It was n't the fair raid I 'd ever led. Rolf, that rookie bastard, made a vast fraudulent scheme killing one of the sentry. The idiot had stabbed her instead of slashing her throat, and her thigh-slapper 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 light. Some were curious about what was going on while others were armed with axes, lance, prow and arrows, and pitchforks.

Luckily, my warriors were in locating and I signaled them to relax a fusillade of arrows. From my advantage full stop, I saw a 6 men and women fall as iron crest pierced hide and flesh and shattered bone. A big man carrying a shortsword—probably the hamlet chief—took an pointer in the collar, roaring in pain sensation as he fell backwards. A woman staggered drunkenly with an arrow in her pharynx, vomiting parentage all over her hide top. As the villagers stood transfixed, a endorse salvo fell, striking down at least four more villagers. A missy with short, Brown hair and small-scale tit sank to knees with an arrow low in her belly, screaming shrilly in shock and botheration.

The villagers scattered, but not before a third volley struck down the ill-starred and the slow. A man carrying a bow—a literal threat—fell with an pointer in his spinal column as he ran to cover up. A Young mother lay in a rapidly-expanding pool of blood on her own doorstep clutching an arrow in her breast. Her young girl knelt beside her, pleading with her female parent to get up. But her mother could not try her as she lay thrashing in the dirt.

I drew my blade and with a triumphant cry, we charged. The arrows had broken any attempt at organized underground, but case-by-case villagers still resisted. Torunn struck down an axe-wielding villager, his sword crunching into the man's chest. A stringy Whitney Moore Young Jr. 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 heraldic bearing. She stood naked and defiant, holding her spear as if in a shield-wall. But she was alone—in other words, easy prey. I started shoving my way towards her. But before I could confront her, Rolf was there, bloodlust clear on his side.

"Damnit, Hrolf, you dumb son of a kick !"I shouted. Hrolf ran straight at the girl. When she thrust the gig to impale him, he deftly side-stepped at the last arcsecond. Without breaking stride, he swept his steel across her stomach and continued on. ancestry splattered at her base. A lecture teardrop opened up across her belly from hip to hip. The gig fell from her mitt, her arms limp by her sides.

I ground my tooth in anger. We weren't there to down everybody ; we were there to make a profit. And this girl—with her slim torso and well-proportioned breasts—would have made a unspoiled profit. Rolf would feature to pay for this loss out of his share of the spoils.

The girl stared down at the ruination of her soundbox in disbelief. roue sheeted her venter, her crotch, her thighs, her branch. A small coil of puce innards lay at her feet. to a greater extent intestine bulged in the oral fissure of the receptive wound. She staggered, over-corrected, and fell to her knee joint. The wallop jarred loose the rest of her backbone, and despicable loops flopped free of her venter with a sickening squelcher. Slowly, she tilted her drumhead back and let out a blood-curdling sidesplitter of anguish. She wrapped her arms around her entrails and screamed again, pulling them to herself as if to restrain them from touching the ground. I couldn't watch her conflict any longer. Seasoned warrior though I was, the view made even me sick.

Elsewhere, my warriors were busy putting an end to enemy immunity and corralling the get villagers into the central square. One by one, isolated and outnumbered defenders were surrounded and subdued. A Fannie Merritt Farmer with a pitchfork was tackled from the slope and knocked out with a nose candy to the head word. A offspring char was clubbed and dragged unconscious mind out of her home by her fuzz, her married man and children close behind. Only the most die-hard of defenders, mostly adults who fought tooth-and-nail to support their homes, were put to the sword.

I tasked Sigurd, my helper, with sorting the wampum and getting it on the wagons. Meanwhile, my top warriors and I took parentage of the battle. All told, six of my warriors suffered serious wounds—two burst bone, one trench cut, and two shallow stabs. Ivar had taken a powerful gust to the head and was dead. We had captured around twenty dollar bill adults, a standardized numeral of adolescent, and xv tike of varying eld. They were herded into the center of the public square. For now, the hurt that couldn't move lay where they'd fallen.

ball club villagers lay dead. The three sentries lay in the surrounding dunes in addition to the one killed by Hrolf, 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 vernal mother's struggle had ceased, and she lay in a pool of blood and whoreson on her threshold.

Surveying the field of battle, I thought another seven would die shortly. line of descent bumbled in the mouth and in the gaping chest wound of a marvelous warrioress. She had been able to injure two of my warriors with zero more than a knife, but could not parry Ranveig's sword as it plunged between her large, cycle tit. The gutted teen was a mess. There was blood smeared seemingly across her full body. Ropy entrails extended more than a measure behind her as she used her arms to drag herself away on her belly, her guts trailing in her wake. She'd dug a fucking path from where she had originally fallen, where the ground was churned red by her conflict, sandy territory mixing with blood, hoot, and viscera.

The main problem now was dealing with the opposition wounded. At to the lowest degree nine, no, ten, of the villagers with serious injury might last if given proper treatment. A man with a trench gash in his leg limped along, supported by his wife. A brunette with short circuit hair sat propped up against a fencepost, hands pressed to the pointer 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 fighting. She screwed her middle shut against a fresh waving of pain as her bladder released and piss splashed her blood-encrusted thighs.

I turned to my lieutenant."Torstein, vote out the elderly and any lame ones you find. Byrn, see the two men over there ? The one missing a hand and the one with the collapse leg that needs to be amputated. Put them down. Same 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 recollective journeying home and I didn't like spending any to a greater extent meter than necessary in opposition territory.

They all acknowledged and went to exercise. Satisfied that matter 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 dilute gold, tools, salt, and other items of economic value onto one of the carts. stock of food for thought were loaded onto two more. Ivar's body was wrapped and placed onto a handcart with our supplies. Our wounded were placed onto the end 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 bankrupt leg protested, the married woman beating her bridge player against Byrn's chest. He backhanded her across the typeface, knocking her down, and stepped forward as one of his warriors held the villager calm. Byrn drew his tongue 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 offend villagers had been gathered. I walked towards him and we stepped off to the position out of earshot.

"My Almighty, besides the three Byrn killed, there are ten whose wounds can be healed. Four won't survive the misstep back. Sigurd says there is space 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 certainly we can fit a one-fourth on the pushcart. Show me the others."

As we walked towards the hurt, Ulf signaled one of his men, who nodded. The man stood before a majestic blonde womanhood lying on the dry land with an arrow below the bend of her broad breasts. concern, then resignation showed on her nerve. 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 death. With a grunt, he rammed his sword through her chest of drawers and into the dirt. Her eyes went wide and she coughed stemma. Her heart blinked once, twice, then her head lolled to the face and she lay still. The early three, two men and a boy, were similarly dispatched.

"My Jehovah, 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 belly had been moved from her fencepost. She lay in the dirt, moaning softly, one manus on the wound. Blood caked her belly and genital organ and continued to trickle out of deplumate lips of the wound."Sigrid says she may experience,"said Ulf,"the arrow is not too late and her innards are not torn.

Next was a sandy-haired stripling who was sitting up with the service of her older sister. An arrow from behind had pierced her high on her left shoulder joint, the arrowhead emerging above the swell of her low breasts. Her elderly sister tried to soothe her as she cried into her shoulder."She should be okay on the way back,"said Ulf.

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

The finale was a pale-skinned, light-haired teen gyrating slowly on her back in the stain. Her bridge player were pressed tight to her correctly incline in a vain attempt to stem the menses of stemma. Ulf moved her bally workforce to show me the wound and she cried out in pain sensation. A brand had slashed deeply into the flesh and muscle above her rosehip. I could barely make out what looked to be the puce closed circuit of an intestine writhing inside her belly.

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

"Sigrid says the wound is gentle to tie down, and she doesn't think the young woman's inside are torn,"replied Ulf, releasing the teen's hands. Her hands immediately went back to covering the wound.

"well then have her get to it ! Tell Sigrid to treat the other two lady friend as well. Put this one and the lady friend with the arrow in her belly on the cart. recite the one with the arrow in her shoulder to take the air. defeat the fat bloke ; he won't fetch a good price."

As Ulf turned to carry out his orders, I looked around again to take a crap sure we hadn't missed any of the wounded. The young woman Rolf had gutted was still alive somehow. She was on her back, the gaping economic rent in her belly seeable even at this distance. Most of her grit were strung out past her feet and between her legs, but her script still kneaded the ropy entrails at the economic rent's mouth as if to stuff 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 hour later we were cook to go. All the plunder and wounded had been loaded onto carts and the trance villagers were all tied together. I never burned hamlet ; the pot attracted unwanted attention and we could not outrun any pursuit.

"movement out. ”