It was n't the cleanest raid I 'd ever led. Hrolf, that rookie son of a bitch, made a immense illegitimate enterprise killing one of the sentry. The idiot had stabbed her instead of slashing her pharynx, and her riot 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 visible radiation. Some were curious about what was going on while others were armed with axes, spears, bows and pointer, and pitchforks.

Luckily, my warriors were in posture and I signaled them to loose a volley of arrows. From my vantage dot, I saw a half dozen men and adult female fall as iron tips pierced skin and flesh and shattered bone. A big man carrying a shortsword—probably the small town chief—took an arrow in the shoe collar, roaring in pain as he fell backwards. A woman staggered drunkenly with an arrow in her pharynx, vomiting stemma all over her enshroud top. As the villagers stood transfixed, a second fusillade fell, striking down at to the lowest degree four more villagers. A missy with curt, dark-brown hair's-breadth and small breasts sank to knees with an arrow low in her belly, screaming shrilly in shock and pain.

The villagers scattered, but not before a tertiary volley struck down the ill-starred and the slow. A man carrying a bow—a veridical threat—fell with an arrow in his back as he ran to cover. A youth mother lay in a rapidly-expanding kitty of blood on her own threshold clutching an pointer in her boob. Her young daughter 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 brand and with a triumphant cry, we charged. The arrows had broken any attempt at organized electrical resistance, but individual villagers still resisted. Torunn struck down an axe-wielding villager, his sword crunching into the man's breast. A wiry young huntsman notched an arrow to his impertinence, but a throwing axe split his skull, sending the shaft wide.

A young teenage missy braced her gig against the oncoming armorial bearing. She stood au naturel and noncompliant, holding her spear as if in a shield-wall. But she was alone—in other words, wanton quarry. I started shoving my way towards her. But before I could confront her, Rolf was there, bloodlust crystallise on his face.

"Damnit, Rolf, you dumb son of a bitch !"I shouted. Rolf ran straight at the girl. When she thrust the fishgig to impale him, he deftly side-stepped at the last arcsecond. Without breaking stride, he swept his brand across her belly and continued on. Blood splattered at her feet. A ragged binge 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 ira. We weren't there to bolt down everybody ; we were there to attain a lucre. And this girl—with her slim down dead body and well-proportioned breasts—would have made a honorable profit. Rolf would bear to pay for this release out of his portion of the spoils.

The girl stared down at the ruination of her body in unbelief. Blood sheeted her belly, her crotch, her thighs, her legs. A humble scroll of puce entrails lay at her foot. More bowel bulged in the oral cavity of the open wound. She staggered, over-corrected, and fell to her stifle. The encroachment jarred loose the rest of her guts, and worthless loops flopped unfreeze of her paunch with a sickening squelch. Slowly, she tilted her head back and let out a blood-curdling screeching of anguish. She wrapped her coat of arms around her entrails and screamed again, pulling them to herself as if to preserve them from touching the terra firma. I couldn't watch her struggles any longer. Seasoned warrior though I was, the visual modality made even me sick.

Elsewhere, my warriors were in use putting an end to enemy resistance and corralling the captured villagers into the central public 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 blast to the head. A young womanhood was clubbed and dragged unconscious out of her home by her hair, her husband and children close behind. Only the most die-hard of defenders, mostly adults who fought tooth-and-nail to defend their homes, were put to the brand.

I tasked Sigurd, my assistant, with sorting the gelt and getting it on the wagons. Meanwhile, my top warriors and I took stock of the battle. All told, six of my warriors suffered serious wounds—two wear castanets, one oceanic abyss cut, and two shallow stabs. Ivar had taken a mighty blow to the head and was dead. We had captured around 20 adults, a similar number of teenagers, and fifteen children of varying historic period. They were herded into the center of the square. For now, the spite that couldn't movement lay where they'd fallen.

Nine villagers lay dead. The three scout lay in the surrounding dunes in addition to the one killed by Rolf, their pharynx slit and their bodies growing insensate. The hamlet chief had been put to the blade and his consistence still lay in the square. The young mother's struggles had ceased, and she lay in a pocket billiards of blood and shit on her doorstep.

Surveying the field, I thought another seven would die shortly. Blood bumbled in the mouth and in the gaping chest wound of a tall warrioress. She had been able to hurt two of my warriors with nothing Thomas More than a tongue, but could not parry Ranveig's sword as it plunged between her large, round chest. The gutted teen was a mass. There was ancestry smeared seemingly across her entire body. Ropy entrails extended more than a meter behind her as she used her arms to drop back herself away on her belly, her gut trailing in her wake. She'd dug a bloody path from where she had originally fallen, where the dry land was churned red by her struggle, sandy grunge mixing with blood, red cent, and innards.

The main problem now was dealing with the enemy wounded. At least nine, no, ten, of the villagers with serious injury might survive if given right treatment. A man with a deep gash in his leg limped along, supported by his wife. A brunet with short tomentum sat propped up against a fencepost, hands pressed to the pointer sticking out of her belly above her allow for hip, whimpering pitifully. I'd seen her fall in street during our initial volley ; she must feature dragged herself out of the way during the scrap. She screwed her middle shut against a reinvigorated wave of pain as her bladder released and micturate splashed her blood-encrusted thigh.

I turned to my deputy."Torstein, stamp out the elderly and any lame ones you find. Byrn, see the two men over there ? The one missing a script and the one with the develop leg that needs to be amputated. Put them down. Same with the woman with the shattered articulatio humeri ; she won't make it. Ulf, find out how many of the wounded can walk—and get with Sigurd to find out how a great deal space is left in the carts."It was a long journey home and I didn't like spending any more clock time than necessary in foe 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 Au, tools, table salt, and other token of economic value onto one of the carts. Stores of food for thought were loaded onto two more. Ivar's body was wrapped and placed onto a handcart with our provision. Our injure 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 bankrupt leg protested, the wife beating her hired man against Byrn's chest of drawers. 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 respectable death, but it couldn't be helped.

"My Lord,"said Ulf, signaling me to where some of the wound villagers had been gathered. I walked towards him and we stepped off to the side out of earshot.

"My Lord, besides the three Byrn killed, there are ten whose injury 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 amber slipping through my fingers.

"killing the four who won't survive. I see two with fry wounds—pack them in there and I'm sure we can fit a fourth on the pushcart. indicate me the others."

As we walked towards the wound, Ulf signaled one of his men, who nodded. The man stood before a proud blond womanhood lying on the ground with an pointer below the bend of her full breasts. concern, then resignation showed on her face. As he drew his brand, 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 blade through her chest of drawers and into the malicious gossip. Her eyes went wide and she coughed blood. Her eyes blinked once, twice, then her chief lolled to the side and she lay still. The former three, two men and a boy, were similarly dispatched.

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

The short-haired brunet with the pointer in her belly had been moved from her fencepost. She lay in the filth, moaning softly, one hand on the wounding. Blood caked her venter and genitals and continued to filter out of torn mouth of the wounding."Sigrid says she may live,"said Ulf,"the arrow is not too deep and her innards are not torn.

Next was a sandy-haired stripling who was sitting up with the aid of her aged sister. An pointer from prat had pierced her highschool on her left shoulder, the arrowhead emerging above the swell of her little breasts. Her older sister tried to comfort her as she cried into her articulatio humeri."She should be alright on the way back,"said Ulf.

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

The last was a pale-skinned, blonde teen gyrating slowly on her back in the crap. Her bridge player were pressed tight to her right incline in a vain attempt to stem the flow of rake. Ulf moved her bloody hands to show me the injury and she cried out in pain. A sword had slashed deeply into the soma and muscle above her rose hip. I could barely create out what looked to be the puce grummet of an gut writhing inside her belly.

"You seriously think she'll survive ? That injury is unplayful,"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 teen's hands. Her bridge player immediately went back to covering the wound.

"wellspring then have her get to it ! Tell Sigrid to regale the other two daughter as well. Put this one and the young lady with the arrow in her belly on the cart. separate the one with the pointer in her shoulder to walk. Kill the fat bloke ; he won't fetch a good price."

As Ulf turned to hold out his orders, I looked around again to build for sure we hadn't missed any of the wounded. The girl Rolf had gutted was still alive somehow. She was on her back, the yawn rent in her tummy seeable even at this aloofness. Most of her guts were strung out past her metrical unit and between her legs, but her workforce still kneaded the ropy entrails at the 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 hours later we were fix to go. All the loot and wounded had been loaded onto cart and the becharm villagers were all tied together. I never burned villages ; the smoke attracted unwanted attending and we could not outrun any pursuit.

"Move out. ”