Until the Sun Falls

by Cecelia Holland

  Rijart trotted up on foot and said, “How may I serve Tshant Bahadur?”

  “Is this the man who spoke with my father?”

  Rijart sank down and crossed his legs under him. “Yes. His name is Arnulf.” He spoke to the knight in some other language, and the knight answered. “He says he should thank you, but he would rather have died back there with his brothers.”

  Djela sat on his heels beside Tshant, staring at the knight. Tshant said to him, “Ask this man if he speaks Russian.”

  “Don’t you trust me?” Rijart said.

  “I don’t like you.”

  Djela smiled at the knight and said something, and the knight looked puzzled. He didn’t understand, obviously, and his eyes moved to Rijart.

  “He speaks Arabic,” Rijart said. “Don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Your father doesn’t like me either.”

  “He probably has the grace not to say so.”

  The knight spoke, and Rijart nodded. He swung back to Tshant.

  “He says you must be a man of—” His mouth twisted. “Of kindness. There’s no word in Mongol for what he means. Honorable, generous, upright.”

  “Tell him I am not.”

  “He asks you to kill him. He says if you mean to question him he will kill himself, but that’s a sin, and he would prefer that you kill him, so that he need not blemish his soul more than it is.”

  Tshant laughed. “Doesn’t he think he can stay silent under torture?”

  While Rijart translated the knight watched Tshant. His smile deepened, and he answered one word. Rijart said, “He says—”

  “I can guess. He’s clever. Tell him he won’t be tortured or questioned, but he won’t be killed either. He’s my slave now. Tell him I mean to give him as a present to the man whose name he called before Liegnitz.”

  The knight listened expressionlessly. Djela said softly, “To Grandfather?”

  Tshant nodded. When Rijart finished, the knight shrugged.

  “Did you tell him who I am?”

  “No,” Rijart said.

  “Tell him.”

  Rijart turned toward the knight and said something, including Tshant’s name and Psin’s. The knight jerked his head up and stared at Tshant. Tshant laughed and went off with Djela.

  Psin let his reins slide through his fingers. His coat was lashed to the cantle of his saddle, and the warm wind rustled his shirt. New leaves in a green fuzz covered the trees around him.

  “They’ve got the wagons chained together,” he said.

  Mongke nodded. “Interesting. What do you think they’ll try to do?”

  “They followed me all the way up here from Pesth, they must mean to fight.” Psin shrugged. The Hungarian army, camped inside its ring of wagons, lay just opposite the only bridge on the big river. There were two rivers here, flowing together just south of the Hungarian camp, and the spring thaw had filled both of them to the tops of their banks. Batu was camped in between them.

  “You made it from the mountains to Pesth in three days, I heard,” Mongke said. “That’s fast riding.”

  “I follow orders.”

  “Excellently. Where is Kadan?”

  “Still far to the south.”

  “Oh. We’ll have to wait until he gets here, won’t we.”

  “Sabotai’s timing is better than that.”

  Psin rode down toward the Hungarian camp. Horses filled the marshy pasturage around it, and at the sight of the Mongols a great roar went up inside the wagon-ring. Mongke, jogging stirrup to Psin’s stirrup, said easily, “Do you think they made that wall to keep us out or themselves in?”

  “Ask them.” Psin cut around to cross the bridge. They had come over it from Batu’s camp that morning, and the knights hadn’t interfered, but now a number of men in armor burst out of the ring of wagons and started toward the bridge. Psin and Mongke whipped up their horses.

  The knights’ great stallions galloped over the sloppy ground, splashing through puddles. Standing in his stirrups Psin tried to figure out which would reach the bridge first—he and Mongke or the knights. He put one hand on his horse’s mane and the horse stretched out, flying over the marsh. The knights yelled and waved their swords.

  They were going to get there together. He pulled out his bow and dropped his reins on his horse’s neck. Two knights rode ahead of the others; he could see the spurs flash at their heels. He brought the head of the arrow down to a point just over the leader’s helmet and six strides in front and shot. The arrow screamed in the sky. Mongke yelped happily. The knight rode into the oncoming arrow and pitched to the ground; the man behind him faltered.

  They were so close Psin could see the designs on the Hungarians’ cloaks. He chose another arrow. Mongke shot, and the horse of the leading knight stumbled and fell. The Mongol horses strained forward. Psin steered his horse straight for the bridge and nocked an arrow. They charged onto the bridge right under the noses of the Hungarian knights. He and Mongke shot at the same time, and two knights threw their hands to their faces and flew backward off their horses into the marsh. The bridge clattered underhoof.

  Mongke cheered. The Hungarians were turning back, slowing their stallions only with difficulty. Psin reined in on the other bank and watched. His horse was barely panting. The Hungarian bits fascinated him; all the stallions ran with their mouths wide open.

  Sabotai was waiting for them near the horse herd. He and Batu had caught up with Psin’s tuman three days before, and Psin could see that Sabotai was beginning to fret. He came over and held Psin’s reins while he dismounted. His eyes were full of purpose.

  “A courier from Kaidu. They’ve come up to a town called Liegnitz and they expect to fight the last of the Poles—I mean, they have fought them by now. And a dispatch from Baidar, commenting unfavorably on Kaidu’s command. What’s the ground like, west of the Hungarian King’s camp?”

  “Flat and no forest. They can run all day without finding a refuge.” Psin sent a slave off to bring him his dun horse.

  “Good. Batu’s brother Siban got here while you were gone, with two tumans. We have enough men to take any army on earth. Can we seize that bridge and hold it?”

  Psin looked toward the bridge. “Maybe. I don’t like the idea of standing up to their charge.”

  “Nor do I, but I want that bridge. I’ve got a few mangonels and catapults built, and they’ve cut wood for a bridge, if we can’t hold this one. Come along. I want to show you what I have in mind.”

  In the thick, milky darkness it was hard to see. The fog sprang up out of the marsh on the far side of the river. Psin walked back and forth, slapping his hands against his arms; he refused to put his coat on, because it was too warm. Sabotai was watching from the platform behind him.

  “They’re across,” Sabotai called. “Here come the Magyars. They’ve got a lot of footsoldiers. I can’t see much.”

  The groaning of the bridge came muffled through the fog. Abruptly the harsher, wilder sounds of fighting struck back to them. Psin leapt up onto the platform and strained his eyes. The Mongols who had crossed the river were milling around before it, and a huge detachment of Hungarians on foot pressed against them. A long curved blade flashed in the uncertain moonlight. The manes of horses tossed. The Mongols started yelping.

  “They’re losing,” Sabotai said. “Watch.”

  A column of knights galloped up toward the bridge, veered, and rammed into the packed Mongols. Psin saw them give way, scurrying back onto the bridge and the bank of the river. A horse neighed on this side of the river, and immediately the whole herd began to whinny. The knights were passing like a wedge through the Mongols. A Hungarian warcry rang out. Psin’s arms ached, and he realized he was tensed as if to fight. The knights were forcing the Mongols back so fast the horses had no chance to brace themselves. Three horses slid down the bank into the river, and the fog covered them.

  “Mongke,” Sabotai called. “Bring up the catapults and order out the two tumans under my ban
ner.”

  Mongke rode off, shouting. Psin pointed toward the bridge. “They’ve cut off a good half of the column there.”

  “Yes.” Sabotai turned to the standardbearer. “Blue lantern, four short. Psin, is the river drowning them?”

  “No.” Already Mongols were scrambling up this bank. Their horses shook themselves all up and down the river.

  The Hungarians roared triumphantly. A band of footsoldiers ran onto the bridge and chopped at the Mongols there. A burning arrow killed a man in the midst of the infantry, and he made a sort of torch; Psin could see that the Mongols were beaten. They were crammed onto the bridge so tightly they couldn’t move. A horse pitched over the rail and splashed into the river.

  The detachment that had been cut off was galloping away from the knights pursuing them. They swerved and rode into the river.

  The rear of the column on the bridge, without room to turn their horses, backed off, spun, and rode away to give the others room. The bridge emptied rapidly. With a shout the Hungarian footsoldiers tried to follow, but a shower of arrows drove them back.

  Batu cantered up to the platform, soaked through. He bellowed for kumiss and climbed up beside Sabotai. His felt socks squelched when he walked. “We can’t use the speed of our horses this way. Let’s drop back and make them come to us.”

  “No,” Sabotai said. “Let’s beat them on their own ground. Psin, can you use powder shells?”

  “Yes. I learned about them in China.”

  “They’ve left a garrison at their end of the bridge,” Batu said. “I say we wait until daylight, go upriver, and cross there.”

  “No,” Sabotai said. “I have half a dozen shells. Here come the catapults.”

  “I’ll need half a dozen to find the range,” Psin said.

  “All we need is one good hit. Batu, when you’re rested, can you lead another charge?”

  “I can lead one now.”

  “Not now. Psin. You know what I want done.”

  Psin nodded. “Where are the shells?”

  “In my artillery cart.” Sabotai jumped from the platform. A slave held his horse ready. “Let’s hope they think we’re licking our wounds. I’ll see you tomorrow, if all goes well.”

  He rode away; Mongke was waiting for him, at the head of his two tumans. Lanterns flashed. All the Hungarians but the garrison on the bridge had gone back to their own camp. Psin estimated the garrison at two hundred knights and twice as many infantry. From the splashing along this bank the infantry carried bows.

  “What’s going on?” Batu said.

  Psin sat down on the edge of the platform, looked at the sky, and shrugged into his coat. “It’s past midnight now. When the moon sets, I’m going to start bombarding the Hungarian end of the bridge. If we can drive them off, you’ll lead all the troops left here across. They’ll come out to meet you. When they do, you must hold them. I’ll give you all the support I can from this side of the river.”

  “The powder shells ought to make them flinch.”

  “I hope so. If I had fifty of them we need never commit a man against the knights.”

  The catapults were coming up; forty men dragged each one to the bank. Psin went over there on foot and sent a passing man for his horse. The catapults were of raw wood, still green, and he could smell the pitch running from the beams. He put his hand on one and got splinters all through his palm.

  “Move it toward me a little. A little more. Good.” He dug out the splinters with his teeth. “Hugar, that rope doesn’t look strong.”

  “We’re out of rope, Khan.”

  “God above. Well, no shells in this one.”

  A wagon rumbled up, loaded with stones and wood soaked in naphtha. Psin held his nose. “Make sure you don’t keep torches near the wagons. Put it there. Back farther. Yes.”

  His horse came up and he mounted. The dun bucked, but he made it buck in the proper direction. With the spring coming the dun couldn’t be expected to behave. The next catapult was too near the bank, and he made them drag it off a little. The beams groaned; the men around the machine leapt back.

  “Put out that torch. No light here, I don’t want them to see. And there’s naphtha in those wagons.” He managed to get the dun behind the catapult and sighted along it. It was aimed roughly into the trees north of the Hungarian camp. “Swing it to my left. And knock the block out from under that front strut.”

  Two loose horses ambled over, ears pricked up, and started gnawing on the green wood. Psin shooed them off and they kicked at him. The dun squealed.

  “Catch those horses. And nobody is allowed here who isn’t assigned to a catapult. That means you, Berke. Go away.”

  Berke snorted and rode off. Two wagons collided neatly and the drovers lashed one another with their whips. The axle on one wagon was broken. Psin ordered men over to help carry it into position. One of the catapults broke while they were hauling it along the bank, and he had the wood chopped up and thrown into the ammunition wagons.

  “Now.” He climbed up onto the wagon with the powder shells. “Let’s see what we have here.”

  There were eight of the shells, each so heavy he couldn’t lift it. The two halves were bolted together through a heavy collar. From a hole in the collar ran a length of twisted silk. He put his nose close to the hole and sniffed, to make sure there was still powder inside.

  Batu shouted, “The moon is setting, damn you.”

  Psin stood up straight. “Don’t yell at me. You’re wooing me, remember?”

  Batu’s face split into a huge grin. “Please, beloved, may I go fight now?”

  “Wait a little.”

  The fog was gone, at least, but it was getting colder. He wondered how Tshant was doing. If Tshant were here, he’d feel better about this maneuver. It was more Tshant’s kind of fighting than Batu’s: Batu hated to lose men, but Tshant got his killed faster and dirtier than any other commander, and they loved him for it. The couriers had said that he had force-marched his tuman four days straight in Poland and fought hard at the end of it.

  “What are you thinking about?” Batu said.

  “My son.” He got down from the wagon and mounted. “I’ll send a slave to you when we’re ready.”

  He rode along the line of machines. Only two had dependable ropes, and he had put them closest to the bridge. The Hungarian garrison would realize that something was going on. With luck they wouldn’t look elsewhere. The moon was all gone below the horizon. He got up onto the platform. “Red lanterns up.”

  “Do they all know the signals?” the standardbearer said.

  “They must. Let’s see.”

  The red lanterns ran up the pole, and around the catapults men jumped to load up. “You see? Of course they know the signals.” He sent a slave after Batu. There was a lantern for each of the catapults and a Mongol for each lantern; he walked along in front of them.

  “You’re one, you’re two, you’re three, and you’re four. Don’t get confused. If you do, you’ll be beaten. All numbers, white flash.”

  The lanterns gleamed. With a yell the engineers pulled their levers. The catapults went off with a rattle and a crash of wood on wood, and splashes erupted out of the river. Psin saw one stone smash into the midst of the garrison.

  “Number one. Yellow lantern. Two and four, blue. I didn’t see three. Who saw three?”

  “Short and to the south, Khan.”

  “Three, red.”

  On the Hungarian side of the bridge shouting broke out. Shadows darted back and forth. A volley of arrows thudded into the bank of this side of the river.

  “White flash.”

  The first catapult went off at once, and stones pelted the Magyars. One rail of the bridge caved in. The second catapult, with a block under its front strut, shot to the right range but well south, and Psin flashed the red lantern for them. The third hit dead center. Hungarians screamed.

  “Three, four yellow flashes.”

  Hungarians were coming onto the bridge. Their bows wer
e out of range, and they were trying to get closer. Batu and his men were lined up behind Psin’s platform.

  “Four is still short. Blue.”

  “White flash, Khan?”

  “Yes.”

  The two engines that were sighted in fired almost together; one shot a powder shell. Psin could see the fuse sparking. He missed four’s shot, watching. The shell exploded behind the Hungarians with a clap of noise and a flash that lit up the whole end of the bridge.

  The Hungarians screeched. A herd of them poured off the bridge toward their camp. Psin could hear their officers’ voices, rising, fierce, but the wild retreat plunged on. He whirled and pointed to Batu.

  “All engines sighted in, Khan.”

  “White flash.”

  Another shell burst over the garrison on the bridge, and in the pallid light he saw the shattered bodies and the men struggling to retreat. When the light faded the dark was thick as felt, but another shell exploded immediately. The bridge was deserted.

  “All colors, three flashes.”

  Batu’s men galloped onto the bridge. It swayed under their weight. Psin could hear the Hungarian trumpets, the pound of drums. Batu, leading the charge, drew his men off to the north a little; the Mongols swept in a shallow curve from the bridge to Batu’s position. Their voices rose.

  “Get the naphtha,” Psin said. He jumped down from the platform and ran back and forth along the catapults, realigning them so that they couldn’t hit the Mongols. “Put another block under your struts. Be careful. You’ll blow us all up if you take a torch near those wagons.”

  “The Khan wishes.” They grinned at him. He went back to the platform and got up onto it again; it was getting light in the east, and a raw wind blew.

  The Hungarians charged straight for Batu’s line. Confidence showed in every move they made. Their warcries were heavy with triumph. All the arrows of the Mongols didn’t turn them back, although they lost men and horses.