When Rumi led his personal guard onto the city walls, even though he had long prepared himself mentally, the dark mass of people surging below still gave him a fright.
These were refugees driven here by the Tatars' slaughtering blades. They now resembled a great river, pouring heedlessly into a narrow channel and packing the valley passage beneath Huwayzeh City to the brim.
As far as the eye could see, the once peaceful villages along the Karon River had all been put to the torch. Flames shot into the sky, and black smoke billowed.
The cries, wails, and pleas for help mingled endlessly with the cruel laughter of the Tatar butchers, making it feel as though they had fallen into Hell.
"Raise the drawbridge! Seal the gates! No one is to approach!"
Governor Rumi gave the order without hesitation.
The refugees driven forward in wave after wave had lost their only path to survival and began desperately begging the defenders atop the walls.
"Please, lower the drawbridge! The Tatars are still far away!"
"Ali, let me in! For Father's sake!"
The garrison on the walls all reddened their eyes. They knew perfectly well that once the drawbridge was lowered and the gates opened, they would never be able to close them again. The Tatars would follow the refugees inside, and everyone in the city would become ghosts beneath their blades.
Yet many of the refugees below were their relatives, friends, and neighbors. Some were even their parents, wives, and children. Who could bear to watch them die, much less kill them with their own hands?
Someone shouted at them, "Turn around and fight those demons slaughtering you! Stop coming this way! The gates will never open!"
But no one listened. The refugees had been terrified out of their wits by