After drinking the blood wine that night, Rut counted the ranks and there were only seventeen left - Andrei's flight and death had shocked some of the warriors, and only the most loyal or those with nowhere else to go remained. They had been incorporated into Tugtu's Centurion House, an awkward and delicate position, and the low felt tent had become a temporary shelter for this group of Rus warriors. The firewood crackled in the fire pit, reflecting everyone's tense faces, and the atmosphere was as heavy as iron.

  "Are we really going to sell our lives for these butchers?"Mikhail whispered, his fingers clenching the Orthodox cross around his neck, knuckles white, "Two years ago, they burned my sister's village on the border of Galicia, not even the children."His voice trembled with both anger and struggle.

  Vasily crouched in the corner, wiping his spear with a rag, and whispered, "Andrei called you a traitor before he died, my lord. His body still feeds the crows in the wilderness, as do the other three."He looked up at Rutt, his eyes a mixture of confusion and exhaustion.

  The young mercenary Peter - a lean Novgorodian with unfaded freckles - but suddenly interjected, "I'd rather fight my way across these steppes if I can really earn the Mongols' bounty. "He grinned as he sharpened a wooden stick with his dagger, "I couldn't even afford a field back home, and following the Duke into battle only got me a few meals of thin gruel. I've heard that the Mongols are never stingy with their rewards, so if we get credit, we might be able to get a good horse or even a piece of pasture."

  Another mercenary, the burly Boris, nodded in agreement. He rubbed his fingers over the bronze ring he had just snatched from the merchant escort, his voice low, "Yes, Lord Rutt is right. Those lords of Roth will only send us to our deaths without even giving us a single copper. I've heard that the Mongols could fill their saddlebags with the silver they distribute to their warriors after they've captured the city."His eyes flashed with a hint of greed, and the corners of his mouth rose slightly, as if he had seen the riches to come.

  The firelight lengthened each man's shadow, casting it against the rough felt walls, swaying like a ghost. Rutt stood up, his steps steady, and drew his dagger in a flash of firelight, the blade reflecting the cold light. He looked around the group of warriors who had followed him for years and spoke slowly, "Traitor? The Duke of Smolensk promised to protect our homeland, but was the first to flee when the Mongol iron hooves arrived. I served Lord Roth for three years, and in the end even my wife starved to death under the city walls without even a single copper coin."He plunged his dagger into the stake beside him, his voice low and firm, "In this world, only strength is loyalty. Follow me, and you will have wealth and position; leave, and feed the crows, like Andre."

  The tent was silent, the breathing of the warriors clearly audible in the cold air. Mikhail bowed his head in silence for a moment before finally raising his eyes, "I follow you, my lord. But my blade will not be turned on my own countrymen."His eyes struggled, but they were stubborn.

  Peter laughed softly and shrugged his shoulders, "Compatriots? Those dukes didn't think of us as compatriots when they treated us like dogs. All I want is a warm tent and a bag of silver, Mongol or Rus."Boris nodded and muttered under his breath, "Yes, anything to survive."

  Ruthe's sharp gaze pierced through the firelight and looked straight at Mikhail, "In time, you will understand what it means to be a true compatriot. Those who abandon you do not deserve to be guarded by you."He paused and turned to face everyone, "Rest. Tomorrow, we will prove our worth - not just for the Mongols, but for ourselves as well."

  The grasslands still carried a bitter chill in early spring, and the morning mist covered the land, mixing the scent of earth and livestock in the air. Lute's seventeen-man party was deployed at the forefront, and a hundred paces behind them was the main Mongolian hundred cavalry led by Tugtu. Tugtu was a lean Mongol officer with eagle eyes and fingers used to tap the hilt of his scimitar before battle. On a distant hillside, a few tents and wandering sheep loomed - a temporary camp for the renegade Chintsa tribe. Earlier, these Chinchas had refused to pay tribute to Batu and tried to flee to the upper Volga for refuge.

  "My lord, there are women and children there."Vasily whispered, pointing to a few blurry figures at the edge of the camp - a few children chasing lambs, the sound of laughter faintly coming from them. There was unease in his voice, his fingers unconsciously tightening on the reins of his horse.

  Ruthe narrowed his eyes as he peered out, his eyes cold, "There are no innocents on the battlefield, only the living and the dead."He turned to the team and lowered his voice, "Listen, the Mongols are using us as archery targets, wanting us to rush in as targets and be shot into hedgehogs by the Chinchas. We can't follow their script."

  The party was still five hundred paces from the camp, and the bleating of the sheep came on the breeze. Rutt suddenly reined in his horse and raised his hand to signal a halt to the advance. He pointed to the knoll to the right of the camp and whispered, "There's an ambush there. Look at the birds in the treetops, taking off regularly, as if startled; the grass under the knoll moves slightly, the wind is not right."These were instincts he had honed from years of fighting nomads on the Rus border.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Tugtu in the rear frowned, spurred his horse closer, and bellowed in Mongolian, "What are you doing?"There was impatience and suspicion in his tone.

  Rutt repeated the warning in battlefield sign language and said in a hushed voice, "There are bowmen behind the hills, advancing hastily will lead to an ambush."He knew that the Mongols relied on scouts, but Tugtu was clearly unwilling to waste time scouting himself.

  Tugtu squinted his eyes and observed for a moment, grunted, and still ordered a small group of five light cavalry to circle around to the rear of the mound to investigate. He gave Ruthe a cold look, as if weighing the credibility of the westerner's judgement.

  "Spread out into an arc, bows open seventy percent, release arrows in turn!"Rutt ordered. The seventeen men quickly spread out, the front row shooting back, the back row filling in, the bowstring buzzing. This dynamic curtain of arrows was something he had modified from the tactics of the Rus cavalry to maintain suppression in the event of an ambush. Mikhail drew back the bowstring, but his eyes drifted to the women and children at the edge of the camp from time to time, his movements slightly hesitant.

  The moments of waiting seemed to be stretched out, the heartbeats of all synchronised with the sound of the horses' hooves. Suddenly, there were shouts from the back of the hill, and more than ten Chinchilla archers fled in panic, directly into the Mongolian light horsemen's encirclement. Alarms sounded suddenly in the camp, and more than twenty armed men rushed out of their tents, armed with cutlasses and short bows, trying to organise resistance.

  "The front row shoots back, the back row fills in, keep up the arrow screen!"Rutt ordered in a deep voice. His team unfolded with amazing discipline, a rain of arrows pouring down on the enemy bowmen with precision. Seeing this, Tugtu blew the bullhorn horn, and the main cavalry flanked them like wolves pouncing on their prey. The Chinchas were attacked from the back, and their position was in great disorder.

  The battle entered a white-hot stage, Rute drew his long sword and shouted, "Westerners, charge with me!"He was the first to leap his horse and charge into the enemy line, the blade of his sword slashed through the throat of a Chincha warrior, and blood sprayed on the remaining snow. Vasily followed closely behind, his spear piercing through the chest of an enemy soldier with a low, muffled thud. Boris grinned and swung his battle axe to cut down an enemy, growling lowly, "Now there should be some reward!"

  In the midst of the melee, Mikhail caught a glimpse of a Chinchilla woman running outside the tent with her child in her arms. He subconsciously slowed his pace, his spear drooping slightly. However, an arrow from a Mongolian cavalryman whizzed past him and shot through the mother and child, and the child's cries came to an abrupt end. Mikhail's face went white and he froze, the spear in his hand almost slipping.

  "Focus on the fight!"Rutt tugged on his arm, pulling him back into the fray, "To wander is to die!"His voice was stern, but he couldn't hide a hint of exhaustion.

  The battle lasted nearly an hour, with the Chinchas resisting until the last man fell. The camp was reduced to ruins, corpses were strewn everywhere, and the sheep fled in all directions. Tugtu toured the battlefield with his horse, a satisfied gleam in his eye. He halted his horse in front of Rutt, examined him for a moment, and dropped a silver arm band, "You avoided losses, but don't think that's enough."His tone was cold and tentative.

  The Mongol soldiers began harvesting the ears of the Chinchas, putting every ten pairs into a leather pouch, and the smell of blood filled the steppe. Mikhail crouched beside the bodies of the mother and child, staring at the boy's remains for a long time before finally turning and vomiting on the grass. Rutt walked over and whispered, "Adapt to it, or die in this meadow. There is no third way."

  Peter, however, squatted aside, counting the few copper coins and a string of sheepskin belts he had recovered from the Chinchas, and said excitedly to Boris, "This battle was worth it! Look at this belt, it can be sold to the caravan for half a bag of wheat. In the future, let's fight a few more battles and save enough silver to get our own tents on the grasslands!"Boris nodded and weighed the battle axe in his hand, "If the Mongols reward me more, I can still get a spare horse. It's better than starving in Rus."

  At night, around the campfire, Tugtu makes an exception and invites Ruthe to share a glass of horse's milk wine, staring at him with narrowed eyes, "What's with your western arrow screen? It's more steady than our scattershot."His tone was tentative, as if he was gauging Ruthe's worth. Rutt explained in detail the training methods and dynamic formations of the Rus cavalry, and Tugtu listened intently, nodding from time to time. The Mongol soldiers around him still looked at the "Westerners" with contempt, but their tone was more restrained.

  Inside the tent, Lut's team had mixed emotions. Vasili cleans his bloodstained armour and scowls, as if digesting the day's killings. Mikhail polished his weapon without a word, his eyes as dark as ink. Peter and Boris, however, huddled around the fire pit, discussing the spoils of war in hushed tones, "How much wine could this silver armlet buy if it were converted into copper coins?"Peter chuckled. Boris patted him on the shoulder, "Don't worry, we can still get more if we follow the lord. As long as we survive, there will always be a day when we get ahead."

  Late at night, Mikhail tossed and turned, finally got up and came to Ruthe's side, his voice was so low that it was almost inaudible, "My lord, today they massacred the women and children ...... Do we really want to sell our lives for such a demon?"

  Ruthe was wiping the blood off the blade of his sword when he stopped moving and gazed up at Mikhail. He slid his sword back into its sheath, his voice as calm as water but with an undeniable coldness, "What difference do you think Lord Roth makes? When the Duke of Galich slaughtered his village, he didn't even spare the livestock, and the women were sold to merchants."He paused, his gaze like a knife, "There are no just wars in the world, only the glory of the winners and the wailing of the losers. Choose the winner, Mikhail, or you will die in a nameless corner where not even the cross can save you. Peter and Boris have seen it all - have you?"

  Mikhail clenched his fists, speechless, and bowed his head as he exited the tent. The firelight reflected on Ruthe's face, his eyes deep and complex. He knew that this steppe did not accept weakness, and his choices had pushed them to a point of no return.