The Purple Tent: Princes of Rus

Death always comes with wind and sand, or the thunder of hooves.

Yesugai, a scout commander, stood outside Batu Khan's golden tent like a stone statue weathered by the wind for a hundred years. The scar running from his brow to his chin gleamed dark red in the evening light. He had come from the east, carrying dust and blood from the road. What he held close was no spoils of war, but news enough to make the earth beneath their feet tremble.

He did not need to enter to imagine the scene inside: warm candles made from beef tallow, soft Persian carpets spread across the floor, and the scent of mare's milk wine and roast meat filling the air. All of it would be shattered by the news he had brought.

He drew in a deep breath of cold, dry air, then lifted the tent flap and entered.