Until the Sun Falls (59 page)

“I want you to go,” Psin told Tshant.

“Ask me.”

“Will you go?”

Tshant’s eyes were opaque. He lifted the hand that held his reins and scratched his cheek, and his horse shifted. “Yes. I’ll take Djela and my guard.”

Djela was behind Tshant. He said, “Oh, good. I can try my new bow.”

Tshant said, “But your share of the plunder is mine, Psin.”

Psin took a short breath. “Don’t anger me.”

“I’m doing the work.”

“We’ll divide it. It’s a rich village.”

“I want it all.”

Psin swiped at him and knocked him off his horse. Tshant’s horse reared out of the way, and Djela caught the rein. Psin made his dun back up so that Tshant couldn’t reach him.

“We’ll talk about it later,” he called. “If you need help, child, Mongke and his men are half a day’s ride south of that village.”

Tshant said, “Come back here and face me.”

Psin laughed at him and rode off. He could hear Tshant’s voice, but not the words, which he decided was fortunate. When he looked back, Tshant and Djela were riding off. He would have to go; he had accepted the order. Psin rode quickly home.

The knight was tending the bake oven behind Psin’s yurt, and when Psin rode up he came over to hold the dun horse. He saw the expression on Psin’s face and looked back the way he had come.

“Is something wrong?”

“Nothing. The world is full of pleasure. Have you milked the mares yet?”

“Dmitri did.”

Psin dismounted. The knight went back to the oven and made sure there was enough fuel. He wore a Mongol shirt and boots; the fair skin of his neck was red from the sun. Psin had expected him to refuse to do slave work, but the knight had done everything asked him.

Every time he thought of Tshant his chest grew tight with anger. Tshant was going to great lengths to provoke him. He thought, He wants to prove that he can beat me. Let him try. This time—

The village surrendered as soon as the Mongols approached. In the summer’s heat the river ran so shallow that they could ride straight over to the island. Kaidu and Tshant stayed on the bank. Kaidu said, “We’ll burn it.”

Tshant looked over at him, surprised. “Why? The Khan’s order is that they may live in their villages, as long as they have no weapons.”

“They held out against us.”

“No one came to attack them.”

Kaidu’s face darkened and he raised his hand. “I give the order to burn it.”

Tshant looked over at the village. His men packed it, while Kaidu’s, more numerous, waited half in the water. “I hold it. No. It doesn’t burn.”

“You Merkit pig—” Kaidu struck him in the face. Tshant rolled with the blow, straightened up in his saddle, and dove at Kaidu. He caught a glimpse of Djela’s face, white and amazed, a little way from them. They fell together into the dry grass along the river bank. Kaidu kicked and scratched. Tshant reared back and slugged Kaidu in the jaw, and Kaidu bucked him off. He rolled down the bank into the water. Kaidu’s voice rose in a wild shout over his head. He got up and clawed back to dry ground and grabbed Kaidu around the waist.

Djela called out. Horses were coming, and Tshant thrust Kaidu away, not wanting their men to see them fighting. Hands caught him from behind and flung him down. His blood hammered in his veins, and he sprang up, looking for the men who had laid hands on him. They were Kaidu’s, and he lunged for them. They backed off.

“Hold him,” Kaidu yelled.

Djela said, “Father. This way.”

The men around Tshant seized him. He drove his fists and his knees into them. One man whined, and he felt bone break under his knuckles, but they clutched him, they brought him down with his face pressed into a smothering coat and his arms hauled behind him. He flung himself violently to one side, got an arm loose, and wrapped it around the nearest neck. His breath rasped through his teeth. Half a dozen hands pried his arm from around the neck.

Far off, people were shouting. He got both feet under him and stood up, six men hanging on his arms and shoulders. Kaidu was standing in front of him, smiling. Tshant took an awkward step toward him, dragging them all, but a boot caught him in the back of the knee and he fell on his face. They locked his wrists up between his shoulders. He tried to roll over. Boots pressed into his back. He couldn’t move.

“Hold him,” Kaidu cried, in a voice high as a girl’s. “Stand clear.”

The weight swung off his back and he started up. A whip slashed across his shoulders. In his rage he howled at the top of his lungs. The whip laced his back. They stretched out his arms and flipped him over, and he saw Kaidu’s smiling face and the dark frightened faces all around him, and the whip coming down. He drove his heels against the ground but he couldn’t break the hold. The whip tore at his face. He squeezed his eyes shut, ashamed that Djela should see his father whipped like a slave. The whip opened up his cheek, and blood soaked his collar. He threw his weight against the hands wrapped around his arms, but it did no good. The whip caught him right across the eyebrows. He could feel the pain, in spite of his anger. He gathered up his strength and heaved against the men holding him and sagged back, exhausted.

Abruptly they let him go. He lay still, panting. There was fighting, somewhere. Hoofs beat the ground around him. Djela’s voice rose, young and sharp. Someone dragged him up and flung him facedown across a saddle. He locked his fingers around the girth, and the horse began to gallop. His fingers were cut; the horse’s sweat stung ferociously. Someone was hanging onto his belt. He could not open his eyes; he felt himself losing consciousness.

Djela said, “Is he all right? Let me see him. Arcut—”

“He’s cut up,” Arcut said. “We have to get him somewhere safe, so he can rest. Look at the blood.”

Djela put out one hand toward his father’s head. The hair was painted with blood. He looked back toward the river. They had outdistanced Kaidu’s men in the first rush, but dust spiraled up along their track; they were still being followed. Ahead was a spur of forest, and he nodded toward it.

“We’ll go into the trees.”

Arcut said, “Someone should go tell the Khan. Get us help.”

“Yes. Ugen, you go, And—Tian, go to the camp of Batu Khan and tell him what has happened.” Djela gnawed at his lip. Someone else. Someone else. “Kiak, Mongke Khan is camped down the river a little. Go find him. Tell him that I am his cousin and I beg his protection.”

The three turned their horses and galloped off. Kaidu’s men were closing in on the rest of them. Djela reined his horse around and headed for the trees at a gallop. Once inside the trees they could hold Kaidu off. His heart danced in his chest when he remembered the beating. Kaidu had enjoyed it. He had watched with a little smile on his face. Djela clenched his teeth. If he dies, he thought. What if he dies?

Tshant heard people talking. At first he thought they were far away, but he realized after a moment that they were only whispering. Feet stamped on a rough floor. He was lying belly-down on a couch, but he couldn’t open his eyes, and he felt weaker than he ever had before.

“Wake up, Djela,” Arcut’s voice said. “Your grandfather is here.”

Another couch sighed. “Grandfather—” Djela’s light feet ran on the floor. By what Tshant heard he knew the building wasn’t big enough for a yurt. He could smell meat simmering, and his mouth watered. He heard his father’s footsteps come into the hut.

“Djela. What happened?”

“Kaidu whipped Ada. He’s over here.” A weight plunked down beside Tshant. “Ada, are you awake?”

“I can’t open my eyes.”

Psin was swearing in a soft voice. The light cloth covering Tshant’s back lifted off. Psin’s voice seemed to come from everywhere at once; it was vast, it was terrible. He said, “The blood’s clotted his eyelids shut. Arcut. Get out of here.”

Arcut left. Psin’s voice dropped still lower. Something wet and cool touched Tshant’s face, infinitely gentle. Djela said, “Will he be all right?”

“Long before Kaidu will,” Psin said softly.

Tshant forced one eye open. Psin’s hands were trembling. He began to murmur again, speaking Tshant’s name over and over.

“Be quiet, old man. You’re saying too much.”

“Ingrate. If I didn’t honor your mother I’d say she got you from a demon.” His voice was dead flat. “How do you feel?”

“Hungry.” Tshant opened both eyes. Psin’s face was expressionless, but the eyes burnt; he tried to smile and could not, and his mouth twisted monstrously in the effort. He turned and spoke in Magyar, and a woman came over with a bowl of meat. Tshant pushed himself up onto his elbows. They were in a woodcutters’ hut, and a small Magyar family huddled in one corner. The woman banged her spoon against the edge of the pot and went to join them. Psin stood back and Tshant gobbled food.

“He’ll live.” Psin started toward the low door.

“Father,” Tshant said. “I fight my own feuds.”

Psin turned back. A muscle twitched along his jaw. “I’ll leave you enough of him to flay for a saddle blanket.” He took the gold chain from around his neck and handed it to the Hungarian woman and left.

Tshant gulped the last of the meat, drank the gravy, and sat up, groaning. The pain raced up and down his back. “Go get Arcut. We have to go after him. How many men did he bring?”

“I don’t know.” Djela got up. The Hungarian woman was stroking the chain. Tshant put his bowl down and stood, shuddering. He took the rings out of his ears and gave them to her. His shirt and coat lay on the couch Djela had been sleeping on, and he put on the shirt. The lightest touch on his back made him wince. His legs felt weak. Djela came back in.

“Arcut says he has orders not to let you leave until you’re well.”

“I’m well. Go tell him he’s my officer, not Psin’s. Tell him we’re riding.”

“He says—”

Tshant swore. He ducked out the door and looked around for Arcut. The trees grew thick around the hut; a goat and some chickens stood in a pen to the right. Arcut rode up and said, “The Khan—”

“Damn him. How many men does he have?”

“At least two hundred—his home guard.”

“Where’s my horse? Those are better men than Kaidu’s. Does he have remounts?”

“Yes.”

Tshant’s horse came up, and Arcut took it by the bridle so that Tshant could mount. He looked back over his shoulder. Djela was in the doorway of the hut. A Hungarian child stood beside him, one hand in its mouth. Arcut said, “It was the noyon who called us up to get you out of the fight, and who brought you here.”

Tshant tried to smile, but his face hurt. “He’s a good boy.”

Djela beamed. He moved away from the Hungarian child; their horses were trotting toward them. Tshant climbed stiffly into his saddle and tied his coat to the pommel. The stripes on his back had opened. He could feel the blood running down his spine. He rode quickly off through the trees, hoping the blood wouldn’t soak through his shirt too fast and let the others know.

Kaidu had camped on a point of high ground between a river and a marsh. Fires burnt all around, so that nothing could get close without being seen, and sentries walked thick as a procession just behind the fires. Psin growled in his throat. Kaidu was taking no risks.

“Tajin. Take half the men and go down by the riverbank. I’ll lead him down toward you. Go to the other side of the bridge.”

Tajin rode off. Psin took his bow out of the case, flexed it, and took the top off his quiver. “The rest of you kill sentries.”

“Long shots, Khan.”

“Watch your aim. Get as many as you can. He can’t stay there forever.” He drew his bow and settled on his point of aim. When his target was just passing a fire he shot. The sentry took two more steps and fell.

Inside the ring of fires a man shouted, and others answered. Psin’s men were shooting quietly, carefully, and another sentry wobbled off with an arrow in his back. Horses neighed. Psin jerked up his dun’s head.

“They’re coming out. Keep close to the river and watch me. Keep shooting.” Psin trotted around toward the river, keeping low, and looked into the camp. Kaidu’s men were saddling their horses. He shook himself: these weren’t Poles or Hungarians or Russians, to be cowed. He nocked an arrow and shot, but he missed.

A stream of arrows poured out of the camp. Psin’s men leapt back. He rode into their midst and called out orders—forty men drew off away from the river toward the marsh, and the rest waited, shooting at nothing. Between the fires Kaidu’s men charged toward them.

“Hold up! Hold up, on the order of the Kha-Khan.”

With the shout horses galloped into the space between Psin’s and Kaidu’s men. Psin thrust one arm out to keep his men back. That was Mongke. Kaidu’s men yanked their horses to a halt and called out, and Mongke’s voice cried, “This is Mongke Khan. Hold your bows or I’ll have you all slain.”

Mongke had only two men with him. They trotted back and forth between Psin and Kaidu. Psin cursed. If Mongke had come only a little later—

“Psin Khan. Come forward. Kaidu, come forward.” Mongke wasn’t shouting, but his voice was clear and crisp and everybody heard him. Psin kicked up his horse. Mongke pulled away from his outriders and waited, looking from Psin to Kaidu, riding up behind him.

“By what right do you use the name of the Kha-Khan?” Kaidu shouted.

“By the right of Yasa,” Mongke said. “You might not make war on each other without the Kha-Khan’s permission.”

Psin turned his horse head to head with Mongke’s. “He started it. Kaidu. Tell him what you’ve done.”

“I know,” Mongke said. “Nothing’s worth breaking the Yasa for.”

“My son—”

“Nothing. Give me light.”

Kaidu’s horse was on the other side of Mongke’s from Psin. In the silence while they waited for the torch to be brought Mongke sat still and looked from one to the other. At last a man galloped up with a torch from one of the watchfires; the heavy light spilled over them all.

Kaidu said, “When my grandfather comes—”

“Be quiet,” Mongke said. “This is a serious matter. If we were near the Gobi the Kha-Khan himself would deal with you. I take on myself the right and duty to judge.”