Until the Sun Falls (52 page)

The knights were giving up the chase. Djela shot as quickly as he could, trying to hit the unprotected necks of the stallions. Jube cocked the bannerstaff to slow the Mongols, so that they wouldn’t ride out of range.

“They won’t turn their sides to us,” Jube called. “They know we’ll shoot their horses out from under them if they do. Can you see what’s happening?”

Djela shook his head. All he could see was the wide curve of the Mongol line and the swarm of knights behind them. They were past the burning city; he could see its smoke in the sky off to the south. He dropped his stirrups, crossed the leathers over his saddle, and got his feet wedged into the shortened irons before Jube could stop him. The plain ahead looked even enough.

Jube was red in the face. “What do you think—”

Djela stood up. The wind almost knocked him down, but he leaned into it, holding his arms out to balance himself, and looked. Now he could see over the heads of the men around him: thousands of horses running, and the knights slowing down. They were starting to turn, down by the river. He dropped back into his saddle. Jube’s eyes were shut.

“They’re wheeling,” Djela called. “Don’t worry, I do that all the time.”

“If your father—” Jube brought the bannerstaff down across his saddlebows. Far down the Mongol line, blue banners fluttered. “They were driving us, I thought. Into some trap. But I guess not.” His hands moved efficiently, and the blue silk shook free. He raised the staff and waved it, so that the others could see it; the wind was blowing straight off the river.

Djela brought his horse around. He was dead last in the line, and the knights were riding away at an angle. Before he could shoot even one arrow they were out of range. He swore at the top of his voice. Off north a herd of riderless, saddleless horses galloped—the remounts, cut loose when the knights attacked. He crouched over his horse’s withers and set all his energy to catching up with Jube.

“Banners,” Jube roared. “I can’t read them.”

“Turn south,” someone shouted, up ahead. “They’ve got the east wing pinned against the city. Cut south, outflank if you—Watch out!”

Djela looked around. The knights they had been chasing were swerving around again. They had pulled together into a compact mass. Jube with the staff lowered shouted something Djela couldn’t understand. The Mongols whirled north, to ride away from the knights. Djela’s horse, overlapping Jube’s to the girth, didn’t turn fast enough, and the two horses crashed together so hard Djela’s horse went clean off its feet.

Falling, Djela heard Jube’s voice but not the words. He kicked his feet out of the stirrups and landed on his shoulders, well away from the horse. The ground shook under him. The thunder of hoofs was all around. He remembered that the knights’ stallions were iron-shod. His horse was up, but even before he scrambled onto his feet big stallions charged between them. The knights swarmed all around him.

He kept his feet—the stallions shied away from him, and he forced his rigid arms to flail up and down to keep them scared. His tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth. Steaming flanks and armor edged like swords filled his vision. He thought of his mother and his grandmother. A great iron-mesh arm swung down and hoisted him up onto the saddle. His face pressed against cloth that lay over chain links. The high pommel thudded into his stomach. They were taking him away—he’d never get back again. The knights were shouting over his head in their thick voices, laughing.

They spun their horses again. Clutched in the knight’s rough arms, he turned upright and got one leg on either side of the saddle. They didn’t maneuver like Mongols, their horses caromed together and fought and everything got tangled up. His knight reined the horse in hard. Under the armor the stallion was running with sweat, and the pumping breath of the horses all around was like a bellows. They were galloping back toward the river.

Djela could see nothing beyond the clanking bodies around him. The sky in front of them was stained with smoke. They were close to the city. He stared at the wide shoulders of the knight directly in front of him, and while he watched a long arrow with blue and yellow fletching thunked into the knight’s spine. He winced. They would surely kill him now. His mouth was full of dust.

The Poles cried out. Djela wrenched at the arm holding him, but he couldn’t budge it. The knight squeezed him hard and his ribs cracked. He felt sick to his stomach. The knight yelled something in Polish into his ear. Other arrows sliced into the mass of knights, and saddles emptied. There were Mongols in front of them—a yellow standard. Djela screamed for help and the knight clouted him on the side of the head. The Mongols in front of them parted, and the knights charged through the gap between them, and more arrows struck them. Djela prayed that one might hit him, so that he wouldn’t have to go into slavery. His knight grunted; he had a shaft through the elbow. He shifted his reins to the hand that held Djela and yelled to the other Poles.

A horse surged up alongside, and the Pole on it plucked Djela out from in front of the first knight. The horses turned again, laboring, and started off west. Djela’s face was crushed against a wool cloak. He could barely breathe, but when he tried to pull his face away from the cloth the knight only pressed his head down harder. He thought about dying; he began to cry. He could tell by the way the knights rode that they were running for home.

The wool in his face made it hard to cry. One of his legs was asleep, and when he shifted the knight whacked him on the head. That hurt. He lost his temper. One of his arms was wedged between his body and the knight’s, but the other was free, dangling down the horse’s side. He reached around in front of his head, caught the knight by the belt, and wrenched himself out of the knight’s grip. The knight yelled. Djela slid headfirst out of the saddle, still clinging to the wide belt. He twisted, got himself right end to, and took a good deep breath. The ground was streaming by. He let his feet hit, bounced, and swung up behind the knight on the horse.

The others were reining over. Their great paws scrabbled for him. He snatched the dagger out of the knight’s belt and drove it to the hilt into the man’s throat. The Pole screamed, and his horse reared. Djela tossed himself lightly to the ground. A horse vaulted him, and he leapt up and ran.

He could see only a little in front of him. They were below the crest of a small hill, and the close horizon was of trampled snow. He looked over his shoulder and saw the knights charging after him, but they’d taken so long to turn that he was well ahead. He laughed back at them and settled down to run. His own dagger was still in his belt. He shortened stride to keep from slipping and got to the top of the hill.

Over by the city, there was still fighting. It was a long way away. He made himself breathe properly. A few Mongols were galloping toward him, still much nearer the city than to him, and he flung up one arm to signal them. The knights pounded along after him. They were catching up, but their horses stumbled with weariness. Djela didn’t lengthen his stride. The Mongols had seen him and were racing forward.

A Polish voice shouted. He glanced back and saw them wheeling, their horses sluggish and unhandy. They were fleeing. He stopped and watched them go. When they were out of sight beyond the hill, he jogged up to the crest to see. They were headed off as fast as their horses could move. On the slope behind they had left the man Djela had killed. His chest swelled with pride and triumph.

Jube trotted up. “Thank you.”

Djela looked up at him, puzzled.

“For rescuing me,” Jube said. “The Yasa says I can’t leave my position, even to help a fallen companion.” He grinned. “The Yasa doesn’t take into account that the fallen companion might be my commander’s young son. Here, get up behind me. They’re just cleaning up down there, and we can plunder a little.” 

Sabotai said, “You look fit.”

“Hah.” Psin rose. “I’ve been squatting here for three days waiting for you. We’ve cleared out everything for two days’ ride to the north. Those foothills are full of fighters. It’s like digging out weasels. My southern flank is still half a day east. They chased two or three hundred peasants up here ahead of them, and I let them go through.”

“Good.”

“Any word from the north?”

“Sandomir has fallen. Cracow has been burned. Tshant fought a Polish army that had outridden his scouts, if you can imagine that, and tore them to ribbons. A large army. Kaidu believes they were from both Sandomir and Cracow. You were right. They don’t like to be besieged. That should make it easier. Kadan has run into no trouble at all in the south. His main problem is moving slowly enough that he doesn’t lose contact with us.”

“Were your couriers from Kaidu or Tshant?”

“Kaidu. Why?”

“I was wondering how the divided command was working.”

“No one’s complained.”

Batu, flanked by his brothers, galloped up and slid out of his saddle. “I’ve been to the pass. Berke says we have hay enough. When do we fight?”

Psin looked past him at Berke. “Where is the hay?”

“Packed up in bundles on the mules,” Berke said. He thrust his hands at the fire. “The wind’s raw. Psin, you rode that path in the summer. It’s covered with ice.”

Batu said, “It’s not so bad. But the fort at the top—”

Psin got up. His camp was on a rise higher than the ones around it, and he could see the fires and the men around them all to the northern horizon. He had gone up to the pass. The Hungarians in their fort had yelled at him and thrown rocks and offal. The pass was wide, and the footing decent, if it didn’t snow. But the peaks had been hung with clouds for days now, and the wind rushing down from the heights cut like an icy rope. He looked back at Batu and saw him arguing some point of attack with Sabotai. His brothers behind him looked dissatisfied and wary.

“If we try to break through without taking the fort,” Batu was saying, “they’ll only cut us in two, leave the half caught inside the mountains to whatever’s waiting below, and starve us off this slope.”

Sabotai nodded. “But how do we take a fort made out of that rock? We can’t starve them out. The far slope can supply them until we die of old age.”

Psin walked along the rise until he reached the place where he had cut the trees down; through the gap he could see the upper reaches of the road to the pass. If these were Mongols they fought he would know for certain that they had word of the fighting in Poland, but the Hungarian lines of communication were supposed to be slow and unsure. He went back to the fire. Sabotai was nodding impatiently, waiting for Batu to stop talking.

“Psin. Have you sent scouts into the mountains? To find other passes?”

Psin sat on his heels and poured himself wine. His kumiss had gone bad the day before. “They found passes. I’ve sent scouts into Hungary itself. They aren’t back yet.”

“So,” Sabotai said to Batu. “We will know for certain what waits for us on the other side. If nothing—”

“Nothing? They know we’re coming.” Batu frowned. “Are they fools?”

“They don’t fight the way we do,” Sabotai said.

“That’s mild,” Psin said. “They fight every man for himself, and they are used to choosing the ground and ending the whole war in one battle. I don’t think they’d choose the ground at the foot of a slope, do you?” He sipped the warm wine.

“When will your scouts be in?” Batu said.

“By tonight. I hope.”

Sabotai reached for the wine. “If they don’t come in tonight, we can’t wait for them. We can’t risk a storm.”

Batu said, “Can we use burning lights?”

“I’ve only got two left, and they’re both soaked from being dropped in a river when I didn’t take Psin’s advice. We’ll use lanterns.” 

“They’ll see us coming,” Batu said.

“The path is hung over with trees,” Psin said. “Until just below the pass.”

“Good.” Sabotai put his gloves in his belt. “We can use the trees for bannerstaffs.”

“Where’s Mongke?” Psin said.

“Sleeping. He rode scout for me last night.”

“I’m going to get some sleep,” Batu said. He turned his horse and his brothers silently followed.

Sabotai said, “I don’t want you in the vanguard when we ride. It’s going to be nasty, up there, especially if it snows. That wind’s like a waterfall—you’ve been sitting under it for three days?”

“Yes.”

“I wish I trusted Mongke enough to send him up first.”

“Trust him. Send him.”

“Psin. If the vanguard falters, we’ll be in a mess. But Batu doesn’t think fast enough.”

“Send Mongke.”

Sabotai pursed his lips, his eyes steady on Psin’s.

“Or send both of us—him and me.”

“I’ll send Mongke. His honor guard is in my center. If he takes them—”

“No. They’ve not fought under him for two years, and they were leery of him in Korea. Send my skewbald tuman.”

“Which of the two you’ve been working with do you want to take to Pesth, when we get across?”

“The others—on the bays.”

“Good. Now. Suppose we send him up to the fort, in an attempt to storm it.”

“Impossible. He can’t.”

“Just an attempt. In the meanwhile, under the cover of his attack, we move Batu’s men in behind him and to either side. Mongke can retreat, get into some sort of tangle, and fall back through the middle. Would the knights attack?”

“They might.”

“Leave the fort?”

“Maybe.”

“We can try it, at least. If Mongke’s retreat looks like a complete rout, of course they’ll come out. Don’t you—”

A horse was cantering up the slope toward them. Psin leapt up. “It’s one of my scouts. Nejai.”

The horse was staggering in its weariness. The scout sat back, and the horse stopped so abruptly Nejai nearly fell. He slipped down. His face was grey, and his lips were so stiff he could barely talk.

“I’ve been to the—to the far side. They have a supply sta-station. Knights—no more than twenty. A lot of—of peasants.” He shut his eyes. “Wood. Hay. Grain, and herds. I… went back toward this pass a little. Nothing.”

“Good,” Psin said. “Go get some sleep. Eat. Don’t even bother to go. Stay here.”