The Templars roared as they struck the Mongol tuman. They were men who had fought in muddy fields as far apart as Jerusalem and Cyprus. They expected the enemy in front of them to give way and they dug in their heels and stretched into a gallop. Their strength was the unstoppable hammer blow, a strike to tear an army in half, to reach the centre and kill a king. The Mongols collapsed, hundreds at a time turning and racing before the knights, the heels of their horses almost within reach of the great swords and heavy lances. The Templar charge pounded on for half a mile or more, driving all before them. Baidur raised his arm. The minghaans had been watching for his signal, the moment that was his to choose. They snapped orders along the line. Twenty men raised yellow flags high and roared to the jaguns of a hundred warriors. They passed the order down to tens. By eye or by ear, it spread like fire through straw, taking just moments. Out of the chaos came instant order. The jaguns peeled off to the flanks, letting the knights come without resistance. Some still ran ahead to draw them on, but the flanks were thickening as more and more men readied their bows.
The Templars had come far from their foot soldiers and their vicious pikes. Perhaps ten thousand of them had ridden out, a massive force, well used to victory. They had plunged deep into the Mongol tumans, carried by confidence and faith. The French knights stared out through slits in steel at the chaos of the Mongol retreat and they cut hard with their swords at anything within reach. They saw the ranks splitting away to each side of them, but they still drove forward, focused on punching right through the enemy and reaching their leader, whoever he was.
From both sides, thousands of Mongol archers ceased their frightened yelling and placed arrows on the strings of bows. With calm deliberation, they picked their targets, looking down the shafts at the plunging necks of the huge warhorses. From the front, the animals were armoured in steel. The sides of their necks were either bare or covered in flapping cloth.
Baidur dropped his arm. All the yellow flags fell in response, almost as one. The bows thumped, releasing the vast tension of the full draw and sending shafts whirring into the mass of horses streaming past them. The targets were not hard to hit at close range, and in the first blows, horses collapsed in shock and pain, their throats pierced right through. Blood sprayed from their nostrils in great gusts as they screamed. Many of the archers winced, but they took another arrow from the quiver and sent it in.
The knights roared a battle challenge. Those struck only once dug in their heels and tried to wheel out of the storm coming from both sides. Their horses began to shudder, their legs trembling in agony. Hundreds of the mounts crashed down with no warning, trapping or crushing the knights on their backs. They found themselves on the ground, dazed and struggling to rise.
For a time, the Templar charge drove on, regardless of losses. It was no easy task to turn the weight of horses and armour aside, but as the destruction mounted, Baidur heard new orders roared across them. The man who gave them became the instant target of every archer in reach. His horse fell, bristling arrows, and the man himself was sent reeling, his head snapped back in its iron shell by the impact of a shaft. The visor was punched in, so that he was blinded by it. Baidur could see the man wrestling to pull it free as he lay on the ground.
The Templars turned, wheeling right and left into the body of archers flanking them. The charge split along a line, with each man taking the opposite path to the one in front. It was a parade-ground manoeuvre, one the Mongols had never seen before. Baidur was impressed. It brought the knights into hand-to-hand combat with the men who stung them, their one chance to survive the carnage the charge had become. They had lost speed, but their armour was strong and they were still fresh. They used the great reach of the lance points to smash in the ribs of his warriors, then the huge swords rose and fell like cleavers.
The Mongol riders danced their mounts around them. They were smaller and less powerful, but so much faster than the armoured men that they could pick each shot with care. From close enough to hear the knights panting beneath their iron plate, they could send their ponies skipping aside, bend the bow and send a shaft wherever they saw a gap or flesh. The longswords swung over them, or where they had been moments before.
Baidur could hear the guttural laughter of his men and he knew it was partly in relief. The sheer size of the knights and their horses was frightening. It was like a cool breeze on the skin to see them flail. When the knights struck cleanly, each blow was terrible, the wounds mortal. Baidur saw one knight with a ragged tabard of red and white bring his sword down with such force that it cut a warrior's thigh through and gashed the saddle beneath. Even as the warrior died, he grabbed the knight and pulled him down with him in a crash of metal.
The smooth volleys from the flanks had become a melee of yelling men and horses, a thousand individual struggles. Baidur trotted his pony up and down, trying to see how his men were doing. He saw one knight stagger to his feet and pull off a battered helmet, revealing long dark hair, sweat-plastered to his head. Baidur kicked forward and cut down as he rode past, feeling the shock of impact right up his arm.
He held back, reining in his horse tightly as he tried to keep a sense of the battle. He could not join the attack, he knew that. If he fell, the command would drop to Ilugei's shoulders. Baidur stood in his stirrups and surveyed a scene he knew he would never forget. All across a vast field, knights in silver armour fought and struggled against the tumans. Their shields were battered and broken, their swords lay where they fell. Thousands were killed on the ground, held down by warriors while others heaved at a helmet, then jabbed a sword into the gap. Thousands more still stood, unhorsed, bellowing to their companions. There was little fear in them, Baidur saw, but they were wrong. It was a time to be afraid. He was not surprised to see the tail of the charge begin to wheel, turning in a chaotic mass so that they could run back to the foot soldiers around Krakow. He gave new orders and eight minghaans moved to follow them, loosing arrows as the knights pushed their tired horses into a canter. There would not be many left by the time they reached a safe haven behind the pikes. Boleslav watched in despair as the cream of the nobility were torn apart almost in front of him. He would never have believed the knights could fail against horsemen if he had not seen it with his own eyes. Those arrows! The force and accuracy was staggering. He had never seen anything like it on the battlefield. No one in Poland ever had.
His hopes were raised when he saw the rear turn back to the city. He had not been able to observe the extent of the destruction and his mouth slowly fell open as he realised how few they were, how ragged and battered in comparison to the shining glory of those who had ridden out. The Mongols came with them even then, loosing their infernal shafts with smooth pulls, as if the knights were merely targets to be picked off.
Boleslav sent out a regiment of four thousand pikemen to protect their retreat, forcing the Mongols to stop in their tracks. The shattered remnant of the Knights Templar came trotting in, almost every man dusty and bleeding, wheezing as chest plates pressed too close on their ribs. Boleslav turned in horror as the Mongol tumans came closer. They would use lances at last, he realised. He had lost his cavalry shield and they would ride through to Krakow. He shouted for the pikes to be raised, but there was no charge. Instead, the arrows began again, as if the knights had never ridden out, as if the Mongols had all day to finish the killing.