Until the Sun Falls

by Cecelia Holland

  They were catching up with Arnulf. The mare wouldn’t have a chance to go lame. The dun horse trotted along, his ears pricked.

  Tshant said, “Your horse is hard as rock.”

  “He’ll go all day like this.”

  “Do you think it’s the Ferghana incross? “

  “God, no. It’s the steppe pony. You remember that black stallion of mine—the one with the bald face and the white patch behind the girth? This horse is linebred back to him. All the black’s foals had bottom. I should never have given him to Temujin.”

  “When the Ancestor asked—”

  “He never asked. He told me. I warned him the black would never throw white foals, but he said if necessary he’d paint them white. He rode a colt by that black during the campaign he died on. It was a red bay, bright as blood, with no white hair on him. Beautiful black points. Arnulf’s almost within bowshot.”

  Tshant turned and called to the others, “Don’t hurt him. The Khan wants to talk to him.”

  They spread out again. Arnulf looked back, saw them, and turned his horse. Facing them, he waited. In his hands he carried a long stick, like a lance. Moonlight flashed on the tip. Psin frowned. The stick he must have cut from the trees beside the river; he’d tied his dagger to it. Psin pulled out his bow and an arrow.

  “Arnulf,” he called. “Surrender to me, and you’ll get nothing but a whipping.”

  Arnulf said nothing. He raised his head. In the silver light his hair gleamed. He sat the bay mare like a knight, not like a Mongol; his stirrup leathers were let down so that his legs were almost straight, and he carried his head and shoulders back. Psin nocked his arrow.

  The knight lowered his lance and held it out before him, with the butt clamped between his elbow and his side. Psin heard him click his tongue to the bay horse, and the bay burst into a gallop, headed straight for Psin. Psin threw one hand out to keep Tshant and the others from doing anything. The bay charged down on him. When the horse was so close he could not doubt his aim, he shot Arnulf in the chest.

  The knight flew out of the saddle and rolled over once in the crisp grass. Psin rode to him. The knight lay on his back, one knee drawn up. His hands were locked around the arrow shaft.

  “You’re a fool,” Psin said.

  The knight muttered something in Latin and smiled. He shut his eyes. The arrow trembled in his chest. His mouth slipped open, and the arrow stood still. Psin dismounted and bent to make sure he was dead. He took the arrow by the shaft, put his foot on the knight’s chest, and tore the head out of the wound.

  “Go home,” Tshant said to the other men.

  They rode off. Psin threw the knight’s body over the empty saddle and lashed it tight. They started back, more slowly to the others to let them get ahead. Tshant was fretting.

  Abruptly, he said, “How can we rule these people?”

  “I don’t know,” Psin said.

  A few days before the winter solstice, Sabotai called up six tumans and prepared to cross the Danube; on the other side, there were four or five Hungarian towns still untaken. Psin went up to meet him to talk about reconnaissance. The vicious wind had made ripples in the scarred ice of the river. The whole army shivered around its fires.

  On the day Sabotai had meant to cross, it began to snow. The three thousands already on the ice scurried back to the Mongol bank. Sabotai swore and postponed the crossing until the next day, but on the next day the snow continued to fall. Psin, who was not crossing, sat wrapped in his sable cloak and smiling listened to Sabotai’s soft cursing.

  “Laugh all you want to,” Sabotai said. “The word’s all over Hungary that you are supporting Batu for the Khanate.”

  “That’s not so. He asked me, and I told him I would think about it.”

  “What has he offered you?”

  “Nothing much.”

  “What precisely?”

  “I won’t tell you. He let it out, not I. Ask him.”

  “I did. He wouldn’t say. Tell me.”

  “I’ve forgotten.”

  Sabotai gnawed his thumbnail, and the snow pounded the yurt.

  Water dripped in through the smoke hole. Psin lay back. “I’m leaving within five days.”

  “Where for?”

  “On my reconnaissance.”

  “Oh, yes. Well, do whatever you feel is necessary. Tell me what—”

  “No.”

  “Damn you.” The wind howled suddenly, and he ducked, but the yurt only shook a little. “This weather is terrible.”

  “They say such storms are common, this early in the winter. Later on it gets better.”

  “All right. Yes. You’re going to follow the upper part of the Danube west to some stinking German city.”

  Psin nodded. “The merchants I’ve spoken to say there’s a plain beyond it we could graze our herds on. I’ll scout as far as I can.”

  “How many men are you taking?”

  “Five hundred and Mongke.”

  “I know Mongke’s going. You’ll need more men.”

  Psin shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “What’s the name of that city?”

  “Vienna. Beyond it there are more. I’ll try to capture prisoners for information.”

  Batu crowded in through the door; snow blew after him into a furrow on the carpet. “Someone play chess with me.”

  “Not I,” Sabotai said. “You’ve beaten me too often.”

  Psin turned his head toward the back of the yurt and bellowed for Tshant. Batu said, “Ah. I wondered where he was.” Tshant came out, yawning as if he had been asleep. Through the tail of his eye he gave Psin a piercing look. Psin pretended not to notice. Batu, talking happily, set up his chess board and men, and Tshant without a word sat down across from him.

  It snowed for two days more. Sabotai was entertaining all through—he ranted, beat his fists on the ground, stared gloomily into the swirling grey and white storm, and refused to eat. Djela played chess with Batu and lost only narrowly, while Batu cheered his every good move and explained why the bad ones were bad. He mentioned to Tshant that he had a little granddaughter just Djela’s age, and Djela’s mouth fell open. Tshant said that while his younger brother was unmarried Djela could not be pledged.

  “But don’t give her to someone else,” he said. “Sidacai has to marry someday.”

  “We might take care of that,” Batu said, smiling.

  On the fifth day, at last, the sky cleared. From the door of the yurt the east bank of the river was a series of tiny hills; except for the dark circles around their smoke holes the yurts were covered with snow. A few horses stood in the lee of Sabotai’s yurt, eating the hay dumped there. Pale as ice, the sun shone through a double ring, and the wind moaned over the crusted snow.

  “It’s going to get colder,” Mongke said.

  They roused their five hundred and pulled off to the north of the main army. Already a full tuman was riding up and down the far banks, bows ready. Occasionally the wind lifted the snow like a veil and hid the army from their sight. Sabotai was crossing his baggage trains.

  “Let’s go,” Psin said. He turned to the standardbearer. “Black banner.”

  His men shouted. They started off at a jog, forging through the heavy drifts beside the river. From the army crossing came a bellow of a cheer, and Psin’s men cheered back. The sun grew stronger, and the rings around it faded.

  “Kadan is chasing the King of the Hungarians,” Psin said. “He’ll cover our southern flank. In the north ...”

  “After the pounding they took last winter they won’t attack us,” Mongke said.

  “Don’t be so sure. These are strange people.”

  “Yes. I hear you lost your German slave.”

  “He ran away, and I had to kill him.”

  Mongke said nothing. Their horses heaved themselves through a drift and came out on a place swept almost clear by the wind. “What are you thinking about?” Psin said.

  “That if your German had been a Mongol h
e wouldn’t have been as… good.” Mongke looked up quickly. “Do you follow me?”

  “As good for what?”

  Mongke grinned. “I’ve forgotten what I was thinking about. Never mind.”

  “Bad habit.”

  “Not really.”

  They rode all that day; at sundown they reached the outskirts of Pesth—the rubble buried under the snow, only a remnant of a wall and a wrecked tower to show where the city was. Across the river was another city, far smaller. Lights burnt all around it. Probably they were waiting for the Mongol attack. Psin let his men camp in the lee of the wall. They had to dig the snow away, and the horses had trouble foraging. In the morning they continued on north.

  Just after noon, Mongke said, “What has Batu promised you?”

  “For what?”

  “To help elect him Kha-Khan. He’s offering us all something. I’m to have southern China, which is kind of him since we don’t hold it yet.”

  Batu was fond of giving away things he didn’t have. Psin said, “He’s ready to provide all my children and grandchildren with wives of his own blood.”

  “Did you agree?”

  “I said I’d think about it.”

  Mongke was staring at his horse’s ears. He reached forward and brushed part of its mane over to the right side. “I shouldn’t think he’d try to purchase you so cheaply. Indeed, did he try so cheap? If I ever aspire to the Khanate I shall have to draw up a list of the men I need and how much will buy them.”

  “Do you aspire?”

  “Not now. I’m too young. Maybe. But it’s locked into Ogodai and his bone, and… only drunkards might raise their eyes so far, it would seem.”

  “Batu is no drunkard.”

  Mongke grinned. “Batu will never be the Kha-Khan, either. Will he.”

  Psin looked away.

  Just before dark, the river started to cut to the west. Psin knew this stretch of country well, because his section lay just east of it, and he took them to a good campground, where the snow was only a finger deep and the grass was still good. West of this he had never been. He had spoken to Arnulf about it once, but Arnulf had told him very little. He was surprised to find that thinking about Arnulf unsettled him even now. The merchants said that the hills started a few days’ ride up the river, and that there were parts—waterfalls— that never froze. They said the hills became mountains. Psin began to worry about ambush and sent out scouts and a small vanguard.

  All that day and the next it was bitter cold. Storm clouds flew across the sky into the south, and the damp wind sliced through even Psin’s sable cloak. When they camped at night their hands inside their gloves were so cold that they couldn’t undo their girths until the fires were lit and their fingers warmed. Several men, chopping wood, cut their hands to shreds and didn’t notice until they saw the blood on the snow.

  By sunset of the second day after the river had begun to bend, they were within sight of low hills to the west. North lay plain, and to the northeast, in the distance, were mountains with snowcaps. Tshant and Baidar had come south from Poland by this route; they said north of the Carpathians was only a great plain.

  Mongke said, “It can’t be colder than the Gobi.”

  “It’s not. Just wetter.” Psin crouched beside the fire, trying to keep all of himself warm. “Tomorrow, I think, we’ll start meeting people.”

  “How pleasant. Why do you think so?”

  “There are villages and forts all through those hills. This used to be a boundary. I don’t want any fighting. If we see anything hostile, we’ll run.”

  “I’m good at running,” Mongke said. He gnawed on a hard piece of bread.

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  During the night Psin woke fifteen or twenty times; his nose was cold, and nothing he did kept it warm. If he buried it in his cloak he couldn’t breathe. If he cupped his hands over his face, his hands as well as his nose got cold. If he lay close to the fire his mustaches and his hair began to singe. He was so glad to see the eastern sky grow light that he leapt up, put on an extra pair of socks, and walked around the camp to check on the horses.

  They were all huddled together, tails to the wind, and marks in the snow showed how hard they’d worked to get grass. He dug down and plucked some stems of grass and tasted it. It was poor fodder. When he started through the hills it would be worse. He squinted toward the west. Pine trees covered the slopes; white patches, like scars, were scattered through the forest. Those would be meadows. A hawk was gliding across the sky above the hills. He went back and got the camp moving.

  When they rode out he broke the band into five columns, sent one under Mongke’s commander across the river to ride the far bank, and told the other three to ride north certain distances and turn west. Mongke’s column crossed the ice before the sun was entirely up and jogged along the far bank, even with Psin’s column. The two white banners floated back with the speed of the standardbearers’ horses. Most of the men around Psin smeared their faces with grease against the cold. The quick jog was warming them all up. On the leadline the dun horse tried a twisting buck, and the other three horses shied away from him.

  The hills humped up before them, pinching the river. Mongke sent three men out ahead—one rode slightly south of west. Birds screamed in the trees when Psin’s men rode under them.

  The wind was howling out of the north. Psin worked his hands inside his gloves. One half the sky was cloud, grey and dark grey-blue, the other half was clear, and the line where the two met was straight as a bowstring.

  As soon as they were into the hills, Mongke’s column swerved away from the river and rode after the scout who had gone southwest. Hills hid them from sight. Psin swung his column around a great lump of a hill and swerved right back to the river bank. The ice looked unsafe here.

  He saw signs of people living around here—smoke, bent under the wind, rising two hills to the north, and traps laid out under the trees. He wondered what they caught—beaver, perhaps, or hares. Two of his men dashed off into the forest and returned almost at once, laughing, with two hares each swinging from their saddles. Psin rode over and looked at them; the hares were big, well-muscled, and by the softness of their ears only yearlings.

  “Take one,” the two men said.

  “I’m a Mongol. I eat gruel.” He made a face and they laughed.

  All morning, while they rode, men darted away to rob traps. The thought of meat made Psin’s mouth water. He had never liked hare but he was beginning to develop a taste for it.

  The river curved around to the north, and he reined in. There was a ford in the deepest part of the curve, smothered with snow, and ahead the ground was too even. Hills crowded down on the far bank and the edge of the flat ground. He rode to it, dismounted, and kicked away the snow. The ground was cut into semi-circles, thousands of them, and he nodded. This was a road. When he looked at the river ahead, he was sure that there was a village or a fort just around the bend.

  “Bows up,” he shouted. He mounted again. “And we’ll go through at a dead gallop, if you can work it out of your horses.”

  They jeered at him. He put his horse into a lope and pushed it steadily up into a flat run. Where the ground was frozen under the snow it was slippery, and he held the horse short to steady it. His remounts strung out behind him, caroming into one another. They veered around a horn of rock and into a meadow, and on the hill behind the meadow stood a tower.

  The Mongols yelled; from the tower high-pitched voices answered. Psin threw his leadrope to a passing man and jerked his horse to a stop. His men charged by behind him. He could see people in the tower windows—red and gold banners flew from its peak. The tower was of stone, block on block, without ornament or ledge. Only one gate cut the wall, and that was bound in iron.

  Abruptly the gate clanged open, and knights galloped out. Psin’s men were already out of sight, riding along the river. He spun his horse and raced after them. The knights shouted in a language he had never heard. He used his whi
p on his horse. Dropping the rein, he nocked an arrow and shot it, and the lead knight’s horse leapt violently to one side. The sun flashed on the armor. Psin’s horse leaned into a turn. Its knees drove frantically. Ahead, the other Mongols were waiting beside the river, poised to gallop off again. He gestured to them to keep going, and they whirled and streamed along the riverbank.

  The knights pounded after. The ground was rough and rocky, but every few strides the Mongols would turn and shoot back. When the knights raised their shields they aimed for the horses. Psin felt the road veer north and shouted ahead, and the column swung to follow the road. Only a few knights still clung to their trail, far back, and when the Mongols turned away from the river the knights stopped and went back home.

  Psin called a halt and they let their horses blow. The pine-covered hills made a fence all around them, with the road clear even under the snow. South, behind and above the hills, he could see the indistinct heights of mountains rimmed with snow. His horses pawed for grass and got only a few mouthfuls, full of thorns.

  “Bad graze,” someone said.

  “Let them eat the pine bark when we stop.”

  He remembered riding back from Khwaresm with Temujin, when they had beaten Muhammed Shah; Temujin had wanted to find a way home through the mountains that lay east of Khwaresm and southwest of the Chinese. They had ridden through a clear cold valley and onto a high ridge, and there they had seen the mountains waiting for them, rock on rock like the knights’ tower, but endless, illimitable, rearing up their sheer faces to the sun, ridged and mortared in snow. Temujin had turned back.

  The mountains to the south, the Alps…

  But ahead there were no mountains, only more of the shaggy hills. He led his men on and listened to the scouts from the north report on the whereabouts and condition of other roads.

  They camped that night in the pines, made low fires, and banked them as soon as their dinners were cooked. With the trees to hold back the wind it wasn’t so cold. The horses chewed on the trees, eating young needles and the bark. Sentries kept watch from the upper branches. At moonrise, Mongke and six of his men rode in and reported; they were camped just across the river.