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The slave-boy’s words do garner a reaction from them, much to the indignation of the silken-robed man. The group of a half-dozen warriors step back and shoulder their spears, eyeing the situation warily. But that still leaves at least a dozen more mercenaries standing their ground, if only because none of them appear to understand exactly what is going on. The boldest of them, a Langlishman by your reckoning, and perhaps too keen to show his employer that his coin is being earned, steps in the path of the foremost Norsikaan with a sneer.
<span class="mu-g"><span class="mu-i">“Siamo più numerosi di te, ora corri o ti daremo una lez-”</span></span> The mercenary puts his hand on the hilt of his sword, perhaps another act of bravado. It is the last thing the fool ever does.
What follows next in the short span of a few seconds can only be described as slaughter. Odds of two-to-one, three-to-one, it is of no moment. The Norsikaan cohort moves with a vicious speed that belies their size and strength, each unstoppable cleave of their longaxes parting armour, flesh, muscle and bone with ease. Each swing takes a life, with all the inevitability of death itself collecting an overdue debt. It is the most brutal display of sheer butchery you have ever witnessed, half-a-dozen men reduced to bloody chunks and bisected meat in as many seconds.
<span class="mu-i"><span class="mu-b">“Mér leiðist!”</span></span> One of the Norsikaans exasperates as the barking warcries and hooting laughter of his comrades subsides. <span class="mu-b"><span class="mu-i">“ Ekki einn hundur meðal þessa hóps er verðugur tíma minn! Hvernig lætur þú guðina heyra nafn þitt með svona aumkunarverðum óvinum?”</span></span>
There are no screams of the wounded, only the shocked cries of the onlooking crowd and panicked shouts of the mercenaries smart enough to flee at the first sign of violence. The only ones remaining are the impassive spear wielders, keeping a respectful distance. In the centre of it all, covered in the gore of the recently slain, stands the slave-boy and employer of the mercenary are frozen in shock. Cheap cloth and expensive silk both look much the same when drenched in blood.
<span class="mu-b"><span class="mu-i">“Þunnt val, að vísu. Mér finnst þessi lofa góðu.”</span></span> Another Norsikaan facing you unclasps his chainmail faceguard to scratch an eyepatch, his single remaining eye scrutinising you. <span class="mu-b"><span class="mu-i">“Það gæti jafnvel þurft tvær sveiflur af öxi til að velta þessu tré, Einari Norn Sár.”</span></span>
<span class="mu-i"><span class="mu-b">“Segirðu ekki?"</span></span> The verbose red-haired giant turns at the barking words of his countryman, and approaches you with his bloody axe still slung over his shoulder. He seems to like what he sees. <span class="mu-i"><span class="mu-b">“Við frosið nornarauga, Baldur Fjarsyn, getur verið að þú hafir rétt fyrir þér. Kannski einhver íþrótt eftir allt saman! Hæ, Hálfdan! Hafa hrafnar þínir hvíslað nafn þessa manns í draumum þínum?"</span></span>
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