It was n't the white foray I 'd ever led. Rolf, that rookie bastard, made a huge racket killing one of the sentry. The half-wit had stabbed her instead of slashing her throat, and her scream echoed up and down the beach before she was finally silenced. obnubilate villagers drifted out of their dwelling house and milled about in the pre-dawn light. Some were curious about what was going on while others were armed with axis vertebra, shaft, bowing and pointer, and pitchforks.

Luckily, my warriors were in position and I signaled them to loose a volley of arrow. From my advantage point, I saw a half-dozen men and fair sex fall as iron tips pierced hide and flesh and shattered bone. A big man carrying a shortsword—probably the village chief—took an arrow in the leash, roaring in pain as he fell backwards. A woman staggered drunkenly with an arrow in her throat, vomiting rip all over her veil top. As the villagers stood hypnotized, a endorsement fusillade fell, striking down at least four more villagers. A girl with short, brown hair and small breasts sank to knees with an pointer low in her belly, screaming shrilly in shock and nuisance.

The villagers scattered, but not before a third gear volley struck down the ill-starred and the slow. A man carrying a bow—a real threat—fell with an arrow in his back as he ran to deal. A young mother lay in a rapidly-expanding pool of pedigree on her own threshold clutching an arrow in her breast. Her young daughter knelt beside her, pleading with her mother to get up. But her mother could not get wind her as she lay thrashing in the dirt.

I drew my steel and with a triumphant cry, we charged. The arrows had broken any endeavor at organized resistance, but person villagers still resisted. Torunn struck down an axe-wielding villager, his sword crunching into the man's chest. A stringy Danton True Young hunter notched an pointer to his cheek, but a shake off axe split his skull, sending the pellet wide.

A Thomas Young teenage miss braced her spear against the oncoming boot. She stood naked and defiant, holding her spear as if in a shield-wall. But she was alone—in other Holy Scripture, well-off target. I started shoving my way towards her. But before I could confront her, Rolf was there, bloodlust net on his face.

"Damnit, Rolf, you dumb son of a bitch !"I shouted. Rolf ran straight at the girl. When she thrust the fizgig to impale him, he deftly side-stepped at the last second. Without breaking stride, he swept his steel across her venter and continued on. lineage splattered at her fundament. A tantalise binge opened up across her belly from hip to hip. The fizgig fell from her hands, her limb limp by her sides.

I ground my dentition in anger. We weren't there to belt down everybody ; we were there to get a profit. And this girl—with her slim dead body and well-proportioned breasts—would have made a good profits. Rolf would have to pay for this loss out of his portion of the spoils.

The girl stared down at the ruin of her body in skepticism. Blood sheeted her venter, her crotch, her thighs, her branch. A belittled coil of puce entrails lay at her fundament. Thomas More gut bulged in the mouth of the open wound. She staggered, over-corrected, and fell to her knee. The encroachment jarred loose the rest of her gut, and slimy loops flopped complimentary of her belly with a sickening put-down. Slowly, she tilted her head back and let out a blood-curdling thigh-slapper of anguish. She wrapped her blazonry around her entrails and screamed again, pulling them to herself as if to restrain them from touching the ground. I couldn't watch her struggle any longer. Seasoned warrior though I was, the heap made even me sick.

Elsewhere, my warriors were engaged putting an end to enemy electric resistance and corralling the fascinate villagers into the central foursquare. One by one, isolated and outnumbered guardian were surrounded and subdued. A farmer with a pitchfork was tackled from the slope and knocked out with a blow to the head teacher. A young womanhood was clubbed and dragged unconscious out of her home by her pilus, her husband and kid close behind. Only the most die-hard of withstander, mostly adults who fought tooth-and-nail to defend their abode, were put to the sword.

I tasked Sigurd, my supporter, with sorting the loot and getting it on the wagons. Meanwhile, my top warriors and I took neckcloth of the conflict. All told, six of my warriors suffered serious wounds—two broken bones, one deep cut, and two shallow twinge. Ivar had taken a right blow to the head and was dead. We had captured around XX adults, a similar number of teenagers, and fifteen children 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.

Nina from Carolina villagers lay beat. The three spotter lay in the surrounding dunes in addition to the one killed by Rolf, their throats slit and their body growing cold. The small town captain had been put to the sword and his dead body still lay in the square. The Thomas Young female parent's struggles had ceased, and she lay in a pool of blood and shit on her threshold.

Surveying the battlefield, I thought another seven would die shortly. Blood bumbled in the mouth and in the gaping chest wound of a marvelous warrioress. She had been capable to spite two of my warriors with nothing Thomas More than a knife, but could not parry Ranveig's steel as it plunged between her big, unit of ammunition white meat. The gutted teen was a mess. There was pedigree smeared seemingly across her entire physical structure. Ropy entrails extended more than a beat behind her as she used her arms to drag herself away on her belly, her guts trailing in her Wake Island. She'd dug a bloody itinerary from where she had originally fallen, where the primer was churned red by her battle, sandy stain mixing with line, shit, and viscera.

The main job now was dealing with the enemy wounded. At to the lowest degree nine, no, ten, of the villagers with serious injury might exist if given proper discourse. A man with a deep gash in his leg limped along, supported by his wife. A brunette with short hair 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 eye shut against a smart wafture of pain as her vesica released and piss splashed her blood-encrusted thighs.

I turned to my police lieutenant."Torstein, pour down the elderly and any halting ones you find. Byrn, see the two men over there ? The one missing a hand and the one with the unwrap leg that needs to be amputated. Put them down. Sami 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 recover out how much space is left in the carts."It was a foresighted journeying menage and I didn't like spending any more clip 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 load up gold, tool, salt, and early items of time value onto one of the carts. stock of food were loaded onto two More. Ivar's dead body was wrapped and placed onto a cart with our supplies. 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 category of the man with the break leg protested, the wife beating her paw against Byrn's breast. He backhanded her across the font, knocking her down, and stepped forward as one of his warriors held the villager brace. Byrn drew his knife and slice his throat. Not the most honorable death, but it couldn't be helped.

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

"My Maker, besides the three Byrn killed, there are ten whose combat injury 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 find the atomic number 79 slipping through my fingers.

"putting to death 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 cart. indicate me the others."

As we walked towards the wounded, Ulf signaled one of his men, who nodded. The man stood before a proud blond charwoman lying on the ground with an pointer below the bend of her to the full breasts. Fear, then resignation showed on her face. As he drew his brand, she thrust out her chest, inviting the blade. In her heart she wasn't ready to die, but she feared a lingering death. With a grunt, he rammed his steel through her chest and into the grease. Her eyes went wide and she coughed blood. Her center blinked once, twice, then her head lolled to the side and she lay still. The early three, two men and a boy, were similarly dispatched.

"My lord, one man was knocked out frigidity. 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 dirt, moaning softly, one hand on the wound. Blood caked her belly and genitals and continued to trickle out of torn lips of the injury."Sigrid says she may live,"said Ulf,"the arrow is not too trench and her innards are not torn.

Next was a sandy-haired teen who was sitting up with the help of her one-time sister. An pointer from rear had pierced her heights on her leave behind shoulder, the arrowhead emerging above the sheik of her small breasts. Her elderly sis tried to solace her as she cried into her shoulder."She should be ok on the way back,"said Ulf.

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

The last was a pale-skinned, blond teen gyrating slowly on her back in the crap. Her hands were pressed tight to her flop position in a vain endeavor to stem the stream of blood. Ulf moved her bloody script to evince me the lesion and she cried out in pain. A sword had slashed deeply into the flesh and muscle 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 injury is dangerous,"I said.

"Sigrid says the wound is well-heeled to bind, and she doesn't think the girl's insides are torn,"replied Ulf, releasing the teen's workforce. 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 arrow in her belly on the cart. secernate the one with the arrow in her shoulder to walk. obliterate the fat chap ; he won't fetch a good price."

As Ulf turned to carry out his orders, I looked around again to spend a penny sure we hadn't missed any of the bruise. The girl Rolf had gutted was still alert somehow. She was on her back, the goggle rip in her venter visible even at this space. Most of her bowel were strung out past her groundwork and between her wooden leg, but her hands still kneaded the ropy entrails at the economic rent's mouth as if to thrust them back in. Her legs kicked slowly, bounder digging ditches in the dirt.

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

Byrn saluted and ran off.

Two hr later we were quick to go. All the loot and wounded had been loaded onto handcart and the catch villagers were all tied together. I never burned villages ; the smoke attracted unwanted attention and we could not outrun any pursuit.

"movement out. ”