63 The Joy of Killing (1/2)

Sven led his party out of the settlement two New World days later. He needed to attend to some of his Old World needs first, and that had taken a few Old World hours.

It was a cloudy morning, and a spring thunderstorm broke soon after they'd started out on their journey to the copper mine. There was a decent amount of silver ore there as well, and even a few thin veins of gold. It wasn't something to be abandoned.

They plodded on determinedly through the pouring rain, divided into three groups. The three miners walked in the center, carrying big leather sacks filled with supplies: hopefully, on the way back they would be filled with gold and silver ore.

The armed escort flanked the miners, with three soldiers on each side. All six had been hand-picked by Sven, and kitted out with the best equipment available.

They all wore armor: copper and iron scales fixed over thick leather tunics. They all had iron helmets. They all had sheepskin protectors tied over their knees and shins, with the fur on the inside. They all carried round wooden shields, swords or axes, and long, sharp knives. Two of them had throwing spears; two others carried bows.

Sven walked at the head of the group escorting the miners' left flank. Henrik and Ulla followed behind him; to his left was Lasse, a new recruit. Sven had chosen him specifically because back in the Old World, Lasse was a crack archer. But the bow he had in the New World was much, much worse than the Mathews Creed bow he had back home. The arrows were shit, too; badly balanced, they were almost guaranteed to miss at any distance beyond a hundred paces. An arrow from Lasse's Mathews Creed bow in the Old World traveled a hundred meters per second. The arrow from his New World bow - just under fifty.

On top of that, in this rain, the primitive plaited leather bowstrings would be useless. Sven wished he'd thought to get a couple of waterproof bow sheaths made. Yeah, a bowstring could be kept dry rolled up in a bag. But the time needed to string a bow when they came under attack ruled that out. It would be faster and easier just to charge whoever was attacking them.

He had no doubt they'd win in any hand-to-hand combat as long as they weren't outnumbered by more than three to one. All the Viking men and women had been well trained in melee combat. And unlike the bows, the swords and axes they had were excellent weapons. Tough, sharp, and beautifully balanced: Sven could throw his ax accurately enough to slice through a sheep's skull at twenty paces. He carried a sword, too: he was really good with the sword.

It stopped raining in the mid-afternoon, just as they reached the edge of the forest that stretched right up to the mine. The soil under their feet changed from mud to mud with stones. The track they followed began to weave between rises and swells, and towards the evening they had to cross a stream that was just a little too broad to jump across, and ran with a force sufficient to knock a man off his feet.

They set up camp for the night on its other side. Sven forbade lighting a fire; there were some mutters and grumbles. They ate smoked fish and a cold, lumpy gruel of crushed oats and dried diced carrots and bran. All of them sprinkled a pinch of herbs over the food, and some a little more than that. Sven took the first watch along with Lasse, and he heard the muted giggles and whispers start a couple of mind-phases later.

Sven measured time in mind-phases when he was in the New World. Back in the Old World, his success was due to the fact that unlike most people, he'd taken the trouble to get to know his own mind. He knew it naturally switched subjects every ten to fifteen minutes, and he let it run freely while dealing with any task that was at hand. He was a multi-tasker: that was what made him a successful man.

Of course, this time-measurement method was wildly inaccurate by Old World standards that set time in seconds, minutes, and hours. But it was the only right way to measure time in the New World.

In the New World, time was measured by heartbeats, breaths, sunrise and sunset; it was measured by the size of the moon, and the birth and death of life in all of its shapes and forms. In the New World, time wasn't measured in arbitrary units; each moment felt like a piece of life gone by.

When the moon was nearing the tops of the trees, Sven was relieved by Henrik and got a few hours sleep before dawn. He had no dreams; he dropped straight into a bottomless black pit. And then Ulla was shaking his arm and saying:

”Sven. Sven. It's time to get up.”

”Okay,” said Sven, promptly and clearly and distinctly. He had programmed himself to do that, even when completely smashed. It was part of the myth that he'd created - that he was always alert, instantly awake. People didn't dare to fuck around with someone who was always alert, and highly skilled in the use of a wide range of weapons.

He washed his face bending over the stream, looking at the water skimming over the stones, foaming at obstacles: this was the flow of life itself. He noticed movement under the translucent, twisting film: he focused and saw the spotted back of a small fish disappear between the stones. The trees flanking the stream sighed and whispered. Every cell inside his body tingled with life. This was it. He'd never felt like that in the Old World.

When everyone had eaten breakfast, they all set off for the mine. It was a sunny morning this time; the trees threw long shadows that turned the surrounding forest into a dark maze.

The vegetation was too thick to to spread out. So Sven told his people to switch to a column, and led his team twenty paces in front of the miners. The rest of the escort brought up the back.

He knew something was afoot long before he saw it. His heartbeat quickened slightly; his eyesight sharpened along with his hearing. That was his personal radar, the talent that made him a natural leader in both worlds.

He raised a hand, waved it, and brought it down in slow motion. Everyone crouched and spread out, hands on weapons, eyes searching. Sven turned and said, very softly:

”Lasse. Come here.”

When Lasse did, he told him:

”You go ahead. Keep an arrow ready. Kirsten and Ingrid will go along with you, carrying their sacks. We'll follow far enough behind to make sure they don't see us when they notice your group. When you make contact, run right back. Keep going down the track. We'll disperse to the sides, and intercept anyone coming after you. Got it?”

”This fucking bow,” said Lasse. ”It's a gamble to hit a cow at fifty paces.”

”I know. I don't expect you to hit anyone, just make them scared enough to freeze for a few seconds. Have you ever had any military training, Lasse?”