The snow was rippled evenly from just before them to the horizon. Psin nodded. Now he could see the separate huts of the village, the pens for the animals. There were no stockades. No resistance, the scout had said. “Hang the sign for torches.”
The standardbearer took the ribbon pennant out of his pouch and hooked it to the staff just above the white banner. Immediately the white banners floating at intervals to the north swung down and rose again, with the ribbons streaming out.
Entertainment. The horses stumbled in the fields, caught themselves, and plunged on. With the village ahead, the loose rocking energy of the army gathered itself and steadied. Psin heard their harsh voices calling out, asking if there might be plunder or at the very least women. The tempo of the hoofbeats picked up. Torches glowed here and there in the dark mass of racing horses. He could smell the biting smoke.
Banners dipping. The standardbearer said, “The fourth thousand of the skewbald tuman is moving north, Khan.”
“They know their orders.”
His horse bolted. Psin yelped; the sudden flash of speed pitched him back against the cantle of his saddle, and it took him three strides to get back his seat. He hauled the horse down, but everybody else was moving faster too. The village was just ahead of them. One man down near the second thousand from him yelled a warcry, and the whole army took it up. Psin’s horse neighed. Psin leaned forward to look around the front edge of the army and saw that the line past the fifth thousand had sheared abruptly north and was galloping away. They must have sighted another village. His horse swerved; they were in the ring of huts.
The men behind him all carried torches. Before he could look to see if there was anything left here the village was in flames, one single flame. When he filled his lungs to shout the hot air stung his throat. He bellowed to the standardbearer to pull them out of the village—it was so crowded many of the horses were screaming from the heat. If there had been anything left alive in the village it was dead now. The Mongols poured out into the cold clean wind of the steppe. The flames roared in Psin’s ears. He jogged out between two burning huts and looked north. Three columns of smoke stood in the sky on a line with this one.
The tremendous heat from the fire hurt his eyes, and he could feel the sweat pouring over his body under his clothes. He rode farther away and circled around to catch up with his standard- bearer.
At sundown, couriers started riding madly back and forth along the vanguard’s front ranks. The army camped in a straight line, so that it was well dark before Psin heard the reports, sixth hand, of the northernmost thousands. There had been six villages, all but one deserted, and all had burned. The smoke still hung over the eastern sky, blurring the stars. A handful of farmers had tried to stop the charging line but as far as anyone knew there had been no fighting at all: the Mongols had ridden them down.
Psin tugged at his mustaches. The wind was colder after the fire and he had smeared grease on his cheeks, so the mustaches were too gummy to chew. “Are they all back in line?”
“The seventeenth—seventh of the skewbald—camped just within sight of the sixteenth, more north and a little west.”
“Get them back into position by noon tomorrow.”
Everybody else was sleeping; the men around his fire huddled together like baby chicks. But he had to hear the reports of the scouts, who rode in all night long. He dozed off between reports. It seemed to him that he no sooner sank into a dream than someone would shake him out of it.
“A river to the west. It’s frozen but not to the bed. We can ride around it.”
With the tip of his dagger he cut signs into a smooth piece of wood, locating the river and giving the scout’s and his own opinion of the advantages and disadvantages of crossing weak ice. The scouts reported villages, and he asked them for precise distances. They said they did not know. He asked them questions that proved they did know but were unaware of it. For the third time he explained to them, as patiently and painfully as a father, that they should talk together before they came to him, to organize everything. They nodded, looking tired, and he sent them off to sleep.
In the dead black before dawn two couriers rode in almost together from the south and the east. The southern wing had run into an army of peasants and smashed it in one charge. In doing so they had gotten rearranged so that they were now a full day’s ride south of where they were supposed to be. What did he want them to do? He swore at the courier and told him to wake up one of the five men sleeping around Psin’s fire and send him off. The southern wing was to be back in position by the sundown after next. The courier blanched. Psin glared at him and turned to the other.
“Halicz has fallen,” said the courier from Sabotai. “There was no problem. His advance scouts are picking up your reports.”
The latest report lay under Psin’s elbow. He nodded and sent the courier off to sleep. In the east pale light showed. He pulled his cloak over his shoulders and shut his eyes.
The lack of sleep gave him a headache, and the jouncing all the next day drove him nearly out of his mind. They camped alongside the half-frozen river that night, and again he slept only in snatches. The scouts were as disorganized as usual. His head was splitting neatly in half, and he expected at any moment to find his brains rolling down his nose. The stretch of territory across the river was packed with villages, estates and a few minor towns that he would bypass, and he had to make plans, give orders, send couriers, leave wooden messages in obvious places. By dawn he was having trouble seeing. He commanded the vanguard to break into thousands and cross the river in twenty widely separated places up and down the bank. Once on the far side they were to burn, pillage, cache the plunder, take no captives, harass any large group of fugitives, and band together again at the foot of the main pass through the Carpathians. The tuman commanders frowned at him.
“How will we find the pass, Khan?”
“You will look.”
The nearer of the two opened his mouth to protest, but the expression on Psin’s face stopped him. He shrugged. “The Khan wishes.”
“In two days, you will be under the mountains. Without fail.”
“The Khan wishes.”
In the crisp light the vanguard divided up. Psin stayed where he was, sitting on the ground beside his fire, and rested his head in his hands. He dozed a little. The pounding of hoofs and the shrill cries dribbled into the half-dreams and kept him jerking awake. When they were all gone, he started up again, ordered his standardbearer and the couriers off due west at an even jog, and told them to hold the scouts with them until he caught up. They made no protests at all, but they stared at him as if he were speaking Chinese. He growled at them; they left. All alone on the east bank of the river, he turned out his hobbled horses, rolled himself up in his cloak, and slept soundly for the first time in days.
The flames were higher than Djela had ever seen them before. He remembered Moskva and Susdal burning, but Sandomir burned even higher than those, like steeples made out of fire. It was the wind, his father had said.
Between this little hill and the blazing city the Mongols waited, dark against the red-gold of the fire. He could see them turn their heads occasionally to see if the banners were up yet. Tshant was filing his arrowheads, and the standardbearer, Jube, knelt on the ground folding banners so that he could pack them up again.
Djela shivered. He had charged with the rest, through the storm of the defenders’ arrows and stones, and he’d taken four arrows in his shield. It had been so quick that he still wasn’t sure what had happened. Tshant said that the defenders had lost their courage, seeing the Mongols charge. They’d deserted the wall and the main gate. It was silly to be afraid now.
“You see why I don’t want you to fight in cities?” Tshant said.
Djela nodded.
He remembered the close quarters when they broke through the gate, the streets jammed, and how his horse had lunged and fought trying to get through. But it had all happened so quickly.
“What ar
e we waiting for?”
Tshant looked up, not at Djela but to the east. His mouth was set hard. “Kaidu. I sent him notice when I attacked. He’s so damned slow….”
He bent again and the file rasped across the arrowhead. The sound made Djela’s back prickle up. His own arrows were all sharp, and his bows tended, and his shield patched. There was nothing left to do. He slid down from his saddle and checked the hoofs of the second horse on his remount string, preparing a detailed answer if anybody asked him why. Nobody did.
Tshant swore. The standardbearer threw his pouches across the pommel of his saddle and lashed them, his eyes on Tshant’s face. Djela scrambled back into his saddle.
“Red banners,” Tshant said. “And call up the thousand-commanders. We’ll leave the plunder here. They can collect it when they come past.”
Djela said, “Where are we going?”
“Southwest. Toward Cracow.”
The red banner flapped open, booming, and the mass of horsemen between them and the city broke into a jog. For a moment there was no order to it, but suddenly the even lines appeared, and the ranks closed. It was fun to watch. They all started off purposefully toward the river.
“I thought you didn’t want to go to Cracow.”
What he could see of his father’s face was stiff with anger. “I don’t.”
“Then why—”
“Because Kaidu is in command. I wish you’d stop doing that.”
“Stop what?” Djela reined over closer to Tshant’s trotting horse.
“Asking questions you already know the answers to.”
“But I don’t—”
“Shut up.”
They were angling down to ride abreast of the first ranks of the army. The thousand-commanders galloped over; two of them were new, and Tshant had to be told who they were, which thousands they commanded, and how their predecessors had died. Both had been knocked in the head by furniture thrown out of windows in the city. Tshant described the formation he wanted and the commanders whirled and rode back to their men to arrange it.
“Well,” Djela said, “when will the courier be here?”
“He should have reached us already.”
Djela started to ask what could have delayed him, but his father was definitely angry. Djela already knew: Kaidu and Baidar were arguing. It had happened twice before, when Tshant had wanted to do something and had sent to Kaidu for the permission. Baidar always took Tshant’s side.
“I thought Grandfather said—”
“I told you. Kaidu has changed the order of march.”
Djela had asked why before, but Tshant had only sworn at him. He looked at the army. It was spread evenly toward them from the river in ranks a hundred men wide. Up ahead, trees grew close to the river, and they would have to circle. Djela looked at Jube, riding just behind Tshant, but Jube hadn’t gotten the banner out yet.
Tshant said, “If he doesn’t reach us by tomorrow…” He took off his glove to take the stopper out of his kumiss jug. The side of his hand was blistering from a burn. “Maybe by— Hold up! Jube, red banner—”
Djela wheeled to look south. His breath caught in his throat. Around the clump of trees knights were riding. Their shouts rose like wolves’ howling. Tshant was calling out orders, and the banners were streaming out in Jube’s hands, but the knights were closing fast. He couldn’t judge how many there were. The whole wood seemed full of them. Their horses looked huge. He jerked up his bow with the arrow set and shot.
“Follow me,” Tshant said. “Djela. Come on.”
Djela dragged his horse around. Tshant was galloping west, across the front rank of the knights. Behind them the Mongols were splitting in half, one half charging along the bank of the river, the other flying after Tshant. Before the knights lay only empty plain and the far, burning city. The knights bellowed. Djela shot again, but he couldn’t see where the arrow went.
“Shoot at the horses,” Tshant yelled. “White banner, Jube.”
Jube shouted back and tore at the hooks on his pouches. The horses were running flat out. Djela held his breath, aiming. The knights were only half a bowshot away. They were aiming themselves straight for him. He let go the string, and this time saw the arrow all the way in. It bounced harmlessly off the armor on the horse’s chest. He could see the bright pink in the nostrils of the knights’ horses.
Tshant reined in suddenly, so that Djela swept past him, and came up again on Djela’s other side, between him and the knights. They were still riding across the knights’ charge, and the space between was getting narrower with each jump. Djela forgot to shoot, only clung to his reins. Tshant drew his bow. Behind him Djela could almost duplicate his point of aim; he saw the bright filed arrowhead center on a horse’s breast. He heard the bowstring whine, and the red fletching on the arrow streaked across the gap. The arrow shattered the armor and the horse fell sprawling, throwing its rider. Djela cheered.
“Black at the dip,” Tshant yelled.
Jube’s shout rang in Djela’s ears. He looked back. The five thousands following Tshant were bunching up, shooting into the oncoming knights. But the knights were within strides of reaching them. The swords glittered.
His horse turned on its haunches, with the knights so near their individual voices hurt Djela’s ears. He drew an arrow, swiveled to shoot over his horse’s rump, and saw, from here to the river, the thousands of Mongols doing the same thing. His fear slid away and he shot. His arrow skipped off armor again, but thousands of other arrows struck through armor and flesh and horses crashed into the snow. The knights were falling back.
“Yip-yip-yip—”
“Who’s in trouble now?” Tshant called.
Jube bellowed something and pointed toward the river. Djela pulled out another arrow and shot into the knights. Tshant veered close to him, signed that he should stay with Jube, and sat back in his saddle. Djela gasped. Tshant’s horse stopped dead so hard its forehoofs left the ground. Before they struck earth again the Mongol line was as far beyond Tshant as he was beyond the screaming knights. He spun the horse, his whip rose and fell, and the horse bolted toward the river down the gap between the Mongols and the Polish knights.
“Father—”
“Stay here,” Jube shouted. “In God’s name, do you think any Pole could outride him? Use your bow.”
The knights were giving up the chase. Djela shot as quickly as he could, trying to hit the unprotected necks of the stallions. Jube cocked the bannerstaff to slow the Mongols, so that they wouldn’t ride out of range.
“They won’t turn their sides to us,” Jube called. “They know we’ll shoot their horses out from under them if they do. Can you see what’s happening?”
Djela shook his head. All he could see was the wide curve of the Mongol line and the swarm of knights behind them. They were past the burning city; he could see its smoke in the sky off to the south. He dropped his stirrups, crossed the leathers over his saddle, and got his feet wedged into the shortened irons before Jube could stop him. The plain ahead looked even enough.
Jube was red in the face. “What do you think—”
Djela stood up. The wind almost knocked him down, but he leaned into it, holding his arms out to balance himself, and looked. Now he could see over the heads of the men around him: thousands of horses running, and the knights slowing down. They were starting to turn, down by the river. He dropped back into his saddle. Jube’s eyes were shut.
“They’re wheeling,” Djela called. “Don’t worry, I do that all the time.”
“If your father—” Jube brought the bannerstaff down across his saddlebows. Far down the Mongol line, blue banners fluttered. “They were driving us, I thought. Into some trap. But I guess not.” His hands moved efficiently, and the blue silk shook free. He raised the staff and waved it, so that the others could see it; the wind was blowing straight off the river.
Djela brought his horse around. He was dead last in the line, and the knights were riding away at an angle. Before he coul
d shoot even one arrow they were out of range. He swore at the top of his voice. Off north a herd of riderless, saddleless horses galloped—the remounts, cut loose when the knights attacked. He crouched over his horse’s withers and set all his energy to catching up with Jube.
“Banners,” Jube roared. “I can’t read them.”
“Turn south,” someone shouted, up ahead. “They’ve got the east wing pinned against the city. Cut south, outflank if you—Watch out!”
Djela looked around. The knights they had been chasing were swerving around again. They had pulled together into a compact mass. Jube with the staff lowered shouted something Djela couldn’t understand. The Mongols whirled north, to ride away from the knights. Djela’s horse, overlapping Jube’s to the girth, didn’t turn fast enough, and the two horses crashed together so hard Djela’s horse went clean off its feet.
Falling, Djela heard Jube’s voice but not the words. He kicked his feet out of the stirrups and landed on his shoulders, well away from the horse. The ground shook under him. The thunder of hoofs was all around. He remembered that the knights’ stallions were iron-shod. His horse was up, but even before he scrambled onto his feet big stallions charged between them. The knights swarmed all around him.
He kept his feet—the stallions shied away from him, and he forced his rigid arms to flail up and down to keep them scared. His tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth. Steaming flanks and armor edged like swords filled his vision. He thought of his mother and his grandmother. A great iron-mesh arm swung down and hoisted him up onto the saddle. His face pressed against cloth that lay over chain links. The high pommel thudded into his stomach. They were taking him away—he’d never get back again. The knights were shouting over his head in their thick voices, laughing.
They spun their horses again. Clutched in the knight’s rough arms, he turned upright and got one leg on either side of the saddle. They didn’t maneuver like Mongols, their horses caromed together and fought and everything got tangled up. His knight reined the horse in hard. Under the armor the stallion was running with sweat, and the pumping breath of the horses all around was like a bellows. They were galloping back toward the river.
Until the Sun Falls Page 41