Jugotai spotted Casca. Even his blood-stained tunic and flinging arm and crying face had not hidden 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 terror 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 animal. 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.