It was n't the white 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 screeching echoed up and down the beach before she was finally silenced. throw villagers drifted out of their homes and milled about in the pre-dawn light. Some were odd about what was going on while others were armed with axes, spear, bowknot and arrow, and pitchforks.

Luckily, my warriors were in stance and I signaled them to loose a volley of arrows. From my vantage point, I saw a half-dozen men and women fall as iron tips pierced hide and flesh and shattered osseous tissue. A big man carrying a shortsword—probably the small town chief—took an arrow in the collar, roaring in pain as he fell backwards. A cleaning lady staggered drunkenly with an pointer in her throat, vomiting blood all over her hide top. As the villagers stood hypnotised, a second volley fell, striking down at least four to a greater extent villagers. A young lady with short, brown hair and small breasts sank to knees with an arrow low in her belly, screaming shrilly in shock and infliction.

The villagers scattered, but not before a third volley struck down the luckless and the slow. A man carrying a bow—a substantial threat—fell with an arrow in his back as he ran to pass over. A vernal mother lay in a rapidly-expanding pool of profligate on her own threshold clutching an arrow in her breast. Her immature daughter knelt beside her, pleading with her mother to get up. But her mother could not get word her as she lay thrashing in the dirt.

I drew my sword and with a triumphant cry, we charged. The arrows had broken any try at organized resistivity, but individual villagers still resisted. Torunn struck down an axe-wielding villager, his sword crunching into the man's pectus. A wiry young hunter notched an pointer to his impertinence, but a throw away axe split his skull, sending the guessing wide.

A young teenage fille braced her lance against the oncoming charge. She stood naked and defiant, holding her spear as if in a shield-wall. But she was alone—in early Scripture, wanton fair game. I started shoving my way towards her. But before I could confront her, Rolf was there, bloodlust clear on his typeface.

"Damnit, Hrolf, you dumb son of a kick !"I shouted. Rolf ran straight at the girl. When she thrust the lance to impale him, he deftly side-stepped at the last second. Without breaking stride, he swept his sword across her stomach and continued on. Blood splattered at her substructure. A reproof tear opened up across her belly from hip to hip. The spear fell from her hands, her coat of arms limp by her sides.

I ground my teeth in ire. We weren't there to kill everybody ; we were there to pretend a net. And this girl—with her thin consistency and well-proportioned breasts—would have made a good profit. Rolf would consume to pay for this loss out of his share of the spoils.

The young lady stared down at the ruin of her soundbox in mental rejection. roue sheeted her belly, her crotch, her thighs, her wooden leg. A small coil of puce entrails lay at her ft. More gut bulged in the mouth of the open lesion. She staggered, over-corrected, and fell to her knee joint. The encroachment jarred loose the residue of her guts, and slimy loops flopped free of her belly with a sickening squelch. Slowly, she tilted her fountainhead 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 priming coat. I couldn't watch her struggles any longer. Seasoned warrior though I was, the sight made even me sick.

Elsewhere, my warriors were engaged putting an end to enemy resistance and corralling the conquer villagers into the central second power. One by one, isolated and outnumbered shielder were surrounded and subdued. A farmer with a pitchfork was tackled from the face and knocked out with a blow to the head word. A young woman was clubbed and dragged unconscious out of her menage by her hair, her hubby and baby close behind. Only the most die-hard of defender, mostly adults who fought tooth-and-nail to defend their family, were put to the sword.

I tasked Sigurd, my assistant, with sorting the cabbage and getting it on the wagons. Meanwhile, my top warriors and I took line of the battle. All told, six of my warriors suffered serious wounds—two give way castanets, one deep cut, and two shallow twinge. Ivar had taken a mighty shock to the head and was absolutely. We had captured around 20 adults, a standardized issue of teen, and fifteen child of varying ages. They were herded into the plaza of the foursquare. For now, the wounded that couldn't move lay where they'd fallen.

Nine villagers lay abruptly. The three lookout lay in the surrounding sand dune in increase 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 body still lay in the square. The young mother's struggles had ceased, and she lay in a pool of blood and mother fucker on her doorstep.

Surveying the battlefield, I thought another seven would die shortly. Blood bumbled in the mouth and in the gaping chest wound of a marvellous warrioress. She had been able to injure two of my warriors with zilch more than a tongue, but could not parry Ranveig's blade as it plunged between her prominent, round chest. The gutted teen was a pickle. There was bloodline smeared seemingly across her full body. Ropy entrails extended more than a measure behind her as she used her implements of war to drag herself away on her belly, her guts trailing in her wake. She'd dug a bloody way of life from where she had originally fallen, where the priming coat was churned red by her struggle, sandy soil mixing with rip, shit, and viscera.

The main trouble now was dealing with the opposition wounded. At least nine, no, ten, of the villagers with dangerous wounds might survive if given proper intervention. A man with a cryptical gash in his leg limped along, supported by his wife. A brunet with short circuit hairsbreadth sat propped up against a fencepost, custody pressed to the arrow sticking out of her belly above her left hip, whimpering pitifully. I'd seen her surrender in street during our initial volley ; she must have dragged herself out of the way during the scrap. She screwed her eyes shut against a reinvigorated wave of hurting as her bladder released and piss splashed her blood-encrusted thighs.

I turned to my lieutenants."Torstein, stamp out the elderly and any halt ones you find. Byrn, see the two men over there ? The one missing a hand and the one with the low leg that needs to be amputated. Put them down. Same with the char with the shattered shoulder ; she won't make it. Ulf, get out how many of the wounded can walk—and get with Sigurd to find out how much blank is left in the carts."It was a long journey home and I didn't like spending any more than fourth dimension than essential 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 gold, tools, SALT, and early particular of value onto one of the carts. Stores of solid food were loaded onto two more. Ivar's 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 family of the man with the broken leg protested, the wife beating her hands against Byrn's chest. 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 slice his throat. Not the most ethical demise, but it couldn't be helped.

"My nobleman,"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 of meat out of earshot.

"My Lord, besides the three Byrn killed, there are ten whose wounds can be healed. Four won't survive the head 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 minor wounds—pack them in there and I'm sure we can fit a one-quarter on the go-cart. read me the others."

As we walked towards the bruise, Ulf signaled one of his men, who nodded. The man stood before a proud blond adult female lying on the earth with an arrow below the curve of her entire knocker. fright, then resignation showed on her facial expression. 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 end. With a grunt, he rammed his sword through her breast and into the turd. Her middle went wide and she coughed rake. Her middle blinked once, twice, then her heading lolled to the English and she lay still. The other three, two men and a boy, were similarly dispatched.

"My Maker, one man was knocked out frigidity. He is breathing, but he does not awaken,"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 crap, moaning softly, one hand on the wound. origin caked her belly and genitals and continued to trickle out of torn sassing of the wound."Sigrid says she may live,"said Ulf,"the pointer is not too deep and her innards are not torn.

Next was a sandy-haired teen who was sitting up with the helper of her senior baby. An arrow from hindquarters had pierced her luxuriously on her left shoulder, the arrowhead emerging above the swell of her small knocker. Her older baby tried to comfort her as she cried into her shoulder."She should be fine on the way back,"said Ulf.

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

The last-place was a pale-skinned, light-haired teen gyrating slowly on her back in the dirt. Her hands were pressed tight to her right hand English in a vain attempt to staunch the period of blood. Ulf moved her flaming hands to point me the wound and she cried out in pain in the ass. A steel had slashed deeply into the flesh and muscle above her hip joint. I could barely have out what looked to be the puce loop of an bowel writhing inside her belly.

"You seriously think she'll survive ? That wounding is serious,"I said.

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

"well then have her get to it ! Tell Sigrid to cover the other two miss as well. Put this one and the girl with the pointer in her belly on the cart. Tell the one with the arrow in her articulatio humeri to walk. pour down the fat fella ; he won't fetch a trade good price."

As Ulf turned to have a bun in the oven out his orders, I looked around again to make sure we hadn't missed any of the wounded. The girl Hrolf had gutted was still alive somehow. She was on her back, the gaping rent in her stomach visible even at this space. almost of her gumption were strung out past her groundwork and between her legs, but her custody still kneaded the ropy entrails at the rent's mouth as if to shove them back in. Her legs kicked slowly, cad 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 moolah and wounded had been loaded onto pushcart and the appropriate villagers were all tied together. I never burned Village ; the smoke attracted unwanted aid and we could not outrun any pursuit.

"Move out. ”