By the time they had fully penetrated the town, there seemed to be no resistance at all. Many of the leathers had dismounted their horses for the simple reason that they could cover more ground without them. This was no battlefield, where the high ground would bring a significant advantage. It was simply a matter of kicking in doors and killing the contents inside. Grown men, women, infants, dogs; it made no difference. In order for the leathers to get paid, everything needed to die.
The first wave, still mounted, charged clear through the town with reckless abandon. There was no fear of retaliation or even of some peasant getting off a lucky shot. Their plan was to clear the way and strike down any mounted defense that happened to have been quickly assembled. There was none to speak of. The clopping sounds of horseshoes cracking against the stone roads cascaded in all directions. As Morcel galloped down street after street with his axe in hand, ready to strike anything that moved, a dark feeling crept over him.
This was going to be worse than he thought. There was no militia coming out to deal with this threat. They undoubtedly had made their presence known by now. He knew from countless battles that this was a total sign of submission. Everyone was hiding and they would have to go door to door killing families in their own living rooms. Let the bloodthirsty have their fun; I have no taste for killing infants.
Morcel had known the whole time that it might come to this; he’d just hoped that it wouldn’t. He didn’t mind the helpless feeling of being completely outnumbered with certain doom looming, but strangely this was gut-wrenching to him.
Dismounting his horse, he leaned against a street lantern on the side of the road and watched the impending chaos erupt all around him. Door after door was being smashed in as the savages ran into homes, followed by the chaotic screams from the families inside. Many did not even draw their swords as they entered, clearly having no fear of the trembling souls inside.
He watched as entire families were pulled into the street and killed in front of one another. Some of the leathers went about it in a swift, businesslike fashion, hacking through entire families like cutting down weeds in a yard; showing no emotion at all, just wanting to get this done and gather their coin.
Others rather enjoyed the game as they made family members choose who would die first. Of course, the twisted request was always followed by incoherent wailing and screaming, finally ending with the gurgling sounds of slashed throats. They never let it play out too long for fear they would miss out on other victims, acting like greedy children fighting over candy at a festival even though they could not even finish what they had already collected.
The whole thing felt like a dream as he walked down the street, seeing death on every corner. Half-naked women were dragged along by their hair, while others were thrown from second-story windows. Frightened men swung shovels at their would-be attackers while the leathers just laughed, easily dodging the amateur attacks.
It seemed odd to Morcel how similar all the executions were; every person pleading and begging for their lives with no more hope than to buy themselves a few more seconds in this world. With only a few exceptions, they didn’t even try to fight back! The mind of a warrior simply could not understand that.
The town was quite small, and he could see that most of the doors had been kicked in by now. I just want this over with. I won’t take any pay. I just want to get back home. Just then, in an alley behind the local blacksmith’s shop, a sound caught his attention. Above all the anguished sounds echoing through the burning town, he somehow heard the blood-curdling screams of a child. Racing into the alley, the scene before him sent a tidal wave of emotion through him.
There was a young boy no older than twelve bent completely naked over a broken bench with two leathers holding him down. A third was standing behind them with what appeared to be the boy’s older sister wrapped in a tight bear hug. The fat, bearded man kept lifting her head back as he urged her to watch.
Thrashing wildly, the young girl of sixteen or so screeched at the top of her lungs. “Let him go! By the Gods, let him go!” The horror in her eyes seemed to go beyond the fear of her own death. Morcel followed her horrified gaze back to the boy, and could hardly believe his own eyes.
The first leather, a thin man with a long, pointed beard and oversized black hat pinned the head and shoulders of the boy to the bench while the other, even thinner man continued to push the handle of his dagger deep inside him. The child, no longer screaming, looked up at Morcel with a contorted expression as his mouth hung wide open. It was unclear whether he had no air left in his lungs to scream with or if the deformed look with his eyes rolled back into his head was simply from shock.