Axan threw back his wolfskin cloak, whirled his sword above his head and leapt from the farship, roaring a battle cry.
Wheat before the scythe, they fell, contemptible peasants, as defenseless as the crops they grew. After, Axan joined the others making revel in the village with the women of the men they had slain and ample supplies of ale.
He fell asleep thinking life was good.
The sun rose but he did not stir. Throat cut in his drunken sleep, like the rest. The women washed the blood from their hands before going to bury their own beloved dead.