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.”

The scout opened his eyes and grinned. “The Khan wishes.”

He curled up beside the fire, pulled his cloak over his face, and slept. Psin bellowed to a man passing to take care of the horse. Sabotai said, “How did he get across the mountains?”

“There’s a gorge half a day’s ride north that leads to a stream bed that goes down the other side. He took four horses with him. From the looks of this one, he rode the others to death.”

“If he got through, can we suppose it’s unguarded?”

“The reports say it’s so narrow and the trail so rough nobody ever uses it. They might not even know it’s there.”

“Ah,” Sabotai said gently. He rocked back on his heels. “But you do.”

 

The gorge twisted in through the heart of the mountains, clogged with rocks, slick with ice from the stream that had carved it. They had already lost two horses. Psin kept one eye on his remounts, crowded in behind him, and the other on the trail. So far they had found one place where three horses might walk abreast. Everywhere else was like this: the horses, snugged up on the leadlines, scraped their sides on the rock cliffs.

Ahead of them, above the spruce trees and the lower slopes, there was a mountain with a sheer rock face that he was heading for. Up there, Nejai had told him, they would find the other trail. He couldn’t see the mountain anymore, because of the dark and the clouds, but Nejai had said it would be dawn before he reached it. He let his dun horse pick its way around a mass of icy rock.

“Two short flashes,” he said. “There’s a dead horse up here.”

The man just behind him craned forward. “God. He couldn’t drag them off the trail, could he.”

“He was in a hurry, damn you.” The dun horse was snorting at the stinking wet body, and Psin kicked him on past. The rocks were coated with ice that glowed dimly, like the waves on Lake Baikal in the dark. The dun slipped and went to his knees.

“It’s snowing,” someone called.

“Lovely.”

He knew why the Hungarians hadn’t bothered to guard this gate into their precious country; no sane man would try to ride through it. Ahead the two sides of the gorge came down to a point. There was no level ground at all. The horses tried to refuse and he whipped at them, leaning back out of his saddle to reach his remounts. Wet snow drifted in under his collar. They scrambled noisily along the naked stone. Lantern light wobbled over the trail in front of them, showing the edges and broad sloping surfaces of the rock. Clumps of moss hung from the cliffs and swept across his cheek. It was almost dawn.

Probably, out in the open where people were supposed to live, it was dawn. The cliffs towered up over him, but he could see the pine trees along their rims. The horses inched along, swaying from side to side, their heads low. The dun snatched for a mouthful of moss.

The snow falling in the light of the lantern obscured the trail. He could see rocks thrusting up out of the bed of ice. Ahead, a tree had fallen into the gorge and lay across it, the trunk end still high up the side. He rode toward the high end and bent over, his cheek against the dun’s shoulder, so that the horse could squeeze through. Branches raked his back. The dun missed his footing and almost tripped headlong, and he called back, “Watch out.”

Beyond the windfall, the gorge made a sudden turn; he reined up to be sure his men were getting through. He had left the camp in the middle of the afternoon, and he was glad he’d pushed the pace. Before the snow had gotten deep enough to stop them, all or nearly all his thousand men would be on the way down the trail. The snow wasn’t falling thickly yet.

They pushed through the turn, where the cliffs pinched the trail to a thread, and turned into the force of the wind. Tears sprang to Psin’s eyes. He leaned forward, bunching his cloak around his neck, and jammed his hat down hard over his forehead. The dun tucked his nose in to his chest. But the ground was opening up a little, and there was springy moss underfoot. He glanced back and saw the men moving after him gasp when the wind struck them.

A small furry animal darted out of their way. The dun didn’t shy, but the horses behind him did, reeling around in blind unison. Whips lashed behind him, and the dun threw all his weight against the leadline to drag the horses forward.

“Call out,” Psin shouted.

“All straight back here.”

The snow was falling more thickly; it whitened the front of his coat and built up into a crest along his horse’s mane. Ahead it was light enough to see the trail without the lantern, and he shuttered it. The trail curved. Up ahead, where the gorge walls widened, he could see the horned mountain above the nearer crowns of rock. The snow fell across it and almost shut it out.

Before them, the trail threaded up a face of ice. He reined the dun to one side of it, and they scrambled up. He could hear the men behind him yelling and whipping their horses. He turned to look back and saw the gorge full of men as far as he could see. The wind froze his ears, and he tucked them deeper under his hat.

The gorge petered out. The trail drove straight for the mountain over rounded hills. The few trees were sheaves of icicles from the wind and the snow. The dun broke into a jog, but the men behind yelled to Psin to wait, and he drew down again. The snow was still too light to hurt. They wound down a steep slope and up another and came out just below the horned mountain.

“Ride to the north of it,” the scout had said. Psin started up a snow-covered rise, unshuttered the lantern, and pulled down the red pane. There were no trees; they were above the timberline. The wind swept down off the crag and sledged into their faces. The dun sank to his knees in the snow.

“Call out,” he yelled.

Call out, the echo said. Call out, call out.

“Behind you,” someone shouted up, and the echo caught it. Every man in line was shouting in turn, so that they would keep together. He glanced back and saw the long snake of riders down this slope, up the next, and over the crest into the one beyond. Swinging back, he tried to see where they were going, but the storm was getting worse.

The dun staggered along, dragging the remounts behind him. Psin could feel the rough ground beneath his hoofs. The snow was crusted in spots almost thick enough to bear the horse’s weight, but every third step it would break, and the dun would stumble. The horse’s black mane turned dead white.

Ahead, something like an antelope trotted across their path, stopped, sniffed, and bolted away. Psin shouted again and heard the calls ring out behind him, just a little distance behind him, until the sound was muffled in the falling snow. Now, in front of him, he could see ridges of black rock breaking through the snow. The dun was laboring against the steep slope. Psin squinted against the snow and saw the arched face of the mountain to his left, almost beside him.

The dun stopped dead in front of the upthrust of black rock. It was too high to climb over. Psin rode along it, fighting his remounts, until they came to a place where the rock had broken. The dun put one forehoof on it, crouched, and jumped across. He skidded through the snow, turned sideways, and fell. Psin landed hard on his shoulder. The bannerstaff snapped under him. He rolled over and stood up. The horse was on its feet, shaking each leg in turn. His men were pushing through the gap in the rock.

“Look,” one shouted, and pointed.

Psin turned. The storm ended here, as if there were a wall to stop the clouds. To the west the mountains fell away in a series of sheer drops into the timber. Sunlight glittered on the snow. He could see the trail Nejai had taken, off to the north. He mounted up and rode toward it, trotting the dun a few steps to make sure he wasn’t lame. The trail was steep and icy but if the storm didn’t follow them over the going wouldn’t be as bad. The dun went into the trail without hesitation. Psin worked his shoulder carefully, found nothing broken, and settled down to watch the trail.

 

By dusk of that day they had reached the Hungarian supply station. The knights were all half-drunk, and the Mongols stormed through in one charge. Immediately they turned their horses out and went to sleep.

After midnight, Psin woke up and with three other men rode the trail up to the Hungarian pass. There was no way to tell Sabotai that they were here, and Sabotai wasn’t sure the burning lights would work after being dropped into an icy river. The closest the Mongols could get to the pass was the foot of the trail up the last slope; if they came closer the knights would know they were there. Psin went back to the supply station and sent half his men up to the slope to watch.

“Sabotai is attacking today, isn’t he?” one of his men said.

Psin nodded. “At noon, he said.”

“We’re tired. That was a terrible ride.”

“What do you mean, tired? You had a pleasant trip through some pretty hills, with a nice fight at the end and a good rest—”

The man laughed. “Of course. Are you aware there’s no wine?”

“No wine. That’s bad.”

“And very little meal.”

“Damn you. Don’t bother me with these things.”

It was nearly dawn. Psin went back inside the hut at the supply station, roused out the rest of his men, and led them all after the first five hundred. He was hungry, and his horse was tired; half a night’s rest had only made them all irritable and groggy.

If they couldn’t draw the knights out of their fort, taking the pass would be more difficult and take longer. The knights certainly wouldn’t leave the walls if they knew a thousand Mongols were waiting just below the pass on the western side. He couldn’t charge up at the first signs of fighting in the pass. He put two men into trees where they could see into the pass, but they called down that the fort was out of sight. He swore.

The sun rose. Light streamed over the mountains; they could see it in the sky although their slope was still deep in shadow. Clouds blustered off toward the west, too light for snow. Two of Psin’s men shot a wooly goat and cooked it, splitting it with the others so that they all got no more than scraps and a taste of crisp fat. The smallest owl Psin had ever seen caught a mouse almost at his feet. The wind lulled.

“It’s warmer here than on the other side,” one man said to him.

“Yes.” Psin squinted toward the pass. “Look out. Here comes a knight.”

He turned and yelled to a group of Mongols beside a little fire. They bolted toward their horses. The knight was cantering toward them along the road, his reins slack. He hadn’t seen them yet. Psin’s men vaulted into their saddles and started to meet him.

The knight caught sight of them coming and stopped his horse dead. Psin stiffened. The knight whirled back toward the pass. His horse took two great bounds, and an arrow brought it down. The knight pitched into the snow. The Mongols trotted over to him, looked down, and turned. They were well up the road to the pass. Psin’s throat was tight with fear they’d be seen. He gestured to them, and they jogged their horses down toward him, without bringing the knight or killing him. One rode straight to him.

“Did you leave him up there to crawl home and tell them where we are? What—”

“He’s dead. He broke his neck.” The Mongol dismounted.

“Khan,” one of the men in the trees called. “They are fighting, in the pass.”

Psin swore. He stopped the wild plunge toward the horses and made his men sit down again. This was another of Sabotai’s stupid ideas. He did them no good, sitting down here unknowing. He paced up and down, trying to hear the sounds of fighting, could not, and sat down.

“Can you see what’s happening?”

“No—all I can see is Mongols.”

Psin groaned. He jumped up and went toward his horse. His men started forward, eagerly, and he gestured to them to stay still. Mounting, he rode up the road a little, standing in his stirrups.

He saw nothing, but the closer he got the more he could hear. The pass rang with shouting and the sound of horses. Rock clattered, somewhere. He rode closer. Eagles circled above the pass, and a loose horse bolted down from it, neighing, its reins flying. A Mongol boot was still caught in one stirrup.

“Yip-yip-yip—”

That had to be Mongke retreating. He turned and rode back to his men. “Now. Mount up. Let’s go.”

They piled into their saddles and charged even before he gave the signal. The road was broad and even, and the horses reached a full gallop within a few strides. They bolted past the dead knight. The screams and howls of the Mongols in the pass reverberated from rock to rock, and beneath them were the high calls of the knights. He heard metal grate on metal.

Horses spilled down over the western edge of the pass—the knights’ horses. The knights were still on their backs. They were running, headed straight into Psin’s column. He hauled out his bow and fit an arrow. The knights were coming like an avalanche. There was no place for the Mongols to go to get out of their way. He shouted, “Full charge!”

He shot, and saw the arrow slam into one knight, but before he could nock another arrow the full force of the knights hit him. A huge horse ran into his horse, a sword swiped at his head, and his horse staggered back, still on its feet. He ducked, his bow useless. The knights swarmed around him. He heard his men yipping. A hammer crashed into the small of his back, and he lost his sight. Clinging to his saddle, he weaved back and forth. His horse was rearing and kicking out. His eyes cleared, and he steadied his horse. Knights surrounded him. He jabbed at their eyes with the tip of his bow. His back hurt every time he moved. The knights’ horses rammed into his, and his horse was lifted off its feet and carried back down the road and deposited on its feet again.

“Eeeeeiiiyyyyaaah!”

He drove his horse to the side of the road and dove from the saddle into the heavy brush. He heard the whistle of arrows in flight, and getting to his feet he saw the knights falling before the shower. Mongke’s men, shooting steadily, streamed down the road after them. Psin’s horse stood beside the road, reins trailing, and he vaulted on and charged with the others.

The road was covered with bodies—knights, Mongols, horses. The remnant of the fleeing knights raced on ahead of them. Arrows thudded into their backs. Psin caught up with a knight, reached out, and got his fingers around the man’s belt; he tugged, and the knight flew off his horse and landed under the hoofs of the Mongol charge. Psin lost his balance under the weight and nearly went off. He got one arm across the pommel of his saddle, hooked his heel over the cantle, and hung on. The horse began to slow, leaning against his weight, and he pulled himself up again.

The last of the knights was so far ahead that they would never catch him; he was even out of bowshot. Psin stopped his horse and drew off to let Mongke’s men by. Mongke saw him and rode over.

“What happened?” Psin yelled.

Mongke laughed. “They took the first chance they saw to leave the fort. They were dying to run, so they did, and we chased. We wouldn’t have caught them if you hadn’t slowed them on the road.”

“I think I lost all my men. They were on top of us before we saw them.”

“You slowed them, though.”

Psin looked around. He could see nothing but skewbald horses. One bay trotted along with the rest, but it was riderless. He rode off to the place where he and his men had waited that morning, and found two or three hundred men there, all wounded.

Mongke had come with him. “Are you all right? There’s blood all over your back.”

“Oh.” Psin felt his back and winced. “Something hit me.”

“Get down.” Mongke dismounted. “Here come some more of your men.”

Psin, on the ground, looked over and saw fifty more men on bay horses jogging into the meadow. “Too many losses.”

Mongke helped him pull off his armor. “Bruise. Nothing broken. It’s bleeding, though.”

“That’s all right. If nothing’s broken—ouch!”

Sabotai with his staff, Batu, and Batu’s brothers galloped into the meadow. “Psin. God above. Is all that yours?”

Mongke said, “He’s got more blood than a fall pig. Yes.” He was wrapping bandages around Psin’s middle. Psin was suddenly weak in the knees; he leaned against his horse. Mongke explained what had happened to Sabotai.

Batu said, “We’re in now. Psin, will you be able to ride? Berke—” 

“No,” Psin said. “I can ride.” He stood away from the horse. Sabotai, watching him, smiled and nodded. His eyes were bright; he always looked happy when one of his stratagems had worked out well.

“Fill up your ranks from the skewbald tuman,” he said. “You can leave for Pesth when you’re rested.”

“Good.” Psin pulled on his armor. “There’s no wine in the supply station anyhow.”

 

Batu said genially, “There is something I’ve meant to talk to you about for a long while, Psin Khan.”

“Oh, really?”

“Your grandson is a charming boy. I’ve got a little granddaughter, some younger than he.”

Psin stretched his legs out flat on the ground. It was a pretty day, and he wished Batu hadn’t spoiled it. “They are of the same bone, unfortunately.”

“Oh, well.” Batu smiled. His broad face was bland. “For the Altun such things are of little moment.” He took the plug out of a jug of fresh kumiss and held it out. Psin took it and drank.

“I have a son unmarried yet,” he said. “Until Sidacai marries Djela stays a bachelor.”

Batu’s face clouded. Psin raised the jug again to cover how sharply he was watching him. Finally, Batu said, “This is the son of your second wife, isn’t he.”

“Yes.” Psin lowered the jug; he hadn’t drunk.

Batu was fussing with the hooks on his coat. Kaidu had a younger sister. Psin didn’t think Batu would mention her. The sun had risen over the mountains behind them, and the bright, clear light made the snow sparkle. Psin got up.

“I have to move out soon.”

“Oh. That’s right.” Batu rose. “You’re riding vanguard again. Sabotai trusts you much more than the rest of us. You should be honored.”

“Terribly much.” He slung his saddle onto his horse’s back and reached under its belly for the girth.

“Kaidu has a sister as yet unpromised. Perhaps—”

“Why don’t we talk about it after the campaign? Sidacai’s old enough now to make his own marriage. I’d rather he were around when I talked about it.”

“Keep it in mind,” Batu said. “You won’t find anything so good for him—not for the second son of the second wife.” He put one hand on Psin’s arm, smiled, and went off.

“Hunh.”

Psin hooked the breastplate to the saddle. His standardbearer was jogging over toward him, and seeing him pass the thousand-commanders trailed after. Sunlight glinted off their metal gear. If Sidacai married without Psin’s permission, Psin could annul it at any time. Anyway, Sidacai was in the Kha-Khan’s guard and not liable to meet any girls of good family. He met plenty of girls of bad family, but them he could not marry. Psin picked up his chest armor and draped it over his shoulders.

“Do we break camp, Khan?” the standardbearer said.

Psin nodded. “I’m going to find Sabotai. We have a full tuman. Form them up into three columns.” He put his foot in the stirrup and swung up. The horse turned and started off at a trot before he had settled into the saddle. He reined him off across the camp, toward the north.

Sabotai was arguing a point of strategy with Mongke, sitting beside a fire. Batu’s brothers hovered behind him. Psin didn’t wait to hear what it was they were discussing. He dismounted, got between them, and sat on his heels.

“I’m leaving. Anything more?”

“No.”

“I’m not going to scout for you, so don’t hunt for reports.”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Sabotai said. “You’re under ban, and this is my fire.” He got up and walked away. Psin followed him, grinning. Sabotai had done this twice before; it was a good way of getting Psin out of earshot of the other Altun. Some fifteen steps from the fire Sabotai turned.

“There was a courier in last night from Karakorum. Late. I couldn’t very well send for you, and it was too cold to go riding.”

“Any news of my women?”

“They’re both well. Your new grandson is thriving. There were letters from Kerulu for Tshant. And from Ogodai. He’s still strong, very active, as usual. Very pleased with the way the war is going.”

“What about Quyuk?”

“Quyuk is sitting with his hands in his lap. Jagatai says that they are keeping him under guard—supposed to be an honor guard, of course. His mother is slightly out of favor and his wife is no longer permitted the Golden Yurt. Has Batu been courting you?”

“Yes.”

“They are disappointed with Siremon. That’s why. The older Siremon gets the more obvious it is that there’s no clear successor to Ogodai, except perhaps Jagatai.”

“And Quyuk.”

Sabotai sighed. “Yes. Yes. Incidentally, Quyuk sent word to you. Just greetings, and hopes that you’ll have good fighting.”

Psin’s jaw dropped. “He what?”

“Exactly. To no one else. Not even his brother.”

“Well.”

“There was another courier in from the north. Tshant disobeyed every order Kaidu gave him—just ignored them—and caught an army of Poles outnumbering his three to one and smashed them to rubble.”

“My, my.” Psin put one hand to his mouth to hide his smile.

“You seem to have bred a rebel.”

“I always knew that.”

“And something of a general. I thought you’d want to know. Well. Good-by.”

“Good-by. I’ll send couriers when I’m at Pesth.”

“Yes.” Sabotai started back toward his fire. Psin stood watching him. The slow trudge of Sabotai’s legs suddenly looked funny. He thought, Tshant the genius. It was interesting. Tshant had commanded so rarely before this…. He wondered if Sabotai’s instigating feuds had made him any better. More confident, maybe. Beating me. He touched the scars on his cheek. Maybe.