The stench of death filled the evening air as the fight swung from one side of the battlefield to the other. Swords twisted and snapped against the hardened rims of bronze shields. Javelins and lances sang through the air. Many a brave and beautiful youth lay dead while blood and sweat dimmed the eyes of grey-haired veterans who waited for their call to arms.
I, Ursid, though contributing greatly to it, also felt the anguish of that long day. I saw strongly tempered blades and vigorous young limbs break like brittle forest branches under the woodman's axe. Heroes swayed like tall grasses in the wind and fell as Death's harvest. Great was the glory, but terrible the bloodshed.
Like some automaton, I watched as my thick-bladed sword rose and fell. Again and again, sheering through my opponents blades, armor and bodies as though they were but chaff beneath the harvester's sickle. My free hand lashing out like the Kodiak; alternately tearing limbs from bodies heedless of their owners continued need for them or splitting open metal encased skulls with no more effort than smashing a ripened fruit. All sound became lost in the deepening chorus of the widow's wailing song.
And still the killing continued through the darkness and break of day.
When the sun looked once more upon the fields of carnage, I alone looked back.
| Thursday, October 2, 1997 |
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