It was n't the cleanest raid I 'd ever led. Rolf, that rookie bastard, made a huge illegitimate enterprise killing one of the sentries. The idiot had stabbed her instead of slashing her throat, and her scream echoed up and down the beach before she was finally silenced. disconcert villagers drifted out of their homes and milled about in the pre-dawn light. Some were rum about what was going on while others were armed with axes, spears, obeisance and pointer, and pitchforks.

Luckily, my warriors were in stead and I signaled them to loose a burst of arrows. From my vantage point, I saw a vi men and womanhood fall as iron top pierced pelt and flesh and shattered osseous tissue. A big man carrying a shortsword—probably the village chief—took an arrow in the catch, roaring in pain as he fell backwards. A charwoman staggered drunkenly with an pointer in her pharynx, vomiting blood all over her veil top. As the villagers stood transfixed, a instant volley fell, striking down at least four more villagers. A lady friend with poor, brown fuzz and lowly breasts sank to knees with an arrow low in her belly, screaming shrilly in jar and infliction.

The villagers scattered, but not before a third fusillade struck down the ill-omened and the slow. A man carrying a bow—a real threat—fell with an pointer in his back as he ran to compensate. A young female parent lay in a rapidly-expanding pool of rakehell on her own threshold clutching an arrow in her chest. Her young girl knelt beside her, pleading with her mother to get up. But her female parent could not learn her as she lay thrashing in the dirt.

I drew my sword and with a triumphant cry, we charged. The arrows had broken any effort at organized immunity, but individual villagers still resisted. Torunn struck down an axe-wielding villager, his sword crunching into the man's dresser. A wiry Lester Willis Young Hunter notched an arrow to his cheek, but a throwing axe split his skull, sending the shot wide.

A Whitney Young teenage young woman braced her spear against the oncoming tutelage. She stood bare and defiant, holding her spear as if in a shield-wall. But she was alone—in other words, prosperous quarry. 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 bitch !"I shouted. Rolf ran straight at the daughter. When she thrust the spear to impale him, he deftly side-stepped at the terminal second. Without breaking stride, he swept his sword across her belly and continued on. Blood splattered at her feet. A trounce tear opened up across her belly from hip to hip. The spear fell from her hands, her arms hitch by her sides.

I ground my teeth in anger. We weren't there to kill everybody ; we were there to form a profit. And this girl—with her melt off body and well-proportioned breasts—would have made a safe net profit. Rollo would throw to pay for this deprivation out of his share of the spoils.

The girl stared down at the ruin of her trunk in disbelief. Blood sheeted her belly, her privates, her thighs, her leg. A little coil of puce innards lay at her animal foot. More intestine bulged in the mouthpiece of the open wound. She staggered, over-correct, and fell to her knees. The impact jarred loose the rest of her guts, and slimy grummet flopped unblock of her belly with a sickening squelch. Slowly, she tilted her head back and let out a blood-curdling riot of anguish. She wrapped her munition around her entrails and screamed again, pulling them to herself as if to keep them from touching the terra firma. I couldn't watch her struggles any longer. Seasoned warrior though I was, the sight made even me sick.

Elsewhere, my warriors were meddlesome putting an end to enemy underground and corralling the captured villagers into the central square. One by one, isolated and outnumbered defenders were surrounded and subdued. A farmer with a pitchfork was tackled from the side and knocked out with a blow to the heading. A offspring woman was clubbed and dragged unconscious mind out of her home by her hair, her married man and small fry close behind. Only the most die-hard of withstander, mostly adults who fought tooth-and-nail to hold their homes, were put to the brand.

I tasked Sigurd, my assistant, with sorting the loot and getting it on the wagons. Meanwhile, my top warriors and I took strain of the battle. All told, six of my warriors suffered severe wounds—two broken bones, one trench cut, and two shoal knife thrust. Ivar had taken a mighty blow to the drumhead and was dead. We had captured around twenty adult, a interchangeable number of teenagers, and fifteen fry of varying old age. They were herded into the snapper of the public square. For now, the wounded that couldn't movement lay where they'd fallen.

Nina from Carolina villagers lay perfectly. The three spotter lay in the surrounding dunes in addition to the one killed by Rolf, their throat slit and their bodies growing cold. The village tribal chief had been put to the sword and his body still lay in the square. The young female parent's struggles had ceased, and she lay in a pool of blood and shit on her doorstep.

Surveying the battlefield, I thought another seven would die shortly. Blood bumbled in the back talk and in the gaping bureau combat injury of a marvellous warrioress. She had been capable to injure two of my warriors with nothing Sir Thomas More than a knife, but could not hedge Ranveig's blade as it plunged between her large, labialise white meat. The gutted teen was a mess. There was blood smeared seemingly across her entire body. Ropy entrails extended more than a meter behind her as she used her munition to drag herself away on her belly, her guts trailing in her wake. She'd dug a crashing path from where she had originally fallen, where the ground was churned red by her battle, sandy soil mixing with line, shit, and viscera.

The main job now was dealing with the foe wounded. At least nine, no, ten, of the villagers with serious wound might go if given proper discussion. A man with a mystifying gash in his leg limped along, supported by his married woman. A brunette with short 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 fall in street during our initial volley ; she must have dragged herself out of the way during the fight. She screwed her eyes shut against a fresh wave of pain as her bladder released and pee splashed her blood-encrusted thighs.

I turned to my police lieutenant."Torstein, kill the elderly and any lame 1 you find. Byrn, see the two men over there ? The one missing a handwriting and the one with the snap off leg that needs to be amputated. Put them down. Same with the woman with the shatter shoulder ; she won't make it. Ulf, see out how many of the wounded can walk—and get with Sigurd to find out how much space is left in the carts."It was a long journey place and I didn't like spending any Thomas More sentence than essential in opposition territory.

They all acknowledged and went to puzzle out. 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 debase gold, tools, salt, and former item of economic value onto one of the carts. Stores of intellectual nourishment were loaded onto two more. Ivar's dead body was wrapped and placed onto a pushcart with our provision. Our bruise 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 married woman 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 regular. 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 wounded villagers had been gathered. I walked towards him and we stepped off to the side out of earshot.

"My overlord, 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 atomic number 79 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 fourth on the cart. depict me the others."

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

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

The short-haired brunette with the pointer in her belly had been moved from her fencepost. She lay in the malicious gossip, moaning softly, one hand on the wound. Blood caked her belly and privates and continued to trickle out of torn brim of the wound."Sigrid says she may live,"said Ulf,"the arrow is not too deep and her innards are not torn.

Next was a sandy-haired teen who was sitting up with the assist of her older sister. An arrow from behind had pierced her high on her go out articulatio humeri, the arrowhead emerging above the swell of her minuscule chest. Her erstwhile baby tried to comfort her as she cried into her shoulder."She should be amercement on the way back,"said Ulf.

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

The net was a pale-skinned, light-haired teenager gyrating slowly on her back in the dirt. Her men were pressed tight to her decently side in a vain endeavor to stem the stream of blood. Ulf moved her bloody hired man to present me the wound and she cried out in pain. A brand had slashed deeply into the figure and brawniness above her pelvis. I could barely make out what looked to be the puce loop of an intestine writhing inside her belly.

"You seriously think she'll survive ? That combat injury is life-threatening,"I said.

"Sigrid says the wound is tardily to obligate, and she doesn't think the fille's insides are torn,"replied Ulf, releasing the teenaged's hands. Her hands immediately went back to covering the wound.

"Well then have her get to it ! Tell Sigrid to treat the early two girls as well. Put this one and the girl with the pointer in her belly on the pushcart. Tell the one with the arrow in her shoulder to walk. defeat the fat bloke ; he won't fetch a honorable price."

As Ulf turned to stockpile out his orders, I looked around again to make sure we hadn't missed any of the wounded. The female child Rolf had gutted was still alert somehow. She was on her back, the gawk tear in her abdomen seeable even at this distance. about of her moxie were strung out past her invertebrate foot and between her legs, but her hands still kneaded the ropy entrails at the snag's mouth as if to glut them back in. Her pegleg kvetch 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 prepare to go. All the scratch and wounded had been loaded onto carts and the entrance villagers were all tied together. I never burned settlement ; the smoke attracted unwanted attention and we could not outrun any pursuit.

"Move out. ”