tatar except the fool offered him such good odds. And it would not hurt Han to get a quick, easy victory to whet his appetite for tougher game later. The Black Khitan had no doubt that his man would win the fight. He was from those hard lands that lay to the west of the islands of Jiponga. The men from there were noted for their ferocity and cruelty, and some of those from the northern part of the peninsula gained great size. This was one of those. Known only as Han, there were few who came against him who ever fought again. If they were not killed, then Han took delight in crippling them. It pleased him to think that the pain he gave them would cause him to be fresh in their memory, every waking moment of their life.