All for naught Tuhar Wolf tried to convince the savage behadir that it was not entirely all his fault, that he had advised him as he thought it would work out for the best, that the Mongol council had accepted his proposals and agreed with his plans, that no leader could possibly give guarantees against an unexpected turn of events or be held responsible for hindrances which might occur on their march. But all his arguments were rejected by Burunda’s convictions to the contrary, as if they had been peas hurled against a stone wall.
“Very well, Boyarin,” he said in the end, “I will do as you say, but just the same tomorrow you must show us a way out of this hole or else bear the consequences. These are my final words. I am waiting for deeds and not excuses from you.”
Arrogantly and scornfully, he turned away from the boyar and went to his Mongols, shouting orders to them to set fire to the entire village at once and to clear the valley of everying that might serve the enemy as cover from which to attack them at night. The Mongols whooped with joy. They had been awaiting just such an order for sometime.
From all directions at once the fiery tongues of flames lapped the weird, pitch blackness which had settled over the Tukholian valley. The smoke burst forth in columns, rolling itself out like a thick blanket over the valley. The roofs crackled, shrunk by red streaks of flames sometimes leaping high into the air and at times, as if crouching, smoldering slowly, seemingly accumulating strength for another leap towards the sky. At another time, the flames buffeted by the wind, spread themselves into a glimmering, oscillating lake of liquid fire. The roar of toppling timbers and crashing walls echoed hollowly along the valley, the burning, piled-up sheaves of grain and hay glowed like coals, here and there ribbons of whitish smoke rising from their centers. The trees burned like candles, their leaves carried high into the air flitting about like
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