Wearily, Tsubodai cracked his neck, loosening tired joints. He did not need to motivate his men with a speech or fresh orders. They too had watched the last stand of the minghaan. They had heard the cries of pain and seen the splashes as dying men tumbled into the waters. The Sajo river was running full and fast and they drowned swiftly in their armour, unable to rise to the surface.
The moon was half full, casting its light over the landscape. The river shone like a silver rope, blurred into darkness as the tumans splashed through the shallow ford. This was the key to Tsubodai's plan, the fording place he had scouted on the first crossing out of the mountains. Everything Bela had seen made him believe the Mongols were running. The way they had held the bridge showed its importance to them. Since then, Tsubodai had used the dark hours as the moon rose above the grasslands around the river. It was a gamble, a risk, but he was as tired of running as his men.
Only his ragged conscripts now held the land beyond the river. They sat around a thousand fires in the moonlight, moving from one to another and making it look as if a vast camp had been set. Instead, Tsubodai had led the tumans three miles to the north. On foot, they led their horses across the fording point, out of sight and sound of the enemy. He had left not a single tuman in reserve. If the plan failed now, the Hungarian king would storm across the river at dawn and the ragged levy would be annihilated.
Tsubodai sent whispered orders to hurry the pace. It took hours to get so many men across, especially as they tried to keep quiet. Again and again, he jerked his gaze up to the moon, watching its passage and estimating the time he had left before dawn. King Bela's army was huge. Tsubodai would need the entire day to avenge his losses in full.
The tumans gathered on the other side of the river. The horses were snorting and whinnying to each other, their nostrils blocked by the grubby hands of warriors to muffle the sounds. The men whispered and laughed with each other in the darkness, relishing the shock that would ripple through the army chasing them. For five days they had run. Finally, it was time to stop and hit back.
In the gloom, Tsubodai could see that Batu was grinning as he trotted up for orders. He kept his own face stern.
'Your tuman is to hit the vanguard of their camp, Batu, where their king rests. Catch them asleep and destroy them. If you can reach the sandbag walls, tear them down. Approach as quietly as you can, then let your arrows and swords shout for you.'
'Your will, orlok,' Batu replied. For once, there was no mockery as he spoke the title.
'I will ride with the tumans of Jebe and Chulgetei, to strike against their rear at the same moment. They are certain of our position and they will not expect us tonight. Their walls are worse than useless, for they feel safe within them. I want them in panic, Batu. Everything depends on routing them quickly. Do not forget that they outnumber us still. If they are well led, they could rally and re-form. We will be forced to fight to the last man and the losses will be huge. Do not throw away my army, Batu. Do you understand?'
'I will treat them as if they were my own sons,' Batu said.
Tsubodai snorted. 'Ride then. Dawn is close and you must be in position.'
Tsubodai watched as Batu vanished silently into the darkness. There were no signal horns or naccara drums, not with the enemy so close and unsuspecting. Batu's tuman formed up without fuss, setting off at a trot towards the Hungarian camp. The Mongol carts and gers and wounded had remained behind with the conscripts, left to fend for themselves. The tumans were unencumbered, able to ride fast and strike hard, as they preferred.
Tsubodai nodded sharply to himself. He had further to ride than Batu's tuman and time was short. He mounted quickly, feeling his heart beat stronger in his chest. It was rare for him to feel excitement and he showed nothing in his face as he led the last two tumans into the west. King Bela came awake, starting in his sleep at a crash of sound. He was covered in sweat and rubbed the last wisps of a nightmare from his eyes as he stood. In his blurred thoughts, he could hear the clash and screams of battle and he blinked, becoming aware that the sounds were real. In sudden fear, he stuck his head outside the command tent. It was still dark, but he saw Conrad von Thuringen on his horse, already in full armour. The marshal of the Teutonic Knights did not see Bela as he trotted past, shouting orders Bela could not make out over the tumult. Men were running in all directions, and out beyond the sandbags, he heard battle horns sound in the distance. Bela swallowed drily as he recognised a distant rumble that was growing louder and clearer with every passing moment.
He cursed and turned back to his tent, fumbling for clothes in the darkness. His servants were nowhere to be found and he stumbled over a chair, hissing with pain as he rose. He pulled a pair of heavy trousers from the fallen chair back and yanked them on. It all took precious time. He grabbed the embroidered jacket of his rank, pulling it over his shoulders as he raced out into the night. His horse had been brought and he mounted, needing the height to see.
The first light of dawn had stolen upon them in those moments. The sky to the east was growing pale, and with a shock of horror, Bela could see his ranks boiling in utter chaos. The sandbag walls there had spilled across the grass, worse than useless. His own men were coming through the gap, driven back by the savage riders and arrows slaughtering them outside. He heard Von Thuringen bellow orders to his knights as they rode to shore up the defences there. Desperate hope kindled in him.
The roar of drums began again and the king spun his charger on the spot. The Mongols were somehow behind him. How had they crossed the river? It was impossible, yet the drums rattled and grew.
Stunned, Bela rode through the camp, preferring to move rather than remain still, though his mind was a blank. His Magyars had breached their own camp boundaries in two places, pouring through them to what felt like safety. He could barely comprehend the losses they must have taken to be falling back in such a way.
As he watched, the holes widened and more and more crammed themselves behind the sandbags. Beyond them, the Mongols still tore into his bewildered men, sending them reeling with arrows and lances. In the growing light, there seemed no end to them and Bela wondered if they had somehow hidden an army until then.
Bela struggled to remain calm as the chaos increased around him. He knew he needed to retake the perimeter, to restore the camp and marshal his men within the walls. From there, he would be able to assess the losses, perhaps even begin a counter-attack. He bawled the order to the messengers and they rode out through the milling horsemen, shouting the words to anyone who could hear: 'Rebuild the walls. Hold the walls.' If it could be done, he might yet save the day from disaster. His officers would make order from the chaos. He would throw the tumans back.
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.