Empire of Silver (33 page)

The knights under Josef Landau heard him. They formed up and charged back across the camp in a solid mass. There were Mongols at the walls by then and a hail of arrows buzzed through the camp. In such a crush, there was no need to aim. Bela could hardly believe the losses, but the knights struggled on like men possessed, knowing as he did that the walls were their only salvation. Von Thuringen led a hundred of his own armoured men, the enormous marshal easy to mark with his beard and longsword.

The knights proved their worth to him then, Landau and Von Thuringen shattering the Mongols who had dared to enter the camp, driving them back towards the wide holes in the walls. They fought with righteous rage, and for once the Mongols did not have room to nip and dart past them. Bela
watched with his heart in his mouth as the Teutonic Knights blocked one breach with their horses, holding shields against the arrows still pouring through. Landau was struck by something and Bela had a glimpse of his head lolling limp as his horse bolted away. For a moment, the knight struggled, his arms flailing, then he fell into the churned mud almost at Bela’s feet. There was blood coming from under his neck plates, though Bela could see no wound. Trapped and suffocating in his armour, Landau died slowly, his body buffeted by those running around and over him.

Unhorsed men yanked and sweated at the sandbags, rebuilding the walls as quickly as they could. The Mongols came again, using their horses to ride right up to the walls and then leaping over them, so that they landed tumbling. One by one, those intruders were killed, taken by the same regiment of archers who had assaulted the bridge the night before. Bela began to breathe more easily as the threat of imminent destruction receded. The walls were repaired, his enemies howling outside them. They had taken grievous losses, though nothing like his own. He thanked God he had built the camp large enough to shelter his men.

King Bela stared at the heaps of dead soldiers and horses piled around the edges. They were thick with shafts, some still twitching. The sun was high and he could not believe the time had passed so quickly since the first alarms.

From the back of his horse, he could see the Mongols were still pressing close to the walls. There was only one true gate and he sent archers to cover it against another attack. He saw Von Thuringen gather the knights there in a column and Bela could only watch as they pulled down their visors and readied lances. At a bellow from Von Thuringen, the gate was pulled open. Almost six hundred kicked their chargers into a gallop and rode out into the storm. Bela thought he would not see them again.

He had the wits to send archers to every wall with full quivers. All around him, the snap of bows began and he breathed faster as he heard guttural yells from outside. The Teutonic Knights were in their element, slicing through the Mongol riders, using weight and speed to cut them down as they roared and screamed outside the sandbag walls. Bela could hardly control his fear. Inside the camp, men and horses roiled in a crush, but a great part of his army had been slaughtered in their sleep. Outside, Bela heard the jeers and whoops of the Mongols suddenly choked off as Von Thuringen battered through them. He felt himself grow cold. He would not escape from this place. They had trapped him and he would die with the rest.

It seemed an age before Von Thuringen came back through the gate. The gleaming column of knights had been reduced to no more than eighty, perhaps a hundred. The men who returned were battered and bloody, many of them reeling in their saddles with arrows sticking out of their armour. The Magyar horsemen were in awe of the knights and many of them dismounted to help them down from the saddle. Von Thuringen’s huge beard was stained with rusty blood and he looked like some dark god, his blue eyes furious as they fell on the Hungarian king.

Bela needed guidance and he returned the gaze like a deer staring helplessly at a lion. Through the heaving mass of men, Conrad von Thuringen came riding, the marshal’s face as grim as his own.

Batu was panting as he rode up to Tsubodai. The orlok stood by his horse on a ridge of land that stretched across the battlefield, watching the battles he had ordered. Batu had expected the orlok to be furious at the way the attack had gone, but instead Tsubodai smiled to see him. Batu rubbed at a clot of mud sticking to his neck and returned the smile uncertainly.

‘Those knights are impressive,’ Batu said.

Tsubodai nodded. He had seen the bearded giant throw his men back. The Mongol warriors had been too close, unable to manoeuvre when the knights came charging out. Even so, the sudden attack had been unnerving for its discipline and ferocity. The knights had hacked their way through his men like tireless butchers, closing the gaps in their own ranks as arrows found them and sent them falling to the ground. Each one that fell took two or three warriors with him, grunting and kicking out until he was held and cut.

‘There are not so many now,’ Tsubodai replied, though the attack had shaken his certainties. He had not dismissed the threat of the knights, but perhaps he had underestimated their strength in the right time and place. That bearded maniac had found the moment, surprising his tuman just as they were howling for victory. Still, only a few knights made it back. When the volleys of arrows began to snap out from the walls, Tsubodai had given the order to retreat out of range. His own warriors had begun to return the shafts, but the deaths were unequal as Bela’s archers shot from behind a stable wall of sandbags. For an instant, Tsubodai had considered another charge to break the walls, but the cost would have been too high. He had them inside their own walls, weaker than any Chin fortress. He doubted they had enough water for so many crammed into the camp.

The orlok stared out across the plains with its heaps of bodies, some still crawling. The attacks had smashed the Hungarian army, shattering their overconfidence at last. He was pleased, but he bit his lip as he pondered how to finish the work.

‘How long can they hold?’ Batu asked suddenly, echoing his thoughts so closely that Tsubodai looked at him in surprise.

‘A few days before their water runs out, no more,’ he said. ‘But they will not wait until then. The question is how many
men and horses, how many arrows and lances, they have left. And how many of those cursed knights.’

It was hard to make a good estimate. The grasslands were littered with the dead, but he could not know how many had survived to reach their king. He closed his eyes for a moment, summoning up the image of the land as if he flew above it. His ragged conscripts were still across the river, no doubt staring balefully at the small contingent who had forced the bridge and held the other side. The king’s camp lay between Tsubodai and the river, trapped and held in one spot.

Once again, Batu had mirrored his thoughts.

‘Let me send a messenger to bring the foot soldiers back across the river,’ Batu said.

Tsubodai ignored him. He did not yet know how many of his Mongol warriors had been killed or wounded that morning. If the king had saved even half his army, he would have enough left to force a battle on equal terms, a battle that Tsubodai could only win by throwing his tumans in hard. The precious army he had brought on the great trek would be reduced, battered against an enemy of equal strength and will. It would not do. He thought furiously, opening his eyes to stare at the land around the camp. Slowly he smiled, and this time Batu was not there before him.

‘What is it, orlok? Shall I send a messenger across the river ford?’

‘Yes. Tell them to slaughter the king’s men across the river. We must retake that bridge, Batu. I do not want the king sending men to the river for water.’

Tsubodai tapped his boot on the ridge beneath him. ‘When that is done, I will pull my tumans further back, another mile from this point. Thirst will make their decision for them.’

Batu could only look on in confusion as Tsubodai showed his teeth in what might have been a grin.

Temuge was sweating, though the air was cold in the courtyard of the palace. He could feel the hard length of the knife he had concealed under his robe. There had been no search of the men summoned there that morning, though he had made sure by hiding the weapon so that it chafed his groin and caused him to shift his weight.

In the distance, Temuge could hear hammering, the sound that filled his days. The fortification of Karakorum went on day and night, as it would do until the banners of Chagatai were seen on the horizon. If Sorhatani and Torogene held the city long enough for Guyuk to return, they would be praised above all women. Men would talk of the way they had girded Karakorum for war for generations to come. The name of Temuge, keeper of the khan’s libraries, would be forgotten.

He stared coldly at Sorhatani as she addressed the small crowd. Alkhun was there as the senior minghaan of the khan’s Guards. Temuge felt the man look strangely at him and
ignored him. He breathed deeply of the cold air, thinking, planning, deciding. His brother Genghis had once walked into a khan’s ger and cut his throat. Genghis should not have survived it, but he had quieted the man’s tribe with words and threats. They had stopped to listen. Temuge burned at the thought that the men and women in the courtyard would stop and listen to him.

He fingered the hilt of the knife under his clothes. There was
no
destiny in life, nothing beyond what a man could take and hold for himself. Temuge had been witness to the bloody birth of a nation. Whether they understood it or not, they owed him their city, their lives, everything. If it had not been for Genghis, the men and women in that cold yard would still be grubby goatherders on the plains, with each tribe at the throat of the next. They were even living longer than the men and women he had known as a boy. Chin and Moslem healers had saved many from illnesses that had once been mortal.

Despite the surging anger, part of him was still terrified of what he planned. Again and again, Temuge let his hands fall open, telling himself the moment had passed: his moment in history. Then the memory of his brothers would surface and he could feel them mocking his indecision. It was just a death, nothing more, certainly nothing to unman him in such a way. He felt sweat trickle down his neck and wiped at it, drawing the gaze of Yao Shu. Their eyes met and Temuge was reminded that he was not alone in his plotting. The chancellor had been more than open with him. The man hid a vicious hatred of Sorhatani that had led Temuge into revealing more of his thoughts and dreams than he had planned.

Sorhatani dismissed the officers of Karakorum to their day’s work and began to turn away. Torogene went with her, already discussing some detail.

‘A moment, my lady,’ Temuge said.

His mouth seemed to work without his volition, spitting
out the words. Sorhatani was in a hurry and barely gestured for him to follow her as she stepped down and walked towards the cloistered hallway back into the palace rooms. It was that casual gesture that firmed his nerve with anger. To have such a woman treat him as a supplicant was enough to bring a flush to his features. He hurried to catch up with the women, taking strength from the presence of Yao Shu falling in with them. He glanced back at the open courtyard as they passed into shadow, frowning as he saw Alkhun was still there, staring after him.

Sorhatani had made a mistake in letting him come so close in the shadows. He reached out and took her arm. She shook off his grip.

‘What do you want, Temuge?’ she snapped. ‘I have a thousand things to do this morning.’

It was not a time for words, but he spoke to cover the moment as he reached for the knife under his deel robe.

‘My brother Genghis would not want a woman to rule his lands,’ he said.

She stiffened and he brought out the blade. Torogene gasped and took a step away, already panicking. Sorhatani’s eyes widened in shock. Temuge grabbed her with his left hand and drew back his arm to drive the dagger into her chest.

He felt his arm gripped with such strength that he stumbled and cried out. Yao Shu held him and the man’s eyes were cold with disdain. Temuge yanked at his arm, but he could not free himself. Panic spread through his chest, making his heart flutter.

‘No,’ he said. Spittle had gathered in two white specks at the corner of his mouth. He could not understand what was happening.

‘You were right after all, Yao Shu,’ Sorhatani said. She did not look at Temuge, as if he had ceased to matter at all. ‘I’m sorry to have doubted you. I just never thought he would truly be so stupid.’

Yao Shu tightened his grip and the dagger fell with a clatter on the stone floor.

‘He has always been a weak man,’ he replied. He shook Temuge suddenly, making him cry out in fear and astonishment. ‘What do you want done with him?’

Sorhatani hesitated and Temuge struggled to find his wits.

‘I am the last brother of Genghis,’ he said. ‘And what are
you
? Who are you to sit in judgement of me? A Chin monk and two women. You have no
right
to judge me.’

‘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. The 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.