The road from Volga Bulgaria was the one he had ridden twice before, east in the autumn when the steppe was dry and pale, west in spring when the snowmelt was still in the soil.
Now the grass was fully green and the air had the heat of a summer that had been working at the steppe for weeks. Daichin moved at the easy walking pace since the morning's departure from the last supply point, consistent and unhurried, the pace of an animal that understood the day was distance rather than urgency.
The Khar Kheshig kept their formation as they always did it.
He had been in Volga Bulgaria for the entire spring. Orda's White Horde held the territory now, the white banner stable over positions that had been charred earthworks weeks before.
