At four hundred paces, the first shafts were sent high, shot by young fools on both sides who should have known better. None reached his men from the Russian side and most of his own warriors guarded their bowstrings, keeping them covered until the last moment. Men who had fashioned a bow themselves would not risk it being destroyed by a snapping string. The weapons were precious, sometimes the only thing of value they owned apart from a pony and saddle.
Tsubodai saw the Russian prince who led the force. Like Batu’s false position, he was surrounded by flags and guards, but there was no mistaking the enormous horse at the centre of the army, its rider sitting in armour that shone like silver in the rain. The man’s head was bare and at two hundred paces, his eyes still sharp over distance, Tsubodai could see a blond beard. He sent another rider to Batu to be sure he had marked his man, but it was unnecessary. As soon as the messenger had hared away, Tsubodai saw Batu point and exchange commands with his minghaans.
Thunder grumbled again above their heads and for an instant Tsubodai saw thousands of lighter faces among the enemy as men looked up. Many were bearded, he realised. Compared to the Mongol face, where little hair grew, they were like great lumbering bears. Arrows followed as his light cavalry released thousands of shafts, sending them high. For the first shots, every tenth man used a whistling head, carved and fluted to scream in the air. They did less damage than the steel-head shafts, but the sound was unearthly and terrifying. In the past, armies had broken and run from that first volley. Tsubodai grinned to hear the naccara drums hammer out their own thunder, answering the storm as it dwindled to the east.
The arrows curved upwards, dropping hard. Tsubodai noted the way the Russians protected the blond leader with shields, ignoring their own safety. Some of the man’s guards fell, but then the steady approach seemed to go faster and the distance between them dwindled rapidly. The Mongol light horsemen released another storm of arrows before falling back at the last moment and letting the lancers through. It was Batu’s moment of madness, exactly as Tsubodai had ordered. The grandson of Genghis would challenge the blond leader personally. A knight of iron would expect just such a challenge.
The naccara drums roared, the strikes blurring as the camel boys hit the great kettles at their sides. As Batu’s minghaans cantered into a spear formation, lunging ahead of the tumans, the warriors screamed, an ululating bellow to send men white.
Arrows rained down from the Russian horsemen. They fell most heavily on the bannermen in the third rank of the main formation, surrounded by the snapping flags. They raised their shields above their heads and endured. Ahead of them, Batu took three thousand in a charge for the very centre of the Russian force.
Tsubodai watched coldly, satisfied that the younger man’s nerve was up to the task. The spearhead was to serve one purpose. Tsubodai watched as they punched a hole with arrows in the Russian lines, then rode lances at it, crashing deeper in. The blond leader was pointing at them, shouting to his men as Batu’s minghaans threw down broken lances and drew the lightly curved swords of good steel. Horses and men went down, but they pushed on. Before he was lost to sight in the mass, Tsubodai saw Batu at the bloody tip of the spear, pushing his mount on and on.
Batu seethed as he chopped down on a roaring face, dragging his blade across a man’s mouth so that his jaw hung slack. His sword arm ached, but his blood was on fire and he felt as if he could fight all day. He knew Tsubodai would be watching: the ruthless tactician, the Orlok Bahadur who threw warriors away as if they were nothing to him. Well, let the old men see how it was done.
Batu’s strike minghaans crashed on into the Russians, aiming at the prince and his long flags. There were moments when Batu could see the blond warrior in his shining armour. He knew they were coming for him, risking it all on a single blow to his throat. It was the sort of attack a Russian army might have made.
Batu knew the true plan. Tsubodai had given him that much before sending him out. He was to hit hard until his men began to be overwhelmed. Only then could he fight his way out again. He smiled bitterly to himself. It would not be hard to feign panic at that point. The false retreat would collapse the Mongol centre, quickly turning into a rout as the tumans withdrew. The enemy horsemen would be drawn through the wings of foot soldiers, further and further, stretched thin over the ground. Then the jaws would close. If any of them made it through the trap, Kachiun’s reserve would hit from both sides, hidden two miles back in heavy forest. It was a good plan, if the auxiliaries could hold the flanks, if Batu survived it. As he backhanded his sword across a horse’s cheek, tearing a great flap, he recalled the challenge in the general’s eyes as he had given him the order. Batu had shown him none of the roiling fury that filled him. Of course Tsubodai had chosen him. Who else had been a thorn in his side for so many months? His minghaan officers had exchanged resigned glances when they heard, but they had still volunteered. Not one of them had stood back rather than ride with the grandson of Genghis.
Fresh fury filled Batu at the thought of their wasted loyalty. How far had he come? Two hundred paces, three, more, into the enemy? They milled around him, their blades flickering, their shields taking his blows. Arrows whipped past his face. They wore leather armour and his blade was sharp enough to pierce it with a thrust, or even gash it as he went past, leaving them gasping over bloody ribs. He had no idea how long he had been pressing forward in the mass of horses, further and further away from safety and the tumans. All he knew was that he had to choose the moment well. Too soon and the Russians would sense a trap and simply close ranks behind him. Too late and there would not be enough battered warriors left to stage the false retreat. His men had chosen to follow into the mouth of the beast. Not because of Tsubodai, but because of him.
He felt his charge slowing as the Mongol warriors were hemmed in. Every step brought more Russian warriors against their flanks, stretching their force thinner and thinner, like a needle into flesh that gripped it tight. Batu felt fear rise in his throat like acid. He grabbed a shield of leather and wood and yanked it towards him with his left hand, stabbing down over the edge into the man behind it. He thrust the blade with all his fury and then punched with the hilt, so that the enemy fell away, his face a mass of blood.
Three warriors stayed in line with him as he forced his mount another four steps forward, killing a man to make space. Without warning, one of his companions was gone, taken by an arrow in the throat and falling backwards out of the saddle so that the horse snorted and lashed out with its hooves, its own panic growing. It was time. It was surely time. Batu looked around him. Had he done enough? The agony of the choice ate at him. He could not come back too early and face Tsubodai’s stern expression. Better to die than have that man consider he had lost his nerve.
It had always been hard to look in the eyes of a man who had known Genghis. How could he ever match up to those memories? The grandfather who had conquered a nation, who had never known Batu at all. The father who had betrayed the nation and been killed like a dog in the snow. It was time.
Batu took a sword blow on his armoured sleeve, letting it slide uselessly past him as he gashed the arm that held it. More blood coated him and there was screaming everywhere. The Russians he faced were pale with rage or fear, holding heavy shields that bristled with Mongol arrows. Batu turned to begin the retreat and, for a single moment, he saw through the ranks of enemies to where the blond leader sat calmly watching him, a huge sword ready across his saddle horns.
Tsubodai had never expected the spearhead to get so close. Batu saw that his men were ready to cut their way back. Though he bore no marks of rank that would have made him the target for every Russian archer, his warriors watched him, risking their lives to glance his way. Most of the Russians were still facing the front, where the tumans were clashing with them. They would howl and chase as the Mongols turned to run, but Batu thought his men would win through, beginning the rout. He was so close. Who would have thought his spearhead thrust could reach the Russian pri
nce?
Batu took a deep breath. ‘No retreat!’ he roared, warning his men.
He dug in his heels and his pony kicked out with its front hooves, knocking a shield from its owner’s broken fingers. Batu lunged for the gap, swinging his blade wildly. Something hit him from the side and he felt a wave of pain that vanished before he knew whether it was serious. He saw the blond leader raise his sword and shield and the enormous horse snorted. The Russian prince had decided not to wait, his blood lighting up at the challenge. His own shield-bearers were knocked to one side as the warhorse started forward.
Batu yelled in excitement, a babble of insult and fury. He had not known if he could break through the final solid ranks, but there was the prince himself coming to cut down the impudent horsemen. Batu saw the man’s sword rise up behind his shoulder. The two horses were head-on, but Batu’s mount was weary and battered, bruised by constant impact and the thousand scrapes and cuts that came from running through a fighting line.
Batu brought his own sword high, trying to remember Tsubodai’s words on the weaknesses of knights. The blond-bearded man seemed like a giant as he came closer, wrapped in steel and unstoppable. Yet he wore no helmet and Batu was young and fast. As the Russian blade swept down with enough force to cut him in half, Batu nudged his pony to the right, away from the sweeping sword. His own blade licked out in a thrust, holding it just long enough to caress the man’s throat under the beard.
Batu swore as his weapon scraped across metal. A piece of the beard had been cut loose, but the man himself was untouched, though he roared in shock. The horses were passing in the press, unable to ride free, but both men were side-on to each other, their weaker left sides exposed. The prince’s sword came back up, but he was slow and heavy. Before he could land a blow, Batu had struck three times into his face, chopping at the cheeks and teeth, cutting away part of the jaw. The Russian prince lurched as Batu hammered at his armour, denting the plate metal that protected his chest.
The prince’s face was a bloody ruin, his teeth broken and his jaw hanging loose. He would surely die from such a terrible wound, but his eyes cleared and he swung his left arm like a mace. Clad in iron, it struck Batu across the chest. He was guiding his pony with pressure from his knees and he had no reins. The high wooden saddle horns saved him and he twisted at an impossible angle. His sword had gone and he could not remember it leaving his hand. Spitting anger, he pulled a blade from a sheath on his calf and jammed it into the red mess of the prince’s jaw, sawing back and forth at the blond beard that was thick and shining red.
The prince fell and a wail of horror went up from his shield-bearers and retainers. Batu raised both hands in victory, roaring long and loud at being alive and victorious. He did not know what Tsubodai was doing, or what the orlok would think. It had been Batu’s decision and the prince had faced him. He had defeated a strong and powerful enemy and, for a time, he did not care if the Russians killed him. It was Batu’s moment and he relished it.
At first, he did not see the ripple that spread across the Russians as the word spread. For half the army, it had happened behind them and the news of the death of the prince had to be shouted from unit to unit. Before Batu lowered his arms, some of the furthest nobles had turned their mounts and begun to withdraw, taking thousands of fresh horsemen with them. Those who tried to continue the fight saw them go and shouted angrily across the battlefield, blowing horns. The prince was dead and his armies shook with the suddenness of the omen. This was not to be their day, their victory. They went from determined fighters to frightened men as they heard, backing away from Tsubodai’s tumans while they waited to be rallied, to have someone else take command.
It did not happen. Tsubodai sent minghaans racing along the flanks, the wiry ponies spattering clots of earth like rain as they went. Arrows poured into the Russian ranks once again and Tsubodai’s heavy horse peeled off from the front and then came back in spearpoints like the one Batu had led into the heart of their army. Three separate strikes tore at the milling ranks. Even then, the defenders were half-hearted. They had seen their senior noblemen leaving and regiments and units beginning to withdraw. It was too much to ask that they stay to be slaughtered. Someone else could take the brunt of the Mongol warriors, now that their blood was up. More and more Russians marched clear, looking back at the shrinking heart where their companions still rode and died. It was enough. The prince was dead and they had done enough.
Tsubodai watched calmly as the Russian army fell apart. He wondered how his own tumans would fare if he was seen to fall, but he knew the answer. They would go on. They would endure. In the tumans, the warriors hardly ever saw the orlok or even their own generals. They knew the leader of their ten, a man they had elected among themselves. They knew the officer of the hundred, perhaps even the minghaan officer by sight. Those were the ones who spoke with authority, not some distant commander. Tsubodai knew that if he fell, the nation would complete his task and promote another to lead in his stead. It was a cold business, but the alternative was to witness the destruction of an army from the death of one man.
Tsubodai sent messengers to his generals, congratulating them as they took new orders. He wondered if those who had left the field expected him to let them go. He could not always understand the foreign soldiers he encountered, though he learned everything he could. He knew that some of them might expect to return to their homes, but that was foolish. Why leave alive men who could one day face you again? That was war as a game, and Tsubodai knew it would be a long hunt, weeks or even months, before his men had killed the last of them. He did not need to teach them their foolishness, only to destroy them and move on. He rubbed his eyes, suddenly weary. He would have to face Batu, if the young man still lived. He had disobeyed his orders. Tsubodai wondered if he could have a general whipped after handing him such a victory.
Tsubodai looked around as men cheered nearby. His lips thinned in irritation as he saw Batu was at the centre of it. Half the Russian army was still in the field and his minghaans were passing around wineskins and whooping like children.
Tsubodai turned his horse and trotted slowly towards the scene. Silence fell among those he passed as they realised the orlok was among them. His bannermen unfurled long strips of silk that fluttered and snapped in the breeze.
Batu sensed or heard the approach. He had already begun to feel the battering he had taken. One eye and cheek were swelling, making his face look lopsided. He was filthy with blood, sweat and the strong smell of wet horses. Scales from his armour hung loose and he had a line of crusted red marking the skin from one ear down into his tunic. Yet he was jubilant and the sour face of Tsubodai could not spoil his mood.
‘General, you are throwing away a morning,’ Tsubodai said.
The men around Batu choked off their cheering. As it died away, Tsubodai continued coldly.
‘Pursue the enemy, general. Let not one of them escape. Locate their baggage and camp and secure it from looting.’
Batu looked at him, suddenly quiet.
‘Well, general?’ Tsubodai went on. ‘Will you face them again tomorrow, when you have thrown away this advantage? Will you allow them to reach the safety of Moscow or Kiev? Or will you hunt the Russians down now, with the other tumans under my command?’
The warriors around Batu turned away with sudden jerkiness, like boys caught stealing. They would not look at Tsubodai and only Batu held his gaze. Tsubodai expected some sort of retort, but he misjudged his man.
Another group of riders came cantering across the lines. The slaughter of the enemy was beginning, with lancers and archers picking them off almost as sport. Tsubodai saw that the group was led by the khan’s son, Guyuk, his face fixed on Batu as he approached. He did not seem to see Tsubodai.
‘Batu Bahadur!’ Guyuk called, bringing his horse alongside. ‘That was very fine, cousin. I saw it all. By the sky father, I thought you would never make it back, but when you reached the nobleman!’ Lost for words, he clapped Batu on the b
ack, patting him in admiration. ‘I will put it in the reports to my father. What a moment it was!’
Batu glanced at Tsubodai to see how he was taking such generous praise. Guyuk noticed and turned.
‘My congratulations on such a victory, Tsubodai,’ Guyuk said. He was bluff and cheerful, apparently unaware of the strained moment he had interrupted. ‘What a stroke! Did you see any of it? I thought I would choke when I saw the prince come forward to take him on.’
Tsubodai inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘Even so, the Russians must not be allowed to regroup. It is time to pursue, to hunt them all the way to Moscow. Your tuman will ride out as well, general.’
Guyuk shrugged. ‘A hunt, then. It has been a good day.’
Oblivious, he thumped Batu on the shoulder again and rode clear with his men, bawling orders to another group to come with him. The quiet swelled as he moved away and Batu grinned as he waited. Tsubodai said nothing, and Batu nodded to himself, turning his horse and joining his minghaan officers. He left Tsubodai staring after him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sorhatani swept around the corner in full array, sons and servants marching with her. She was a member of the khan’s own family by marriage! She had thought he might never return from Chin lands. For the longest time, they seemed to have swallowed his army, with no word of their return. Yet when he came home at last, there was no summons, nothing from him at all. She would not accept any other delays from petty, pompous officials. Her messengers and servants had been baulked and sent back without even an excuse. Finally, she had come to Karakorum herself.
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