As expected—or perhaps fortunately—Subutai did not remember Norjin at all.

  The one who recognized him was Erbek, one of Subutai’s adjutants. Subutai merely glanced at Norjin and allowed him to accompany the detachment assigned to the attack on Moscow. It was likely with Norjin’s presence in mind that Subutai entrusted Erbek with the Moscow operation.

  Erbek, himself a commander of a thousand, led his troops straight toward the frozen Moskva River, cutting directly across river and plain alike. They surrounded Moscow without hesitation.

  Moscow would one day grow into the capital of Russia, but in the twelfth century it was no more than a village, small enough to circle on foot in under fifteen minutes. Even so, its location was exceptional: it connected to the Volga and Oka river systems and stood at a branching point leading northeast, southeast, and south.

  Now Norjin stood looking up at the fortress built on the hill above Moscow, wondering how Erbek—trained under the great Subutai—would choose to take it.

  After allowing men and horses a brief rest, Erbek began by setting fire to the boats and hay sheds outside the walls. Next, they burned the wooden palisades, the heat scorching faces as smoke drifted toward the fortress.

  When defenders appeared to extinguish the flames, Erbek’s archers picked them off. Soon the Moscow side abandoned any attempt to fight the fires. Flames rose from the rear of the fortress as well.

  Once the main gate had mostly burned, Erbek gave the signal. The leading cavalry surged forward, kicking aside the charred remains of the palisade and charging into the fortress. Norjin spurred his horse after them.

  Buildings inside were already ablaze. Smoke obscured vision, and between the shouts, the piercing screams, and the roar of burning structures, little could be heard clearly.

  From the fortress, stones and arrows rained down. In response, flaming arrows streaked toward the walls like falling stars. Erbek motioned for Norjin to follow.

  Inside the fortress, bright as daylight from the fires, one narrow passage alone remained dark. Erbek ordered his men to lie low in the shadows.

  After a time, a single torch appeared, followed by dark figures descending from the hill.

  Norjin marveled at how quickly Erbek had devised and executed a plan that accounted for Norjin’s request. As the figures drew closer, Erbek’s men raised their bows.

  Norjin rose and called out calmly.

  “His Highness Vladimir Yurievich, Prince of Moscow.”

  One of the figures froze.

  Norjin broke into a run at once. He could not allow the prize to be shot dead. Soldiers burst from cover behind him. The prince’s guards drew their swords, and the skirmish erupted.

  There was no avoiding it now.

  A guard’s blade grazed Norjin’s shoulder. He drew his own sword, struck down the man who charged him, then knocked aside another thrust. Vladimir backed away, sword raised, but his movements showed little experience in battle.

  Norjin knocked the sword from his hand and pressed his blade to the prince’s throat.

  When the gates of Vladimir were closed, news spread through the city in an instant: Vsevolod, Prince of Novgorod and eldest son of the Grand Prince of Vladimir, had been defeated by the Mongols and had fled back to the city.

  It was said that only a handful of soldiers accompanied him through the gates, and that he himself looked utterly dejected. Because of their arrival, the gates had been shut, trapping merchants and nearby residents inside the city. Many gathered at the monasteries.

  Zaya was among them, staying at the monastery with Ahmad and the others.

  Inside the lodging house, rumors were everywhere. Whenever voices rose, Ahmad insisted on reciting a prayer before explaining anything, which irritated Zaya—but here, she had no choice but to follow his pace.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The Mongol advance was faster than she had expected, striking multiple fronts at once. Volga Bulgaria had become ruins. The coalition of neighboring cities had been crushed at the Voronezh River. Ryazan stood on the brink of destruction. Vladimir, too, would inevitably meet the same fate.

  Bad news traveled fastest.

  The Prince of Vladimir had sent no aid to Ryazan. Instead, he had left the city to seek reinforcements from brothers and relatives in neighboring lands—and had not yet returned.

  “It seems you’re about to lose all your property, Ahmad,” Zaya said.

  Ahmad threw his arms skyward and prostrated himself on the floor.

  “The Grand Prince will not make it in time. This place will burn.”

  “O Princess Zaya, please—at least spare my life.”

  “I don’t even know if I’ll survive myself. Look at me. Why would you think I’m with the Mongols?”

  Ahmad looked at her more closely. Tall and slender, with long limbs, she could easily be mistaken for a young man.

  As Ahmad covered his face and lamented, Zaya began to think about how she might escape.

  Erbek provided Norjin with an escort for the return to Vladimir. Subutai himself had apparently left the remaining matters in his adjutants’ hands and moved on toward Vladimir.

  Norjin could not afford to delay. Traveling with the Prince of Moscow—who had surely been raised with care—would take longer than the approach, but he had to reach Vladimir before Subutai began the assault.

  Residents of Vladimir began gathering at the monastery, bringing what belongings they could carry. Rumor had it that Mongol troops already surrounded the city with no gaps remaining.

  At any moment, the sound of battering rams and trebuchets breaking the gates might be heard—but strangely, it remained quiet. The Mongols seemed content merely to surround the city without attacking.

  Taking advantage of the respite, the defenders mobilized the townspeople to strengthen the earthworks and thicken the wooden palisades.

  Zaya did not understand why the Mongols were holding back, but she knew the city would not last long once the attack began. If she was careless, she might be killed by her own side.

  Feigning cooperation, she moved about searching for places to hide.

  In the distance, countless tents came into view, the soldiers themselves like a dark haze. It seemed the attack had not yet begun.

  The forced march—soothing, threatening, and driving the captive onward—had finally ended.

  Just then, an enormous tent rose before Norjin’s eyes.

  Batu’s tent.

  Batu had already arrived.

  When had he come? How long had Norjin kept him waiting? Had Batu truly been waiting for Vladimir’s reply?

  Norjin tightened his expression. Dealing with Batu required utmost care—one misstep, and his head would roll.

  “I haven’t been waiting all that long. Five days or so.”

  Batu’s offhand reply made cold sweat bead on Norjin’s skin.

  “My apologies for the delay. I will now bring Vladimir’s answer. Please wait a little longer.”

  With that, Norjin turned swiftly and withdrew from Batu’s presence.

  “Today, Kiev is beautiful. Surely it will be beautiful again tomorrow.”

  In the bitter cold that froze each breath as it was exhaled, Vasily gazed over the snow-dusted city.

  “Indeed,” the Archbishop replied.

  Vasily turned in surprise, then remembered: the Archbishop was said to read the hearts of men by God’s grace. Vasily knew this from experience, though he had never spoken of it aloud—it was far too awe-inspiring.

  In the Archbishop’s hand was a sealed parchment, bearing wax and appearing to be a report from the Western Church.

  “Would you close the window? The cold cuts to the bone,” the Archbishop said.

  Vasily hurried to shut the wooden shutters.

  “According to this, Western monks have discovered Volga Bulgaria—no, the ruins of Volga Bulgaria,” the Archbishop said, tracing the letters with his finger.

  “That would explain much,” Vasily replied.

  “Then you already knew the Tatars had begun to move?” the Archbishop asked sharply.

  “About half a year ago, someone I had sent to Bulgar returned with word.”

  “Half a year ago,” the Archbishop murmured.

  “This will be the second time the Tatars have struck the Rus’ lands. Last time, they reached as far as the Kalka River.”

  “Hm.”

  “As before, they may not come as far as Kiev,” Vasily continued.

  “They may,” the Archbishop said.

  He studied Vasily’s exhausted, middle-aged face in silence.