Daichin's flanks were dark with lather by the time Batu reached the second rise beyond the gate. Blood had soaked the front of Batu's coat, thick and tacky now, though none of it belonged to him. He had stopped trying to count how many men had sprayed him red since the fighting began. It no longer mattered.
As long as he was still in the saddle, the battle was still his to ride.
The fires had spread since morning. Smoke rose in filthy pillars across nearly half the district, dense enough that riders only a few streets away showed only as wavering shadows in the haze. Somewhere behind him, a building gave way with a deep grinding roar, then folded in on itself and threw a cloud of dust across the rooftops.
Batu didn't look back. One wall down meant more were following. The city was already breaking apart under them.
