Who knows, this might go somewhere...
The vultures are flocking. I was always told that vultures flocked after a battle. My father told me they fed off the dead carcasses, and were attracted by the smell of blood and the scent of death. I didn’t believe him at first, but before me were hundreds of the birds spinning and diving to eat the deceased. Their bald heads always used to make me laugh, but now it gave them a sinister look and I didn’t dare open my mouth. They were swarming, like messengers of destruction warning us of the horrors that had occurred.
We had first seen them as we rode over a sand dune, my father and I and our bodyguard, all mounted on armoured horses. At first my father could scarce believe the sight, assuming it must have been just a murder, but there were hundreds of the birds and it signalled only one thing. We had galloped along the cracked ground and saw hundreds of the bodies. Amongst them were ours and some of the dark-skins. It was the first time I had seen some many dead bodies in one place; mauled faces, rotting flesh, dried blood, discarded weapons and shields. And I would never forget the smell – the horrible, relentless stench of decomposing bodies.
We counted the bodies and found that over a hundred of ours had died for just a score of theirs. It was outrageous – almost a massacre. My father had some skilled trackers with him and they went and searched, coming back later to report they believed it had been an ambush, from the pattern of bodies and spent arrows. My father was angry. He was angry a lot of this time, but I had never seen him this mad. Never before had the dark-skins attacked our men this severely.
“They will pay for this,” my father growled, “They will pay with blood.”
I believed him. My father never spoke flippantly; he was always assured and confident. And didn’t go back on his word.
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