They were young, some of them just boys. Most hadn’t seen more than a skinned knee, not even real blood. Not like this. They’d learnt to fight with sticks, stabbing and smacking each other, laughing all the while. But this didn’t sound like laughter. As heavy blades swung through the air, they landed hard, there was a red spray, and the screams were like nothing they’d ever heard. Screams that would chase them after the battle was over, chase them through the days, through the nights, into their graves.