Until the Sun Falls

by Cecelia Holland

  “Why?”

  “Mongke commanded the vanguard at Chernigov. There’s no—”

  “Because Quyuk has been recalled to Karakorum? Because you don’t want him to leave here like a beaten dog?”

  Psin’s eyes rested on him a moment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You lie.”

  “Well. I lie. What concern is it of yours, anyway?”

  “If my father acts like a complete fool—”

  “Who’s the fool? Mongke told you what’s happened and told you exactly how to interpret it, and you do just what Mongke wants, you run up here—”

  “I didn’t—I mean, what Mongke said has nothing to do with it. He even tried to keep me from coming here.”

  Psin smiled. “How hard?”

  Tshant took a deep breath. He remembered what Mongke had said. “He told me he wanted to know what I thought of it, that he didn’t want to cause trouble between us.”

  “Did he ask you what you thought of it?”

  Tshant’s temper rose; he could feel it pressing against his ribs, his heart. He opened his mouth to speak, but Psin said, “You are so predictable, my heir, that whenever the Altun want something of me they’re too cowardly to ask or force me to do, they go to you. Mongke plays you like a pipe. Try thinking before you do things. It has a wonderful effect on the mind.”

  He turned and went inside the yurt. Tshant shouted, “Stay here and—” The door shut. He stared at it awhile; Psin had painted the ox totem on it in red and yellow. Finally Tshant got up and rode back into the camp. He went hunting Mongke, but he couldn’t find him, and at last, giving up, he went by Quyuk’s yurt to play chess until the kuriltai.

  The dun horse snorted, and Psin stood in his stirrups to look ahead of them. Blue in the moonlight, the river lay like a wide road between the fringes of trees on either bank. The bluffs cast a shadow over the far side. Two horsemen were threading through the shadow; they were Mongols, and he settled back into his saddle.

  He had forgotten how many men three tumans were. All down the bank around him, horsemen waited. They weren’t supposed to move, but the trees were full of motion, and it was warmer here than out beyond the pack. He glanced at Buri, carrying the staff with the lanterns. All four were shuttered.

  “Rocket,” Mongke called, far down the line, and Psin reined his horse forward. Over the bluff the tail of the rocket hung like a long star; no one not looking for it would have seen it. It burst with a thud, and blue, green, red and yellow light dappled the black sky. The dun bolted, crashing through the brush at the edge of the bank, and with all his men packed behind him Psin charged over the river.

  For a moment the army fought and staggered and shoved on the ice, yelling. Psin with the front rank broke through onto the far bank and scrambled through the trees there into the level pass. The rest streamed after. The dun caromed into another horse, neighed, and bucked. Overhead, the burning lights were fading, sliding down the sky. They hurtled onto the flat plain, wheeled around a spur of the bluff, and charged along the flat ground beneath Kiev’s walls, where Quyuk and the vanguard were fighting Russians.

  Buri’s lanterns flashed wildly. Psin nocked an arrow and shot. Quyuk and his men were nearly surrounded; the Russians were throwing them back against the steep slope. Voices rose over the rattle of weapons. The arrows hissed in the air. The dun horse swerved violently, and Psin kicked him straight. He shot quickly, keeping his arrows low. All around him bowstrings sang.

  “Yip-yip-yip—”

  He reined the dun back hard, trying to see what was going on. The screams and shouting beat against his head. Buri and half a dozen other men were on the high ground before the city gates, where the army could see the lanterns. Psin whirled the dun and crowded him through the pack toward Buri. Abruptly the red lantern flashed three times, and the Mongols whirled all around Psin and flooded back, away from the fighting. The pack carried Psin with them a little way up the slope, until he broke loose and galloped up to Buri.

  “We got separated,” Buri shouted. “I thought you would come when—Green lantern.”

  The man now holding the standard pulled a cord, and the lantern flashed. In the light Buri’s face looked like a corpse’s. Psin looked over his shoulder. The Mongols were regrouping down the plain; they whirled and charged back, yelling, and their bows filled the air between them and the Russians with arrows.

  “Look at Quyuk,” Buri said.

  Psin turned his head. Quyuk had pulled his men out of the middle of the Russian army, back when Psin’s tumans retreated. They packed the steep road to the city, motionless, shooting downhill. The Russians howled and slewed away from them.

  “Where’s Mongke?”

  Buri jabbed his chin toward the western tip of Psin’s line. Psin stood in his stirrups. Mongke was charging his men around to encircle the Russians, but the knights veered suddenly to meet him. The Russians were already firming up their lines against the new attack from the south. “White lantern, four short.”

  Buri said, “Where is Sabotai?”

  “Coming. Look.”

  He pointed to the sky. The moon was setting, and the high arch of the sky was blacker without its light. A rocket was streaking across between the stars. It burst, and green light showered down over Kiev.

  “Drive them north,” Psin said. He looked back toward Mongke’s flank. They were charging around the Russians, shooting wildly, but the line was dangerously thin. The Russians in a mob attacked, and down where Mongke rode a lantern flashed.

  “What’s he doing?” Buri yelled.

  “Wait and see—look out. Give Quyuk’s sign and two long blues.”

  The gates of Kiev were opening. Quyuk’s men, still shooting into the Russian army, had their backs to the city. The blue lights glared. Buri said, “He doesn’t see them.”

  Psin picked up his bow and nocked an arrow. “Keep flashing.” He lifted the bow. Buri yelped angrily, and Psin shot. The arrow skipped into the mass of Quyuk’s line; heads turned, and somebody shouted. Quyuk’s men whirled around.

  Out of Kiev another army streamed, shouting and waving bright swords. Torches flared on the walls. Quyuk’s men, facing a charge down hill, spun their horses and raced away. The Russians whooped.

  Psin swung back toward Mongke’s flank. It had split neatly in half before the Russian charge, and the knights had met nothing but the snow and the wind. On either side, the Mongols flew lightly back, their arrows tearing through the Russians.

  “Mongke’s sign, and a long yellow.”

  Buri said, “He won’t do it.” But he ordered the signal.

  “Watch.”

  “We should watch. Those Russians—”

  Psin looked quickly back over his shoulder. The Russians coming out of Kiev were chasing Quyuk down onto the flat, but one wing had swerved toward Psin and Buri.

  “All lanterns shut. Let’s go.”

  He turned the dun and whipped him straight down the slope. The horse bounced snorting across the snow ridges, between the trees. Buri and the others pounded after him. The Russians were gaining on them, and he heard their hoarse triumphant calls. He dropped his reins, nocked an arrow, and twisted in his saddle to shoot. The dun ran straight on.

  “Yip-yip-yip—”

  That was Buri. The high call ranged over the Russian shouts and the distant noise of the fighting. Psin shot again, and a Russian horse somersaulted into the snow.

  Nobody was coming to help them. Psin gritted his teeth. The dun reached the flat ground and stretched out, running for the gap between the two tangled battles—Mongke on the south, Quyuk and the second Russian army to the north. The Russians chasing him and Buri were almost close enough to throw their lances.

  A great roar went up from the south. Psin had an arrow drawn to his chin, and he released it before he looked. Mongke’s army was surging back and forth across the trampled snowfield, and he could see no single Russian in their midst. The Mongols’ high pitched screams mounted i
nto the thin dawn light. A lantern flashed, somewhere.

  The Russians after Psin faltered. Behind them, up the slope toward Kiev, stretched a trail of bodies. On the flat ground the Mongol horses were faster; they had no hope of catching them. They wheeled and galloped heavily off toward their main army, to the north.

  Mongke’s lanterns were flashing all over the field. Psin reined up and waited until Buri and the standardbearer were beside him. Buri said, “He did do it. I didn’t think he would.”

  Psin nodded. He was panting, and his lungs hurt from the sharp icy air. He looked back toward Quyuk, who was leading the remaining Russians madly north.

  “Mongke’s sign, and two short greens. Maybe Sabotai feels like fighting.”

  “Maybe we should warn him.”

  Psin shook his head. He swung the dun horse around and headed west, to get out of the way of Mongke’s army. Buri and the others pattered after him. “He’ll be looking. He couldn’t see a rocket now anyway.”

  Mongke’s army was grouped up again. They started off after Quyuk. Mongke had spread out the line wide enough that the Russians could not double back without being seen. Psin and Buri and the standardbearer rode a little apart from the army, and as soon as it had settled into its trot Mongke galloped over to them.

  “You saw more of it than I did,” he said. “When you ordered us in, I thought they were still almost intact.”

  Psin laughed. “It looks that way, sometimes. No. There were less than two or three thousand of them left, and they were spread out enough.”

  “So I found out.”

  “You could have come and helped us,” Buri said. “Eight of us, with a thousand Russians right behind. They chased us clear across the field.”

  “I didn’t notice,” Mongke said sweetly.

  “They made us look ridiculous. Two separate battles, and the command post being chased.”

  The sun was nearly up. Psin looked at Mongke’s face and saw the faint smile. Mongke said, “Who will laugh at us when all the Russians are dead?”

  Psin said, “Take down the lanterns and get the banners out. Mongke, your line is ragged. Your black horses are riding the same formation they used crossing the river. Tell them to fill up the gaps.”

  Mongke held his horse back so that he could yell to his standard-bearer. Psin watched the lines pull together. It was a good mark for the tuman on the black horses to keep formation until ordered to change it. The other two—one on bays, one on grays—had automatically closed up, filling the holes left by the men who had died.

  “What color horse is Quyuk leading?” Psin said to Buri.

  “Chestnuts with light manes.”

  “Hunh.”

  Buri shrugged. “It’s a common color, at least. And Sabotai has a tuman mounted on chestnuts with red manes.”

  “The day will come when we search from here to Korea for bay horses with black points and white stockings on the hindlegs, just to keep each tuman different. The drawbacks to leading large armies.”

  A flock of birds sailed overhead, piping. Psin shaded his eyes to look after them. The sky was almost yellow from the sunlight in the haze.

  Ahead, the rearguard of the Russians was nearly out of sight. The snow had turned to mud where their horses had churned it up. Psin squinted to see the Russians; he thought he saw a banner past them against the sky, but the Russians carried banners too.

  “We should have left some men back by the city,” Buri said.

  “The city will be there when we’re done here. No reason. And they might turn.”

  By now the Russians knew they were trapped. They could see the Mongols coming along behind them, and probably they could judge numbers well enough to know that this army was bigger than Quyuk’s, which they were chasing. They would be wondering why Quyuk didn’t wheel and hold them still until Psin and the others caught up. Maybe they had guessed.

  To the east, the ground rose steeply into another bluff. The river was probably just beyond it. Psin looked west. Sabotai choosing his ground wouldn’t have passed this up. He turned to the standard-bearer.

  “Get the black banner ready. Buri—”

  “Look. On the bluff.” Buri turned to yell to Mongke.

  On the bluff stood several beech trees; suddenly one of them flared up into a gigantic torch. Black smoke rolled back from it. Oil, Psin thought. Waiting until we came into sight. “Gallop,” he said. “Don’t charge.”

  They burst into a short gallop. On the bluff men on foot were forming a line beneath the trees. Psin could smell the wood burning from here. Mongke raced up and shouted, “Let me swing the western wing out more. Keep them from running out.”

  “No. Sabotai is over there. Look—there they go.”

  The Russians, up ahead, were turning, racing back toward Psin’s army. Psin pulled the dun away toward the west. Buri and the standardbearer veered after him. Mongke charged up to the head of his line, shouting. The Russians pounded down toward them, and beyond them, Psin could see Quyuk’s army and another, two full tumans, with their banners snapping over their heads.

  “Black banner,” Psin said. He jerked the dun to a stop three bowshots from the far edge of Mongke’s line. The standardbearer waved the black banner on its pole, and with a yell the Mongols charged. The driving Russian line staggered under the wash of arrows.

  “They’ll charge up toward us,” Psin said. He looked behind him. They could run before the Russians all the way back to Kiev. The dun shied, and he looked ahead again, counting. He could count only eight tumans. There were supposed to be nine.

  “In God’s name,” Buri murmured.

  Out of the middle of the plain to the west, horses leapt. They came up out of the snow itself, a flood of them, all up and down the plain from Psin, all chestnuts with red manes. The Russians, swerving west, fell back screaming through their own lines. Sabotai’s tuman howled, raised their bows, and started shooting. The cloud of arrows threw a shadow over the snow; Psin looked up and saw them like a moving roof over his head. The Russians were milling frantically. The snow turned black with their bodies. From the west Sabotai’s, from the north Quyuk’s, from the south Mongke’s —Psin’s horse reared up, excited. A column of Russians broke from the churning mass and drove for the narrowing gap between Sabotai’s line and Quyuk’s. With each stride another horse collapsed into the snow. Armor flashed in the sun. Psin saw a man fling up his arms against the river of arrows, take three shafts through his forearm, and sag forward over his horse’s neck. The remnants of the column broke through and raced away, and Quyuk’s west wing wheeled to follow. In the center of the closing trap, the Russians left alive had thrown down their swords in surrender.

  Buri turned toward Psin. “Do they live?”

  “Kiev killed our envoys. They all die.”

  Buri nodded. The black banner came down, and the yellow spilled out across the staff. The Mongols encircled the Russians thickly and kept on shooting. Psin heard the Russians bellow in rage and fear. He turned and rode over toward Sabotai.

  “That worked well,” Sabotai called. “They were too surprised to meet us.”

  Psin jogged up to him. “Ravine?” He looked back at the scarred snow.

  “River. Or a canal. Something. With a steep bank. The only other place was well up the river, where the forest closes in.”

  Mongke cantered up. “Where did you come from? You came out of nowhere.”

  Sabotai explained, his face glowing with pleasure and exertion. Quyuk was sitting his horse a little way off, watching them. His leather armor was fouled with blood.

  “Are you all right?” Psin called.

  Quyuk nodded. “It’s my horse’s, mostly. They killed one under me.”

  Sabotai said, “He’s always in the middle of the fighting, that one. Let’s go take Kiev.”

  “Ada,” Djela said. “Isn’t Grandfather’s time up yet?”

  “No. Catch.” Tshant threw the end of the felt toward him. Djela picked it up and dragged it out full len
gth. Tshant was lacing it to the yurt framework beside the door.

  “Well, when?”

  “When what?”

  “When will Grandfather be—”

  “Not for another eight months. And more.” Tshant put one foot against the masterpole and pulled the lace snug. “Get out another length.”

  Djela trotted over to the packhorses and pulled down the top roll of felt. He looked toward Kiev, frowning. The line of yurts circled the city from river to river, and his father was probably right that the Russians wouldn’t leave the shelter of their walls. But the one yurt on the approach looked so lonely. It was closer to the city than to the first row of Mongol yurts, almost within bowshot of the walls.

  “Djela.”

  “I’m coming.” He towed the felt over, and Tshant unrolled it.

  Horses clattered by, on their way up to the lines forming to attack the wall. “Is Grandfather—”

  “Stop talking about Psin. Help me get this up.”

  Djela sighed and stretched out the felt on the ground. Tshant held the laces in his teeth, pulled the end of the felt up against the poles, and lashed it. He worked his way along the yurt, lacing, while Djela straightened the felt and held it against the framework.

  A great shout went up from the city, and Djela whirled. Tshant said, “Look. They’ve got the shield braced up. That was quick.”

  Djela nodded. All that morning every slave in the camp had been lacing shields together into a huge mat, and now they had carried it up to the gate and staked it firm with lances. He shaded his eyes. Beneath the shield roof, men chopped furiously at the gate.

  “It’s hot under there,” he said. “Quyuk’s not got his coat on.” Quyuk had come out from under to look at the wall and ducked back beneath the shields when the defenders threw stones and filth at him.

  “Hurry up,” Tshant said. He had brought over another roll of felt.

  Tugging at the roll, Djela craned his neck to see the city. The gate was monstrous, made of brick, but the walls were only of wood; Russians mobbed them. Suddenly they began to chant in unison. From under the shield roof, Mongols streamed, and one—Mongke—grabbed a horse and galloped down toward them.