by Barry Sadler
Yes, he was certain that formidable Han would triumph over the smaller man. Han was nearly half again as big and heavy.
Han strode about the oval, raising his massive arms, thumping his chest with his fists as he called out his victories, the names of those he had either killed or crippled. Many were famous fighters, mention of whom brought gasps of appreciation from the onlookers. Han stopped in the center of the depression and went into a deep squat. Raising first one leg, then the other, he stamped his feet on the earth. Working up his blood, he whipped his arms back and forth across his heavy chest, slapping his own sides with blows strong enough to down the average man. A heavy-fleshed grin spread over his face, and his eyes narrowed to thin pig slits as he saw his opponent led around the circle. The woman's dress didn't fool him, although it might have the others. He saw the width of the shoulders under the shapeless rag and the way the body moved, even shackled. There was a fighter there. Good! Good! He didn't like winning too easily. A good fight would increase his fame even more and that of his master.
Temujin stood one rank behind the inner circle. That was the best he would do. He saw the giant go through his poses and exercises, and, like the others, slapped his hands together in approval. Then came the one in the woman's dress. Temujin felt a rush of shame for the man. He knew that it was not his choosing, but his master's, that had made him don the shameful garment. Still, it was not a good thing to see a man with such things upon him.
The smaller man moved slowly, head slightly downcast, around the circle of savage onlookers, his eyes to the dust, as if already reconciling himself to defeat and possible death. His head turned to the side for a second, raising slightly, as if to see the crowd but not wanting them to know he was watching them too. Between the crowded shoulders of a Mongol from the Uriaqat and a Turkoman of the Seljuks he, only for the fleeting moment of a blink, touched eyes with a young man whose face peered between the shoulders of the Mongol and the Turkoman. Something electric ran over him. A shiver raced through his body, then was gone. His eyes returned to the dust at his chained feet.
It was hard to catch his breath. His chest had clamped in around his heart and lungs, his body had turned cold, and a tingle reached to the tips of his fingers. That man's face. The one in the dress, and pale eyes so much like his own. The scar that ran from the corner of his eye to his mouth. Could it be? He shook his head as if to clear it of too many wine fumes. No! He had to believe. The qams had told him he would know when he saw the man. He knew! This was the one for whom he had been waiting and searching. He had come.
Zhoutai ordered Casca brought to the center of the depression. The last bets were made. There would be no backing out. A nomad might steal your horses, rape your wife, and murder your children, but a wager was a thing of honor.
Zhoutai ordered Casca, prompting him with a quick twitch of his horse whip across the shoulders, to remove the woman's dress. It fell into a shapeless clump at his feet. From the crowd came a murmur, first of surprise as they saw the scarred, knotted, muscled body hidden by the robes. They grunted in appreciation, as one would admire a fine horse. The bands of muscle started at the base of the ears and ran to the shoulders. He had thick legs and powerful, heavy arms. Scars of battle crisscrossed his torso, arms, and legs. The murmur became a grumble. Then a hail of curses in a dozen tongues rained down on Zhoutai from those who had bet against him. They knew that he had suckered them. There were a few who had thought something strange was about and had taken advantage of the odds and wagered with Zhoutai against the Khitan champion. Now they roared with glee at the trick Zhoutai had played on his competitors.
Casca's eyes rose to meet those of the crowd, and the odds changed instantly, from five to one to two to one. They were warriors and knew the look of one. This would be no easy prey for the monster Han.
Temujin's heart shook inside his rib cage. The scars! They were there too. All the signs were there. This was he, the Old Young One. Whatever that meant. True, he did not look much more than thirty years, which was old but not ancient.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was time to get serious. Casca locked everything out of his mind except the lumbering, powerful piece of meat across the circle from him. This one was too strong to take any chances with. The crowd settled down, awaiting the first opening moves before they would start the frantic bidding once more and as they analyzed the chances of each fighter.
Not for the first time did Casca remember Shiu Lao Tze with fondness and gratitude for the arts he had taught him those long years ago when they had made passage from the slave mines of Greece to the Port of Ostia, whence Casca went to the arena and Shiu to teach the young of the rich and noble.
Over the centuries he had not added much to his skill, but he had not lost any, either. He knew that he could not compete with the great masters of the art from Chin or Jiponga, for even though he had the long ages of time on his side, he had not the natural gift of the truly great. His body was too thick and coarse, the muscles too knotted to have the flexibility of a great artist. That did not mean, however, that he was not capable of being a good craftsman, and that combined with the almost unnatural strength of his body normally served him well.
The times he had fought as part of an army or in individual combats such as this he was now facing were too great to recall. All save a few, such as when he killed Jubala, the giant black, in the arena of Rome. That had truly been one of the few kills he enjoyed for the pure pleasure of it. Of course, few was a relative term.
The one he faced now he had no real desire to kill or cripple, except that there was no other choice. He had to fight, and in spite of himself he knew that once he got into it, he would enjoy it. There was that which yet lived in him that called him to battle. He could never completely control it. Even now the emotions of the crowd washed over him as the adrenaline began to flow, forcing out veins in his thick corded neck, stretching the skin taut. Unconsciously his hands began to flex into fists as he began a series of moves to loosen and warm the body. Even under the warm sky of the high plains he felt a shiver run over him. He pushed all out of his mind as his eyes locked on Han, who had moved closer to the center of the poor arena.
Han's eyes grew even more narrow as he watched the pale, scarred thing on the other side of the oval begin to move. He had seen and in his youth learned something similar to those movements. They were deceptive and dangerous, and there was no fear in the man. That was what tickled him at the back of his mind. He was used to at least if not fear then apprehension, which was only natural when one faced such a man.
There should have been a wariness, or at least caution, behind the pale eyes, but there was none. Only a coldness that made the tickle under his scalp grow into an irritation. He found himself acquiring the signs he had thought to find in the pale one.
They began to circle each other. Han's first thought – simply rushing the smaller man and overwhelming him – was no longer in his mind. Now he searched for a weakness in the man's style, where an opening could be made. It was hard for him to find. He had too long been fighting total savages where the fine art of death by hand was concerned. He had lost much of his knowledge over the years and relied solely on strength and a few tried and tested tricks to achieve his victories.
Han tried hard to concentrate, to plan instead of simply using his strength and instincts, but the beginning of jeers and cries of "Shame" and "Coward" from the nomads began to grow around him. His face flushed with shame. Never had this happened to him before – to be called coward by those he could have crushed with one blow. The jibes struck at his pride like whips of a rhinoceros hide, slicing him to the soul.
Their circling grew closer, tighter, till they were only a few feet apart. Han did not want a contest of skills with this one. If he could bring him to where he could use his greater size, it would be best. He extended his hands from a distance, splaying out the fingers, offering Casca a choice. To go into a classic beginning wrestler's grip or not. Casca only nodded s
lightly and extended his own in reflection of Han's move. Tentatively they reached out their hands, barely touching the tips at first, then the fingers intertwined, locking. This was the first test, one of pure brute strength. Han's face grew tight as the great muscles in his neck and shoulders bunched and tightened as ever so gradually he began to apply more and more pressure, letting his strength flow down into his arms, and then into his hands where they were gripped by those of Casca.
As his strength came to him, so returned some of his lost confidence. He could feel power as he ever so slowly began to turn the wrists of his opponent to the outside. Once they reached the point where the elbows were locked, he knew it would take no more than a tiny bit of pressure and the elbows would pop loose from their sockets. Then at his leisure he could toy with his victim till he felt like ending it. Casca's wrists did turn, were forced almost back to the critical point, then the movement stopped. Han's efforts were frozen in place. He could move Casca's wrists no further.
He drew on more power from down deep in his heavy belly. He searched for his center and drew from it, transferring the power there back up to his chest, then down into shoulders, arms and hands, and finally to the tips of his fingers – to no avail. The smaller man's wrists would turn no more. He tried to dominate his smaller opponent by locking eyes with him, to force his strength of will and physical power over him. It was a mistake. His own dark eyes found nothing in the pale eyes of the scarred one, which gave him comfort. Instead there was a calmness but not peace. It was the calm that comes before the great winds, a resting that precedes death and destruction.
The smaller man's wrists began to turn, but not outward. They were slowly returning to their original position. The doubts Han had felt earlier rushed back upon him as he looked away from the eyes of the pale man. At that moment he knew that no matter how hard he fought, he had already lost. But if he had to die, he would die well.
For several seconds the two men stood locked in time, each drawing upon his innermost reserves. The vertebrae in their spines cracked audibly as the muscles surrounding them twisted and contorted. Their feet dug deep into the dirt, toes searching for a grip as they strained against each other. The crowd went silent. There was only the sound of rushed breathing, as though a thousand men were approaching a climax at the same instant.
Casca felt Han begin to give; the trembling in the giant's arms transmitted signals to him through vise-locked fingers. Tightening his abdomen, he sucked in a rasping breath, held half of it compressed down deep in his lower gut, then relaxed, twisting his body to the inside. At the same time his feet turned on their toes till his entire body was facing backward, inside that of Han. His fingers, still locked with Han's, forced them into a crossbar over his head. Lowering himself still farther, he let Han's weight force his body over. Casca was almost in a deep horse squat, his buttocks nearly resting on his heels, as Han went flying over him with no way to straighten out his arms as his own heaviness forced the elbow joints to separate and crack.
The sound was like a tree branch cracking in the freezing cold of the northlands. His scream covered most of the sound as his body arced through the air to land on his back, his arms useless for the rest of his life, which was now to be measured in seconds. Casca swung around to rest his body legs astraddle Han's chest.
He knew what had to be done. Reaching down, he grabbed the big man's head with crossed arms, one hand behind the head, the other on his jawbone. Drawing in another breath, he screamed, releasing the force of his abdomen at the same instant as he twisted Han's head. The neck broke with force enough to sever the nerve at the junction of the large bone that rested just above where his back began. His death shudder, was strong as Han went to wherever he was bound.
Zhoutai was ecstatic. His dreams would come true. With this kill it was certain that he could sell the savage for more than enough to realize all his fondest expectations. He was tempted to offer the beast for sale immediately, while the blood of the crowd was high. But he decided to wait until the next day, when the telling and retelling of the kill would increase the value of his animal. Then, in the evening when the kumass flowed freely, he would gather to his yurt those who had the money to pay the most and hold a small but, he hoped, exceedingly profitable auction. This he announced to all as he collected his wagers. "Hear me. I, Zhoutai of the Uighar, will on the eve of the morrow offer up this beast for sale. Those of you who have good silver, come to my yurt with the setting of the sun. Those who do not have silver, do not waste my time."
Temujin also heard these words with a sinking heart. If he was to do anything to save the Old Young One, he would have to do it soon. For once the Old Young One was sold to a new master, it was not likely that he would be easy to approach. It would have to be done this very night when the Uighar – cursed be his seed and most likely many of his warriors, would be celebrating their good fortune by taking deeply of the kumass, or wine of Chin.
CHAPTER FIVE
Zhoutai made doubly certain of the security of Casca's chains. He would take no chance on his fortune escaping this night, the night before his destiny finally changed.
That someone would steal him never occurred to him, for that would be a death sentence, a violation of the laws of the gathering. If the beast were to escape, it would be done on his own. No one at this place would help him.
For the first time in his memory Zhoutai worried not about the cost of the fine gold wine of Chin as he poured flagon after flagon into his cup. He was the only one of his camp to drink thusly. The rest drank the chalky kumass as they always had, though copiously.
Zhoutai knew they did not have the sophistication of taste to appreciate the finer things in life, therefore it would be a waste of money for him to offer them. He would, when this was done, leave most of them behind. He would have no further use for them, especially the slatterns who served him as women. Foul creatures.
He might perhaps take a few of his men as guards, but soon they, too, would have to go, as they were little better than the savage they guarded and would at some time in the future prove an embarrassment to him in more cultured surroundings.
Around the different campfires, the nomads of the steppes drank, sang, and danced to the thin, tinny clatterings of brass cymbals, flutes, and tambours of goatskin. Shrill voices were raised in the dozen tongues of the steppes. At some camps where the masters were wealthy, even women with some elements of barbaric beauty danced in slow, monotonous circles, heads whipping around on loose necks in a hypnotic manner that seemed to light fires in the blood of the nomads. The stars grew high in the sky as constellation after constellation made its appearance and passed on across the great wheel of the heavens.
Temujin had watched Casca as Zhoutai had Casca's chains secured and locked and placed the key in the pouch around his neck. This time the chain was shorter than usual, keeping Casca close to the center pole.
Casca had been fed well for his victory, a large chunk of roasted goat haunch. He gnawed the haunch, legs crossed, head resting against the pole. Safely outside the reach of his chain, the one whose ear he had chewed off kept a bored guard over him.
The day and the sun were long gone. Now, with the chill of the evening and a full stomach, he wished to rest as he squatted, face toward his charge, but his eyes were not focused. He was glad that on the morrow they would be rid of this creature. He had felt but been afraid to tell Zhoutai that he feared that one day the beast would break loose of its chains and kill them all, then eat them.
Temujin lay in the dark on his belly, which grumbled now from the lack of food. His mouth watered as the Old Young One chewed and gulped down the stringy goat flesh. Patience, he had to remind himself. Patience, and all would come to pass.
The guard did not worry him. He was careless and sleepy. His problem was the key to unlock the chain. True, he could have cut through the post, but that would take time and make noise. If it were to be done quickly and quietly, he would have to have the key.
L
eaving his watching place near the bank of the river, Temujin moved back into shadows where the glow of the campfires would not reveal him. Once clear of Zhoutai's camp, he moved into the open, walking between the tents and the huts of the Buryats and the Khirgiz, which were kin to, but not of the khanate, of Bitkichi-khan.
He refused himself the pleasure of a fantasy in which he slew Jemuga and Bitkichi-khan in a desperate fight inside their own yurts. He had real business to attend to and could not afford the luxury of idle dreams.
Two hours before the first glow of the sun began to turn the ridge of mountains across the river to rose and blood, Temujin had moved to where he was close to the yurt of Zhoutai. Inside, he could hear only the deep blubbering sounds of drunken sleep. The single guard at the flap entrance was also deep in his dreams. Temujin crept closer on his belly, keeping to the shadows even though the night was dark and the moon had long since set. The rest of the gathering, with the exception of a few in the distance who still sang drunkenly of their valor in war, were in the arms of Morpheus. Reaching the side of the yurt, Temujin considered his options. Reducing with the most basic logic to that which was the most logical and the easiest under the circumstances.
Snaking his way to the side of the sleeping sentry, he rose to his feet, taking his sling from his waistband. Wrapping the ends around his fists, he crossed his wrists, making a noose, and whipped it over the head of the guard, then snapped his arms apart, forcing the thin rawhide straps deep into the guard's throat. When this is done properly, the victim has little opportunity to make himself a nuisance.
