Although Ogodei had dispatched some Mongol princes to Europe, the Khaqan prioritized war with the Song Dynasty in China. Batu had thanked him for his lukewarm support but he kept the Mongol princes engaged at the borders of Rus, away from the main arena of war, so they would not get much credit for any victory.
“There are lush green lands to the west and north of Europe. Farther up, we can reach the Atlantic Ocean,” Subutai said as the others stared at the unfamiliar terrain. The words he used sounded just as unfamiliar to the group that had gathered around the outstretched map. They did not know much about Europe or all the strange-sounding names Subutai uttered. They only trusted him as the war planner who had led so many missions victoriously.
“What is an Atlantic Ocean?” one of the officers asked.
“It is water as far as the eye can see and beyond it, the world ends,” Subutai replied.
The imminence of war got Wiktor thinking in a new direction just days after Krisztina’s rejection. The fog of pain and confusion in his mind was clearing up enough to renew his will to fight. He would probably mourn his loss for the rest of his life, but at least the intensity of pain would gradually subside. Wiktor began to think about the enemy, and he found the thought comforting. What is the weakness of this group of very determined warriors? The Mongols have come from a cold climate, like that of Europe. They are fewer in number, but they have greater mobility and resolve. With that thought, he closed his eyes for much-needed rest after many sleepless nights.
At midnight, he woke up with a jolt. “Rise, rise,” his commander shouted. “The castle is under attack.”
With fierce determination, Wiktor donned his suit of armor that consisted of a tunic and leggings of chain mail, as well as iron plates. He put a surcoat on top. Before wearing his head and neck gear, he wiped from his mind earlier thoughts of eternal unhappiness, drinking the potion of vengeance instead. Routing out the savages could become his salvation. It felt good to think about the Mongols, about the enemy. Maybe they too had loved ones who had cheated them. Maybe that’s why they had come, fighting against tangible forces rather than dealing with complicated, intangible ones.
He would take his rage, unfulfilled hopes, fury at his dire destiny to his foes. He may have lost the love of his life, but they would not take away his beloved homeland. No man, no devil from another world would see their dream of ruling Poland come true. Rage gave him superhuman zeal, frustration strengthened his determination, the pain he had suffered made him feel immune to all ills and injustices, and thus he took part in the battle to save the castle. His audacity and gallantry strengthened the resolve of his compatriots. Once in full gear, they charged toward the castle, like an impenetrable wall of steel.
The faces and appearances of the Mongol warriors with their straight raven-black hair, large front teeth, wide nostrils, long mustaches that reached beyond their chins, and rough leather garments were unlike anything the Poles had seen before. The rumors were true: here indeed stood the army of Satan. Wiktor advanced firm and fearless.
From a safe distance, the Mongols propelled boulders at the castle after drenching them in naphtha and setting them on fire. Boulders smashed into the stone walls, and soon the entire structure was engulfed in flames. Occupants of the castle, aristocrats and laborers alike, fled to the farthest corners of a cellar down below. This route the High Duke had not disclosed to the fake ambassador. As they fled, they locked the multiple doors that were put in place long ago for their protection.
“The devils have brought dragons with them that spew fire and smoke from their mouths.” A Teutonic knight spoke amid the crowd rushing toward the cellar, “Using that cover of smoke, they attacked us blindly, but knowing where each soldier stood prior to the dragon exhaling the fumes, they knew exactly where to hit and whence to dodge, but we knew not where they stood or when the dragon would strike us.”
“May the devil strike them with infernal fire,” another knight of the order of Templars spoke, making all heads turn in the direction of his voice. The two knights stood on top of a staircase protecting those seeking shelter down below. “I have found one of their bows. They bend their bows against its natural grain, giving it far superior strength than that of ours.”
Wiktor’s words put out the flames of superstition as he declared out loud, “There are no dragons. They have learned the art of these incendiaries from God knows where.” Then whispered to himself, the Mongols will regret this, as they climbed from the back entrance of the castle, hidden from view, to reach the upper levels. He asked his comrades to bring as many pails of water as they could carry to put out the flames.
The Mongol warriors had entered the unknown territories as if blindfolded. They had to rely on their instincts to lead the way. At times, they were hindered by the thickening fog as they went on fighting in inclement weather, during a snowstorm or in torrential rain. However, only the fear of thunderstorms made every Mongol warrior tremble.
Earlier that day, Dark clouds like large gray whales had come together in the frenzy of a thunderstorm. In a sudden strike of lightning that the Europeans attributed to a blessing from heaven, and the Mongols to a sign that the spirit world was against them, the sky lit in jagged streaks of light and a roaring thunder announced a much-needed downpour. The incessant showers that followed put out the flames in no time.
A Mongol arrow targeted the heart of the Polish Commander. He fell several stories down and hit the stone pavement motionless. Wiktor instinctively took charge. He believed they had enough men to outnumber the cold-hearted and senseless enemy. He decided that they would open the gates of the castle and attack them head-on, realizing that in a long-distance confrontation, the Polish fighters were sure to be defeated. He led the men outdoors, leaving a small number to fight the remaining flames. In a twist to the conventional ways of war-making, he ordered his men to surround the enemy and attack from every angle. His chivalry urged the reluctant warriors to hold their ground.
His horse, wearing the cold, heavy armor, moved far slower than the agile steeds of the enemy. A metal shield covered the horse’s face and a single metal horn placed between his ears made it look like a unicorn. Wiktor imagined it to be so. His steed could fly and strike such fears in the hearts of the barbarians that they would regret ever having set foot upon their land. He also imagined the man who had challenged him in love before him, and he fought like life didn’t matter to him, and it didn’t. He rushed into the enemy lines like a madman. He screamed at his foes, his voice loud, his determination unfaltering. “This is my land,” he cried, “and I will not tolerate invaders.” As if saying, this is my woman and no one else can have her.
Colors blurred before his eyes as the glitter of shiny metals met leather, flesh, and bones. The combat so close, Mongols and Poles breathed the same air, both sides young, flags separating them as enemies, brave heart against brave heart.
Chapter Six
The Pond
As the rain subsided, a blinding smoke rose over the field. The scene disappeared in the mist. Here and there an arrow would pierce the thickening cloud, or a sword would slash a limb. Screams of pain followed, but to charge against the enemy was futile. The Mongols, on the other hand, knowing full well the location of each knight, attacked despite the fumes; their leather attire remaining almost unseen while that of their enemies glittered.
“All we have to do now is push them toward the Pond to achieve victory,” Wiktor’s voice rose. His men congregated around him upon hearing his voice, though they could not see him.
When the castle was constructed a century earlier, a thin layer of soil was spread on an unstable wooden surface that covered a neck ditch. The castle guards called this area, covered with grass, “The Pond.” Everyone familiar with the environs of the castle knew to avoid it.
When a few of the Mongols attacking from the left flank staggered and fell into the ditch, the others realized a trap was
set for them. The resumption of the lightning and thunder they feared more than anything signaled the warriors to retreat. A few of their bravest men remained fighting the Poles as the others fled.
Droplets of blood had splattered on Wiktor’s shield. A lance had wounded the leg of his horse. War had taken its toll on his foes, but somehow, he did not feel victorious. With the battle over and the flames of the castle put out, Wiktor realized that the flames within him had not subsided. Victory against the foreign enemy had distracted him for a while but had not brought relief. The thirst for vengeance had prompted him to fight the Mongols with every ounce of his power. And now that the enemy had retreated, he had no other goals to pursue. He could not take revenge upon Krisztina, for he loved her too much, and the fact that she had betrayed him had not changed his devotion to her.
That evening Wiktor received Poland’s greatest honor, and he was knighted. But there was no smile on his lips, no pride in his eyes, no gratification in his heart. Young, beautiful damsels in robe-like attires of imported Chinese silk, wearing the jewels of India and Persian perfumes, smiled at him, suggestively. But did he care? How could he ever trust a woman again? All he hoped for was to extricate himself from the castle. The monarch too regretted what he had done, for the lad he had belittled had now become the greatest hero in Poland.
Just like the night when the castle received the dignitaries from Kievan Rus, Krisztina played the lyre. Wiktor used to like the sound of her instrument. But that night, as she softly strummed the keys, it pained him to watch her fingers. She played beautifully as if pouring her emotions into every note. The guests at the reception were transfixed by the tantalizing melody. No one spoke or made a move until she struck the last chord. A few clapped. Then all rose in unison to give her a standing ovation.
When she looked up from her instrument, he gazed at her for only a moment then turned away, keeping his focus on the words of the High Duke. Wiktor noticed the tears in her eyes, yet he knew there was no turning back. They had lost each other forever. At the end of the royal speech in his honor, he left that intolerable scene for the chilly outdoors.
“I have abided by the rules of religion and chivalry,” he cried out loud when he found himself alone upon the road that led away from the castle. “I have risked my life to save Christendom, but neither faith nor destiny have saved me from the bottomless pit into which I have fallen. We kill those who profess other faiths, even though their conviction in theirs is no less than our devotion to ours. Now that my hour of trial has come, I see more sympathy in my enemy’s eyes than I do in the eyes that I have cherished more than my own life. My beloved has chosen another man for a mate, and thus my fate is sealed. My days have turned into nights, my nights into endless grief. I pick up my sword to slaughter the heathens, but I know not why. I sometimes wonder if they have a loved one who awaits their return, while I have no one to return to.”
News of the Mongols’ defeat spread like wildfire, and the following day a group gathered in the main square. Music and laughter could be heard for miles around. Town criers pronounced victory throughout the land and sounded special horns known as cornu as the glad tiding of triumph at war. The evil ones had fled. Poland was safe. Celebrations ensued. Strangers hugged one another like long lost relatives. People totally unrelated to each other danced together in joy.
“We have been spared,” a man shouted. “The Horsemen of the Apocalypse have decided to return to their derelict homeland,” shouted another man. A woman giggled as she tapped her feet on the floor, enticing the others to dance. A man dressed himself in Mongol costume, darkened his face with brown ink and riding a fake horse, took his bizarre act to the main square. The crowd stood gaping at the spectacle. People laughed and shouted obscenities at him, showering the fake foe with insults and ridicule.
Soon the sounds of jubilation turned into chants of victory as if Poland had won ultimate triumph over the Mongols. Instead of preparing for the forthcoming battles, crowds of people danced merrily, joyfully pirouetting to rhythmic tunes. They held hands and sang melodies that filled their hearts with pride and pleasure. In the midst of the ongoing revelry, people remained unaware that only a small contingent of the vast Mongol army had been deployed to wreak havoc at the castle, and the larger forces were approaching Legnica.
The white flags of Poland bearing large red crosses waved happily in the wind upon every rooftop. But one man remained aloof; one man to whom Poland owed its temporary triumph. Wiktor, returned with a heavy heart to his lonely abode, a small cottage not far from the castle. Krisztina’s eyes haunted him still, her voice remained in his ears, and his heart ached for her even more so when he saw others rejoicing in the streets. As bells tolled victory in Poland, Krisztina was carried off by Prince Mstislav to a land under siege by the Mongols.
Chapter Seven
The Prisoner
As Reyhan reached for her quill pen, she heard a knock. “Come in,” she said without turning, expecting one of her chambermaids. It surprised her to see Baako at the door. He was now an old man, and the snow of age had settled upon his once black curls.
“I need to speak with you, my lady,” he said as he entered, and Reyhan offered him a seat. “There is a woman among the prisoners of war brought here from Europe. Her hair is the color of autumn leaves drenched in the rays of the sun and her eyes like a cloudless morning sky.”
Long familiar with the flowery language of Baako, Reyhan asked, “Do you know where exactly in Europe she came from?”
“No, but her clothing of silk and hand-woven lace, the color of ripe persimmons, is stained in parts and torn in others, yet; the quality of her attire bespeaks her royal lineage. Her appearance shows marks of the treacherous treatment she has suffered during her journey, and they have placed her in chains.”
“Were you able to talk to her to learn more about her circumstances?”
“No, my lady, I do not know her language, and neither does she mine, though she knows that I am a slave as she is now. I asked the woman from the territories of the Rus . . . what is her name, the one who said she owned an eatery there and is now a cook in the Mongol court?”
“You mean Shura?” Reyhan asked.
“Yes. She was able to speak with her, for the poor girl is partially familiar with that tongue.”
“I will ask Hulagu to release her from bondage. He is the only one among us whose words the prison guards abide by. Oh, and bring Shura here. I need to speak with her.”
Baako lingered by the door. When Reyhan looked at him inquiringly, he said, “I am afraid there is another unfortunate matter, my lady. The Grand Duke of Kiev and his companions were killed by the Mongols in a bloodless fashion, supposedly honoring their rank in society. The victorious Mongols placed the wooden door of the castle over the handcuffed noblemen and crushed them to death as the Mongol officers feasted upon the door, using it as a makeshift table. Sometimes one wishes for a bloody death.”
Unable to hear more, Reyhan raised her hand in a gesture to stop Baako from providing further details. Baako left but quickly returned accompanied by Shura who lost no time in explaining the condition of the prisoner.
“Her name is Krisztina, Madam. She asked me where the hell, pardon my language, Madam, I am just quoting, where the hell is this place they have brought me to. I told her it was Mongolia and that she should be very respectful when referring to that name. I also reminded her that she needs to bow before Mongol officers and dignitaries. And what does she do? She gave me the dirtiest look that anyone ever gave me.”
“Did she say anything about her family or where she came from?”
“Yes, indeed the girl is the niece of some king in Poland betrothed to Prince Mas . . . Mastis . . . Mstislav of Kiev. As she left Poland for Kievan Rus, sitting next to her betrothed in a carriage with her younger sister accompanying them, a unit of Mongol cavalrymen attacked them, taking her prisoner.” Shura added that she had
learned the particulars of Krisztina’s abduction from Mongol warriors returning from the fronts.
“Mongols attempted to steal away the girl’s younger sister as well, who was but a child of no more than thirteen,” Shura continued,” but the valiant Kievan Prince, as is the tradition among all men from my part of the world, drew his sword to save the child.”
Shura seemed too overwhelmed to concentrate.
“Did he save the child?” Reyhan asked.
“O’ Madam, they ended up killing the Kievan Prince, and unfortunately the young girl got killed during the scuffle. The older sister, meaning the prisoner, did not see the fight for she was carried away before it happened.”
“Have you disclosed anything to Krisztina about the fate of her sister and her betrothed?” Reyhan asked, some part of her reliving how she herself was ripped away from her family.
“No, Madam; I was not sure whether I should tell her in her state of distress.”
“Please do inform her that Prince Mstislav no longer lives but spare her the gruesome details. Also, do keep the news of her sister’s death from her. It is too much at once. Anyway, that matter can be brought to her attention when she is stronger and can bear the sad news.” She paused. “Tell her that her younger sister had a chance to flee the scene.”
Reyhan spared not a moment after her conversation with Shura. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and hurried toward Hulagu’s residence. The Mongol Prince, surprised to see Reyhan flustered, asked her the cause.
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