Until the Sun Falls

by Cecelia Holland

  “White flash,” Psin said.

  Batu’s line broke into a canter and started around behind the Hungarians. The knights lumbered heavily after them, and the infantry bunched up. Psin’s engines groaned and shot, and the naphtha flashed in the air like fragments of ghosts. In the Hungarian army men howled. Horses shied wildly away from the dripping fire. When the naphtha struck it set horses and riders on fire, and they fled across the field, screaming. A burning horse flung itself into the river. Steam rose from the water. Psin could smell burnt meat. “White flash.”

  It didn’t matter where the catapults were hitting; the naphtha was enough. A catapult started burning, and slaves with buckets dashed up to douse it, their faces damp with fear.

  Batu’s line had gotten too close. Trumpets blared and the Hungarian lines hurled themselves against the Mongols. Before their drive the Mongols scattered like dust. The knights roared. Their swords chopped through Batu’s men, and their big stallions lifted the lighter Mongol horses off their feet.

  “White flash.” Psin swore. Batu was letting the Hungarians move away from the naphtha. This volley struck only the edge of the infantry. He thought of putting another block under the catapults’ struts, but aimed so high they would surely shoot wild.

  A column of knights charged the Mongols to the north, and for a moment they fought hand to hand. From the east and west other Mongols raced down to shoot their bows. The knights plunged on. Early light glinted from their armor. The Mongols clung to them like dogs hanging from the throats of aurochs. They were running into a morass, where reeds grew, and tangled brush. The Mongols gave way in a rush, and the knights followed. Their horses sank to their hocks in the thick mud. When they lurched and clawed to get free they only worked themselves deeper. Dancing along the edge of the marsh the Mongols shot at them and brought them down, one by one.

  “White flash.” It hardly mattered, because the Hungarian army was out of range. And the naphtha no longer bloomed in the air, because it was almost dawn. Psin backed up to see better.

  The footsoldiers in an ordered block trotted toward the bridge, and Batu himself rode to cut them off. Arrows streamed back and forth. Even in the air the difference between the two kinds of arrows was startling—the one long, deep-fletched, and the other short and feathered with wood. A Mongol horse took a bolt through the chest and reared up, shrilling. The infantry drew in on itself and kept on shooting.

  “All colors flash. We’re wasting ammunition.”

  Batu was still harrying the infantry. His men had the Hungarians almost entirely surrounded, but whenever the knights charged the line broke and ran before them. Loose and wounded horses trotted across the bridge to the Mongol camp. Psin sent a dozen men down to catch them and turn them out with the herd. His dun was pawing up the ground where he stood.

  “Khan. Over there.”

  Forty Mongols were racing toward the river, with as many knights right at their heels. At the riverbank, the Mongols wheeled, drawing their bows. The knights smashed into them and hurled them into the water. Heads bobbed in the current. Psin called, “Number one catapult, swing around and shoot.”

  The knights paced up and down the riverbank, shouting. On this side wet Mongols and horses pulled themselves onto dry land, looking stunned. Some of the men remounted and jogged up toward the bridge to cross over again. The catapult shot. Naphtha slithered down on the knights, who fled.

  “They’re breaking.”

  The Hungarian infantry ran in disorder back toward their camp. Arrows pursued them. Wheeling, the knights followed; they battered their way through Batu’s men and set out down the plain. Banners spread out all through the Mongol army, and with a cheer they started after the Hungarians. They seemed to lose all order, but Psin could see each hundred drawing together, and each thousand. Some of them slowed to give their horses a rest. A single rider was racing up from the direction of the Hungarian camp. Dust hung in the sky there.

  “Get the catapults on wagons. Can you take them apart? Let’s go. Move, down there. Do you think it’s over?”

  The courier pulled down to a jog to cross the bridge, which was full of holes and clogged with dead. Psin sat on his heels at the platform’s edge, and the courier came straight to him.

  “Sabotai and his men crossed the river well to the south and have moved up to lock the Hungarians in their camp. They came out to meet us but we threw them back. We had no trouble crossing the river, you were right about the current there, Sabotai says.”

  Psin nodded. “I’m going down with the engines. You can help.”

  When he and the catapults reached the Hungarian camp, Sabotai and Batu had it surrounded. All the Hungarians were inside the ring of wagons. Sabotai, looking thoughtful, sat his saddle a little way out from the Mongol army. Psin jogged up to tell him where the catapults were set.

  “I didn’t use all the shells. Shall we use them now?”

  “Yes. Good. You cleared them off the bridge quickly enough.”

  “They were afraid of the noise, I think.”

  “Here they come.” Sabotai turned and yelled to his standard- bearer. The wagons almost opposite them were drawing in, and a band of knights charged through the gap. Sabotai called for a yellow banner. He reached out and touched Psin on the sleeve and pointed.

  The Mongols flew to the place where the knights were emerging, bunched up on either side of the gap, and started shooting. A mass of Kipchak heavy cavalry galloped up from the southern side of the ring. Before the storm of arrows the knights faltered, and the close quarters hampered their horses. Sabotai said crisply, “Red banner,” and the Mongol archers dropped back to let the heavy cavalry through. The Kipchaks struck the knights with a crash that made Psin laugh. He could hear the voices of the Hungarians inside the ring. The knights scuttled back through the gap in the wagons, and the heavy cavalry trotted off, waving their swords.

  Fire arrows thunked into the wagons, and many of them began to burn. Inside the ring horses neighed. A catapult went off and sprayed the whole Hungarian camp with naphtha. Stones bashed in the few tents.

  “Well,” Sabotai said.

  Psin shrugged. “They aren’t quite beaten.”

  “It worked rather well. I’m very pleased with that.”

  “You’re tired, too. I can tell by the way you’re talking.”

  “Oh, I’m worn out. I’ve not slept for—anyhow. Shall I get some sleep? You give the orders. Use the same signals I did to get men to a gap in the ring. I’ll be in a cart somewhere.”

  Psin watched him ride off. Sabotai’s instincts were flawless; if he thought he could sleep they had beaten the Hungarians. He trotted the dun up and down to work off its high spirits.

  Batu rode up, beaming. “I told your catapults to use shells. They’re shouting at us on the other side. Maybe it’s a diversion.”

  “They tried to break out here.”

  “Let them keep trying. Where is Sabotai?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “It was a good strategy. I would never have thought of it. I’m not good at that. I—”

  There was a courier coming; Psin could hear the bells. He dragged his horse away from Batu’s. A man on a piebald horse was cantering around the western end of the wagon ring. The even triple beat of the horse’s hoofs grew louder, even through the uproar around the camp. He reined up before Psin, saluted, and said, “I come from Kaidu Noyon. We have beaten the Poles and the Silesians near Liegnitz. We filled nine sacks with the right ears of the slain.”

  Batu cheered, and the men within earshot looked around. He galloped off to tell them. The courier said, “Kaidu Noyon says that he will burn Liegnitz and wait until the northern flank of his army meets up with him. The one that went north to the Lithuanian Sea. They’ll split up and ride south in small bands.”

  “Good. How is my son?”

  “Well. Very well. And your grandson. Tshant Bahadur says he has a gift for you, when he comes.” The courier gave a little nod.

  “Oh?
What?”

  “I’m not to tell you.”

  “Well. Good, go rest.”

  The sun climbed through sparse crowds. Wagons burnt in the ring near Psin, so hot that he had to move back. Some knights tried again to break out of the ring, but they were thrown back even more quickly than before. The catapults ran out of ammunition.

  Just before noon the circle of Mongols began to move around the Hungarian camp. They started off at a walk, broke into a trot, and were galloping within a dozen strides. Psin tensed. There was no reason for it—riding, they shot and screamed, and their horses grew dark with sweat—but he’d seen it happen before. If nothing stopped them they would charge the camp, uncaring of the fires and the desperate men inside; it was a kind of blood fever. He galloped around the ring and found Batu.

  “Open the west end of the ring. We may as well let them make a run for it. The remount herd is across the river, send your men over to change horses.”

  Batu nodded, yawned, and roared for his standardbearer.

  The aimless, shifting circle stopped turning. When the banners spread out, half the Mongols rode obediently away to get fresh horses, and the rest stayed still, confused. Many of them got dried meat from under their saddles and ate it. Psin thieved Batu’s kumiss jug while he wasn’t looking and drank almost half of it. A gap opened up in the west side of the Mongol army. Everybody looked the other way, ignoring it.

  For a while nothing happened. A burning wagon collapsed, showering sparks over everything, and two riderless horses burst out of the camp and raced away. Suddenly a dozen Hungarians charged for the gap. Their faces were wild with fear. They plunged through and fled west, throwing down their armor and their shields.

  Inside the camp there was a great buzz of voices. Men packed the west end of the wagon ring. They flung the wagons apart and ran for the gap. Psin stood in his stirrups, looking for the men on the fresh horses, and gestured that they should ride west. Arrows fell into the midst of the fleeing Hungarians, but they hardly seemed to matter. The whole camp was escaping.

  Almost casually, a full tuman of Mongols on fresh horses started along after them. The trail was clear, marked with wounded and dead and cast-off armor. Batu called orders, and the rest of the army swung around to pursue. Psin rode around to wake up Sabotai.

  “Have we killed their King?”

  Psin shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ll look, later. I’m going hunting. Your guard is here.”

  “We’ll all meet in front of Pesth. Good luck.” Sabotai lay back again and sighed. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  Psin laughed at him. He went to the remount herd and collected three horses on a line and started after the fleeing Hungarians.

  He headed toward Pesth, gathering Mongols on the way. They found Hungarians hiding in ditches beside the roads, in forests, in small villages, and they killed them all. The villages they left alone. The plundering would come later. The Hungarians seemed to like hiding in churches, and Psin decided that among them, in their own wars, they never killed anyone in a church.

  In the evening, he and forty other men rode into a big village with a church packed with runaways from the battle. The villagers fled from them into the fields. On the steps up to the church door armor lay in piles. A man in black coat sat among the heaps, his chin on his hands, and watched Psin ride up.

  “This place is sanctuary,” he said, in Latin.

  “From me nowhere is sanctuary. Move.”

  “I will not.”

  One of the men behind Psin lifted his bow and shot. The man in the black coat fell backward with an arrow through his chest. Psin rode his horse up the steps and into the church. The place was mobbed with Hungarians. All kneeling, they prayed in loud voices. Psin turned his horse sideways and drew his bow. They saw him; they shuddered. Tamely they waited for the arrows. His men padded into the church and began to shoot. Psin thought, Isn’t this also blood fever? He took care with his shots, so that no one would suffer. His hands worked independent of his mind. When all the Hungarians were dead he ordered his men out again. He had to ride a little up the aisle to get room to turn his horse. Above the altar hung the symbol of the Christians. If they fought back, he thought, I might have given them mercy.

  All the next day they did the same thing, riding toward Pesth. In one village, the women came to plead for the lives of the men taking refuge there. They knelt before Psin, their earnest faces turned upward, and held up their hands to him. He stood still, uncaring, not listening to their voices that he couldn’t understand. When they saw that he was unmoved their voices died away into silence. Their eyes looked like bruises in their white faces. One girl was clinging to his coat. He bent down and loosened her fingers and walked out of their midst. His men had their arrows nocked. He nodded, and they began to shoot down the men before them. The women they left alone. When it was over they rode on.

  Tshant said, “Is it all done?”

  “All but the plundering,” Psin answered. “You look saddle-sore.”

  “I feel as if I’ve never been out of the saddle.” Tshant stretched his legs. “We had some good fighting. Those knights…”

  Psin nodded. “I know all about the knights. How is Djela?”

  “He’s coming. I told him to fetch your present.” Tshant’s lips spread into a smile.

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll see. Tell me what’s happened.” He rose and walked around the yurt, flexing the muscles of his back. When he reached the masterpole he took down the kumiss skin and drank.

  “We hold all of Hungary east of the Danube River. The whole of it is broken up into sections. Mine is from Pesth to the Szajo River, where we fought the big battle. Batu’s is the stretch south of Pesth. When we’ve stripped our sections we’re to set up some kind of government—waystations, a Mongol officer in each village to collect taxes and keep order, and all the rest of it. The King wasn’t killed and Kadan will go hunting him soon. Batu has already struck some copper money.”

  “Where do I go?”

  “You are to stay in my section until you’re rested. Kaidu has the section just across the Szajo from me. He’s there by now. When you’re back in condition, it’s up to Sabotai where you go.”

  “I’m in condition now.”

  “You aren’t. You’re tired. Sabotai was very impressed with what Baidar had to say about your command in Poland. So was I.”

  Tshant turned his face toward him. “I may fall on my face and weep with gratitude.”

  “I didn’t mean to sound patronizing.”

  “You did.” He sat down again.

  Psin set his teeth together and frowned at him. “You haven’t changed, have you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’d thought maybe you learned how to behave, in Poland.”

  “I didn’t. Not a bit.”

  “That’s—”

  Djela burst in the door, and Psin got up. “Grandfather.” The boy rushed over and threw his arms around Psin. “I missed you. I heard all about your battles.”

  Psin held him off, smiling. “You’re stronger, you’ll crush me. Remember my encroaching senility.” He ran his eyes over Djela’s face—the strong bones and the brightness of his eyes. “Ah. It’s good to have you back.”

  “I got a new bow, and I escaped from a pack of knights—oh. Here’s your present.” He turned.

  A man had come in after Djela and stood beside the door. Psin straightened, frowning, surprised. “Arnulf,” he said.

  The knight bowed. In slow Mongol he said, “Psin does me honor to remember me.”

  Tshant said, “I took him captive at Liegnitz. He fought very well, and he’d mentioned your name.” He stood up. “I’m going. We’ll talk later. Djela, come along.”

  The knight stepped aside to let them pass. Psin gestured to him to come farther into the yurt. “You’ve learned some Mongol.”

  “Yes. I can’t understand much.”

  “Your accent is terrible. Speak Arabi
c.” Psin lowered himself onto the couch. “Did the German Khan send you to help the Poles? I didn’t think he would.”

  “I was there with my Order. Your army was close to German soil at the time.” He looked relieved to be speaking Arabic.

  “Oh. You hold small territories here. They fought you only twenty-two days after Sandomir fell.”

  “How wide are your countries?” the knight said, and smiled. “I can’t be a slave. It’s against my nature.”

  “What—oh. Don’t worry. All my slaves talk back to me. Get me some kumiss—over there, on the wall. To your left. The cups are in that cabinet.”

  “Your son is a great fighter.”

  “My son is peculiar.”

  The knight took a plain gold cup from the cabinet and looked at it. Across his face a strange look passed. “Do you know what this is?”

  “It’s a cup.” Psin peeled off his socks.

  “It’s a—” The knight searched for the Arabic word. He held the huge cup as if it were the skull of an ancestor. “Chalice,” he said at last.

  “Fine. Maybe I have my kumiss now?”

  “But this is a holy object. It’s used in ... in our religion. To hold the blood of Christ.”

  Psin shut his eyes. “Put it away and get another one.”

  The knight set the cup in the cabinet and bent to look. The lamplight struck the row of cups, so that a patch of gold reflection shone on his cheek. His hair gleamed. He got out a cup with a handle and filled it with kumiss and brought it over.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I forgot that you are heathen.” He laughed. “It’s odd that I should have forgotten.”

  “I shouldn’t have told you that all my slaves talk back to me. Dmitri.”

  Dmitri came out of the back of the yurt. He glanced at the knight and back to Psin. In Mongol, Psin said, “This man is named Arnulf. He’ll help you. Teach him Mongol.”