Cursing at the bullet still lodged in my thigh, I sprinted through the garden up to my door, but found that it too, like the gate, had been forced, the latch broken, the wood splintered. No sound echoed through the halls of my conquered home; no bloody soldier drunk on my wine came stumbling around the corner.
I clung to the wall as I limped through the rooms. I found not a soul in that place; only corpses littered the floor. They were like the two outside: I could not find a wound on them, but they were all dead.
Tale Told 