Until the Sun Falls (34 page)

He hoped Tshant wouldn’t realize that he’d hit him with a rock. Out of sight of the spring, he opened his hand. The sharp edge of the rock had torn the insides of his fingers. He tossed it away and wiped off the blood on the tail of his shirt.

“No,” Sabotai said. “We leave the caravan alone.”

Batu grumbled. “You’re mad. Let me take half the army south, at least. Get away from this place.”

Psin lifted his head, thinking about that, but Sabotai at once said, “No.”

“Why, in God’s name? If you mean to starve them out you cannot need so many—”

“Because we have been here so long the whole country knows where we are. How can we know there won’t be an army after us?”

Batu threw his head back. “Sabotai. We have beaten their army.”

“Only one. There are more. There are always more.” Sabotai shook his head. “No. We stay, and we suffer through it. When the city falls we can move south again, and by the time we reach the steppe the grass will be full grown and the game ready for hunting.”

“If we can find the men to hunt them with.”

Psin said, “Sabotai is right.”

He looked at his hand, at the scraps of dead flesh clinging to the insides of his fingers. He hadn’t seen Tshant since the fight.

Baidar, across the table, leaned forward and said, “We can wait a while longer before it becomes entirely impossible to hold this position. Maybe we can storm the city before then.”

“What have they been burning?” Sabotai asked Psin.

“You’ve smelled it.”

“Yes, but my nose is older than yours.”

“Wood. Nothing else. No garbage. No meat.”

“Meat, burning? “ Baidar said.

“Their dead,” Batu said. “We may not live to see this place collapse.”

“We haven’t lost a man, a horse or a cow to starvation,” Psin said. “Or to thirst, which is the worse of the two. If it would rain—”

“It rained itself out when we rode to Novgorod,” Baidar said.

Footsteps crunched the sand behind Psin. He recognized them; he didn’t look up.

“Where have you been?” Batu said. “I wanted you to play chess.”

“I was by the spring,” Tshant said. His voice rasped across Psin’s ears. “You didn’t look hard enough.”

“Who goes near water he can’t drink?” Batu laughed. “Come along. We can play now.”

“Not right now,” Tshant said. “I have something else to attend to.”

His hand fell to Psin’s shoulder, and Psin leapt away from the table, whirling; he snatched the dagger out of Tshant’s belt. Before Tshant could draw his fist back Psin had the dagger up, the tip against Tshant’s breastbone. Tshant froze.

“Go attend to it,” Psin said. “Now.”

Tshant looked down his nose at the dagger. The jewels in the hilt caught the sunlight and threw bright color over Psin’s hand. Psin’s arm shifted a little, and the point indented Tshant’s coat. With all that weight behind his arm Psin could gut him in a single lunge. Tshant opened his eyes wide and smiled.

“Yes, of course. I would love to play chess with you, Batu.”

He backed up two steps, and Psin lowered the dagger. Batu was rising. Tshant turned halfway toward him. 

Through the corner of his eye he saw Psin reverse the dagger to fling it onto the table. He spun around, threw his whole strength behind his fist, and knocked Psin head over heels.

The others bounded up, but Sabotai’s voice held them back. Tshant dove after Psin. He caught him just rising and smashed him flat again, face to the harsh sand. He wrapped both arms around Psin from behind, pinning down his arms, and pulling his face back away from Psin’s shoulder took a deep breath.

Beneath him his father’s tremendous strength flexed smoothly, and he felt himself rolling helplessly over. A heel struck him in the shin, and one of Psin’s arms ripped out of his grasp. He braced himself just before the elbow crashed into his ribs. Psin was breaking free. His weight held Tshant under him.

Tshant whipped his legs around and wound them around Psin’s. That elbow smashed him in the mouth; blood spurted over his tongue. Psin, his back still to Tshant, heaved himself off the ground and fell back on Tshant’s chest. The breath exploded out of Tshant’s lungs. He lurched up, grabbing for Psin’s forearms, and Psin fell on him again. He could hear his father’s breath hissing through his teeth. Psin was squirming around to face him, and Tshant straightened his legs to keep his hold tight. Psin clubbed him on the knee with one fist and flipped himself over, belly to belly with Tshant.

Somebody yelled, far away. Psin was dragging one arm up. Tshant could not hold him; every time he managed to wrap his arms or legs around his father Psin in a violent convulsion tore loose. Psin reared up, planted one knee in Tshant’s stomach, and drew his fist back. Tshant saw the fist coming, and he saw that Psin had another rock in his fingers.

He flung himself to one side. The fist grazed his ear and crashed into the rough sand behind his head. He heard a howl of pain. He swiped one arm awkwardly around and got hold of Psin’s belt. The knee in his stomach was grinding his guts through his backbone. He wrenched, and Psin slipped sideways, and Tshant flung him off and lunged to his feet.

He gulped for air. His mouth was full of blood, and he spat it out. Psin came up on one knee, panting. He was stronger than Tshant, and faster than he looked. Tshant made himself relax. If he let Psin get in close he’d never beat him.

The look on Psin’s face puzzled him; it was as if Psin didn’t recognize him. Wary, he backtracked a little. Psin got to his feet, arms dangling. He’d never seen his father look so harsh.

He glanced up at Sabotai, wondering when he would stop this, and saw him, up there, his face cold and remote. He remembered the fight with Mongke—the fights with Buri—

Psin hit him, and he reeled back. Psin was coming in, crouched and reaching. Tshant backed up fast to get out of his way, ducked, feinted, and hit Psin cleanly in the face. Psin wobbled, but when Tshant bored in got both arms up to protect his face and kicked Tshant’s legs out from under him. Tshant landed on his side and rolled.

He felt the hands on his coat and the strength behind them, ready to drag him up, and getting one foot under him he sprang forward. He butted Psin in the jaw. Psin started to fall, and Tshant hit him twice in the belly. Psin kicked him in the knee and raked one elbow across Tshant’s face, but Tshant, collapsing, brought his father down with him and rolled and finally had Psin underneath him, face down. He clenched his fingers in Psin’s hair and drove his face against the ground.

He could feel Psin coiling up beneath him. He jerked Psin’s head back and pounded his face against the sand again. This time Psin wouldn’t get away. He could feel his father’s strength ebbing. He let go of Psin’s hair, swung his shoulders back, and drove his fist into the back of Psin’s head. His knuckles split. He gasped at the pain shooting through his arm, but Psin no longer moved. He almost cried out in triumph; he drew his fist back to hit him again.

They threw him off, wrestled him back, away from Psin, shouting at him. He couldn’t hear the words. He swung his weight against them, but they were fresh, and they flung him up against the basalt and roared in his ears.

“He’s your father,” Baidar shouted. “Do you want to kill him?”

Tshant’s head swam. He panted; his lungs burnt. Baidar and Batu stepped back, their faces taut. All the exultation was gone. He looked down at Psin and saw the blood pooled under his head, soaking into the sand. His stomach contracted.

“Why did you let me do it?”

Batu said, “If you can’t—”

“Shut up,” Baidar said. “Is he all right, Sabotai?”

Sabotai was beside Psin, his fingers pressing against Psin’s skull. “Why did you let me do it?” Tshant said.

“I think he would have done it to you,” Baidar said softly. “He was frightened of losing.”

Tshant couldn’t catch his breath. Sabotai came up toward them.

“He’s only sleeping.” His eyes rested on Tshant. “You hit him hard enough, that time, to murder him.”

Tshant spat in his face. Batu murmured. The bloody spittle dribbled down Sabotai’s beard. Tshant turned and went off down the slope, stumbling. His legs felt weak, and he could barely see. It was only when he was nearly to his own fires that he realized he was weeping.

“You have a skull like a piece of rock,” Tshant said.

“Is that fresh water?”

“Yes.” He squeezed out the cloth and pressed it against the mess of Psin’s face. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Remorse. And the nursing on top of it. If I could find my right arm I’d break your neck.”

“I didn’t know you were so strong. If you weren’t so strong I wouldn’t have lost my temper.”

Psin’s eyes glittered feverishly. Whenever Tshant put the rag to his face, he flinched, shivering. The sand was embedded in the raw meat of his cheek, and he’d bitten the inside of his mouth to shreds. Tshant rinsed the cloth and started to soak out the sand, but Psin’s left hand caught him around the wrist.

“Why? I’ve got friends enough. I don’t need you working over me.”

“Because of your friends,” Tshant said. “The way they look at me, I may get an arrow in the back the next time I turn it.”

The grip of the fingers loosened. “It was Sabotai.” Psin shut his eyes.

“I know. I finally figured that out.”

The blood ran freely down into Psin’s hair. His limp mustaches clung wetly to his jaw. Tshant picked up Psin’s right hand and bandaged it, hoarding the water.

“Baidar, Batu, Kaidu and Sabotai all gave up their water ration for you.”

“Tshant. I’m tired of fighting with you.”

“You’re sick. You wouldn’t say—”

“I am. I don’t want to fight anymore.”

Tshant paused. He stared down at the wreck of his father’s face in the wavering torchlight. That Psin might weaken he had never considered. His hands trembled; he could not bear that, that Psin should weaken.

“I must be… older than I thought,” Psin said. He shut his eyes.

“No.”

Psin’s eyes slowly opened. His lacerated cheek stretched into a smile; his fingers moved and caught Tshant by the wrist. “Unnatural,” he said. “Unnatural. You came by it naturally enough, monster. I’d rather fight you than the Russians. Go away. I’m tired.”

Tshant stood up, uncertain. Psin pulled his sable cloak over him and shifted his weight a little; his eyes shut again. The torchlight lay now on the better side of his face. Tshant gathered up the cloth and filthy water and went away.

Mongke walked up out of the darkness. “I hear you beat him.”

Tshant stopped, surprised. Mongke had come back from patrol after sundown. If he knew already the whole camp knew. “Who told you that?”

“Many, many. Did you beat him?”

Mongke of all people should have been gleeful, but Mongke was not. Tshant grimaced. “No. I knocked him cold. That was all.”

Mongke’s teeth flashed in a grin. “I didn’t think you had.” He went on by. Tshant looked after him, thinking of following, but after a while walked on up the slope.

Psin leaned back against the warm stone. After forty days of siege there was no reason to be hasty. The lines of the city wall stood out unnaturally clear against the blazing sky, unblurred by smoke. Behind the thick parapets no heads moved. That wasn’t unusual. The Russians had learned early not to make targets for the Mongol bowmen.

He glanced down the slope, to where Sabotai, Batu and Mongke were crouched talking over a dead fire. Kaidu and Baidar were off raiding; Kadan was with the horse herd, moving it still farther off, and Sabotai had sent Tshant to forage immediately after the fight. He said that it was because the Altun in the camp were likely to do Tshant damage for nearly killing Psin.

“He didn’t nearly kill me.”

“It looked as if he did.”

Sabotai was angry because the fight hadn’t settled much of anything. Psin had heard about Tshant’s spitting in his face. Sabotai would have to find another weapon. He stood and went down there, by habit circling the area that the Russians could reach with their arrows.

Mongke said, “Enjoying the sun?”

“Very pleasant.”

Batu had been describing a battleplan with small sticks and pebbles. He stood up. The boredom of the siege was eating at him: his face was sour with it. “Do you smell burning meat?”

“No.” Psin turned to Sabotai. “I don’t smell anything at all.”

“The wind’s wrong.”

“There was no smoke yesterday, Sabotai. No smoke today. No heads on the walls. No sound.”

Mongke’s eyes narrowed; he turned and looked over his shoulder at the city. Sabotai stood up. “Anything else?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

Sabotai nodded. “Mongke, go down and get the men in the lower camp up here. Batu, you command on the right flank. Psin, go back and watch.”

Psin nodded and walked back up to the place he’d just left. The wind was still wrong. He moved in closer, moving as quietly as he could. Usually at this time of day the wind changed.

The men from the lower camp were trotting up, bows in their hands, swords clanging at their heels. Russian swords, most of them, from Moskva, from Vladimir and Susdal and the Sit’ River and Tver. Running, the Mongols went into formation, under orders barely spoken.

A head moved behind Kozelsk’s rampart, and a thin shout rose. Nobody answered in the city. Across the forming ranks of the Mongols Sabotai yelled to Psin and Psin pointed to the city and nodded. Mongke, running neatly over the rougher ground beneath the basalt height, shouted and led the others up the trough.

Psin stood up. On the wall men appeared, bows and rocks in their hands—but fewer, much, much fewer even than three days ago. The rocks and arrows pelted down, and the Mongols flung up their shields. Batu’s men were already bending to let the men behind them scale the wall. The Mongols around Sabotai shot back at the Russians. Psin pressed himself against the rock. The Mongols swarmed up the wall and ran along the ramparts, and the Russians retreated before them, not even shouting any more.

The wind had changed. Psin took a breath of it and nausea swam in his throat. He whirled and waved to Sabotai. “Get them back out here!”