Shrieks of dread-filled women were carried on the wind when the dragon heads of the Northmen’s long ships emerged from the mist. ‘duman, buğ, duman!’ an old fisherman cried out before Sigurd kicked him in the chest, having him roll over in the muddy riverbank. As the man doubled up, he was again introduced to the leather boot of the red-haired warrior and as the elder sprawled about, it was Heimkell who broke his neck with the weight of his painted round-shield. ‘Bastards, these Easterlings..’ he commented. ‘A well-travelled man once told me, they eat their own children. Abominable.’ Þorgeirr offered.
Marching into the village was a band of thirty to fifty Northmen, brave enough to sail the rivers to the east. At the village centre a courageous few men formed a shieldwall with hope to stop these raiders. ‘Dogs have courage, it’s always been so.’ A Dalish man laughed, and the Northmen had formed their own shieldwall facing theirs, but this one two men deep and longer. ‘You don’t look like traders!’ a dark-skinned man exclaimed in Westron. But there was no reply. ‘What do you want here?’ the man demanded. There was no fear in his voice. His chest swelled beneath his tunic and his eyes narrowed as he assessed the man facing him. ‘Go now and leave us in peace. Whoever you are, we have no quarrel with you. Go before blood is spilled.’ Sigurd, his sword still in its scabbard, glanced at the man, then stepped forward. ‘We are traders’ he said in Westron, his accent thick. ‘We have brought furs and much deer antler. If you have the silver for it.’ The Northmen behind him bristled with violence, like hunting dogs themselves straining at the leash. No, not dogs but wolves. Some began thumping their sword pommels against the backs of their shields in a threatening rhythm. Sigurd raised his voice. ‘Will you trade?’ he asked. ‘You don’t look like traders to me,’ the man answered, spitting on the earth between them. ‘Traders have no need of war shields and helmets.’ His men murmured in agreement, taking heart from their leader’s defiance. More village men gathered now, having seen their families safe, and some of them had shields. Sigurd shrugged his broad shoulders and grimaced. ‘Sometimes we are traders,’ he said, ‘sometimes not.’
‘Do no threaten us, heathen!’ boomed an apparent priest or spiritual leader, marching from the village temple. He eyed Sigurd fiercely. ‘Our god knows the blackness of your hearts and he will not let you bring blood to a peaceful place!’ Sigurd exhaled deeply in annoyance, and perhaps sheer sympathy to put these sand-rats out of their misery. He pulled his sword from its scabbard with a rasp. ‘You are demons, and you will be cast to hell!’ another village elder cried out. He gasped for breath, to insult the Northmen further, but an arrow shot from the back of the shieldwall ended his stroke and he fell gargling into the dusty ground. Watching the man fumble with the arrow in his neck, the villagers were pinned to the ground by dread. ‘Drepa þá alla.’ as Sigurd’s command sounded and he took place in the shieldwall that slowly moved forth, spears from the second row shooting out to the right of every man so each was covered. The clash of arms began viciously, loud bangs of axes and swords hitting shields, mail being torn and flesh ripped. Some of the Northmen had gathered torches and began to set alight the thatches of homes, and some ran into the temple to lift as much shimmering gold and silver into their arms as they could. Meanwhile the pathetic resistance of the villagers was being thinned out, many were lying on the ground with their gutropes poured from their bellies, and with nasty wounds wherever the Northmen could strike them. The remaining few fled, and there were only a few wounded amongst the furious giants that came by ship. Sigurd, with blood pouring from his beard, narrowed his eyes at the sight of Heimkell dragging the priest out of the temple. With a thump the man fell down into the dirty slurry of blood and piss. ‘And I curse him, may he never reach his gods.’ Heimkell offered, and he buried half of his seax’s blade into the right eye of his prey. That day, the Northmen left with more riches and with less Easterlings to worry about.
