When Casca heard Boguda's neck snap, he knew it was over. He rose from the ground, holding the Hun's head between his own scarred hands, and raised the man's body from the prone. He cried loud for all to hear, especially Boguda's men.
"See and witness how the Hun dies, as shall ye all." Groaning and calling on reserve strength, he raised the limp-necked Hun from the ground and above his head. Holding him there, Casca turned and twisted, the bones in Boguda's neck grinding against each other as they moved into positions they'd never been in before. They were not designed to look backwards. His massive body was unable to give the death shudder so as to free his spirit, for Casca's hands had crushed his throat to such a degree that no air could escape. Casca let the body fall to the ground and picked up a fallen sword. The blade was so dull from battle with the shields that he was forced to hack at the neck until Boguda's head came free. He held the draining head above his own where the crowd could see. Then he yelled out loud.
"Your chief is dead."
The Huns broke. With their master dead, they resigned themselves to dying also. Their spirit wasgone; there was no fight left in them, and die they did. Singly and in groups of a hundred or more, they died. The battle was lost with the death of their great chief, Boguda.
The forces of the Persians and Kushanites had joined. They were making a final sweep, bottling up the surviving Huns so that none could escape. The women were with them also. They had had a taste of blood and demanded full measure for what they'd suffered at the hands of the Huns. None were spared. The horse and yak-tailed standards were trodden into the earth to lie broken, ground into the blood of thousands.
Casca was drained and hurt. He left the body of Boguda to lie beside his horse that was still kicking its life away, and knelt beside Jugotai.
He started the task of removing the Kushanite chief from beneath his mount but was stopped by the groan of pain as he tried to lift the horse from Jugotai.
Jugotai, his face gray from the loss of blood, coughed through red foaming lips upon seeing the face of his old friend above him.
"Welcome and well met," he tried to laugh feebly. "It is as I thought. My son errs in his age estimates. For certainly you look much older than I do." He coughed again, grimacing with controlled pain.
Casca did look old now. His face was covered with grime and blood. Dust had formed in his hair, turning it a gray hue, and the deep creases of exhaustion and emotional strain had added many years to his appearance. He wasn't sure what Jugotai had meant but he went along with him, for he did feel as if the weight of ages had rested on his shoulders and settled deep into his soul.
He watched the labored bloody breathing of his friend and knew that his minutes on this earth were not long now. Jugotai was dying. He covered the gaping wound in Jugotai's chest by tearing off a piece of his own tunic and placing it over the opening. This was the first time he'd watched an old friend die. Other friends had died, but not while he was with them. He had moved on before, never to return.
His voice cracked, dry from the battle, and he was forced to swallow several times to work up enough saliva so his words could be said.
"It is good to see you again, old friend. Our trails have been long, Jugotai, and I see you have achieved all that you'd wished for. When first we met, you were as thin as a rail and wanted only to return home to become a warrior and sire sons to fight the Huns. You have done well, for around you lie the bodies of Huns and your son is tall and strong. I envy you, old sword mate and comrade."
The descriptive words ofold felt strange to his lips, because he still felt that Jugotai was the young lad he'd first met, though an old man lay beside him dying. A shadow fell over them from behind and Casca rose, sword in hand.
"Hold, Lord, it is only me, Shuvar, son of Jugotai. The battle is over, the Huns are finished. How is my father?"
Casca took the boy's hand, holding it in his own scarred and bloody paw. Jugotai himself answered the boy's question.
"My son, Shuvar, you are the light of my life and though my own spark will fade and leave, I know that I live on in you. You have made me very proud and have given meaning to the world for me. The ways of our people are such that we do not say the things we should before it is too late. Before my shade rides away from me I would tell you this. I love you!" The effort of speaking was draining Jugotai and his face started to smooth out with the coming of death.
The boy stood, his head to the sky. The Roman didn't feel the tears running down his face, washing the dust and blood from his cheeks and forming fallen drops on the stained ground.
Shuvar began to chant. Holding his sword above his head, he cried out in a strong voice, proud and with no trace of weakness, calling to the gods and spirits to take a warrior into their fold. He turned four times to face each of the winds and sang his father's song, telling the spirits of the air and mountains of his father's deeds. Clouds raced overhead, taking his words with them to the roof of the world. Shuvar sang, and all within hearing stopped what they were doing to listen. They knew a great man was leaving them.
Casca held Jugotai's hand and felt the coldness coming to claim him. As the life force ebbed, Jugotai's face slowly became the one Casca had first seen. The years washed away from the old man as his spirit let loose of its human shell. The moment of death was at hand as Jugotai smiled at the Roman above him.
"Casca, big nose. It is good to see you. I thought you were dead when those priests had capturedyou." His voice strengthened for a moment, as often it does when death is near the heart. His breath rattled in his chest as he choked on a piece of dried blood and spat it out. "We shall make it over the mountains and to my home yet, old friend." He was now reliving their last trip together, Casca knew.
"There is nothing to stop us now, the road is clear. I can see the high peaks where the gods live and they welcome us back to my homelands. We will always travel together as sword mates, won't we?"
Casca cried silently. He couldn't let Jugotai hear his sorrow. Jugotai shook his head and answered his own question.
"No! I forget that you have a longer road to follow than mine."
Shuvar continued his song, the words retelling every moment of Jugotai's glory for all to hear. He wanted to stop but he could not. The song must be sung as the soul departs. The time wasnow!
Jugotai raised his head as far up as he could, opening his mouth so as to let his spirit free. He called out the name from his youth that he'd loved best.
"Casca…"
The death rattle came with the word, the two of them as one. A single shudder Casca had seen a thousand times, but had never felt before as he did this one, escaped his lips, and the shade of Jugotai winged its way to the winds.
Shuvar's song stopped, there was silence over the battlefield. Then came the wailing of the women. They were not sure just who had died but the songwas enough to blend their own grief into that of Shuvar's. They wailed and the surviving Hun prisoners shivered in fear.
Casca released Jugotai's hand, having to pry loose the old man's fingers.
With one hand he wiped the tears from his face and spoke softly to the still warm corpse below him.