The army crossed the Zhizdra ford during the hottest part of the day. The water had dropped low enough that the horses barely needed to swim, and by the time they climbed the far bank, dust already rose beneath their hooves before the current had finished draining from their legs.
The thousand riders promised to Mindaugas had broken away three days earlier, riding south beneath his banners for as long as his war against Smolensk required them. Regrouping with the tumen could wait. Kiev had to be dealt with first, one way or another.
Aušra guided her horse up beside Batu's left as they cleared the bank. Her mount crossed the ford without hesitation, handling unfamiliar water better than many of his own veterans had the first time they'd faced a river beyond the steppe.
She looked north before anywhere else. Her attention fixed on the forest, where living green ended and a black scar cut through the forest. Bare stumps stood where fire had stripped everything away weeks before.
