'They are not Tartars, your majesty, they are Mongol warriors. They move quickly and they slaughter every living thing in their path. If you have friends, my king, call them now. You will need them all.'

The king's eyes were cold as he looked down on the room.

'I gave your people sanctuary here, Koten. Two hundred thousand of your tribe, your families. You crossed the mountains to get away from these…Mongol warriors, did you not? You were not so well dressed then, Koten. You were ragged and close to death. Yet I took you in. I gave you lands and food from my own hand.'

'In exchange for taking the body and blood, your majesty,' Koten replied. 'I was baptised myself into…our faith.'

'That is the gift of the Spirit, God's favour to you. The world's price has yet to be paid, Koten.'

The small man clenched his hands behind his back as he waited. Josef was fascinated. He had heard of the mass exodus of refugees from Russia, leaving their dead in the frozen mountains rather than be hunted down. The stories they had spread of this 'Golden Horde' of Mongols had done the work of an army all on its own. Half of Hungary quaked at the threat and the rumours of black smoke in the mountains. Josef could see the whiteness of Koten's knuckles against the darker skin as King Bela went on.

'If I am to count you friend, I will need every warrior under your command. I will supply what arms they need and I will give them good soup to keep them warm, fuel for their fires, fodder for their horses, salt for their food. Your oath has been sworn, Koten. As your liege lord, my orders are to stand and face the enemy with me. Do not fear for your people. This is my land. I will stop them here.'

He paused and for a time Koten let the silence go on. At last, as if exhausted, his shoulders dipped.

'Will your allies be sending armies? The Pope? The Holy Roman Emperor?'

It was King Bela's turn to grow stiff and still. Pope Gregory and Emperor Frederick were locked in their own struggle. He had entreated them both for men and arms for more than a year, ever since the refugees had arrived from Russia. King Frederick had sent the Teutonic Knights: 1,190 men chosen for the founding year of their order and never exceeding that number. They were legendary fighters, but against a Golden Horde of savage warriors, Bela could imagine them being swept away like leaves in a storm. Still he showed only confidence to the men he needed to support him.

'I have been promised an army from King Boleslav of Krakow, one from Duke Henry of Silesia, another from King Wenceslas of Bohemia. There will be fresh reinforcements in the spring. In the meantime, we have my own men of Hungary, Lord Koten: sixty thousand soldiers, all well trained and hungry to defend their land. And we have the knights, Koten. They will hold the line. With your horsemen, I can field a hundred thousand soldiers.' He smiled at the thought of such a colossal number. 'We will take the worst they can offer us and then we will strike back in the thaw and end this threat to peace for ever.'

Koten sighed visibly. 'Very well. I can bring my forty thousand to this dance, my king. We will stand.' He shrugged. 'In winter there is nowhere to run anyway, not where they cannot catch us.'

Conrad von Thuringen coughed into his mailed hand. The king looked across the meeting hall at him and nodded graciously. The knight marshal of the Teutonic Order scratched his beard for a moment, reaching through the heavy thatch to some flea or louse on the skin.

'Your majesty, my lord Koten. The Emperor Frederick did not send us to you. His is the authority over the earth, not the souls of men. We came because of the Christian brothers from Russia, fresh converted to the True Faith. We will stand between those families and the storm. It is no more than our duty.'

Around the room, other noblemen stepped forward to pledge their soldiers and houses to the king's cause. Josef waited until they had finished before he too swore his eight hundred knights of Livonia to service. He saw that Koten looked less than impressed and he smiled slightly at the man. As one of those 'fresh converts' Conrad had mentioned, Koten had no inkling yet of the force of men armed in Christ. The knights were few in number, but each one was a master of weapons, as strong on the field as in his faith in God. For all their fearsome reputation, he was certain the Mongol army would break on the knights like a wave on a rock.

'Every king should have such men to follow him,' Bela said, visibly pleased at their open support. For once he would not have to broker deals and persuade or bribe his lords to save themselves. 'The enemy have gathered in the foothills of the Carpathians. They are no more than three hundred miles away, with the Danube and Sajo rivers between us. We have a month, perhaps two at most, to make ready for them. They will not be here before spring.'

'Your majesty,' Koten said in the pause. 'I have seen them move. It is true the entire camp would take so long to reach us, but the tumans – the raiding armies – could cross that much land in eight days. If they did not spend the summers resting, majesty, they could have been here long before. They came into Moscow on the frozen river. They run like wolves in winter, while other men sleep. We should be ready, at least as ready as it is possible to be.'

King Bela frowned. Standing above them, he twisted an ornate gold ring on one hand with the fingers of the other, a gesture of nerves that was not lost on Koten or the lords present. He had ascended the throne only six years before, on the death of his father. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for the sort of war he now faced. At last he nodded.

'Very well. Marshal von Thuringen, you will decamp today to Buda and Pest to oversee the preparations. We will be ready for them when they come.'

The king put out his hand and his seneschal drew a long sword and handed it to him. In front of them all, Bela raised the blade and cut his forearm. He remained impassive as blood flowed, using his hand to daub it all along the blade, until most of the silver was red.

'My lords, you see the blood royal of Hungary. Make a dozen like this and take the swords out to the villages and towns. Hold them high. The people will answer the call of their noblemen, the call to arms of their king. We will defend the kingdom. Let this be the sign.' Tsubodai stood huddled in furs, stretching out his hands to a crackling fire. The smoke rose and his gaze followed it, drifting up to ancient beams in the barn. It had been long abandoned by the farmer and part of the roof had sagged and broken. It smelled of horses and straw and it was dry enough, at least at one end. It was not much of a place to begin the conquest of a country, but there was nowhere else in the frozen fields that stretched to the horizon. He watched as an icicle on the open door dripped, and frowned at the sight. Surely it was just the warmth from the fire reaching it. Yet this was a new land. He knew nothing of the seasons, or how long the winter would last.

His seven generals waited patiently for him, chewing noisily on pouches of bread and meat and passing a fat skin to take gulps of airag that kept them warm.

Kachiun's senior minghaan, Ilugei, had taken over the tuman. In time, a new general would be appointed at the khan's order, but in the field, Tsubodai had raised Ilugei. It was no coincidence that the man was grey-haired and wiry, almost forty years of age and one of those trained in the personal guard of Genghis. Tsubodai had had enough of the young lions Batu had gathered around him. He would have preferred Khasar, if he had not been almost five thousand miles away in Karakorum. He needed dependable men if he was to take the army on to the sea.

'Attend me,' Tsubodai said, without preamble. He paused only for a beat as the generals stopped eating and came closer to hear. 'The further we go west, the more danger comes from the flanks. If we drive on, it is as a spear thrust into the centre of an army: every step is greater risk.'