"Look, fire has come! We must strike now while we have the advantage!" Speyr called to Ekkill. It was true. Following the horses came a great wall of flame, setting fire to the majority of the village. A single kite flew above the inferno, and Ekkill squinted his eyes, trying to get a good look at it. I know that bird, he thought.
Just as the archers began to flee the faltering shelter of their homes, Leif sprung around the corner, impaling one with his spear, then proceeded to fly headlong into the mass of confused, terrified, soon-to-be-dead savages. The boy knows no fear, Ekkill thought ashe leaned towards Speyr, being sure that he could hear his words.
"You are right, brother. We move!" Ekkill thundered. Standing upright and turning to face the burning village, Ekkill howled, his cry eerily reminiscent of a wolf. Savages turned away from the young Leif as they heard the cry over the flames. Ekkill pushed forward, his feet pounding the ground like a charging oxen, followed by his herd.
Before the young Leif could be overcome by the fifteen or so savages left alive, the wrath of the Norsemen was upon them, pounding, slicing, impaling, and crushing them into raw meat. There was nowhere to run, no place left to hide, and no hope for victory. Ekkill let himself throw wild overhead swings, the poorly armed, disspirited savages weakly putting up their arms in defense, only to have them removed like a machete slicing through brush. Meaty stumps flailed about, spraying blood into a thick, red mist that hung around the battlefield.
Ekkill's laughter bellowed over the screams of dying men. "Finish them! Victory is ours!"
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