like hungry wolves!”
The boyar’s blood congealed listening to this tale but he dared not utter a single word in protest or contradiction to this conception of justice.
“But tell me, where is the other highway?” questioned Peta further.
“The other is the Tukholian Trail,” replied the boyar, “though narrower and hillier, it is nearer and absolutely safe. There are no forts on it or any of the king’s boyars. The peasants guard it themselves.”
“We’re not afraid of your peasants!” scoffed Peta.
“There’s no need to be afraid of them,” put in the boyar. “They are unarmed and unskilled in warfare. I can easily lead your army over that trail myself.”
“But perhaps on the Hungarian side these trails are strongly fortified?”
“The Tukholian is not entirely fortified and the Duklanian is fortified but not very effectively.”
“Is the Tukholian route to Hungary a very long one?”
“For fully armed men, it will take one day to reach Tukhlia. Spending the night there and starting out at dawn, you will reach the Uhri downs by nightfall.”
“And through the Duklan Pass?”
“Counting the time it will take to storm the forts, at least three days.”
“Well then, lead us through the Tukholian trail!” replied Peta.
“Allow me to make a suggestion, great Behadir,” spoke up one of the Mongol army chieftains, a man of Herculean build and dark olive complexion, dressed in a steppe tiger skin coat which only too obviously indicated his Turkish origin. Burunda-Behadir, rivaling Kaydan in fame, was a passionately vengeful and ruthless warrior, uniting his thirst for blood with the worst forms of evil. The Mongolian military code to
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