Casca 22: The Mongol Read Online Free Page A

depression in the earth with a vaguely oval shape, surrounded by onlookers. As soon as they arrived, Zhoutai left Casca under the wary eyes of his guard and went in search of more bettors. Around the depression, voices rose shrilly in a dozen tongues, and bets and odds were offered and accepted or argued over.
    Casca was content to rest and wait until his turn to fight. First there would be a contest between two wrestlers: a thin, wiry Tatar and a dark, sinewy-muscled Uighar, with hair hanging in a long braided pigtail to his buttocks. Bad mistake, Casca thought. The Uighar was just giving his opponent a convenient handle. These two were not well skilled in the art, they were simply two nomads who wished contest.
    It was pretty much a foregone conclusion who the winner of the first contest would be. The Tatar had it all over the pigtailed Uighar. The game probably would not have gone to the death had it not been obvious to all what was going to take place, and everyone wanted to see the ending.
    The more agile Tatar moved quickly with a leg trip to fell his larger opponent, then proceeded to strangle him with his own pigtail. That was novel enough to please even the most jaded aficionado, but when the Uighar lost consciousness, the Tatar whipped him over to his back, unwrapped the pigtail from around his throat, and began stuffing it down the Uighar's throat. When the man's jaws clamped in spasm, the Tatar leapt quickly to his feet and with two rapid kicks broke his jaw, dropped back to the man's chest, and proceeded to stuff the rest of the knotted hair into the gaping maw. All this was to the delight of the spectators, who roared in glee, slapping hands and whips against their own thighs in appreciation. Even those from the Uighar's own tribe did nothing to stop the killing. As with the others, they saw the humor of the situation, though several did decide to shorten their own hairstyles.
    When the fighter for the Black Khitan appeared, the odds rose again in Zhoutai's favor, nearly five to one. This was the day when Zhoutai hoped that he would become a man of true property. Everything he had hoarded in his life was wagered on the game. Almost a full bashlik of silver. Enough to buy thirty-five horses.
    If his animal lost, then he would at least have the pleasure of killing the beast slowly if the fighter for the Black Khitan did not, and thereby derive at least some small pleasure in compensation for his losses. And if he won, then he would certainly be able to sell another bashlik or two of fine silver. With seven bashlik he would be free to live as, if not a king, at least as a prince among his kind.
    As with all nomads, wrestling was a favored sport, but it was wrestling in the Greek style. Here there were no rules except that weapons other than your own body could not be used. The Black Khitan led his fighter around the inner circle, crying his praises and taking all bets placed against him. As with many of his race, he, too, was addicted to gambling and had, when he saw Zhoutai's entry, wagered all he owned on the outcome of the fight.
    He would not even have accepted this match with the Tatar except the fool offered him such good odds. And it would not hurt Han to get a quick, easy victory to whet his appetite for tougher game later. The Black Khitan had no doubt that his man would win the fight. He was from those hard lands that lay to the west of the islands of Jiponga. The men from there were noted for their ferocity and cruelty, and some of those from the northern part of the peninsula gained great size. This was one of those. Known only as Han, there were few who came against him who ever fought again. If they were not killed, then Han took delight in crippling them. It pleased him to think that the pain he gave them would cause him to be fresh in their memory, every waking moment of their life.
    Yes, he was certain that formidable Han would triumph over the smaller man. Han was nearly half again as big and