Bk 1, Ch 2: First Harvest

Chapter 2: First Harvest
There were still a few hours before first light when we arrived in the woods outside the town. I had already sent Baldar and Inger ahead to neutralize the land-ward sentries. They appeared like ghosts out of the darkness. Inger grinned evilly, her hair slick with the blood of her victim, and Baldar flashed me a thumbs up. They had both killed their sentries without a sound.

In the pre-dawn darkness, I hid sixty of my men and women—the bulk of my forces—in the forest three hundred meters north of the town. A smaller force of fifteen men led by Torstein hid behind some small storehouses west of the beach. I gave Inger two more warriors with orders to eliminate the sentries by the river. My remaining warriors set up a loose screen north and east of the town. They were there to catch anyone who tried to escape.

Two young lives were snuffed out as Torstein and Baldar snuck up behind the sentries guarding the storehouses, knives drawn, and moved as one to slit their throats. A petite young woman with full breasts gazed up at her killer as she lay twitching in the earth, frantically trying to stem the fountain of blood pouring from the side of her neck. Her twitching became more sporadic as her eyes rolled up into her head and the flow of blood slowed.

I felt the best chance to strike would be in the pre-dawn light, when all the villagers were half-asleep, and where we could see enough to not get bogged down. Sigurd had recommended a night attack, but I decided against it. We were too deep in unknown territory to risk someone escaping and bringing a pursuit force from a neighboring town.

Before I could give the order, the beating of drums floated up from the town.

An alarm? Have we been discovered? I thought.

But the beats were too slow, too methodical. Alarm beats were more frantic, more irregular. These sounded ceremonial. I gave the signal to hold the attack, then moved closer and climbed a tree to get a better look.

The main road into town ran from its northern end to the square, so I could see the whole show. In the pre-dawn light, I could just barely make out men, women, and children exiting their homes and moving towards the square. It seemed as if the whole town was gathering there. The drums were coming from the steps of a big, raised longhouse on the southern side of the square, probably belonging to the town lord. The crowd parted to let a small group through; an elder or shaman of some sort wielding a staff, followed by a cloaked figure flanked by two white-clad women.

A criminal trial perhaps? Some sort of royal visit? Or maybe a ritual of some sort? I wondered.

The elder took center stage and began shouting to the crowd, gesticulating animatedly with his arms and his staff. The other three stood a ways behind him, the cloaked figure still flanked the two women in white. The crowded murmured reverently after some parts of the elder’s speech, then roared excitedly as the elder turned to the cloaked figure.

On cue, the flanking women removed the cloak, revealing a naked girl whose breasts had barely begun to blossom. Her hands and feet were bound, so she was probably a slave girl of some sort. In the growing light, I noticed a tall wooden post behind the shaman. I knew immediately what was going to happen and I sensed an opportunity.

Quickly, I moved back to my warriors and moved them amongst the stalks of grain about 50 meters from the edge of town. From our slightly elevated ground, we could see everything. Meanwhile, the villagers were distracted as the two white-clad priestesses ritually cleaned and bathed the sacrifice. None turned to look our way. The crowd roared as the victim’s feet and arms were tied to the post, her arms held taut above her head. The shaman reappeared, holding aloft a wickedly curved knife. The crowd’s roars reached a fever pitch.

I could have struck the town then and been easily victorious. Instead I chose to wait. The Gods love blood sacrifice, and I would be remiss in denying them this one.

The shaman sliced his arm though the air, instantly silencing the crowd. The priestesses placed large wooden bowls between the girl’s quivering legs. The shaman turned to the crowd and shouted some words, doubtless some primitive drivel about “the blood of virgins blah, blah, blah”. Didn’t these people know that the Gods only found value in the sacrifice of those valued by the community? Grinning, I thought, We’ll teach them soon enough.

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Kelly watched as the shaman finished his sermon and turned towards her. He held the wickedly curved knife flat to his chest with both hands. She was shaking badly now. Of course, she had known for a while that she was to be sacrificed, but only now did such a fate seem real. Her bowels loosened and piss dribbled down her leg. Tears rolled down her cheeks, more out of shame than fear. She had tried so hard to stay composed, only for her to shame herself at the last moment.

Kelly’s thoughts flashed to the events that had led to this. She’d grown up on a remote farm, the youngest of three living siblings. Her mother had become sickly after giving birth to her and had died four winters later. Life on the farm had become hard after that. It was as if her mother’s death had robbed the land of all its vitality. Her father blamed Kelly for everything and treated her accordingly. Oftentimes the beatings were so bad that Kelly forgot about her hunger. This past winter had been the worst; pests had eaten the harvest, and they had run out of food and money early in the winter. One of Kelly’s older brothers had already succumbed by the time a trader arrived at the farm. Her father eagerly showed Kelly to the trader, and the man’s inspecting gave Kelly the chills. A large sum changed hands and Kelly suddenly found herself bound in the back of the trader’s cart.

The trader took her to the King’s castle many leagues away, where he said she would be sold at auction. Kelly was a virgin and consequently was never abused physically or sexually, for which she was lucky. In fact Kelly thought her new life rather comfortable. Two meals a day, lots of new friends, clean clothes—all things she hadn’t had at home. Life continued like this into spring. Starving for so many years had delayed her womanly development, prompting the trader to wait for her first period before selling her at auction. While none of this made sense to Kelly at the time, it made perfect sense to the trader; only virgins capable of giving birth could be sold at the sacrifice auctions, and the sacrifice auctions paid double or triple the going-rate.

She was sold to another merchant who took her down-river to a town called Zavala, where she was again sold. She had been locked away as the days warmed and the first harvest day approached. Then two priestesses came in, bound her hands and feet, and dressed her in a black robe.

Cold steel now pressed gently against her mound, right above her womanly lips. She recoiled, but the wooden post blocked her escape. Kelly turned her head, willing the blade to go away. The shaman paused, breathed slowly in and out, in and out.

He lunged with a heavy grunt, thrusting the knife in and then jerking up. White-hot pain surged through Kelly’s body, driving the breath from her lungs. Her mind, feverishly seeking the source of the pain, forced her eyes downward. Blood ran freely from the deep slit in her crotch and belly, the knife in her bellybutton standing out like a boulder in a stream.

The elderly shaman was secretly embarrassed by the unclean cut. The blade had caught on her bellybutton and he had been unable to force it up any farther. Age it seemed was taking its toll. He changed his grip on the knife and with a mighty heave, brought it upwards, slowly splitting the muscle of her upper belly.

The agonizing pain brought a scream of pain which echoed up and down the still-silent square. Blood splattered into the bowls at her feet and a few loops of intestine poked their heads out of the deep gash. Kelly gulped down air and the loops wriggled grotesquely. She screamed her agony at the uncaring sky. Then again, and again.

The shaman reached out and with his left hand pulled the right wall of the wound, forcing another scream past her clenched teeth. He reached his right hand in, digging around inside of her until he grabbed the large intestine and pulled it out. Slimy entrails followed and flopped to her feet.

Blood rose in Kelly’s throat, turning a scream into a choking cough, speckling her previously pristine chest with blood. The shaman grabbed a slimy strand hanging from her belly and began pulling them out hand over hand. The bowls had long since been filled, and puce entrails now covered the stage.

Kelly’s body began twitching uncontrollably. Her legs had lost all their strength and only the ropes holding her arms kept her upright. Her bowels let go and her blood-soaked labia parted to allow a stream of yellow fluid. The stream was intersected by a strand of guts on which it trickled down unnoticed into an ocean of blood and gore. Kelly’s father would have been proud that she did not shit herself, even though she had been starved for three days to ensure that didn’t happen. Kelly of course was beyond caring.

Still conscious, her chin resting on her chest, she watched as the shaman pulled and pulled arm after arm of squishy guts out of her belly. Kelly felt a tug in her chest, signaling that at long last there was nothing left to pull. The shaman slid both hands into the gaping cavity of her belly and cut the last strand of intestine where it met the base of the stomach. It slid free, sliding smoothly out of the gaping wound and splashed into the pool of blood on the deck. He left the other end uncut, preferring instead to grab the split end and place it in one of the bowls. Calmly, he scooped up pink wriggling entrails and carefully layered them in the bowl. When it was filled, he took the connected end hanging over the side of the bowl and cut it in the palm of his hand with a small knife with a skill born of long experience.

Kelly’s flat chest heaved and her mouth gaped like a fish. She beheld the gaping cavity of her belly, the two enormous flaps of skin and muscle spread like a hideous flower, the single slimy tube hanging from the bottom of the hole. She beheld the slithering blanket of coiled, rubbery innards that completely hid her feet and covered the bowls and deck, the blood dripping down between the wooden floorboards. Kelly’s blood-starved and traumatized mind could not comprehend who the gore belonged to, and she stared fixedly at it in mixed horror and confusion. Her eyes did not follow as the shaman stood, bowl in hand, and moved towards the crowd.

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