The tailagha had been the previous evening. The fire, Buqa's voice, the entire army under the open sky.
When Batu reached the horse lines the army was already formed on the ground north of Sarai, dressed in the low spring dark before the sun had cleared the east. The spring air had a different atmosphere than the autumn cold of the raid departure. It carried the moisture of thawed ground and new grass coming in beneath the old.
Daichin was saddled at the near end of the personal string. The animal stood with unhurried patience. Batu mounted from the left and rode to the rise.
He stopped there and let his eyes move across what had been put together.
Near forty thousand riders. The autumn had been near thirty-six thousand.
