In Novgorod, the council had been convening day after day since the return of that infuriatingly courteous envoy of the Tatars. Torzhok was the lifeline through which food reached Novgorod from the south. Should that supply be severed, the citizens of Novgorod—who possessed no farmland of their own—would fall into famine without delay. The enemy had said they held Torzhok. To keep exchanging messages and playing for time would only leave Novgorod to starve.

  Everyone understood this, and yet it was no easy thing to reconcile with one's own interests.

  Mikhail Onisimovich, the grain superintendent, gestured for the clerks to pass around a parchment on which he had recorded the remaining stores after making his rounds of the city's warehouses.

  "The reserves are no different from this time last year. Here we have legumes other than wheat, salted meat, and fish. Ah—in truth, word has spread that the Tatar envoy came, and prices have begun to rise."

  Ivan Mikulich, the fur merchant, shot a glare at Fyodor Savich, the money-changer seated beside him.

  "I hear someone's been trying to corner the market on dried meat and wheat."

  "Buying low and selling high when prices rise—what's wrong with that?" Savich was unmoved. Mikulich ground his teeth.

  "I'll charge you thirty percent more for your furs. Sleep well and freeze."

  "Do as you like. Furs won't fill your belly," Savich shot back.

  "Enough, the both of you. The grain merchant in Torzhok—what was his name?" Luka Petrovich, the posadnik, asked his clerk.

  "Yakov. Yakov Vetrov," Alexei Sobolev, the grain merchant, answered in the clerk's place.

  "Let us hope he's still alive."

  At Sobolev's words, the council fell silent.

  By the time Sarnai reached Torzhok, the city had already fallen. Soot lay thick upon the snow, kicking up in black clouds of dust beneath the horses' hooves. Charred beams jutted into the sky like bleached bones, and thin ribbons of white smoke drifted through the rubble. With every gust of wind, the scent of burnt wood brushed over the town. The square, where markets once thrived and merchants traded shouts, was now occupied by rows of captives bound with rope. The men looked down, the women had cried themselves dry, and the children stood in eerie silence. They had not even the strength left to weep.

  The sound of axes echoed from a distance. Laborers were dismantling the remains of warehouses to salvage usable timber and metal fittings.

  Sarnai, who had not participated in the direct assault, had been ordered by Guyuk to handle the aftermath. She cast a brief glance toward the heart of the city. The cathedral's dome was half-collapsed, and the bell tower was scorched black. The bell itself was nowhere to be seen—perhaps it had fallen. A city without its bells was unnervingly quiet. Through the wind came the sound of galloping hooves; Norjin and the others had arrived.

  Zaya halted her horse, surveying the gruesome ruins in silence. Seeing Sarnai sorting through the captives in the square, Zaya and Norjin dismounted and approached to seek her instructions.

  "The prisoner count is three hundred twenty-seven. Children, twenty-nine," a scribe reported.

  "Recount them. There is no way there are fewer than thirty," Sarnai commanded. The women and children had already been separated. "Kill those who are wounded."

  Hearing Sarnai's order, Zaya cut in. "Wait. Some of the wounded may yet live."

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  At Zaya's words, a faint, sharp smile flickered in the depths of Sarnai's eyes. "We don't have the luxury of an escort for the injured while on the march. Is it not better than letting them die slowly of cold and hunger?"

  Zaya fell silent for a moment, but then abruptly turned on her heel and walked toward the huddle of captives to begin inspecting their condition.

  "I'm sorry," Norjin apologized.

  "It's fine. She has been raised too gently," Sarnai said. She signaled for him to follow and began walking toward her tent. "Pitch your tents over there, near the fire."

  Norjin nodded toward the spot she indicated. Suddenly, Sarnai bumped her forehead against his back. It was the old signal they used back when they lived together to end a stubborn standoff. Even after a fight is settled, the heightened emotions don't vanish instantly; this gesture was the catalyst to lower their raised fists.

  "I'm sorry," Sarnai whispered.

  Norjin cursed inwardly. He hated that his body still instinctively reacted to such things. He couldn't let Sarnai notice. He pulled away slightly.

  "I'm sorry," Sarnai whispered again. She stepped back. Relieved, he looked ahead—and saw the future walking toward him.

  "Zaya," he called out.

  Zaya stopped in front of Sarnai and spoke firmly. "They will submit to your army. They say they will fight their own kin as your soldiers. If they do that, it should be fine, right? This is their land. They say they will manage their own survival. As long as the women and children are held as hostages, they won't betray you. That should be acceptable, yes?"

  "My, how unexpected," Sarnai said, her eyes wide, a genuine smile breaking across her face. She glanced at Norjin, who was smirking.

  "If that's the case, very well," Sarnai said, summoning her lieutenant. The man, who looked old enough to be Sarnai's father, glared openly at Norjin. He knew Norjin from their reckless days in Karakorum and remained wary. Norjin couldn't help but smile wryly, while Sarnai began her briefing with the lieutenant as if nothing had happened.

  "You may pitch your tents over there," Norjin said, and he and Zaya turned back toward their company. Sarnai glanced up, her eyes following Norjin for just a moment as he walked away.

  Several reports had reached Batu.

  One came from the advance detachment he had sent ahead to the fork between Tver and the south: they appeared to be bogged down at a small settlement called Kozelsk. Well, that would be finished soon enough once the main force caught up.

  Guyuk and the others sent toward the upper Volga seemed to be making steady progress in subduing northern Rus'. By now they ought to have been slowing under the weight of plunder and captives, yet that did not seem to be the case. More pleasing still was the news that General Burundai had hunted down and killed the fleeing Prince of Vladimir. Northern Rus' was all but subdued. What Norjin had made of Novgorod—that was something to look forward to.

  Batu's horse kicked up a spray of mud that spattered his armor. The cold was easing and the ground was turning soft. But it was not all bad. The season of plunder was ending, and the time was coming when the grass would push through and the flocks would grow. Whether on the steppe or in Rus', the rhythms of the year were the same.

  In Kiev, Vasily was writing a letter to the Grand Prince of Kiev, who was residing in Halych. It was something like a customary report, though whether the Grand Prince even read them was doubtful—there had been no reply to the letter about the destruction of Volga Bulgaria. Kiev was less a city that represented the Rus' principalities than a place of religious and symbolic value alone. When had it last been that a prince who held the title of Grand Prince of Kiev had actually resided there?

  Vasily was muttering to himself again. Tosha was used to it by now and paid no mind, but a minor official who had come to consult him was staring at Vasily fixedly. To prompt him back to attention, Tosha gave a deliberate cough.

  Just then, with a great clatter of heavy boots and a crashing of armor, a soldier appeared in the doorway of the office.

  "I come from the Principality of Vladimir-Suzdal. I must have audience with the Grand Prince!"

  Behind the soldier, a guide official appeared belatedly.

  Vasily looked up and rose to his feet.

  "The Grand Prince is not present. I am Vasily Ivanovich, serving as castellan in his absence. What is the meaning of this?"

  "Please convey this to His Grace the Grand Prince. Our principality has come under attack from the Tatars and suffered devastating losses. The force of the Tatars is unlike anything before. If this continues, the whole of the Rus' lands will be laid to waste."

  The soldier said it all in one breath. The color drained from Vasily's face. Nor was Vasily the only one. The guide official vanished immediately. By midday, all of Kiev would know.