terrifying noises arose from the valley: the neighing of horses, the clanging of armor, the shouts of sentries, the hum of voices of black slaves who tended the fires and mingling with them, from the distance, came the heart-rending cries of those being slaughtered, voices of women driven off to slavery or shame, screams of children tossed on pikes, the pitiful pleadings of chained men led to prison, the lowing of cattle and the crackling of burning buildings collapsing, cascades of sparks flying up to the sky like swarms of fireflies. The blood-red glow of the fires revealed down below dotted over the plateau beside the river, innumerable rows of tents, divided by broad lanes, where the bulk of the Mongol garrison lay cantoned. The men appeared to be crawling like ants between these tents gathering about the campfires. Peace-Renown, petrified by the scene, was unable to take her eyes away from it. Even the gloomily morose old boyar seemed unable to move from the spot, losing his eyes in that monstrous bloody sea, nostrils filled with the odor of bitter smoke and blood, listening to the clamor, the screams, groans and triumphant shouts of victory. Even the horses beneath the two riders, sensing their horror, trembled visibly, pricking their ears, pawing at the ground as if afraid to go any further.
“Father, will you please tell me what in God’s name is that?” exclaimed Peace-Renown at last.
“Our allies,” replied Tuhar Wolf surlily.
“Oh! It must be the Mongols about whom the people spoke with such dread?”
“Yes, it is they!”
“Destroyers of our Rus!”
“Our allies are against the abominable “smerdi” and their independent style of government.”
“Father, this means our doom too! When there are no more peasants left who will feed the boyars?”
“Have no fears, my daughter, no storm has yet been strong
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