Until the Sun Falls Read Online Free PDF Page B

there—stand still!”
    The voice swooped up on the wind. Psin jerked his horse down. Sabotai sidled closer and leaned forward; wet snow caked his coat front.
    “It’s Sabotai and Psin of the Merkits. Who’s there?”
    For a moment the rain lashed at their faces and they heard nothing. Sabotai took a breath to shout again, but before he could a man on foot staggered toward them. He walked up to Psin’s horse and laid one hand on the thick neck.
    “Sabotai?”
    “Here.”
    The man lifted his head. He was not a Mongol; all Psin could see of him was his shape.
    “You’ve reached the Volga camp—we never expected you so soon. Go straight on.”
    “Thank you,” Sabotai said.
    They whipped their horses into a trot. Despite the wind and sleet in their faces, the horses were eager and almost broke into a canter. They had gone hardly a dozen strides before Sabotai’s horse swerved off to avoid running into the stockade wall.
    “I’m freezing,” Psin said. “Which way?”
    “I don’t know,” Sabotai said. He reined back and looked up through the dark. “They hadn’t built the wall when I was here last.” He shouted, but in the wind no one heard.
    “We could die in this damned storm before we found the gate.” Psin wheeled his horse. “Which way does the wind blow on this steppe?”
    “From the north.”
    “No help in that. Come on.” Psin rode off along the wall, headed east.
    The wall made a lee, and the sloppy snow was light on the ground directly under it. Psin’s horse lengthened its stride. They could be going in exactly the wrong direction. But perhaps the wall had more than one gate. Psin ducked his chin in against his chest and pulled his hat down hard over both ears. He could hear Sabotai galloping along just behind him.
    They were veering north again, not in a sharp turn like a good corner but gradually. They’d built the damned wall in a circle. Psin opened his mouth to call to Sabotai, but suddenly his horse dove to the left and stopped dead.
    “What?” Sabotai said, running his horse up alongside Psin’s.
    “Gate.” Psin pointed. The gate was shut; it rose up twice as high as his head. He shouted, “Open this gate,” but there was no answer. Furious, he stood in his stirrups and hammered on the gate with his fist.
    “Who’s there?”
    A shutter clapped open, and a head thrust out through a window in the wall. Psin scraped the ice and snow off his horse’s mane, balled it up, and hurled the ball into the man’s face.
    “Let us in, you fools. Did we come all from Karakorum to die of cold here? Open this dung-eating gate.”
    The gate had begun to open before he finished shouting. Behind it were half a dozen men with lances and bows. Sabotai rode in among them and they recognized him and began to cheer. None of them was Mongol. A torch bloomed and the light spread across their faces—Psin decided that they were Kipchaks or Bulgars, and he almost laughed at the thought that they should cheer Sabotai. His horse jammed its shoulders in between Sabotai’s horse and the gate, so that they could not close it and Sabotai had to move.
    “It’s a foul night,” the sentry said. “You didn’t have to come far, did you?” 
    “I’m cold,” Psin said.
    Sabotai kicked his horse. “Yes. Take us to the Khan’s yurt.”
    The gateman started off, trotting on foot down a street that ran due north. Psin could tell the sleet was changing to pure snow from the way it rasped on his cheeks. Sabotai gestured, and he rode over closer to him.
    “This is new-built,” Sabotai said, “but much better in the planning than Karakorum, don’t you think?”
    “I can’t see anything of it. Cities are for burning, not for living in.”
    “There’s a Merkit speaking.”
    The gateman had stopped, up ahead, in front of a smaller gate. This stood open. The wall was man-high and enclosed other buildings. Psin stopped to let Sabotai ride through in front of him, dismissed the gateman, and turned when he