by Tony Roberts
“Keep shooting, Comrades!” he urged the men around him. “They’re outflanked, and they’ll break any moment.” He swung his barrel to the right. Another enemy soldier, shooting even as Casca lined up his next shot. All he could see was the man’s head, but it was enough.
Another shot, the soldier jerked spasmodically and sank out of sight, a new hole in his head. Alongside him one of his men had been hit and rolled to the bottom of the ditch, blood dribbling out of his mouth.
The eternal mercenary gritted his teeth. How many more of Russia’s young men were to die before they got themselves sorted out? A Cossack officer was waving his men to spread into an arc. Kill him and this might break them. Casca squeezed off two shots and one took the officer in the right shoulder, twisting him around and he rolled across the grass.
More shots were impacting into the shrinking number of Cossacks and they decided enough was enough. As one they rose up and turned, running as fast as they could. Shots followed them and five fell before the order to stop shooting came.
The Reds stood up, relieved they had won the skirmish. Casca ordered the fallen to be seen to, and went to examine the vehicles. Kirilov joined him. “Bad news, Comrade Commissar Kaskarov?”
Casca found the stiff formality of the title irritating and more than a little absurd but that was the way they wanted it. It was a kind of ‘yes, sir, no sir, can I wipe my ass, sir?’ situation. For a supposedly classless revolution, it was putting people very firmly in a pecking order position. The more things change, the more they remain the same.
“Not good. We’ve got three wrecks at least. We’ll have to get moving pretty soon or we’ll be caught out by the advancing Germans.”
The total tally of wrecked trucks was four in the end. They cannibalized parts from them to repair three others and then they had eleven able to move. Casca recommended the two captains lead the majority on to Lugansk by road while he led the ones that there was no space for, a total of ten, on foot.
Kirilov protested. “But, Comrade, its a hundred miles! It’ll take you a week, and you’ll be pursued and caught!”
Casca waved at the vehicles. “You’re already over-loaded and these things aren’t likely to last that long as it is. Now go, and get your asses to Lugansk. You know what direction we’ll be coming from so send a rescue party to bring us home. In the meantime, we’d best get going. The Germans won’t be sitting on their backsides.”
The other soldiers collected every spare morsel of food and passed it to the ones to accompany Casca, then they roared off along the road, leaving Casca and his ten men to set off across the grassy terrain in hope they could escape the jaws of the closing enemy forces.
Pretty soon silence descended upon the eleven men left by the scene of the fight. Eight Reds and about twenty of the Cossacks had been killed. The bodies had to be left where they had fallen, for there was no time to sit about. The Cossacks would bring reinforcements, no doubt about that. Casca looked to the north. That was where they were to go, so he waved the men to follow him. Now it was no longer about the twentieth century, nor being Bolshevik, or Communist, or holding a particular color of flag, it was about survival. Strip away the political bullshit and the reasons why you were fighting a war, and it boiled down to staying alive no matter what.
The ten with him were a motley bunch; most of them were young, some absurdly so. All but one were of peasant stock and willingly followed the word of the commissar, but the one exception was a studious type, with an intelligent look to his eyes and one who always quoted Marx or Engels or Lenin. Clearly had swallowed the Communist manifesto and Das Kapital in his university days, or had it shoved up his ass, maybe. Valdis Balodis was his name. Latvian.
Balodis constantly spouted the ‘correct way’ to address people or to describe anything according to the Holy Word of Lenin and company. Casca counted to ten in Latin, Russian, German, English and Mongol before he lost patience.
They were crossing a ridge, one of the few in the area, so they would be visible for miles around. “Alright,” Casca said as they approached it, “when we get up to the top, pick up pace and run hard until you’re down in the dip below; I don’t want to be outlined on the horizon any longer than is possible. We might be seen by the enemy and that would be fatal.”
“Comrade Commissar Kaskarov,” Balodis said respectfully.
“What is it, Balodis?”
“Comrade Balodis, Comrade Commissar Kaskarov,” Balodis corrected him.
“For fuck’s sake get on with it; we’re in a hurry here, if you haven’t noticed!”
Balodis’ fair-skinned face reflected disapproval. “The correct procedure in this instance, if you care to look in the Red Army Manual, Comrade Commissar Kaskarov, is to file in an orderly manner as befitting the discipline of the Red Army.”
His further observations were halted by Casca’s meaty hand around his throat. “Now look here, you pompous piece of shit. I’ve done more fighting than you and your comrades here put together. I’ve been killing Germans for longer than you would ever believe, and they keep on coming; there’s no end to the bastards. But what I’ve learned in my life is that they won’t pay any attention to any book or nice little order written in some safe committee room hundreds of miles from the front. They will come at you and when they reach you they will kill you. Got it?”
Balodis nodded, his eyes wide.
“Right, so when I say run, you ask ‘how fast?’ Now shut up and give all of us a fucking rest. I’m here trying to keep us all alive. Don’t question my authority or I’ll fucking shoot you, got it?”
Balodis nodded, swallowing. The others grinned. Nice to see the commissar use un-revolutionary language and speak like a whoreson. He was shoved back roughly, staggering a few steps, then got the benefit of Casca’s full icy glare.
“All your precious political statements are useless against a bullet from a Cossack or German gun barrel. But if you think they are, Comrade, then stand there the next time we’re attacked and spout Das Kapital at them and see where it gets you. Now get into line and be a help to your comrades and not a hindrance.”
They traversed the ridge and scuttled down the far side. There was a line of trees and shrubs ahead which Casca guessed, pulling on his huge experience, was a watercourse. That was good as they could refill their canteen and bottles there. They got to the winding brook, about six feet in width, and drank from it, replenishing their fresh water.
Casca looked about. The horizons were clear, but he knew that may not last much longer. To either side danger lurked. Their only advantage was the huge expanse of land; a town or village may be occupied but there was simply too much land for soldiers to cover everywhere. They might even now be in enemy-held territory, but here there was no sign of it.
They pressed on until darkness and they camped without a fire. A couple queried that and Casca pointed out that fire would be visible for miles, drawing anyone looking for them to them like moths to a flame. He also set sentries for the night, which Balodis and two others grumbled at. The Eternal Mercenary patiently explained that not only men were out there prowling the night, but maybe wolves and other creatures. Sentries were there to ensure the rest of them slept in safety, that all of them had a role, a purpose to the rest of the unit.
The next day they carried on north, anxious looks cast to the east. Casca was sure that the immediate danger would come from that direction. He guessed that he forgot about their passing north that the Cossacks would come from behind, but again the rearguard man wasn’t doing his job.
A shot was the first indication that they had been discovered, and the rearguard man was sinking to the ground, his spine shattered. Five Cossacks were galloping forward, carbines brandishing, ready to deal out death.
“Spread out and take cover!” Casca yelled, raising his rifle. His experience at the Little Bighorn in particular had shown how difficult it was to shoot accurately at riding enemies, but he was damned if he was going to let this be the end of it.
The Bolsheviks panicked. There was precious little cover and they still had received little training, having been pressed into service by slogans and political phrases, and a joy at being freed from autocratic rule.
Casca cursed as two more men went down, running in terror, cut down by the contemptuous Cossacks. Casca’s first shot took one of the horsemen through the chest and he was sent hurling off the saddle to pitch hard onto the ground.
Balodis screamed at the Cossack coming for him. “Comrade! Comrade! Stop! Stop! Join the revolution, turn your…” his plea ended with a saber slash to the throat and his head flew off to land a few feet from his slumping torso.
Casca sighted on the Cossack who wheeled towards him. Face-on, he presented an unmissable target and the Eternal Mercenary took full advantage, sending him to the ground with a bullet through the chest.
The three remaining Cossacks carved through the scattering soldiers, cutting them down one after the other. “Shoot back, damn you!” Casca roared, reloading. It was to no avail; the youngsters were beyond hearing.
Cursing, the commissar aimed at another whose back was to him, the Cossack chopping down yet another Bolshevik. Casca’s shot took him through the spine. On one knee, the Eternal Mercenary looked around for the remaining two Cossacks. One was right behind him, saber raised to chop into him.
Casca rolled and the blade narrowly missed, but now he was at the man’s mercy, on his back, and the Cossack came to a halt and peered down at him. Time came to a standstill, with the Cossack peering down at him with distaste.
What was going to happen next?
CHAPTER EIGHT
There were a couple more shots, then silence. Casca went to move but the Cossack shook his head, his carbine pointing directly at him. “Stay there, animal!”
Now, Casca was immortal, true. But he felt pain like any other, and the pain of ‘dying’ and then being reborn was like no other. If he could avoid it he would. So, he lay there, looking up at the flaring nostrils of the horse, and the gun barrel. Sound came from the right and the Eternal Mercenary turned his head to look in that direction.
Two of his men were being walked towards him, hands on heads, the other Cossack walking his horse behind them, his carbine cradled in both hands. The two men were forced to kneel and remained there, heads bowed. The Cossack holding Casca at gun point now stared down at him again. “Get up.”
Casca did so, and put his hands on his head. He stared into the cold, hard eyes of the Cossack. The man had a slight scar on his face. Dueling scar? Or, like the one he’d got, from a whore he’d short-changed?
“Bolshevik scum,” the Cossack spat, dismounting.
“Got that scar in a duel?” Casca asked.
“What’s it to do with you?”
“I would have done better. I would have cut your ugly head off.”
The Cossack pressed his carbine barrel into Casca’s chest and spat full in his face. “No Bolshevik knows how to hold his own cock, let alone a sword. I’d chop you into bits.”
“Well go on then, prove what a magnificent swordsman you are, Cossack whoreson.”
The other Cossack growled angrily. “You going to let him talk to you like that, Yuri? Slice this animal into bits in front of his two serfs, and show the superiority of us Cossacks over the Red filth.”
Casca grinned mirthlessly. Please, let me have a sword, he pleaded silently. He’d been chopping enemies up since the beginning of the first millennium. Germans, Northmen, Saxons, Olmecs, Chinese, Persians, Huns…oh the list was endless.
Yuri studied Casca closely. “That scar. That’s not a sword cut.”
“No. A whore gave me that for cheating her.”
The Cossack’s face twitched. “Was that in money or the length of your cock?”
“I deal in feet, not inches.”
Yuri controlled his twitching face for a moment, then walked to one of the downed Cossacks and picked his saber off the corpse. He tossed Casca the weapon and the Eternal Mercenary caught it and smiled. Thirty-seven inches in length, including the hilt, the gleaming blade was just under thirty-two inches. The point of balance was just a couple of inches past where the handle met the blade. It was the shashka, a guard-less sword.
It was extremely light, being around a pound and a half in weight. So easily swung. Casca took up the wide-legged stance, as did his opponent. To use the shashka in the classic way was to wield it in a circular manner. Casca wondered if this man was going to use it in the Kuban or Don fashion.
It didn’t really matter. It was down to who was the better swordsman. Casca wasn’t a beginner to the shashka. He’d used it, or at least an earlier version of it, with his time amongst the Cossacks in the seventeenth century. And then he’d used swords of all kinds over the preceding centuries going way back to the Roman Empire when he’d used the famous short sword. Not that the gladius iberius was anything like most of the swords he’d used since then, but it gave him a good foundation to use the blade.
Yuri gave Casca the benefit of a fierce scowl. “Now, Communist pig, know what it is to face a proper man using a proper weapon.”
“Ave Casear, te moritu salutas,” Casca replied, placing the blade upright, touching his forehead with the flat of it.
“What? What’s that shit?”
“Hail Caesar, we who are about to die salute you. An old saying the gladiators used to hail the Roman emperor before combat in the arena. Now, I’ve done the saluting, you’re going to do the dying.”
With a snarl Yuri whirled his sword and sliced in a lazy arc, aiming for Casca’s neck. The Eternal Mercenary met the attack with a cross-guard parry, then swept low and looked to disembowel the Cossack. Yuri jumped back in haste, deflecting the blow at the last moment. His eyes narrowed. “You’ve used the sword before?”
“Thousands of times, horse-fucker.”
“You Bolsheviks are all the same; dismissive of anyone not of your evil ways. Well, go to meet whatever god you don’t believe in.”
“Mithra will do for me, cocksucker.” Nothing like a good old Roman insult.
Yuri stepped forward, his sword high up to the left and as he came forward, it came sweeping down from the left and sliced towards Casca’s chest. There came a clash of steel and Casca knocked the blow upwards and then lunged, point first. Yuri twisted violently and only just missed being skewered. Casca stepped back, immediately into a defensive stance.
The two Bolshevik prisoners watched on, mouths agape, as their commissar used the blade like some veteran fencer from the military academies of Petrograd. Yuri soon realized he was hopelessly outclassed and this was a matter of shame, for a Cossack prided himself on being adept with the blade, more so than any footslogger from Petrograd, particularly a godless Communist.
The other Cossack watched warily, his carbine barrel wavering between the two prisoners’ necks and Casca. The Eternal Mercenary briefly checked on him and then turned back to the business of dealing with Yuri. It was all very well for a man to practice on a wooden post to get the moves right for using the shashka, but a post didn’t fight back nor try to decapitate you.
Casca looked almost lazy as he twirled his blade, his face like stone, his eyes pitiless. Down towards Yuri’s neck. Blocked. Step to the right, sword up in a circle from left to right, centering on the Cossack’s sternum. Yuri stepped back hastily, knocking the blow aside, then planted his back foot on the earth and used the purchase to thrust hard forward.
Where he expected to run the damned commissar through, he got instead the double shock of it being knocked off to one side, which opened up his defense, and then the extreme pain of the steel of the sword through his ribs into his heart. There came a blinding flash of pain, he opened his mouth to scream, but nothing happened except a darkness that claimed him forever.
Casca was already turning, changing the grip on the shashka. He pulled his arm back and sent all his power and strength through the throw, sending the sword hurtling through the air, to impact on the la
st Cossack’s chest. He staggered back four steps, dropping his carbine, then fell flat on his back, the sword sticking up like some flagpole.
The two surviving soldiers looked at Casca in awe. Never before had they seen anything like that. “Alright, you two, you can get up and reclaim your rifles. Go check the bodies, there may be useful items on them.”
They blinked, then slowly moved into motion. Casca toyed with the idea of keeping one of the swords, then decided against it. Not the done thing to have a Cossack sword on you, if you’re likely to meet more Cossacks, or even to encounter Bolsheviks who’ll question your preferences and loyalties.
Leaving the scene of the fight behind them, the three men pushed on towards the horizon. Oddly now there were fewer of them, they made better time. Darkness was not too far off when they emerged from a growth of trees and saw a small village nestled in a shallow valley with a watercourse winding its way through the wood and thatch buildings. A single bridge linked both halves of the settlement, and Casca grunted in satisfaction. He didn’t want to wade through another damned river if he could help it.
The three walked through the mud track that passed for a main street and eyed the buildings to left and right. The biggest building was where the village elder or leader would reside, so Casca went up to it and hammered on the door.
After a few moments the bolts slid back and the door opened a crack. A face nervously stared out at them. “Yes?”
“Open up, we wish to rest the night,” Casca said.
“Yes, yes, certainly,” the door opened wider, to reveal an elderly man with greying hair. He had a large bushy mustache. He looked at Casca’s uniform. “Er, Comrades?”
“Indeed. Commissar Kaskarov. My two men will be happy with any accommodation. I will sleep here tonight.” Although in theory under the communist mantra all were declared equal, there were some who were much more so. Rank had privileges no matter what.
The two men were shown by the man to a stable with plenty of room and hay, and Casca was courteously shown by the wife to a room at the back which had a single cot and a tattered mat and a warped bedside table with single drawer. Two others were there, a tired looking woman of indeterminate years who was the housekeeper of the village spokesman, and a plain-looking woman of about twenty-two or three or so. She was the granddaughter of the owners and her husband had died in the war fighting for the Tsar and now was one of many widows around Europe.
