The rally camp stood where the Zhizdra river met the Oka from the west, close enough to the region the scouts had begun calling Kozelsk that a rider could reach it in a day.
Summer had changed the campaign since Moscow. The road beneath Daichin's hooves had dried into hard-packed earth instead of spring mud, and the grass along both sides had grown high, its green fading toward gold beneath a sun that grew harsher each week.
Dry grass, horse sweat, and dust replaced the damp chill that had lingered through spring. Flies clustered over the picket lines. Along the camp's western edge, the river ran low and clear, its current easy to hear whenever the wind eased.
Nothing here resembled the winter camp on the Sura river with its snow and felt walls. Heat and dust ruled everything instead.
