Barry Sadler - Casca 06, page 14
He sobbed and cried, tears running freely down his scarred face, as he raced forward slashing and killing, then laughing hysterically. His sword reached endlessly for new bodies to drink in. He thirsted for blood, a berserk slayer of the enemy, unable to be sated. Even his own men drew away, avoiding him in fear. They’d never seen anything like their commander, who would circle like a child in play, laughing wildly, then slash down on a foe, splitting him open from his brain casing to his chest, then crying out to the Huns to send him some more for he had yet to have his fill.
Jugotai spotted Casca. Even his bloodstained tunic and flinging arm and crying face had not hid-den him from his Kushanite friend.
He kicked his mount in the flanks and tried to fight his way through to Casca’s position. Hunswere as close as lice on all sides and it seemed impossible to proceed more than a foot or two without getting slaughtered. Yet, inch by slow inch, he came closer to his old sword mate. Shuvar had been separated from his father, fighting desperately just to stay alive himself. He cut and thrust his blade, reaching out to pluck an eye out or dance across the throat of his opponent. He was an artist, picking his targets and conserving his strength by wasting no motion. But his father was away from him now and he could not get to his side. At least for the time being, he couldn’t. Shuvar, too, had seen the scar-faced stranger who had saved him in the desert five years before, and knew that his father was trying to reach his old friend.
A loud cry brought Jugotai’s head around. As he turned, a spear sank its full length into his leg, piercing through the other side and into the horse’s side. The animal stumbled and threw Jugotai to the ground.
He called out, “Casca!”
The sound of Jugotai’s voice broke through the blood mist surrounding Casca’s mind, pulling him back from the slaughter.
Boguda was in a blind rage, aware that he was losing the battle and his glory that was to be. Victory was slipping through his fingers as his men kept falling and dying all around him. He knew his end was near and decided to go for it all. If he had to die, then he would take as many of them with him as possible.
He spotted the leader of the Kushanites, Jugotai, and started toward him just as the chieftain with the graying ponytail fell to the ground. He managed his way through the melee,beating his horse with the flat of his sword. Nothing mattered now except to kill anyone or anything within reach, especially the leaders. Jugotai was directly in his path now as he bore down on him. The chief of the Kushanites, pinned beneath his horse but sitting up, raised his sword as Boguda struck downward. Boguda’s eyes were wild with passion and he slashed at the chieftain in hatred. Jugotai was able to deflect the blade of Boguda just enough to ward off a killing blow, but still, the power of the blow broke through and Boguda’s sword sunk into the side of his chest, slicing through to the rib and laying the chest cavity open to the extent that the lungs were exposed.
Casca had seen the blow from the Hun chief that had ripped Jugotai open and a cry of ancient primeval grief came from him. He still saw Jugotai as the young boy that he’d taken with him on the long trek years before. In his eyes the man was still a child. He screamed again and again. His horse faltered and he jumped from the animal before it fell, fighting his way on foot to where Jugotai lay. Boguda was involved with the killing of a young officer of the light lancers of the Persian cavalry and hadn’t seen Casca approach through the melee.
His first indication that something was going on behind him was when he heard Casca cry out to the heavens in anguish. The sound sent shivers up his spine. Boguda had never heard anything like it.
Wheeling his horse, he saw the Roman on his feet, standing over the body of the man he’d just sliced open. From the green cloth band around the stranger’s steel helmet, he could tell that the manwas a high-ranking officer of the Persian relief force. He bore down on Casca, trampling bodies beneath the already bloodstained hooves of his warhorse.
The stranger, instead of waiting in wide-eyed ter-ror for his death from Boguda’s hand, was throwing himself into the path of his horse. What was the fool doing? The onrushing animal crashed to its knees as Casca’s sword rammed straight through the hide and flesh, piercing its heart. Blood was coming from its mouth and nostrils as it fell, yet it was trying to sink its yellow stained teeth into the face of the man who’d killed it.
Casca leapt deftly aside to avoid the last effort of the animal’s teeth and grabbed the Hun by his tunic. He pulled him from the saddle and swung his sword with a blow that should have taken the Hun’s head from his shoulders. Instead, it was met with an equal force that rattled his arm all the way up to his own shoulder. Boguda had squirmed his way from beneath his fallen horse and was under Casca, blocking his blow. The force of his counter was such that he’d knocked the Persian commander back on his heels, taking advantage of the respite to regain his footing. He stood, facing the Roman, his eyes flecked with blood rage and killer lust, his legs bowed like the weapon his men carried. Even with bowed legs he was still as tall as the man before him. His chest was barreled and his arms were long and knotted with stringy muscle. The two men squared off.
Casca moved first, a low lunge to the Hun’s midriff. Boguda countered with a low sweeping blow that changed in mid-direction to go for hisopponent’s head, only to hit empty air.
They struck again and again only to find each blow countered. Both were master swordsmen and knew they’d found their equal. A dozen times each had tried to kill the other, only to fail and find himself standing with his sword singing in his hand and his wrist growing numb from the effort.
Finally, they stood back from each other, chests heaving from exhaustion, gasping for breath. The rest of the battle had moved away from them, leaving them alone in their own space. They would have it no other way. The two men warily watched each other. Not a word was being spoken, but the hate they both felt was as heavy as death itself.
They moved again. This time Boguda let loose his sword and grabbed the wrist of Casca, shaking the Roman’s blade from his hand. They strained against each other, two titans locked in a titanic struggle that could have only one end.
Immobile, they held each other, their muscles and backs straining, the cords in their necks standing out like bands of steel. Face to face, body to body, they stood erect, each testing the strength of the other.
Casca was tiring, but so was Boguda. Casca heard Jugotai’s voice coming from his rear. He listened but he did not turn away from his opponent.
“Put his head on my grave, Casca. Do that for me and all will be well.” The voice was weakening with the effort.
Casca took a deep breath, drawing it into the depths of his already laboring lungs. He moved, using the strength he had built up on the galleys of Rome. He concentrated. But he could not move him.
By all the fords of heaven and hell, he thought, this is the strongest sonofabitch I have ever met.
Again they were face to face; Casca could smell his foul breath and the tepid odor of the man’s body. This man in appearance was a damned ani-mal. An almost forgotten memory came to him from somewhere in the distant past. “Use the other’s strength against him. Have a mind like the moon. Use no emotion and you will conquer.” Shiu Lao Tze, the ancient sage from beyond the Jade Gate, had said it many years before. He relaxed and let the strength of Boguda go to work for him.
The Hun suddenly made a strong effort to break Casca’s grip. Lunging forward and expecting to find resistance, there was none. Casca rolled with him, drawing the Hun with him as he moved forward then; turning his body, he caught the Hun on his hip and slung him to the ground. Casca threw his body atop the Hun and wrapped his legs around his waist, beginning to squeeze. Degree by degree his thighs tightened, putting pressure on Boguda’s lung cage. He was trying to squeeze the life out of the Hun warlord.
Boguda beat at Casca’s face with his fists and fingernails, straining, pounding and clawing, now and then tearing pieces of skin off. Still, Casca squeezed. Calling on every ounce of remaining strength his legs tightened their grip and Boguda began to weaken. Feeling the ease of resistance, he kept the pressure on for a minute more, then shifted his position to the side, where he could get a grip on the Hun’s head. He locked his arms around it and began to turn. The muscles in his back threatened to break out of the skin containingthem, as he strained. He took a great breath and turned his body, giving his arms the aid of his back muscles. Boguda’s head turned until he heard in his own mind a distant cracking that told him his neck was broken. He was not dead yet, he knew, but it would not be long in coming. Now he knew what his victims had experienced the many times he’d done the same. It was ironic that he should die this way. He almost smiled.
When Casca heard Boguda’s neck snap, he knew it was over. He rose from the ground, holding the Hun’s head between his own scarred hands, and raised the man’s body from the prone. He cried loud for all to hear, especially Boguda’s men.
“See and witness how the Hun dies, as shall ye all.” Groaning and calling on reserve strength, he raised the limp-necked Hun from the ground and above his head. Holding him there, Casca turned and twisted, the bones in Boguda’s neck grinding against each other as they moved into positions they’d never been in before. They were not designed to look backwards. His massive body was unable to give the death shudder so as to free his spirit, for Casca’s hands had crushed his throat to such a degree that no air could escape. Casca let the body fall to the ground and picked up a fallen sword. The blade was so dull from battle with the shields that he was forced to hack at the neck until Boguda’s head came free. He held the draining head above his own where the crowd could see. Then he yelled out loud.
“Your chief is dead.”
The Huns broke. With their master dead, they resigned themselves to dying also. Their spirit wasgone; there was no fight left in them, and die they did. Singly and in groups of a hundred or more, they died. The battle was lost with the death of their great chief, Boguda.
The forces of the Persians and Kushanites had joined. They were making a final sweep, bottling up the surviving Huns so that none could escape. The women were with them also. They had had a taste of blood and demanded full measure for what they’d suffered at the hands of the Huns. None were spared. The horse and yak-tailed standards were trodden into the earth to lie broken, ground into the blood of thousands.
Casca was drained and hurt. He left the body of Boguda to lie beside his horse that was still kicking its life away, and knelt beside Jugotai.
He started the task of removing the Kushanite chief from beneath his mount but was stopped by the groan of pain as he tried to lift the horse from Jugotai.
Jugotai, his face gray from the loss of blood, coughed through red foaming lips upon seeing the face of his old friend above him.
“Welcome and well met,” he tried to laugh feebly. “It is as I thought. My son errs in his age estimates. For certainly you look much older than I do.” He coughed again, grimacing with controlled pain.
Casca did look old now. His face was covered with grime and blood. Dust had formed in his hair, turning it a gray hue, and the deep creases of exhaustion and emotional strain had added many years to his appearance. He wasn’t sure what Jugotai had meant but he went along with him, for he did feel as if the weight of ages had rested on his shoulders and settled deep into his soul.
He watched the labored bloody breathing of his friend and knew that his minutes on this earth were not long now. Jugotai was dying. He covered the gaping wound in Jugotai’s chest by tearing off a piece of his own tunic and placing it over the opening. This was the first time he’d watched an old friend die. Other friends had died, but not while he was with them. He had moved on before, never to return.
His voice cracked, dry from the battle, and he was forced to swallow several times to work up enough saliva so his words could be said.
“It is good to see you again, old friend. Our trails have been long, Jugotai, and I see you have achieved all that you’d wished for. When first we met, you were as thin as a rail and wanted only to return home to become a warrior and sire sons to fight the Huns. You have done well, for around you lie the bodies of Huns and your son is tall and strong. I envy you, old sword mate and comrade.”
The descriptive words of old felt strange to his lips, because he still felt that Jugotai was the young lad he’d first met, though an old man lay beside him dying. A shadow fell over them from behind and Casca rose, sword in hand.
“Hold, Lord, it is only me, Shuvar, son of Jugotai. The battle is over, the Huns are finished. How is my
father?”
Casca took the boy’s hand, holding it in his own scarred and bloody paw. Jugotai himself answered the boy’s question.
“My son, Shuvar, you are the light of my life and though my own spark will fade and leave, I know that I live on in you. You have made me very proud and have given meaning to the world for me. The ways of our people are such that we do not say the things we should before it is too late. Before my shade rides away from me I would tell you this. I love you!” The effort of speaking was draining Jugotai and his face started to smooth out with the coming of death.
The boy stood, his head to the sky. The Roman didn’t feel the tears running down his face, washing the dust and blood from his cheeks and forming fallen drops on the stained ground.
Shuvar began to chant. Holding his sword above his head, he cried out in a strong voice, proud and with no trace of weakness, calling to the gods and spirits to take a warrior into their fold. He turned four times to face each of the winds and sang his father’s song, telling the spirits of the air and mountains of his father’s deeds. Clouds raced overhead, taking his words with them to the roof of the world. Shuvar
sang, and all within hearing stopped what they were doing to listen. They knew a great man was leaving them.
Casca held Jugotai’s hand and felt the coldness coming to claim him. As the life force ebbed, Jugotai’s face slowly became the one Casca had first seen. The years washed away from the old man as his spirit let loose of its human shell. The moment of death was at hand as Jugotai smiled at the Roman above him.
“Casca, big nose. It is good to see you. I thought you were dead when those priests had capturedyou.” His voice strengthened for a moment, as often it does when death is near the heart. His breath rattled in his chest as he choked on a piece of dried blood and spat it out. “We shall make it over the mountains and to my home yet, old friend.” He was now reliving their last trip together, Casca knew.
“There is nothing to stop us now, the road is clear. I can see the high peaks where the gods live and they welcome us back to my homelands. We will always travel together as sword mates, won’t we?”
Casca cried silently. He couldn’t let Jugotai hear his sorrow. Jugotai shook his head and answered his own question.
“No! I forget that you have a longer road to fol-low than mine.”
Shuvar continued his song, the words retelling every moment of Jugotai’s glory for all to hear. He wanted to stop but he could not. The song must be sung as the soul departs. The time was now!
Jugotai raised his head as far up as he could, opening his mouth so as to let his spirit free. He called out the name from his youth that he’d loved best.
“Casca…”
The death rattle came with the word, the two of them as one. A single shudder Casca had seen a thousand times, but had never felt before as he did this one, escaped his lips, and the shade of Jugotai winged its way to the winds.
Shuvar’s song stopped, there was silence over the battlefield. Then came the wailing of the women. They were not sure just who had died but the songwas enough to blend their own grief into that of Shuvar’s. They wailed and the surviving Hun prisoners shivered in fear.
Casca released Jugotai’s hand, having to pry loose the old man’s fingers.
With one hand he wiped the tears from his face and spoke softly to the still warm corpse below him.
“Come darkness, come peace. Welcome death!” He didn’t know if the words were for Jugotai, for himself, or for both.
Shuvar touched Casca’s shoulder and made a request that Casca honored. It was the son and the father’s right.
Indemeer rode up with Shirkin, calling Casca aside to give him the after-action report. Casca told them to take care of the details and the wounded. He didn’t want to stay here any longer; they would leave this day. The wounded would remain to be cared for by the Kushanites until they were well enough to return.
Once more, he rode away from the city, this time going to the west. Leading his army slowly, they began
to climb back to the pass leading to the capital city of Persia. He stopped once briefly, on the hill from where they’d watched the Huns attack, and looked back at the walled city.
