Until the Sun Falls (21 page)

Some twenty Russians dashed up over the roofs across the street, knelt, and raised their bows. Psin nocked an arrow and shot, and one man plummeted down into the heaving pack of Mongols. Psin laid another arrow to the string. They were caught like— He shot. The Russians had shields, and the man he’d aimed at jerked his up, but the arrow pierced through it and the man screamed and fell.

Ahead wood crashed and splintered, and the Mongols cheered. Other men in this pack were shooting at the Russians on the roofs, but the Russian arrows rained down. The man in front of Psin swayed in his saddle. A tuft of arrow feathers jutted from his side. Psin shot again, missed, and felt the crush loosening around him. The man before him slid out of his saddle and the dun jumped his body. Psin heard the man’s thin wail. An arrow thunked into Psin’s thigh, just below the skirt of his body armor. He swung his bow up again and shot a Russian jumping from one roof to another—the roof he left was flaming. The dun began to trot.

The whole great mob was trotting. The men around him began to yell. The arrow hurt; its head was lodged in his saddle and when the dun trotted the shaft wobbled up and down in the wound.

“Keep moving, you—”

They broke into a canter. The shattered remains of a barricade flashed by. Ahead, Russian voices called out, and a fountain of blood leapt into the air and sprayed across the onrushing Mongols, but the horses never hesitated. The dun’s hoofs struck something soft and pounded again on the hard earth.

Looters swarmed through the houses they passed. Some of the men in Psin’s column swerved off to break into the houses. More Russians raced over the roofs and shot arrows or threw furniture and stones down into the street. The dun horse shuddered and swept on. Another horse ran into it, and Psin’s wounded leg smashed into the horse’s side. The two horses galloped together, shoulder to shoulder, bouncing off each other with every stride. Psin reeled from the agony in his thigh. Abruptly the horse beside him slipped and fell. The arrow had broken off inside the wound.

They charged into the marketplace. The citadel threw its shadow over them, and arrows and stones hurtled down all around them. Mongke, his face streaming blood, galloped past at the head of ten men and raced down a sidestreet. A woman screamed, very close; a wounded and riderless horse staggered out of the alley beside the citadel. Psin dodged the dun horse into the lee of the citadel’s door and stopped.

“Yip-yip-yip-yip—”

That came from a sidestreet. Psin pulled his thigh off the stump of the arrow, slung his leg up in front of the saddle on the horse’s shoulder, and worked the arrowhead out of the leather. The square was packed full of Mongols, all milling, shooting down Russians on the rooftops and running down Russians on the ground. Another shower of arrows flew down from the citadel tower.

Buri with Mongke’s honor guard driving behind him bolted into the square and forced a path through the mob. He looked around and cupped his hands around his mouth and yipped a dozen times. Psin drove the dun out of the citadel doorway and raced after him. Buri and his men veered down a sidestreet.

Barricades in this street, too: wagons, furniture, men behind them with bows and swords. Psin reined the dun over to the nearest building, spun the horse’s rump to the door, and sawed on the bit. The dun kicked out. His hoofs rang on the wood. He kicked again, throwing Psin up on his neck, and the wood splintered. Buri and his men were crouching in doorways across the street, shooting at the

Russians behind the barricade. Somebody whined in the building behind Psin. He wrenched the dun’s mouth again, and the horse put both hindlegs through the door.

The dun neighed and fought clear, and Psin, jumping down, landed hard on his bad leg and fell. He lay still long enough to stick his finger against the wound. The blood was spilling out of it, and it felt big enough to see through. He staggered up, nocked an arrow, and held the bow in his left hand. With his right he knocked the shattered wood out of the doorframe. No arrow flew through the gaping hole to meet him, and he dove in. Again he fell, and heard his arrow snap under him. He got to his knees.

Two women were kneeling in front of a wooden frame against the far wall. They gasped but did not turn; their faces were bloodless and their eyes shut, their lips moving feverishly. Small oil lamps burned on the walls. Psin limped to one and pulled it down. He tore scraps off his tunic, dipped them in oil, and wrapped them around his arrowheads. The women began to pray out loud.

“Kill,” somebody called, in Russian. “Kill the pagans.”

Psin unbolted the door and threw it open. The dun horse was in an alley across the street, snorting. Its hindlegs were cut and blood flecked its shoulders and neck. Psin knelt in the doorway, set the lamp beside him, lit one arrow, and shot it into the barricade.

The other Mongols cheered. The Russians couldn’t see yet what was going on, but from the roof over Psin’s head a booming voice called, “They’re firing the barricade, Andrei—”

“Buri,” Psin shouted. Buri, in a doorway down the street, swung around and saw; he lifted his bow to shoot at the booming voice. Arrows plinked off the paving stones and the iron-bound doors opposite Psin. He shot three more burning arrows into the barricade, low, so that the men behind it couldn’t reach them without exposing themselves to the Mongol bows.

Horses were coming, fast, down the street behind the barricade. Psin started up, heard iron shoes rattling on the street, and shrank back again. Russian knights. Flames were creeping over the barricade. The Russians behind it yelled to the knights. Buri was shouting orders; Psin couldn’t hear the words. He nocked another arrow.

“If you shoot that, I will kill you,” the woman behind him said.

He whirled, striking at her; his fist caught her in the throat and flung her against the wall. The knife dropped from her fingers. He drew his arrow back and shot her through the heart. Spinning, he grabbed another arrow and looked for a target.

The barricade was all fire, and the Russians were trapped behind it. The other woman wailed. More horses streamed down the street beyond the rising flames, and these were Mongols; Psin could hear their yipping and the rising hopelessness in the Russian voices. Buri and his men spilled out of their hiding places and caught their horses.

Psin turned back into the room. His leg throbbed and he felt his heart hammering in rhythm with it. The older woman, wailing, was bent over the one Psin had shot.

“She’s dead. You’ve killed her.”

The woman broke into wild weeping and put her hands to her face. Psin went over toward her to retrieve his arrow. “Never speak before you strike,” he said. “It’s bad luck.”

The woman clawed at the dagger on the floor. He lunged to grab her, but his leg held him back, and she surged away, her fingers tight around the hilt. “On your head, pagan,” she said, and stabbed herself.

She made a mess of it. The blade turned on a rib, and the blood leapt from her breast in dark spurts. He caught her before she fell, took the dagger, and said, “Not that way.”

“I’m dying,” she said, surprised.

“So you are.”

He stretched her out on the floor, rammed the dagger into his belt, and shambled around the room looking for plunder.

“Pagan,” she said, and sighed.

“Die, will you?” He took down the silver cross from the wall over the wooden frame. When he looked back she was dead.

Three Mongols burst in through the shattered door, and he whirled, almost collapsing on his bad leg. “Mine,” he said. “Find your own house.”

They backed out. He opened a cabinet and had to cling to it to keep his balance. A great haze swam before his eyes. He could see cups and gold plates, somewhere in front of him. His mouth filled up with water and he swallowed. His legs were going. He fell—

He swung over a void, rocking gently back and forth. He couldn’t open his eyes. They were open, but he couldn’t see. He licked his lips so that he could speak.

“Lie still. You’re bleeding all over me.”

That was Tshant. He was very happy to lie still. He could feel arms under his shoulders and knees. Something hit him across the back, and he tried to gather his strength to fight it off. His head rested on something soft.

“Nothing broken. See how white he is.”

“Go away,” he said. “I’m sleepy.”

Rocking him back and forth, the way Artai had rocked him once when he had been sick. He remembered being furious at her for it. “I’m no child.” Now he was sick, and Artai was off by the Lake somewhere…. Nausea climbed up his throat. He lurched over on his side.

“Keep him quiet. He’ll open it up again.”

“He has. Look at the blood.”

One of them was Tshant, but the other he didn’t have a name for, although he recognized the voice.

Rocking again. He lay still. He couldn’t remember if he had shut his eyes, but it didn’t matter because he couldn’t see anything anyway.

“Ada, he’s so hot.”

Djela. He struggled, trying to pull himself awake. Something was frightening Djela.

“Get away from him. When you go near him he moves.”

It wasn’t hot. It was cold, bitter cold, and a strong wind blew. I am in the forest. His father was gone. The Yek Mongols had taken his father and he’d had to run into the forest. Three of his six young brothers were with him. It was dark and they had no horses, only the dogs. The Yek Mongols were hunting them, and when they found them… Cold. Without coats they wouldn’t live until the morning. Don’t leave tracks. My brothers are so small. “I’m cold, Psin.” We are hiding under a windfall and we all crowd together. Toki is cold. Toki is dead.

Cool woman’s hands touched his cheek. They felt like Chan’s hands, except that Chan never came near him unless she had to. Chan loathed him. He turned his face into the cushions and wept.

“What’s wrong with him now?” 

“He’s fevered,” Dmitri said. “Wash his face.”

“He’s crying.”

He was, but he couldn’t remember why. Because Toki was dead. He hung on, but the ropes around him dragged him off; his fingers scraped along the edge, and he fell and swung loose over the gap. Strange dreams plodded through his mind, but he knew they were dreams. He watched them pass. Somebody picked up his head and cradled it and put a bowl to his lips, and he opened his eyes and saw thin gruel.

“Damn you.” He batted the bowl away. “Get me some meat.”

The woman stood back, gruel splashed across her front. He’d never seen her before. She was Russian, round-eyed and white-skinned and tall. He hitched himself up on his elbows and his head wobbled uncontrollably on his neck. He didn’t recognize the room, either.

“Where am I?” he said in Russian.

“In Susdal.” She put the bowl down and washed her hands in a basin on the low table under the window.

“In Susdal.” He lay back. “How long was I sick?”

“Fifteen days.”

“And in that time we took Susdal.”

She nodded. Turning from the basin, she called, in Mongol, “Djela, your grandfather is waked up.”

“Grandfather.” Djela ran across the room. He leapt up onto the couch and embraced Psin. His head burrowed into Psin’s shoulder. “I was worried—you yelled so much.”

“Ouch. Be careful, noyon. I’m in no shape to be mauled again.”

The woman was moving around the room, straightening it up. When she passed through the light from the window he saw red glints in her hair. Djela said, “Ana took care of you. Isn’t she nice?”

“Very. Where is your father?”

“Somewhere. He took Susdal all by himself. Everybody else is gone.” Djela sat on the edge of the couch and beamed. “I’m glad you’re well again.”

“Where is Sabotai?”

“Coming back,” Djela said. “They beat the grand noyon of the Russians. We heard yesterday.”

The woman’s eyes, patient and unhappy, avoided Psin. She stood still a moment, listening to the boy, and went on.

“Bring me some meat,” Psin said to her.

“The fighting was terrible,” Djela said. “When we took Susdal.”

“Worse than Vladimir? “

“Much worse.” He bounced a little. “We had to fight for two days here. But in Vladimir everything was burning. Ada saw your horse running loose and he galloped up and down asking everybody if he’d seen you, and finally somebody told him. And the house you were in was burning and you were lying there in a great pool of blood.”

“Did they kill everybody?”

Djela nodded. “I could see the smoke all the next day.” He curled up on the couch, his head on Psin’s arm. “I was scared.”

Psin hugged him. “I would have been if I’d had the sense.”

Ana came back into the room with a bowl of meat. She said in Russian, “You couldn’t keep anything down but gruel and kumiss. When you were sick.”

He tried to sit up and could not. “I’m still sick. Feed me.”

She sat beside him and spooned stewed meat into his mouth. The chewing hurt his jaw muscles. He swallowed one great chunk of meat and said, “I must have caught a fever in the wound.”

“The wound was clean.” She poured broth into his mouth. “It deserved to be. You bled more than any man I’ve ever seen who lived after.”

“Russian arrows are poisonous.”

The door opened and Tshant walked in. He stopped at the foot of the couch, his eyes blank, staring at Psin. “And I was so used to an undivided command.”

“You can keep it a few more days. How did the battle go?”

Tshant shrugged one shoulder. “Sabotai caught the Russians on the Sit’ River and surrounded them. They never even managed a counter-attack.” He looked over at Ana and spoke slowly, carefully, so that she would follow the Mongol. “He’ll get sick again if you feed him that.”

Psin could see her trying to sort out words to answer; she gave up after a moment and said only, “No.”

“It’s you who has to clean up the floor, not I.” He turned and stamped out.

She watched him go, brushed a wisp of her hair out of her eyes, and went off with the bowl. Psin lay still. He felt worn to nothing. Djela told him what Dekko had thought of Psin’s being sick, and Psin closed his eyes and listened, drifting into sleep.

The next day he wasn’t much stronger. He swore and clenched his muscles but he could barely lift his head. Ana fed him all day long, and Djela told him stories and played the string game with him. He grew tired too often, and after the least tiring things—eating made him tired.