Baidar said, looking toward the city, “You’ve made Kaidu angry. You ought not to have.”

“What’s wrong with him now?”

“Well, he told you to stay within a day’s ride of him, and you ran it out to three days and proved he was wrong in the first place. He’s too young to be in command.”

Tshant nodded. He wasn’t interested in Kaidu’s immature jealousies. “How many do you think they have, in there?”

Baidar’s horse ducked its head, and he jerked it up again. “Two tumans at least. He has a legitimate complaint against you. You lose too many men when you fight.”

“My father’s said so.”

Behind them, Tshant’s army and a half a tuman of Baidar’s waited, eating jerked meat and drinking the wine from the town they had taken the day before. They had been waiting before Liegnitz since dawn, and so far no one inside the walls had shown a sign of noticing them. A collection of huts and larger buildings stood outside the wall, and Tshant had suggested attacking them, but Baidar had said no.

“He’s worth handling properly,” Baidar said. “Kaidu, I mean.”

“Where is he now?”

“With his men. There’s an army coming up from—from Bohemia. Or someplace down there.” Baidar’s eyes flew toward the city. “Here comes someone.”

Tshant looked around. The gate had opened, and sixteen or twenty knights were riding out in double file. At their head rode a man carrying a white banner. Baidar called back to the army behind them, and Rijart trotted up, smiling.

Batu and Sabotai were in Hungary, and the courier who had brought that news had said they were meeting no resistance. The entire Hungarian army was drawn up before their capital. Psin, riding vanguard, had reached Pesth in three days flat from the great pass and was keeping watch on the King’s army until Sabotai caught up. Kaidu had sent a man back to tell Batu that he could not join the main army in Hungary until he had disposed of the Poles in Liegnitz.

As well. Tshant shifted in his saddle, watching the knights approach. Sabotai could deal with the Hungarians. All this work in Poland was only a diversion; there was no sense in letting Kaidu share his grandfather’s triumph. Tshant looked back to find Djela and saw him chattering with one of the standardbearers, who had orders to watch him.

The knights drew up their big horses a little way down from Tshant and Baidar. All but two of them wore white surcoats and cloaks with a black cross on the breast. The other two looked richer and less like fighting men. One of these rode forward, with a big blond knight behind him—one of the men wearing the black cross. The advance rider called out in a harsh voice, and Rijart translated.

“I am Henry, the Duke of Silesia, and my liege is the King of the Romans. What brings you to Liegnitz?”

Tshant grinned. Baidar nudged his horse forward and said to Rijart, “Tell them we come because they have an army here. They think to resist us, the chosen of God. Now they must lay aside their weapons and do homage to the Kha-Khan, God’s only prince on earth.”

Rijart shouted, and the knights mumbled under their breath. The big blond man tilted forward from the waist and spoke to the Silesian, who gestured impatiently. He spoke again. Rijart said, “We are all the children of God, but His only chosen is Our Lord Jesus Christ and those who follow him. If you will accept Christ, we will welcome you like the strayed lambs into the fold. Otherwise we offer only death.”

Tshant said, “All this proves is how many different ways a man can say the same thing. Tell them to go.”

Baidar nodded to Rijart. “Tell them what he said.”

The Silesian listened and said, “We outnumber you.”

Baidar laughed. “It’s not the number that matters, but God’s hand on the bow. We are sworn to conquer the world, and to do so we will fight until the sun falls.”

The knights heard it in silence. Their faces behind the arcs of the nosepieces on their helmets were drawn and set hard. The blond man, who wore no helmet, reined his horse forward, said something to the Silesian, and jogged past him a little. His hair glistened in the sun, and he looked Tshant and Baidar in the face. He said something; in the midst of it Tshant heard the word “Psin.”

“What does he know of Psin?” he said to Rijart.

Rijart rubbed his chin. “I know this knight. His name is Arnulf, and he is of the Teutonic Order. He met with Psin Khan in Pesth.”

“My father mentioned him.”

“He says if Psin is with this army he will fight him in single combat, for the greater glory of God.”

Baidar snorted. “Tell him Mongols don’t fight like that. And Psin Khan isn’t in Poland.”

Rijart called to the knight, who listened gravely and answered in a calm voice. Rijart turned back toward Baidar.

“He says that he will fight any of the Mongols. He asks which of you two is the stronger.”

Tshant said, “I’ll fight him.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Baidar said. “Look at him. You could take him with an arrow, but hand to hand he’d mash you. He’s armored like a tortoise and he’s twice your size.”

Tshant scowled. “He’ll think us cowards.”

“Let him. When the fighting’s over there will be none left to think anything.”

Rijart spoke, firmly, and the knight nodded. He swung his horse. The Silesian turned and rode back toward the city, with the knights trailing neatly after. Baidar said, “Now all we have to do is bring them out of the city.”

Tshant said to Rijart, “What did my father think of him? The knight.”

“I had the impression he admired him.”

“Unh.”

Baidar was riding off; the melting snow squished under his horse’s hoofs. Tshant shaded his eyes to see the city wall. Now they had to meet with Kaidu. He wheeled and rode back to Jube, to set a watch over the city while they made plans.

 

Kaidu said, “Tshant will burn the huts outside the wall. If they come out to attack him, he will give ground slowly enough to keep in constant contact with them. When they are far enough from the city to be taken on either side, Baidar will strike from the south, I from the north.”

Tshant had one foot braced up against the pommel of his saddle. He ran his thumb over his jaw, glanced at Baidar, and said, “And I am to ride in the contact line, of course.”

“If you wish,” Kaidu said stiffly.

Tshant grinned. “I will. Good. How long will it be before you’re in position?”

“Your confidence is reassuring,” Kaidu said.

“Why, thank you.”

Baidar said, “There is no need for Tshant’s men to be in contact except intermittently. We cannot stand up to the knights’ charge. That much we’ve learned.”

“Sometimes it’s necessary to… sacrifice some men for the good of others.”

Tshant put his foot down and fished for his stirrup. “I said I’d go. Don’t depend on my being sacrificed, Kaidu.”

Kaidu glared at him. “I hope you return safely, of course.” He turned and rode off.

Baidar said, “I told you to handle him more carefully.”

“He’s not worth—”

“He’s trying to get you killed.”

“He won’t.”

“God. You are too sure.”

Tshant snorted, turned, and rode back toward his men. He had a little over half a tuman left. All the others were dead or wounded, back in the long drive across Poland. All his men carried swords, hung in clumsy scabbards from their belts. He found Djela and told him to stay by him, no matter what happened.

“I will.”

“Jube, white banner. Torches lit.”

Djela said, “What are we going to do?”

“Burn everything outside the walls. Pull them out of the city.”

“Where is Baidar?”

“Over there.” Tshant pointed south with his chin. He took a torch from the heap on the ground and lit it. He thought, Maybe I am too confident. He thought of sending Djela away.

The Mongols were trotting forward. He gestured to Jube to spread them out. The river sparkled in the sun, just beyond the city. The ice was breaking up already in it. He had to remember not to get pinned against it.

Riding down, he could see the people running back and forth on the walls. A shower of small round stones pelted him. Over the wall he could see the upper half of a mangonel frame. He swung up his shield and charged in among the huts. His men were screaming, waving their torches. The huts went up in flames all at once, and immediately the heat was enough to bring out the sweat on his face. He looked for Djela and saw him cantering along just behind him.

Among the huts were small haystacks, pens for animals, old sheds. He threw his torch into a haystack and wheeled. His men began to yell. The mangonel fired again, and two Mongols pitched out of their saddles. Tshant started back out of the city. An ember floated down onto his horse’s mane and he crushed it out.

Outside the ring of huts, he turned and looked back. His men were racing along under the walls of the city, shouting, throwing their torches up and over the ramparts. He called to Djela and started back down again. Jube broke out of the ring of blazing huts and started toward him.

Abruptly the Mongols veered toward him; they had seen the banner. The gate was opening. He cantered down toward the city. His men followed, pulling out their bows. Knights charged out the half-open gate and with lances set headed toward the Mongols. Tshant nocked an arrow.

Flocks of arrows hummed into the air. Most of them glanced off shields and armor. Here and there Tshant saw a knight fall. He set another arrow to his string and drew it. Over the point he saw the knights’ faces, their glittering eyes and the wet red of their open mouths. He took a deep breath and shot. The arrow drilled into a face, but the mass of armored knights were already on him. Their horses loomed over his. He jammed his bow into the case and snatched out his sword. His horse swerved, and he leaned hard and brought it spinning around away from the knights. They ranged up on either side of him. A lance passed over his shoulder. He stabbed with the sword and felt the edge turn on mail. His horse reared up.

The knights crowded him in. He could see nothing but iron bodies. A mace crashed down on his saddle. He whipped his horse once, dropped the rein, and with both hands on his sword drove it into the flank of the knight’s stallion, where they was no armor. The stallion screamed. A lance thrust up at Tshant, aimed straight for his chest. For a frozen moment he imagined it breaking through his ribs and out his back. He threw all his weight into one stirrup and wrenched himself around and the sleek tip of the lance slid by. The knight holding it was laughing. Tshant raised the sword and slashed it down like an axe on the knight’s forearm. There was no blood, but he felt the bone cave in under the sword’s edge.

Banners—the red banner was snapping in the sky. He took a deep breath and charged south, trying to pull out of the pack of knights, weaving and bending out of their way. A fist came at him, steel-knuckled, and he ducked, but not fast enough. The fist crashed into the side of his head. He hung onto his saddle; he could see nothing. Blood filled his mouth. The shrill noises of the fighting fell suddenly away, and he could hear his own horse’s hoofs on the ground.

“Yip-yip-yip—”

They were all racing south. He rubbed at his eyes until his vision cleared and looked around. Djela was far down the field, untouched, well out of the reach of the knights. All across the flat ground the Mongols were fleeing Liegnitz. A heavy cheer rose behind them. Tshant slowed his horse, looking for Jube. The knights were thundering after them. He pulled his bow out and started shooting.

His mouth was full of blood, and he had a loose tooth. He wiggled it with his tongue, all the while shooting into the broad front of the oncoming knights. Jube galloped over.

“What now?”

“Kaidu wants constant contact.”

Jube dipped the banner. All down the line, the Mongols slowed, so that the knights could catch up with them. Tshant stood in his stirrups to see. Many of his men were wounded. Several of them rode double with other men, who held them on their horses. He jabbed his horse in the mouth to make it slow, shot once more, cased the bow, and grabbed his sword.

The knights surged up beside him again. This time he kept them at arm’s length, so that he could parry with his sword. His arm was tired already. A knight drove a lance at him, and he dodged, and the momentum carried the knight on past him. An arrow took the man in the throat and he fell off his horse.

The arrows were coming close to Tshant. He let his horse drop back even more, so that a row of knights shielded him. The knights were spread out so that it was possible to fight only one at a time. He smashed his sword into one man’s chest, and the knight swayed but kept in his saddle. Tshant drew his arm back to stab him, but the knight pulled out of reach.

Just to his left rode a pack of the knights in white with the black crosses; they were fighting on the run with a much larger group of Mongols. Tshant veered his horse toward them. He caught sight of Djela, galloping along just ahead of the south wing of the Polish army. Abruptly trumpets blared in his ears. They startled him, and he whipped his horse into a flat run, afraid that more knights were coming up behind him.

The knights in the white cloaks yanked their horses around, turning south, away from him. He stood in his stirrups to look and saw Baidar’s tuman, sweeping down toward the knights. Arrows darkened the sky.

“Eeeeiiiyyyyaaah!”

The scream almost lifted him out of the saddle. The whole north flank of the Poles was collapsing in toward him under the pressure of Kaidu’s attack. He reined down to a trot, looking for Jube. Most of his men were caught in the middle of the Poles, where the knights were still spread out, but the ranks were tightening up.

Jube was riding toward him. Tshant yelled, “Let’s get out of here,” and swung his arm. He saw the bannerstaff slant down, saw Jube reach for his packs; Mongol arrows rained down on both of them, and Jube pitched out of his saddle. His foot caught in his stirrup and his horse dragged him straight into the heavy fighting.

Tshant swore. He whipped his horse east again. The two Polish flanks caved into the middle just after he raced clear. He drew his bow out of the case, turned his horse, and started shooting into the thickening mass of knights. Kaidu’s and Baidar’s columns had them completely surrounded. The knights stopped moving forward. Tshant could hear the ring of arrows striking armor. Many of his men had been caught between the two wings and crushed. He shot high, hoping one of his arrows would lift over the Poles and hit Kaidu.

“Ada, Ada, I’ve been hit.”

His breath caught. Djela galloped up, holding one arm. Tshant raced toward him. If it were a Mongol arrow, he would fry Kaidu. But it was not; Djela had a crossbow bolt through the flesh of his upper arm.

“Where did you pick that up?”

“I went back toward the city.”

A column of Mongols raced past them, all carrying swords: Baidar’s heavy cavalry. Tshant took Djela by the wrist, shoved the head of the bolt out through the skin, and snapped it off. Djela whined.

“You’ve been blooded,” Tshant said. He dipped his fingers in the blood and made an X on each of Djela’s palms. “Go wait for me.”

“I’ll find Jube.”

“Jube’s dead.”

He cantered down toward Baidar’s end of the battle. The knights, at a standstill, were drowning in the flood of Mongol arrows. They were steadily retreating into the middle of their circle, leaving a broad ring of bodies all around. Many of them dismounted. Tshant saw them develop a charge toward the head of Baidar’s column, but before the Polish horses were beyond the limit of the sprawled bodies all the charging knights were dead. The arrows did not slacken. He pulled up beside Baidar.

“Kaidu says no mercy,” Baidar said.

“Has he built a shambles for them all?”

Baidar shrugged. “How many of your men survived?”

“Not many. He was overshooting when he attacked, and he killed a lot of us.”

“He’s dead green.”

“Oh? He smells ripe enough to me.”

“Maybe. Don’t fuss with him about it. Look.”

Tshant looked. The knights in the white cloaks, all on foot, had broken out of the circle. They carried their shields high and close together, so that the storm of arrows could not penetrate it. The Mongols charged them. Like a tortoise the group of knights walked steadily onward, and the Mongols wheeled away, shooting harmlessly.

Baidar said, “Green pennant here.”

His standardbearer hung a long green ribbon on his staff and swung it up. Baidar said, “They could walk back to Liegnitz like that.”

Tshant nodded. He glanced toward the rest of the knights and trotted up toward the tortoise knights, ranged in a double rank, and saw them steadily dying. Two thousand of Baidar’s heavy cavalry charged.

The tortoise stopped, braced. Whooping, the Mongols slammed into them. Their swords chopped down across the shields. The knights staggered back; gaps opened in their formation, and the Mongols howled. Tshant leaned forward, ready to signal the bowmen in, but before he could open his mouth the tortoise pulled itself together again, heaved, and threw the Mongols back almost bodily.

“Yip-yip-yip—”

“Those damned Kipchaks,” Baidar said. “Yipping when there’s no chance of losing.” He bellowed at them, and the heavy cavalry reorganized itself and charged the tortoise again. When they struck there was an audible clang. Tshant saw three Kipchaks break into the shield ring; on horseback they were visible well above the knights. Before they had penetrated more than a few strides they were killed.

Tshant gathered his reins, called to the Mongol archers near him, and started down toward the knights. He rode at a low trot, his bow in his hands, circling the knights. The heavy cavalry pulled back again. Tshant moved in so close he could see the color of the knights’ eyes when they peeked over their shields, drew his bow as full as he could, and shot. His arrow hit a shield, and it thundered, but it did not break. He stopped his horse dead and nocked another arrow. The Mongols who had followed him circled the tortoise, came in as close as he was, and drew their bows.

The knights, understanding, lunged toward them. Tshant aimed for the bits of shoulder and face he could see over the shields. One knight fell, but Tshant had to back his horse up quickly to get out of the tortoise’s way. He shot for an eye, and the arrow skipped off the helmet and plunged into the throat of the knight behind. The tortoise was charging him, the knights running, and he turned to trot along ahead of them and shoot back over the horse’s rump. This time he shot at a mailed arm, and the arrow tore through the mail and passed all the way through the muscle underneath.

The tortoise was growing smaller; when a knight fell the others closed ranks. They stopped again, catching their breath, and Tshant and the other Mongols could find nothing to shoot at. They backed off to let the heavy cavalry charge in again. The Kipchaks looked grim. They smashed their horses into the shields and through them. Their swords hacked down. Blood fountained across them. One knight leapt up behind a Kipchak and threw him aside. Tshant lifted his bow, but before he could shoot five other arrows whammed into the knight from all sides. The knight slid down into the broken tortoise, now only a puddle of bodies in bloody armor.

“Fall back,” Tshant yelled. “Baidar—”

The heavy cavalry drew back. Tshant rode into the mess, looking closely at faces. He thought he recognized a pair of heavy shoulders and dismounted and turned the knight over. It was the knight Arnulf, who had spoken of Psin. Tshant pulled his helmet off. Two arrows jutted from the knight’s chest, but he was still alive.

“You and you. Come drag this one out into the open.” Tshant stepped over a body and mounted again. The two Mongols he had pointed to came in and hauled the knight out onto the clean snow.

Baidar said, “No mercy, remember?”

“Kaidu’s arrows killed my standardbearer. He owes me a blood debt. Let the knight pay it.” He dismounted again and watched the two men strip off the knight’s cloak. They broke the arrow shafts and worked the chain mail up over the stumps. The arrows were low. Tshant picked at a scratch on his cheek, wondering where he’d gotten it.

“They missed the lungs,” one of the Mongols working on the knight said. “He’s lucky.”

“Very.” Tshant knelt on the knight’s chest. The man’s eyes flickered open. Tshant took hold of one of the shafts and wrenched it loose. The blood drained out of the knight’s face but he made no sound. When the other came out, with flesh clinging to the triple barbs, the knight fainted.

Tshant looked at the arrowhead. “Mangghut. Do they think they’re killing fish?” He threw the shaft away. The two wounds looked bad, but they were clean and he thought the knight would live. “Baidar. What’s happening?”

Baidar looked off down the field. “Kaidu is still killing the others.”

“How many left?”

“A few hundred.”

Tshant looked down at the knight. The pain had woken him up again. His wide blue eyes were calm, staring up at Tshant’s, and only the white line around his mouth showed that he hurt. Tshant knelt suddenly beside him, put his mouth against the deeper of the two wounds, and sucked at it. The knight did not move. The other Mongols whispered, amazed. Tshant straightened up, spat the blood from his mouth, and went over to his horse. “Bandage him up. You saw what I did. He is mine.”

Baidar said, “Kaidu needs help.”

“Then let’s go help him.”

 

The slow killing went on until well after sundown. Djela wept and hung his belt around his neck, in mourning for Jube; his own wound was festering and Tshant made him soak it in a bowl of wine. In the morning, the knight was brought to him, wearing a Mongol coat. His shoulders were too wide for it, and the cloth strained over his chest. Tshant sent Djela to get Rijart and motioned that the knight should eat. The man sat down and said something quietly in his own tongue and took meat from the pot. Tshant studied him, but it didn’t seem to make the knight uncomfortable.

Rijart trotted up on foot and said, “How may I serve Tshant Bahadur?”

“Is this the man who spoke with my father?”

Rijart sank down and crossed his legs under him. “Yes. His name is Arnulf.” He spoke to the knight in some other language, and the knight answered. “He says he should thank you, but he would rather have died back there with his brothers.”

Djela sat on his heels beside Tshant, staring at the knight. Tshant said to him, “Ask this man if he speaks Russian.”

“Don’t you trust me?” Rijart said.

“I don’t like you.”

Djela smiled at the knight and said something, and the knight looked puzzled. He didn’t understand, obviously, and his eyes moved to Rijart.

“He speaks Arabic,” Rijart said. “Don’t you?”

“No.”

“Your father doesn’t like me either.”

“He probably has the grace not to say so.”

The knight spoke, and Rijart nodded. He swung back to Tshant.

“He says you must be a man of—” His mouth twisted. “Of kindness. There’s no word in Mongol for what he means. Honorable, generous, upright.”

“Tell him I am not.”

“He asks you to kill him. He says if you mean to question him he will kill himself, but that’s a sin, and he would prefer that you kill him, so that he need not blemish his soul more than it is.”

Tshant laughed. “Doesn’t he think he can stay silent under torture?”

While Rijart translated the knight watched Tshant. His smile deepened, and he answered one word. Rijart said, “He says—”

“I can guess. He’s clever. Tell him he won’t be tortured or questioned, but he won’t be killed either. He’s my slave now. Tell him I mean to give him as a present to the man whose name he called before Liegnitz.”

The knight listened expressionlessly. Djela said softly, “To Grandfather?”

Tshant nodded. When Rijart finished, the knight shrugged.

“Did you tell him who I am?”

“No,” Rijart said.

“Tell him.”

Rijart turned toward the knight and said something, including Tshant’s name and Psin’s. The knight jerked his head up and stared at Tshant. Tshant laughed and went off with Djela.

 

Psin let his reins slide through his fingers. His coat was lashed to the cantle of his saddle, and the warm wind rustled his shirt. New leaves in a green fuzz covered the trees around him.

“They’ve got the wagons chained together,” he said.

Mongke nodded. “Interesting. What do you think they’ll try to do?”

“They followed me all the way up here from Pesth, they must mean to fight.” Psin shrugged. The Hungarian army, camped inside its ring of wagons, lay just opposite the only bridge on the big river. There were two rivers here, flowing together just south of the Hungarian camp, and the spring thaw had filled both of them to the tops of their banks. Batu was camped in between them.

“You made it from the mountains to Pesth in three days, I heard,” Mongke said. “That’s fast riding.”

“I follow orders.”

“Excellently. Where is Kadan?”

“Still far to the south.”

“Oh. We’ll have to wait until he gets here, won’t we.”

“Sabotai’s timing is better than that.”

Psin rode down toward the Hungarian camp. Horses filled the marshy pasturage around it, and at the sight of the Mongols a great roar went up inside the wagon-ring. Mongke, jogging stirrup to Psin’s stirrup, said easily, “Do you think they made that wall to keep us out or themselves in?”

“Ask them.” Psin cut around to cross the bridge. They had come over it from Batu’s camp that morning, and the knights hadn’t interfered, but now a number of men in armor burst out of the ring of wagons and started toward the bridge. Psin and Mongke whipped up their horses.

The knights’ great stallions galloped over the sloppy ground, splashing through puddles. Standing in his stirrups Psin tried to figure out which would reach the bridge first—he and Mongke or the knights. He put one hand on his horse’s mane and the horse stretched out, flying over the marsh. The knights yelled and waved their swords.

They were going to get there together. He pulled out his bow and dropped his reins on his horse’s neck. Two knights rode ahead of the others; he could see the spurs flash at their heels. He brought the head of the arrow down to a point just over the leader’s helmet and six strides in front and shot. The arrow screamed in the sky. Mongke yelped happily. The knight rode into the oncoming arrow and pitched to the ground; the man behind him faltered.

They were so close Psin could see the designs on the Hungarians’ cloaks. He chose another arrow. Mongke shot, and the horse of the leading knight stumbled and fell. The Mongol horses strained forward. Psin steered his horse straight for the bridge and nocked an arrow. They charged onto the bridge right under the noses of the Hungarian knights. He and Mongke shot at the same time, and two knights threw their hands to their faces and flew backward off their horses into the marsh. The bridge clattered underhoof.

Mongke cheered. The Hungarians were turning back, slowing their stallions only with difficulty. Psin reined in on the other bank and watched. His horse was barely panting. The Hungarian bits fascinated him; all the stallions ran with their mouths wide open.

Sabotai was waiting for them near the horse herd. He and Batu had caught up with Psin’s tuman three days before, and Psin could see that Sabotai was beginning to fret. He came over and held Psin’s reins while he dismounted. His eyes were full of purpose.

“A courier from Kaidu. They’ve come up to a town called Liegnitz and they expect to fight the last of the Poles—I mean, they have fought them by now. And a dispatch from Baidar, commenting unfavorably on Kaidu’s command. What’s the ground like, west of the Hungarian King’s camp?”

“Flat and no forest. They can run all day without finding a refuge.” Psin sent a slave off to bring him his dun horse.

“Good. Batu’s brother Siban got here while you were gone, with two tumans. We have enough men to take any army on earth. Can we seize that bridge and hold it?”

Psin looked toward the bridge. “Maybe. I don’t like the idea of standing up to their charge.”

“Nor do I, but I want that bridge. I’ve got a few mangonels and catapults built, and they’ve cut wood for a bridge, if we can’t hold this one. Come along. I want to show you what I have in mind.”

 

In the thick, milky darkness it was hard to see. The fog sprang up out of the marsh on the far side of the river. Psin walked back and forth, slapping his hands against his arms; he refused to put his coat on, because it was too warm. Sabotai was watching from the platform behind him.

“They’re across,” Sabotai called. “Here come the Magyars. They’ve got a lot of footsoldiers. I can’t see much.”

The groaning of the bridge came muffled through the fog. Abruptly the harsher, wilder sounds of fighting struck back to them. Psin leapt up onto the platform and strained his eyes. The Mongols who had crossed the river were milling around before it, and a huge detachment of Hungarians on foot pressed against them. A long curved blade flashed in the uncertain moonlight. The manes of horses tossed. The Mongols started yelping.

“They’re losing,” Sabotai said. “Watch.”

A column of knights galloped up toward the bridge, veered, and rammed into the packed Mongols. Psin saw them give way, scurrying back onto the bridge and the bank of the river. A horse neighed on this side of the river, and immediately the whole herd began to whinny. The knights were passing like a wedge through the Mongols. A Hungarian warcry rang out. Psin’s arms ached, and he realized he was tensed as if to fight. The knights were forcing the Mongols back so fast the horses had no chance to brace themselves. Three horses slid down the bank into the river, and the fog covered them.

“Mongke,” Sabotai called. “Bring up the catapults and order out the two tumans under my banner.”

Mongke rode off, shouting. Psin pointed toward the bridge. “They’ve cut off a good half of the column there.”

“Yes.” Sabotai turned to the standardbearer. “Blue lantern, four short. Psin, is the river drowning them?”

“No.” Already Mongols were scrambling up this bank. Their horses shook themselves all up and down the river.

The Hungarians roared triumphantly. A band of footsoldiers ran onto the bridge and chopped at the Mongols there. A burning arrow killed a man in the midst of the infantry, and he made a sort of torch; Psin could see that the Mongols were beaten. They were crammed onto the bridge so tightly they couldn’t move. A horse pitched over the rail and splashed into the river.

The detachment that had been cut off was galloping away from the knights pursuing them. They swerved and rode into the river.

The rear of the column on the bridge, without room to turn their horses, backed off, spun, and rode away to give the others room. The bridge emptied rapidly. With a shout the Hungarian footsoldiers tried to follow, but a shower of arrows drove them back.

Batu cantered up to the platform, soaked through. He bellowed for kumiss and climbed up beside Sabotai. His felt socks squelched when he walked. “We can’t use the speed of our horses this way. Let’s drop back and make them come to us.”

“No,” Sabotai said. “Let’s beat them on their own ground. Psin, can you use powder shells?”

“Yes. I learned about them in China.”

“They’ve left a garrison at their end of the bridge,” Batu said. “I say we wait until daylight, go upriver, and cross there.”

“No,” Sabotai said. “I have half a dozen shells. Here come the catapults.”

“I’ll need half a dozen to find the range,” Psin said.

“All we need is one good hit. Batu, when you’re rested, can you lead another charge?”

“I can lead one now.”

“Not now. Psin. You know what I want done.”

Psin nodded. “Where are the shells?”

“In my artillery cart.” Sabotai jumped from the platform. A slave held his horse ready. “Let’s hope they think we’re licking our wounds. I’ll see you tomorrow, if all goes well.”

He rode away; Mongke was waiting for him, at the head of his two tumans. Lanterns flashed. All the Hungarians but the garrison on the bridge had gone back to their own camp. Psin estimated the garrison at two hundred knights and twice as many infantry. From the splashing along this bank the infantry carried bows.

“What’s going on?” Batu said.

Psin sat down on the edge of the platform, looked at the sky, and shrugged into his coat. “It’s past midnight now. When the moon sets, I’m going to start bombarding the Hungarian end of the bridge. If we can drive them off, you’ll lead all the troops left here across. They’ll come out to meet you. When they do, you must hold them. I’ll give you all the support I can from this side of the river.”

“The powder shells ought to make them flinch.”

“I hope so. If I had fifty of them we need never commit a man against the knights.”

The catapults were coming up; forty men dragged each one to the bank. Psin went over there on foot and sent a passing man for his horse. The catapults were of raw wood, still green, and he could smell the pitch running from the beams. He put his hand on one and got splinters all through his palm.

“Move it toward me a little. A little more. Good.” He dug out the splinters with his teeth. “Hugar, that rope doesn’t look strong.”

“We’re out of rope, Khan.”

“God above. Well, no shells in this one.”

A wagon rumbled up, loaded with stones and wood soaked in naphtha. Psin held his nose. “Make sure you don’t keep torches near the wagons. Put it there. Back farther. Yes.”

His horse came up and he mounted. The dun bucked, but he made it buck in the proper direction. With the spring coming the dun couldn’t be expected to behave. The next catapult was too near the bank, and he made them drag it off a little. The beams groaned; the men around the machine leapt back.

“Put out that torch. No light here, I don’t want them to see. And there’s naphtha in those wagons.” He managed to get the dun behind the catapult and sighted along it. It was aimed roughly into the trees north of the Hungarian camp. “Swing it to my left. And knock the block out from under that front strut.”

Two loose horses ambled over, ears pricked up, and started gnawing on the green wood. Psin shooed them off and they kicked at him. The dun squealed.

“Catch those horses. And nobody is allowed here who isn’t assigned to a catapult. That means you, Berke. Go away.”

Berke snorted and rode off. Two wagons collided neatly and the drovers lashed one another with their whips. The axle on one wagon was broken. Psin ordered men over to help carry it into position. One of the catapults broke while they were hauling it along the bank, and he had the wood chopped up and thrown into the ammunition wagons.

“Now.” He climbed up onto the wagon with the powder shells. “Let’s see what we have here.”

There were eight of the shells, each so heavy he couldn’t lift it. The two halves were bolted together through a heavy collar. From a hole in the collar ran a length of twisted silk. He put his nose close to the hole and sniffed, to make sure there was still powder inside.

Batu shouted, “The moon is setting, damn you.”

Psin stood up straight. “Don’t yell at me. You’re wooing me, remember?”

Batu’s face split into a huge grin. “Please, beloved, may I go fight now?”

“Wait a little.”

The fog was gone, at least, but it was getting colder. He wondered how Tshant was doing. If Tshant were here, he’d feel better about this maneuver. It was more Tshant’s kind of fighting than Batu’s: Batu hated to lose men, but Tshant got his killed faster and dirtier than any other commander, and they loved him for it. The couriers had said that he had force-marched his tuman four days straight in Poland and fought hard at the end of it.

“What are you thinking about?” Batu said.

“My son.” He got down from the wagon and mounted. “I’ll send a slave to you when we’re ready.”

He rode along the line of machines. Only two had dependable ropes, and he had put them closest to the bridge. The Hungarian garrison would realize that something was going on. With luck they wouldn’t look elsewhere. The moon was all gone below the horizon. He got up onto the platform. “Red lanterns up.”

“Do they all know the signals?” the standardbearer said.

“They must. Let’s see.”

The red lanterns ran up the pole, and around the catapults men jumped to load up. “You see? Of course they know the signals.” He sent a slave after Batu. There was a lantern for each of the catapults and a Mongol for each lantern; he walked along in front of them.

“You’re one, you’re two, you’re three, and you’re four. Don’t get confused. If you do, you’ll be beaten. All numbers, white flash.”

The lanterns gleamed. With a yell the engineers pulled their levers. The catapults went off with a rattle and a crash of wood on wood, and splashes erupted out of the river. Psin saw one stone smash into the midst of the garrison.

“Number one. Yellow lantern. Two and four, blue. I didn’t see three. Who saw three?”

“Short and to the south, Khan.”

“Three, red.”

On the Hungarian side of the bridge shouting broke out. Shadows darted back and forth. A volley of arrows thudded into the bank of this side of the river.

“White flash.”

The first catapult went off at once, and stones pelted the Magyars. One rail of the bridge caved in. The second catapult, with a block under its front strut, shot to the right range but well south, and Psin flashed the red lantern for them. The third hit dead center. Hungarians screamed.

“Three, four yellow flashes.”

Hungarians were coming onto the bridge. Their bows were out of range, and they were trying to get closer. Batu and his men were lined up behind Psin’s platform.

“Four is still short. Blue.”

“White flash, Khan?”

“Yes.”

The two engines that were sighted in fired almost together; one shot a powder shell. Psin could see the fuse sparking. He missed four’s shot, watching. The shell exploded behind the Hungarians with a clap of noise and a flash that lit up the whole end of the bridge.

The Hungarians screeched. A herd of them poured off the bridge toward their camp. Psin could hear their officers’ voices, rising, fierce, but the wild retreat plunged on. He whirled and pointed to Batu.

“All engines sighted in, Khan.”

“White flash.”

Another shell burst over the garrison on the bridge, and in the pallid light he saw the shattered bodies and the men struggling to retreat. When the light faded the dark was thick as felt, but another shell exploded immediately. The bridge was deserted.

“All colors, three flashes.”

Batu’s men galloped onto the bridge. It swayed under their weight. Psin could hear the Hungarian trumpets, the pound of drums. Batu, leading the charge, drew his men off to the north a little; the Mongols swept in a shallow curve from the bridge to Batu’s position. Their voices rose.

“Get the naphtha,” Psin said. He jumped down from the platform and ran back and forth along the catapults, realigning them so that they couldn’t hit the Mongols. “Put another block under your struts. Be careful. You’ll blow us all up if you take a torch near those wagons.”

“The Khan wishes.” They grinned at him. He went back to the platform and got up onto it again; it was getting light in the east, and a raw wind blew.

The Hungarians charged straight for Batu’s line. Confidence showed in every move they made. Their warcries were heavy with triumph. All the arrows of the Mongols didn’t turn them back, although they lost men and horses.

“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.