Tsubodai firmed his jaw as he saw Batu in the company of Guyuk yet again. Mongke and Baidur were a hundred miles away, or he thought he might have found them there as well. The four princes had become friends, which could have been useful enough, if Batu had not been the one holding them together. Perhaps because he was the oldest, or because Guyuk followed his lead, Batu seemed to set the tone for the others. He made a great show of respect whenever Tsubodai spoke to him, but always there was the mocking half-smile. It was never so obvious that the orlok could react, but still, it was there. He felt it like a thorn in his back, too far to reach and pluck out.

Tsubodai reined in as he reached the head of the column. Behind him, Batu's tuman rode alongside Guyuk's. There was none of the usual rough competition between those warriors, as if they took their manner from the generals at the head. Tsubodai grunted at the clean lines. He could not fault them, but it rankled to have Guyuk and Batu talking the day away as if they were riding to a marriage feast and not through hostile territory.

Tsubodai was hot and irritable. He had not eaten that day and he had ridden the best part of twenty miles since dawn, checking on the columns as they clawed their way across the earth. He stifled his temper as Batu bowed in the saddle to him.

'Do you have new orders, orlok?' Batu called.

Guyuk looked up as well and Tsubodai brought his horse in closer, matching their pace. He did not bother to answer the pointless question.

'Has the beef herd reached you from Mongke yet?' Tsubodai said. He knew it had, but he needed to broach the subject. Guyuk nodded immediately.

'Just before dawn. Two hundred head and large. We've slaughtered twenty bulls and the rest are in the herds behind.'

'Send sixty more to Kachiun. He has none,' Tsubodai said, curt and stiff with them. He did not like even the appearance of asking for a favour.

'Perhaps because Kachiun sits on a cart, instead of riding out and finding meat,' Batu muttered.

Guyuk almost choked as he tried to smother laughter. Tsubodai stared them both down coldly. If it was not enough to have the khan's own son act the fool, Batu's insolence was something he would have to face and crush eventually. He hoped Batu would step over the line before it became a killing matter. He was young and headstrong. He would make a mistake, Tsubodai was sure.

A scout raced in to report and Tsubodai turned automatically, only to find the man heading across him towards Batu. He took a slow breath as the scout saw him and started, bowing deeply in the saddle.

'The village by the river is coming up, general,' he said to Batu. 'You asked to be told when we were in range.'

'And the river itself?' Batu asked. He knew Tsubodai had scouted it for fords and bridges days before. The half-smile was playing over his mouth again, knowing Tsubodai could hear every word.

'Two shallow fords in our path, general. The better one is to the north.'

'Very well. That's the one we'll take. Show my bondsmen where it is, then lead us in.'

'Yes, my lord,' the scout replied. He bowed to Batu, then Tsubodai, before kicking in his heels and trotting along the line of moving warriors.

'Was there anything else, orlok?' Batu asked innocently. 'I have things in hand here.'

'Camp as soon as you are over the river, then both of you come and see me at sunset.'

He saw them look at each other and then away before they could laugh. Tsubodai gritted his teeth and left them. He had news of two cities beyond the mountains, cities his scouts said were flooded with refugees running from the Mongol tumans. Yet instead of preparing a campaign against Buda and Pest, he was dealing with generals acting like children. He wondered if he could take Guyuk aside and shame the young man into something resembling duty or dignity. He nodded to himself as he rode. Ever since his charmed strike to the heart of a Russian army, Batu had eaten away at the orlok's authority. If it went on, it would cost lives, perhaps see them all destroyed. It was not too early to grab the problem by the throat, or even the man. There was no place on the march for challenges to his authority, even from the sons and grandsons of khans. The generals rode to Tsubodai's ger as the sun set. The tumans slept around them, an ocean of pale gers as far as the eye could see. Huddled in their midst was a darker mass of fighting men. The vast majority were Russian, either those who had survived the destruction of their towns and cities or a much smaller number who had come for spoils, tracking the army across the valleys and offering their weapons and strength. Most of those were made officers of the rest, as ones who knew one end of a sword from the other. Their equipment was whatever they could scavenge and the best food went to the tumans, so that they were lean and always hungry.

Pavel was one of them, thin as a wild wolf and always bruised or tired from the training. He did not understand half of what he was made to do, but he did it. He ran in the mornings, loping along behind the tumans for ten miles at a time. He had lost his rusty sword in the only battle of his life and come just a hair's breadth from losing his life with it. The blow that had felled him had torn a flap of skin from his scalp, leaving him stunned. When he finally awoke, it was to find the stockade burning and the tumans arrayed in a vast camp. The dead lay where they had been cut down and some of the bodies had been stripped. His face was stiff with his own blood, frozen in layers from his hair to his chin. He had not dared to touch it, though it had closed his right eye in a solid mass.

Pavel might have slunk away then, if it had not been for the man with the rotting teeth, who had walked past him carrying a skin of some bitter fluid. It had made Pavel vomit, but the man only laughed in that unpleasant way of his and said his name was Alexi and that they had stood together. It was Alexi who had walked him through the camp where Mongol warriors lay sprawled and drunken, half of them asleep. He had taken Pavel to a man so badly scarred it made Pavel flinch.

'Polan blood,' Alexi had said. 'Just a farm boy, but he didn't run.'

The scarred man had grunted, then spoken in Russian and told him they could use another sword. Pavel had held up empty hands. He had no idea where his blade had gone by then and the world still swam around him. He remembered the man saying his skull was probably cracked before he passed out.

His new life was hard. Food was scarce, though he had been given a new sword without the flaws and rust of the last one. He ran with the tumans and endured, until the air in his lungs blew hot enough to burn and his heart pounded as if it would burst. He tried not to think of the farm he had left with his mother and grandfather. They would be tending the smallholding, watching the crops grow ready for harvest. He would not be there to help them that year.

Pavel was still awake when he saw three men ride towards the large ger at the centre of the camp. He knew the tall one with the cruel face was Batu, a grandson of Genghis. Pavel learned all the names he could. It was the only way he could draw threads from the new chaos of his life. He did not know the one who grinned foolishly as Batu made some comment. Pavel fingered his sword hilt in the darkness, wishing he had the strength to stride over to them and cut them down. He had not seen the duke killed, though the other men shook their heads and looked away when he asked about it. They did not seem to care as he did.

Unseen, Pavel wandered closer to the ger. He knew the name of their leader, though it was hard to make his mouth say the sound. Tsubodai, they had called him, the man responsible for burning Moscow. Pavel craned for a glimpse of him, but as the three generals dismounted, their horses blocked a view inside the ger. He sighed to himself. He could run further than he would have believed possible just a few months before. It was tempting to escape when there was no moon, though he had seen the fate of a few men who tried it. They had been brought back in pieces and the haunches of meat had been thrown to the others, as an insult. He had not joined in, but he thought his starving companions had eaten the bloody lumps. Hunger made light of squeamish stomachs.