The armies were ready to charge, not with guns, but swords, shields, spears and bows and arrows that were the hallmark of an ancient battle.
The stern, implacable looks on the visages of the two commanders, the restlessness of the horses and elephants, rearing to go, and the glint of the sun on armours across the ranks of the infantry, boded ill for heaven and earth which were about to witness a bloodshed of titanic proportions.
The conches sounded, the commanders shrieked and the armies advanced like a wavefront on still water that destroys the calm placidity in a ruthless manner.
The meeting of the two multitudes of humanity was like a bolt of lightening that strikes without remorse, scorching everything in its aftermath.
The swords struck, the spears impaled, the animals trampled and the volley of arrows threatened to blot out the sunshine; blood spilled and flowed as if a mighty river had blown away the fetters of a dam ; the gods of war clenched their fists and spat their fiery venom.
It hardly mattered what side won; the mothers always lost.