Casca 22: The Mongol (6 page)

Climbing back into the saddle, Temujin went on ahead, leaving Casca still sitting on the trail laughing to himself.

The mountain passes were mostly barren here, and the winds that brought the rains were few and far between. Everything had to fight for survival: the scrubby conifers from whose seeds the Mongols made bread, to the gray-leafed brush that had roots longer than its branches as it sought moisture between the cracks in rocks.

Once every few days or so, the travelers would crest a ridge, and below would be a valley, lush and green with tall trees and fields in which animals grazed peacefully. The smoke from their huts would spiral up for a distance, then be whisked away by the stronger winds that raced over these few small sanctuaries.

They had been in the mountains for nine days, and only in the valleys did they see signs of human life. So far Temujin had chosen to bypass these oases. Casca figured that he didn't want to give their presence away in case there was to be any pursuit, which Casca didn't think was likely at this point. They were well out of the lands near Qura-Qurom, and who was master here was open to conjecture.

The herdsmen of this region were defiant, stubborn, and as vicious as half-starved dogs. If left alone, they usually would do likewise. There were more of them than it would appear. Threaten or attack one and they would come out of holes in the ground; they would scramble from the mountains and crags until they had a horde numbering in the thousands. They would then attack, kill and sometimes eat whoever it was that had bothered them, then go on about their business.

Casual travelers, too, were not welcome, which was one reason why Temujin would lead them around their camps and wouldn't even permit Casca to steal one lousy goat for their supper, for the hillsmen would have been after them with a vengeance. To make his point, he told  Casca something about the hillsmen. "Remember this, Old Young One, a hillsman thinks like this. 'My wife yes, my children maybe. My goats never!"

When at last they started to descend from the mountains, Casca could make out Lake Baikal while they were still a hundred miles away. It seemed to float in the air.

Temujin halted his mount and breathed deeply. "This is my air, my land. It is there that I was born that night of storms and signs, and at last it is to there to which I am returning."

Casca pointed to the north. He had never been that far before. "What is to the north of the lake, Temujin?"

Temujin smiled at him, his eyes squinting. "The dead white lands of eternal winter. The tundra. A sea of trees that go on until there is no more. Trees, wolves, and the cold – cold such as you have never known. The earth itself is always frozen. In the summer, dig down a foot or two and you get ice. It never thaws. A cruel, vicious place. Too hard for even the Mongol to live in.

"The people who live there cannot be truly called people. They are barely above the level of the beasts they hunt for food. It is said that in hard times – and they have more of them than good – they will eat one of their own. Usually an old person or one who has been injured and no longer can hunt or fish for his food. They leave him out in the open, waiting for a pack of wolves to come and surround him. Then, when the wolves are involved with eating the sacrifice, the rest of the tribe surround the wolves, then kill and eat them. But that is only a legend."

Casca grimaced. It sounded like one place to stay well away from.

Temujin pointed to a string of smoke plumes rising from the plains below. "First we must pass through the grazing lands of the Tatars. To the far north of them are the Merkits. There are other tribes or bands between the Tatar and my father's lands, and some of the tribes he led are between the Urtigurs and the Merkit.

"Once past the Tatars, I will find us friends. To go around on the other side of the lake would take us two weeks more, and we would have to go through the lands claimed by too many other tribes. Also, if we have to fight, I think it best we fight those I already have a quarrel with and leave the rest for later."

Casca couldn't find any argument against this, but he still needed to learn more about the Mongol tribes. "Tell me, Temujin, how are the tribes structured? To whom and what do they owe fealty and why?"

Temujin looked over his shoulder, dodging the branches of a conifer.
"We are a mixture of everything, which is why we have nothing. My father, Yeshugei, was master of a group of small tribes from different clans. There were Urtigurs, Merkits, and even Uighars who are not truly part of us at all. He formed an alliance that has now been destroyed by Jemuga. As for the nature of my people, they follow only the strongest. Even among one's own tribe, that is the rule. Loyalty depends on strength. Where power is concerned, even your own tribe will willingly follow another if he is strong enough and gives them gold and glory. They will follow.

"The Mongols and all the people of the steppes need and demand a master. And that is what I shall be one day, master of all the tribes of the steppes – not just the Mongols, but all of them."

Casca thought, At least Temujin's father had planted a few seeds of intelligence in his son's mind. Once a leader could get past the mental blocks of race and incorporate all into a larger design, he had great potential.

Temujin motioned for him to watch his head as he went under a granite overhang. Casca lowered his body half over and followed after Temujin as he led the way down the narrow, twisting trail.

As they came out to the edge of the plain, they were still in the cover of large scattered boulders. They could hear in the distance a familiar sound. A fight. Someone was dying and doing so quite painfully. Casca could almost see Temujin's ears stand up. "Take it easy. Do you think we should get involved with anything this early?"

Temujin stood up on his saddle to better see across the distance. Casca hated him a little. This youngster could actually ride at the gallop, standing on his saddle, while it was all he could do to hang on at a trot.

"Let me decide this, Old Young One. If there is a fight and we are wise and pick the right side, it might be an opportunity for us to gain friends."

Casca grumbled under his breath. "Fat chance of that. Out here, your friends, the ones who like you kill you quickly, instead of an inch at a time."

Sliding back down into his saddle, Temujin pointed to the northeast. "The fight is coming from over there in a valley. I couldn't see who, but there are thin trails of dust in the air showing that men are on horseback and riding hard."

Temujin took his bow from its case, placed one tip of the bow in the stirrup of his saddle, and bent the compound bow till he was able to string it. A good fighting bow could drive an arrow through three men. Testing the tension, Temujin clucked his lips. He was not completely satisfied, but it would have to do.

Reluctantly Casca checked his own gear, loosening the sword in its sheath then hefting the light lance for balance. Temujin looked at him, his question unspoken. Casca needed his head.

"Good, then let us go, Old Young One, and see what we may see. Perhaps this will be a good day for us, some fighting and some booty."

In his mind Casca mocked him in a high, tinny voice: Some fighting and some booty. Good God, don't people ever change?

He had to kick his beast in the flanks to speed it up. Temujin was getting too far ahead and not looking back. A bad habit. He would have to break him of that.

Breaking clear of the boulders, they had a clear run for three hundred meters, where they achieved cover in a small grove of pine trees near a hollow. Beyond this was where the sounds of fighting were coming from. As usual, Temujin was in the lead, slowing his animal to a walk so the sounds of drumming hooves would not give them away. He slowly walked his horse to where he could just see over the crest of the small hill, then moved back for a hurried conference with Casca.

"I think we are in luck. From the looks of them I would say they are Qura-khitans. Probably no more than just a raiding party after horses and women. There are eight of them right now from whom they are keeping their distance. I think it is three men who have taken cover in some pines. From there they are keeping the Khitans at a distance with their bows.

"There are several bodies on the ground. I think most of them are Khitans but not all. As you may have noticed, the screaming has stopped. The Khitans had a prisoner and were entertaining themselves with him. The last I saw, they were pulling his guts out of him, but he was already dead by that time, I should think, as he had no arms or head. Therefore the last act was of no real importance except perhaps to aggravate those in the trees. That is all I saw."

He ended the statement flatly. His head had popped over the ridge for no more than five seconds, but Casca had no doubt that he was right about what he said.

"All right. If there are three in the trees with us, that makes five against eight. Not too bad. It sure as hell could be worse."

Temujin looked at him with a question in his strange East-West eyes. "Now what shall we do? You have told me time and again that war is all deception of one form or another. I would like to see an example of it."

Casca knew that whatever time he spent with Temujin, this was going to occur time and again. "All right. I'm going to take a look for myself." Temujin started to become indignant. "You don't believe me-"

"Yes, dammit, I believe you. I believe! But people do not always see the same things the same way. I may be looking for something you are not aware of yet," he said, qualifying the statement.

Leaving his horse behind, he crept up to the top of the hill, staying on his belly and letting the grass provide him with some cover. He probably could have stood up and not have been noticed.

The Black Khitans' attention was on the small stands of pines about two hundred meters in front of them, leaving their backs to Casca and his hill. To the east a wide stream cut across the open end of the field. It didn't look to be deep. To the west the hill he was on narrowed until it nearly intersected another hill. The sides of both hills were steep, but not so steep that a horseman could not get up them. It would be slow going for him, though.

Right now the Black Khitans seemed to be holding a conference on horseback about what to do with the three men in the trees, at the same time keeping an eye out for the occasional arrow that sped their way from the pines. There was some shaking of hands and heads. Several of the Black Khitans waved their hands to the south, seeming to want to cut off the attack and head in that direction.

The corpse of the disemboweled and dismembered Mongol lay off to their left. That his death had been horrible there was no doubt, but Casca felt no pity for the Mongol. If it had been the other way around, he would have been no gentler with the Khitans than they were with him. It was hard in the Altai.

Checking the sun, he figured they had perhaps an hour and a half until the sun began to set. When the numbers were against you, the dark could be a welcome ally. Sliding backward on his belly till he was sure his head couldn't be seen by the Khitans when he stood up, he walked back down the hill to Temujin.

Walking up to the Mongol, he spoke softly. "You were right about everything. As for a plan, I think we should wait until dark. I have an idea but it's not anything fancy. With a little luck, it should work. We'll have the advantage of surprise, and that's about all. Maybe it will work, maybe not. It depends on a number of factors, but we'll just have to wait and see."

He and Temujin moved their horses back into a line of trees where if any of the Khitans rode to the top of the hill they wouldn't be seen. Settling down in the trees, they waited out the coming of dark as Casca explained his plan to Temujin.

"Ha! Is that the best you can do for a plan, after all your talk of deception and fine strategies? I would do as well myself without you."

Temujin's remarks were caustic, but Casca had no real comeback. He was right. It was simple and obvious: Sneak up on the bastard while they were busy with their front and shoot them in the backs. It made sense to him. There was a time for fine tactics, and time to do the obvious, but he didn't feel like getting into an argument with Temujin at that moment.

There was still close to an hour before full darkness set in. If the Khitans were to make their move, they probably would do it before then. Once night came, the men in the trees would have an opportunity to escape, or if the Khitans entered the dark of the trees, the night would help to even the odds in the favor of the Mongols.

Whatever happened, the next move would be up to them. Until they did something, he and Temujin would just have to wait.

He knew a bit about the Khitans and the other tribes of the steppes. They originally descended from the Mongol tribes the Chin caned the Hsien Pei, from the region of Lianing and Eastern Mongolia bordering the Great Wall.

Their greatest leader had been a brilliant, totally vicious barbarian named Apaochi, who united the different clans and tribes of the Hsien Pei and overran a large part of the lands to his south, across the Great Wall, and established the Empire of the Liao. This occurred in the year by Christian reckoning of 944. They had used their fast cavalry to sweep down on the Imperial capital of the Chin, Kaifeng, and taken the emperor prisoner.

From then on, the succeeding dynasties and kings all had problems with the Khitans. There were only a few choices open to one in dealing with them. One was to go to war against them; the second was to pay them tribute to leave you alone; and the last was to try to hire them to fight your enemies. None of these options worked very well to the advantage of anyone but the Khitans, who, though in their courts affected much of the mannerisms of the conquered, never were far from their Mongol customs and traits.

And as Mongols, they fought the way they knew best and controlled the subject peoples in the same way. Ride fast and kill all who oppose or kill them any way if there just happened to be too many of them in the region. Fear, the sword, and the bow were their allies. Entire regions were depopulated, so the passage of their horses as they grazed would not be hindered by plowed fields and villages.

There were others who plunged deep into the soft belly of the south. The tribes and hordes of the Jurchen, Hsuing Nu, Hsien Pei, and Tatar. All had come from the desolate plains of the steppes and Mongolia.

Even though it sometimes took centuries, all the invaders of the celestial kingdom were beaten. One after the other, they had been pushed out – sometimes by the armies of the Sung and T'ang, sometimes by being assimilated into the very peoples they conquered.

Always the conquered peoples were so numerous that it was impossible to kill them faster than they gave birth. The farmer will always outnumber the nomad and, by doing so, prevail over them – even if it takes centuries to do so.

The steppes at this time, however, seemed to have a never-ending supply of new tribes arising from family clans to take their predecessors' place in line at the gang rape of Chin.

Temujin had explained it to him this way: "Ah, Old Young One! It is in this manner that we of the steppes always have the men and horses to wage war. Let us take, for example, the Jurchen. They are of the same blood as we. But when they moved to the south and conquered, all the tribes of the Jurchen went with them. This created space on the steppes for others to grow. Let me give you an example of how a family becomes a tribe and a tribe a nation. It begins with one family, the leader of which is always the father. We have, as you know, many children. Say this father has five sons that live to manhood. They in turn have five sons each. Therefore, in just one generation the family has grown to twenty-five males. We do not count women. Then each of the twenty-five has five sons. By the time the original family head is an old man, there will be one hundred and twenty-five males. The family has become a tribe. Carry this on a bit further and you can easily see how in just a hundred years or so the family could become a nation numbering in the tens of thousands. This is what happened to the Jurchen. They grew. Made alliances and absorbed other small families and tribes into them. Then, when they were strong enough and had found a leader, they moved to the south. There is no other way to go accept to the west, and there are many strong enemies and little plunder. The south beyond the wall has always been our historical hunting grounds.

"Once they have conquered and subjugated the people there, they move with most of their nation into the occupied lands. For as you know, the life here is very hard. This means they leave lands open for new tribes to use and grow strong in. If, as happened with the Jurchen, they grow soft and have dissension among themselves, they are finally driven out. They can no longer return to their original lands. For now other tribes sit upon them. They may be able to take and hold some of their original lands, but as they grow strong, so are the new tribes coming into their tower. And remember, in their time in the lands of the south they have grown softer. Usually, rather than fighting the new owners, they move to the west as did the Qura Khitans and others. There, where the enemies are not so fierce, they may find and take new lands. And that is how it is always certain the steppes will never run out of men or horses."

Now the Khitans and those who had come before them had been pushed to the west, they in turn dislocating other tribes who were forced to seek new lands and other conquests.

This is what happened to the Huns and the Tatars, who were now feeling pressure from the rising power of the Mongol tribes.

And as with all migrations, there were some who stayed behind like these Khitans and the band of Tatars by the lake. Tribal boundaries were loose at best, and power determined who had the best of it.

It would be difficult, if not impossible, for him to tell Temujin that he had fought against many of those nomadic invaders as a baron of Chin long centuries before he was born. But he knew them and knew them well. They had not changed much over the last few hundred years. Their tactics stayed the same, and they stayed the same unless, as with a few, the peoples they conquered assimilated them and by default won the long victory. The conquerors became them.

"Okay, Temujin, it looks like they're starting to move. There are two to each side to flank the men in the trees, and the other four are staying in the clearing at the edge of bow range to keep the enemy occupied while the others flank them. That will be our chance: the flankers will have to dismount. That leaves only four on horseback. We move up behind them as close as we can. I know you're good with the bow; you should be able to take a couple of them out before they know we're there. By that time we might close enough to rush them. The men in the trees will have to deal with the flankers themselves."

The Khitans began to spread out, the four flankers heading to the right and left, out of bowshot. The four in the center were moving up closer on horseback. When they were a hundred paces from the line of trees, they halted their animals and waited till the flankers were in place. Casca wondered why they were so anxious to take the three Mongols in the trees. Normally, when nomads took too many losses, they left. If they were still going after the Mongols, it meant there had to be good reason. Well, with a little luck he would find out soon enough what it was.

Temujin prepared his war bow and shafts, carefully inspecting each arrow for balance, eyeing down the length of each shaft for trueness. He loved the bow for this was the true weapon of the Mongol. Mounted archers moving fast would always be the heart of Mongol warfare.

Casca checked his own weapons. A sword and light lance. The bow work he would leave to Temujin. There was not anything more to do. They were ready, as ready as they could be now that it was time for the Khitans to move, and they did.

The flankers had reached the woods and dismounted on either side of the defenders. There was no way the defenders could have sent anyone to meet them; they had to stay together. The Khitans in the center began to let shafts fly into the woods to no effect, but it forced the Mongols to stay put as the other Khitans worked their way on foot closer to them.

Casca and Temujin mounted up. Temujin had one arrow already notched to fly. He could let loose an accurate shaft every four seconds. While the first was in the air, the next would already be on its way. Casca had never been able to master the bow to that degree of skill. He could shoot one with normal accuracy, but what the Mongols had was a gift, a talent they were born to. He was better at the close work, where his size and strength would take away the advantage of distance the archers had.

Shadows were reaching long and dark across the field, and the sun was setting in the face of the Khitans. Soon it would be dark, but by then it would all be over one way or the other.

By moving slightly to the front, Temujin assumed command of his less than impressive horde. Casca didn't mind. This could be considered part of the young man's on-the-job training, so to speak. Temujin needed no hands to control his horse. This he could do with just knee pressure. The beast would go where the Mongol wished. Casca would have to kick and jerk reins to get his mount to do half as much. But that was the way it was, and there was no use trying to change it.

Leading the way over the top, Temujin raised the war bow and with the typical style of the nomads of the steppes – with the bow close to his face and pushed forward with the left hand till the cord was drawn taut, his right hand's fingers with the thumb ring holding the notched end of the shaft by his right ear without seeming to spend more than a breath on sighting – he let fly. His right hand was a blur as he drew the next shaft from the lacquered quiver and notched it.

Casca pushed slightly ahead of him, whipping the flanks of his horse with the haft of his lance, trying to get all the speed out of it he could. Without having to ask, he knew that Temujin would pick the next man in line for the next target.

As he drew nearer to his prey, the familiar beat began to pound. His heart picked up the rhythm. He saw the first arrow strike its target. The broad-bladed war arrow of the leaf style went in, the tip horizontal so it could slide between the victim's ribs and sever his spinal cord. Which was exactly what it did. From a distance of fifty meters, the leaf-shaped tip severed the enemy's spinal cord directly between the shoulder blades, slicing through the Chin-style lacquered armor as though it were paper, entering deep, till the bright tip of the leaf sliced open the heart.

The Khitan slumped in his saddle. He knew not why, but suddenly his body went cold. His arms and legs felt incredibly heavy. There was the taste of blood in his mouth and he knew not why. The cold of death was on him as he fell from his saddle to the earth, one foot caught in the stirrup of his saddle. His head hit the earth as his horse shied and whinnied, then raced off to the east, dragging his corpse behind. He knew he was dying but knew not why.

The second shaft from Temujin's war bow hit its target, this time a bit off center, as the other Khitan's horse shied when the first shaft struck. This time the leaf-tipped arrow entered the right lung. A scream issued forth from the mouth of its target, followed by a bright spout of foam-red arterial blood. He was dead, but it took a moment or two longer for Temujin to be certain of it.

Casca was nearing his target, a Khitan with the face of a gargoyle. His front teeth had long since been knocked out by the kick of a horse. His nose rested flat against his face. From the side he had no profile. Wispy strands of hair hung from his upper lip and chin. A helmet of undetermined origin covered a recently shaven pate, probably to rid it of the lice and fleas that normally inhabited his scalp.

The two surviving Khitans had begun to turn. The sound of horse hooves drumming toward them was too clear not to hear. The drumming, combined with the two Khitans who had suddenly sprouted backs with arrows sticking out of them, drew their attention around to their rear.

Casca leaned forward, locking his lance under his right armpit, trying to place his body as close to that of his horse as possible to avoid the possibility of a return shaft hitting him. He could smell the grass underhoof as his horse tore up the ground.

He let himself ride with the animal, adding its speed and strength to his own. The lance was steady; he had picked his man.

The Khitan tried to swerve and move out of his way. But Casca's war pony knew what was expected of it and shifted to intercept the horse. Even if the rider was not a master horseman, the animal knew its job. Nostrils flared, red-rimmed wild eyes rolling, the war-horse locked in on its target. Nothing save death would stop it.

Temujin was unable to lay into the last Khitan on horseback.

The man had dropped over the side of his horse, using the animal's body for cover as he tried to put some distance between him and the unexpected attack from their rear. He was heading to the far end of the glade, where his fellow tribesmen were working their way into the trees. He wanted company.