Chapter Eight: The Leading Sheep

"Go ahead, Mia."

Wade calmed himself, hiding in the corner and focusing intently on communicating with Mia. He handed the bag of silver coins in his hand to her; the little one grasped the cloth pouch, nearly as large as herself, and soared toward the sheep pen in the dark of night.

Inside the pouch were twelve silver coins, the total sum Wade had scavenged from the seven pirates. These twelve coins hailed from different regions—some inscribed with crosses and fleur-de-lis, others marked only with church scriptures and mint stamps.

In truth, over half of these coins came from the first pirate Wade had slit the throat of. That man looked honest but secretly hoarded a considerable sum. He alone had stashed seven silver coins, which was no small amount. To put it in perspective, a Dutch farmer would need to toil for half a year, after daily expenses, to earn a single silver coin.

A church silver coin engraved with a cross could purchase about forty loaves of bread, enough for a day's sustenance, and three church coins could buy a healthy, robust goat. Seven coins meant that pirate carried the equivalent of two goats and forty loaves of bread tucked inside his garments.

This illustrates just how weighty a single silver coin is for an ordinary person.

Of course, "weighty" is a metaphor; in reality, a standard Twilight Church silver coin weighs only three grams, often even less, since people would trim them during transactions to adjust the weight. The pouch with twelve coins weighed no more than an egg.

Even so, it was still much heavier than Mia. When Mia settled in Wade's palm, she was as light as a breeze, not heavier than an egg, yet she carried the "egg" away with ease.

Wade traced her flight perfectly; she arrived at the sheep pen, followed instructions, and silently placed the coins in a conspicuous spot on the fence. Even at a distance of over ten meters, Wade’s connection to her remained unbroken.

He sensed her urge to return. If her birth could be likened to the arrival of a child, then this was the first time since her creation she’d been so far from Wade. She seemed unaccustomed, somewhat uneasy.

However, it wasn’t to the point of tears. Though she couldn’t see Wade, she could still feel his presence.

Wade had further tasks for her. Merely placing the coins in the pen wouldn’t lure the pirates out; even the bald brute made noise when tossing silver coins. He instructed Mia to disturb the sheep, to stir the flock into chaos and catch the pirates’ attention.

After all, cattle and sheep were prized spoils during Viking raids.

Mia responded with a thought of understanding and, before Wade could teach her how, began to act on her own. As a Northerner in life, she must have been well-acquainted with sheep. In such cold lands, warm animal pelts were essential; sheep provided meat and milk, and animal husbandry was a crucial part of Northlander life.

She floated for a while, observing, then slipped beneath the belly of one sheep. This particular sheep was large and muscular, but hornless. Among sheep, only the rams grow spiral horns; this was a ewe, with two lambs at her side.

That ewe was likely the leader of the flock.

Most often, the lead sheep is an experienced ewe. Leadership requires familiarity with the surroundings—grazing paths, water sources, reliable memory, and endurance to guide the flock on long journeys. Rams, usually more irritable, are ill-suited for such responsibility.

A ewe with lambs is more alert, more concerned with safety, and naturally becomes the leader. The rest of the flock follows her instinctively.

This is the result of natural selection. Even domesticated sheep retain this instinct; their "chief" is always the ewe with her lambs.

Mia squirmed beneath the leader’s belly. Already unsettled by the chaos in the village, the sheep grew even more anxious; as a mother, the ewe sensed the ghostly presence, and instantly became agitated, bleating wildly and pushing against the rails.

As the lead sheep acted out, the rest sensed danger and grew restless, the flock suddenly noisy and tumultuous.

Mia executed Wade’s command flawlessly—better than he had hoped.

Wade looked toward the hay storage warehouse, instructing Mia to keep the sheep’s commotion going and to stay hidden. Now, all that remained was to wait for the pirates to come out.

The discordant bleating carried into the warehouse.

The pirates inside heard it; someone glanced back, but Mit, slumped atop the hay, merely yawned listlessly, the crossbow at his side dangling over his thigh.

He lacked any vigor. He himself had opposed raiding in winter; on such bitterly cold days, one ought to sit by the fire, not ride sleds through the night to some remote village for violence.

Outside was dark and freezing, making him shiver. He simply couldn’t muster any enthusiasm.

But he was only one of Sweyn’s forty-three underlings. Since their leader decreed a nocturnal raid, he had no choice but to follow, however reluctant.

Still, he found it troublesome—raiding in winter required endless preparation.

Such chores were beneath the leader’s concern; Sweyn merely issued orders, while the dirty work fell to his men.

To be honest, Mit harbored many complaints.

The preparations were exhausting: reinforcing sleds with ice nails and whale whiskers, greasing every sword with mutton fat, and packing dried herring and portable sleeping bags.

Utterly exhausting, and for little reward.

Who knew if the intelligence their leader bought was genuine? Mit doubted this village was as wealthy as the information broker claimed.

At least, he hadn’t gotten a penny so far.

He lacked strength, his swordsmanship inferior, so he could only trail behind with a crossbow, hoping to pick up scraps.

Even scavenging wasn’t easy; others hacked people down and rifled corpses, but Mit’s crossbow rarely allowed him to snatch anything first. This raid had brought him nothing extra; he could only await the feast for his share of spoils.

He mentally calculated what he might receive.

During the feast, cattle, large gold and silver vessels, iron farming tools, swords and chainmail, all were converted to silver coins. Each man received his due according to rank and merit.

By Sweyn’s rules, the leader took the lion’s share—about forty percent of the total spoils—and could choose first, such as the lord’s sword or a virgin captive, essentially claiming half the bounty alone.

No one objected; Sweyn was the group’s only silver-ranked warrior and professional. Without him, they couldn’t breach many villages or towns.

Sweyn took his share, and the rest was divided by value.

The chief oarsmen of the longship—his right and left hands—handled steering and tactics, earning two extra shares.

Ordinary oarsmen received shares decreasing by rowing position: second row at the stern got an extra half share, those midship slightly less, and newcomers at the bow who’d served less than half a year received only the minimum.

This time, they’d journeyed by reindeer sled along rivers and snowfields for two days, not by ship, so the usual rules didn’t apply.

Basically, besides the first to claim a kill, who got an extra half share, the rest divided evenly.

Thus, by this team rule, Mit’s cut would be meager.

To earn more, he’d need side gains—kill more, loot more; anything pocketed didn’t have to be declared at the feast, counted as personal property.

But Mit had no such opportunity. He reckoned if he got five silver coins from this trip, the god of war himself would be blessing him.

Damn these peasants, so pitifully poor.

Mit shrank his neck into his woolen shirt, leaving only his squinting eyes exposed.

The cellar’s wooden door was close to breaking, each blow from axe and hammer deepening the grooves and cracks. To block the entrance, those inside must have piled everything movable behind it, but it was futile; this was no fortress, merely a country storehouse for wine and food.

Soon enough, the door would give way, but Mit was already impatient. He just wanted to finish and crawl back into bed for a long sleep.

If he hadn’t thought there might be valuables inside, he’d have set it ablaze already.

Back in Gerdon Town, Sweyn had done just that—the foolish guards believed that by hiding in their ironclad fortress, the pirates couldn’t touch them. Little did they know, Sweyn torched it to ashes.

Mit still recalled the billowing smoke and charred shapes. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to burn this village, wine and grain be damned. It was supposed to be rest time, yet he was summoned to work—infuriating!

His heart swelled with resentment.

Outside came another round of bleating.

"Baa, baa, baa~"

Those beasts’ cries grated on his nerves.

Perhaps worried the animals might break through the fence, the squad leader suddenly spoke. "Someone go outside and quiet the sheep."

No one responded. Nobody wanted that job—it was bitterly cold, and the pens stank of fermented manure.

All maintained silence. Mit curled himself like a shrimp, sliding deeper into the hay.

The squad leader’s gaze swept the room; finally, everyone’s eyes converged on Mit.

"Mit, you go," the leader ordered.

Damn!

Mit wanted to curse, but the leader was tall and burly, two heads above Mit, a wheat-colored face marked by a cross-shaped scar and sharp, wolfish eyes.

The last man who disobeyed had been felled with a single slap.

Mit remembered that scene, met the leader’s gaze for several seconds, suppressed his complaints, hopped off the hay, and walked out of the warehouse in silence.