Tshant’s thousand-commander came up toward him. He said, “Collect all the horses you can and we can leave. Did we wipe out the Russians?”
“No. Half of them got back to the city.”
Tshant thought of Kaidu, riding with half the men the other way of the river, and how angry Kaidu would be at missing a good fight. It had to be a great city to hold so many men. He looked at Gregor.
“What’s the name of that town, Gregor?”
Gregor hesitated a moment, but the look on Tshant’s face apparently warned him. “Kiev.”
“Someday I’ll burn it. Come on.”
When they started off again, Djela would not ride near Tshant. He sent Gregor after the boy to keep watch on him. They camped in a bend of the river, early so that the men could rest; Djela did not come to Tshant’s fire. At nightfall, Tshant went hunting him. Some of the men Djela had ridden with in the end of the fighting had wrapped him in a cloak and put him to sleep beside their fire. He didn’t wake when Tshant picked him up and carried him back.
In the morning, Djela refused to say anything. Tshant ate between giving orders to his thousand-commander and packing up his gear. When they were ready to leave, he rode over to Djela’s horse and said, “I’m sorry. I thought you’d been killed.”
“When I tell Ama—”
“I don’t think you’ll see her for a few years.”
“I’ll tell Grandfather.”
“Go right ahead. If I’d hit you as often as he hit me when I—”
He stopped abruptly, remembering, and laughed. Djela turned with a frown.
“What’s funny?”
“I ran off from Psin once in the middle of a battle and he beat me. I suppose your sons will ride away in the middle of battles. If they do and you beat them for it, just remember that I only hit you twice.”
Quyuk said, “I still hate you.”
“I don’t like you either.” Psin kicked at the roots and frozen black earth at his feet. “This damned forest is half swamp.”
“What you did makes no difference.”
“What made you think it would?”
Quyuk scowled. Psin threw his reins back over his horse’s head and mounted. He sneered at Quyuk. “If I lost you, child, your father would string me up by the toes over a slow fire. If I lose any of my men without good reason, my reputation suffers. When do you suppose it thaws in these woods?”
“How should I know?”
Quyuk kicked his horse on past Psin. Psin followed him down a trail that led between two rounded hills. They had seen tracks of hunters in the forest. He wanted a prisoner from Novgorod and from the way Dmitri acted he knew they were close. He trotted his horse past Quyuk’s and to the man leading Dmitri’s horse.
“How is your cold?”
Dmitri snuffled, grinning. “Please, Khan, I won’t try to run away. These ropes hurt.”
“They aren’t tight enough.” Psin looked across the ridges to their west. His men were scattered throughout this part of the forest; he saw one ride silently through a patch of cedars. Beyond him, the lake glittered. Psin tried to remember whether cedars grew only where there had been a fire or never where there had been a fire. Someone had told him…. He shrugged and rode on.
Ahead, somebody yelled. Quyuk, directly behind him, called, “That wasn’t Mongol.”
“No.”
The men near Psin galloped down the slope before him toward the shouting. Horses crashed through the brush just beyond the next ridge. The yelling broke out all across their path. A horse whinnied—the high, inquisitive call of a horse near strangers. Hoofs beat on the ground, and four Mongols sailed up the slope before them, ducking the swinging pine boughs.
“Woodcutters,” one shouted. “Lots of them—hurry, we need help.”
“Come on.” Psin whipped up his horse.
Once they left the top of the ridge the forest closed in around them. He heard an axe ring on a tree. Mongol voices rose, yipping; they were trying to keep in contact with each other. The forest must be thick. Psin’s horse leapt a windfall and staggered through drifted snow. A Russian voice howled angrily. Now, between trees, Psin could see them, the Russians on the ground striking with their axes and the Mongols still on horseback trying to capture them without getting killed. The interlaced branches of the trees trapped the axes and blinded the Mongols. One Russian fell heavily.
“Quyuk, over there.”
Quyuk plunged past him; his face was scratched from the pine branches. Psin grabbed the reins of Dmitri’s horse and held it next to his.
In Russian, Dmitri shouted, “Run—go tell Novgorod—”
Psin glanced at him. All the woodcutters were overpowered. Two were sprawled unconscious in the snow, and the Mongols were trussing up the others. Dmitri sighed.
“Shall I gag you?” Psin said.
Dmitri did not look at him. “No, Khan. Please.”
“Then don’t shout.” Mixed in with the false humility in Dmitri’s voice was exasperation. Psin turned toward the woodcutters. “Tie them and let’s go. Quyuk, take charge of the prisoners.”
Quyuk waved in answer and rode over to watch two Mongols hoist a huge Russian up into the saddle. Psin called over a man doing nothing and gave him Dmitri’s reins. “Don’t let him out of your sight.”
“Yes, Khan.”
There were six woodcutters, and they were already packed up neatly on the column’s spare horses. Psin rode over to Quyuk. “Take them back to our camp. Move fast.”
“Where are you going?”
“To see this city.”
“Let me go with you.”
“No. We’re too close. I should have known—” His horse jerked up its head. “Anyway, I’ll go alone. You know how to—” His horse plunged around suddenly and pricked its ears, looking north. “Go!”
On the heel of the word a Russian voice roared in the woods to the north. Quyuk flung up his head and called to the Mongols. He held a saddleless horse on a leadline, and he threw the rope to Psin. More Russian voices were calling out, all around them. The Mongols yipped and clattered south along the slopes.
Psin whirled his horse and plunged into the depths of the forest, away from the lake, where the cover grew thickest. He heard Russians shouting and a clash of heavy metal, and hoofs pounded by. He wondered if the woodcutters had been bait in a trap, doubted it, and reeled in his led horse to wrap a rag over its nose.
“Yip yip yip—”
That was far away, and the sound of horses dimmed. Ahead of Psin the slope fell away steeply into a ravine. He forced his horse down it. Here the snow lay like a light frost; the branches above and the looming cliff walls kept the ground clear. Pale green moss covered the trunks of the few trees near the top of the ravine. The darkness grew deeper and thicker. Psin’s horse ducked its head and crept on down the trail into the ravine. Holding the leadrope up high, Psin maneuvered the horse behind his. The trail was so narrow the two horses couldn’t walk side by side.
He heard a distant cry and the sound of something heavy charging through brush. He heard a call that ended in a question. His horse moved one hoof at a time and slid a little with each step. When Psin looked back the way they had come he saw the edge of the bank above them stark against a patch of clear sky. The trail down grew steeper, and he held onto his saddle with one hand.
The horse stepped cautiously out on flat ground. Psin reined him down until the led horse could gain the level bottom of the ravine and started at a walk north. Under the overhanging cliff, a thin stream lay, frozen to its bed. Psin’s horse stretched out into a fast walk, and he let his reins slack.
Novgorod was vast. Pennants floated from the peaks of its towers, and the sun glinted on the sloping roofs. Psin, shy in his patch of forest, could see people on the cleared ground outside the city. It was the first time he had ever seen Russians peacefully beyond their walls. A few carts stood in the snowfields.
He dismounted, his bow close to his hand on the cantle of his saddle, melted sn
ow and drank it in slow sips. A whiff of smoke from a wood fire reached his nostrils. He wished he could go nearer so that he could tell what they were cooking. That kind of information could be got from merchants and captives but he never trusted their answers.
They would have a short growing season, whatever they grew in their fields. More likely they were merchants and hunters. The wind was rising, and it smelled of the town—dry wood, a lot of people, smoke, and vaguely of rot.
Something clattered in the distance, and he rose. Whatever it was was coming up along the lake. He thought he knew. Settling down again, he studied the town and the people outside the walls.
One of the men in the fields straightened and pointed, and another man, between the first and the town, shouted something. Psin caught the Russian word for horse. A troop of horsemen jogged out of the forest beside the lake, yelled, and waved their arms. He saw no prisoners with them, no Mongol horses.
The gate was opening. It swung out, a useful thing to know, perhaps. Psin checked his horses, who were watching the Russians. He could tell by the way the Russians rode that they thought they had won a great victory. He watched them ride into the town, and the men in the fields rushed after them, excitedly.
When it was dark he meant to go up closer and look at the structure of the walls. He made himself comfortable. The sun hovered in its winter zenith, barely out of the treetops; he wouldn’t have long to wait.
Going back, he rode almost constantly, cursing the forest and hunting while he rode. At sundown he slept, his belly half full of badly cooked meat. He didn’t dare make a proper fire for fear the heat would melt the snow off the upper branches of the trees near him and show, a great dark splash, that he was there. He slept with his face toward the sky, so that the rising moon woke him, and rode on until the moonset and slept again until sunrise. The sun was so briefly in the sky, with the shortest of days coming, that he had barely warmed himself up before it set again. Long before he reached the camp he was weary down to his marrow.
Nobody looked surprised to see him. When he tramped up to his fire and threw his gear down, Quyuk looked up and said, “What took you so long? We’ve been back nearly a full day.”
“I stayed the night in Novgorod.” He sighed and sank down on his heels. “Oh, God. I thought my legs would be permanently crooked.”
“They are.” Quyuk turned his head and yelled, “Tunkut, bring the Khan his dinner.”
“I’m too tired to eat.”
Baidar came over, a halter swinging from his hand. He nodded to Psin and sat down next to Quyuk. “And how was Novgorod?”
“Go look for yourself.”
Tunkut thrust a bowl into his hands. The scent of stewed meat made his stomach thrash. He dipped his fingers into it and the gravy burnt him and he swore.
“I thought some few days alone might improve his temper,” Quyuk said. “But he’s as surly as ever.”
Psin blew on his meat. “Did Buri follow that road?”
“Yes.” Baidar took an awl and began mending the halter. “It stretches on south. There are signs it’s often used, even in the winter.”
“What about Kadan?”
“The road to the west turns north five days’ ride from here.”
Baidar thrust the awl through the leather. “How did you know it would turn?”
“I guessed. Is it well-used?”
“Ask me,” Kadan said. He grinned down at Psin. Buri was right behind him. “The road is not used anymore. It was once, long ago, but the ruts are very old. It dwindles down to a goat track before it turns north.”
Psin nodded. “Did you find the city?”
Kadan’s mouth dropped open. The others murmured softly and looked at each other. Psin forced even more meat into his mouth and tried to chew and nearly choked.
“Yes,” Kadan said. “It was deserted—I think within ten years.”
Psin gulped down a piece of meat and coughed. Immediately all four of them leapt on him and pounded him on the back. He shouted and waved his arms, and one of them whacked him so hard his face hit the ground in front of his feet.
“I’ll fry the lot of you!”
They subsided. “Did you hear Psin say anything?” Quyuk asked Buri. “I thought I heard a voice.”
Psin brushed dirt off his nose. “I was asking you to desist.”
Kadan laughed. “Oh, Khan.” He sprawled out on his back. “Yes, I found the city. Why did they leave it?”
“I don’t know. Was it burned at all?”
“No.”
“I thought maybe Novgorod had driven them out. Maybe… How is the hunting?”
“Good. The forest is full of deer, elk, wolves, bear—”
Baidar said, “Buri killed a bear with one arrow.”
“It was this big,” Buri said. He stood on his toes and held his hand at arm’s length over his head.
“A bear, in this season?”
Buri shrugged. “Sometimes they roam in the winter.”
“Not often. How is the grazing? I passed some racks of bones, coming in, that looked like horses—”
“Not that bad,” Quyuk said. He grinned. “But the horses are starting to wander. The grass is gone, and the trees don’t have much bark left.”
Psin lay back. “Tell me everything tomorrow.”
Quyuk snorted. “Old man. Go sleep in the sun. What about the prisoners?”
“I’ll talk to them tomorrow.” He shut his eyes. Kadan said, “What could they tell him he doesn’t already know? Buri, go fetch his slave over here.”
Psin yawned. “No, I’ll go to my own fire. Is anybody still out hunting?”
“No. Why, where do we go now?”
“Home.”
PART TWO
TSHANT
Temujin said, “In everyday life like a fawn, at feasts and celebrations carefree as a colt, but on the day of battle swooping like a falcon to the attack. In daylight alert as a wolf, in the night vigilant as a black crow…”
Sabotai stood in the middle of the floor and let his slaves peel off his winter clothes. His face, seamed and pouched beneath the eyes, looked far older now that Psin had spent two months with young men.
“We took Riazan with no trouble, aside from what my tumans gave me. You were right. They are inexperienced and badly disciplined, and the remounts are enough to strike a man blind.”
“Has Tshant come back yet?” Psin said.
“No. And will you kindly take your muddy boots off my carpet. Thank you. Batu and his brothers are enthusiastic and they know their work.”
“You were thorough. I passed Riazan coming back.”
Sabotai shrugged. “You said cities are for burning. The sack of it was a crime against war. They were looting before they’d taken half the city, and burning before the buildings were properly looted. Have you seen Mongke yet?”
“I talked to him this morning. How heavy were your casualties?”
“More than I expected. Many of them were accidents.” Sabotai pulled a chair around to face Psin’s and sat in it. “They got caught in burning houses, or trampled by men behind them. Most of the dead weren’t Mongol. I have one tuman of Kanglis, or I had, and I’ve combined them with the tuman I used to have of Bulgarians. Together they come barely to full strength.”
Psin grimaced. A slave poured out wine for him, and he drank some of it. The warmth of the room and the bright, shaped colors relaxed him.
“It was worth taking,” Sabotai said. “Ogodai will be pleased. I’ve sent off a train of plunder to Karakorum seventy-five carts long.”
“Just the Kha-Khan’s tenth, or your own as well?”
“The tenth. Not since Reyy fell have we taken a city quite so rich. Although in different things. Furs. The sables are excellent. Gold, silver, pearls and jewels—an emerald to rival the one your Chinese wife wears. We have grain enough to feed us through the winter, and lumber enough to build Batu another Volga camp. The slaves are of very high quality.”
“They’re mer
chants. There should be good plunder.”
“Yes. Riazan was the first step. Now for the major problem. Tell me things.”
Psin stretched his legs out. “The chief noyon is the Grand Duke Yuri. He winters in Vladimir, the largest city. Mongke says he is summoning his knights, and I suspect he’ll raise an army of at least three or four tumans, at least one quarter mounted. You know the way the towns lie between those rivers. If he is pushed he’ll probably retreat toward the southwest, where the food is.”
“What if he goes north?”
“It would be a great help to the Kha-Khan.”
“Good. If I take the cities west of Vladimir—Moskva, Susdal, Kolomna—what will I accomplish?”
“You’ll outflank him. He’ll have to go north.”
“I thought so. I have two tumans camped in the area around Riazan, and another patrolling the stretch of forest between Vladimir and Moskva. Within the month I’ll cross the rest of the army over the Volga—by then, I hope, we’ll have adequate remounts. Do I have to take Novgorod this year to protect what we conquer in the south?”
“No. But it would be useful. They can’t give us serious trouble from the north, but they can do us some damage if they want.”
“I’ll leave it for last.”
“What else?”
“Nothing but details. For example, you might want to go to the Volga camp before we attack.”
“Why?”
“Your wives are there.”
“So soon?” Psin rose. He hadn’t expected them before the spring. Chan’s face and Artai’s floated into his mind.
“Don’t leave immediately, please.” Sabotai smiled, and Psin plunked down again. “I sent an escort for them. They should be here fairly soon.”
“Then why did you—”
“I wanted to see what you’d do. Naturally I don’t want you running off to the Volga camp. How much do you trust Mongke?”
“Absolutely.”
Sabotai grimaced. “I don’t.”
“I’ll take responsibility for him. He says that we can’t lay siege to the Russian cities, and I agree with him, but they can be stormed easily enough. Are you going to split the army?”
Until the Sun Falls Page 10