When I came back
to the mead hall silence had fallen at last. Smoke drifted in eddies
below the ceiling, and the shattered furniture lay tumbled where it had
been thrown during the struggle, and afterwards.
Copyright B Purkayastha 2008
I
looked around indifferently. A couple of my men lay snoring on the
floor, overcome with exertion and wine. I stepped over one of them. A
yellow stain of vomit spread over the floor by his head; it matted his
beard. His right hand still gripped his sword, and it was crusted with
blood. I was careful not to touch him. He would lash out with it
instinctively if disturbed.
A
few headless corpses still lay in the corner, where we had thrown them
after the battle was over. The heads now decorated the palisade round
the village, beards ruffled by the wind, eyes dried to dullness.
The
women lay where they had fallen. White skin and blond hair mixed
liberally with sticky black patches of clotted blood. Most were already
dead; a few still moved a little, a tremor of a hand or foot betraying
them. I walked past them with distaste. While I do understand that women
are the spoils of war and should be used as such, I pride myself on
being above such instincts.
I
was looking for the body of the chief of the enemy clan. I had taken
his head myself, in fair combat, and had spiked it myself on a post
outside the mead hall, but I wanted his sword. I had noticed it while we
had fought, long and wickedly sharp, much better than mine.
My
sealskin boot touched a woman’s hand then, and she sat up suddenly,
covering her bare breasts instinctively with one hand. She cried out and
rolled over, trying to crawl away from me, but went the wrong way and
bumped into my knees. I tried to sidestep, but she clutched desperately
at my knees, trying to pull herself erect, and I realised then why she
apparently could not see me – someone had taken a knife and slashed her
across the eyes. Her sockets were full of clotted blood.
Something
happened then. Maybe it was the smoke and the smell of wine and blood
in the room; maybe it was the tension that had built up all the while
since before the battle began. I kicked her savagely, knocked her down,
and when she screamed I kicked her again. She tried to back away on
hands and her heels, and I threw myself down on top of her, ripping at
her, thrusting away into her in a joyless explosion, wanting to hurt and
hurt. Her screams were silenced immediately, but I thrust and thrust at
her, smashing her down with my body, unable to sate my anger and my
wish to hurt until she gave a last shudder and lay still.
Afterwards
I found the old chief’s sword and cut off her head. I was a warrior,
and the sword was a tool; one had to make sure it was sharp enough to do
its job.
It was. Copyright B Purkayastha 2008
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