Chapter 14 - Village IX
Arroch and Theyer and Sooth were all part RavinLunden. Eira and her three girls were full Ravin, and Wulfgar as well. It was no mystery then, why Wulfgar had his Ravens and that they were so highly dedicated. They were kin and clan.
By late winter, when the spit had ceased crackling even on the ground for good, people were still enjoying their holed up time. Family and close friends living, sleeping, and eating and amusing themselves for a sort of awake hibernation. Ryeamund couldn't help smiling at Eira. He was once again laying on a bear skin rug in front of a big fireplace at Eira's feet, taking a break from rolling around playing with his little six year old 'niece' as Eira called her. She wouldn't leave him alone for a second if she was awake. She was either up his ass or running after it, as one woman had put it.
The little girl quizzed him on where he was from. He explained again as best he could what the south-lands were.
"But… you are one of us. Why would you live down there."
Innocence. Then she smiled, made a scary jest face and poked him in the ribs and took off, trying to steal some sweetbread. She would creep, and study, and plan her strategy to try to finally get away with it for once. When she was older? This particular sweetbread game would be explained to her as a trap to bring your enemy to you. Even their sweetbread game with the wee ones was fun and innocent… until the kids were older and they turned it into yet another dark power to be commanded by the people.
Ryeamund was in his glory. Simply beaming. He was finally in on the sweetbread game, with a six year old that liked him and wasn't the least bit scared of him. He wasn't a monster here. The only stick poking being done here was a fun game everyone played. You poked them right back and chased them around next. He told Eira how fine of a thing he thought it was, that the wee one thought they were actually related.
Eira asked him if he figured out the game of sweetbread yet. He was sure he did… but Eira always smirked like she knew something he didn't know. Well, she was a high reckoner. They did know things ordinary people didn't, Ryeamund knew that much.
Then, Ryeamund asked Eira if she ever noticed it before. How similar of a face little Var made when she was all worked up, wanting to scratch full grown men with a sword for fun. Eira just looked up from her leather craft-work she had in her lap, smiling again. Now that her coin beast mentioned it? Perhaps he was right. What did that mean, though. If anything.
Ryeamund could not shake the feeling something was up. Hell, he knew it was up it just wasn't apparent what the hell it was. His wench's smirking face told him he hadn't found the missing sweetbread yet, and no one would dare tell him where it was. Damned adults. They were all in on it, as he shared with the other little kids.
His little niece liked to sit with her skinny back up against Rye's stomach as he lay on his side, the children all siting on and around him being entertained by an adult that took a special care to be as fun as one of the children.
It came out in conversation with the innocent little niece, who he knew worshiped her big new uncle she liked. She assured him, he was one of them. He kept gently trying to explain how he wasn't. She furrowed her brow at him. She explained, her daddy had explained to her that he was the son of one of the most famous lords, so how could he not be from here. Then she poked him for being 'in error' like she did, and was off and running, chasing another child around.
It might have ended right then and there, after a while of him stewing yet not seeing it. But as fate would have it, the little niece bragged to her friends. Her uncle she was great friends with, was the son of one of the dark lords themselves. How great was that? She kissed him on the cheek, and called him "il doro".
Eira said it was one of the other languages some of the children learned at the Garten if they could when they were young and picked it up easy. It was another language's old speech for "the dark one". She explained how it sounded a whole lot more sinister than it actually was. The Dark Lords were the best Rhyshian warriors to be found, and were the high king's favorite hard asses when he put together his all star lunatics brigade that had to reforge the nation all but over again.
'Aye. This kingdom has been cast from iron. It is hard, yet it is brittle. If it is to last as it must, it must be heated red hot, and beaten into steel, so that it may last.'
As one smart ass RavinLunden put it, over drinks. Boasting with the bigger north-men, as each took turns trying to insult the others for fun and wagering. If they could make a man mad enough to fight, he lost his bet.
Theyer could tell the story best:
"Aye. So there they are, the last two left, the only two men left in all that wagering. Every man had lost his helmet and went for another, and all had to drop a gold coin in the cup. They were down to the last two men, who would not lose their cold blood. One big beast of a high north big-man, and a half northern half Raven scout."
"One of em, is getting all that gold. And so, the big-man brings his biggest ax out. Starts boasting of the original big-men, what that forged the nation, and all that labors for fun and wenching."
"The raven is getting hot, but he can not show it. He must win against this giant beast, or he has not enough wits to fight the giants. Thinking quick he says…"
"Aye, and a half a goat's ass job you hairy tall fools had with it. We had to do the whole job over again, properly this time mind you, in the south-lands. Been less trouble had you not goat fucked it up the first time, ye know."
"And the big giant lost his temper, because he knew the Raven was right, and he knocked him off his chair. The Raven laughed. He rose amid his laughter, what to reckon all that gold and take it away with him, laughing."
Ryeamund came up, after "Uncle Theyer" was done recounting the tall tale that was funny, and had dirty words kids were not allowed to hear, but that was another sweetbread game so it was funny… about how the dimwitted giant lost all that gold, just because he couldn't keep his temper, even after wagering he could keep it. Ryeamund came up off of the bear skin rug with the pile of kids he sat idle with most of the winter, and sat next to Eira. Smirking a hole in her leather crafts in her lap. Awl punching and weaving leather cord to make it.
"What now, little Rye? What did the six yer old's be teasing at you now with, that you come to yer coin wench to advise you."
He told her what the other kids were saying.
"Well, does it bother you then."
"I am not bothered. The wee ones, are but six winters. I am working on my first full beard. I am Uncle Rye, I will have my coin wench know, I like me title."
"Oh, my coin beast. He likes titles, more than goats and pigs now, does he."
"Aye. Yer coin beast? He reckons that he likes a lot of things he did not know he would like. I am not bothered."
"Well, beast man. If you are not bothered by the matter, why am I once again hearing about the matter. What conclusion could I only grow on that soil, then."
"All the children claim, I am the son of one of their lords. My niece wants tall tales of it. I honestly do not want to tell about the teeth and the blood in the taverns. Drunken blacksmith tales are for the men, not the wee ones."
"So… we are discussing the matter, then. All right, let's discuss the matter. Now… the children. Aye, not a one that does not like spending idle time with Uncle Rye. They just glance at you, and start playing touch tag with you. You must look like one of their lord's sons, then."
"I'm just saying, that the wee ones think you look and act just like everybody else. Not one child has asked, mommy, who is that strange man, sitting with Lady Eira. Who is he. Why is he here."
"There's been nothing like that, they are wee children. All pure and innocent. Now. Does it account for anything, that all the children just assume you belong. By the look and the sound of you."
"Aye."
"Okay. Now. Yer hair. I have to bring it up. I have not heard so many childish deceptions, since I last played the sweetbread game with some children. Ryeamund, I know what walnut oil be. High reckoners know some alchemy. Yer hair is like us. Yer not a hairy beast, we have less body hair and later beard."
"Now. Ye keep bringing up someone's parents said this, another child's parents said that. Do I have to go and talk to your niece's parents for you, to see why they be saying such terrible things about me coin beast."
"Eira…"
"Well? There is gossip. Some of the people think they know which lord would have been in your area. Are you not curious?"
"Aye. I suppose."
"Does my little coin beast give me his solemn oath. That he is not allowed to put his hands on any person, for any reason."
"Aye."
"Do I have to take my sword with me, to remind you I am not to be sworn a false oath to my face? I am sure they have a bath house I can take you to, for a short lesson. I'm sure you have reckoned by now, no one takes any offense to some noise and commotion in the bath house, do they."
"Woman. You talk as if it is all decent! To go goat fucking at sword point in every man's bath house from here to the south-lands. I am a farmer. I want goat fucked in my own bath house, with my own wench, at sword-point if it need be."
"Why is it then, it is so indecent, for a man and a woman to be in water together. Where does the indecent part come into the matter. Or, is it the location of the goat fucking that riles you up about it. Did little fairies come and sprinkle magic fairy dust in the special water."
"Yes, woman. Special fairies sprinkled something in the water, in my own bath house. I prefer it."
"Okay. I am done teasing you. Now, do you want to meet the parents. And be civilized."
"Aye."
And so she did take Rye to meet the parents. The man was incredibly happy to meet Ryeamund finally. He was surprised to see his little niece as he called her, run up and want to show off her 'uncle rye'. Ryeamund was as quiet and as polite as he could muster.
Eira handled most of the conversation. Uncle Rye was given leave to play with his niece and the parents smiled, that was fine. She was showing Rye some of her meadow tricks. Uncle Rye walked on his hands, making funny noises for her. Her new game was to try to knock him off of his hands.
She could walk on her hands as well, she wanted to dance with her older friend that danced, and did tricks as well. Her new game she just made up was they walked on their hands, and tried to knock each other off balance. She made a sweet little kid's scary face, again just like Var did it in some way, but couldn't get Uncle Rye to budge.
She finally managed to just knock him over, and ran around the room boasting. Uncle Rye told her well done, and she thought she was actually helping her opponent off of the ground, having felled him and all. Eira could barely contain laughing.
The parents and Eira were studying him with the kid, discussing him dispassionately.
"The kids. They follow him around and will not leave him alone."
"Aye. So, what makes you so certain it was this particular lord, over another? Other than the area. They would have run in wolf packs, leading big-men."
"Well. The area is the right district. Yet, there is the matter of a drawing of the lord when he was young. I see my niece has a keener eye than I suspected. The Garten be praised."
"Family line scrolls."
"Aye. A drawing of the young lord, a year before the great-men reforged the nation again. In his BladdenGarten days."
"We are all three high reckoners. Here is the scroll. See for yourself."
As a high reckoner, Eira was allowed to touch scrolls. They were valuable and hard to come by. A professional knew not to ever touch anything that contained information. Reading it if you were careful handling it, was harmless. Free wisdom forever.
They went to a tilted small table. With both parents being high reckoners themselves, a scroll study spot was guaranteed to exist. The children were raised to speak and write from birth easily, like any child you tried with just about. If kids were arguing about a certain quote, one of them could be overseen they looked it up without touching. The parents handled the scroll, but the kids could read it. Run off to tell who was right and who was wrong.
The little six year old niece was excited to bring her famous uncle over to the table. She beamed with pride and pointed. There was a scroll. Tight with words above and below it. Yet, the drawing? Was of a man. Young. Muscular. Serious looking. A sword in each hand. The Garten tights and leather slippers. The tights spewing what appeared to be overdrawn artist's license of heroic muscle.
Yet, when everyone looked over at Ryeamund, and looked at the line drawing, it became obvious. The artist had not been paid a little better to make the figure more heroic looking. It looked just like Ryeamund. Wide, muscular, something quiet and serious about it, something handsome and boyish mixed in.
"So, little niece. Ye are not scared if you think this man, might be Uncle Rye's father?"
She smiled. Shook her head "no", and poked him gently in the abdomen, and hugged him and trotted off to be interested in something more interesting to a six year old. This was naturally scuffing her shoes behind a dog, poking it in the ass cheeks gently, making a weird noise. The dog was as confused as Ryeamund watching. Children do strange shit, and simply everyone knows that it's highly entertaining.
"What was the man's name?"
They told him his nickname was SkulkenSchpleitten.
SkullSplitter.
The family history was written down, only important events, since the times of the Roman invasions and whole lands and peoples were put asunder to the winds.
This Rhyshian family was from a line that traveled and mingled in the earliest times with the original Ravin. Tall mountain people to the west of the north-men, migrated down south, east across the then barren south-lands, and east and north again to the tall mountain people to the east.
They put the permanent and occasional streak of nose and shoulder freckles onto lightly tanned but slightly fair tall blonde people with ice blue eyes. Tall muscular mountain fjord people just like the north-men, but, less hairy and known more for their wits. The Rhyshian lines that came? Were all from literate people, a rarity for the day and time. It made them practically nobility.
When these tall people met, they happily mingled their marriages, their homelands, exchanged customs and abilities. Hunters met reckoners met merchants met fishermen. It went so well, that naturally generations later they were doing well enough they got the best compliment an early dark ages shining beacon of civilization could possibly get, the accolades of the world at the time.
They got overrun by a barbarian invasion.
Harassing that empire's army, and helping the north-men defeat their enemy and impressing them at the same time with their abilities and tactics, made for a lifetime friendship in their new homelands, that could no longer be invaded. The Raven roosted with the sleeping dragon, and now helped protect that same corridor.
The family had originally been early Celts. SkullSplitter was just the fun nickname his six year old niece probably made up for him. His name was Shane, a common boys name in Rhyshia. It would be Shan or Shann here in these new homelands.
He was a hard ass that came from a long line of hard asses, as it turned out. His median name was Ildur, which in their tongue meant 'elder' or 'leader'. He was from the clan Niall. 'the nail' or 'the nail-er'
The men were most of them, noted with a little figure in ink. It indicated which were said to display the signs of VinterBluden. The men were all highly educated, athletic, devious in battle. This man's ancestor had apparently fought the invading early England forces, and the invading early Norman forces. More than once, and once both at the same time.
His clans-people were the undisputed warlords of the time. When under attack, they always took the lead role doing the planning and fighting. This man's forebear not only beat both countries out and back, he chased them to their own homelands. Then tied them down fighting there, and set up permanent beach heads and ports, to keep them out of his hair.
He was only brought down by a gang of cowards at some noble court. It was yet one more reason, that the king's men did not kneel before any other king. They wore their signature armor not just for decoration in courts. They never surrendered their weapons at the door or anywhere else. You carry your best ax when you go in to examine the petty king, and make sure he isn't acting up.
Because everyone was determined, that puppy shit was never going to happen again. This was the second or third great war leader they ever had, that was brought down in such a fashion, for doing pretty well much what this guy had been doing… beating all his enemies. A gang of armed noble turds, had rushed an unarmed man and in such a cowardly fashion they can't barely be referred to as "men". Otherwise? SkullSplitter would most likely still be around, splitting skulls.
'When asked to surrender your weapons, surrender only your patience.'
'When asked to deliver your weapon, do so. Into their chest.'
This was one of the descendants. Great-men. They merged with the early pre-Nords on the other side of the corridor. They were now mixed in permanently with the far north-men and seemingly for good somewhere finally.
These people would happily explain that yes, they were practicing animal husbandry on human beings. Why wouldn't anyone want to do the same. When you had generations of the best at everything mating with the best of everything, the children were more than the sum of their parts over time.
These people were busy dragging their far north-men brothers out of the stone ages and into the new dark ages. When they prospered after being put asunder and blending with the big pre-Nords, they had sent out all the high reckoners that brought back scrolls. This wisdom was now thrown behind the blended people coming to the north-men.
Far from being thought of as lower barbarians, the north-men were highly regarded by the Ravin to be kin and clansman with. Tall. Muscular. Loyal. Brave. Courageous. A violent streak with a big heart-ed streak. A sense of honor. A sense of humor.
The Ravins were already tall and already muscular. The trade off was to get even bigger and stronger. While staying educated. The north-men were happy to have these people with their skills. And they were marrying their sons and daughters and the people were happy about it. The Ravins and their obsession with the children's Gartens was starting to be noticed by the north-men. The Ravins were trying to all but dunk the warhorse's head into a barrel of water to get it to take a drink of the wisdom.
The north-men were no longer bloodthirsty barbarians. They were the civilization. After the Romans left, there was pure hell and chaos and upheaval left in the Roman wake. Some of the pure chaos had uprooted the Rhyshians, south and east and more east, then north again to their new people and homelands. Then? Again and this time up the corridor.
The Rhyshian people vowed, they would never be chased out of their homelands, ever again. All the men would hunt and fight. The women would be able to fight, the children would be able to fight, if it came down to it. Whatever racial slurs went between the north-men and the Rhyshians now was goblet drips of fun. When trouble reared its head, the king and everyone else came running to the Rhyshians.
As one famous Rhyshian had once said of the friction at the time between both sets of the fighting men, having at each other for boasts in the great-houses every week's end.
"Aye. The slamming together of the two great boars? Is about over. We are both in this pigpen together now."
Which meant the shit has hit the fan once again, coming up the corridor. Put aside the petty puppy shit and let's go to work. We're in this together now.
It took Ryeamund several hours of quietly observing Eira and this married couple discuss things. Sitting and listening to the readings and descriptions of the family scrolls. It wasn't hard. They produced fine-mead and water. Everyone in this village had tons of different smoked cheeses and meats and dried stuff with novel spices.
Ryeamund couldn't be happier. He got to slowly stuff his face with little morsels of things he liked. He almost always watered his wine and mead down to levels he would never be drunk, father hadn't approved. To get into wine goblets with close friends you felt safe with was a rare treat, his father had said. Not a daily or even weekly occurrence.
He was no great reckoner or whatever they called it. Ryeamund did however, pretty much have figured out that his wench had arranged this all from the start. She hadn't lied to him. She wanted him to know. She wanted him to notice that it was all right. She had wanted him to come and see for himself, how well he fit in here.
After most people were sleeping or just quiet, Eira went and blew on some wood in the bath house fire to get it hot again. Later, she all but dragged her 'coin lord' into these people's bath house, and Eira once again claimed it was nothing indecent. Ryeamund asked her if she liked him better, or, SkullSplitter.
Eira reminded him she put her coin on him at sword-point to make sure she 'got in on the soil of the matter', and it was long before anyone knew who he was. Ryeamund was not accustomed to whatever he was feeling. It was new. It must be what contentment feels like. His wench Eira had been sitting in his lap in the bath, facing him the whole time. It was just now that she was beginning to sit still finally. Ryeamund told Eira how much he enjoyed the peace and quiet, that while this was not as quiet and therefore as decent as was his own place to do this? This was right up there, on account of the peace and solitude at night when people quieted down.
As if on cue, the door opened and the six year old favorite niece stood there. She wasn't gawking, she just trotted over to Eira, sitting next to Rye under the water.
"Yes, little seedling."
The little darling poked Eira on the forearm resting on the stone around it.
Eira teased her.
"What error have I committed now?"
The little girl smiled, and pointed at the door.
"You did not put out the little cast iron pot…"
And the little six year old went and dutifully showed Eira the little cast pot, and clunked it outside the door. Everyone knew it was in use. If they opened the door? Anyone knew that noise was the bath becoming now open and free.
They dried off. Eira told Rye she was proud of him he took it so well about mom and dad. She also asked if he minded sitting when they were discussing the family scroll. Ryeamund seemed to enjoy it, he said. He could tell the men things he didn't know before. It was better than gossip, because it was real.
Eira seemed happy with that. She also told Rye she was proud of him for noticing the "Var goat face" was similar to the little girl's monster chasing game face. She explained he had indeed found a little more missing sweetbread, and that she would show him that sweetbread, another time. They got back into winter clothing and went back out to where they stretched out on sheepskin and leather and fur, and dragged some over themselves.
Ryeamund wasn't used to the complete relaxation winter brought up here. You were expected to lay up provisions for a long and cold winter and then some. Ryeamund had been happy going around to anyone that claimed to be a merchant. Buying some extra staple items to judge coin value. His bag of low coin would easily see him through the winter, let alone the small bag of high gold coin. Some time on his farm in the spring, and Ryeamund figured he would be about set.
Ryeamund was slowly learning to sleep in, a hard habit for a life long lease farmer. He rolled over once and the second time he could no longer fight it. He rolled over. Most people scattered about the big room were either successful at rolling over again or were good at pretending. Only one man was up, quietly moving around at the small table in the kitchen.
Ryeamund threw a cloak and his boots on and walked over. Morning stretching. Water was boiling. It was Wulfgar.
"Oh. Morning Rye. Did I wake ye?"
"I was already awake. I am not well used to rolling over."
"Do you want tea? I am going to make tea. I see someone else has been pecked, so, we already have eggs. An egg pot as I call it, and we will break our fast. Perhaps, we could talk while we eat."
"All well."
Wulfgar explained that he liked eggs boiled in vinegar and water, and, pot eggs on boiling pig fat. Which did Rye want? Rye picked to try the boiled eggs. Rye was imagining hard boiled eggs, but Wulfgar proceeded to use very little water and a few splashes of vinegar. He broke the eggs, and had them soft boiled in no time. He sliced some bread, and dropped several boiled eggs onto each plate of bread. He sliced from several dried and spiced cheeses and meats, making little piles around the bread for each of them.
He watched Wulfgar poke and tease all the soft eggs apart, and all the broken soft whites and yolks went all down in the large hunk of bread. He sliced the bread thin, and ate it that way. Some sliced meat or cheese morsels with some bites. A pitcher of milk with only the heaviest cream skimmed off. Salt for the butter.
Ryeamund was still getting over salt shock up here, in that they had salt and it was all but free. Wulfgar explained that you could get salt, simply by traveling to the ocean. When you dried seawater off? The best salt to be had. It was all but free, except someone had to travel to the sea and stay for the drying and journey back.
Ryeamund shrugged, and put a dollop of the heavy milk onto the big piece of bread. Some butter. A couple pinches of salt, he had to have some. Broke the eggs like Wulfgar had shown on his own, another pinch of salt over it all. He sliced his in a similar fashion.
"So, you know Lady Eira has relatives. You are staying here with some of them."
"Aye."
"Do you wonder why we are having tea again?"
"You always have something to talk about."
"Yes, I suppose I do. Well, you can see I know my way around their pantry and kitchen. No one announced my arrival, it is obviously a routine matter."
"You… are related to these people as well."
"Yes. Yes, I am. Now, if we were to continue following those words, that would lead us to where?"
"Eira does this to me. I have been giving her wit, and she is not pleased."
"Then answer me with wit, man. I am a man for fun."
"Those words would lead us, to you knowing what you already know, and, to me not knowing them."
Wulfgar smiled a little. A rare thing for him.
"Okay. That is amusing. And tell me, is Eira amused as well?"
"Eira keeps jesting about the cast iron pot…"
"Well then, all wit aside. If you and Eira are staying here, because it is one of her many relatives. And I am staying here, because I am related to them. Would it not reckon out, that I would be related to Eira, as well."
"Oh. Is this a matter."
Wulfgar smiled, and rolled his eyes dramatically.
"Oh. Of course not. Why would I be displeased. Because you beat a Heyermannen to death? Then decided it would be great sport to debauch three of his four serving wenches at once, then took them all night. Now you are my relative's coin pet. Why would I be displeased."
"So, you are displeased."
"No. I am not displeased. You told me to quit winking at you? So, I decided to try having a little sport without winking."
"So, you are not displeased."
"No. No, I am not. I already told you, the Bear was… well, he was the Bear. Now, he is no more."
Just then Eira walked over and past. Investigated the tea water.
"And what are you two boys gossiping about?"
"I was attempting to have sport with Ryeamund, he did not know we were related."
Eira turned around with the egg pot in her hand.
"Are you interfering in my mannen ?"
Wulfgar smiled.
"No. No, I am not. You see, Ryeamund. Lady Eira has had… difficulties… with her mannen."
"What difficulty? I find her pretty."
"Most men find it, somewhat disturbing, I suppose is the words for it. Yes, most men seem to be disturbed by her being related to me. If you can imagine such a thing."
Ryeamund smiled.
"More… milk bowl stories?"
Eira was standing there easily, her hand on the Wolf's shoulder. They exchanged glances.
"More or less. One of the amusing names the men call me behind my back, is 'death'. I suppose therefore, the main jest is… help me here Eira…"
"Lady Eira is pretty enough, yet, who would want death for a father in law."
Ryeamund stopped sipping his tea in mid sip.
"The wolf… is lady Eira's father…"
Eira and Wolf exchanged glances.
"No. I am her… guardian. Lady Eira's father is gone. The family looks after her. As do I. Let us say, the family elected me to look after her when she was younger. Apparently, I did my job a little bit too well. Lady Eira has difficulties finding mannen."
"Eira, this reminds me of another amusing gossip I overheard. Once again, as always, at the Bear great-house. Are you aware, the gossip is that you now take men at sword-point. And that you and all the girls are carousing in the bath house."
"Well allow me to remind ye. I have a short list of mannen. Now, as all women? I am sure I find some men more amusing than others. However, of those I might find amusing? Most of them will not touch me with a long spear. Which brings us to Ryeamund here. The girls jested with me, that if I did not act quickly, he would soon learn that I dine with death."
"I understand. You decided to be bold. Now, amuse me further, little Eira. What were the other girls for in the bath. To help hold him down, while you scratched him up to put yer coin on his neck? Honestly, Eira."
"Wulfgar, I like it better when you flatter me my wits."
"Well show me the wits you used then."
"The girls. They were more of bait than anything. A bit of sweetbread in the pantry."
Wulfgar looked up, calculating.
"All right. If they were more of bait, then, what were the girls less of?"
Eira blushed…
"Perhaps the girls were there tending to their own wagers, as well."
"I am sure I need not know exactly what was the wager. Feel free to skip that portion of the matter, LADY Eira…"
"In truth? All Rye was interested in was his bath, and having his Thann with him."
"I am sure I do not need any further…"
"No, you dim wolf! The little dog, Thann… Thann would not let us near him in the bath. It was the most amusing thing."
Wulfgar smiled and chuckled with abject mirth.
"Oh, I just knew I liked that little dog and for a good reason. Little Thann then, is all that stands between Lady Eira and her girls, carousing like drunken serving wenches in a great-house bath? I shall have to reward the little dog. Only man in my corner, on the matter then."
"Are we done discussing the matter of me and my girl's bath habits, then?"
"Oh. I don't really care. Tell me, out of curiosity. Did you have to scratch the poor little dog up as well, to get to the soil of the matter, then?"
"No. The girls… more… lured little Thann away. So… I could… have Rye hear my terms."
"At point, then? That gossip was true."
Eira blushed and smiled. Then recovered her attitude.
"Aye. At point. As I said, the wager was. I would not have the high spirit enough, to take my mannen. I closed on my wager directly."
"I see. Well then, that explains a bit more gossip I was wondering about."
"And what gossip was that, Wolf."
"Aye, if one were to have asked me recently, if the Rhyshian women have a custom of taking their men at point? I would have said nay. That was of course before all the gossip about your girls, and the other oxen."
"Well. After I demonstrated that procedure? Little Var started the matter. She proclaimed she would take a mannen as well. Then the other two joined her. Syn declared it was a good omen, that they wanted oxen, and there were three available."
Oh. Well, that explains most all of the gossip I have been hearing. You know, Eira. The rest of the great house? Heard all the commotion in the bath house for a time. Then, you all disappeared with poor Rye here all night. You can imagine what everyone thinks."
Eira smiled, and no longer blushed.
"They are free to think what they wish. Besides. I have yet to hear a single complaint from any of the oxen on the matter."
"Oh no, Eira. Why, one of the men just exclaimed this morning. Who would have thought, being goat fucked at sword-point, could be such sport!"
"Well. As I said, I haven't heard any complaints about such. Now then, Wolf. Yer up on top of yer gossip. Are you going to make me some soft eggs, or shall I find a better use for that little egg pot you fancy."
"Aye. I would rather the egg pot was over the fire, than over my skull."
Wulfgar looked up and chuckled.
"I have yet to hear from Ryeamund, about yer bargain."
"Aye. He sits there in front of ye, still in my coin, on his thick neck."
Eira grabbed Ryeamund roughly by the chin, studying him, smirking.
"Our bargain stands. I fancy myself a good judge of horseflesh. I know good breeding stock when I see it."
"I see. Now then… has the Gentle Woman found the time to train her new pet, to do anything other than give spirited rides about the bath house. Hmm?"
"Aye. Ryeamund has been with the children all these past moons. They have him playing all their games. They play with him, as if her were another of the children."
"Oh my… and why do I have to wait for such good gossip, and be content with all the ill gossip. It goes well?"
"Aye. It goes very well. Ryeamund, it seems, all but attended an Agility Garten down in the south-lands, growing up."
"Well then. Perhaps it is time. That we hosted Lady Eira, and her three girls, and all their pets. At my own great-house. Why don't you see what bargain you can reach with yer pet on that matter. I already know, that if Lady Eira prefers it, the other three will be along."
Eira walked over to Ryeamund sitting across from Wulfgar at the small kitchen table. Grabbed his chin roughly like she did for sport.
"Well. Would you have a sword arm, my pet? I know I would prefer it."
Eira went and got her plate of bread and eggs and started fussing with it for her breakfast.
"He prefers it, just fine."
Eira gave him a mean face, and stabbed a piece of dried sausage meat. And smiled and winked at Ryeamund.
All Ryeamund wanted to know, was two things. What were to become of his animals at the little farm, and… was Thann allowed to visit with him, if he was going to stay a while.
Wulfgar seemed pleased.
"Oh no, man. Bring yer Thann dog with you… he can protect you in the bath house."
And Wulfgar winked at him. Further explaining that his animals would be tended to while he was away. Wulfgar was nothing like his usual self, around his men and the other great-houses. He smiled once in a while. He had more wit and back and forth with everyone. These people were not half as frightened of him as it seemed all the men in the great-houses were. And why not, Ryeamund observed. This was his kin and clan.
Ryeamund was still surprised however, as evening came around, and Wulfgar was having fun with the mostly girls dancing. A few younger boys as well, along with Ryeamund. His little niece wouldn't have otherwise than showing off her Uncle Rye, and dancing with him. She liked to bounce around on her feet light, as the girls that did meadow tricks all did. They had the uncanny ability to look as if they were walking and bouncing on air itself. They hardly walked, they more or less bounced across the room. Even Wulfgar himself, could bounce on his feet lightly, and what was more he seemed to heartily approve of Ryeamund enjoying it the same.
Eira even joined them finally, at the behest of the younger girls. Eira spent idle time not better spent elsewhere instructing at the Gartens, when she had the chance.
Eira was keen to show off her own tricks and dancing, and the little girls and handful of little boys that favored it were excited to have idle fun with one of their instructors, 'their Lady' as they put it. Ryeamund had trouble seeing Wulfgar whirling and smiling, whisking children up and twirling them around and dropping them to land lightly on their feet. Ryeamund suspected that this was not a side of Wulfgar that his men were supposed to know about.
Apparently, death had other hobbies than just the obvious. Why, death favored tea with any meal or break. As well as dancing with the children and performing meadow tricks with them all. Wulfgar did seem to prefer dancing and touch-stick both, most of all of them. Next to tea, of course. Tea always came first.
It didn't take long, for Eira and Ryeamund to make it back to their own little farms that sat next to each other. Someone had seen to the animals in Ryeamund's absence. Eira explained that when a big-man was away from his farm? Other big-men would take turns doing chores. 'Paid in respect, not coin' as Ryeamund had already learned.
Ryeamund, now staying with Eira at Wulfgar's own greathouse, was surprised to see no one about much. Wulfgar apparently didn't run all but a tavern, as the others. Wulfgar was one of the BladdenMeisters, and would periodically instruct various men that came and went.
Ryeamund was surprised that Wulfgar was as concerned with dancing and meadow tricks, as he was blade work. Wulfgar was initially less than happy with Ryeamund's progress, until Ryeamund said something about 'this is much like the ax tricks'. Wulfgar wanted him to show him ax tricks then.
Ryeamund just waltzed over to his great axes and grabbed the smaller one up, its shaft longer and somewhat skinnier than the biggest one. He tapped the handle once on the ground, freeing the handle from it's ax head that rang out on the stone floor. He picked it up. Twirled it a couple of times, and did some figure eights with it.
He had a better time learning to block and parry a heavy sword this way, with what he was used to. The woodcutters had been ax-handle fighting, for fun. This reminded Ryeamund of it, and Wulfgar was pleased. Wulfgar said they were done for the day, and he sent the next man out he saw, to command the three oxen and their young ladies they were enjoying the winter with. They would all six stay here for a time as well.
Eira was constantly explaining bits and portions of the 'missing sweetbread' once all six of the others were staying there as well.
As it turned out, Ryeamund was constantly surprised. For one thing, his little six year old niece's "monster face" was a lot like cute little Var's "boast" she made in front of the men. It was the same thing. Apparently, the RavinLunden were tall enough, and muscular enough, and well versed in deadly arts aplenty, that they were approved of by the big-men they over-watched like their own flock.
The RavinLunden, had but one small thing about them they had to work on. The boast. Wulfgar explained that long ago, it became obvious they had to train the children to put on a good "war face" for the North-men. Boasting was such an integral part of their own culture, nothing but a proper boast would seem to suffice.
That was why Var made silly faces at Ryeamund on the sly on the week end's entertainment for the men. It was pure entertainment for their benefit. Well, almost pure entertainment. It had an edge to it, naturally. Wulfgar always had a slick plan. This was but another of his ploys.
Eira showed him how they always examined each other's blades before practice or scratch-fun, either one. Did the blacksmith in him reckon anything was amiss? Ryeamund found it fairly quickly, examining another blacksmith's work. Each set of long thin swords? One had a small cleft in the end of it, at the point. It held a thorn perfectly. You would never see it, if you didn't know what to look for.
When the deadly girls were warming up with their armor on? They each were letting the other be sure, which sword was 'in thorn', before starting their warm ups. Wulfgar smiled, and explained it to Rye.
Apparently, Wulfgar had little to no success getting any of the big-men to attend the Garten with the children. Playing with children was beneath them, as was dancing and doing meadow tricks. These girls? Were to put on a show for the men, and they had the men all but completely cow-tailed. The big-men at the former Bear's great-house? Actually scared to face them with a sword in their little hands.
That had been the soil of the matter, Wulfgar said. What he could not make them all do? He could lure them into participating in. The touch-sticks games the RavinLunden young children played? It was just early sword practice. The touch and go tag up games? They were selecting their target, and running through and sticking the men with a dagger in a weak point. All anyone like Wulfgar had to do with the best children at the games? Was exchange out their sticks for metal sticks. Swords. Daggers.
Fencing was slowly gaining fashion through some of the out-lands. Well practiced fighting with long, thin swords… not the tree-ax's the big men historically chose, as Wulfgar called their preferred weapons. The men had to learn fencing with these new weapons, or it could lead to ruin for all of them over time as it spread. You had to stay with the times, and you had to constantly be bringing back foreign wisdom. Particularly, foreign wisdom concerning anything to defend themselves with.
The girls were putting on a show for the men every weekend. They were fighting for "scratches" and risking nothing but a thorn whisked across their flesh, for show.
Eira explained to Ryeamund at the next week's end "show" her and the girls put on for the men. He now saw that amid all the girls great show at examining each other's weapons before warming up, and indeed, anytime they picked them up? Was just that, entertainment. But, entertainment the men would watch, and then (hopefully) eventually imitate.
The girls were not entirely playing, however. Eira warned him. When the girls scratched the men up, that they picked out to make them fight them? Those scratches were real. The girls were trained to aim for the men's tunics to show scratches, not to open the men up like meat oxen.
The girls started warming up with Rye now. First with sticks all around, long thin sticks. A more advanced version of touch-stick was all. Then? With the long thin swords. The ones with a thorn always in their strong sword hand. So the others knew which was for fun, and which was for real scratches.
Ryeamund didn't need told that Eira hadn't whisked a real sword across his shoulder, to claim him and coin him. She had merely ran a thorn across his shoulder at speed. Barely a scratch. The men didn't know that, however. They all thought? These women were good enough to land a BladeMaster's light fine scratch on their skin, to teach a student a lesson or to keep them intimidated with their instructor.
As all half RavinLunden? The oxen, were being tutored by their girls as well. Arroch, Sooth, Theyer… now Ryeamund… were starting to more and more warm up with the girls, and engage them in swordplay. With their signature long thin swords they favored.
They were not 'girl swords', they were the next coming thing and the men had to learn them. This? Was just the best way to accomplish that feat. To all the big-men, however. These men were crazy and were flirting with death. When one of the girls 'scratched them well', they were hardly concerned. They were told to play it off. As if nothing was amiss.
They were now all part of the entertainment. And Wulfgar was full of surprises, to no end of it, it seemed. Just the one thing, though… Wulfgar took Ryeamund aside privately. Stood several paces away from him, and pointed his own personal sword right at him. Fixed him with his famous deadpan gaze that earned him the nickname 'death' among the men.
This was how Wulfgar took a man's oath. If he violated his oath? It was his life, and everyone knew it. It also was not part of the show, nor the deception therein. This was of grave importance, and this was the best way Wulfgar could figure out to get the men slowly into fencing and dancing and children's games, like they had to start doing.
It was all quite amusing, as spring came into it's own to the land of fire and ice. Eira pointed out the coming match for Satyr's day entertainment. Var, as fate would have it, was not pleased one of the men had given her ox Theyer a black eye. The man was obviously scared shit-less to be singled out for "scratch practice". He knew what he had dared to do. He put his hands on Var's man.
Var scratched him up several times. Until she got the nice bright red running free around the edge of the cotton tunic they all wore. She had edged in closer, until she could just land a good one on him. Rye knew she didn't have the thorn sword on him. That was real. These girls could cut any of these big scary men to ribbons, if they felt like it. The man in question had to have his wound cleaned out with vinegar and closed with horsehair. Less than another inch, and she could have just as easily spilled his intestines out.
The example she made, was not lost on the other big-men assembled. Ryeamund was immune to anything, and walked around leading a charmed life. His own Eira? Was the leader of these three hell cats. Eira had been right, no other woman would so much as tell him the day of the week if he asked, with her coin showing. The men? They respected all these girl's coins now as well. These women were, after all, 'in trophy' as it was said up here. They had all claimed a head, and Eira two of them, when the father got in on her matter.
That, of course, was entirely a milk-bowl story, that had 'accidentally' gotten around like the others. The men were all scared shit-less of a scary children's story, and a new style of swordplay they had no interest in learning. Ryeamund was powerless to tell them otherwise. After all, Eira had instructed him to keep it under his helmet, or else.
Then, there was the not so trivial matter of Wulfgar taking his oath on the matter.
Ryeamund was constantly amazed at swordplay instruction. Wulfgar explained, that it was almost always the instructor that got hurt and even killed, teaching fencing. Wulfgar tended to wear the chest armor, and let them practice poking him in it. Eira took over for a week and a half, when Wulfgar accidentally took a "little poke" in his thigh.
Wulfgar showed off his "poke" to the men at the Bear's great-house.
"These fighting wenches are a real handful…"
He idly observed, showing off his most recent injury. The men just looked at each other. Wulfgar was nothing if not bravery itself. These crazy fighting wenches were even poking him now. Odin save them all.
Ryeamund played along. Every time the men asked him how in the name of Odin, he was playing with these 'scratch-cats' for fun and a workout now? He snapped his fingers and danced around for them. Ryeamund took every opportunity to explain he was only allowed to play with the 'scratch-cats', simply because he had played stick games with the children, and did meadow tricks with the girls, and danced with the young children enough to be allowed to do so.
The big-men, that were not part Rhyshian? Thought dancing light on the feet was for girls and young women at play. Playing sticks with children? Out of the question. It was all but feminine.
Still. There was definitely nothing even slightly feminine about Ryeamund. Other than how quiet and polite he was. Which was after all, a Rhyshian trait and custom. Still, if any of them expected to be allowed to have a go at Wulfgar's introductory blade class on the matter? They had no choice but to play with the RavinLunden children, particularly the girls.
By the time spring was well under way, a select few of the big-men had gotten up the nerve to get teased by their fellow big-men about going and trying to dance with the girl children, and to play touch sticks with them all. Spend all day trying in vain to do "meadow tricks" the girls did in their signature tight leather slippers.
It was a couple weeks, before the first of them could take a few steps on his hands. It was one of the smaller of them. Big men in general, they found out, couldn't do it at all.
Not a one of them, however, ever got to know about the thorn swords. That was "Rhyshian" and "family" only, Wulfgar explained.
Wulfgar was pleased. The snowball he had made finally started to roll down the mountain of its own accord. It would pick up momentum and weight as it went. These first few men? Were held in high regard by the other giants. They were displaying personal bravery, a big part of their own personal code. Others had to go and do it as well. They risked being labeled a coward by any other that went and tried it.
Wulfgar explained, that the Bear's great-house was perhaps the "least useful" of the big-men, for any other purpose than being big men that were brave and little else. The first man to start doing half-well at the new game? Was keen on winning a few more wagers. He wanted to commission a "fine sword" to be made for him. Not quite as long and thin as the girl's swords, just something a tad more masculine, mind you. But? It was a start, Wulfgar explained. The rest could now take care of itself.
The other great-houses would come to see the "scratch cats" put on their show. Some of the men were now being allowed to warm up with the girls. A very few were in on the individual matches the girls always finished warming up with. The other (bigger) men were scared of them and their new found swordplay.
Eira and her three young ladies were in on this from the very start. Eira explained to her Rye that there were other customs, other than the FarstGeft, that were common. Among the RavinLunden? If not for a wager or a fight of some kind… tricking someone for your own benefit was a mark of low character. Now then, the act of tricking someone for their own benefit if there was no other way? Was considered a divinely inspired act.
The RavinLunden men and women had to trick these big slow men into what was best for them. Eira explained that their fates were now intertwined so thoroughly, that the death of one people was the death of the other people as well. Tricking them for their own benefit? Was a simple matter of survival.
About the only thing they all had a problem with was… no one could seem to get Ryeamund to openly boast, at least not like the north-men did it. His every boast, came off as mere dry humor. Ryeamund had been taught from birth not to boast. To be polite and quiet. To let his deeds speak for him, not his words.
Cute little Var, and her coined ox Theyer? Kind of took it upon themselves to see if they could get through to him gently on the matter. Everyone wanted to see Ryeamund Thorson in 'full boast', if they could pull it off. Apparently, the fact that he could not get himself 'all worked up' like Var and the others were capable of doing, was perhaps ending up to be the main obstacle to their goal.
Arroch had to take it upon himself to remind them all, as gently and quietly as possible. Ryeamund might well never ever hit full boast. They began to sweetly argue with him, but he just smiled, and reminded them all of something they had easily forgotten.
Wulfgar never boasted. Wulfgar was well known VinterBluden. Var took that as a challenge, as she took everything else she was told she "could not do". Hlin took it as a solemn and quiet "duty" to be puzzled out, as she felt Lady Eira would approach it. Syn, ever quiet with little to say. No less than the others and no more than the others, simply the quiet member, uncharacteristically piped up.
"Aye. Ye might be asking a duck to bark as a dog."
Everyone looked at her, all three of Eira's young ladies as well as their 'coin pets'. What the hell was 'the little omen' even saying. Syn just smiled and went on to tell the tale of a lost duckling on a small family farm when she was little.
Var and Hlin remembered barely, the ducks they had. Some were food, some were egg layers, and some were just to breed more ducks. When summer got briefly hot enough to swim, as little girls they would swim with the ducks in the cold pond.
Something had to have happened to the parents of one little duckling. It was alone in an empty nest. No mother to look after it. A really friendly small female dog had puppies, and they ended up putting the lost little duckling they favored in with the puppies and the friendly little mother dog.
The mother dog observed it, and licked and cleaned it, and saw that it even got a little bit of teat time. Being a baby duck pushed and shoved by puppies required the mother to sort out the pecking order. A baby duckling does not need much mother's milk, it was as nothing to the mother.
The little duck grew up around dogs. Even small dogs are larger and more terrifying to a small duck, surely. The little duck grew up waddling around the puppies. The puppies would bark and swat it, as they played with one another. The duck soon learned to peck and quack at the puppies it grew up with. Everyone was amused, and the neighbors came to watch.
They now had puppies that were almost looking to "peck" at bugs on the ground, imitating the little duck. The duck for its part, was prone to sit and "gnaw" on things, obviously imitating the puppies, and even to shake its head vigorously while playing with objects.
Everyone assumed the little lost duck would eventually join the other ducks on the pond, but it never did. The little dogs did as the mother dog did… chased off any critter that came to harass the ducks and try to make off with eggs and ducklings. So, the lost duck took to doing the same. It slept and ran with the dogs around the pond. If alone and something happened out of the woods, creeping in to bandit some eggs or soft fresh duckling? The little duck would charge and raise all manner of hell and fury, much more than one would think a little duck could even muster.
This would raise the alarm and the little dogs knew something was amiss, and they would come in force and run off the little egg bandit critter. They always were sad for that little duck, for it never was once accepted by the other ducks and it never seemed to mate. Even though all the other ducks lived under its wings and beak of protection.
The little duck's main friend, other than the small dogs it grew up with? Was father's one weird stock animal. A horse-like animal someone had traded for in novelty, cheap, then traded off again for very little. Father liked it for hunting wild pigs. It would not run down the wild pigs like the horses the other men used, but, it had a gift. You could watch its ears and locate wild pigs… then the horses with hunters would go in that direction.
The half-horse's other peculiarity? If anything dangerous came onto the farm? This half horse would go absolutely nuts. If a large wild cat was around? It didn't last long. You would find it trampled and bit to death, and the half-horse throwing the carcass around.
The little duck, if the dogs were elsewhere and danger threatened? It would go and peck and quack at the half-horse, until it chased the duck to get it to quit… chasing it to the danger threatening the duck pond. With no dogs, and ducks quacking and flapping up a storm for the danger? The half horse would chase it away. The little duck would then charge with it's companion, the half horse.
One of the duck's other great feats? It would flap it's wings a little and land on the half horse. The half horse got used to it, and would ride it around. Neighbors took any excuse to stop over, just for a chance to see a little duck, riding around on a small half-horse, guarding the duck pond. Every once in a very great while, you would see the most amazing thing ever. The half-horse charging to defend the ducks at the pond with the little duck riding on its back, quacking and flapping like hell. The little warrior duck had trained its very own war-horse, and would charge into battle. It was naturally, a sight to behold.
Syn explained that ducks do not live so many winters, and that this little duck, was on the downhill. It would sometimes walk funny for a little bit, or want to lay up more often than usual. Move one wing around slowly, wondering what was wrong. The duck was into his grays.
One day, father had the half horse out hunting with the other men. The little dogs were running after the half-horse as well on the hunt. When it happened. A small pack of egg bandits came out of the woods and crept up. Then more. With no dogs to raise alarm for, and no half-horse friend to go and get chased into action with, the duck did what it felt it was supposed to. It protected the ducks. The ducks that hated it, the ducks that would not mate or sleep or swim with it.
By the time Syn arrived at all the commotion, there were feathers flying everywhere. The pond ducks were all in a huge uproar, quacking and beating their wings in alarm. But, not the little dog duck, no way.
It knew what was expected of it, by growing up with the dogs. It was charging the pack of egg bandits, that figured they could take turns going in and sneaking eggs and ducklings in this now unguarded pond.
Syn said, you would not believe what hell and fury a little duck can summon, when it wants to. It was standing there, head upright, spreading its wings. Daring them. Charging the pack of egg bandits. Beating them with its wings, and pecking for eyes, scaring them and moving them back. Waiting for help. Help that would never come.
It didn't care it had a hitch in its waddle from age, it didn't care that one wing didn't move all the way like the other still did. It's job was to protect the flock of ducks and their young, that all ironically hated it.
Syn said that if they had been there, to see and hear what came out of that little duck? They would have been amazed. This epic battle between a lone berserk duck… and the horde of egg bandits working together in force… was going on in the thorns on the one end of the pond. All deep mud and thorns, Syn could not reach them to scatter them in time, and save her little duck.
She did say, were it not for the bad wing and bad leg it well might have won, such was the fight it was giving. Either by luck or by experience? Choosing to make it's last stand in the mud and thorns, worked well… the duck could walk and fight on soft mud, that the bandits sunk into. The thorn bushes helped it move around better, and protected it somewhat. Father came back, riding the half horse. Chasing after the small dogs that were off hunting as well. The dogs had heard the commotion and came to the pond ruckus. No one was in time, however.
Syn admitted she cried for her favorite duck for some time. Her parents even lamented the passing of the famous duck. Her father often said "By Odin, that duck is more famous than I am". Her parents decided to bury the dead duck "with honors" as would not normally befit a mere duck on the pond.
The dogs all took turns sniffing the dead body they retrieved. Even the half horse would not leave it. Sniffing at it. Her Father got a large stone to place over the grave. Took a small hammer and chisel and made marks for it.
When asked what the entire point had been, Syn reminded them. If they had been there, to see it and hear it? They would have been frightened, to see what could come out of a little duck, anytime it thought it was making a last stand.
Everyone more or less mourned and missed their famous village "warrior duck", and would tell tales to children and great-house entertainment alike, the tale of the warrior duck. Syn admitted, on some level, she felt a little bit like that duck. Fencing with the big-men. When asked what this had to do with boasting?
Syn smiled. It had two parts. First? When the duck made a stand, something just came out of it, and it was terrifying… for a duck. Large dogs would leave it alone, such was its prowess. The second and most important part, for her? Syn admitted. She had always taken courage from the memory of the little warrior duck, and that her "boast" was, more or less, as close as she could muster to the boast the little duck would put through it.
Var said it was far too sad an ending, for such an epic tale. Theyer reminded her that true tales, often enough do not have the happy ending. Everyone agreed, however, that the little warrior duck had passed into tale and legend. A young girl fencing, was imitating her hero duck. A small monument had been awarded to the duck's memory and grave. The entire village was using the epic tale of the mad duck. It was a lesson for children to take heart, what they could accomplish.
Hlin said the biggest crime was that they could not get that duck breeding. It would have made a mighty flock of highly pissed off ducks, that might well have started all but hunting egg bandits, for a change.
"What was this duck's name?"
Theyer wanted to know, as he had a new tale to tell, entertaining the men as he always did.
Modi. They had named him Modi.
Everyone shook their head, it did make perfect sense. Modi was the god of courage and berserk-er rage. Discussing it, they could arrive at no real meaning to it all. Why would Modi, the god of courage and battle rage, give such great gifts to but a lowly duck. Why not to one of the small dogs, who could better make use of the gift, after all.
No one could rightly figure it. It was after all, as everyone already knew, simply the will of the gods. There was no predicting it. There was no controlling it. The gods, for all their might and thunder, were sometimes an awful lot like little children. Because as everyone already knew…
The Gods sometimes do strange shit, that you can't possibly fathom.
That was when they all got bored finally, with the tale of Modi the mighty duck, and looked over at Wulfgar. Working on Ryeamund's sword arm. The two were playing string. Distance, these blade students all already knew from past experience under Wulfgar, was crucial.
A warrior could stay around and away from an opponent, but they would never be able to strike like that. They could come in close where they could wreak sudden havoc, but they were now open to receive it as well. You wanted to learn your distance. Stay just on the outer edge. Teasing your opponent. Having him swish air at you. Wearing him down.
You sought to be flexible and nimble enough to dart in and out, to keep him swinging on air. Then, when the time was right? You appeared to be just out of range, as usual… but you were not, you were just inside your lethal range. A slightly better stretch, and you could open them up to spill out.
A simple string tied from one belt to the opponent's belt, taught them this. The opponent shuffles back? You shuffle forward. The opponent shuffles in? You shuffle around and/or back. You maintained your crucial distance. You sought to keep the string taut. If the string broke, or was laying loose? You were off distance. You either could not attack, and were wasting your energy swinging on nothing. Or worse, you thought you were safe, and you were within range.
Wulfgar was trying to figure out why in the hell the string game was not working properly. Ryeamund was able to lean forward and poke Wulfgar's chest armor. While the string was taut. Maybe it was one of the girl's shorter strings, after all. No, it wasn't that. Wulfgar, while a warrior of great renown and cool, calm demeanor… was also a high reckoner. He loved a good puzzle. He was well known to mull things over for years if necessary until he found the answer one fine day as it occurred to him.
This puzzle did not take him nearly so long as some of the others. This puzzle required only Syn, who normally didn't have much to say on most matters. This made Wulfgar stop and take notice.
"Why does not the Wolf put Rye against the wall."
Wulfgar thought about it. That was a good idea. Wulfgar was a tall man, but tall in the fashion of the Rhyshian's that were cut with the Nords. Tall, but in proportion. Sinew and muscle, not fat and size. Tall men, as everyone knew, had long arms and legs.
When Wulfgar placed Ryeamund's heels and waist and head against the wall, and had him extend his arms out to fingertips length? He stood next to him to see what the man's reach was. Wulfgar knew that he himself had a good reach even for a man as tall as he was. It favored his sword arm.
Wulfgar could not believe it, but the string often tells the tale, and the string never lied. Var and Hlin took the measurements carefully with the string several times. Used everyone else as standards. There was no escaping the conclusion, it was a fact.
Ryeamund had arms and legs longer than anyone else, even though many of them were much taller than he was. In fact, everything was big about Ryeamund, save for one thing… his trunk. He had a wide, short, thick trunk.
Wulfgar grinned as he explained it to Ryeamund. That was why hand fighting worked so well for him. He could punch a man that thought he was well out of range of this shorter man. Men with longer arms than normal for their height? Wulfgar knew from scrolls and experience training boys and men, that they could throw a stone farther and faster than most others, particularly if they worked on it. It was most likely why Rye could do his "tree tricks" climbing and leaping. It was why he was good with an ax and a hammer.
Wulfgar had to whirl light on his feet, to come in and swish his blade right up to the student's neck, to impress upon them there was more in play than a young student realized. He naturally did this to Ryeamund, to keep him in check. Wulfgar even winked at his other former students, they knew what was coming. One of Wulfgar's signature moves.
He would bait a man to be committed to his longest thrust, seemingly taking the opening… and it was not. It was a trap. Wulfgar would reach out and grasp the man's wrist deftly, and yank him off balance. To be pinned to the ground like a bug. He had demonstrated it on the battlefield before, much to the delight of his men. He used it in combat, near the end, when he faced a last desperate opponent that needed put down, so the resistance would crumble that their last hero was felled.
Except, it didn't work on Ryeamund. His arms were too strong. His trunk was too thick. When he lowered his great bulk because he was flexible, he was about as easily moved as a thick stump. Wulfgar recovered after every attempt, he had to roll out and around his opponent, ending in a deadly touch with his metal touch-stick. His former students saw it though.
Sometimes, the gods do strange shit.
The day's practice session was almost over, and Ryeamund idly asked the others what they had been talking about in their huddle. They related the story of Modi the duck.