“The last three thousand from the southernmost Duns are just here the now,” Oak said. “All together, twelve thousand one hundred fifty-two archers fit to stand in the bow-line. Not counting healers, pipers and eòghann.”

Seeing Bjarni’s puzzlement, Rudi spoke aside to him, nodding to indicate the teenagers: “Eòghann. Youths and maidens not yet old enough to fight, to ‘take valor,’ as we say. In a stand-up battle they mainly carry arrows forward to the bow-line from the reserve stocks. It’s important work.”

Someone handed him a plate loaded with fried potatoes, boiled kale and skewers of grilled mutton. He made the Invoking pentagram over it and murmured a quick thanks to the Mother, and Her Consort who died to give the grain life and rose again each year. The Norrheimers and Fred Thurston hammer-signed theirs, and spoke their own blessing: Hail, all-giving Earth.

Oak nodded as he ladled out beans: “The test for the First Levy is shooting twelve arrows to the measured minute and keeping it up for ten minutes, from a bow of eighty pounds pull or better, and putting nine of each twelve into a man-sized target a hundred yards away. That’s the minimum, you understand, not the average. Against massed targets we usually start shooting at about three hundred long paces’ distance.”

Bjarni’s brows went up. “Twelve thousand archers . . . twelve arrows a minute . . .”

“That’s twenty-four hundred a second,” Rudi said, touching the Sword. “Or just under a hundred and fifty thousand in one minute. It is,” he added gently, “a great whacking lot of arrows, the which is why we call it an arrowstorm. Nor are most battles only a minute long. Hence the eòghann scurry about a good deal, the darlings.”

Bjarni pursed his lips. Behind him Edain chuckled very quietly; he’d been the first to show the Norrheimers what the Mackenzie yew longbow could do, in their own distant homeland. Now their king was contemplating what twelve thousand such bows could do to a force trying to close with them. Rudi knew that wasn’t entirely fair; Edain was known as Aylward the Archer for a reason. Nor was the great armor-smashing stave he carried typical. That bow drew over half again the minimum allowed.

But it’s mostly fair if not entirely, Rudi thought. A fifty-pound draw on a hunting bow will put a broadhead through a bull elk’s body, breaking ribs going in and coming out; I’ve seen it done. Eighty pounds on a warbow will do for a man, sure, often enough even if he’s wearing a tin shirt.

“That is a great whacking lot of arrows,” Bjarni said. “How many do you lug about with you?”