The animal was lung-shot and dying.
Got to find shelter. Quick.
But everywhere Casca looked there was no shelter.
He was in the open with no place to hide.
The horse stumbled. Nearly fell. Regained its balance for a moment. Tried to run. Then fell head over tail, its forelegs collapsing under a weight it no longer had the strength to carry. Casca flew free from the saddle, scraping off a broad patch of skin as he rolled into a clump of thorn bush. Rising to his feet, he hefted his sword, though he knew it was not likely that it would do him much good against the mounted archers. They could simply stay out of range and fill him with arrows.
Bu Ali signaled his men to circle their doomed prey. The Mamelukes started to notch war arrows onto their strings, but Bu Ali ordered them to use the blunt-headed shafts instead. Mamud wanted this man alive, and that was the way he would get him.
All five Mamelukes took turns firing their bows. All were accomplished archers, and the target they shot at presented no challenge to their skills.
Casca tried to dodge and duck, but every time he avoided one shaft two more hit him. Had the arrows been tipped with points the force of the compound blows would have driven the missiles completely through his body. As it was, he felt two ribs crack under their impact.
Bu Ali took his own shot. The target was growing weary and was hurt. Drawing the bow string back to his ear, Bu Ali sighted carefully, waiting until the scar-faced one's attention was elsewhere. Then when his target turned to avoid another shaft, he let fly.
The blunt-tipped missile flew straight to its target, striking the man square on the skull, tearing open a flap of skin, and dropping him as if he had been pole-axed.
That did it!
Bu Ali motioned for his men to get on with the job and secure their captive. They dismounted, taking strips of rawhide with them to bind their prize. Running to the prone figure, they started to turn him over on his back so they could tie his hands.
Three men got to him first. And just as they began their task, Casca's hands came up, each taking the throat of a Mameluke into its grasp. There was no attempt at finesse or refinement. Casca squeezed with all his strength. His thick, strong, warrior's fingers crushed throats and vertebrae. And he was coming off the ground, going for the third Mameluke, when two more blunt-tipped arrows hit him in the head, finishing off what Bu Ali had thought was a knockout from his shaft.
Bu Ali shook his head in a combination of awe and anger. The man must have a skull as thick as a camel's. His shot should have rendered the scar-faced one unconscious for at least an hour. He watched his men cautiously approach, then securely bind the downed Casca. Well, this time they had done it.
When he got back to Mamud the other barbarians in the rocks were kneeling at the feet of their new master. With Casca gone they had realized the futility of their struggle and given up.
Mamud himself was back where he belonged, on his horse where he could better survey those he had taken prisoner. It was not with pleasure that he added up his profit and loss for the afternoon's work. He had eleven prisoners; but he had lost seven men and three war horses. Disgusting! If it hadn't been for some successful raids earlier he doubted if he would have shown a profit at all to compensate him for all his efforts and time.
Seeing the returning Bu Ali, Mamud spurred his horse over to meet his captain and inspect the prisoner. In a fit of pique he lashed Casca's back with his riding crop of rhinoceros hide, instantly regretting the act — which spoiled his image as the commander above human frailties. He excused his action by explaining to himself that it had been a bad day.
"Put him in line with the others," he ordered Bu Ali. "But keep an eye on him. He is a troublemaker, but I don't want him killed or crippled. I think that this one, when properly trained, could bring enough gold for most of our losses. Nizam al Mulk has need of strong fighters."
This last he regretted saying almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth — he hadn't intended to be so familiar with his captain, to take this underling into his confidence. By the Prophet! It was definitely not his best day.
Camp was made on the spot. Fires were lit and meat set out to cook — horsemeat from the Mameluke's own dead animals. The slaves were not to be fed, nor would they be for three more days. And, until the third day, they would receive only enough water to keep them going. By the third day of hunger and thirst they would be much easier to handle. This also gave Mamud an opportunity to size up his catch. Hunger and thirst would show him who were the strong ones and who were the weak ones. Efficiency! That's what made for a profit.
Mamud's tent was prepared for him, and he performed his evening ablutions, regretting that he was down to the last of his rosewater with which to freshen his face and hands.
He checked the sky.
It was time for the faithful to be called to prayer.
Placing his prayer rug to face toward Mecca, he and his men — except those on guard — knelt and bowed their heads to the earth as Mamud cried out:
"Allah bismillah Mohammed. Allahu Akhbar!" Allah is God, the only God, and Mohammed is His Prophet. "Inshallah." His will be done…
Once he was changed into fresh robes and sitting on civilized cushions where he could at least have a decent view of the sunset, he permitted Bu Ali to serve him his meal… a simple warrior's dish of stewed lamb with a touch of sage rubbed into the tender flesh, set on a plate with curried rice and cakes of wheat touched with just a breath of honey from Syria… Ah!
His men dined on the fare he considered best-suited to their less sensitive palates: curds and horsemeat washed down with water.
The taste of the cakes was sweet in his throat as he lay back on the cushions. Back to Baghdad! It was with no sense of regret that he was at last going to be able to leave these wild, inhospitable lands for the refined environment of a civilized city. These rugged, barren lands were not even fit for the uncouth Franks — as were called all ignorant and ill-mannered men of the West, whether they came from the Rhine or from Italy, whether they came as merchants or as pilgrims to Jerusalem. Franks… They had no part in the future destiny of a simple slave trader. Or did they?
Mamud's beard itched from the bite of sandfleas, and he took it as an omen — one of the lesser blessings of the Most High to let all know that, no matter what their station in life, the greatest of His creations could be hurt by the least… Ah! Yes…
By Allah! It would be good to have a bath and a massage to rub away the miles he had traveled on a saddle fit only for a Kurdish tribesman. It would take weeks to rid his buttocks of the thick pad of calluses that had attached themselves to his flesh.
Through the open flap of his tent he could see his Mamelukes guarding his slaves. It was a good harvest of strong men who would bring fine prices. The thought of the fine prices warmed Mamud's heart; but the reason for the high prices bothered him.
Of late there had been an ever-increasing demand for men who were not of Persian or Arabian descent to be used as bodyguards. It was all due to those accursed fanatics of Hassan ibn Hassad, the Sheikh al Jebal. Hemp-eaters. Assassins.
Assassins. One never knew when they would strike, and there was nothing that could be done to scare them off. Indeed, when captured they went to their deaths eagerly, joyfully. How can one deal with men who do not fear death? What was the power the Old Man of the Mountain had over his followers that they obeyed his every wish without consideration of their own lives?
Mamud warmed his tea from a brass pot and sipped, luxuriating in the small comfort it gave him. At any rate, the Assassins were good for his business. Newly captured slaves such as he sold, being not only foreigners but infidels as well, were not likely to be followers of Hassan al Sabah, and so they made good guards. And, since the Assassins of Hassan al Sabah might be one's own body slave — or even men of noble birth — no wonder there was such a market for men pure of the unclean contamination of the Assassins who had, to Mamud's knowledge, never failed to make their kill, usually after warning the victim in advance with a gold-handed dagger…