A/N Warning: Graphic Violence
"Stand down."
The raiders froze, caught mid-swing, as though the breath had been stolen from their lungs. The torchlight gleamed in Glasán's eyes, his voice carrying the weight of the tide and the pull of the deep.
"You there," he said to a bearded man with a dented helm, "take the roasting spit from the hearth. Push it through your belly."
The man obeyed without hesitation, staggering to the firepit. He seized the long iron spit, still heavy with a half-roasted haunch of venison, and drove it upward beneath his ribs. The meat and his entrails slid together onto the rush-strewn floor. He pitched forward into the embers, sending sparks into the air.
Another raider bared his teeth. Glasán's voice lashed him. "Tear the brooch from your brat and drive it into your eye."
