Until the Sun Falls (53 page)

The scout opened his eyes and grinned. “The Khan wishes.”

He curled up beside the fire, pulled his cloak over his face, and slept. Psin bellowed to a man passing to take care of the horse. Sabotai said, “How did he get across the mountains?”

“There’s a gorge half a day’s ride north that leads to a stream bed that goes down the other side. He took four horses with him. From the looks of this one, he rode the others to death.”

“If he got through, can we suppose it’s unguarded?”

“The reports say it’s so narrow and the trail so rough nobody ever uses it. They might not even know it’s there.”

“Ah,” Sabotai said gently. He rocked back on his heels. “But you do.”

The gorge twisted in through the heart of the mountains, clogged with rocks, slick with ice from the stream that had carved it. They had already lost two horses. Psin kept one eye on his remounts, crowded in behind him, and the other on the trail. So far they had found one place where three horses might walk abreast. Everywhere else was like this: the horses, snugged up on the leadlines, scraped their sides on the rock cliffs.

Ahead of them, above the spruce trees and the lower slopes, there was a mountain with a sheer rock face that he was heading for. Up there, Nejai had told him, they would find the other trail. He couldn’t see the mountain anymore, because of the dark and the clouds, but Nejai had said it would be dawn before he reached it. He let his dun horse pick its way around a mass of icy rock.

“Two short flashes,” he said. “There’s a dead horse up here.”

The man just behind him craned forward. “God. He couldn’t drag them off the trail, could he.”

“He was in a hurry, damn you.” The dun horse was snorting at the stinking wet body, and Psin kicked him on past. The rocks were coated with ice that glowed dimly, like the waves on Lake Baikal in the dark. The dun slipped and went to his knees.

“It’s snowing,” someone called.

“Lovely.”

He knew why the Hungarians hadn’t bothered to guard this gate into their precious country; no sane man would try to ride through it. Ahead the two sides of the gorge came down to a point. There was no level ground at all. The horses tried to refuse and he whipped at them, leaning back out of his saddle to reach his remounts. Wet snow drifted in under his collar. They scrambled noisily along the naked stone. Lantern light wobbled over the trail in front of them, showing the edges and broad sloping surfaces of the rock. Clumps of moss hung from the cliffs and swept across his cheek. It was almost dawn.

Probably, out in the open where people were supposed to live, it was dawn. The cliffs towered up over him, but he could see the pine trees along their rims. The horses inched along, swaying from side to side, their heads low. The dun snatched for a mouthful of moss.

The snow falling in the light of the lantern obscured the trail. He could see rocks thrusting up out of the bed of ice. Ahead, a tree had fallen into the gorge and lay across it, the trunk end still high up the side. He rode toward the high end and bent over, his cheek against the dun’s shoulder, so that the horse could squeeze through. Branches raked his back. The dun missed his footing and almost tripped headlong, and he called back, “Watch out.”

Beyond the windfall, the gorge made a sudden turn; he reined up to be sure his men were getting through. He had left the camp in the middle of the afternoon, and he was glad he’d pushed the pace. Before the snow had gotten deep enough to stop them, all or nearly all his thousand men would be on the way down the trail. The snow wasn’t falling thickly yet.

They pushed through the turn, where the cliffs pinched the trail to a thread, and turned into the force of the wind. Tears sprang to Psin’s eyes. He leaned forward, bunching his cloak around his neck, and jammed his hat down hard over his forehead. The dun tucked his nose in to his chest. But the ground was opening up a little, and there was springy moss underfoot. He glanced back and saw the men moving after him gasp when the wind struck them.

A small furry animal darted out of their way. The dun didn’t shy, but the horses behind him did, reeling around in blind unison. Whips lashed behind him, and the dun threw all his weight against the leadline to drag the horses forward.

“Call out,” Psin shouted.

“All straight back here.”

The snow was falling more thickly; it whitened the front of his coat and built up into a crest along his horse’s mane. Ahead it was light enough to see the trail without the lantern, and he shuttered it. The trail curved. Up ahead, where the gorge walls widened, he could see the horned mountain above the nearer crowns of rock. The snow fell across it and almost shut it out.

Before them, the trail threaded up a face of ice. He reined the dun to one side of it, and they scrambled up. He could hear the men behind him yelling and whipping their horses. He turned to look back and saw the gorge full of men as far as he could see. The wind froze his ears, and he tucked them deeper under his hat.

The gorge petered out. The trail drove straight for the mountain over rounded hills. The few trees were sheaves of icicles from the wind and the snow. The dun broke into a jog, but the men behind yelled to Psin to wait, and he drew down again. The snow was still too light to hurt. They wound down a steep slope and up another and came out just below the horned mountain.

“Ride to the north of it,” the scout had said. Psin started up a snow-covered rise, unshuttered the lantern, and pulled down the red pane. There were no trees; they were above the timberline. The wind swept down off the crag and sledged into their faces. The dun sank to his knees in the snow.

“Call out,” he yelled.

Call out, the echo said. Call out, call out.

“Behind you,” someone shouted up, and the echo caught it. Every man in line was shouting in turn, so that they would keep together. He glanced back and saw the long snake of riders down this slope, up the next, and over the crest into the one beyond. Swinging back, he tried to see where they were going, but the storm was getting worse.

The dun staggered along, dragging the remounts behind him. Psin could feel the rough ground beneath his hoofs. The snow was crusted in spots almost thick enough to bear the horse’s weight, but every third step it would break, and the dun would stumble. The horse’s black mane turned dead white.

Ahead, something like an antelope trotted across their path, stopped, sniffed, and bolted away. Psin shouted again and heard the calls ring out behind him, just a little distance behind him, until the sound was muffled in the falling snow. Now, in front of him, he could see ridges of black rock breaking through the snow. The dun was laboring against the steep slope. Psin squinted against the snow and saw the arched face of the mountain to his left, almost beside him.

The dun stopped dead in front of the upthrust of black rock. It was too high to climb over. Psin rode along it, fighting his remounts, until they came to a place where the rock had broken. The dun put one forehoof on it, crouched, and jumped across. He skidded through the snow, turned sideways, and fell. Psin landed hard on his shoulder. The bannerstaff snapped under him. He rolled over and stood up. The horse was on its feet, shaking each leg in turn. His men were pushing through the gap in the rock.

“Look,” one shouted, and pointed.

Psin turned. The storm ended here, as if there were a wall to stop the clouds. To the west the mountains fell away in a series of sheer drops into the timber. Sunlight glittered on the snow. He could see the trail Nejai had taken, off to the north. He mounted up and rode toward it, trotting the dun a few steps to make sure he wasn’t lame. The trail was steep and icy but if the storm didn’t follow them over the going wouldn’t be as bad. The dun went into the trail without hesitation. Psin worked his shoulder carefully, found nothing broken, and settled down to watch the trail.

By dusk of that day they had reached the Hungarian supply station. The knights were all half-drunk, and the Mongols stormed through in one charge. Immediately they turned their horses out and went to sleep.

After midnight, Psin woke up and with three other men rode the trail up to the Hungarian pass. There was no way to tell Sabotai that they were here, and Sabotai wasn’t sure the burning lights would work after being dropped into an icy river. The closest the Mongols could get to the pass was the foot of the trail up the last slope; if they came closer the knights would know they were there. Psin went back to the supply station and sent half his men up to the slope to watch.

“Sabotai is attacking today, isn’t he?” one of his men said.

Psin nodded. “At noon, he said.”

“We’re tired. That was a terrible ride.”

“What do you mean, tired? You had a pleasant trip through some pretty hills, with a nice fight at the end and a good rest—”

The man laughed. “Of course. Are you aware there’s no wine?”

“No wine. That’s bad.”

“And very little meal.”

“Damn you. Don’t bother me with these things.”

It was nearly dawn. Psin went back inside the hut at the supply station, roused out the rest of his men, and led them all after the first five hundred. He was hungry, and his horse was tired; half a night’s rest had only made them all irritable and groggy.

If they couldn’t draw the knights out of their fort, taking the pass would be more difficult and take longer. The knights certainly wouldn’t leave the walls if they knew a thousand Mongols were waiting just below the pass on the western side. He couldn’t charge up at the first signs of fighting in the pass. He put two men into trees where they could see into the pass, but they called down that the fort was out of sight. He swore.

The sun rose. Light streamed over the mountains; they could see it in the sky although their slope was still deep in shadow. Clouds blustered off toward the west, too light for snow. Two of Psin’s men shot a wooly goat and cooked it, splitting it with the others so that they all got no more than scraps and a taste of crisp fat. The smallest owl Psin had ever seen caught a mouse almost at his feet. The wind lulled.

“It’s warmer here than on the other side,” one man said to him.

“Yes.” Psin squinted toward the pass. “Look out. Here comes a knight.”

He turned and yelled to a group of Mongols beside a little fire. They bolted toward their horses. The knight was cantering toward them along the road, his reins slack. He hadn’t seen them yet. Psin’s men vaulted into their saddles and started to meet him.

The knight caught sight of them coming and stopped his horse dead. Psin stiffened. The knight whirled back toward the pass. His horse took two great bounds, and an arrow brought it down. The knight pitched into the snow. The Mongols trotted over to him, looked down, and turned. They were well up the road to the pass. Psin’s throat was tight with fear they’d be seen. He gestured to them, and they jogged their horses down toward him, without bringing the knight or killing him. One rode straight to him.

“Did you leave him up there to crawl home and tell them where we are? What—”

“He’s dead. He broke his neck.” The Mongol dismounted.

“Khan,” one of the men in the trees called. “They are fighting, in the pass.”

Psin swore. He stopped the wild plunge toward the horses and made his men sit down again. This was another of Sabotai’s stupid ideas. He did them no good, sitting down here unknowing. He paced up and down, trying to hear the sounds of fighting, could not, and sat down.

“Can you see what’s happening?”

“No—all I can see is Mongols.”

Psin groaned. He jumped up and went toward his horse. His men started forward, eagerly, and he gestured to them to stay still. Mounting, he rode up the road a little, standing in his stirrups.

He saw nothing, but the closer he got the more he could hear. The pass rang with shouting and the sound of horses. Rock clattered, somewhere. He rode closer. Eagles circled above the pass, and a loose horse bolted down from it, neighing, its reins flying. A Mongol boot was still caught in one stirrup.

“Yip-yip-yip—”

That had to be Mongke retreating. He turned and rode back to his men. “Now. Mount up. Let’s go.”

They piled into their saddles and charged even before he gave the signal. The road was broad and even, and the horses reached a full gallop within a few strides. They bolted past the dead knight. The screams and howls of the Mongols in the pass reverberated from rock to rock, and beneath them were the high calls of the knights. He heard metal grate on metal.

Horses spilled down over the western edge of the pass—the knights’ horses. The knights were still on their backs. They were running, headed straight into Psin’s column. He hauled out his bow and fit an arrow. The knights were coming like an avalanche. There was no place for the Mongols to go to get out of their way. He shouted, “Full charge!”

He shot, and saw the arrow slam into one knight, but before he could nock another arrow the full force of the knights hit him. A huge horse ran into his horse, a sword swiped at his head, and his horse staggered back, still on its feet. He ducked, his bow useless. The knights swarmed around him. He heard his men yipping. A hammer crashed into the small of his back, and he lost his sight. Clinging to his saddle, he weaved back and forth. His horse was rearing and kicking out. His eyes cleared, and he steadied his horse. Knights surrounded him. He jabbed at their eyes with the tip of his bow. His back hurt every time he moved. The knights’ horses rammed into his, and his horse was lifted off its feet and carried back down the road and deposited on its feet again.

“Eeeeeiiiyyyyaaah!”

He drove his horse to the side of the road and dove from the saddle into the heavy brush. He heard the whistle of arrows in flight, and getting to his feet he saw the knights falling before the shower. Mongke’s men, shooting steadily, streamed down the road after them. Psin’s horse stood beside the road, reins trailing, and he vaulted on and charged with the others.

The road was covered with bodies—knights, Mongols, horses. The remnant of the fleeing knights raced on ahead of them. Arrows thudded into their backs. Psin caught up with a knight, reached out, and got his fingers around the man’s belt; he tugged, and the knight flew off his horse and landed under the hoofs of the Mongol charge. Psin lost his balance under the weight and nearly went off. He got one arm across the pommel of his saddle, hooked his heel over the cantle, and hung on. The horse began to slow, leaning against his weight, and he pulled himself up again.