Indemeer bowed, accepting the responsibility and advising Casca that it would be wise to have a strong escort in his return. Many of the Huns that had escaped were now broken up into parties of varying sizes and scattered to the winds. There could be some behind them and it would probably be, Indemeer warned, at least a week or two before the last Hunnish forces could be rounded up and wiped out.
Casca agreed and Indemeer assigned a detachment of two hundred light archers to escort him back to the capital. The archers were under the command of young Shirkin who had not, as of yet, the full-grown beard favored by the Persians. It would still be a year or two before the dark fuzz turned into a proper growth. But Casca had noticed the young officer in battle. The youth had displayed a cool mind.
He had husbanded his forces and kept them from overextending themselves and being cut offfrom the main body. His courage was evident from the number of minor wounds he had received in the fight. His left arm, Casca could see, was nursing a saber cut almost to the bone and Casca knew the youngster had experienced agony from the red-hot iron used to cauterize the wound and keep it from corrupting.
Shirkin's face showed no sign of fever. His eyes were clear, though he did wince from pain now and then when his horse made too sudden a move.
They left the valley in formation, with scouts and skirmishers out. Half of their small force was utilized in this capacity while the rest rode in two ranks along the road. At midday they switched off, the outriders coming in to take up the ranks on the road while their comrades took their turn out front among the rocks and barren ground. Even when they switched it was not done all at once. In turn, one element would come in, then another. This way, they could not be caught by surprise with all their forces on the road and no scouts out.
As they rode from the place of slaughter they could see birds by the thousands flying over them, heading back from where the riders had come. Kites and vultures. Somehow they knew that ahead lay a place where food could be had. Even packs of jackals could be seen furtively scurrying between the scrub brush and rocks, making for the feast. Casca knew that before two days had passed there would be nothing left of the Huns' remains but scraps of cloth, fur, and scattered bones to whiten in the sun.
One of the outriders came at a gallop, his horse lathering at the chest and mouth. He reined up infront of Casca and Shirkin.
'Lord, I have sighted a band of Huns heading to the north of us. I think they are making for the river crossing.'
'How many?' Shirkin beat Casca to the question.
'Perhaps as many as we, not more.'
Shirkin turned eagerly to Casca. 'How say you, my Lord? Do we pursue the beasts?'
Casca thought it over. 'No! We'll let them go this time.'
The messenger spoke again. 'Forgive me, Lord, but the savages have already laid waste one village in their path and have slain all there. Even the old men and babes. And Lord, there lie at least two other villages in their path before they reach the river. Will you leave your people to face them alone?'
Casca had seen the handiwork of the Hunnish tribes too many times not to know what anyone who came across them would face, and death, he knew, would be the least of the agonies. Raising up in his saddle, he called:
'Bring in the flankers and scouts, we ride north!'
Shirkin cheered at the words, as did all in hearing range of Casca's voice. They turned the column northward, riding swiftly. Casca made them alternately get down from their horses and run along beside them while hanging on to the saddle straps or to the horse's tail. This would give the animals rest from the weight on their backs, and though not as fast as riding constantly, Casca knew from experience that they would more than make up for it inthe long run by covering more distance and still having fresher mounts when they needed them.
By sundown they had come across one of the villages previously visited by the Huns. The sweet stench of death greeted Casca's small force. All were dead. What the scout had said about the other village was also true here. Men, women, and children had all been slaughtered. The Huns had obviously rounded up everyone and herded them into the center of the small village, and there had methodically cut every person's throat. Even the babes, lying still now beside their mothers, had not been spared. It was a scene like this that, more than anything else, always brought the black urge to kill over the Roman. And as they rode on, the hate grew with each league as they closed in on their quarry.
All that night they rode, eating and sleeping in the saddle. By dawn, they knew they were very close. The droppings from the Hun's mounts in front of them were still damp and steaming. They were only minutes behind them now and Casca, red-eyed and angry, wanted them badly.
He hadn't fought in the battle in the valley. There'd been no need. But this was one he would not miss out on and his sword would be needed. They crested a rise and Casca called a halt. Below, crossing a small plain, were the Huns, strung out in a ragged line. Their numbers, as his scout had estimated, were about equal.
Wondering how to catch up with the Huns, Casca noticed the enemy would be forced to cross a large field of high grass, shimmering yellow now in the morning light, thigh high to a man.
Casca called to Shirkin to send him four riders and a spare mount for each. He explained his plan for stopping the Huns to Shirkin and the youngster grinned in boyish glee.
'As you command, Lord.' Shirkin gave the orders and the four light archers sped off to the side of the rise, riding as though there would be no tomorrow. Whipping their horses, they raced the already tired animals, leading their spare mounts by lead ropes. About halfway to the field of grass, as Casca watched, they leapt first one, then another, from the backs of the spent horses onto their spares, releasing the tired animals and whipping the others onward. They passed the Huns, who were staring at them in wonder. The riders were too fast and the Huns let them pass without trying to give chase. They and their horses were too tired and besides, what danger could four lone riders represent when they were this near to the river crossing and there were no Persians ahead.
The Persian riders raced on into the highest part of the grass, disappearing from sight. Casca waited impatiently. He didn't let his horsemen leave the heights, not wanting to give the Huns any more to alarm them.
Shirkin pointed with his drawn sword. 'There, my Lord! They have started!'
From the grass came one lone tendril of smoke, and then another. In ten minutes, the entire field of grass was one solid line of flames in front of the Huns. At this precise moment, Casca gave the order to form and advance.
The wind was blowing in their direction, into their faces and those of the Huns, but the Huns'attentions were focused on the sea of fire before them; their tired, frightened animals whinnied and shied at the crackling roar of the flames. They halted now to wait out the fire. From where they were situated, the Huns knew the flames couldn't reach them and would burn themselves out without too much trouble. All they had to do was wait. Many of them took this opportunity to dismount and take a leak or a crap while squatting beside their mounts. Several were still in this awkward position when the first arrows of Casca's archers reached them.
The wisdom Casca had shown in having his men give the horses a break while running beside them proved its value now. His men were tired from the forced ride, but the memory of what they'd seen in the village had been riding with them. It gave them the needed factor to drive down on the rear of their ancient enemy. Hate drove them, hate so strong that it drove away fear of their own deaths.
The Huns were still strung out in a single ragged line up to the edge of the grass. Casca and his warriors swept down and over them, rolling them up a few at a time as they hit en masse.
Casca left the use of the bow to his Persian archers, who were much more proficient in shooting from the saddle than he himself was, and used only his sword. The longer Persian blade proved its merit over the Roman short sword by giving him a longer reach, which he used to good advantage. The strength of his swing was aided by the movement of his horse. His blade flashed again and again, and with each stroke a Hun went down minus his head, the body standing momentarily before falling to lie twitching in death on the ground.
About one half of the Huns had managed to gather in force, their backs against the searing wall of flames, grass smoke swirling about them, gray clouds stinging their eyes and sending their mounts into a state of frenzy. Only the strong hands of their masters kept them from bolting and running wild.
The Persians drew up in line, facing their enemies. Both sides had bows drawn and arrows notched, waiting for what both sides knew would be death.
The horses of each side stood, legs wobbly, their flanks heaving. No word was spoken. Only the crackling of the raging grass fire made noticeable sound.
