Until the Sun Falls

by Cecelia Holland

  “Are they unsound, or just—”

  Tshant snorted. “Unsound? A horse we’d slaughter for meat would look good next to these. Foundered. Windbroken. Bad backs. I saw one horse out in the remount herd urinate pure blood —bad kidneys. Mange. I could have pulled the winter coat off one of those nags with my hands. Bowed tendons, active splints, running sores. Half of them are so underweight I’d give them two years on pasture before I tried to ride one.”

  Psin chewed his mustaches. Of all the armies, Tshant’s had the farthest to ride. “The Altun have private herds, off near the hills. Take them. They’re crossbreds and they’re bigger than these.”

  Kaidu said, “But those are our horses.”

  “They’ll carry your men. Tshant, take them.”

  “Quyuk won’t like it.”

  Tshant laughed. “Quyuk hasn’t liked anything much for the past few days, I understand.” He dragged Djela into his lap, and the child murmured in his sleep. “I’ll take his horses first.”

  Psin had intended the Altun herds for his own remounts. The next day, after Mongke left Bulgar with a great thundering of drums, he rode out and told his thousand-commanders to see that each of the men he would take to Novgorod had at least one sound horse to ride. Both thousand-commanders looked skeptical.

  “We’ll steal others on the way, if we can,” Psin said. “Have you seen Quyuk Noyon? “

  One of them grinned. “The word is that he’s drunk. Kadan Noyon is over across the camp.”

  “Ah?” Psin turned his horse and rode over east.

  Kadan was talking to the commander of his personal tuman. When Psin rode up they both rose. Psin dismounted. He could hardly believe that Kadan was sober; he’d never seen him less than stumbling drunk. Kadan said, “What do you think of our camp, Khan?”

  “Don’t remind me.” The camp was filthy and ill-kept. “We’re leaving tomorrow, you know.”

  “I know.”

  Psin looked around, at the camp. “When Sabotai gets here he’ll tend to this. He’ll probably burn it and start out fresh.”

  “It was bad when we got here, Khan.” Kadan smiled apologetically.

  “You should have cleaned it up, instead of letting it get worse.”

  “Quyuk said it was too much trouble.”

  “Quyuk had better learn that taking trouble is easier than taking Sabotai or me.” Psin sat down and pulled off his hat. Meat was cooking in a covered pot, and his mouth watered at the scent.

  “Aren’t you going to remark that I’m sober?” Kadan said.

  “It’s the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever seen. Why?”

  Kadan grinned. “Because I’m not as clever as Quyuk. For me, it’s easier to do things properly the first time. I’ll be no hindrance to you, Khan. In fact, I intend to enjoy seeing my brother take orders for once.”

  “I don’t need help from you.”

  Kadan huffed; it was a way of laughing without opening his mouth. “You’ll get none. I’m like Mongke. I’ll sit back and watch and in the end… well. Quyuk has a long unsettled debt with me.

  Psin spat and turned to his horse. Kadan was staring into the cookfire, smiling. Psin put one foot in his stirrup and swung up. “Kadan.”

  Kadan looked up.

  “While I command, nobody quarrels. If you fight Quyuk, you fight me. Understand?”

  He turned his horse and cantered off without an answer.

  “They won’t come to us, not so many of us,” Baidar said.

  “The Mordvins are natural cowards.” He stood in his stirrups to ease his back. Quyuk, beside him, was paring his nails, his rein on his horse’s neck. Psin looked all around; the snowfields stretched on a little way before they met the black forest. Behind him two thousand men rested their horses.

  “Kadan,” Psin said. He disliked the emptiness of the fields. They were two days from Bulgar and they had seen no hoofprint, no trace of the Mordvins.

  Kadan trotted up. Psin pointed ahead of them. “Take five hundred men and ride advance guard. Push them. I want you half a day’s ride ahead of us. And stay sober.”

  “Yes, Khan.” Kadan whirled and galloped back to the line, shouting names. Men jogged out of the uneven mass of riders, forming up in a separate army alongside. Psin turned, running his eyes over the Altun.

  “Buri. Take two hundred men and ride our southern flank. Stretch out, but keep in contact with us.” He squinted, judging men and distance. “Don’t overextend. That forest will break up our formation.”

  Buri stared at him, swung his head, and said, “Quyuk?”

  Quyuk apparently nodded. Psin did not look at him. Buri spun his horse and loped into the army, his right hand gesturing. Psin waited until Buri’s hand moved toward a man of Mongke’s honor guard, and Psin shouted, “None from Mongke’s banner. Take others.”

  Buri skidded his horse to a standstill and turned toward Quyuk. Psin slashed his whip down on his horse’s shoulder; his horse leapt forward, between Buri and Quyuk, and Psin said, “Take others, Buri.”

  Quyuk, behind him, said softly. “Take others, Buri.” Psin could hear his amusement. He looked over his shoulder and back toward the thousand-commanders. “Orta, five hundred men, ride rearguard. Arcut—no. Kalai, two hundred, in the same formation as Buri but to the north.”

  The thousand-commander and the commander of Mongke’s honor guard swung out and started collecting men. Buri cantered off, and his men in a string followed, every other leading a riderless horse, their remounts. Kadan and his men were already well ahead. Baidar trotted up to Psin and said, “The customary banners, I suppose.”

  Psin nodded. “Or have you forgotten them, too?”

  Baidar reddened. Psin kicked up his horse and the six hundred men still with him trotted forward. The shadow of the banner over Psin’s head flashed across the snow in front of him. Horses surged around him. He waited, amazed at his own calm, until the remaining thousand-commander remembered to organize the column; then he turned, and looked back. The column was disorderly, but at least they weren’t getting in each other’s way. Quyuk, beside him, looked bored.

  The road traveled along the bank of the river, and the trees had been cut back, for a comfortable margin on either side. They could follow it for a few days at least, until the army had fallen back into discipline. The snow glared under the sun, and Psin narrowed his eyes against it, smiling. In a few days the Altun would be almost worth working with.

  The Mordvins did not attack. Psin camped early that day, to rest the horses and to let Kadan get far enough out in front. Couriers dashed madly back and forth from either flank and to the rearguard, and the center column milled unhappily through the trees, trying to trample out a campground. Psin spent half the night making sure that the horses were getting enough to eat; where the snow was thin they pawed through to reach the grass, and elsewhere they ate the leaves and bark of the trees. He went to sleep satisfied that they could forage well enough. There was no moon that night, and the rising wind rustled the leaves in the forest.

  The next day they camped somewhat later, and the day after that, after dark. With the camp routine fixed now they had the horses turned out and the gruel pots over the low fires before Psin had walked the stiffness out of his knees. Quyuk had said nothing all that day. Psin passed him, sitting beside a fire, and saw Quyuk’s face slack with fatigue. Baidar sat opposite him, shoveling half-cooked gruel into his mouth. Psin stood just outside the circle of the firelight until they noticed he was there.

  Baidar only nodded. Quyuk lifted his head, and his eyes were murderous.

  “If I can take it, boy, you can,” Psin said. “At your age you should be riding me into a ruin.” He went off.

  At his fire one of Buri’s men waited, sitting cross-legged on a saddlecloth. He struggled to his feet when Psin came up.

  “Lord,” he said. “My commander sent me to tell you that he will not ride this pace.”

  Psin frowned. “Did you come all the way from his camp?”

&
nbsp; The man laughed raggedly. “No—his messenger met me halfway there.”

  “Tell Buri that, if he wishes, he may quit. I can always use extra horses.”

  The messenger sank down again. Psin went to the pot over the fire and dipped out the steaming gruel. Dmitri and Arcut, the other thousand-commander, shared his fire; they were collapsed beside it.

  “What does that mean?” the messenger said, finally.

  “It means,” Psin said, “that any man who can’t keep up with us can go back to Bulgar. On foot.”

  Arcut jacked himself up on one elbow. Psin tasted the gruel and swore when it burnt his tongue. The messenger licked his lips, and Psin reached for the dipper.

  “Have you eaten?”

  “No.”

  “Here. You can ride out tomorrow.”

  “Thank you.”

  The messenger snatched up a bowl. Psin blew on his to cool it. Arcut said, “Can you enforce that, Khan?”

  Psin shifted, trying to get the weight off his rump bones. He consoled himself that he was hardly as sore as Quyuk and Buri. “I can. I will. Is that answer enough?”

  Arcut smiled; Psin could hear it in his voice. “Yes, Khan.”

  That night, before he slept, Psin walked around the camp; he dug up the snow to find grass, tasted it, walked to the river to see how much the ground sloped toward it, and went back by another route, studying the way the wind blew the snow into drifts.

  The moon rose over the tops of the trees, and the snow lay blue under it, broken by hoofprints and the dark shapes of the horses. To the north, the forest was like a cliff beneath the sky.

  Standing on the plain so far from his campfire, he had to brace himself against weariness. The wind sighed in his ears. He trudged back, following as much as he could the trails the horses had broken, and rolled himself up in his cloak and slept.

  He woke up shivering. It was far colder in this dawn than the night before. Some of his men were already up, stamping and slapping their arms against their sides to get warm. Their breath smoked in the air. Psin sat up. Snow had drifted over him during the night, melted from the heat of his body, and frozen into a crust. He rose crackling, shedding ice. The cold struck him in the face and he gasped, surprised.

  “Eat and let’s go,” Quyuk shouted, off to Psin’s left. “Wake up, you sandpigs. Get up.”

  Dmitri was heating gruel; Arcut trotted up, riding one horse bareback and leading the other two. Psin lifted one hand and caught the ropes when Arcut threw them. The horses were wild with the cold. Psin thrust the doubled end of one rope through his belt and rammed his bridle under his coat to warm up the bit. Arcut, dismounted, slung his saddle onto his horse’s back.

  Psin bent to pick up his saddle. Suddenly the horse hitched to his belt reared up and almost dragged him off his feet. He lurched and grabbed for a tree. The horse plunged, throwing itself back on its haunches. Its forelegs thrashed above Psin’s head. He wrapped one arm around the tree and caught the end of the rope, bracing both feet wide apart. Arcut whirled; when the horse reared again Arcut caught one foreleg at the fetlock and threw his weight against the horse’s shoulder. The horse crashed down on its side, and Psin leapt across its flailing hindlegs to sit down on its head.

  Somebody was laughing. Psin looked up and saw Quyuk, already mounted, tossing a snowball from one hand to the other. Psin glanced at the fallen horse’s rump; a white splash of snow marked it. Psin leapt up.

  Quyuk cocked his arm to hurl the second snowball. Baidar, from nowhere, surged up behind him and flung him off his horse. Quyuk bounced, and the horse bolted.

  “Catch your mount, cousin,” Baidar said. His voice rang in the cold air. Quyuk, sprawled on his back, looked too stunned to hear.

  Psin’s horse had gotten to its feet. Arcut was holding it by the head. Psin took the rope and waved Arcut away; he saddled up as quickly as he could, swore when the horse fought the bit, and mounted. Baidar had gotten Quyuk’s horse for him, and they were both riding off to the head of the line. Arcut was waving the yellow banner high over his head.

  “Move out,” Psin called. “Slow trot.”

  Arcut nodded and pulled the yellow banner off the staff; he had the white one ready over his saddlebows. Psin moved up beside him.

  “Next time, saddle your horse before you bring him in.”

  Arcut nodded. He swung the white banner up. They started off at a jog. Psin could see Quyuk, far ahead, but he made no effort to catch up with him, and Quyuk stayed well in the lead all that day.

  Two days later, still following the road beside the river, Psin’s column passed beneath the walls of a city. The gates were barred tight, and swarms of people gathered on the walls; they blackened the ramparts around the main gate. Psin drew his men off a little to circle around the city. They plunged through the heavy snow under the trees, and the column struggled to keep its shape. Under the city walls Psin could see even ripples in the snow—plowed ground, he thought. A new trail toward the gate showed where a herd of cattle had run for cover when Kadan and the vanguard passed that morning. The people on the walls yelled insults and threw garbage and offal at the Mongols. The trash skidded over the snow crust, far short of the army.

  “What’s that they keep shouting?” Psin said to Dmitri.

  “Tartar,” Dmitri said. “That’s what Russians call Mongols.”

  “Tatar?” Quyuk said. “They’re calling us Tatars. We should skin them.”

  “There are no more Tatars,” Psin told Dmitri. “All the Tatars are Mongols now.”

  They circled back to the cleared ground, toward the river. Dmitri said, “I think it comes from the Latin word for Hell—Tartars are people from Hell.”

  He had switched to Russian. Psin made him repeat some of the words and nodded. “Well, we’re not Tatars, and they shouldn’t call us that. We beat the Tatars a long time ago.”

  “But they don’t mean—”

  “They do. It’s an insult.” Psin kicked his horse into a faster trot. “Arcut, keep moving.”

  He swung back to look the city over. The walls were twice as high as the one around the Volga camp, built of logs, the ends cut to dovetail. There were a few fresh trunks in the wall, and the logs lying on the ground were painted black. He started off again, and the townspeople hooted and called him a coward.

  Baidar was reining off from the column, looking ahead, and Psin galloped to catch up. Baidar swung around and pointed. “Kadan started to lope, up there.”

  “Hunh.” Psin nodded. He stood in his stirrups, looking down toward the river ice. “Go down to the river and see if there are tracks on it.”

  Baidar charged off. Snow flew over Psin’s hands. He rode up to join Quyuk and Arcut and said, “Fast trot. Arcut, spread them out on either side of the river.”

  “What’s wrong?” Quyuk said.

  “I’m not sure.” Baidar was coming back. “Dmitri, what do you put on the trees in the stockade walls? To keep them from rotting from the damp in the ground.”

  Dmitri frowned. “I don’t know.”

  “You lie.”

  Quyuk moved, reaching for Dmitri, but Psin stopped him. He shoved his horse against Dmitri’s. The Russian’s broad pale face was unafraid.

  “I don’t like you lying to me,” Psin said. “If you don’t want to answer, say nothing. Coal tar, I think. It makes no—”

  Baidar plunged in among them. “A large number of horsemen rode along the river this morning. Not Mongol.”

  “Good.”

  Arcut’s banners had the men changing formation; already over a hundred were across the river and riding up that bank. Dmitri said, “How does he know they’re not Mongols?”

  “Their horses are shod,” Psin said. “Baidar, take the north flank. Quyuk, go south. Let’s move. Arcut, lope.”

  The horses broke into a slow canter. Of his own accord, Arcut had sent out two scouts, Psin kept right by Dmitri. “Don’t try to run, and I won’t tie you. If I have to you’ll ride face-down all the way to No
vgorod and back.” He saw Dmitri’s muscles loosen.

  “Signal to Buri,” Psin said to Arcut. “Keep him even with us.”

  Arcut hauled his red banner from his saddlebags. The open road ahead was narrowing. The forest wall closed in on it and pinched it, and just ahead the road ran up a low hill. The scouts disappeared over it. Psin got out his bow and pulled the top off his quiver. “Arcut. Watch Dmitri.”

  The red banner snapped overhead. Somewhere across the river, Buri’s column would see it and quicken their pace. Psin’s horse stumbled, caught itself, and started up the gentle slope of the hill.

  A scout appeared on the crest, waving his arms. He turned his horse broadside to the oncoming column and pointed back the way he had come. Psin shouted, “Full gallop,” and whipped his horse. He hated charging up a slope. All around him the horses gathered speed. Even over the pounding of the hoofs he could hear the whine of the wind in the pine trees close to them. The scout whirled off the crest of the hill and plunged down out of sight.

  Psin’s horse leapt up to the height, collected himself, and charged down the other side. Before them, Russians fought and shouted, their backs to Psin. He nocked an arrow. Kadan had turned back and attacked the Russians pursuing him. Psin dropped his rein and drew his bow. He saw his arrow streak up into the sky, alone, but before he could see it start to drop the sky turned black with arrows. The Russians never even wheeled. Their ranks slid down into the snow like water. Psin’s horse veered sharply to the left, crashed into Baidar’s, and nearly fell. Psin shot one more arrow. He saw a body lurch up and fall back in a spray of snow; his horse carried him past the Russians and into the midst of Kadan’s men.

  “Eeeeeeeyyyaaaaah!”

  The yell carried over the uproar, and the uproar died and let the yell wail away into nothing. They sat on their horses, suddenly motionless, around a vast circle packed with crumpled bodies and melting, bloody snow. Half a dozen horses stood in the tangle, and while Psin watched stupidly another horse kicked out and heaved itself up onto its feet. Nothing else moved but the Mongols.