The Magus quoted grimly, ‘Am I no’ a bonny fighter?’ He helped Draca to her feet and gave her back her blood-wet short sword. ‘Now, lady, time to let your blade drink deep of revenge!’ Draca howled her grief and her rage in a terrible, ear-splitting scream of fury. No more the balletic swordswoman but the stark berserker, wild with battle-frenzy, sword gripped tight in both hands doing terrible execution on the enemy. A cheeky and overconfident little Haremguard was eviscerated at a slash, flopping onto her knees as blood gushed out from her gashed belly, staining her gauze pants scarlet as her entrails slid out. Two Nubians were hacked in the chest, gold chainmail severed, breasts ripped like ripe peaches. In her battle-fury a red mist enveloped the tall hitgirl and she was unaware of her companion, the Magus, using ‘Grey Calum’, his basket-hilted broadsword, and his dirk to cut down any threats to the screaming and slashing demented bitch that was Draca.

The Hailstonez were now taking the place of the depleted Wolfslutz, their bare, painted bodies glossy with sweat, their braids of hair flying from under silver helmets as they stabbed their way to the opposite end of the bridge. Many a Haremguard was cut open and then kicked contemptuously by a hide-booted foot over the edge and into a spiral of lung-bursting screams down, down, down into the threshing sea. Three Hail chicks were sweeping along the bridge together as Draca stopped, near exhausted by fury, frenzy and grief. The middle babe stabbed high and hard, taking a Haremguard just below the chin, her sword tip slitting deep in soft flesh. The guard staggered back, voiceless, mouth opening and closing noiselessly apart from the gargles of blood that bubbled on her twisted lips. The chick on the left brought her sword down in a savage arc that tore apart her Haremguard from bra to waistband, spilling her guts on the logs as she dropped in a heaving heap of convulsing terror, choking out her screams. On the right a short sword pushed hard into the ribcage of the Haremguard just under her right boob in its scarlet satin cradle. Rasping from a punctured and collapsing lung, the guard moaned out, ‘Nooooo! Ungghhhh……I’m slit, I’m fuckin’ slit….’as she clutched her bloody wound. Her victrix laughed and kicked her hard with her firm hide boot. The gauze-pantied babe lurched sideways and slipped to her knees, her upper body hanging perilously over the edge. She was desperately attempting to keep her balance and hold in the trickling blood that was coursing down her tummy when the Hailchick booted her pretty butt hard. The Haremguard squealed out ‘You cunt!!’ as she pitched head first into the windswept air, turbulent with the smell of salt water and seaweed, diving down to her death below. A raging Nubian warbabe lunged her spear and took the laughing Hailchick in between her shapely shoulder blades. The girl stood, arms flung wide as the steel spear-head pierced her lung, the blood leaping from her white-painted lips. Now she writhed like an insect on a pin, her hands clawing at her fabulous bare breasts, smearing sweat and warpaint as the steel drove deeper inside her chest. With a final gurgle of blood and mucus in her throat she sagged to her knees and onto her left side, the spear shaft sticking still from her pale back. Her killer was turned on by her two comrades: one blow up between the legs cut through golden chainmail and tender flesh; one from behind slit into the soft flesh below the ribcage. The black girl’s howl of agony echoed in the eerie silence on the bridge: she was the final victim and none of her comrades could hear her suffering, let alone come to her aid. She doubled over, her long black fingers crammed between her slinky thighs trying to keep in the blood that was drooling from her pussy and splashing noisily onto the logs at her feet. Bent double, her helm fell off and all could see the sheer pain in her wide, staring eyes, the spasms of her mouth and the twitching of her head from side to side. She was in complete desperation, short, high-pitched shrieks bursting from her grotesquely tortured gold-painted lips. Eyes blinded by sweat and filmed with the haze of bitter agony, she stumbled over a dead Satanika and slipped in a pool of the bitch’s gore. Backwards she went, the last to fall from the bridge, still doubled over, still holding tight to her torn twat, dropping like a black bomb through the empty and salt-stinging air to the heaving waves below her, there to join so many of the brave young beauties who had fought that day, as food for the fish and crabs.

Draca looked around at the shambles on the bridge: tangled bodies crouched or sprawled or hunched all over the sticky, blood-slicked logs. Arrows, spears, scimitars, swords stuck from ripped flesh. Some chicks were faceless automata in their helmets, like run-down robots. Others showed glazed eyes and sagging jaws. Heads lolled limply, arms and legs were flung wide or hands still clung desperately to death-wounds that spilled slippery blood on the logs. Some poor bitches still quivered with the last drops of young lives: a Satanika archer, her long braided hair cascading down her back over the spear that jutted from he shoulder-blades moaned as she tried to tug it from her butchered body; a Haremguard lay, propped against three dead Nubians piled in heap, riddled with arrows and whimpered as she stared uncomprehendingly at the short sword sticking from her navel. She writhed twice in her last pain and her blue gauze pants stained darker as she pissed them in her death-throes.

‘Fling all of them to the fishes, friend and foe,’ she said in a low, flat tone. She walked unsteadily back to where Lupa lay, skewered by the Nubian spear. Tenderly she held her under the arms, lifted her up and stood rock-steady, her lover’s gorgeous long legs hanging limply to one side, her head lolling vacant-eyed at the other. Tears ran down Draca’s sweat-stained face as she slowly walked to the edge of the bridge. ‘Farewell, Lupa my love…..till we meet in Valhalla….’ With a sob she lowered her arms and the dead Wolfslut dropped straight and speedily into her sea-grave. Draca turned, ignored the survivors who were toppling the dead over the edges with little or no ceremony and walked straight past the Magus onto Karramanneh’s island. ‘Some fucker is going to pay for this.’ Her voice was low and murderous. The Magus sheathed his sword and dirk and put a hand on her shivering bare shoulder. ‘Let’s go and get the account ready, then, my dear.’