“This day brings the news of our
victory,
This day fortifies our destiny,
Rise, O protectors of Niharrkul,
Rise, O champions of Niharrkul,
We have defeated the enemy,
We have defeated the enemy,” the
man sang, and then blew his blood stained bugle.
On a battlefield that was
enveloped by a thick early morning fog, Balyunath walked over the bodies
of both the Hayacree and Niharrkuls. The bugle call was a tribute
to the soldiers of the land. His song was meant to instill spirit within those
who were still breathing. With weary eyes, he watched thousands of civilians rush to
all sides in search of survivors; the Hayacrians, of course, were being stabbed
with knives and pitchforks to ensure they stayed down.
Soon the wails of widows and
children began to rise, overpowering cries of relief and joy. Only a handful of
Niharrkul soldiers got up from the sea of corpses; one managed to rise halfway
and then vomited blood before collapsing into the arms of his woman.
Balyunath turned away from the
sight.
“Why did you stop?” asked a firm
voice, and Balyunath turned around to find General Shihaara- the powerfully
built commander of the armed forces, her armor torn and hacked at, revealing
the wounds she had sustained over the days of battle. The steed she was mounted
upon was no ordinary beast as well; it continued to stand tall despite the
injuries to its neck and legs.
“I am sorry, Wayan-Ur.” Balyunath replied with a bowed head, addressing the
General with respect.
With a strange calm, General
Shihaara gazed at the remains of the carnage. “I know your songs can only heal
the brave, not raise them from the dead. But it is imperative that we heal as
quickly as possible. Do you know why?”
Balyunath took his time. His
voice wavered. “The songs of battle have been sung, but the tune of a greater
war lingers in the air.”
General Shihaara responded with a
slight nod before moving away.
