Morning light spread across the open ground east of Tver, low and pale, while the night's chill still lingered in the air. Batu stood at the front of the camp with Daichin's reins resting loosely in one hand, watching the mist lift from the grass. The day was clear enough to see the land ahead. That was all he needed.
Behind him, the Khar Kheshig waited in its idle formation. The steppe riders held one flank, the norsemen the other, while two mingans stood in column behind them on the open field. Horses shifted along the picket lines, stamping at the cold earth.
Somewhere beyond the southern forest, the main army had already spent several days marching toward Kiev. Subutai commanded the force, just as he had at the Voronezh, with the relay carrying reports between them.
Nearly a week had passed since Moscow's gates gave way and its granaries began to burn. Once a prince learned how Moscow had ended and how Kolomna had survived, the choice became obvious.
