‘He is no threat,’ Yao Shu went on, as if Temuge had not spoken. ‘You could banish him from the khanate, send him far away like any wanderer.’
‘Yes, send him far away,’ Torogene said. She was shaking, Temuge saw.
Temuge felt Sorhatani’s gaze on him and he took a long, slow breath, knowing his life hung in her hands.
‘No, Torogene,’ she said at last. ‘Such a thing should be punished. He would not have shown mercy to us.’
She waited while Temuge swore and struggled, allowing Torogene the decision. Torogene shook her head and walked away, her eyes brimming.
‘Give him over to Alkhun,’ Sorhatani said.
Temuge shouted for help, suddenly desperate as he writhed against the grip that kept him helpless as a child.
‘I was there when we found you in the forests, monk!’ he spat. ‘It was I who brought you back to Genghis. How can you let my nephew’s whore rule over you?’
‘Tell Alkhun to make it quick,’ Sorhatani said. ‘I can do that much for him.’
Yao Shu nodded and she walked away, leaving the pair alone. Temuge crumpled as he heard footsteps approach and saw Alkhun come out of the sunlight into the shadowed cloister.
‘You heard it?’ Yao Shu said.
The minghaan’s eyes were furious as he took his own grip on Temuge’s shoulders, feeling the thin bones of an old man
through the cloth.
‘I heard,’ he said. He had a long knife in his hand.
‘Damn you both,’ Temuge said. ‘Damn you both to hell.’
Temuge began to weep as he was dragged back into the sunshine.
By the second day after the night attack, Bela’s men had repaired the sandbag walls with broken carts and saddles from dead horses. His archers were on permanent alert, but they were already dry and gasping. There was barely enough water for a single swallow in the morning and evening for each man. The horses were suffering and Bela was desperate. He rested his chin on the rough canvas of a bag, staring out over the Mongol army that had camped nearby. They of course had access to the river and as much water as they could drink.
As he gazed out across the grassland, Bela struggled with despair. He no longer considered the reports from the north to be exaggerated. The Mongol general had far fewer men, but they had routed the superior force in a display of manoeuvre and tactics that made him burn. For the rest of that appalling first day, Bela had expected an all-out assault on the camp, but it had not come. He felt trapped there, crushed in among so many men and horses that they could hardly move. He could not understand why they had not come, unless they took some perverse pleasure in seeing a king die of thirst. They were not even threatening the camp and had moved back far beyond arrow range. Bela could just make out their movements in the distance. It gave a false sense of security to see them so far away. He knew from reports and his own bitter experience that they could move at incredible speed if they wanted.
Von Thuringen left a conversation with his knights to approach. The man had shed his armoured breastplate, revealing scarred arms and a quilted jerkin, stained and filthy. Bela could smell the sweat and blood on him still. The marshal’s face was stern and Bela could hardly meet his eyes as Von Thuringen bowed stiffly.
‘One of my men thinks he’s found a way out of this,’ Von Thuringen said.
King Bela blinked. He had been praying for salvation, but the answer to prayers seemed unlikely in the huge bearded man before him, still matted with someone else’s blood.
‘What is it?’ Bela said, standing up and squaring his shoulders under the knight’s scrutiny.
‘Easier to show you, your majesty,’ Von Thuringen replied.
Without another word, he turned and pushed his way through the mass of horses and men. Bela could only follow, his irritation growing.
It was not a long journey, though the king was buffeted among the men and barely avoided being knocked down as a horse reared. He followed Von Thuringen to another section of wall and looked in the direction the marshal pointed.
‘See there, three of my men?’ Von Thuringen said flatly.
King Bela peered over the wall and saw three knights who had removed their armour, yet still wore the tabards of yellow and back that marked their order. They were standing in full view of the sandbag walls, but Bela saw how the land dipped before rising to the Mongol camp. There was a ridge there that ran west. Hope leapt in him as he considered the possibilities.
‘I couldn’t risk horses in daylight, but in darkness, every man here could ride out below that ridge. With a bit of luck and if they keep their heads down, the Mongols will find an empty camp tomorrow morning.’
Bela bit his lip, suddenly terrified of leaving the fragile safety of the camp.
‘There is no other way?’ he asked.
Von Thuringen drew his brows together, so that his eyebrows met.
‘Not without a supply of water. Not without a much larger camp and materials for the walls we need. We’re crammed so tight in here, we’d be worse than useless if they attacked. Be thankful they haven’t yet realised our weakness, your majesty. God has shown us the way, but it is your order to give.’
‘Can we not defeat them in battle, Von Thuringen? Surely there is room to form up on the field?’
The marshal of the Teutonic Knights took a breath to control his anger. He was not the one who supposedly knew the lands around the Sajo river. His men could never have predicted a ford just a couple of miles downstream. The blame for the appalling losses was at the feet of the king, not his knights. It was all Von Thuringen could do to remain civil.
‘Your majesty, my knights would follow you to death. The rest, well, they are frightened men. Take this chance and let us get away from this damned camp. I will find another place where we can take revenge on the goatherders. Forget the battle, your majesty. A campaign is not lost because of a single bad day.’
King Bela stood, working a ring on his hand round and round. Von Thuringen waited impatiently, but eventually the king nodded.
‘Very well. As soon as it’s dark enough, we go.’
Von Thuringen turned away, already issuing the orders to the men around him. He would organise the retreat, hoping that no Mongol scout wandered too close to the ridge that night.
As soon as the sun set, Von Thuringen gave the order to leave the camp. The final hours had been spent wrapping cloth around hooves to silence them, though the ground was soft enough. The Teutonic Knights supervised the first men who crept out in darkness and began to walk their mounts beneath the ridge, their hearts pounding at the thought of a shout from the enemy. It did not come and they moved quickly. The knights were the last out of the camp, leaving it abandoned in the moonlight.
Von Thuringen could see the Mongol campfires in the distance and he smiled wearily at the thought of them finding the camp empty in the morning. He had spoken the truth to the king. The losses had been grievous, but there would be other days. Even if he accomplished nothing more than finding a good field for battle, it would offer better odds than dying of thirst behind sandbags.
As the night wore on, Von Thuringen lost track of the mass of men ahead of him. The first miles were an agony of suspense, but once the camp was far behind, the lines stretched out into a long trail of men over many miles as the faster ones outpaced the injured and slow. Even his knights felt it, a feverish desire to put some real distance between them and the Mongol army.
The marshal of the Teutonic Knights ached from the battering he had taken. Von Thuringen knew his flesh would be a colourful mass of bruises under his armour from arrow strikes. There was already blood in his urine. As he rode in the darkness, he considered what he had seen and did not enjoy the conclusions. There was another reason to preserve the Magyar army to fight again. If the reports from the north were true, they were the last army between Hungary and France that had a chance of stopping the Mongol invasion. The very thought appalled him. He had never thought to see such a threat in his lifetime. T
he nobles of Russia should have torn the enemy to pieces, yet they had failed and seen their cities burn.
King Louis of France would have to be told, Von Thuringen thought sourly. More importantly, the struggle for power between the Pope and the Holy Roman Emperor would have to be put aside. None of them were safe until the true enemy had been destroyed. Von Thuringen shook his head as he urged his charger to a trot again. Somewhere ahead, the king of Hungary rode with his personal guard. Von Thuringen could have wished for a better leader at such a time, but that was the fortune he had been given. He would not fail after a single lost battle. He had suffered through defeats before and always returned to send the souls of his enemies screaming back to hell.
The first light of dawn was showing and Von Thuringen could only guess how far he had come during the night. He was mortally tired and his throat was dry, the supply of water long gone. He knew he should look for a river as soon as there was enough light, to restore some strength to the horses and men. He reached down and patted the neck of his charger at the thought, murmuring words of comfort. If God was with them, the Mongols would not realise they had gone for a morning or longer. He smiled at the thought of them waiting patiently for thirst to drive the Magyars into their arms. It would be a long wait.
The tasks he faced rattled through his head as the light began to turn from silvery grey to gold. The priority was to find a river and drink their fill. The thought of fresh water made him work his lips, clearing them of thick spit.
As the light spread across the land, Von Thuringen saw a dark line on his right hand. At first he thought it was trees, or some outcropping of rock. Then, in a moment, the shadowy forms resolved and he froze, pulling on the reins.
Mongol warriors on horseback lined the path, with bows held ready. Von Thuringen tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. His gaze swept up and down the lines, seeing the thin trail of men ahead of him. By God, there was not even a herald to blow a warning horn! Only a few of his knights rode nearby and they too reined in, looking back at him in grim realisation.
The world held still for a long time and, in silent prayer, Von Thuringen made his peace, his final penitence. He kissed the ring on his finger with its holy relic for the last time. As he spurred his charger forward and reached for his sword, the arrows began to fly, the first ones keening through the air like screaming children. The Mongols fell upon the thin and broken line of escaping soldiers and the butchery began in earnest.
Baidur and Ilugei returned to Hungary to find Tsubodai resting with his tumans. The mood of triumph was visible in every face they saw and they were greeted with drums and horns. The tumans with Tsubodai knew the part Baidur had played in their own victory and he was cheered as he entered the camp around the Danube.
The cities of Buda and Pest had been sacked over days, then looted carefully of anything that they needed or desired. Baidur trotted through streets of half-burnt houses, seeing stones that had been hot enough to shatter into rubble over the open road. Though King Bela had escaped, the army of Hungary had been slaughtered, almost too many to count. Tsubodai’s tallymen had collected sacks of ears and some talked of sixty thousand dead or more. The scouts were already out roaming further west, but for a season, the tumans could pause in the great trek, growing strong and fat on rich meat and stolen wine.
Tsubodai sent riders to Guyuk and Mongke to bring them in. Their flanking rides were ended and he chose to gather them all in one place, ready to push on to the sea.
Batu had seen the riders go out and so he was surprised when one of his men brought him news of tumans coming from the south. It was too early for Tsubodai’s orders to have reached Guyuk, but he called to Baidur and they rode out of camp.
They were among the first to recognise the banners of Guyuk’s tuman. Batu laughed at the sight and dug in his heels, sending his pony galloping across the open grassland. There were many stories to tell and he anticipated enough drunken evenings to recount them all. As he and Baidur drew closer, neither man noticed the dark expressions on the faces of the returning warriors at first. There was no mood of jubilation in the tumans of Guyuk and Mongke. Guyuk in particular looked as grim as Batu had ever seen him.
‘What is it, cousin?’ Batu said, his smile fading.
Guyuk turned his head and Batu saw his eyes were red-rimmed and sore-looking.
‘The khan is dead,’ Guyuk said.
Batu shook his head. ‘Your father? How? He was still young.’
Guyuk looked at him from under lowered brows, forcing the words out.
‘His heart. I must see Tsubodai now.’
Batu and Baidur fell in at his side. Baidur had paled and he was lost in thought as they rode. He knew his father better than anyone and he was suddenly afraid the men around him had become his enemies.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Batu stayed with Guyuk, Mongke and Baidur as they entered the river city of Buda and made their way through the streets to the palace Tsubodai was using for his base. It was left to their senior minghaan officers to find lodging and food for the men in the ransacked city. The four princes rode to the royal palace and dismounted at the outer gate. They passed the guards without a challenge. The orlok’s officers took one look and chose discretion rather than the letter of their orders.
For once, Guyuk led the small group, with Batu striding at his right shoulder. They found Tsubodai in an empty ballroom, where a huge dining table had been dragged in and piled with maps and papers. The orlok was deep in conversation with Jebe, Chulgetei and Ilugei. The other men were nodding as Tsubodai adjusted coins to show the position of tumans on the landscape. Batu took in the scene at a glance and smiled tightly to himself. It was a meeting of young and old, and for the first time, Batu was confident he could predict the outcome.
Tsubodai looked up as the four princes crossed the hall, their steps echoing in the space. He frowned at the sight of their stern expressions and stood back from the table.
‘I did not summon you here,’ he said. He was looking at Batu, but his gaze snapped over in surprise as Guyuk answered.
‘My father is dead, orlok.’
Tsubodai closed his eyes for a moment, his face stiff. He nodded to himself.
‘Please sit down,’ he said. His authority was so deeply ingrained that all four moved to the chairs around the table, though Batu held back, wanting to keep the impetus they had brought with them. Tsubodai spoke again before anyone else.
‘Was it his heart?’ he said.
Guyuk took in a breath. ‘So you knew then? Yes, it was his heart.’
‘He told me, when he told his brother Chagatai,’ Tsubodai replied. His eyes fell on Baidur as Guyuk turned in the chair.
‘I knew nothing,’ Baidur said coldly.
Guyuk turned back, but Tsubodai let his eyes remain on Baidur until the young man was shifting uncomfortably.
Tsubodai had a hundred things he wanted to say, but he controlled himself with an effort of will.
‘What are your plans?’ he asked Guyuk. The more detached part of him was interested to see how Guyuk would respond. Whatever remnant there was left of his youth had been suddenly strangled. Tsubodai looked at the young prince, understanding the quiet reserve he now saw. There was new weight on Guyuk’s shoulders, whether he wanted it or not.
‘I am my father’s heir,’ Guyuk said. ‘I must return to Karakorum.’
Once more, Tsubodai looked to Baidur. The orlok grimaced, but the words had to be said.
‘Are you aware of the threat from your uncle? He has a claim to the khanate.’
Neither man looked directly at Baidur as he flushed.
Guyuk cocked his head slightly in thought and Tsubodai was pleased to see him weigh his response. There was no place for the foolish young man he had been, not any longer.
‘The yam rider reached me a month ago. I have had time to consider it,’ Guyuk said. ‘I will require an oath of allegiance from the tumans here.’
‘That will have to wait,�
�� Tsubodai said. ‘When we are finished here, you will summon the nation as your father did.’
Baidur shifted again and was ignored. His was an impossible position, but he was growing desperate to speak.
‘I can let you have four tumans, leaving me only three,’ Tsubodai said. ‘You must return in force to secure the khanate. Chagatai cannot put more than two, perhaps three, in the field.’ He stared coldly at Baidur. ‘It is my recommendation that you have Baidur remain with me, rather than force him to choose between cousin and father.’ He dipped his head to Baidur. ‘My apologies, general.’
Baidur opened his mouth, but he could not find the words. It was Batu who spoke next, for the first time. Tsubodai’s eyes and jaw tightened instantly at his voice, betraying an inner tension.
‘You know Chagatai Khan better than any of us, except for Baidur. How do you think he will react when he hears the news?’
Tsubodai did not look at Batu as he replied, keeping his gaze locked on Guyuk. Every word seemed to be dragged out of him.
‘If he is rash, he will take his tumans to Karakorum.’
‘If he is rash…I see,’ Batu replied, enjoying the discomfort he saw. ‘And what will follow, when Guyuk Khan returns home?’
‘Chagatai will either negotiate, or he will fight. No one can know his mind.’ Tsubodai clasped his hands on the table and leaned closer to Guyuk. ‘Believe me: Chagatai Khan is not the threat you believe.’
It looked as if he might go on, but then Tsubodai clamped his jaw and waited. The decision was not simply a military one. Batu could hardly control the quirking of his lips at seeing Tsubodai at a loss.
Guyuk let the men at the table sweat for a time before he shook his head.
‘If you can offer me no more than that as assurance, orlok, I must take the tumans home. All of them.’ He glanced at Jebe and Chulgetei, but the older men were not part of the decision. Tsubodai had ultimate authority over the army, but this was not a military problem.
Khan: Empire of Silver Page 38
