Chapter 136: Blood Sacrifice
Five days later, at dusk.
Leith border, an unnamed fishing village.
Flames soared into the sky as those stone houses caught fire. Amidst the raging blaze, Icelandic knights and the lord’s personal guards forced the Leith villagers to the ground, binding the thin, malnourished fishermen—clad in simple clothes—with bundles of rope.
Next to those knights stood the Leith nobles dressed in cashmere attire.
That short and obese noble stood before the crowd, translating the Common Tongue into the local dialect twisted by the regional accent,
“Because you have failed to submit enough food and property according to the lord’s decree, I, Sir Bowers, hereby announce that your status as commoners has been revoked.”
“From today onward, all your property is confiscated, and everyone is reduced to slavery. Henceforth, you shall serve only the masters.”
The noble looked down arrogantly at the kneeling people, but as he turned back to face the Icelandic knights, his expression instantly changed to one full of sycophantic smiles.
“Masters, these people are now your slaves,” the noble flattered, “How would you like to arrange them?”
The fully armored knight astride a snow steed glanced at the elders.
“Those who cannot work shall be executed on the spot,” the Icelandic knight said. “Young men will all be sent to the coastal warships to transport supplies. The women will be thrown into the military camps for the soldiers’ use.”
“As you command,” the noble lowered his head.
The fishermen still did not know their fate. They barely understood the standard Common Tongue, and in this remote village, a rarely used dialect had evolved.
They only anxiously stayed close to their families. A few headless corpses lay on the ground—those were the first to resist. After the Icelandic knights severed several heads with their longswords, the fishermen were frightened by the intense stench of blood and the ominous atmosphere.
Most no longer dared to resist and allowed the lord’s personal guards to bind their hands and feet.
To these fishermen, they did not yet understand what becoming slaves meant.
Their world was so small, limited to the village’s small dock and the icy sea beyond, where they fished.
But soon, they would learn. Men would be sent to warships to endlessly haul the loot stolen by the Icelanders, given only the bare minimum of black bread to eat.
Men with robust physiques would be conscripted as war slaves, sent to the battlefield to charge to their deaths. Weaker men wouldn’t even get that chance; they faced only three fates: exhaustion, starvation, or freezing to death.
As for the women sent to the military camps, they were merely “items” for the soldiers to vent on. Once broken, they would be killed and thrown outside the camps—nothing more.
This was war. Not just in this small fishing village, but the same scenes were replaying endlessly around the neighboring small countries.
On the frontlines, in towns captured by force, the same tragedies unfolded.
Whenever a place fell, the soldiers would be granted a brief respite. Their superiors allowed them to loot the town and do whatever they wished.
Soldiers and armies were nothing more than larger-scale robbers and criminals.
Only those nobles who submitted in advance to the Icelanders could barely escape disaster, but they still had to hand over their properties and obey the Icelanders’ commands.
When the Icelandic knight turned away, Sir Bowers, who had originally smiled, showed a flash of displeasure in his eyes, but it vanished instantly. When talking to the Icelandic knight, he always wore that flattering smile.
“Go, pick out all the old people who can’t move, and kill them right here,” Sir Bowers ordered his subordinates.
The poorly equipped soldiers quickly selected the elderly from the crowd.
There weren’t many, only seven or eight, since in such a poor place, the average lifespan was short.
The soldiers forced these elders to the ground one by one, pressing their heads with their feet, silently raising their butcher knives.
The fishermen finally realized their fate; no one would have a good outcome.
Before winter, they had already paid their annual fish tax to the lord. The village dock officially belonged to Sir Bowers; to use that dock, they had to pay annual fees.
Besides this, the village chief, under the lord’s orders, supervised the dock.
Whenever someone went to sea and returned with fish, one fish out of every ten had to be handed over to the lord.
There was a minimum quota every year, and if the fish tax was not met by the end of autumn, the villagers had to collectively make up the shortfall.
After paying the harsh fish tax, the fishermen barely had enough food to survive the winter.
But three days ago, the taxation order demanded three years’ worth of fish taxes, requiring payment in coins or other wealth if fish were insufficient.
In winter, the icy sea froze over, making fishing impossible.
Who still had food to pay?
After handing over their food, what would they eat this winter?
They were essentially being sentenced to death. When the elders were pressed headfirst into the snow, everyone realized these people wanted nothing less than their lives.
Several young men suddenly stood up and charged at the soldiers executing the orders.
Among those elders were their grandfathers and grandmothers—family.
If they did not resist, their sisters, children, and parents would face a tragic fate.
Their hands were tied behind their backs, so they could only use their shoulders to push the soldiers away.
But what use was that? The young men had only brute strength and passionate fury; they were barely fed—how could they stand against the lord’s soldiers?
In just two or three moves, they were pinned to the ground by the soldiers.
“Kill these few as well,” Sir Bowers ordered lightly. “Anyone else wants to resist, I’ll give you a chance to stand up and join them!”
The villagers lowered their heads and looked away, afraid to meet Sir Bowers’ gaze or look at the blood-stained butcher knives.
A few children, not yet five years old, cried out in fear. Sir Bowers grew angry at their dirty faces and slapped them hard across their emaciated cheeks.
“Did I tell you to cry? Cry again, and I’ll slaughter you all!”
The children trembled, holding back their tears. Sir Bowers coldly glared at the soldiers watching the scene and shouted, “What are you still looking at? Didn’t I tell you to do your job?!”
The soldiers immediately returned to their positions and raised their butcher knives again.
But at that moment, the sound of hooves echoed in the twilight.
On the distant snowy plains, pale bone beasts galloped beneath the giant red sun.
A heavy sleigh, carrying an indescribable cargo, arrived here.
Sir Bowers suddenly felt a chill in his heart. He saw the pale skeletons atop the snow, raising their sword knives high.
It was like a signal. In an instant, ice pillars shot up from the snow, and sprays of blood burst from the chests of those holding butcher knives.
Warm blood splattered onto the obese noble’s face. The sharp ice pillars stained red with fresh blood glistened like rubies.
“Enemy attack!” the Icelandic knight shouted loudly.
Sir Bowers felt the noisy sounds vanish; his ears became extremely quiet. The world spun wildly.
No—it wasn’t the world spinning, but his own head.
He saw those crimson eyes. An angry young man picked up a butcher knife from the ground, dripping with Sir Bowers’ own blood.