Conn Iggulden - Empire of Silver

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.

The tasks he faced rattled through his head as the light began to turn from silvery grey to gold. The priority was to find a river and drink their fill. The thought of fresh water made him work his lips, clearing them of thick spit.

As the light spread across the land, Von Thuringen saw a dark line on his right hand. At first he thought it was trees, or some outcropping of rock. Then, in a moment, the shadowy forms resolved and he froze, pulling on the reins.

Mongol warriors on horseback lined the path, with bows held ready. Von Thuringen tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. His gaze swept up and down the lines, seeing the thin trail of men ahead of him. By God, there was not even a herald to blow a warning horn! Only a few of his knights rode nearby and they too reined in, looking back at him in grim realisation.

The world held still for a long time and, in silent prayer, Von Thuringen made his peace, his final penitence. He kissed the ring on his finger with its holy relic for the last time. As he spurred his charger forward and reached for his sword, the arrows began to fly, the first ones keening through the air like screaming children. The Mongols fell upon the thin and broken line of escaping soldiers and the butchery began in earnest. Baidur and Ilugei returned to Hungary to find Tsubodai resting with his tumans. The mood of triumph was visible in every face they saw and they were greeted with drums and horns. The tumans with Tsubodai knew the part Baidur had played in their own victory and he was cheered as he entered the camp around the Danube.

The cities of Buda and Pest had been sacked over days, then looted carefully of anything that they needed or desired. Baidur trotted through streets of half-burnt houses, seeing stones that had been hot enough to shatter into rubble over the open road. Though King Bela had escaped, the army of Hungary had been slaughtered, almost too many to count. Tsubodai's tallymen had collected sacks of ears and some talked of sixty thousand dead or more. The scouts were already out roaming further west, but for a season, the tumans could pause in the great trek, growing strong and fat on rich meat and stolen wine.

Tsubodai sent riders to Guyuk and Mongke to bring them in. Their flanking rides were ended and he chose to gather them all in one place, ready to push on to the sea.

Batu had seen the riders go out and so he was surprised when one of his men brought him news of tumans coming from the south. It was too early for Tsubodai's orders to have reached Guyuk, but he called to Baidur and they rode out of camp.

They were among the first to recognise the banners of Guyuk's tuman. Batu laughed at the sight and dug in his heels, sending his pony galloping across the open grassland. There were many stories to tell and he anticipated enough drunken evenings to recount them all. As he and Baidur drew closer, neither man noticed the dark expressions on the faces of the returning warriors at first. There was no mood of jubilation in the tumans of Guyuk and Mongke. Guyuk in particular looked as grim as Batu had ever seen him.

'What is it, cousin?' Batu said, his smile fading.

Guyuk turned his head and Batu saw his eyes were red-rimmed and sore-looking.

'The khan is dead,' Guyuk said.

Batu shook his head. 'Your father? How? He was still young.'

Guyuk looked at him from under lowered brows, forcing the words out.

'His heart. I must see Tsubodai now.'

Batu and Baidur fell in at his side. Baidur had paled and he was lost in thought as they rode. He knew his father better than anyone and he was suddenly afraid the men around him had become his enemies.

Batu stayed with Guyuk, Mongke and Baidur as they entered the river city of Buda and made their way through the streets to the palace Tsubodai was using for his base. It was left to their senior minghaan officers to find lodging and food for the men in the ransacked city. The four princes rode to the royal palace and dismounted at the outer gate. They passed the guards without a challenge. The orlok's officers took one look and chose discretion rather than the letter of their orders.

For once, Guyuk led the small group, with Batu striding at his right shoulder. They found Tsubodai in an empty ballroom, where a huge dining table had been dragged in and piled with maps and papers. The orlok was deep in conversation with Jebe, Chulgetei and Ilugei. The other men were nodding as Tsubodai adjusted coins to show the position of tumans on the landscape. Batu took in the scene at a glance and smiled tightly to himself. It was a meeting of young and old, and for the first time, Batu was confident he could predict the outcome.

Tsubodai looked up as the four princes crossed the hall, their steps echoing in the space. He frowned at the sight of their stern expressions and stood back from the table.

'I did not summon you here,' he said. He was looking at Batu, but his gaze snapped over in surprise as Guyuk answered.

'My father is dead, orlok.'

Tsubodai closed his eyes for a moment, his face stiff. He nodded to himself.