Chapter VII
“What is that thudding noise resounding from the forest?” the boyar asked his daughter who walked beside him through the Mongolian encampment.
“They’re chopping down trees” Peace-Renown replied briefly.
“Now, at night, in the dark?”
“There will soon be light.”
Hardly had Peace-Renown said this, when atop the steep cliffs which walled in the kettle-shaped valley, here and there glimmered points of light; the Tukholians were striking sparks with flint and building campfires. It was not long before the banks of the entire valley were studded with rows of blazing campfires which gleamed in the pitch darkness like the bright eyes of giant wolves crouching for a leap down into the valley to devour the Mongolian forces.
Beside each campfire stirred groups of silhoutted figures. The sound of wood chopping echoed with re-doubled intensity.
“What are they doing now?” the boyar asked his daughter again.
“They’re trimming and scraping the wood.”
“What for?”
“When you get there you’ll find out.”
They continued on their way through the camp. Every so often the guards stopped them when it was necessary to show their credentials from the commander in order to be allowed to pass.
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