“My brothers, you do not know the Mongolians! Among that small group of people is their most formidable commander who will never forgive us for the destruction of his army. He will lead a new one into our mountains and who knows if we will be able to disband it so easily the next time!”
“But your son, Zakhar, your son! Take heed, death awaits him! Look, the axe is upraised over his head!”
“It is better that my son should die than for his sake a single enemy should escape from our country.”
Weeping, Peace-Renown approached old Zakhar.
“Father,” she wept, “what are you thinking of doing?” Why do you want to lose your son and . . . me, father? I love your son. I vowed to marry him and be his wife. The moment of his death will also be mine!”
“Poor girl,” replied Zakhar. “How can I comfort you? Your only concern is a pair of flashing dark eyes and a handsome build while I must consider the good of all. There is no choice here, my daughter.”
“Zakhar, Zakhar!” cried the townspeople. “We are all convinced there’s been enough slaughter and that the power of the Mongolian army has been fatefully broken. We do not desire the death of the rest therefore we put their destiny as well as that of your son into your hands. Take pity upon your own flesh and blood!”
“Take pity upon our youth, our love!” Peace-Renown implored, weeping.
“You can promise them anything and everything until they return your son,” said a youth from one of the communities beyond the crest of the mountain. “As soon as Maxim is free, you give us the sign and we will send all the rest of them to the bottom to feed the crabs.”
“No!” Zakhar expostulated angrily, “that would be dishonorable! The Berkuts keep their promises even to enemies
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