The spring winds of 1236 swept across the Kazakh steppe, wrapped in tiny bits of ice, and the tundra of the middle Volga was just beginning to turn green. Nine Mongolian scouts sliced through the mist like wedges, the reins of the spare horses tied to the left saddle ring - a unique method of horse taming used by the Shubutai clan. The leader of the scouting horses, the Red Army, strangled his horse violently, his nose twitching slightly, catching the faint trill of clashing iron weapons three miles away. He raised his hand and blew the eagle flute, and the cavalrymen on both flanks quickly plucked their four-pronged bone arrows, the arrowheads glowing coldly in the morning light.

  Three miles away, Ruthe Ivanovitch was lifting his hand to wipe the sand from the collar of his locked armour. His party had just finished escorting a cargo of salt and iron for a caravan of the Khans of Chincha, and more than forty riders were trudging through the mud. Vasily chewed on a dry, hard pastry and complained in a low voice, "These Rus lords only know how to drain us, they don't even give us a place to land."Rutt's grey eyes snapped shut - reflections flickered like stars on the horizon. "Stop, don't panic!"His voice was steady, silencing the commotion in the ranks. Almost simultaneously, Mongolian scouts emerged from the top of the slope, three riders with their bows open and six riders encircling on both flanks. Rutt glimpsed the silver heart guard on the chest of the other party's main rider, the symbol of Sobutai's personal guards, and a flicker of anticipation flashed through his mind.

  "We have no intention of offending the Mongolian warriors!"Lut shouted in Mongolian with a Turkic accent mixed in, raising his hands in a gesture of friendliness and meeting his opponent with a firm gaze. The leader whispered a few words in guttural Mongolian, and beside him the Dread Woodman, who was missing half of his left ear, galloped forward, "The honourable Lord Bolshoi asks - why are you leading an armed party across the Khan's pastures?"

  Lute heart slightly moved. This young man with a gold leather belt around his waist is the nephew of Speed Bitai, who killed the three wolves alone during the Kalka roundup last year. Here's the chance. He unzipped the cloth bag beside his saddle and took out the parchment scroll of the caravan's contract: "This is the charter of the tribute caravan of the Khanate of Chincha, stamped with the fire-painted seal of your border officer. But we are more than just escorts - we seek to join the Mongol hordes."

  The words made Vasiliy and the others turn their heads in surprise, but Ruthe had long since secretly signalled them not to act rashly. Bolshoi picked up the parchment scroll with his scimitar, the yak tail cord on the hilt fluttering in the wind. He narrowed his eyes for a moment and smiled coldly, "The Mongol army has no need for foreign waste."

  Rutt returned nonchalantly, "Please tell Lord Bolshoi that I know the heights of the walls, the depths of the moats, and the locations of the barns of the Rus nations. I am tired of running around for petty lords with no reward. Joining the Mongol hordes will allow me to trade my knowledge for power and status."He paused and added, "Besides, I know every treacherous part of the caravan route, and if your lordship doesn't believe me, you can send someone to check the markings on this parchment scroll."

  At the back of the group, the horses neighing suddenly. Andrei led the three of them to turn around and run wildly, obviously unable to accept Ruthe's position. Bolshoi's arrow pierced the front hooves of his mount with precision, and the four men fell into the mire with a filthy splash. "Traitor!"Andrei roared as he struggled. A coldness flashed in Ruthe's eyes as he turned to Bolshoi, "These people do not understand the big picture. I only take loyal men to serve Mongolia."

  Bol Khu looked at Ruthe thoughtfully, "Prove your worth to me."Rutt took out the small scroll he carried with him and slowly unrolled it - it was a map of the border town's defences that he had drawn when he was serving in Galich Vorinia, "I drew this the year before last, and within three days I can add to it for the Great Khan, marking the location of every cul-de-sac and granary. "Bolshoi narrowed his eyes in scrutiny for a moment and ordered Rutt to stay behind to draw the map while the rest of the men were imprisoned in felt tents to observe.

  Three days later, Lute sat in his tent, the wolf brush flying between his fingers, perfecting the details of the map. Bolshoi sat cross-legged across from him, half of his face hidden in the shadows, his fingertips tapping the scimitar on the side of his waist, and said coldly, "Are the city defences you drew credible?"Lute raised his eyes, calm and collected, "I have spent two winters in Galich, every tower and waterway is as familiar to me as my palm prints. I have drawn a reference map of the Chincha border, you may send someone to check it."

  Bolshoi did not answer immediately. He reached out and picked up the parchment scroll, his eyes skimming over the marked directions of the towers and the water well outlets, nodding his head a moment later, "If what you say is true, I will recommend it to the Great Khan. If there is a discrepancy ......," his eyes were as cold as a knife.

  Lute calmly responded: "If there is inconsistency, I am willing to be punished. But I know that the Mongol army needs people who understand the West."Bolshoi waved his hand and the guards led Ruthe to another felt tent - there, several artisans who had defected to the Mongols were drawing a topographical map of western Rus. Ruthe observes for a moment, pointing out an error in the labelling of a river and earning the approving glances of the Mongol officers present.

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  Early the next morning, Bolshoi brought Ruthe to an open grassland with three maps in front of him. "These are the layouts of three cities," Bolshoi said in a cold voice, "two of which we have scouted and one of which is fictitious. Identify the faked one."Rutt crouched, his gaze sweeping over the parchment scrolls. He tapped his finger next to the moat on one, and moved to the wall markings, "The direction of the moat flow in this city does not match the terrain, and the walls are marked with masonry, whereas the towns west of Novgorod tend to use wooden fences. It's a false city."

  Bol neglected to stare at him for a moment before the corners of his mouth lifted slightly. "Not bad."His tone was still cold, but there was more than a hint of recognition. "You do know the West. Now, you may meet the Grand Commander."

  The hooves of Ruthe's horse crushed through a clump of mugwort, the small purple flowers bursting into sap under the iron hooves. The wilderness that had shot Andrei had fallen seventy miles to the southwest. The Mongol camp was like a ring of wolves rounding up, each felt tent resembling a sharp tooth, and the Souruzhin spears the erected tails of the wolves. Borchu's scouts divided into three groups, a team in the high ground set up horn, two teams hidden into the hills behind - the standard "three crows" scouting formation.

  "Look at those ears!"Vasily lowered his voice, his horsewhip pointing toward the entrance to the camp. Nine Sulu spikes were stuck in the dirt platform, their shafts hung from linen ear bags, their air-dried outlines fluttering like dead petals. Under each bag hung a wooden sign, with a number marking the number of captures, the fourth bag's "two-seven" already blurred and blackened. Lute counted to the fourth bag, stomach tight - that pair of ears with emerald earrings, let him remember the morning light when his hometown was plundered.

  Across the horse-taming arena came the sound of hammering from the blacksmith's shop, sparks flying as the smith forged four-pronged, armour-piercing arrowheads engraved with wolf's head emblems and blood grooves designed to tear through the fibres of lockjaw armour. In the distance, Mongolian teenagers sharpened arrow feathers with daggers as skilfully as peeling onions. "Dismount!"Bolshoi's roar interrupted the thoughts. In front of the tent, the guards crossed their halberds and blocked the way, the dirt from the battlefield somewhere remaining in the gaps between their scales and armour. After Bol Hu rebuked, the guards retreated, revealing the indigo tattoos on the back of their hands - that was the mark of the surrendered soldiers of Chincha.

  Inside the tent, Batu and Subutai were sitting side by side on the white felt, studying the road map for the westward march. Batu used a gold-handled dagger to cut out a map of the cities of Rus, and on the edge of the sheepskin was written the words "Wait until the mud dries up in the spring before marching" in Woodland language. He is dressed in silk, and the fire pit casts an elongated shadow on the wall of his tent. The corner of the tent scattered conquered areas of various scriptures, different faiths of the badge nailed to the support pillar, reflecting the cold light. Bolshoi stepped forward to report, "Khan, this is Ruthe Ivanovich, who has travelled among the western lords and is familiar with western city defences."

  Batu raised his head, his gaze like an eagle, penetrating the heart. In the middle of the day, his fingers pressed against the map, his leather gloves rubbing against the sheepskin with a fine sound, "Why would a westerner be willing to provide us with information?"Lut meets his gaze, unassuming, "Khan, I have witnessed the folly and incompetence of the lords of Rus, who only fight for petty gains and know nothing of true power. Your army is like a torrent of steel, unstoppable. Anyone with eyes can see that the future belongs to Mongolia. I have not come to surrender, but to choose the winner. In the past, I was just the sword of a petty lord, never to be seen again. But under the Mongol banner, there is a place for all who are brave and resourceful. I know every weakness in the defences of western cities, every road from Kiev to Novgorod that's suitable for an army. I am sure the Khan will judge the worthiness of this knowledge. To you, it is the key to the city and the country; to me, it is a ladder to glory."

  The generals in the tent whispered, some snickering, others nodding. Subutai's eyes glittered, and he nodded slightly to Batu. Batu snorted coldly and pointed to an area in the west, ''Good words will be said by anyone. Tell me, if we were to attack the cities and towns here, how would we break the defences with the least effort?"Rutt approached the map and carefully observed the terrain. He traced his finger over a few points and said in a deep voice, "These small towns are built on the river, and the rising water in the spring will flood the short walls on the eastern side. The defenders are concentrated on the high ground, but most of the granaries are on the south side, so we can cut off the supplies before breaking through from the northeast corner."

  Batu narrowed his eyes and exchanged glances with Subutai. Subutai, wrinkled like a knife, nodded in approval of Rutt's statement. "Good words," Batu said, "but the battlefield is still a matter of real skill."He ordered horse's milk wine brought to him, and in the bowl floated a few drops of blood that he himself had squeezed into it - the Mongol ritual of "sharing blood for an oath." "Drink from this bowl, and you will be the guide of our army. If you speak falsely," he stomped on an empty ear bag, "your ears will fill the tenth bag."

  Rutt took the bowl, hesitated for a moment, and drank it down. Exiting the tent, the night wind brought the fishy smell of the steppe. He looked out into the darkening twilight with mixed feelings. He was tired of the unnecessary fighting between the Rus lords, tired of being used as a blade with no reward. Now, he will guide the Mongolian iron hooves to sweep through his homeland, only to find his own place in this grassland. His destiny has been tied to these conquerors.