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Introduction:

If you do not like violence, combat, blood, or gore then stop reading here. This short story serves as a standalone introduction for a series of longer stories set in the same universe. Enjoy!

It wasn't the cleanest raid I'd ever led. Rolf, that rookie bastard, made a huge racket 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. 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, spears, bows and arrows, and pitchforks.

Luckily, my warriors were in position 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 bone. A big man carrying a shortsword—probably the village chief—took an arrow in the collar, roaring in pain as he fell backwards. A woman staggered drunkenly with an arrow in her throat, vomiting blood all over her hide top. As the villagers stood transfixed, a second volley fell, striking down at least four more villagers. A girl with short, brown hair 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 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 mother lay in a rapidly-expanding pool of blood on her own doorstep clutching an arrow 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 sword and with a triumphant cry, we charged. The arrows had broken any attempt at organized resistance, but individual villagers still resisted. Torunn struck down an axe-wielding villager, his sword crunching into the man’s chest. A wiry young 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 charge. 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 face.

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

I ground my teeth in anger. We weren’t there to kill everybody; we were there to make a profit. And this girl—with her slim body and well-proportioned breasts—would have made a good profit. Rolf would have to pay for this loss out of his share of the spoils.

The girl stared down at the ruin of her body in disbelief. Blood sheeted her belly, her crotch, her thighs, her legs. A small coil of puce entrails lay at her feet. More intestines bulged in the mouth of the open wound. She staggered, over-corrected, and fell to her knees. The impact jarred loose the rest of her guts, and slimy loops flopped free of her belly with a sickening squelch. Slowly, she tilted her head 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 ground. I couldn’t watch her struggles any longer. Seasoned warrior though I was, the sight made even me sick.

Elsewhere, my warriors were busy putting an end to enemy resistance 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 head. A young woman 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 sword.

I tasked Sigurd, my assistant, with sorting the loot 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 broken bones, one deep cut, and two shallow stabs. Ivar had taken a mighty blow to the head and was dead. We had captured around twenty adults, a similar number of teenagers, and fifteen children of varying ages. They were herded into the center of the square. For now, the wounded that couldn’t move lay where they’d fallen.

Nine villagers lay dead. The three sentries lay in the surrounding dunes in addition 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 shit 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 tall warrioress. She had been able to injure two of my warriors with nothing more than a knife, but could not parry Ranveig’s sword as it plunged between her large, round breasts. 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 arms to drag herself away on her belly, her guts trailing in her wake. She’d dug a bloody path from where she had originally fallen, where the ground was churned red by her struggles, sandy soil mixing with blood, shit, and viscera.

The main problem now was dealing with the enemy wounded. At least nine, no, ten, of the villagers with serious wounds might survive if given proper treatment. A man with a deep gash in his leg limped along, supported by his wife. A brunette with short hair sat propped up against a fencepost, hands 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 volley; she must have dragged herself out of the way during the fighting. She screwed her eyes shut against a fresh wave of pain as her bladder released and piss splashed her blood-encrusted thighs.

I turned to my lieutenants. “Torstein, kill 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 broken 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 find out how much space is left in the carts.” It was a long journey home and I didn’t like spending any more time than necessary in enemy 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 other items of value onto one of the carts. Stores of 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 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 Lord, 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 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 fourth on the cart. Show me the others.”

As we walked towards the wounded, Ulf signaled one of his men, who nodded. The man stood before a proud blond woman lying on the ground with an arrow below the curve of her full breasts. Fear, then resignation showed on her face. 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 and into the dirt. 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 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 hand on the wound. Blood caked her belly and genitals and continued to trickle out of torn lips 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 help of her older sister. An arrow from behind had pierced her high on her left shoulder, the arrowhead emerging above the swell of her small breasts. Her older sister tried to comfort her as she cried into her shoulder. “She should be fine on the way back,” said Ulf.

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

The last was a pale-skinned, light-haired teen gyrating slowly on her back in the dirt. Her hands were pressed tight to her right side in a vain attempt to stem the flow of blood. Ulf moved her bloody hands to show me the wound and she cried out in pain. A sword had slashed deeply into the flesh and muscle above her hips. 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 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 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 girls as well. Put this one and the girl with the arrow in her belly on the cart. Tell the one with the arrow in her shoulder to walk. Kill the fat bloke; he won’t fetch a good price.”

As Ulf turned to carry out his orders, I looked around again to make sure we hadn’t missed any of the wounded. The girl Rolf had gutted was still alive somehow. She was on her back, the gaping rent in her stomach visible even at this distance. Most of her guts were strung out past her feet and between her legs, but her hands 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 ready to go. All the loot and wounded had been loaded onto carts and the captured villagers were all tied together. I never burned villages; the smoke attracted unwanted attention and we could not outrun any pursuit.

“Move out.”

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