By dusk of that day they had reached the Hungarian supply station. The knights were all half-drunk, and the Mongols stormed through in one charge. Immediately they turned their horses out and went to sleep.
After midnight, Psin woke up and with three other men rode the trail up to the Hungarian pass. There was no way to tell Sabotai that they were here, and Sabotai wasn’t sure the burning lights would work after being dropped into an icy river. The closest the Mongols could get to the pass was the foot of the trail up the last slope; if they came closer the knights would know they were there. Psin went back to the supply station and sent half his men up to the slope to watch.
“Sabotai is attacking today, isn’t he?” one of his men said.
Psin nodded. “At noon, he said.”
“We’re tired. That was a terrible ride.”
“What do you mean, tired? You had a pleasant trip through some pretty hills, with a nice fight at the end and a good rest—”
The man laughed. “Of course. Are you aware there’s no wine?”
“No wine. That’s bad.”
“And very little meal.”
“Damn you. Don’t bother me with these things.”
It was nearly dawn. Psin went back inside the hut at the supply station, roused out the rest of his men, and led them all after the first five hundred. He was hungry, and his horse was tired; half a night’s rest had only made them all irritable and groggy.
If they couldn’t draw the knights out of their fort, taking the pass would be more difficult and take longer. The knights certainly wouldn’t leave the walls if they knew a thousand Mongols were waiting just below the pass on the western side. He couldn’t charge up at the first signs of fighting in the pass. He put two men into trees where they could see into the pass, but they called down that the fort was out of sight. He swore.
The sun rose. Light streamed over the mountains; they could see it in the sky although their slope was still deep in shadow. Clouds blustered off toward the west, too light for snow. Two of Psin’s men shot a wooly goat and cooked it, splitting it with the others so that they all got no more than scraps and a taste of crisp fat. The smallest owl Psin had ever seen caught a mouse almost at his feet. The wind lulled.
“It’s warmer here than on the other side,” one man said to him.
“Yes.” Psin squinted toward the pass. “Look out. Here comes a knight.”
He turned and yelled to a group of Mongols beside a little fire. They bolted toward their horses. The knight was cantering toward them along the road, his reins slack. He hadn’t seen them yet. Psin’s men vaulted into their saddles and started to meet him.
The knight caught sight of them coming and stopped his horse dead. Psin stiffened. The knight whirled back toward the pass. His horse took two great bounds, and an arrow brought it down. The knight pitched into the snow. The Mongols trotted over to him, looked down, and turned. They were well up the road to the pass. Psin’s throat was tight with fear they’d be seen. He gestured to them, and they jogged their horses down toward him, without bringing the knight or killing him. One rode straight to him.
“Did you leave him up there to crawl home and tell them where we are? What—”
“He’s dead. He broke his neck.” The Mongol dismounted.
“Khan,” one of the men in the trees called. “They are fighting, in the pass.”
Psin swore. He stopped the wild plunge toward the horses and made his men sit down again. This was another of Sabotai’s stupid ideas. He did them no good, sitting down here unknowing. He paced up and down, trying to hear the sounds of fighting, could not, and sat down.
“Can you see what’s happening?”
“No—all I can see is Mongols.”
Psin groaned. He jumped up and went toward his horse. His men started forward, eagerly, and he gestured to them to stay still. Mounting, he rode up the road a little, standing in his stirrups.
He saw nothing, but the closer he got the more he could hear. The pass rang with shouting and the sound of horses. Rock clattered, somewhere. He rode closer. Eagles circled above the pass, and a loose horse bolted down from it, neighing, its reins flying. A Mongol boot was still caught in one stirrup.
“Yip-yip-yip—”
That had to be Mongke retreating. He turned and rode back to his men. “Now. Mount up. Let’s go.”
They piled into their saddles and charged even before he gave the signal. The road was broad and even, and the horses reached a full gallop within a few strides. They bolted past the dead knight. The screams and howls of the Mongols in the pass reverberated from rock to rock, and beneath them were the high calls of the knights. He heard metal grate on metal.
Horses spilled down over the western edge of the pass—the knights’ horses. The knights were still on their backs. They were running, headed straight into Psin’s column. He hauled out his bow and fit an arrow. The knights were coming like an avalanche. There was no place for the Mongols to go to get out of their way. He shouted, “Full charge!”
He shot, and saw the arrow slam into one knight, but before he could nock another arrow the full force of the knights hit him. A huge horse ran into his horse, a sword swiped at his head, and his horse staggered back, still on its feet. He ducked, his bow useless. The knights swarmed around him. He heard his men yipping. A hammer crashed into the small of his back, and he lost his sight. Clinging to his saddle, he weaved back and forth. His horse was rearing and kicking out. His eyes cleared, and he steadied his horse. Knights surrounded him. He jabbed at their eyes with the tip of his bow. His back hurt every time he moved. The knights’ horses rammed into his, and his horse was lifted off its feet and carried back down the road and deposited on its feet again.
“Eeeeeiiiyyyyaaah!”
He drove his horse to the side of the road and dove from the saddle into the heavy brush. He heard the whistle of arrows in flight, and getting to his feet he saw the knights falling before the shower. Mongke’s men, shooting steadily, streamed down the road after them. Psin’s horse stood beside the road, reins trailing, and he vaulted on and charged with the others.
The road was covered with bodies—knights, Mongols, horses. The remnant of the fleeing knights raced on ahead of them. Arrows thudded into their backs. Psin caught up with a knight, reached out, and got his fingers around the man’s belt; he tugged, and the knight flew off his horse and landed under the hoofs of the Mongol charge. Psin lost his balance under the weight and nearly went off. He got one arm across the pommel of his saddle, hooked his heel over the cantle, and hung on. The horse began to slow, leaning against his weight, and he pulled himself up again.
The last of the knights was so far ahead that they would never catch him; he was even out of bowshot. Psin stopped his horse and drew off to let Mongke’s men by. Mongke saw him and rode over.
“What happened?” Psin yelled.
Mongke laughed. “They took the first chance they saw to leave the fort. They were dying to run, so they did, and we chased. We wouldn’t have caught them if you hadn’t slowed them on the road.”
“I think I lost all my men. They were on top of us before we saw them.”
“You slowed them, though.”
Psin looked around. He could see nothing but skewbald horses. One bay trotted along with the rest, but it was riderless. He rode off to the place where he and his men had waited that morning, and found two or three hundred men there, all wounded.
Mongke had come with him. “Are you all right? There’s blood all over your back.”
“Oh.” Psin felt his back and winced. “Something hit me.”
“Get down.” Mongke dismounted. “Here come some more of your men.”
Psin, on the ground, looked over and saw fifty more men on bay horses jogging into the meadow. “Too many losses.”
Mongke helped him pull off his armor. “Bruise. Nothing broken. It’s bleeding, though.”
“That’s all right. If nothing’s broken—ouch!”
Sabotai
with his staff, Batu, and Batu’s brothers galloped into the meadow. “Psin. God above. Is all that yours?”
Mongke said, “He’s got more blood than a fall pig. Yes.” He was wrapping bandages around Psin’s middle. Psin was suddenly weak in the knees; he leaned against his horse. Mongke explained what had happened to Sabotai.
Batu said, “We’re in now. Psin, will you be able to ride? Berke—”
“No,” Psin said. “I can ride.” He stood away from the horse. Sabotai, watching him, smiled and nodded. His eyes were bright; he always looked happy when one of his stratagems had worked out well.
“Fill up your ranks from the skewbald tuman,” he said. “You can leave for Pesth when you’re rested.”
“Good.” Psin pulled on his armor. “There’s no wine in the supply station anyhow.”
Batu said genially, “There is something I’ve meant to talk to you about for a long while, Psin Khan.”
“Oh, really?”
“Your grandson is a charming boy. I’ve got a little granddaughter, some younger than he.”
Psin stretched his legs out flat on the ground. It was a pretty day, and he wished Batu hadn’t spoiled it. “They are of the same bone, unfortunately.”
“Oh, well.” Batu smiled. His broad face was bland. “For the Altun such things are of little moment.” He took the plug out of a jug of fresh kumiss and held it out. Psin took it and drank.
“I have a son unmarried yet,” he said. “Until Sidacai marries Djela stays a bachelor.”
Batu’s face clouded. Psin raised the jug again to cover how sharply he was watching him. Finally, Batu said, “This is the son of your second wife, isn’t he.”
“Yes.” Psin lowered the jug; he hadn’t drunk.
Batu was fussing with the hooks on his coat. Kaidu had a younger sister. Psin didn’t think Batu would mention her. The sun had risen over the mountains behind them, and the bright, clear light made the snow sparkle. Psin got up.
“I have to move out soon.”
“Oh. That’s right.” Batu rose. “You’re riding vanguard again. Sabotai trusts you much more than the rest of us. You should be honored.”
“Terribly much.” He slung his saddle onto his horse’s back and reached under its belly for the girth.
“Kaidu has a sister as yet unpromised. Perhaps—”
“Why don’t we talk about it after the campaign? Sidacai’s old enough now to make his own marriage. I’d rather he were around when I talked about it.”
“Keep it in mind,” Batu said. “You won’t find anything so good for him—not for the second son of the second wife.” He put one hand on Psin’s arm, smiled, and went off.
“Hunh.”
Psin hooked the breastplate to the saddle. His standardbearer was jogging over toward him, and seeing him pass the thousand-commanders trailed after. Sunlight glinted off their metal gear. If Sidacai married without Psin’s permission, Psin could annul it at any time. Anyway, Sidacai was in the Kha-Khan’s guard and not liable to meet any girls of good family. He met plenty of girls of bad family, but them he could not marry. Psin picked up his chest armor and draped it over his shoulders.
“Do we break camp, Khan?” the standardbearer said.
Psin nodded. “I’m going to find Sabotai. We have a full tuman. Form them up into three columns.” He put his foot in the stirrup and swung up. The horse turned and started off at a trot before he had settled into the saddle. He reined him off across the camp, toward the north.
Sabotai was arguing a point of strategy with Mongke, sitting beside a fire. Batu’s brothers hovered behind him. Psin didn’t wait to hear what it was they were discussing. He dismounted, got between them, and sat on his heels.
“I’m leaving. Anything more?”
“No.”
“I’m not going to scout for you, so don’t hunt for reports.”
“You’re not supposed to be here,” Sabotai said. “You’re under ban, and this is my fire.” He got up and walked away. Psin followed him, grinning. Sabotai had done this twice before; it was a good way of getting Psin out of earshot of the other Altun. Some fifteen steps from the fire Sabotai turned.
“There was a courier in last night from Karakorum. Late. I couldn’t very well send for you, and it was too cold to go riding.”
“Any news of my women?”
“They’re both well. Your new grandson is thriving. There were letters from Kerulu for Tshant. And from Ogodai. He’s still strong, very active, as usual. Very pleased with the way the war is going.”
“What about Quyuk?”
“Quyuk is sitting with his hands in his lap. Jagatai says that they are keeping him under guard—supposed to be an honor guard, of course. His mother is slightly out of favor and his wife is no longer permitted the Golden Yurt. Has Batu been courting you?”
“Yes.”
“They are disappointed with Siremon. That’s why. The older Siremon gets the more obvious it is that there’s no clear successor to Ogodai, except perhaps Jagatai.”
“And Quyuk.”
Sabotai sighed. “Yes. Yes. Incidentally, Quyuk sent word to you. Just greetings, and hopes that you’ll have good fighting.”
Psin’s jaw dropped. “He what?”
“Exactly. To no one else. Not even his brother.”
“Well.”
“There was another courier in from the north. Tshant disobeyed every order Kaidu gave him—just ignored them—and caught an army of Poles outnumbering his three to one and smashed them to rubble.”
“My, my.” Psin put one hand to his mouth to hide his smile.
“You seem to have bred a rebel.”
“I always knew that.”
“And something of a general. I thought you’d want to know. Well. Good-by.”
“Good-by. I’ll send couriers when I’m at Pesth.”
“Yes.” Sabotai started back toward his fire. Psin stood watching him. The slow trudge of Sabotai’s legs suddenly looked funny. He thought, Tshant the genius. It was interesting. Tshant had commanded so rarely before this…. He wondered if Sabotai’s instigating feuds had made him any better. More confident, maybe. Beating me. He touched the scars on his cheek. Maybe.
Baidar said, looking toward the city, “You’ve made Kaidu angry. You ought not to have.”
“What’s wrong with him now?”
“Well, he told you to stay within a day’s ride of him, and you ran it out to three days and proved he was wrong in the first place. He’s too young to be in command.”
Tshant nodded. He wasn’t interested in Kaidu’s immature jealousies. “How many do you think they have, in there?”
Baidar’s horse ducked its head, and he jerked it up again. “Two tumans at least. He has a legitimate complaint against you. You lose too many men when you fight.”
“My father’s said so.”
Behind them, Tshant’s army and a half a tuman of Baidar’s waited, eating jerked meat and drinking the wine from the town they had taken the day before. They had been waiting before Liegnitz since dawn, and so far no one inside the walls had shown a sign of noticing them. A collection of huts and larger buildings stood outside the wall, and Tshant had suggested attacking them, but Baidar had said no.
“He’s worth handling properly,” Baidar said. “Kaidu, I mean.”
“Where is he now?”
“With his men. There’s an army coming up from—from Bohemia. Or someplace down there.” Baidar’s eyes flew toward the city. “Here comes someone.”
Tshant looked around. The gate had opened, and sixteen or twenty knights were riding out in double file. At their head rode a man carrying a white banner. Baidar called back to the army behind them, and Rijart trotted up, smiling.
Batu and Sabotai were in Hungary, and the courier who had brought that news had said they were meeting no resistance. The entire Hungarian army was drawn up before their capital. Psin, riding vanguard, had reached Pesth in three days flat from the great pass and was keeping watch on the King�
��s army until Sabotai caught up. Kaidu had sent a man back to tell Batu that he could not join the main army in Hungary until he had disposed of the Poles in Liegnitz.
As well. Tshant shifted in his saddle, watching the knights approach. Sabotai could deal with the Hungarians. All this work in Poland was only a diversion; there was no sense in letting Kaidu share his grandfather’s triumph. Tshant looked back to find Djela and saw him chattering with one of the standardbearers, who had orders to watch him.
The knights drew up their big horses a little way down from Tshant and Baidar. All but two of them wore white surcoats and cloaks with a black cross on the breast. The other two looked richer and less like fighting men. One of these rode forward, with a big blond knight behind him—one of the men wearing the black cross. The advance rider called out in a harsh voice, and Rijart translated.
“I am Henry, the Duke of Silesia, and my liege is the King of the Romans. What brings you to Liegnitz?”
Tshant grinned. Baidar nudged his horse forward and said to Rijart, “Tell them we come because they have an army here. They think to resist us, the chosen of God. Now they must lay aside their weapons and do homage to the Kha-Khan, God’s only prince on earth.”
Rijart shouted, and the knights mumbled under their breath. The big blond man tilted forward from the waist and spoke to the Silesian, who gestured impatiently. He spoke again. Rijart said, “We are all the children of God, but His only chosen is Our Lord Jesus Christ and those who follow him. If you will accept Christ, we will welcome you like the strayed lambs into the fold. Otherwise we offer only death.”
Tshant said, “All this proves is how many different ways a man can say the same thing. Tell them to go.”
Until the Sun Falls Page 43