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- Feb 7, 2009
The off-balance roll of old, ill-kept wagon wheels were the only sound amid a somber moment, a grim silence that added punctuation to the air after the event of the day. They rattled some as they traversed over a slightly uneven dirt road, at times through a bit of yet to dry mud from yesterday's rain. It was the afternoon now, that place between afternoon and evening, and behind the large cart, in the growing distance, plumes of smoke could still be seen billowing in the air. Much closer than that was the fresh batch of slaves marching forward, a man, a Viking warrior every few feet on either side of the line to keep things in check. Some sobbed, understandably; it was that and the roll of the wheels that created the din as each person involved put one foot in front of the other, leaving behind a sacked town for something far different ahead.
Some called these men 'barbarians.' Others 'savages.' Others it was a social taboo to even mention their proper name, while others still would say it just to spit right after, or proclaim to their friends that should such men ever show up on their doorstep one day, they'd be the one to give them a what-for. But in truth, Vikings were known far and wide as near-untouchable warriors, as men who struck fear in all they charged against and whose on-field ferocity was mirrored by their gratuitous passion in several other aspects of life. They'd come to this town several days ago, these nomad warriors, sending a small group of token messagers to speak with Bristam's mayor and officials on a token agreement. One tenth of their wealth, one tenth of their food stores, one tenth of their of-age women, to be chosen by the men, and an overall change to worship Odin and embrace the Viking culture. The town would have been not only allowed to exist, the rest of the people happy in their new lives, but would have found their lives enriched and received protection from all others who would do them harm.
'We can protect ourselves,' the Mayor had said, spurning the offer immediately.
Three days had been given to pass, with no change. Today, on the fourth, the Viking warriors had attacked early. 'We can protect ourselves'... The town had been sacked by noon.
Now they'd get everything. Those who weren't slain in the fighting were rounded up, stripped down to nothing, and found themselves now in a march back to where the warriors had been making camp, about two miles away. Barefoot, getting more and more covered in dust and filth with every few steps, it was mostly of-age women that had been spared, children and the old being too much to care for, and men being too likely to resist even long after they'd lost. Any with development in their breasts or hair about their loins were considered old enough, with some estimated as young as fifteen, others well into thirties and forties, marching in a line on that long dirt road. Rough hemp rope was wrapped around each woman's waist, around her wrists in front of her, then went on both to the next person in front and behind. Somewhere between sixty to eighty in all, half would be alive to see tomorrow. Maybe thirty would still live a week from now. Those twenty or thirty, though, would find themselves integrated into their conqueror's society, many for whoring and breeding purposes, others if they proved agreeable servants or had some sort of talent in entertainment. Brown and black-haired, red or honey wheat, they were tall or short, teenager or late twenties, some average looking, some immensely pretty. Fair-skinned English girls, this was their life now. The encampment was coming up in the distance, maybe a third of a mile now or so.
What's more, the wagon in front of them all wasn't even the Vikings', originally. It had come from the town. The supplies in the bed on the back had come from the town, as had the horses pulling it too. As did other carts that would surely come along with more supplies. As did...the naked women, as did everything. As did everything now. They'd chosen to fight and had been conquered; everything belonged to these men now.
Some called these men 'barbarians.' Others 'savages.' Others it was a social taboo to even mention their proper name, while others still would say it just to spit right after, or proclaim to their friends that should such men ever show up on their doorstep one day, they'd be the one to give them a what-for. But in truth, Vikings were known far and wide as near-untouchable warriors, as men who struck fear in all they charged against and whose on-field ferocity was mirrored by their gratuitous passion in several other aspects of life. They'd come to this town several days ago, these nomad warriors, sending a small group of token messagers to speak with Bristam's mayor and officials on a token agreement. One tenth of their wealth, one tenth of their food stores, one tenth of their of-age women, to be chosen by the men, and an overall change to worship Odin and embrace the Viking culture. The town would have been not only allowed to exist, the rest of the people happy in their new lives, but would have found their lives enriched and received protection from all others who would do them harm.
'We can protect ourselves,' the Mayor had said, spurning the offer immediately.
Three days had been given to pass, with no change. Today, on the fourth, the Viking warriors had attacked early. 'We can protect ourselves'... The town had been sacked by noon.
Now they'd get everything. Those who weren't slain in the fighting were rounded up, stripped down to nothing, and found themselves now in a march back to where the warriors had been making camp, about two miles away. Barefoot, getting more and more covered in dust and filth with every few steps, it was mostly of-age women that had been spared, children and the old being too much to care for, and men being too likely to resist even long after they'd lost. Any with development in their breasts or hair about their loins were considered old enough, with some estimated as young as fifteen, others well into thirties and forties, marching in a line on that long dirt road. Rough hemp rope was wrapped around each woman's waist, around her wrists in front of her, then went on both to the next person in front and behind. Somewhere between sixty to eighty in all, half would be alive to see tomorrow. Maybe thirty would still live a week from now. Those twenty or thirty, though, would find themselves integrated into their conqueror's society, many for whoring and breeding purposes, others if they proved agreeable servants or had some sort of talent in entertainment. Brown and black-haired, red or honey wheat, they were tall or short, teenager or late twenties, some average looking, some immensely pretty. Fair-skinned English girls, this was their life now. The encampment was coming up in the distance, maybe a third of a mile now or so.
What's more, the wagon in front of them all wasn't even the Vikings', originally. It had come from the town. The supplies in the bed on the back had come from the town, as had the horses pulling it too. As did other carts that would surely come along with more supplies. As did...the naked women, as did everything. As did everything now. They'd chosen to fight and had been conquered; everything belonged to these men now.
