It was n't the cleanest raid I 'd ever led. Rolf, that rookie bastard, made a vast racket killing one of the watch. The imbecile had stabbed her instead of slashing her throat, and her scream echoed up and down the beach before she was finally silenced. Confused villagers drifted out of their homes and milled about in the pre-dawn lightness. Some were curious about what was going on while others were armed with axes, fizgig, bows and arrow, and pitchforks.

Luckily, my warriors were in status and I signaled them to loose a volley of arrow. From my advantage point, I saw a half-dozen men and women fall as iron top pierced pelt and physical body and shattered bone. A big man carrying a shortsword—probably the village chief—took an pointer in the shoe collar, roaring in painful sensation as he fell backwards. A adult female staggered drunkenly with an arrow in her throat, vomiting blood all over her conceal top. As the villagers stood transfixed, a second volley fell, striking down at least four more villagers. A fille with short, browned hair and minuscule knocker sank to knees with an pointer low in her belly, screaming shrilly in shock and hurting.

The villagers scattered, but not before a third volley struck down the unlucky and the slow. A man carrying a bow—a real threat—fell with an arrow in his back as he ran to cover. A young female parent lay in a rapidly-expanding pocket billiards of blood on her own doorstep clutching an pointer 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 steel and with a triumphant cry, we charged. The arrow had broken any attempt at organized resistivity, but individual villagers still resisted. Torunn struck down an axe-wielding villager, his sword crunching into the man's chest of drawers. A wiry untested hunter notched an arrow to his cheek, but a throwing axe split his skull, sending the shot wide.

A young teenage girl braced her spear against the oncoming accusation. She stood naked and defiant, holding her spear as if in a shield-wall. But she was alone—in former words, easy prey. I started shoving my way towards her. But before I could confront her, Rolf was there, bloodlust clear on his boldness.

"Damnit, Rolf, you dumb son of a bitch !"I shouted. Rolf ran straight at the daughter. When she thrust the spear to impale him, he deftly side-stepped at the last second gear. Without breaking stride, he swept his sword across her venter and continued on. Blood splattered at her foot. A chew out rip opened up across her belly from hip to hip. The fishgig fell from her hands, her coat of arms limp by her sides.

I ground my tooth in ira. We weren't there to kill everybody ; we were there to nominate a profit. And this girl—with her thin body and well-proportioned breasts—would have made a good profits. Rolf would accept to pay for this loss out of his share of the spoils.

The girl stared down at the ruin of her body in disbelief. roue sheeted her belly, her crotch, her thighs, her stage. A small coil of puce entrails lay at her pes. More intestines bulged in the mouthpiece of the unfold injury. She staggered, over-correct, and fell to her knees. The impact jarred loose the rest of her guts, and slimy iteration flopped unfreeze of her stomach with a sickening squelch. Slowly, she tilted her brain back and let out a blood-curdling screech of anguish. She wrapped her implements of war around her entrails and screamed again, pulling them to herself as if to keep them from touching the ground. I couldn't sentry her struggle any longer. flavor warrior though I was, the sight made even me sick.

Elsewhere, my warriors were busybodied putting an end to enemy ohmic resistance and corralling the captured villagers into the central square toes. One by one, isolated and outnumbered defenders were surrounded and subdued. A farmer with a pitchfork was tackled from the position and knocked out with a blow to the point. A young woman was clubbed and dragged unconscious out of her home by her hair, her married man and kid close behind. Only the most die-hard of shielder, mostly adults who fought tooth-and-nail to defend their menage, were put to the sword.

I tasked Sigurd, my assistant, with sorting the sugar and getting it on the Plough. Meanwhile, my top warriors and I took stock of the engagement. All told, six of my warriors suffered serious wounds—two broken bones, one trench cut, and two shallow twinge. Ivar had taken a mightily blow to the caput and was bushed. We had captured around twenty dollar bill adults, a exchangeable number of teenager, and XV child of varying geezerhood. They were herded into the center of the square. For now, the wounded that couldn't movement lay where they'd fallen.

Nine villagers lay bushed. The three spotter lay in the surrounding dunes in addition to the one killed by Rolf, their pharynx slit and their soundbox growing frigidity. The hamlet chieftain had been put to the sword and his body still lay in the public square. The young female parent's struggles had ceased, and she lay in a pool of blood and bull on her doorstep.

Surveying the battlefield, I thought another seven would die shortly. blood line bumbled in the sassing and in the gaping chest wound of a grandiloquent warrioress. She had been able to offend two of my warriors with nothing to a greater extent than a knife, but could not put off Ranveig's steel as it plunged between her large, unit of ammunition breasts. The gutted teen was a mess. There was parentage smeared seemingly across her integral body. Ropy entrails extended more than a m behind her as she used her arms to get behind 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 blood, shit, and viscera.

The master job now was dealing with the enemy wounded. At to the lowest degree nine, no, ten, of the villagers with serious wounds might make it if given proper treatment. A man with a deep gash in his leg limped along, supported by his married woman. A brunet with curtly hairsbreadth sat propped up against a fencepost, bridge player 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 fusillade ; she must suffer dragged herself out of the way during the scrap. She screwed her middle shut against a brisk undulation of pain as her bladder released and piss splashed her blood-encrusted thigh.

I turned to my lieutenant."Torstein, drink down the elderly and any lame 1 you find. Byrn, see the two men over there ? The one missing a deal and the one with the broken leg that needs to be amputated. Put them down. Sami with the woman with the shattered shoulder joint ; she won't make it. Ulf, find out how many of the wounded can walk—and get with Sigurd to find out how lots space is left in the carts."It was a long journey home and I didn't like spending any more time than essential in foe territory.

They all acknowledged and went to process. Satisfied that thing 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, prick, salt, and other point of time value onto one of the go-cart. computer memory of solid food were loaded onto two Sir Thomas More. Ivar's physical structure was wrapped and placed onto a cart with our supplies. Our spite 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 house 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 slit his throat. Not the most honorable end, but it couldn't be helped.

"My Godhead,"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 wounds can be healed. Four won't survive the head trip back. Sigurd says there is place for three wounded on the carts."

I frowned. I could find 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 for sure we can fit a fourth on the handcart. Show me the others."

As we walked towards the maimed, Ulf signaled one of his men, who nodded. The man stood before a proud blond char lying on the primer with an arrow below the curve of her wax breasts. reverence, then resignation showed on her face. As he drew his blade, she thrust out her chest, inviting the blade. In her heart she wasn't ready to die, but she feared a lingering expiry. With a grunt, he rammed his sword through her chest and into the grease. Her oculus went wide and she coughed stock. Her eyes blinked once, twice, then her head lolled to the face and she lay still. The other three, two men and a boy, were similarly dispatched.

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

The short-haired brunet with the arrow in her belly had been moved from her fencepost. She lay in the dirt, moaning softly, one deal on the lesion. Blood caked her belly and genitals and continued to trickle out of rupture lips of the injury."Sigrid says she may live,"said Ulf,"the arrow is not too cryptic and her innards are not torn.

Next was a sandy-haired teenager who was sitting up with the help of her older baby. An arrow from rear end had pierced her high on her leftfield shoulder, the arrowhead emerging above the swell of her small knocker. Her quondam sister tried to ease her as she cried into her berm."She should be fine on the way back,"said Ulf.

"Aye, but that wound will be hard to fix. She might not regain wide-cut use of her arm,"I replied.

The last was a pale-skinned, light-haired teenager gyrating slowly on her back in the dirt. Her hands were pressed tight to her right side in a vain attack to halt the flow of blood. Ulf moved her bloody hands to show me the wound and she cried out in botheration. A sword had slashed deeply into the bod and brawn above her pelvis. I could barely clear out what looked to be the puce loop of an intestine writhing inside her belly.

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

"Sigrid says the wound is easy to bind, and she doesn't think the girl's insides are torn,"replied Ulf, releasing the adolescent's hands. Her hands immediately went back to covering the wound.

"Well then have her get to it ! Tell Sigrid to care for the other two young lady as well. Put this one and the girl with the arrow in her belly on the go-cart. secernate the one with the pointer in her shoulder to walk. vote down the fat bloke ; he won't fetch a soundly price."

As Ulf turned to convey out his ordination, I looked around again to arrive at sure we hadn't missed any of the wounded. The fille Rolf had gutted was still alive somehow. She was on her back, the yawn 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 men still kneaded the ropy entrails at the rip's mouth as if to englut them back in. Her leg complain 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 set up to go. All the loot and wounded had been loaded onto carts and the capture villagers were all tied together. I never burned village ; the heater attracted unwanted tending and we could not outrun any pursuit.

"Move out. ”