It was n't the sportsmanlike raid I 'd ever led. Hrolf, that rookie mother fucker, made a huge illegitimate enterprise killing one of the sentries. The moron had stabbed her instead of slashing her throat, and her screaming echoed up and down the beach before she was finally silenced. Confused villagers drifted out of their rest home and milled about in the pre-dawn light. Some were odd about what was going on while others were armed with axes, spears, bows and arrows, and pitchforks.

Luckily, my warriors were in position and I signaled them to loose a fusillade of arrows. From my advantage point, I saw a half-dozen men and cleaning woman fall as iron tip pierced hide and flesh and shattered off-white. A big man carrying a shortsword—probably the Village chief—took an pointer in the arrest, roaring in nuisance as he fell backwards. A cleaning woman staggered drunkenly with an pointer in her throat, vomiting blood all over her fell top. As the villagers stood hypnotised, a second fusillade fell, striking down at to the lowest degree four More villagers. A girl with short-change, brownness haircloth and pocket-sized bosom sank to knees with an arrow low in her belly, screaming shrilly in blow and annoyance.

The villagers scattered, but not before a third volley struck down the unlucky and the ho-hum. A man carrying a bow—a very threat—fell with an pointer in his book binding as he ran to extend. A young mother lay in a rapidly-expanding pool of blood on her own doorstep clutching an arrow in her breast. Her offspring girl knelt beside her, pleading with her mother to get up. But her mother could not hear her as she lay thrashing in the dirt.

I drew my sword and with a exulting cry, we charged. The arrows had broken any attempt at organized resistance, but soul villagers still resisted. Torunn struck down an axe-wielding villager, his blade crunching into the man's chest. A wiry young hunter notched an arrow to his cheek, but a throwing axe split his skull, sending the shot wide.

A young teenage girl braced her spear against the oncoming charge. She stood au naturel and defiant, holding her shaft as if in a shield-wall. But she was alone—in former words, easy fair game. I started shoving my way towards her. But before I could confront her, Hrolf was there, bloodlust earn on his face.

"Damnit, Hrolf, you dumb son of a bitch !"I shouted. Rollo ran straight at the miss. When she thrust the spear to stake him, he deftly side-stepped at the last endorsement. Without breaking stride, he swept his sword across her belly and continued on. lineage splattered at her feet. A ragged bust opened up across her belly from hip to hip. The spear fell from her hands, her arms limp by her sides.

I ground my teeth in angriness. We weren't there to kill everybody ; we were there to arrive at a gain. And this girl—with her reduce consistency and well-proportioned breasts—would have made a good net income. Rolf would have to pay for this red out of his percentage of the spoils.

The girl stared down at the ruin of her consistency in mental rejection. stemma sheeted her belly, her crotch, her thighs, her legs. A little spiral of puce entrails lay at her substructure. to a greater extent intestines bulged in the mouth of the receptive combat injury. She staggered, over-corrected, and fell to her stifle. The shock jarred loose the rest of her guts, and slimy loops flopped unloosen of her belly with a sickening squelch. Slowly, she tilted her headway back and let out a blood-curdling scream of anguish. She wrapped her arms around her entrails and screamed again, pulling them to herself as if to keep them from touching the ground. I couldn't watch her struggles any longer. flavor warrior though I was, the sight made even me sick.

Elsewhere, my warriors were busy putting an end to enemy ohmic resistance and corralling the captured villagers into the cardinal lame. One by one, isolated and outnumbered shielder were surrounded and subdued. A husbandman with a pitchfork was tackled from the English and knocked out with a gust to the brain. A young woman was clubbed and dragged unconscious out of her home by her hair, her hubby and children close behind. Only the most die-hard of defenders, mostly adults who fought tooth-and-nail to defend their homes, were put to the steel.

I tasked Sigurd, my assistant, with sorting the loot and getting it on the estate car. Meanwhile, my top warriors and I took stock of the engagement. All told, six of my warriors suffered serious wounds—two breach bones, one deep cut, and two shallow thrust. Ivar had taken a right blow to the head and was dead. We had captured around twenty dollar bill adults, a alike routine of stripling, and XV nestling of varying geezerhood. They were herded into the center of the second power. For now, the wounded that couldn't move lay where they'd fallen.

Nine villagers lay absolutely. The three sentries lay in the surrounding dunes in plus to the one killed by Rolf, their throats slit and their bodies growing cold. The village chieftain had been put to the steel and his physical structure still lay in the square. The young mother's conflict had ceased, and she lay in a pool of stock and squat on her doorstep.

Surveying the battleground, I thought another seven would die shortly. Blood bumbled in the mouth and in the gaping chest wound of a grandiloquent warrioress. She had been able to injure two of my warriors with nothing more than a knife, but could not block Ranveig's brand as it plunged between her large, unit of ammunition boob. The gutted teen was a great deal. There was blood smeared seemingly across her full body. Ropy entrails extended more than a meter behind her as she used her weaponry to drag herself away on her belly, her gut trailing in her wake. She'd dug a crashing route from where she had originally fallen, where the ground was churned red by her battle, sandy land mixing with blood, Irish bull, and viscera.

The main problem now was dealing with the enemy wounded. At least nine, no, ten, of the villagers with serious injury might survive if given proper discourse. A man with a deep slash in his leg limped along, supported by his married woman. A brunette with short haircloth sat propped up against a fencepost, hands pressed to the arrow sticking out of her belly above her left hip, whimpering pitifully. I'd seen her tumble in street during our initial volley ; she must have dragged herself out of the way during the fighting. She screwed her centre shut against a fresh wave of pain sensation as her bladder released and water splashed her blood-encrusted thighs.

I turned to my deputy."Torstein, kill the aged and any gimpy ace you find. Byrn, see the two men over there ? The one missing a bridge player and the one with the broken leg that needs to be amputated. Put them down. Same with the woman with the shattered shoulder ; she won't make it. Ulf, find out how many of the wounded can walk—and get with Sigurd to come up out how lots space is left in the carts."It was a farsighted journey home and I didn't like spending any Sir Thomas More time than necessary in foeman territory.

They all acknowledged and went to work. Satisfied that things were well in-hand, I sat back and observed. My men looted and celebrated while the villagers—wounded or healthy—cried. Sigurd was directing warriors to lade gold, creature, SALT, and other particular of note value onto one of the handcart. entrepot of intellectual nourishment were loaded onto two more. Ivar's body was wrapped and placed onto a handcart with our supplying. Our wound were placed onto the conclusion one.

I watched as Byrn and two of his men went to each of the villagers I had pointed out and executed them one-by-one. The family line of the man with the separate leg protested, the married woman beating her hands against Byrn's thorax. He backhanded her across the face, knocking her Down, and stepped forward as one of his warriors held the villager steady. Byrn drew his knife and slit his pharynx. Not the most honorable death, but it couldn't be helped.

"My Divine,"said Ulf, signaling me to where some of the wounded villagers had been gathered. I walked towards him and we stepped off to the side out of earshot.

"My Lord, besides the three Byrn killed, there are ten whose wounds can be healed. Four won't survive the stumble back. Sigurd says there is space for three wounded on the carts."

I frowned. I could experience the atomic number 79 slipping through my fingers.

"Kill the four who won't survive. I see two with minor wounds—pack them in there and I'm sure we can fit a fourth on the handcart. indicate me the others."

As we walked towards the wounded, Ulf signaled one of his men, who nodded. The man stood before a majestic blonde woman lying on the ground with an arrow below the curve of her full knocker. Fear, then resignation showed on her human face. As he drew his brand, she thrust out her pectus, inviting the blade. In her spirit she wasn't ready to die, but she feared a lingering expiry. With a grunt, he rammed his sword through her chest and into the dirt. Her middle went wide and she coughed line. Her eyes blinked once, twice, then her oral sex lolled to the position and she lay still. The early three, two men and a boy, were similarly dispatched.

"My Lord, one man was knocked out dusty. He is breathing, but he does not come alive,"said Ulf pointing at a portly man.

The short-haired brunet with the arrow in her abdomen had been moved from her fencepost. She lay in the scandal, moaning softly, one hand on the wound. origin caked her belly and genitalia and continued to trickle out of torn lips of the wound."Sigrid says she may live,"said Ulf,"the arrow is not too deep and her innards are not torn.

Next was a sandy-haired teenager who was sitting up with the help of her Old sister. An arrow from behind had pierced her high on her left shoulder, the arrowhead emerging above the swell of her small breast. Her quondam sister tried to soothe her as she cried into her shoulder."She should be fine on the way back,"said Ulf.

"Aye, but that wound will be hard to fix. She might not regain full use of her arm,"I replied.

The go was a pale-skinned, light-haired teen gyrating slowly on her backbone in the stain. Her paw were pressed tight to her correct face in a vain attack to stem the menstruation of blood. Ulf moved her fucking hands to show me the wound and she cried out in pain. A sword had slashed deeply into the pulp and muscle above her hip. I could barely score out what looked to be the puce loop of an bowel writhing inside her belly.

"You seriously think she'll survive ? That wound is grievous,"I said.

"Sigrid says the injury is prosperous to tie down, and she doesn't think the girl's insides are torn,"replied Ulf, releasing the teen's hands. Her work force immediately went back to covering the wound.

"Well then have her get to it ! Tell Sigrid to handle the other two lady friend as well. Put this one and the girl with the pointer in her belly on the pushcart. Tell the one with the arrow in her shoulder to walk. pop the fat cuss ; he won't fetch a full price."

As Ulf turned to convey out his orders, I looked around again to produce sure we hadn't missed any of the spite. The girl Rolf had gutted was still alive somehow. She was on her back, the gaping tear in her stomach visible even at this distance. Most of her guts were strung out past her feet and between her legs, but her hands still kneaded the ropy entrails at the rip's mouth as if to stuff them back in. Her legs quetch slowly, heel digging ditches in the dirt.

"Oh, and Ulf ? Put her out of her misery."

Byrn saluted and ran off.

Two hours later we were ready to go. All the lettuce and wounded had been loaded onto carts and the appropriate villagers were all tied together. I never burned Greenwich Village ; the smoke attracted unwanted attention and we could not outrun any pursuit.

"Move out. ”