Until the Sun Falls (57 page)

“What are you thinking about?” Batu said.

“My son.” He got down from the wagon and mounted. “I’ll send a slave to you when we’re ready.”

He rode along the line of machines. Only two had dependable ropes, and he had put them closest to the bridge. The Hungarian garrison would realize that something was going on. With luck they wouldn’t look elsewhere. The moon was all gone below the horizon. He got up onto the platform. “Red lanterns up.”

“Do they all know the signals?” the standardbearer said.

“They must. Let’s see.”

The red lanterns ran up the pole, and around the catapults men jumped to load up. “You see? Of course they know the signals.” He sent a slave after Batu. There was a lantern for each of the catapults and a Mongol for each lantern; he walked along in front of them.

“You’re one, you’re two, you’re three, and you’re four. Don’t get confused. If you do, you’ll be beaten. All numbers, white flash.”

The lanterns gleamed. With a yell the engineers pulled their levers. The catapults went off with a rattle and a crash of wood on wood, and splashes erupted out of the river. Psin saw one stone smash into the midst of the garrison.

“Number one. Yellow lantern. Two and four, blue. I didn’t see three. Who saw three?”

“Short and to the south, Khan.”

“Three, red.”

On the Hungarian side of the bridge shouting broke out. Shadows darted back and forth. A volley of arrows thudded into the bank of this side of the river.

“White flash.”

The first catapult went off at once, and stones pelted the Magyars. One rail of the bridge caved in. The second catapult, with a block under its front strut, shot to the right range but well south, and Psin flashed the red lantern for them. The third hit dead center. Hungarians screamed.

“Three, four yellow flashes.”

Hungarians were coming onto the bridge. Their bows were out of range, and they were trying to get closer. Batu and his men were lined up behind Psin’s platform.

“Four is still short. Blue.”

“White flash, Khan?”

“Yes.”

The two engines that were sighted in fired almost together; one shot a powder shell. Psin could see the fuse sparking. He missed four’s shot, watching. The shell exploded behind the Hungarians with a clap of noise and a flash that lit up the whole end of the bridge.

The Hungarians screeched. A herd of them poured off the bridge toward their camp. Psin could hear their officers’ voices, rising, fierce, but the wild retreat plunged on. He whirled and pointed to Batu.

“All engines sighted in, Khan.”

“White flash.”

Another shell burst over the garrison on the bridge, and in the pallid light he saw the shattered bodies and the men struggling to retreat. When the light faded the dark was thick as felt, but another shell exploded immediately. The bridge was deserted.

“All colors, three flashes.”

Batu’s men galloped onto the bridge. It swayed under their weight. Psin could hear the Hungarian trumpets, the pound of drums. Batu, leading the charge, drew his men off to the north a little; the Mongols swept in a shallow curve from the bridge to Batu’s position. Their voices rose.

“Get the naphtha,” Psin said. He jumped down from the platform and ran back and forth along the catapults, realigning them so that they couldn’t hit the Mongols. “Put another block under your struts. Be careful. You’ll blow us all up if you take a torch near those wagons.”

“The Khan wishes.” They grinned at him. He went back to the platform and got up onto it again; it was getting light in the east, and a raw wind blew.

The Hungarians charged straight for Batu’s line. Confidence showed in every move they made. Their warcries were heavy with triumph. All the arrows of the Mongols didn’t turn them back, although they lost men and horses.

“White flash,” Psin said.

Batu’s line broke into a canter and started around behind the Hungarians. The knights lumbered heavily after them, and the infantry bunched up. Psin’s engines groaned and shot, and the naphtha flashed in the air like fragments of ghosts. In the Hungarian army men howled. Horses shied wildly away from the dripping fire. When the naphtha struck it set horses and riders on fire, and they fled across the field, screaming. A burning horse flung itself into the river. Steam rose from the water. Psin could smell burnt meat. “White flash.”

It didn’t matter where the catapults were hitting; the naphtha was enough. A catapult started burning, and slaves with buckets dashed up to douse it, their faces damp with fear.

Batu’s line had gotten too close. Trumpets blared and the Hungarian lines hurled themselves against the Mongols. Before their drive the Mongols scattered like dust. The knights roared. Their swords chopped through Batu’s men, and their big stallions lifted the lighter Mongol horses off their feet.

“White flash.” Psin swore. Batu was letting the Hungarians move away from the naphtha. This volley struck only the edge of the infantry. He thought of putting another block under the catapults’ struts, but aimed so high they would surely shoot wild.

A column of knights charged the Mongols to the north, and for a moment they fought hand to hand. From the east and west other Mongols raced down to shoot their bows. The knights plunged on. Early light glinted from their armor. The Mongols clung to them like dogs hanging from the throats of aurochs. They were running into a morass, where reeds grew, and tangled brush. The Mongols gave way in a rush, and the knights followed. Their horses sank to their hocks in the thick mud. When they lurched and clawed to get free they only worked themselves deeper. Dancing along the edge of the marsh the Mongols shot at them and brought them down, one by one.

“White flash.” It hardly mattered, because the Hungarian army was out of range. And the naphtha no longer bloomed in the air, because it was almost dawn. Psin backed up to see better.

The footsoldiers in an ordered block trotted toward the bridge, and Batu himself rode to cut them off. Arrows streamed back and forth. Even in the air the difference between the two kinds of arrows was startling—the one long, deep-fletched, and the other short and feathered with wood. A Mongol horse took a bolt through the chest and reared up, shrilling. The infantry drew in on itself and kept on shooting.

“All colors flash. We’re wasting ammunition.”

Batu was still harrying the infantry. His men had the Hungarians almost entirely surrounded, but whenever the knights charged the line broke and ran before them. Loose and wounded horses trotted across the bridge to the Mongol camp. Psin sent a dozen men down to catch them and turn them out with the herd. His dun was pawing up the ground where he stood.

“Khan. Over there.”

Forty Mongols were racing toward the river, with as many knights right at their heels. At the riverbank, the Mongols wheeled, drawing their bows. The knights smashed into them and hurled them into the water. Heads bobbed in the current. Psin called, “Number one catapult, swing around and shoot.”

The knights paced up and down the riverbank, shouting. On this side wet Mongols and horses pulled themselves onto dry land, looking stunned. Some of the men remounted and jogged up toward the bridge to cross over again. The catapult shot. Naphtha slithered down on the knights, who fled.

“They’re breaking.”

The Hungarian infantry ran in disorder back toward their camp. Arrows pursued them. Wheeling, the knights followed; they battered their way through Batu’s men and set out down the plain. Banners spread out all through the Mongol army, and with a cheer they started after the Hungarians. They seemed to lose all order, but Psin could see each hundred drawing together, and each thousand. Some of them slowed to give their horses a rest. A single rider was racing up from the direction of the Hungarian camp. Dust hung in the sky there.

“Get the catapults on wagons. Can you take them apart? Let’s go. Move, down there. Do you think it’s over?”

The courier pulled down to a jog to cross the bridge, which was full of holes and clogged with dead. Psin sat on his heels at the platform’s edge, and the courier came straight to him.

“Sabotai and his men crossed the river well to the south and have moved up to lock the Hungarians in their camp. They came out to meet us but we threw them back. We had no trouble crossing the river, you were right about the current there, Sabotai says.”

Psin nodded. “I’m going down with the engines. You can help.”

When he and the catapults reached the Hungarian camp, Sabotai and Batu had it surrounded. All the Hungarians were inside the ring of wagons. Sabotai, looking thoughtful, sat his saddle a little way out from the Mongol army. Psin jogged up to tell him where the catapults were set.

“I didn’t use all the shells. Shall we use them now?”

“Yes. Good. You cleared them off the bridge quickly enough.”

“They were afraid of the noise, I think.”

“Here they come.” Sabotai turned and yelled to his standard- bearer. The wagons almost opposite them were drawing in, and a band of knights charged through the gap. Sabotai called for a yellow banner. He reached out and touched Psin on the sleeve and pointed.

The Mongols flew to the place where the knights were emerging, bunched up on either side of the gap, and started shooting. A mass of Kipchak heavy cavalry galloped up from the southern side of the ring. Before the storm of arrows the knights faltered, and the close quarters hampered their horses. Sabotai said crisply, “Red banner,” and the Mongol archers dropped back to let the heavy cavalry through. The Kipchaks struck the knights with a crash that made Psin laugh. He could hear the voices of the Hungarians inside the ring. The knights scuttled back through the gap in the wagons, and the heavy cavalry trotted off, waving their swords.

Fire arrows thunked into the wagons, and many of them began to burn. Inside the ring horses neighed. A catapult went off and sprayed the whole Hungarian camp with naphtha. Stones bashed in the few tents.

“Well,” Sabotai said.

Psin shrugged. “They aren’t quite beaten.”

“It worked rather well. I’m very pleased with that.”

“You’re tired, too. I can tell by the way you’re talking.”

“Oh, I’m worn out. I’ve not slept for—anyhow. Shall I get some sleep? You give the orders. Use the same signals I did to get men to a gap in the ring. I’ll be in a cart somewhere.”

Psin watched him ride off. Sabotai’s instincts were flawless; if he thought he could sleep they had beaten the Hungarians. He trotted the dun up and down to work off its high spirits.

Batu rode up, beaming. “I told your catapults to use shells. They’re shouting at us on the other side. Maybe it’s a diversion.”

“They tried to break out here.”

“Let them keep trying. Where is Sabotai?”

“Sleeping.”

“It was a good strategy. I would never have thought of it. I’m not good at that. I—”

There was a courier coming; Psin could hear the bells. He dragged his horse away from Batu’s. A man on a piebald horse was cantering around the western end of the wagon ring. The even triple beat of the horse’s hoofs grew louder, even through the uproar around the camp. He reined up before Psin, saluted, and said, “I come from Kaidu Noyon. We have beaten the Poles and the Silesians near Liegnitz. We filled nine sacks with the right ears of the slain.”

Batu cheered, and the men within earshot looked around. He galloped off to tell them. The courier said, “Kaidu Noyon says that he will burn Liegnitz and wait until the northern flank of his army meets up with him. The one that went north to the Lithuanian Sea. They’ll split up and ride south in small bands.”

“Good. How is my son?”

“Well. Very well. And your grandson. Tshant Bahadur says he has a gift for you, when he comes.” The courier gave a little nod.

“Oh? What?”

“I’m not to tell you.”

“Well. Good, go rest.”

The sun climbed through sparse crowds. Wagons burnt in the ring near Psin, so hot that he had to move back. Some knights tried again to break out of the ring, but they were thrown back even more quickly than before. The catapults ran out of ammunition.

Just before noon the circle of Mongols began to move around the Hungarian camp. They started off at a walk, broke into a trot, and were galloping within a dozen strides. Psin tensed. There was no reason for it—riding, they shot and screamed, and their horses grew dark with sweat—but he’d seen it happen before. If nothing stopped them they would charge the camp, uncaring of the fires and the desperate men inside; it was a kind of blood fever. He galloped around the ring and found Batu.

“Open the west end of the ring. We may as well let them make a run for it. The remount herd is across the river, send your men over to change horses.”

Batu nodded, yawned, and roared for his standardbearer.

The aimless, shifting circle stopped turning. When the banners spread out, half the Mongols rode obediently away to get fresh horses, and the rest stayed still, confused. Many of them got dried meat from under their saddles and ate it. Psin thieved Batu’s kumiss jug while he wasn’t looking and drank almost half of it. A gap opened up in the west side of the Mongol army. Everybody looked the other way, ignoring it.

For a while nothing happened. A burning wagon collapsed, showering sparks over everything, and two riderless horses burst out of the camp and raced away. Suddenly a dozen Hungarians charged for the gap. Their faces were wild with fear. They plunged through and fled west, throwing down their armor and their shields.

Inside the camp there was a great buzz of voices. Men packed the west end of the wagon ring. They flung the wagons apart and ran for the gap. Psin stood in his stirrups, looking for the men on the fresh horses, and gestured that they should ride west. Arrows fell into the midst of the fleeing Hungarians, but they hardly seemed to matter. The whole camp was escaping.

Almost casually, a full tuman of Mongols on fresh horses started along after them. The trail was clear, marked with wounded and dead and cast-off armor. Batu called orders, and the rest of the army swung around to pursue. Psin rode around to wake up Sabotai.