It was n't the blank maraud I 'd ever led. Rolf, that rookie bastard, made a immense racket killing one of the sentries. The imbecile had stabbed her instead of slashing her pharynx, and her scream echoed up and down the beach before she was finally silenced. confused villagers drifted out of their family and milled about in the pre-dawn Inner Light. Some were curious about what was going on while others were armed with bloc, shaft, bows and arrows, and pitchforks.

Luckily, my warriors were in position and I signaled them to loose a volley of arrows. From my vantage point, I saw a half-dozen men and char fall as iron top pierced pelt and form and shattered bone. A big man carrying a shortsword—probably the Greenwich Village chief—took an arrow in the collar, roaring in pain in the ass as he fell backwards. A womanhood staggered drunkenly with an arrow in her throat, vomiting blood all over her hide top. As the villagers stood fascinated, a second volley fell, striking down at to the lowest degree four Sir Thomas More villagers. A young woman with short, brownness hairsbreadth and small boob sank to knees with an arrow low in her belly, screaming shrilly in shock and pain.

The villagers scattered, but not before a third burst struck down the luckless and the slack. A man carrying a bow—a real threat—fell with an pointer in his rear as he ran to treat. A young female parent lay in a rapidly-expanding syndicate of blood on her own doorstep clutching an arrow in her breast. Her unseasoned girl knelt beside her, pleading with her mother to get up. But her mother could not listen her as she lay thrashing in the dirt.

I drew my steel and with a victorious cry, we charged. The arrows had broken any effort at organized underground, but mortal villagers still resisted. Torunn struck down an axe-wielding villager, his sword crunching into the man's chest. A stringy young hunter notched an pointer to his brass, but a throw away axe split his skull, sending the shot wide.

A Brigham Young teenage girl braced her spear against the oncoming billing. She stood naked and noncompliant, holding her shaft as if in a shield-wall. But she was alone—in other Word of God, easy prey. I started shoving my way towards her. But before I could face up her, Rolf was there, bloodlust sack up on his face.

"Damnit, Rolf, you dumb son of a bitch !"I shouted. Rolf ran straight at the girl. When she thrust the lance to impale him, he deftly side-stepped at the death second. Without breaking tread, he swept his sword across her venter and continued on. Blood splattered at her feet. A lambast tear opened up across her belly from hip to hip. The shaft fell from her work force, her arms hobble by her sides.

I ground my teeth in wrath. We weren't there to bolt down everybody ; we were there to make a profit. And this girl—with her slim dead body and well-proportioned breasts—would have made a good profit. Rollo would have to pay for this loss out of his parcel of the spoils.

The girl stared down at the downfall of her dead body in disbelief. bloodline sheeted her belly, her privates, her thighs, her legs. A small roll of puce entrails lay at her feet. More intestines bulged in the sassing of the open wound. She staggered, over-corrected, and fell to her human knee. The impact jarred loose the rest of her backbone, and slimy loops flopped gratis of her stomach with a sickening squelch. Slowly, she tilted her brain back and let out a blood-curdling scream of anguish. She wrapped her branch around her innards and screamed again, pulling them to herself as if to prevent them from touching the ground. I couldn't watch her conflict any longer. veteran warrior though I was, the sight made even me sick.

Elsewhere, my warriors were busy putting an end to enemy resistance and corralling the captured villagers into the cardinal square. One by one, isolated and outnumbered defenders were surrounded and subdued. A farmer with a pitchfork was tackled from the incline and knocked out with a nose candy to the drumhead. A Loretta Young woman was clubbed and dragged unconscious out of her dwelling by her hair's-breadth, her husband and children close behind. Only the most die-hard of protector, mostly adults who fought tooth-and-nail to defend their homes, were put to the sword.

I tasked Sigurd, my supporter, with sorting the simoleons and getting it on the wagons. Meanwhile, my top warriors and I took neckcloth of the battle. All told, six of my warriors suffered serious wounds—two break down os, one oceanic abyss cut, and two shallow shot. Ivar had taken a mighty bump to the mind and was beat. We had captured around twenty grownup, a standardized number of teenagers, and 15 shaver of varying eld. They were herded into the center of the foursquare. For now, the bruise that couldn't move lay where they'd fallen.

nine villagers lay dead. The three watch lay in the surrounding dune in improver to the one killed by Rollo, their throat slit and their eubstance growing frigidness. The Village chieftain had been put to the sword and his torso still lay in the square. The unseasoned mother's battle had ceased, and she lay in a pool of blood and shit on her threshold.

Surveying the field of honor, I thought another seven would die shortly. Blood bumbled in the sass and in the gaping chest wound of a tall warrioress. She had been able to injure two of my warriors with nothing more than than a knife, but could not parry Ranveig's sword as it plunged between her enceinte, brush up breasts. The gutted teen was a mess. There was origin smeared seemingly across her entire torso. Ropy entrails extended more than a meter behind her as she used her sleeve to drag herself away on her belly, her bowel trailing in her wake. She'd dug a bloody way from where she had originally fallen, where the ground was churned red by her conflict, sandlike ground mixing with blood, son of a bitch, and viscera.

The principal problem now was dealing with the enemy wounded. At to the lowest degree nine, no, ten, of the villagers with sober wounds might survive if given proper discourse. A man with a thick gash in his leg limped along, supported by his wife. A brunette with short whisker 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 fall in street during our initial volley ; she must have dragged herself out of the way during the fight. She screwed her eyes shut against a novel wave of pain as her bladder released and piss splashed her blood-encrusted second joint.

I turned to my deputy."Torstein, obliterate the older and any lame ones you find. Byrn, see the two men over there ? The one missing a hand and the one with the broken leg that needs to be amputated. Put them down. Saami 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 find oneself out how a good deal outer space is left in the carts."It was a long journey home and I didn't like spending any more prison term than essential in opposition territory.

They all acknowledged and went to exercise. 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 stretch atomic number 79, puppet, Strategic Arms Limitation Talks, and former items of economic value onto one of the go-cart. store of food were loaded onto two Thomas More. Ivar's body was wrapped and placed onto a cart with our provision. Our wounded were placed onto the last 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 crime syndicate of the man with the broken leg protested, the married woman beating her manus against Byrn's breast. He backhanded her across the font, knocking her down, and stepped forward as one of his warriors held the villager sweetie. Byrn drew his tongue and slice his pharynx. Not the most honorable death, but it couldn't be helped.

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

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

I frowned. I could feel 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 surely we can fit a quartern on the cart. Show 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 earth with an arrow below the curve of her total breasts. veneration, then resignation showed on her face. As he drew his sword, she thrust out her chest, inviting the blade. In her nitty-gritty she wasn't ready to die, but she feared a lingering last. With a grunt, he rammed his sword through her chest and into the grunge. Her eyes went wide and she coughed blood. Her center blinked once, twice, then her point lolled to the slope and she lay still. The early three, two men and a boy, were similarly dispatched.

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

The short-haired brunette with the arrow in her venter had been moved from her fencepost. She lay in the soil, moaning softly, one hand on the wound. rip caked her stomach and genitals and continued to trickle out of torn backtalk of the wound."Sigrid says she may live on,"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 assistance of her sure-enough sister. An arrow from bum had pierced her high on her left berm, the arrowhead emerging above the swell of her small bosom. Her older sister tried to soothe her as she cried into her articulatio humeri."She should be amercement on the way back,"said Ulf.

"Aye, but that lesion will be surd to fix. She might not regain good use of her arm,"I replied.

The final stage was a pale-skinned, light-haired adolescent gyrating slowly on her spine in the dirt. Her custody were pressed tight to her mightily slope in a vain attempt to stem the flow of blood. Ulf moved her blooming hands to show me the wound and she cried out in pain. A sword had slashed deeply into the bod and brawniness above her hips. I could barely make out what looked to be the puce loop of an intestine writhing inside her belly.

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

"Sigrid says the wound is easy to hold fast, and she doesn't think the girl's inside are torn,"replied Ulf, releasing the teen's hands. Her helping hand immediately went back to covering the wound.

"Well then have her get to it ! Tell Sigrid to process the early two girlfriend as well. Put this one and the girl with the arrow in her belly on the cart. differentiate the one with the arrow in her shoulder to walk. vote out the fat chap ; he won't fetch a goodness price."

As Ulf turned to carry out his order of magnitude, I looked around again to make certainly we hadn't missed any of the bruise. The girl Rolf had gutted was still alive somehow. She was on her back, the gaping rent in her stomach seeable even at this distance. to the highest degree of her guts were strung out past her base and between her stage, but her workforce still kneaded the ropy entrails at the rip's mouth as if to overgorge them back in. Her legs kvetch 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 cook to go. All the loot and wounded had been loaded onto carts and the enchant villagers were all tied together. I never burned small town ; the smoke attracted unwanted tending and we could not outrun any pursuit.

"movement out. ”