Chapter 8: Cleaning House
From the steps of the warrior hall, I watched a red-headed girl writhe until her body heaved and her struggle ceased. It was too bad really—from where I stood, the girl looked very pretty. Well, no sense crying over spilt milk.
Even with the help of the townsfolk, the task of clearing the town was colossal. I estimated there were at least 250 dead and wounded spread throughout the town and the surrounding fields, with just under fifty Zavalan adults and teens healthy enough to move them. Between the injured, my perimeter archers, and those busy with other tasks, only forty of my warriors would be able to guard and assist them.
Still, Sigurd seemed to have things well in hand. He stood with some of my junior warchiefs and organized teams of warriors. Some would escort the Zavalan volunteers—two of my warriors for every four Zavalans (no warrior went alone to discourage a sneak attack). Other warriors were tasked with sorting the wounded from the dead. It would take time, and I didn’t like micro-managing my subordinate warchiefs. I decided instead to go inspect my archers on the perimeter.
As I started to head out of the square, I spotted Geir amongst the warriors waiting to guard the Zavalan work details. He stood and saluted as I approached.
“Geir, I saw a bit of your duel in the square. I’m surprised you had such trouble with such a young opponent.”
Geir bowed his head slightly in embarrassment. “My Lord, I was fortunate to come away from that encounter with my life. Hjalmar and Idar were both felled by her hand. Luckily for me, Idar managed to wound her enough to slow her down.”
I paused, surprised that so small a warrior could have killed two accomplished veterans.
“I believe this qualifies her as villein,” said Geir.
“If what you say is true, then I agree,” I replied, “She’s still alive then I take it?”
Geir nodded, pointing a short distance away. There were dozens of bodies in the direction he was pointing, but only one set of eyes looked our way. Their owner, a girl slathered in blood, was no doubt the warrioress of whom Geir spoke.
“Bring her to Sigrid in the manor house and instruct her to care for the girl as one of our own.”
Geir saluted and hurried off. Business concluded, I left the square.
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Tessa had never seen someone throw an axe on purpose, let alone one specifically designed to be thrown. Yet the small, blood-encrusted axe lying beside her must have come from somewhere, and Tessa was reasonably sure it didn’t appear there by magic.
Tessa was twenty-one summers old, and as a result, she was no longer obligated to attend warrior training. Still, when unknown raiders had attacked the town, Tessa wanted to do her part to defend it. Tessa’s hut was close to the square and she had run straight there when the first arrows started to fall. She’d grabbed her hunting bow and a quiver of arrows, then ran back to the square to join in the defense. She was not alone. Dozens of others ran with her, armed with everything from spears to kitchen knives.
She arrived just in time to witness the wave of attackers crash right through the Zavalan spear wall. The savage butchery of friends and family took the fight out of the Zavalans and most turned tail to flee. Tessa however drew and notched an arrow, determined to get revenge.
The attackers now turned their attention to pursuing the would-be Zavalan reinforcements. Tessa could see exhilaration in their faces as they charged towards her. She would make them pay for their arrogance. She drew back and tried to take aim at a barrel-chested bloke with a big sword, but panicked townsfolk kept getting in the way. William the Blacksmith, a massive man half-a-head taller than and half again as wide as anyone else in the village, ran in front, obscuring her view of the enemy. He ran past her and suddenly Tessa had a clear shot. She drew back then realized that the enemy was almost right on top of her! Panicked, she sent the arrow high. She turned quickly and sprinted away.
Unfortunately, her arrow immediately made her a high-priority target for the attackers. Tessa only made it a few steps before something big hit her in the back. The impact knocked her forward and she skidded across the ground on her belly. Pain unlike anything she’d ever felt lanced between her shoulder blades, and a screech escaped her lips. A small hatchet clattered to the dirt beside her, its head stained with her blood.
Tessa lay there and watched as the raiders continued carving a path through the town. Later, she watched as they returned guarding captured townsfolk. Her back stung horribly and she could see the blood dribbling down her flank, but she was pretty sure the wound wasn’t fatal. She wiggled her arms and legs a little to make sure they still worked and was relieved to find that they did. Still, watching what the attackers were doing to her fellow villagers, she didn’t feel like getting up and drawing their attention just yet.
An enemy raider was inspecting the bodies nearby, slowly working his way in Tessa’s direction. Occasionally, he would jab a body with his spear. Screams often followed.
He must be finishing off the wounded, thought Tessa.
Tessa closed her eyes and tried her best to look dead. She breathed as shallowly as possible, trying her best to control the rise and fall of her chest. Boots thumped in the dirt next to her. Tessa yelped and began to quiver in fear.
Rough hands grabbed her and flipped her onto her back. Tessa cried out in fear as sunlight glinted off the tip of his leveled spear. She closed her eyes and screamed, expecting a spearhead to crunch through her chest.
Tessa kept screaming until she was out of breath. She inhaled to scream again then paused. Where was the impact of an object striking a fatal blow? Where was the searing pain? Confused, she blinked open her eyes. The raider was standing over her, gesturing at someone else then pointing at her. His spear was held upright, not in a position to strike a fatal blow.
Smooth hands slipped between her arms and hauled her into a sitting position. She looked over and recognized Martha, the miller’s wife. Martha hauled Tessa to her feet and supported Tessa’s weight by draping one of Tessa’s arms over her shoulders. Feeling suddenly light-headed, Tessa stumbled.
“Easy now, you’re alright, you’re alright,” said Martha soothingly. Martha supported Tessa over to where the other wounded were being bandaged.
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It had not yet reached midday when I completed my inspection of the perimeter. Luckily, it had proved uneventful. I spoke with Ulf, who commanded the archers on the perimeter, and Inger, who was with Torstein near the beach. Both reported a shortage of arrows, a large number of kills, and zero escapes. Good news as far as I was concerned except for the shortage of arrows.
Sigurd estimated it would take at least until midday to clear the square. Clearing the streets and the houses and the fields would take many more hours. The wounded were laid out in the square opposite the barracks hall. Nobody—myself included—knew where to bury all the bodies. In the end, I decided that the best course of action would be to burn them all. The empty grain silos west of the beach seemed like a good place. For now though, the dead were piled up in the square while the work parties filtered through the town searching for wounded.
Sigrid, my elder healer, was tending to our own wounded in the former manor house. Twenty-four of my warriors had received major injuries in the fighting. Five had non-fatal injuries and would easily survive, barring infection. Tollak had lost a hand and Gudleif’s arm was broken so badly that it would have to be taken. They would probably survive, but neither would fight again. Eight of my warriors were dead with three more, including Aarik Olufson, en route to join them.
Sigrid was concentrating her efforts on the remaining six injured. Hroaldr’s stab wound was very deep and had penetrated his insides. Sigrid had been forced to cut his belly open in order to reach and sew up the torn intestines. An arrow had pierced Grida’s sternum as she pursued the Zavalans fleeing the square. Blood was leaking slowly from her mouth and Sigrid could not identify the internal injury causing it. A woman had managed to slice open Asbjorn’s neck with a knife as he’d struggled to subdue her. His blood loss was severe and he now lay unconscious.
I gave what comfort I could, whispering words about their courage and honor. A small gesture to be sure, but I owed nothing less to those who had risked their lives on my order. There were two heavily-bandaged girls sleeping at the far end, but I ignored them for now. Sigrid said there was nothing else she could do right now for my warriors, and together we moved to where the Zavalan wounded were gathered.
As leader of this attack, all the loot—including any captives—belonged to me. As such, I alone reserved the right to decide the fate of any captive. Practically speaking of course my warriors had wide discretion to take action against any captives as they deemed necessary. However, I preferred to exercise my exclusive right as ruler whenever I could. Shortly after the unification of the Clans I had the privilege of speaking to King Hrothgar. He said that subjects live through the generosity of their ruler, and only the ruler can order his subjects to die. Thus, a true ruler controls both life and death.
I was struck by his words and sought to abide by them ever since. In every raid there were inevitably captives with severe injuries, some so severe that they would probably be fatal or maim the captive for life and some that might be survivable. The decision on whether or not to spend precious time and resources trying to save them was mine and mine alone.
Sigurd spotted us approaching and weaved his way through the rows of wounded towards us. He inquired briefly as to the status of our own casualties then moved on to the business at hand.
“My Lord, we’ve recovered over one hundred and forty bodies in the square so far. There are another forty or fifty still out there. I estimate another hour or so before we can start moving on to those in the streets and houses. An unusually high proportion are dead. Normally, our arrows would have simply wounded most of the enemy. However, many of those hit by our arrows were trampled by the ensuing stampede.” Sigurd indicated a nearby stack of bodies. Even at a distance, I could identify a large number of bodies with limbs and heads at impossible angles.
“There are about eighty-five dead so far, though I expect that number to keep rising. Most of the wounded here are critically injured and probably won’t survive. In a way though that’s a good thing; we’re having trouble finding enough bandages.”
I frowned. More bad news. This raid was becoming less profitable by the minute.
Closest to us lay a trio of pre-teen girls. None of them looked older than twelve or thirteen. A single arrow had pierced each of their adolescent bodies. The first girl had shoulder-length brown hair and nicely-budding breasts. But her most striking features were the arrow just under her ribs, the blood that covered her chin, and the sightless way her eyes stared across the square. Sigurd spotted it as well and signaled for the body to be removed.
The second girl was naked with small, high breasts, erect nipples, and a shaved pussy. Her privates and thighs were covered in blood from the arrow just above her crotch. She moaned and wriggled weakly as Gitte, one of my newest shield maidens, slowly extracted the arrow. Blood flowed steadily from the hole as Gitte extracted the arrow. Calmly, she set it aside and began bandaging the wound.
As a warrior culture, Viking warriors were intimately familiar with battlefield wounds. The veterans in my host had learned basic battlefield healing out of necessity during the Clan Wars, where high attrition forced small numbers of survivors to care for vast numbers of wounded. The ability to extract arrows, set bones, and bind wounds quickly after a battle had preserved many lives. I was glad those skills were being disseminated to the new blood. Having a large number of relatively skilled healers made cleanup situations like this much easier.
Gitte looked up briefly as we stood by observing her work.
“I’ll get to her next,” she said, indicating the third girl.
The third girl was a redhead with a boyish figure and shoulder-length hair. She lay quietly on her back, her hands cupped around the shaft in her belly in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. She actually appeared to have done a decent job doing so; dried blood caked her belly, but only a small rivulet of fresh blood leaked from the wound. She was looking down her body at us, regarding Sigurd, Sigrid, and I dispassionately. This young girl was clearly too tough for a mere bellyshot, but the bloody spittle speckled across her breasts spoke to possible internal injuries.
“Sigrid, take a look at her. She looks strong enough to survive that injury, and I want no complications.”
Sigrid nodded and moved to the redhead’s side. Kneeling down and placing her hand on the girl’s shoulder, Sigrid spoke calmly to her. The redhead nodded and braced herself for what she knew would be a painful procedure. Carefully, Sigrid moved the girl’s hands away from the wound. The flesh was puckered and swollen beneath a layer of caked blood. The redhead screwed her eyes shut and whimpered as Sigrid used a small, razor-sharp knife to cut the flesh away from the buried arrowhead. Two goose quills were inserted around the arrowhead. The girl cried out as Sigrid gently pulled out the arrow. Fresh blood welled up in the hole. Another cry escaped from between gritted teeth as Sigrid explored the girl’s innards with two fingers. Sigrid extracted her fingers then stood as the girl lay panting. Gitte had finished binding the second girl’s wounds and she moved now to bandage the redhead’s belly.
“There’s some internal bruising and small cuts to the intestines, but nothing that won’t heal with time. She’s not out of the woods yet, but she’ll be able to tough it out,” said Sigrid.
“Good. I need somebody I can sell to make some damn money,” I grumbled.
We moved on to the next set of bodies. The next hour passed by in a morass of torn flesh, broken bones, blood, bile, and shit. I walked down long rows of men and women pierced by arrows, trampled by their fellow villagers, and cleaved by swords and axes. My own warriors and some of the villagers moved around treating the wounded. Others brought in bandages looted from throughout the town.
“What is this shit?” I demanded. Sigrid, Sigurd, and I had come upon Dagr, who was attempting to treat a man whose guts were hanging out all over the place. It was miraculous that the man was still alive.
Dagr stood and saluted.
“My Lord, I am treating the wounded and…”
“Shut the hell up and stop wasting your time, man. There is no way he survives that wound!” I yelled, drawing my sword. With a quick lunge, I stabbed the disemboweled man in the chest, rendering all of Dagr’s treatment irrelevant. Dagr always had been a bit slow.
“Uh, of course my Lord,” stammered Dagr. “What of the other one?” he said, indicating a woman in her young twenties lying next to the man I had just killed. She too had been disemboweled by a horizontal slash across her belly, though only a small portion of her guts were hanging out.
I stood over her and regarded her as one might a piece of meat in the market. She was beautiful but for the gash on her belly, with a pretty face and well-shaped tits. A pity that she now lay like this. Her large, round, eyes stared at the sky, heedless of my presence. I detected a faint whiff of feces, and figured she had shit herself before being moved here.
“Well?” I asked, looking at Sigrid.
Sigrid knelt to examine the wound. Gingerly, she picked up a few of the strands of intestines, inspecting the whole mass thoroughly for cuts. Her assessment was swift.
“The damage is extensive but repairable,” she said, “I might be able to close the wound, but it would take all my attention for an hour. Even then, her chances of surviving would be slim.”
That settled that question. Without hesitation, I jabbed my sword between the woman’s breasts. Her eyes went wide, blinked twice, then rolled up into her skull. Sigurd yelled for workers to carry away the two new corpses.
I turned so I was speaking in the direction of all my warrior-healers. “Warriors!” I shouted. All of them looked up from their tasks and turned towards me. “We only have limited healers and resources. Ensure that those with a chance of survival are being treated first. Dispatch those who are beyond help. Treat the ones with only a slim chance of survival last. Consult with Sigrid and Sigurd as necessary, but I will decide the fate of any borderline cases.”
My warriors responded with a chorus of “We hear and obey” and “Yes my Lord”. They all turned back to their patients, and I moved on to another row of wounded.
One of them in particular caught my eye. She was a girl of maybe sixteen or seventeen with a huge gash running diagonal across her developing chest. She seemed familiar somehow. Then it dawned on me; she was the frightened spear-girl that I had struck down during the charge. I walked over to check up on her.
She was not particularly beautiful by Viking standards, even without the torn and bruised flesh around her wound. Her eyes were screwed shut and her mouth worked slowly to form silent words of pain. Piss stained her linen thong. The gash cut across her relatively small left breast and ended below the ribs on her right side. My slash had broken several of her ribs, but a cut like that should have been much deeper and immediately fatal.
Maybe my swordsmanship is losing its edge, I thought. It was a troubling thought indeed, and I resolved to train much harder.
“What’s the matter, my Lord?” said Gitte. She was a few bodies over treating a young man with a stab wound in his belly. She stood, wiping the blood from her hands. I had to admire her spirit and dedication to treating the wounded.
“Oh, it’s nothing, Gitte. It’s just that I fought this girl in the spear wall and stuck her down,” I replied.
“Would you like me to treat her immediately?” she asked. Unlike in many other cultures, Clan warriors respected their enemies and gave them medical treatment whenever possible.
I thought about the girl at my feet lying wounded by my hands. I thought of our charge against the Zavalan spear wall. I thought of the terrified look in this girl’s eyes and how her fear had petrified her, rendering her incapable of defending herself.
“No, treat her only in the course of your normal rounds.”
Gitte understood my deliberate snub and nodded. Gitte would treat her not as a wolf but as a sheep—as a peasant, not a warrior. She went back to treating the man with the stab wound.
It was just past midday.