Ahead, the Mongol warriors raced in disarray through a cloud of their own dust. Ilya snapped orders and his men closed into a solid column, fifty ranks of twenty abreast. They tied their reins to the saddle horns and leaned forward over the horses’ necks with shield and spear, urging the animals on with just their knees. Surely there had never been such a force of men and iron in the history of the world! Ilya showed his teeth in anticipation of first blood.

The route of the fleeing Mongols took them past a hill shrouded in ancient beech and elm trees. As Ilya thundered by, he saw something move in the green gloom. He barely had time to shout a warning before the air was filled with whining shafts. Even then, he did not hesitate. He had seen the arrows break on his men’s shields. He bawled an order to hold formation, knowing they could smash their way through.

A horse screamed and thumped into him from his left, crushing his leg and almost unseating him. Ilya cursed in pain, taking a sharp breath as he saw the rider hanging limp. Flight after flight of arrows came from the dark trees and, in horror, he saw his men falling from their saddles. Arrows passed through chain mail as if it were linen, punching out in a spray of blood. Ilya shouted wildly, kicking his exhausted mount on. Ahead, he saw the Mongols wheel in perfect unison, their commander staring straight at him. The Mongols did not stop to bend their bows. Their ponies lunged forward as one, the warriors loosing shafts as they rode.

Ilya felt an arrow pluck at his arm, then the two forces clashed together and he braced himself. His long spear took a warrior in the chest, only to be wrenched from his grasp so quickly he thought he had broken his fingers. He drew his sword with a hand almost too numb to grip. Red dust was everywhere and, in the midst, the Mongols rode like devils, calmly sending arrows into the packed ranks of his men.

Ilya raised his shield and was knocked backwards as an arrow struck it, the head showing clearly through the wood. His right foot came out of the stirrup and he swayed, all balance lost. Another shaft hit him in the thigh before he could recover and he cried out in pain, raising his sword as he rode at the archer.

The Mongol watched him come, his face blank of any emotion. He was little more than a beardless boy, Ilya saw. The Russian swung his blade, but the Mongol ducked under the blow and shoved him as he passed. The world spun in silence for a moment and then Ilya crashed to the ground, stunned.

The nosepiece of his helmet was jammed in with the impact, breaking his front teeth. Ilya rose, blind with tears and spitting blood and fragments. His left leg buckled and he fell clumsily, desperate to find the sword that had fallen from his hand.

He heard hoofbeats behind just as he saw the weapon lying on the dusty ground. He reached for the relic at his chest and murmured a prayer as the Mongol blade came down on his neck, almost severing his head. He did not live to see the rest of his men slaughtered, too heavy and slow to defend against the warriors of Tsubodai, general to Genghis Khan.

Jochi dismounted to examine the dead, once he had ordered a dozen of his men to sweep the area and report the movement of the main column. The Russian chain mail had not saved them. Many of the sprawling bodies were struck through more than once. Only the helmets had held. Jochi could not find a single man brought down with a shaft to the head. He picked up a helm and rubbed a finger over a bright slash of metal where an arrow had glanced away. It was a good design.

The ambush had gone just as Tsubodai had planned, Jochi thought wryly. The general seemed to read the minds of their enemies. Jochi breathed deeply, making an effort to control the trembling that beset him after each battle. It would not do for the men to see him shake. He did not know they watched him stride with clenched fists and saw only that he was still hungry, a man never satisfied no matter what he had achieved.

Three other jaguns had taken part in the ambush. Jochi saw the officers ride out of the trees where they had lain in wait all night. After years with Tsubodai, he knew each man like a brother, as Genghis had once told him to do. Mekhali and Altan were solid men, loyal but unimaginative. Jochi nodded to them both as they trotted their ponies to the field of the dead. The last of them, Qara, was a short, sinewy warrior with a face scarred from an old wound. Though he was faultlessly formal, Jochi sensed a dislike he could not understand. Perhaps the glowering man resented him for his father. Jochi had met many suspicious of his rise in the ranks. Tsubodai was not subtle in the way he included Jochi in every plan and stratagem, just as Genghis had once done with the young boy from the Uriankhai who had become his general. Tsubodai looked to the future while men like Qara imagined they saw only a spoiled young prince, promoted beyond his skill.

As Qara rode up and grunted at the sight of the dead knights, Jochi realised he was no longer the man’s superior. He had accepted the silver with a battle looming and still felt the honour of being trusted with a hundred lives. Yet it meant that, for a time at least, Qara no longer had to watch himself around the khan’s son. One glance told Jochi the wiry little warrior had already thought it through.

‘Why are we waiting here?’ Qara said suddenly. ‘Tsubodai will be attacking as we smell the grass and stand idle.’

Jochi resented the words, but he spoke lightly, as if Qara had merely greeted him. If the man had been a true leader, he would already have begun the ride back to Tsubodai. In a flash of insight, Jochi understood that Qara still looked to him for orders, despite his drop in rank. Glancing at Mekhali and Altan, he found they too were watching. Perhaps it was just their habit, but he felt an idea begin to form and knew he would not waste the moment.

‘Do you see their armour, Qara?’ he said. ‘The first piece hangs from the helmet, covering their faces except for the eyes. The second cloth of iron rings reaches right to their knees.’

‘It did not stop our shafts,’ Qara replied with a shrug. ‘When they are unhorsed, they move so slowly it is easy to bring them down. We do not need such poor protection, I think.’

Jochi grinned up at the man, enjoying the confusion it brought.

‘We do need it, Qara.’

High in the hills above the valley, Tsubodai waited on foot, his pony snuffling among dead pine needles. Almost five thousand men rested around him, waiting for his decision. He waited on the scouts he had sent out. Two hundred had ridden in all directions, their reports allowing the general to form a picture of the area for many miles around.

He knew Jochi’s ambush had been a success almost before it was over. One thousand fewer of the enemy left only ten, but it was still too many. The column of knights moved slowly through the river valley, waiting for the attack group to return victorious. They had not brought bowmen into the wilderness, a mistake that would cost them dearly. Yet they were large men and so strong that Tsubodai could not risk a simple frontal assault. He had seen knights stuck with arrows who had still fought through to kill two or even three of his. They were warriors of great courage, but he thought it would not be enough. Brave men come forward when they are attacked and Tsubodai planned accordingly. Any army could be routed in the right conditions, he was certain of it. Not his own, of course, but that of any enemy.

Two of the scouts galloped in to mark the latest position of the Russian force. Tsubodai made them dismount and draw on the ground with sticks so he could be sure there was no misunderstanding.

‘How many scouts do they have out?’ he asked.

The warrior drawing with a stick replied without hesitation.