By mid-afternoon of that sullen day, not a Goblin was left alive on the field, though a good many, still living, were hopelessly trapped in the muddy bottom of the Mirrow, and were left there to die. No one spoke as the soldiers recovered arrows from the Goblin dead, piled the corpses like so much cordwood, and cut down timber to fashion great pyres. When the pyres had been set ablaze, their hearts were downcast, for there had been no great moral victory here; only meaningless, horrific slaughter. The Thane, however, was philosophical, for like as not, this was how most battles were conducted. Two opponents met, probed each other’s defences for weaknesses, then exploited the weaknesses with utter ruthlessness. If no weaknesses were to be found, then it became a standoff. Standoffs ended when reinforcements arrived, or when one army ran short of supplies, or when one army was too tired to continue, or when the weather changed, favouring one army over the other in terms of clothing, footwear, terrain, or position or condition of the battlefield. Regardless, in the end, a chink appeared in the armour, and arrows, lances and swords were driven into healthy flesh, seeking out vitals, severing limbs, slicing tendons and muscles, puncturing lungs, eviscerating bellies, beheading, hacking open the bodies’ cavities, severing arteries causing blood to be pumped directly from the heart, so that it sprayed forth into the air in warm gouts; a living, dying fountain. The battlefield soon became a quivering, bloody mass of writhing agony.