Zakhar Berkut/Chapter VIII
Chapter VIII
While the boyar was away on the unsuccessful errand, Maxim sat in his tent pondering what he should do. His short meeting with Peace-Renown was like a bright ray of sunshine in the brooding darkness of his helpless imprisonment. Her words, her glances, the touch of her hands, the tidings she brought, all this it seemed snatched him back from the brink of a murky grave, restoring him once more to life. He felt his old courage and hope returning. Quietly but with optimistic thoughts he waited, listening for the boyar’s footsteps.
“So you are still here?” cried the boyar, entering the tent. “Poor boy, all in vain I tried my best to obtain your freedom. But your old man is obstinate! Though he’s grey, he’s still a child.”
“Didn’t I warn you, Boyarin, that your efforts would prove fruitless?” replied Maxim.
“But tell me, what exactly did my father say to you?”
“He said they would fight to their last breath, and that’s all there was to it. ‘Either we will all be slain,’ he said, ‘or you will.’ ”
“My father doesn’t say things like that just to hear himself talk, Boyarin. He is in the habit of considering matters thoroughly before he speaks.”
“I’ve noticed myself,” the boyar admitted unwillingly, “that he doesn’t say much but whatever he says is the truth. But what is there to do? No matter how you look at it the battle of the Tukholians against the Mongols is an uneven match. Force will break even straw no matter what may be said for its toughness.”
“Listen Boyarin, there are also ways to curb force,” Maxim contended.
“Oh yes! I have seen their contrivance! My daughter is a hot-head. You have bewitched her, that’s certain. She has taught them how to make trebuchets. We shall get a hailstorm of stones here tomorrow, but not such a very damaging one, for they did not know how to plait good strong ropes for the sling.”
“Besides these trebuchets, you think they have no other means?”
“I do not know. It seems they have not. But we haven’t long to wait, we’ll see what happens in the morning. My worst worry is Burunda, he’s annoying me, insisting that I find a way to lead them out of here tomorrow morning without battle or loss of time. And here the Tukholians are acting like wild bucks determined to stand with their horns lowered against us. Now what am I going to do? If I can’t do anything, then I can’t, that’s all there is to it!”
“No, Boyarin, you shouldn’t be so easily discouraged. For the time being you’re in Mongolian hands just as I am. Therefore you have to do what they command.”
“But how am I to accomplish it?”
“Perhaps I could be of service, Boyarin. I’m grateful to you for the kindness you have shown me today. If you wish, I will try to help you.”
“You? Will help me?” cried the boyar, astonished. “What can you do to help me?”
“I know of a safe and secret path that will lead us out of this valley, about which no one in Tukhlia knows outside of my father and myself. This path is unguarded. Over it a troop of Mongols can be led to the top to surround the trail and then it will be an easy matter to tear down the barricades and march out of the valley.”
The boyar stood stupefied before Maxim, not believing his own ears. “How can this be?” a lightning thought flashed through his brain, disappeared, and a twinge of pain pierced his heart. Regardless of how antagonistic he had been towards Maxim until recently, nonetheless he had been pleased by his noble staunchness and determination; therefore when he heard such a speech from Maxim’s lips, it seemed to him as if within his heart something deep and sacred was being rent to shreds, the last vestiges of his belief in the inherent honesty and integrity of man.
“Young man!” he exclaimed. “What are you saying? Did you actually mean to do something like that?”
“Of course, Boyarin.” Maxim said half-gravely and half-teasingly. “You said yourself that under stress even straw will break.”
“But you, you, who not long ago vowed, ‘I’d rather die than turn traitor!’ ”
“But what else is there to do?” asked Maxim solemnly again. “If a vow can’t be kept, it just can’t!”
“And you, with such a susceptible, compliant nature dare to think that my daughter will go on loving you?” cried the boyar angrily.
“Boyarin,” said Maxim bitterly. “Do not remind me of her!”
“You see, how it pains you. Evidently you realize yourself what I say is true.”
“Who knows, Boyarin, who knows! We are at war and war teaches all sorts of strategems. But what if . . . I?”
“What if you . . . what? Why don’t you finish?” cried Tuhar Wolf.
“Nothing, nothing! I only wanted to ask you again if you accept my proposition?”
“The question is, are you REALLY thinking of leading the Mongols against your Tukholians?”
“Yes, I really am, if only it will be possible . . .”
“What do you mean, ‘if only it will be possible’? Does it mean only if the path is unguarded?”
“No, I guarantee that the path will not be guarded and that we’ll pass through it in broad daylight unobserved, if only there will be no other obstacle.”
“What other obstacle could there be?”
“I . . . don’t know. . . .”
“In that case, there’s no sense in standing here arguing about it. Let’s go to Burunda!”
“Go alone, Boyarin and repeat to him what I’ve just told you. You need make no mention about a possible hindrance because I reiterate, neither the Tukholians nor any other armed people will hinder us and no other obstacle will frighten those daredevils.”
“Very well!” Tuhar Wolf replied.
“And ask him to order my chains removed, otherwise it will be impossible for me to do anything.”
“That’s to be understood,” said the boyar and went out, wondering on the way what this paradox meant.
What fearfully painful moments Maxim underwent in the interim, while the boyar was out informing Burunda concerning his design. With his head in his hands, he sat there in dreadful uncertainty, straining to catch with his ears the faintest swishing sounds, as if awaiting the coming of someone dearest to his heart. He shuddered and quivered as if a palsy had seized him, his teeth chattered as if he were bitten by the frost. But the moments stalked by quietly, peacefully, interminably each of them tearing into his heart like a bear’s sharp claws. What if it didn’t turn out as Peace-Renown had told him it would and the boyar began to press him to fulfill his promise. Well, it stands to reason that death would not pass him by this time. He had been prepared for death for a long time now, but to die without having kept his word, which he had sworn to do, to him whose future and perhaps even life depended upon the keeping of that promise, to die a traitor even if only in the eyes of another traitor, that thought was worse torture than death itself.
Also death itself seemed far worse now after seeing Peace-Renown again, than it had been an hour earlier when he had sat in the middle of the road choked by the smoke from the conflagration and gazed mutely at the fire which destroyed his house. But what was that? The earth trembled and a loud reverberation stirred the air, causing an uproar in the camp. Shouts arose, the clanging of weapons. What had happened? Maxim jumped to his feet and clapped his hands until the chains clanged. Joy, joy! The Tukholians were at work! It meant they were building that obstacle which would hinder the Mongols, and prevent him from becoming a traitor! Now he could die in peace for he would not have to break his word with his enemy. His heart thumped turbulently, he could not sit still and began to pace up and down the tent. The hubbub in the camp began to subside and in a moment, the boyar reentered the tent. His face was alight with happy satisfaction.
“Boy,” he began immediately, “your proposition came just in the nick of time! It saved me from untold danger. Did you hear that noise? Your Tukholians are crafty, they’re building barricades right behind us. Come quickly to the commander, he’s already choosing a detail to go with you. We need to get out of here in a hurry; it’s not safe here!”
Like sharp knives these words cut into Maxim’s heart. But come what may, he needed to detain their march until the moment when it would be rendered impossible.
“Since when, Boyarin, have you begun to fear the peasants’ barricades? I don’t think there’s any sudden danger confronting the Mongols. Let the Tukholians amuse themselves with their stockades, we will drive them away from them soon enough. But there’s no need to hurry. As you can see, it’s still dark. Not until it is broad daylight will we be able to find the outlet I have spoken to you about.”
“What sort of an outlet is it that can be found only in broad daylight?”
“Listen a moment, Boyarin, and I will tell you. In a section of our yard, buried beneath a covering of earth, there’s a giant flagstone. We have to find that spot, spade away the dirt, lift up the stone and we will enter a long, narrow, underground passage which will lead us out of the valley to the top, right into the Glade of Light, where you saw my father awhile ago.”
“Well then, why wait any longer? Let’s go and search for it at once!” cried the boyar.
“That’s easy enough for you to say, Boyarin, but you have forgotten something, the village was burned down, our fences and buildings burned also and all signs which would indicate the place were destroyed so that in the dark I could never find it. Besides, as I said before, why hurry when our way out is assured in broad daylight?”
“Oh well, have it your way,” the boyar consented in the end. “I’ll go and tell Burunda about this and will send someone right away to unchain you. Only remember, young fellow, you’ll still be under guard, because, to tell you the truth, neither Burunda nor I trust you completely and if there’s any trickery, you can expect certain death.”
“I realized that all along, Boyarin,” Maxim replied calmly.
The boyar went out again and soon after two Mongolian blacksmiths entered and removed the heavy chains from him. Maxim, once rid of the iron weights which had squeezed and gnawed for almost twenty-four hours not only his flesh but also it seemed his soul, felt as light as if he had been re-born. Light of heart and full of hope, he was led by the Mongols before the tent of Burunda.
Burunda measured him from head to foot with his ferocious, piercing eyes and spoke to him through his interpreter, Tuhar Wolf.
“Slave,” said Burunda, “I am told that you know of a secret outlet from this valley?”
“I do,” replied Maxim.
“Are you prepared to show it to us?”
“I am.”
“What favor do you expect in return for it?”
“None.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
“As an indication of my good-will.”
“Where is this outlet?”
“On my father’s property.”
“Can you find it right away?”
“I cannot. Everything which would indicate it has been burned down and the passage is deeply buried beneath the earth. But as soon as it’s daylight I will find it.”
“It’s growing light now. Go and search for it! And one more thing, if you are telling us the truth and find the passage, then you will be set free and in addition will receive a gift. But if you’re trying to dupe us with empty promises then you will atone for it by the most horrible torture.”
“I’ll take your word for it, great behadir!” said Maxim, “and you can also depend upon mine!”
“Go and search for the passage. Here are your helpers. I will also accompany you.”
How slowly and cautiously walked Maxim! How minutely he examined every little nook, every stone, as if trying to recall the exact position of the place changed by yesterday’s conflagration! Though he was still some distance away from his father’s homestead, he stopped several times, bent close to the ground, thumped it, dug a little here and there and always kept glancing ahead, at the stream from where his own help was to come. With snail-like pace the detachment of Mongols crawled behind him. Burunda grew impatient.
“Don’t be angry, great Behadir!” said Maxim. “Yesterday’s conflagration completely destroyed all traces of life within the valley. It’s difficult for me to place everything at once. In a minute now, we’ll be in my father’s yard.
With eager, expectant eyes, Maxim glanced towards the stream. God be praised! The banks were full. In a moment the water would begin to flood the valley. Beyond the village, near the corridor, there appeared wide rivulets and little lakes, blood red in color, reflecting the rays of the rising sun. Now it meant he could proceed with confidence. Maxim dissembled no longer but quickly led the Mongolians unto his father’s property, selected a spot where the earth reverberated hollowly and Burunda, quivering with impatience shouted an order for the Mongols to dig. Not until then did he glance about him and observe the overflowing stream.
“What is that?” he cried, gripped by some inexplicable fear.
Tuhar Wolf also shuddered. Only Maxim stood unperturbed.
“It’s nothing, Behadir. Last night there was a heavy rainstorm up in the mountains and after each such storm our stream overflows a little. But that’s nothing, the water never reaches as far as here.”
“If that’s so,” said Burunda, checking his fears, “then dig on!”
But Maxim was not telling the truth. The water flooded the valley ever wider and wider and only the ignorant and frightened Mongols did not suspect that this was not an ordinary overflow from the rains, for the waters in the stream were clear and did not flow forward or foam but swelled higher and higher overflowing the banks.
In the meantime the digging proceeded slowly though the Mongols did their best. All at once their spades struck something hard. It was the flag-stone. The stone was broad, wider than the hole the Mongols had dug. It was necessary to dig up a much larger area in order to remove it or to be able to crack it. Maxim watched the rising of the water with worried eyes. The section of the valley below the village was already covered. In long waves the water rolled in the opposite direction from that in which it had naturally flowed since the beginning of time. Suddenly from the Mongolian camp resounded cries of panic. The water had overflowed the fosse and flooded the camp in a thousand rivulets.
“Slave, what does it mean?” Burunda questioned Maxim.
“Well, Behadir,” replied Maxim, “it looks as though there’s been a cloud-burst in the mountain-tops. Our stream seems fuller than usual. But it’s not sensible for us to be afraid of water that reaches to the ankles!”
“Knock out the flag-stone!” he yelled at the Mongols, “and let the great behadir see that I was not fooling him!”
The Mongolian axes thundered against the flag-stone, but the stone was thick and strong and it was not easy to break it.
“Hit it harder, ” shouted Burunda, unable any longer to control his fear of the water which had made a lake out of a large part of the valley and was now rolling straight towards them. But the block of stone was of Tukholian temperament and resisted as long as possible. Then it cracked. One more concerted blow and it crumbled into pieces. With it also collapsed the Mongols who had been standing atop it. The opening of the dark underground corridor showed itself to the eyes of the gathered.
“You see, Behadir!” said Maxim. “Now tell me yourself, have I been tricking you?”
But somehow Burunda failed to be greatly overjoyed with the uncovering of the underground pass. In long, rolling waves the water came towards them and splashed at their feet. In another moment with a joyous swish it flowed into the newly uncovered hole.
“Stop the water, stop the water!” cried Burunda and the Mongols set themselves to work to keep the water from getting into the opening. But their work was in vain. The water covered the ground, the clay softened and dissolved into mud in the hands of the Mongols. Such an attempt could not stop the force of the water which kept rolling into the hole ever more strongly from all directions splashing for a long time there and then disappearing within it until in the end it had filled it completely.
Stupefied the Mongols stood around the hollow and watched how the water flooded their last remaining outlet from the valley.
“Vassal!” said Burunda to Maxim, “is this your way out?”
“Behadir,” replied Maxim, “can I command the water where not to go?”
Burunda did not reply to this, only gazed at the water around him which continued to rise, ever deeper covering the valley. Already with a smoothly mirrored surface it glistened over the entire valley. Only here and there peeped tiny islands of dry land. In the Mongolian camp there was a roaring tumult though the water reached barely up to their ankles.
“Behadir,” said Maxim to Burunda, seeing that he was preparing to return to his tent. “I want to remind you of your promise. You said that whenever I showed you the outlet, I would be set free. I showed it to you.”
“And the outlet disappointed me. You will be set free only when we have all come out of this valley and not before.”
And Burunda left him, followed by his company, to return and restore order among his confused soldiers.
The Mongolian army stood in military formation up to its ankles in water, worried and helpless. Though the water which covered the whole valley, smooth, clear, shiny as melted glass, was low, its force and the waterfall which like a lighted column hung above the watery plain, constantly adding to it, was what disheartened the Mongols.
But it did no good to stand there! Their very fear at sight of the threatening danger awakened them to the need of some kind of action even if it was useless action. It was therefore imperative for them to do something, to try their luck, for otherwise Burunda realized, all that mass of Mongols would disband, pursued by its fear. Burunda ordered the whole army to band itself and to stand in one group.
“What are you, men or cats, that you’re so scared of these few drops of water? Haven’t we crossed much greater rivers than this? What is this stream compared to the Ayka, Volga, Don and Dnieper? Have no fear, water up to our ankles can’t drown us. Forward to the corridor! We’ll attack all together in one mass. Let us advance at all hazards! We must defeat them!” Thus shouted Burunda and marched forward in the lead. The Mongolian army moved after him, wading in the water with noisy splashes which echoed to the hills and reverberated in the forests.
But a hundred paces from the corridor, they were met by a deadly storm of stones released from the trebuchets. Boulders, slabs of stone, sharp, pointed rocks washed down by the waterfall and gathered from the stream, rained down upon the massed army breaking bones and cracking open skulls. The waters beneath their feet were crimsoned with blood. Disregarding Burunda’s shouts, the group dispersed, the biggest portion of it backing away to where the stones could not reach it. Burunda himself together with his personal following of dauntless Turkomen had to retreat, for the hailstorm of stones grew denser while the Mongolian shots did no damage to the Tukholians.
Tuhar Wolf, observing the position of the enemy, noticed that by the biggest engine, which unceasingly hurled either heavy blocks of stone or whole bushels of pebbles down on the Mongols, stood his own daughter, Peace-Renown, among several Tukholian elders and directed all the workings of that machine.
Maxim had noticed her sometime before and did not take his eyes off her. How happy he would have been to stand there by her side and listen to her courageous, intelligent commands and to injure the enemy at her direction! But alas, that was not his fate! There he stood himself among these foes, without chains but still powerless, a prisoner, wishing that a stone thrown by her hands might end his torture and his life.
Tuhar Wolf tugged at his sleeve.
“It’s no use staring up there, boy,” he said. “My daughter’s gone completely crazy. Look what she’s doing! Nontheless, for us it’s getting worse and worse. Do you have such floods as this very often?”
“Like this? Never!”
“What do you mean ‘never’?”
“Because this is not a flood. You can see yourself the water is clear.”
“Not a flood? Then what is it?”
“Haven’t you already guessed, Boyarin? The Tukholians have blocked the outlet of the stream in order to flood the valley.”
“Blocked it up!” cried the boyar. “That means . . .”
“It means the stream will continue to swell until . . .”
“Until what?”
“Until it drowns all of us, of course!”
The boyar pounded his head with his fists. “And you knew this all along?”
“I found it out from your daughter. My father thought of it, Boyarin.”
“How unfortunate! And why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
“What for?”
“We might have both saved ourselves.”
“We have plenty of time for that,” replied Maxim quietly. “Only let us stay together and if anything should happen don’t let anyone harm me, Boyarin, while I am unarmed.”
“That’s to be understood,” said the boyar. “But what shall we do?”
“For now, there’s no need to be afraid,” replied Maxim. “The stream is narrow and the valley wide, the water is rising very slowly. But it won’t continue so for long. In perhaps an hour or so there will come down from the mountain tops a real flood and it will quickly fill the valley. By evening the waters will have risen higher than the tallest man. We must hold out until then for while the Mongols are still alive they will never let us out of their hands.”
“But until that time they could easily chop us up to bits.”
“Don’t worry, Boyarin. A man in danger is not likely to be belligerent. He thinks first of preserving himself and not about another’s death. Let’s try to find a safe place for ourselves to stand on where the water will not reach to drown us when the flood comes.”
While the boyar and Maxim were talking the Mongols had moved back from the wall of rock and stood irresolutely in the middle of the lake. The water reached nearly to their knees. Burunda glared furiously at the unexpected enemy which was not intimidated by his angry voice or his warrior’s might. He kicked at it, spit at it, scolded and swore at it with the most terrible oaths, but the foe, quietly and peacefully splashed in the valley, flowing along in slow waves, continuing to increase. It was reaching up to the knees of the Mongols, hindering their march, taking away their desire to fight, weakening the army’s morale. What could all this mean? Would the waters continue to rise? When they rose as high as their waists all their movements would be hampered and the Tukholians would shoot them all down with their stones like ducks. But the water was still clear, translucent, only where the Mongols waded about, it stood in broad muddy pools.
Tuhar Wolf approached Burunda.
“Great Behadir,” he said, “we are in grave danger.”
“Why?” asked Burunda frowning sulkily.
“These waters will not recede for our enemies have dammed up the stream in order to drown the entire Mongolian army in the valley.”
“So!” cried Burunda, “and you abominable slave, dare to tell me this, when you led us into this hole yourself?”
“You fail to remember, great Behadir, that I could not lead you here to be betrayed for what menaces you also threatens me.”
“You can’t fool me! You went there last night to negotiate with them for the destruction of the Mongols.”
“If that is so, do you think, Behadir, knowing about the destruction of the Mongols in advance, I would have returned to die here with them?”
Burunda was somewhat mollified. “What shall we do?” he asked. “Should we just give up and die?”
“No, we must defend ourselves. In a few minutes, Behadir, a real flood will pour down from the mountains and it will rapidly fill up this valley. First of all we must defend ourselves against it.”
“But how?”
“Order your army, while the water is still clear, to gather stones from the bottom and heap them up, each company a pile for itself. Standing on them we will be able to defend ourselves at least from the weaker enemy, the Tukholians.”
Without stopping to cogitate upon it long, Burunda ordered the soldiers to gather the stones and pile them up in separate heaps, each group one for itself. This order which threatened them with no danger pleased the Mongols and their expectations of something dry to stand on instead of wading up to their knees in the cold water warmed their courage. With joyous whoops they set themselves to the task, wading around in the valley, collecting the stones and heaping them up.
The Tukholians stood atop the banks encompassing the lake, watching the work and taunting them.
“Come nearer! Here!” they called to the Mongols. “We have plenty of stones and will distribute them generously among you!”
But whenever any Mongols came close enough to their positions immediately the engines creaked and the stones swept down like an avalanche upon the unfortunate who, wading around in the deepening swell of the waters, tried to hide themselves and tired themselves but could not escape. Whether they wanted to or not, the Mongols were forced to stay in the center of the valley out of reach of the Tukholian trebuchets. Burunda almost went mad in his helplessness, listening to the derisive laughter of the Tukholians.
“We can’t fail like this!” he cried. “Come here to me, my faithful Turkomen!”
The most daring contingent of the Mongolian force gathered around him, men sturdy as oaks and ferocious as steppe tigers, whose skins they wore fastened about them. He led them towards one of the Tukholian positions which was placed well forward, by itself, on the top of a sharp, overhanging cliff. A small group of Tukholians stood beside the new machine.
“Aim a volley of your poisoned arrows at them!” cried Burunda. They buzzed through the air like a swarm of bumble bees. The wounded Tukholians screamed in pain and dispersed. The Mongols moved forward.
“Don’t let them assemble again!” shouted Burunda. “Don’t let them hurl any more stones down upon us! We can strengthen our position here.”
He divided the group into two companies, one to keep on shooting at the enemy’s post and the other to pile up the stones for protection against the rising waters. Tuhar Wolf and Maxim, whom Burunda constantly kept with him also helped with the work by carrying stones and heaping them up. But this work was getting more difficult to accomplish as time went on. The water had risen to their waists. There began to be a shortage of stones and the piles had not yet reached the surface. Burunda directed the archers who had already succeeded in wounding ten Tukholians. They were dying from the tragic effects of the snake poison, which had gotten into their blood, and for which all of Zakhar Berkut’s healing skill could do nothing.
“Give up that station, children!” advised Zakhar. “Let them stand in front of that precipice. They cannot save themselves that way, especially with the water beneath them!”
The Tukholians gave up their post. The Mongols waded around in the water happily adding more stones to the piles. Finally there were no more stones to be found.
“It won’t do us much good, boys, just to heap up the stones,” Burunda said to his soldiers. “The archers, stand on top of the piles and keep on shooting with your bows. The rest come with me! We must hold this post and climb up the wall of rock, even if the heavens should come tumbling down upon us. You slaves, come with me also and lead the way!”
“Behadir,” said Maxim through Tuhar Wolf acting as interpreter, “it’s useless for us to try struggling up that way. There’s no path there to the top.”
“There must be one!” Burunda insisted and jumped into the water, his Turkomen following behind him. The bottom was uneven; the Mongols slipped and fell. The water, whipped by a stiff breeze, beat in enormous waves against the steep wall, hampering their progress. Although from the Mongolian position it was no further than two hundred paces to the bank, they spent over half an hour traversing the distance. But the water by the wall was still deeper reaching almost to their armpits and they found not a trace of a path leading up the wall of rock. From neighboring Tukholian positions the stones hailed down upon the daredevils, and although the largest number of them either dashed themselves in vain against the wall of rock or fell into the water, Burunda’s station in that place was exceedingly inconvenient and ineffectual.
“Perhaps your youths know how to climb better,” Maxim mocked. “It’s quite possible to clamber up the wall to the top.”
But none of the steppe-raised Turkomen could scale the precipitous wall of stone.
“In that case,” said Maxim, “let me, Behadir, be the first to climb to the top and show you how.”
But Burunda was no longer listening. He was already planning something else. He divided his company once more, one group he left in the newly gained position, beneath the protection of an overhanging ridge of rock, with the other group, Tuhar Wolf and Maxim, he set out to seek a more advantageous post. But as soon as the group of them, wading up to their waists in the water, showed themselves beyond the protecting ridge protruding from the wall of rock, the Tukholian engines bombarded them with stones, felling nearly half their number. The rest were forced to retreat.
“Let us return to our safer post, Behadir,” said Tuhar Wolf. “Do you hear the foam and splash of the waves and the screams coming from the upper end of the valley? I think the real flood is on the way.”
The boyar was right. The thunderous roar of the catapult from which the very earth shook indicated that the inundation was coming. In immense, muddy waves, the waters cascaded down into the valley, discoloring the entire surface of the broad lake and covering it with large caps of foam. In place of the clear, smooth mirror of water, the mad waves of a boisterous sea hurled themselves against the rocky banks, swaying, undulating, vascillating, forming whirlpools.
It was dreadful to look out over the valley. Here and there groups of Mongols, like tiny isolated islands, showed themselves above the waters. There was not a trace left among them of any kind of military discipline. Like chaff blown about by a strong wind, the army had scattered over the valley, fighting with the waves, here and there moving about with difficulty, screaming and cursing. No one heard or paid any attention to anyone else. Some of the more fortunate stood on the piled-up stones and were at least for the time being safe from the pressure of the flood. Others sank in the water up to their shoulders and to their necks holding themselves up by leaning on their spears or swung their bows high over their heads. But most of them had discarded their bows which like straws now whirled about in the maelstrom. Some had taken off their fur coats and let them float away although their teeth chattered from the cold, hoping somehow to lighten their weight and thus keep themselves afloat. Those who were short caught hold of the taller ones, knocking them down and together with them spluttered and splashed about fighting the waves, until they went down. Others began to swim away though they themselves did not know why or to where they should swim.
The piles of stones hurriedly amassed in the center of the valley could hold only a small number of lucky ones and they were the object of deadly jealousy and witless cursing by those who were drowning. Around each pile there pressed thousands of them, maddened and howling, trying to get on to a place of safety. Uselessly those who stood on the piles of stones argued that the piles could not hold them all, that someone had to die. But no one wanted to die, they were all anxious to clamber up on the rocks. Those who stood on the piles perforce had to defend themselves against that pressure if they did not wish to be displaced. Their mallets and battle-axes crashed against the arms and skulls of other Mongols. Brother cared not about brother in that terrible moment of approaching death. Friend murdered friend with fiercer wrath than he ever would have an enemy. Those of the sinking who stood deepest in the water, back of the rest, nearest their watery death, pressed forward, those who stood close by the piles exposed to the blows of their comrades, pressed backward screaming; those in the center howled with pain and fear, crowded on all sides, pushed by those in front and back into the water. Some already sinking, frantically caught hold of the heaped-up stones beneath the surface, dislodging them.
Suddenly five of the piles gave way and all those who had stood upon them were thrown into the water and were in the same predicament as those from whom they had defended themselves. And the unfortunate ones, who had not been allowed to stand upon the piles, their senses benumbed by deathly fear, now whooped joyously whenever a new pile gave way, throwing new sacrifices into the jaws of the unmerciful foe.
A killing, destructive mania had seized some of them who began killing and ruining everything in sight. One of them, a giant of a man with face of purplish hue, his teeth clenched and lips bitten until they bled, was blindly hacking away with his battle-axe at any of his comrades who came near or chanced to fall under his hands and when no one came to hand he hacked away at the foaming bloody waves.
Another, giggling hysterically, kept knocking down into the water any who happened to have found a higher place to stand on, a stone or corpse of a comrade. A third roared like a bull and butted the sinking from the back. Another folded his hands over his head and screwing up his face whimpered and bawled like a child. Some of them, seeing nothing but their inevitable death, clung to their comrades trying to climb on their shoulders, hanging on to their hair, forcing them down to the bottom and sinking along with them.
Like fish on their way to spawn, caught in a narrow stream, splashing and sticking their open mouths above the surface of the water to catch a breath of air, so here in the middle of the enormous, muddy, whirling lake, spluttering, fighting, sinking, rising to the top a moment, waving their arms and jerking their heads and sinking again, the Mongols drowned by the hundreds and thousands.
Hushed and motionless like wooden posts the Tukholians stood on the banks. Not even the stoutest and hardest-hearted could go on watching without shuddering, shedding a tear or emitting cries of pity at the wholesale drowning of human beings.
Paralyzed by boundless woe, Burunda-Behadir, watched the scene of horror. Although he was himself threatened by no lesser danger, though the water reached to the shoulders of his own select division of men and the swift currents which appeared in the stream tugged at their legs and reminded them of an urgent need to return to their position of safety, still Burunda stood for sometime tearing at his hair, emitting terrible, unrestrained cries, bemoaning the disaster which had befallen his army. No one dared to speak to him in that awful moment. All stood around him shivering, buffeted by the infinitely powerful enemy, water.
“Let’s go back!” said Burunda at last and they made straight for the pile of stones which the Turkomen had gathered in front of their post. They were just in time. The water rose higher, stronger. Between them and their goal there opened a wide whirlpool which they could withstand only in a mass by taking hold of hands. Only the giant Burunda went ahead of them breaking the turbulent waves with this stout chest.
Like an islet in the center of a sea stood the group of soldiers upon their pile, up to their waists in water, with bows drawn, aimed for the Tukholian post. Their military discipline had not yet been destroyed by their peril. Luckily their heap of stones was bigger than that of the others, made up of huge slabs of rock which only under water could so easily have been lifted and moved. More than a hundred additional fully armed men could stand on it and there were exactly that number with Burunda without counting those whom he had left near the wall of rock beneath the protecting ridge.
Standing upon the pile, Burunda’s comrades sighed a little in relief. First of all they glanced towards the cliff where they had left their companions, about forty in number. In that spot was a furious whirling and swishing of waves dashing themselves against the sharp projections of the cliff, splashing their silvery foam high up the wall. There was not a sign of the Turkomen, only at those times when the waves momentarily calmed themselves, something black showed against the background of the dark stone wall; this was apparently the only living man left from among that company. With paralyzing grip, he clung to the cliff no matter how vehemently the mad waves pulled and yanked at his body. He did not scream, did not cry out for help, only swayed with each influx of the tide until in the end he also disappeared, like a leaf washed down stream.
Burunda, benumbed, his face blue from suffering and wrath, glanced over the valley. The dreadful cries and wails had ceased. In the whirlpools, here and there showing above the surface of the water, whirled about clenched fists, feet or heads. Only ten groups of living men like ten black islands stood on their stone heaps, but even they were no longer soldiers only badly frightened, disarmed weaklings, trembling and un-nerved by their despair. Although they were within hearing distance of each other, they could not aid each other and whether banded together in one group or alone they were just as helpless, awaiting their inevitable death.