As Rejji reached the village, he saw there would be no struggle, no fight to save the villagers. The flames were already dying out as the meager supply of wood that used to be huts was consumed. Rejji’s eyes opened wide in horror and tears flowed freely as he raced into the village and saw the carnage. Bodies littered the lone street of the village. His head darted left and right as he sought anyone still alive, but eventually he halted outside the charred remains of his grandfather’s hut. He knelt next to the body of his grandfather whose chest was pierced by an arrow. Several feet away lay his grandfather’s severed arm, the hand still clutching the handle of the axe.
Rejji rose and started to methodically account for each villager, hoping against hope that someone had survived. In a few short minutes, he had found all of the bodies, many of which had been decapitated. There were no survivors or villagers unaccounted for. Rejji alone had survived the destruction of the village. In despair, Rejji slumped down on the dirt road with the village well at his back and gazed at his grandfather’s torn body. He remembered seeing the riders leaving and wondered why the bandits had come early and why they had decided to kill everyone this time. The village had always given the bandits their tribute and there had never been any violence before.