Until the Sun Falls (17 page)

The storm battered at them all the next day, and that night again everyone who could crawled into or under a cart to sleep. Psin woke up halfway through the night from a dream in which he had been drowning in quicksand; his face was crushed against Sabotai’s back. When he moved, somebody behind him groaned and kicked out—Quyuk. The two women slaves were curled up at Quyuk’s feet, and Dmitri and Sabotai’s slave huddled together across Psin’s legs. He twisted his head to get some air and inhaled the stink of the banked fire, the garbage, the wet fur, wet wool and closely packed people. Quyuk and Sabotai had him wedged in between them so tight he could hardly move his arms.

Gradually he drifted back to sleep. The sound of the snow needling the roof and walls of the cart filled his dreams.

By noon of the next day, the snow had stopped. The sky was jumbled with massive clouds scurrying south. Sabotai ordered the lanterns put up and the banners broken out. They jogged through a thick stretch of oak forest, where the snow lay up to the horses’ bellies. The wind strengthened and grew steady out of the north, colder than before. Psin smeared bear grease over his face to keep out the chill. When Mongke cantered up to them to report, his lips were blue and his teeth chattered so hard they couldn’t understand what he said. He clenched his jaws and started again.

“River ahead—frozen down to the bottom, but the b-b-banks are steep. I’ll leave sign—”

Psin tossed him a jug of kumiss, and Mongke struggled the plug out and drank, his throat working hard. Done, he nodded to Psin and plugged it up again.

“The snow is level. There’s no sign that the bank drops off there.”

“You’ve lost a horse,” Baidar said mildly.

“I broke its leg going over the bank.”

They rode on. At the river Mongke had smashed down a great wide trail all along the bank. Psin’s horse refused it the first time and he whipped it down. The dun, on the leading string, leapt snorting to the ice and slid three lengths. When they reached the far bank the dun bounded up and almost dragged Psin out of the saddle.

“He needs to be ridden,” Sabotai said.

Psin shook his head.

That night the camp was more comfortable, since the scramble to sleep in the carts was over.

Tshant stood in his stirrups and looked all around. The glittering snow lay unbroken under the trees. The forest looked dead; only a few leaves clung to the branches, and in the bitter cold nothing moved or sounded. Behind them, their trail wound back along the meadow. Their remounts dug vigorously at the snow, trying to get at grass.

Djela said, “Is that it, up ahead?”

“I think so.” Between Djela’s hat and the collar of his cloak only the tip of his nose showed, bright red. They started off again, toward the strip of beaten ground ahead of them. The horses smashed through the thickening crust on the snow. When they reached the army’s trail Tshant reined in again. He couldn’t see the other side of the trail, which stretched on and on beneath the trees, a ghost of itself. The wind had blown the snow almost even again before the crust froze, so that only great round dimples marked where one hundred and fifty thousand horses had trotted past. The wind was right in their faces.

They turned and rode along the edge of the trail. Twice now they’d had to veer off because the army had eaten up all the fodder for the horses. Most of the trees they passed were missing branches, and the bark was stripped off as if by knives. It was getting colder. The sun hung over the horizon, dim through the trees.

Tshant’s back hurt. He said to himself, I am all right. The cuts along his ribs still burned when he moved too quickly. He made his horse lope; Djela fell in behind him to use the trail he broke. He was hungry but he didn’t want to eat. He couldn’t think of anything that would taste good.

At sundown he stopped and switched his harness to another horse and helped Djela with his. Djela said, “Maybe Dekko is following us the way—”

“Dekko doesn’t exist. You made Dekko up.”

Djela threaded the end of his girth through the ring on the saddle and hung from it to get it tight. “Dekko does so exist. You can’t see him because he won’t let you.”

“Dekko isn’t real.”

“Lash my girth, Ada.”

Tshant lashed his girth. Djela scampered around to hook his saddlepouch and bowcases to the cantle on the other side. “If you liked Dekko, he’d—”

“Don’t talk to me about Dekko.”

“Grandfather knows about Dekko.”

Tshant hitched the other horses together on the leadline and mounted. “I’m sure he does. If there’s anything in this world Psin doesn’t know about, it would surprise me.”

“Me too.” Djela jumped, grabbed the pommel, and scrambled into the saddle.

Tshant snorted. His heart was thumping strangely. He pressed one elbow against his side, to feel if the cuts had opened up again. He didn’t think they had. He started off again, fixing his eyes on a particular tree so that he wouldn’t get dizzy, and Djela dropped behind again to follow him. Tshant whipped the horse into a fast trot, following the fading trail of the army.

When the army reached the Oka River, Sabotai broke it into four columns, sent one under Kadan up for a vanguard, and let one camp on the river for half a day as a rearguard. Mongke’s scouts would report to Kadan now, and Kadan would send couriers back if Mongke’s news warranted it.

Sabotai and Psin rode in the center column; the other, under Quyuk and Baidar, rode on the south flank of the vanguard. Psin could tell that Sabotai was worried about something.

“The snow held us up,” Sabotai said.

Psin shrugged. He got dried meat from his saddlebag and chewed on it, letting the juice make broth of his saliva.

“We should have crossed their outpost line by now.”

“Do they have one?” Psin said.

“Maybe not. We haven’t seen a trace of any Russians.”

They parted to ride around a tree and met again on the other side. Psin’s horse stumbled over something and he jerked him up. The snow here lay more shallow than across the river, and they were beginning to make some speed.

“The patrols out here should have reported to us by now,” Sabotai said.

“Wait. They were scattered. They’ll come.”

“I want to know where the Grand Duke is.”

Ahead, a yellow banner fluttered, taut in the wind, and Sabotai reined up. The horses on his leadline almost crashed into him.

“Scouts,” Psin said. He twisted around and looked for Kaidu, who was carrying their bannerstaff. Kaidu had already dipped his banner in reply.

They cantered across the meadow just ahead. A horseman appeared among the birch trees on the crest of the next ridge, lifted one arm in salute, and galloped down toward them. His horse trailed a swath of shadow behind him in the snow.

“Mongke’s,” Psin said.

The scout dragged his horse to a stop before them, saluted, and said, “We’ve sighted Russians, up ahead. Outriders. We shot three but two got away.”

“Where were they going?” Psin said.

“Southwest, Khan.”

“To Moskva,” Sabotai said.

“Or Vladimir.”

Sabotai nodded. He tugged at his beard, which he seemed to have laced up with his coat that morning. “Don’t kill any you see,” he said to the scout. “Let them go back and say we’re coming.”

Psin choked. The scout whirled and dashed his horse back up the ridge, and Sabotai told Kaidu to send up the white banner.

“If they know we’re coming,” Sabotai said, “they’ll run to the cities. The more we beat when we take the cities, the fewer we have to run down later.”

“They might lay ambushes.”

“No. They’ll run. Let them get into the habit of running from us, and when we have it all they’ll come back begging to be let in again.”

“If you think so, it must be true.”

“Delicately phrased.”

Just before they camped that evening, a courier galloped up from Buri, commanding the rearguard. Tshant and Djela had ridden up to them that morning, and Tshant wanted to know Sabotai’s orders.

Psin growled. “Is he well?” 

“I didn’t see him, Khan.”

“He shouldn’t have left Bulgar so soon.”

Sabotai made a motion with one hand. “He’s here, we can’t send him back. What shall we do with him?”

“Do whatever you want.”

“Good.” To the courier, he said, “Ride back tomorrow and tell Tshant he is to stay with your column and share Buri’s command.”

Psin squawked. Sabotai looked over, his eyebrows cocked in exaggerated surprise. Psin said, “You don’t know my son, if you think he’ll split a command.”

“Does he command well?”

“He’s inexperienced. Otherwise, yes.”

Sabotai waved the courier off.

“He’ll tear Buri to scraps,” Psin said.

“Buri can take care of himself.”

The column was trampling out a campground. Psin rode along beside Sabotai, thinking about Tshant. Finally, he said, “What do you want of them, Sabotai?”

“I want them to be generals,” Sabotai said. “No man can rule a khanate unless he is a good general. The Kha-Khan cannot command the world unless he has good generals.”

Psin didn’t bother to ask how pitching two hotheads together would make either of them another Sabotai. He reeled in his remounts on the leadline and called over a slave from the baggage train to take them into the center of the camp.

“All the Altun are good fighters,” Sabotai said. “But they aren’t flexible enough in command. They need experience more than anything.”

“At killing one another?”

Sabotai grinned; he flung one leg across the pommel of his saddle and slid to the ground. “Ah. My ankles are broken.”

“You sound like Jebe.” Jebe at Psin’s age had complained constantly, mainly of his arthritis. Until the day he died Jebe had handled a bow or a horse as well as any young man; the arthritis had mysteriously healed whenever he had to fight.

“Still, I never used to be tired.”

Mongke galloped up to them and jammed his horse to a halt. Snow flew across Sabotai. Psin said, “What are you doing back here?” 

“The vanguard is within half a day’s march of Moskva. Kadan won’t keep riding without Sabotai’s command.”

Sabotai was drinking kumiss mixed with honey. He put the bowl down and climbed up on the tailgate. “You left your post.”

Mongke spat. “My post is everywhere: I’m a scout. If we keep riding—”

Psin dismounted. Dmitri led off his horse. He reached up over the tailgate for the bowl the woman inside was filling; Mongke whipped his horse up and slammed in between Psin and the cart. Psin leapt back.

Mongke said, “I kill a horse getting here—”

“I’ll send a messenger to Kadan,” Sabotai said. 

“I’ll go. I—”

Psin reached up and hauled Mongke out of the saddle. “Don’t you ever do that again.” He shook Mongke hard, threw him into the snow, and slapped the horse’s rump. The horse trotted off. Sabotai had sent a slave after Batu and his brothers.

“Don’t you realize?” Mongke said. He stood up, covered with snow. “Moskva—”

“Just because we don’t leap up and down doesn’t mean we can’t do what’s necessary,” Psin said. “Get something to eat and sleep.”

“Berke,” Sabotai called, to Batu’s brother. “Take four horses and ride to Kadan; tell him to keep moving. Mongke, has he got a scout with him to take him there?”

Mongke nodded.

“Good. Berke. He’s to throw his column around the city and seal it off. We’ll storm it when we get there. Hurry. He’s camped for the night.”

Berke stamped off. Batu said, “How far is it?”

“Half a day’s ride for the vanguard, Mongke says.”

“Are we going to follow him?”

Sabotai looked over at Psin, and Psin shook his head. Sabotai walked around Mongke, took Psin by the shoulder, and drew him a little to one side, standing so that Psin’s bulk hid him from Batu.

“I think we should. Kadan has a tuman only. If he stretches ten thousand men around a city wall he’ll be open to a strike from inside.”

“If it were Mongke I’d say yes,” Psin said. “But Kadan has sense enough to keep his line secure.” 

“What good will it do us to hang back?”

“Give these columns some rest. They’ve fought the snow all the way from Bulgar. Kadan doesn’t need support to invest a city of that size—only to take it.”

“Unless the Grand Duke’s army is there.”

“He wouldn’t take his army from Vladimir to Moskva.”

“I wish I knew where they were.”

“We’ll find out. Camp here the night. Tomorrow evening we should reach Moskva. If we ride all night we won’t get there until tomorrow morning anyhow.”

Sabotai pursed his lips. “The moon is full.”

Psin nodded.

“We’ll camp here until moonset and leave then.”

Psin closed his eyes. “In the pitch dark.”

“Oh, well. They won’t see us coming.” Sabotai slapped him on the shoulder and strode off to talk to Batu.

“Wake up,” Batu shouted.

Psin bolted upright. Batu laughed in his ear. The darkness was smothering; through the cart walls Psin could hear horses neighing and the high voices of the men. He threw his robe off and crawled down to the tailgate.

“Eat something,” Dmitri said. “Something hot.”

“Later.” He dragged on one boot and reached for a sock to put on over it.

Sabotai was struggling to get his arms into his coat sleeves and shouting orders that no one seemed to hear. A loose horse galloped by, shrilling. Psin hunted through the cart for his left boot, swearing under his breath. Torchlight flickered weakly in over the tailgate. He found the boot and thrust his foot into it. The two women went on serenely cooking gruel. Dmitri held out his coat.

“I hate gruel,” Psin said. “Can’t we have something else to eat?”

“I’ve put honey in it, Khan.” The Kipchak woman handed him a bowl.

“Eat it,” Batu said. He spooned the stuff into his mouth. “Good for you.”

“Tepid, weak, stomach-turning—I hear you, Sabotai.”

“Then why don’t you come out?”

“I’m not dressed yet.” He poured the gruel down his throat and laced up his boot. Something struck the cart so hard it rocked. Dmitri dodged the flood of gruel when the pot tipped over; hot coals skittered across the floor. The women danced about, scooping them up with horn spoons.