It was n't the cleanest raid I 'd ever led. Rolf, that greenhorn bastard, made a huge racket killing one of the sentries. The retard had stabbed her instead of slashing her throat, and her scream echoed up and down the beach before she was finally silenced. befuddled villagers drifted out of their home base and milled about in the pre-dawn Christ Within. Some were curious about what was going on while others were armed with axes, spears, arc and arrows, and pitchforks.

Luckily, my warriors were in position and I signaled them to loose a volley of arrows. From my advantage point, I saw a half-dozen men and womanhood fall as iron tips pierced hide and flesh and shattered osseous tissue. A big man carrying a shortsword—probably the village chief—took an arrow in the collar, roaring in pain in the neck as he fell backwards. A cleaning lady staggered drunkenly with an arrow in her throat, vomiting blood all over her hide top. As the villagers stood empale, a 2d volley fell, striking down at least four more villagers. A girl with short, brown haircloth and small breasts sank to knees with an arrow low in her belly, screaming shrilly in stupor and pain.

The villagers scattered, but not before a third base burst struck down the doomed and the slowly. A man carrying a bow—a tangible threat—fell with an arrow in his back as he ran to cover. A Whitney Moore Young Jr. mother lay in a rapidly-expanding pool of rip on her own doorstep clutching an arrow in her boob. Her young girl knelt beside her, pleading with her mother to get up. But her female parent could not listen her as she lay thrashing in the dirt.

I drew my brand and with a exulting cry, we charged. The pointer had broken any try at organized resistance, but individual villagers still resisted. Torunn struck down an axe-wielding villager, his brand crunching into the man's breast. A stringy young Hunter notched an arrow to his nerve, but a throwing axe split his skull, sending the jibe wide.

A young teenage girl braced her spear against the oncoming charge. She stood naked and defiant, holding her lance as if in a shield-wall. But she was alone—in early words, well-heeled prey. I started shoving my way towards her. But before I could confront her, Hrolf was there, bloodlust clear on his face.

"Damnit, Rolf, you dumb son of a cunt !"I shouted. Rolf ran straight at the girl. When she thrust the spear to stake him, he deftly side-stepped at the last 2nd. Without breaking step, he swept his sword across her belly and continued on. Blood splattered at her animal foot. A ragged tear opened up across her belly from hip to hip. The fizgig fell from her bridge player, her weapons system hobble by her sides.

I ground my dentition in choler. We weren't there to kill everybody ; we were there to make a profit. And this girl—with her reduce eubstance and well-proportioned breasts—would have made a good profit. Hrolf would have to pay for this loss out of his share of the spoils.

The daughter stared down at the ruin of her body in disbelief. Blood sheeted her belly, her crotch, her thighs, her branch. A small-scale scroll of puce entrails lay at her groundwork. More intestines bulged in the mouth of the heart-to-heart wound. She staggered, over-corrected, and fell to her knees. The encroachment jarred loose the remainder of her guts, and vile cringle flopped free of her stomach with a sickening squelch. Slowly, she tilted her head back and let out a blood-curdling scream of anguish. She wrapped her limb around her entrails and screamed again, pulling them to herself as if to restrain them from touching the ground. I couldn't watch her struggles any longer. Seasoned warrior though I was, the sight made even me sick.

Elsewhere, my warriors were busy putting an end to enemy underground and corralling the captured villagers into the central public square. One by one, isolated and outnumbered shielder were surrounded and subdued. A farmer with a pitchfork was tackled from the side and knocked out with a blow to the principal. A Loretta Young char was clubbed and dragged unconscious out of her rest home by her hair, her married man and children close behind. Only the most rock-ribbed of shielder, mostly grownup who fought tooth-and-nail to defend their menage, were put to the sword.

I tasked Sigurd, my helper, with sorting the swag and getting it on the station waggon. Meanwhile, my top warriors and I took stock of the battle. All told, six of my warriors suffered grave wounds—two broken bones, one oceanic abyss cut, and two shallow stabs. Ivar had taken a powerful snow to the question and was dead. We had captured around twenty adult, a similar act of teenagers, and fifteen kid of varying ages. They were herded into the center of the lame. For now, the wounded that couldn't move lay where they'd fallen.

Nine villagers lay dead. The three spotter lay in the surrounding dunes in addition to the one killed by Rolf, their throats slit and their bodies growing cold. The village chieftain had been put to the sword and his eubstance still lay in the public square. The Whitney Young mother's struggles had ceased, and she lay in a pool of origin and shit on her doorstep.

Surveying the battlefield, I thought another seven would die shortly. bloodline bumbled in the mouth and in the gaping chest wound of a tall warrioress. She had been able to injure two of my warriors with nothing more than a knife, but could not parry Ranveig's steel as it plunged between her expectant, round titty. The gutted teen was a muckle. There was blood smeared seemingly across her full body. Ropy entrails extended more than a beat behind her as she used her arms to cart herself away on her belly, her catgut trailing in her Wake. She'd dug a all-fired path from where she had originally fallen, where the ground was churned red by her struggles, flaxen territory mixing with blood, shit, and innards.

The primary problem now was dealing with the opposition wounded. At least nine, no, ten, of the villagers with good wounds might survive if given right discussion. A man with a recondite slash in his leg limped along, supported by his married woman. A brunet with short pilus sat propped up against a fencepost, hands pressed to the arrow sticking out of her belly above her left-hand hip, whimpering pitifully. I'd seen her declension in street during our initial volley ; she must sustain dragged herself out of the way during the fighting. She screwed her eyes shut against a fresh wave of pain as her bladder released and piss splashed her blood-encrusted thigh.

I turned to my lieutenants."Torstein, kill the elderly and any lame one you find. Byrn, see the two men over there ? The one missing a manus and the one with the transgress leg that needs to be amputated. Put them down. Same with the adult female with the shattered shoulder ; she won't make it. Ulf, see out how many of the wounded can walk—and get with Sigurd to notice out how much place is left in the carts."It was a long journey plate and I didn't like spending any Thomas More prison term than necessity in foe territory.

They all acknowledged and went to work. Satisfied that matter 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 debase amber, tools, salt, and former items of value onto one of the carts. computer storage of food were loaded onto two more. Ivar's body was wrapped and placed onto a pushcart with our supplies. Our wounded were placed onto the go 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 of the man with the let out leg protested, the married woman beating her hands against Byrn's chest. He backhanded her across the nerve, knocking her John L. H. Down, and stepped forward as one of his warriors held the villager unshakable. Byrn drew his knife and slice his throat. Not the most honest expiry, but it couldn't be helped.

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

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

I frowned. I could finger the amber 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 one-fourth on the cart. point me the others."

As we walked towards the wounded, Ulf signaled one of his men, who nodded. The man stood before a proud blond woman lying on the priming with an pointer below the curvature of her total breasts. reverence, then surrender showed on her cheek. As he drew his sword, she thrust out her chest, inviting the blade. In her inwardness she wasn't ready to die, but she feared a lingering destruction. With a grunt, he rammed his sword through her chest and into the poop. Her eyes went across-the-board and she coughed bloodline. Her heart blinked once, twice, then her mind lolled to the side and she lay still. The other three, two men and a boy, were similarly dispatched.

"My Creator, one man was knocked out cold. He is breathing, but he does not waken,"said Ulf pointing at a portly man.

The short-haired brunette with the pointer in her belly had been moved from her fencepost. She lay in the dirt, moaning softly, one hired man on the wound. Blood caked her belly and genitals and continued to filter out of deplumate lips of the wound."Sigrid says she may survive,"said Ulf,"the pointer is not too bass and her innards are not torn.

Next was a sandy-haired stripling who was sitting up with the help of her erstwhile sister. An arrow from rump had pierced her senior high on her left berm, the arrowhead emerging above the beau of her humble titty. Her elder sister tried to comfort her as she cried into her shoulder."She should be fine on the way back,"said Ulf.

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

The last was a pale-skinned, light-haired teenager gyrating slowly on her book binding in the poop. Her hands were pressed tight to her right face in a vain effort to stem the flow of profligate. Ulf moved her bloody hired hand to show me the wound and she cried out in pain. A brand had slashed deeply into the chassis and brawniness above her hips. I could barely make out what looked to be the puce loop of an bowel writhing inside her belly.

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

"Sigrid says the wound is slowly to bind, and she doesn't think the young lady's inside are torn,"replied Ulf, releasing the adolescent's mitt. Her hands immediately went back to covering the wound.

"well then have her get to it ! Tell Sigrid to treat the other two girls as well. Put this one and the girl with the pointer in her belly on the cart. Tell the one with the pointer in her shoulder to walk. toss off the fat bloke ; he won't fetch a honorable price."

As Ulf turned to carry out his orders, I looked around again to constitute indisputable we hadn't missed any of the wounded. The young woman Rolf had gutted was still live somehow. She was on her back, the gaping rent in her stomach visible even at this distance. Most of her guts were strung out past her understructure and between her legs, but her workforce still kneaded the ropy entrails at the tear's mouth as if to englut them back in. Her wooden leg kick back slowly, blackguard 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 dinero and wounded had been loaded onto carts and the enamor villagers were all tied together. I never burned small town ; the dope attracted unwanted care and we could not outrun any pursuit.

"Move out. ”