Shef stared at the excited faces. The scrawny, underfed physiques. Why not? he thought. He had always assumed that what you needed most for this task was raw strength and weight. But coordination was even more important. Maybe twelve lightweight Englishmen would be as good as eight heavyweight Vikings. It would never have been true with swords or axes. But at least these ex-slaves would do what they were told.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll shoot five for practice. Then we’ll see how many you can loose while I count fivescore.”

The freedmen cheered and capered, pushing for the ropes.

“Hold on. This is going to be a speed test. So, first thing. Put the stones close there in a pile so you won’t have to move more than a step to get them. Now, pay attention …”

An hour later, his new team dismissed to store what they now called their machine, Shef walked thoughtfully towards the booth of Hund and Ingulf, where the sick and injured lay. Hund met him coming out of the booth, wiping bloody hands.

“How are they?” Shef asked. He meant the casualties from his other machine, the torsion-catapult or “twist-shooter” as the Vikings called it, the dart-machine which had released King Ella into death.

“They’ll live. One lost three fingers. Could as easily have been his hand, or arm for that matter. The other has most of his rib cage stove in. Ingulf had to cut him to get a piece out of his lung. But it’s healing well. I’ve just smelt his stitches. No sign of the flesh-rot. That’s two men badly hurt by that machine in four days. What’s the matter with it?”

“Nothing wrong with the machine. It’s these Norsemen. Strong men, proud of their strength. They twist the cogwheels tight—then one of them will throw his weight on the lever just to wring an extra turn out of it. The bow-arm snaps—and someone gets hurt.”

“Then it’s not the machine at fault, but the men who use it?”

“Exactly. What I need are men who will take so many counted turns and no more, who will do what they’re told.”

“Not many of those in this camp.”

Shef stared at his friend. “Not speaking Norse, certainly.” The seed of an idea had been planted.

The winter dark upon them now, he would take a candle and continue to work on the new mappa—the map of England as it really was.

“Nothing left to eat, I suppose, but the rye porridge?”

Silently Hund passed him his bowl.

Sigvarth looked round with a trace of uncertainty. The priests of the Way had formed the holy circle, within the rowan-hung cords, spear planted and fire burning. Once again the laymen of the Way were excluded: no one was present in the dim, sail-roofed shed except the six white-clad priests and Sigvarth Jarl of the Small Isles.