“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.