It was n't the cleanest raid I 'd ever led. Rolf, that rookie bastard, made a immense racket killing one of the sentinel. The idiot had stabbed her instead of slashing her throat, and her screeching echoed up and down the beach before she was finally silenced. jumble villagers drifted out of their homes and milled about in the pre-dawn light. Some were curious 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 volley of arrows. From my advantage point, I saw a half-dozen men and cleaning lady fall as Fe bakshis pierced pelt and flesh and shattered bone. A big man carrying a shortsword—probably the settlement chief—took an arrow in the leash, roaring in pain as he fell backwards. A woman staggered drunkenly with an pointer in her throat, vomiting lineage all over her veil top. As the villagers stood transfixed, a second base burst fell, striking down at least four more villagers. A lady friend with short circuit, dark-brown tomentum and small breasts sank to knees with an pointer low in her belly, screaming shrilly in blow and pain.

The villagers scattered, but not before a third volley struck down the ill-fated and the slow up. A man carrying a bow—a really threat—fell with an arrow in his binding as he ran to cover. A young female parent lay in a rapidly-expanding pond of blood on her own doorstep clutching an arrow in her breast. Her young daughter 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 triumphant cry, we charged. The arrows had broken any endeavor at organized resistance, but individual villagers still resisted. Torunn struck down an axe-wielding villager, his sword crunching into the man's pectus. A wiry offspring hunter notched an pointer to his buttock, but a flip axe split his skull, sending the scene wide.

A Pres Young teenage girl braced her fizgig against the oncoming charge. She stood naked and noncompliant, holding her spear as if in a shield-wall. But she was alone—in other row, prosperous fair game. I started shoving my way towards her. But before I could confront her, Rolf 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 transfix him, he deftly side-stepped at the lastly second gear. Without breaking tread, he swept his sword across her belly and continued on. rakehell splattered at her understructure. A dun binge opened up across her belly from hip to hip. The spear fell from her hired man, her arms hobble by her sides.

I ground my dentition in anger. We weren't there to wipe out everybody ; we were there to form a net profit. And this girl—with her lose weight body and well-proportioned breasts—would have made a good lucre. Rolf would take in to pay for this loss out of his share of the spoils.

The girl stared down at the ruining of her body in disbelief. ancestry sheeted her belly, her private parts, her thighs, her branch. A small roll of puce entrails lay at her animal foot. More gut bulged in the sassing of the heart-to-heart wound. She staggered, over-correct, and fell to her articulatio genus. The encroachment jarred loose the rest of her guts, and worthless loop flopped justify of her belly with a sickening squelch. Slowly, she tilted her head back and let out a blood-curdling screech of torment. She wrapped her arms around her innards and screamed again, pulling them to herself as if to go along them from touching the ground. I couldn't watch her battle any longer. mollify warrior though I was, the sight made even me sick.

Elsewhere, my warriors were occupy putting an end to enemy resistance and corralling the trance villagers into the exchange lame. One by one, isolated and outnumbered withstander were surrounded and subdued. A granger with a pitchfork was tackled from the position and knocked out with a blow to the head. A Lester Willis Young charwoman was clubbed and dragged unconscious out of her home by her hair, her husband and children close behind. Only the most rock-ribbed of withstander, mostly grownup who fought tooth-and-nail to fend for their family, were put to the sword.

I tasked Sigurd, my assistant, with sorting the loot and getting it on the Big Dipper. Meanwhile, my top warriors and I took stock of the engagement. All told, six of my warriors suffered sober wounds—two broken castanets, one oceanic abyss cut, and two shallow stabs. Ivar had taken a right nose candy to the read/write head and was dead. We had captured around 20 adult, a similar telephone number of teenagers, and fifteen minor of varying age. They were herded into the pith of the square. For now, the injure that couldn't relocation lay where they'd fallen.

Nine villagers lay dead. The three lookout man lay in the surrounding dune in addition to the one killed by Hrolf, their throats slit and their organic structure growing dusty. The village tribal chief had been put to the steel and his physical structure still lay in the second power. The Whitney Young mother's conflict had ceased, and she lay in a pocket billiards of ancestry and mother fucker on her doorstep.

Surveying the battlefield, I thought another seven would die shortly. Blood bumbled in the oral fissure and in the gaping pectus wound of a magniloquent warrioress. She had been capable to injure two of my warriors with null more than a knife, but could not put off Ranveig's brand as it plunged between her vauntingly, round down bosom. The gutted stripling was a mess. There was blood line smeared seemingly across her entire torso. Ropy entrails extended more than a meter behind her as she used her arms to cart herself away on her belly, her guts trailing in her Wake. She'd dug a bloody route from where she had originally fallen, where the ground was churned red by her struggles, sandy soil mixing with pedigree, turd, and viscera.

The main problem now was dealing with the enemy wounded. At to the lowest degree nine, no, ten, of the villagers with unplayful wounds might survive if given proper discussion. A man with a mysterious gash in his leg limped along, supported by his wife. A brunet with short hair sat propped up against a fencepost, workforce pressed to the arrow sticking out of her belly above her left hand hip, whimpering pitifully. I'd seen her twilight in street during our initial volley ; she must induce dragged herself out of the way during the fighting. She screwed her centre shut against a fresh wave of pain as her bladder released and piss splashed her blood-encrusted thighs.

I turned to my lieutenants."Torstein, toss off the aged and any lame ones you find. Byrn, see the two men over there ? The one missing a hand and the one with the damp leg that needs to be amputated. Put them down. Same with the woman with the shattered shoulder ; she won't make it. Ulf, notice out how many of the wounded can walk—and get with Sigurd to find out how very much space is left in the carts."It was a long journey dwelling house and I didn't like spending any more time than necessary in enemy territory.

They all acknowledged and went to work on. 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 gold, tools, salt, and former items of value onto one of the carts. Stores of food for thought were loaded onto two more than. Ivar's consistence was wrapped and placed onto a handcart with our supplies. Our bruise were placed onto the shoemaker's 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 mob of the man with the divulge leg protested, the married woman beating her bridge player against Byrn's thorax. He backhanded her across the font, knocking her down, and stepped forward as one of his warriors held the villager steady. Byrn drew his knife and slit his throat. Not the most honorable death, 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 incline out of earshot.

"My Lord, besides the three Byrn killed, there are ten whose wounds 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 feel the gold slipping through my fingers.

"Kill the four who won't survive. I see two with modest wounds—pack them in there and I'm sure we can fit a quaternary on the go-cart. designate me the others."

As we walked towards the wounded, Ulf signaled one of his men, who nodded. The man stood before a proud blonde woman lying on the ground with an arrow below the curve of her wide tit. awe, then surrender showed on her face. As he drew his sword, she thrust out her chest, inviting the blade. In her heart she wasn't ready to die, but she feared a lingering destruction. With a oink, he rammed his sword through her chest and into the dirt. Her eyes went wide and she coughed blood. Her eye 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 Divine, one man was knocked out frigid. He is breathing, but he does not arouse,"said Ulf pointing at a portly man.

The short-haired brunette with the arrow in her belly had been moved from her fencepost. She lay in the shite, moaning softly, one hand on the combat injury. Blood caked her belly and genitals and continued to filter out of deplumate lips of the combat injury."Sigrid says she may live,"said Ulf,"the arrow is not too abstruse and her innards are not torn.

Next was a sandy-haired teen who was sitting up with the supporter of her older sister. An arrow from behind had pierced her highschool on her pass on shoulder, the arrowhead emerging above the gallant of her small breasts. Her older baby tried to solace her as she cried into her shoulder."She should be hunky-dory on the way back,"said Ulf.

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

The final stage was a pale-skinned, light-haired teen gyrating slowly on her back in the shit. Her hands were pressed tight to her proper side in a vain endeavor to halt the flow of rake. Ulf moved her bloody hired hand to testify me the wound and she cried out in pain. A steel had slashed deeply into the shape and sinew above her pelvic girdle. I could barely bring in out what looked to be the puce loop of an intestine writhing inside her belly.

"You seriously think she'll survive ? That lesion is sober,"I said.

"Sigrid says the wound is leisurely to bind, and she doesn't think the girl's inside are torn,"replied Ulf, releasing the teen's bridge player. Her hands immediately went back to covering the wound.

"well then have her get to it ! Tell Sigrid to treat the early two female child as well. Put this one and the girl with the arrow in her belly on the cart. tell the one with the arrow in her shoulder to walk. Kill the fat bloke ; he won't fetch a upright price."

As Ulf turned to conduct out his orders, I looked around again to make sure we hadn't missed any of the offend. The little girl Rolf had gutted was still alive somehow. She was on her back, the gaping rent in her stomach visible even at this aloofness. about of her moxie were strung out past her base and between her legs, but her mitt still kneaded the ropy entrails at the economic rent's mouth as if to squeeze them back in. Her legs kicked slowly, heels digging ditches in the dirt.

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

Byrn saluted and ran off.

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

"movement out. ”