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 Tukhlia whispered softly, secretively, as if communicating to each other some portent of evil. Even the earth for some reason quaked and groaned. The atmosphere though pure and brisk, quivered, set in motion by a qualmish hum, weird enough to make even the bravest shudder. Far away in the distant forests in the deep dark gorges and ravines within the impenetrable and impassable primeval fastnesses, yowled the wolves, barked the foxes in their dissonant tones, lowed the stags and roared the bison.

Within the village it was quiet and dead; in the sky, bright and clear. But no! All at once the sun became obliterated from view by a black cloud which like a living wall pushed its way from out of the west to descend over Tukhlia, filling the air with wild, hoarse screams. These were the omens and inseparable companions of the Mongol Horde, the ravens, vultures and buzzards, moving in innumerable flocks, attracted by the prospect of food.

The evil foreboding birds flapped their wings in the air and the flock separated into fragments like clouds rent by storm winds. The dusky eaves of the Tukholian houses suddenly became covered with the black hosts, and their noisy tumult, like rapidly boiling water in a huge kettle, arose from the valley. Mutely and passively, standing on the precipitous banks of their kettle-shaped valley, the Tukholians watched the vicious birds, in their hearts damning these prophets of death and destruction.

But soon the scene changed. Like spring flood waters through a break in a dam, there began to hurl themselves, screaming wildly, other black hosts into the basin. Row after row rolled in, like a torrent beneath a waterfall, slowing down only after they had passed through the narrow breach, forming themselves into long lines moving ahead without check, inundating the deserted valley. In the lead on a white steed rode the redoubtable giant Burunda-Behadir and beside him another, shorter man, Tuhar Wolf.