Von Thuringen left a conversation with his knights to approach. The man had shed his armoured breastplate, revealing scarred arms and a quilted jerkin, stained and filthy. Bela could smell the sweat and blood on him still. The marshal's face was stern and Bela could hardly meet his eyes as Von Thuringen bowed stiffly.
'One of my men thinks he's found a way out of this,' Von Thuringen said.
King Bela blinked. He had been praying for salvation, but the answer to prayers seemed unlikely in the huge bearded man before him, still matted with someone else's blood.
'What is it?' Bela said, standing up and squaring his shoulders under the knight's scrutiny.
'Easier to show you, your majesty,' Von Thuringen replied.
Without another word, he turned and pushed his way through the mass of horses and men. Bela could only follow, his irritation growing.
It was not a long journey, though the king was buffeted among the men and barely avoided being knocked down as a horse reared. He followed Von Thuringen to another section of wall and looked in the direction the marshal pointed.
'See there, three of my men?' Von Thuringen said flatly.
King Bela peered over the wall and saw three knights who had removed their armour, yet still wore the tabards of yellow and back that marked their order. They were standing in full view of the sandbag walls, but Bela saw how the land dipped before rising to the Mongol camp. There was a ridge there that ran west. Hope leapt in him as he considered the possibilities.
'I couldn't risk horses in daylight, but in darkness, every man here could ride out below that ridge. With a bit of luck and if they keep their heads down, the Mongols will find an empty camp tomorrow morning.'
Bela bit his lip, suddenly terrified of leaving the fragile safety of the camp.
'There is no other way?' he asked.
Von Thuringen drew his brows together, so that his eyebrows met.
'Not without a supply of water. Not without a much larger camp and materials for the walls we need. We're crammed so tight in here, we'd be worse than useless if they attacked. Be thankful they haven't yet realised our weakness, your majesty. God has shown us the way, but it is your order to give.'
'Can we not defeat them in battle, Von Thuringen? Surely there is room to form up on the field?'
The marshal of the Teutonic Knights took a breath to control his anger. He was not the one who supposedly knew the lands around the Sajo river. His men could never have predicted a ford just a couple of miles downstream. The blame for the appalling losses was at the feet of the king, not his knights. It was all Von Thuringen could do to remain civil.
'Your majesty, my knights would follow you to death. The rest, well, they are frightened men. Take this chance and let us get away from this damned camp. I will find another place where we can take revenge on the goatherders. Forget the battle, your majesty. A campaign is not lost because of a single bad day.'
King Bela stood, working a ring on his hand round and round. Von Thuringen waited impatiently, but eventually the king nodded.
'Very well. As soon as it's dark enough, we go.'
Von Thuringen turned away, already issuing the orders to the men around him. He would organise the retreat, hoping that no Mongol scout wandered too close to the ridge that night. As soon as the sun set, Von Thuringen gave the order to leave the camp. The final hours had been spent wrapping cloth around hooves to silence them, though the ground was soft enough. The Teutonic Knights supervised the first men who crept out in darkness and began to walk their mounts beneath the ridge, their hearts pounding at the thought of a shout from the enemy. It did not come and they moved quickly. The knights were the last out of the camp, leaving it abandoned in the moonlight.
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.