Chapter 4 - Ryeamund IV
This day was going much like any other. Ryeamund had been hearing "the great mountain whisper to him" in his ears every so often for several days now. His three big friends had told him of it, so he was less surprised by it when it happened. His ears made a soft popping sound or feeling, as they went higher and higher up the great corridor towards their destination. They were not long upon the road when the men stopped. When Ryeamund went to ask them of it, all three of them raised their hands without turning around.
Woodcutters look to the men's hands around and in front of them just like fighting men do; it could indicate a dangerous "widow maker" spotted that could come crashing down silently and kill a man, it could even be some bear a man is the first to detect. So, Ryeamund froze.
One man looked at the other, and he shook his head yes. One finally spoke quietly.
"Ryeamund… we are following fresh tracks."
"Aye, then. This be a road. Another road, did join our road, and not far back. Did it not?"
"Aye."
"Why is this any matter?"
"Ryeamund. Reckon the tracks, then. One man… then three men."
"Or… three men, then one man", Ryeamund countered.
"Nay, Ryeamund. We are over here. Reckoning the tracks. We follow, as well. See you now? The three, do follow the first, the one man."
"I reckon as a woodcutter. You reckon as a fighter."
"Aye."
"Do ye know more?"
The two smaller men exchanged non-committal glances. One observed:
"Follow… catch a friend… or… catch prey. We may yet find out. Be quiet, keep a keen eye, keep a keen ear. If there be bandits, I reckon they will not want to make friends… with Heyermannen."
Ryeamund smiled. If he himself were a bandit? Tangling with these two would be enough. But the sight of the big man, also in armor as all three were. Yes, quite a deterrent. They traveled without talking, not a peep. There was no disguising the horse and its great cart and smaller cart lashed behind it. All on foot, the four of them could trot until they caught up with whatever was happening. But there was no way to have the cart and horse be as silent as they could.
Heyermannen was in the lead, his two big companions that almost measured up to him on either side flanked out behind him. Ryeamund silently followed in the center rear of them, closing off an imaginary diamond shape… when Heyermannen held his hand up fast and quick, then pointed at the tracks. They all saw it.
The first man hugging the right of the road had veered almost straight off and into the underbrush, which was light up here in these elevations. All three studied the tracks intently. Ryeamund waited for their reckoning. Might as well let the smith handle the smith work, as his dead father had often repeated.
One of the two smaller men said:
"Ah, look. The one man, the first man. He wears fur, as we do."
He pointed at the wrapped leather furs these north-men always wore. Ryeamund wore his woodcutter/blacksmith boots, thick leather all up and down with extra layers for the sole and sides. The three following, looked like they wore light boots or moccasin-type affairs.
They all three shook their heads, they didn't recognize the footwear. This piqued all three of their interest levels… one north-man, most likely followed by three outsiders.
Heyermannen tapped his chest with his left fist…
"Come in peace, or, come not."
His two companions finished for him, one after the other:
"Stay in peace."
"Or… stay forever."
They all strained to see anything, but there was nothing visible. They all three listened, but again to no avail. Ryeamund though, walked slowly off the road, and swiveled around slowly. His hands cupped his ears and he moved them slowly about. He finally settled on a direction.
"Maybe… something, I can not reckon…", Ryeamund said. The other two were trying to decide if they, too, heard anything.
Ryeamund was mumbling as much to himself aloud, as to his three big friends, all deciding the best move.
"The cow is out of fence, and three wild pigs follow… I need no more reckoning."
Then Ryeamund disappeared to the back of his little wagon. He grabbed two of his tiny hand-axes and shoved them into his belt. His right hand carried his largest great ax, and his left his smaller great ax. As he quickly gathered his wood tools, he interrupted his friends and spoke over them.
"Do ye hunt, with a dog?"
"Aye…?", Heyermannen agreed, confused.
"Do ye not follow the dog's bark."
"Aye…?", Heyermannen again agreed, equally confused.
"Nay, big man. This dog… whistles."
He spoke tersely but politely.
"Woodcutter. No armor. I move quick in the wood."
They tried to talk to him, but it was to no avail.
All he said was, pointing off of the road at the tracks the men studied:
"I will find, the land lord's cow !"
Before any of the three of them could figure out what they were going to do? The thick young man was in seconds out of sight, flitting and darting in slick greased arcs through the trees. A woodcutter after a couple years can run near full tilt, weaving and bobbing and leaping where other men would move slower. Strapped in their impressive armor? They suddenly realized they had no chance to keep up.
"Heyermannen!! Tracks!!", was all they heard him yell back for them.
Ryeamund was excited now, and he realized he was not scared. He was in his element, the woods. If he did find trouble, he reasoned his axes were a fine fit for his hands. Woodcutters play many games when taking breaks from the hard labor. The trees do not mind the games much, but a human would definitely not enjoy his ax work. After perhaps several long minutes, Ryeamund could make something out above his own footfalls. Men were shouting, and it did not sound like the meeting of kin. It did not sound like men helping one another. There was some sort of bickering or boasting as he grew closer.
Ryeamund felt the familiar quickening of his pulse as it always did when he ran. He could run much further than this at full tilt without tiring seriously. He leaned in, knowing he was close to his destination and whatever awaited his eyes. Forgetting to be cautious, he broke from the woods into a small clearing of short light underbrush.
Three strangely dressed men were moving themselves around at a small to fair distance just beyond a tall, lone north-man. He closed about a third the distance before they even realized he was coming. Once they sighted him he had no chance of surprise anyways; he bellowed instead. It just seemed like the thing to do.
The north-man had been merely standing, his feet shoulder width apart. A long sword in his right hand, down but at the ready. He started and looked behind him, no doubt his first thought was that a fourth man was now on him; a quick glance over his shoulder as he turned to face what was screaming and bearing down upon his rear flank suddenly told him these three were greatly increasing the size of their semi-circle.
Ryeamund veered to his right, he had no wish to be cut down by a sword, much less by a man who no doubt knew how to use it for it's intended purpose. The fact that the sword was wielded by a man who would later find out he had attacked his friend would not save Ryeamund from death.
By steering clear of the well-wielded sword, and by veering back into the pack of men told the north-man all he needed to know for now. These three did not flee, but they were now still trying to assess what had just occurred. They were even more cautious now. Whoever this new man was, he was the enemy of his enemies. He was dressed strangely, but not nearly as strangely as these three.
Ryeamund slowed as quick as he might without skidding, to a sudden stop. He was now between the three men who had widened their semicircle and moved it back. A quick glance over his shoulder, and he knew the north-man was not on him. He was no expert in the north-men's customs, yet he had noticed their habit of tapping their breast hard and dipping their head.
Ryeamund wanted to cement that he was on the north-man's side, so he tapped his smaller great ax in his left hand against his breast and dipped his head, while keeping his far eye on the circle of hostiles. Then he turned around, because he judged his back to now be well protected. Because the big north-men were men of great renown for their size and strength as well as their fighting skill.
Ryeamund could only think of what he knew the far north-men thought of him and his kind. He was but the descendant of cowards and weaklings, at least in their minds if they did not know of him. He found it increased the heat in his blood with the thought.
He felt his blood begin to boil slowly. He rolled his head around on his neck. Slowly. Any woodcutter would instantly know what he was about to do, but these were not woodcutters; these were but wild pigs, and they were after his land lord's cow. And wild pigs do not need but one good lesson to respect the fences and the cut grass.
These were not "men". These were but wild pigs. They were hunting like a wild pig pack. Following. Waiting. Circling and teasing the prey. They would tire it, then come in. Just simple pig tricks. They even startled and backed up and out, when confronted. Not men. Pigs.
The men were stationary now; everyone was choosing their place in this. Ryeamund took one deep breath, held it, and exhaled slowly. He lifted himself up onto the balls of his feet, and put his right foot back, still up on the ball of that foot. His left foot was out first, heel down. It pointed.
He swiveled slightly, as he interlaced his left pinkie finger into his right hand, locking it in. A minute swivel, an ever so slight adjustment rotating the ax handle not but a fraction of a degree. His hands did it by themselves, he was long used to this game.
He had an odd but slight crouch and his great ax he now lowered, ever so slowly. The fool was stationary not a couple paces from him. This was obviously the leader, the bold one. This was their Heyermannen. He raised his great ax and lowered it several times, the men watched him, alert but curious.
One of yet another slow lowering of the great ax? Was anything but. It seemed to suddenly instead of being lowered and raised slowly, as before? It simply left his hands, and his open loose fingers stayed "on the point" as he had been taught by the older woodcutters. Pointing at the lead man.
There was no real time to react, the ax moved a lot quicker than any onlooker thought it could. It made one surprisingly quick, neat rotation… and rather almost seemed to appear in the man's chest. His two wing men were in awe of what had just happened.
They were now taking quick, furtive, fearful glances at each other and they were now wider apart. Without the benefit of their man. He lay on the ground, a giant wood ax buried into his chest cavity. His hands and arms moved feebly. A bubbling sound was audible, as everyone was dead silent… and in particular, the man on the ground who was already dead and just didn't fully realize it yet.
Ryeamund was in completely new territory here. Both literally and figuratively. He had almost killed two men with his fists as they had not been sport matches, yet they had lived. He found his blood did boil, but he had been taught by one of the better woodcutters at this game of great ax throwing:
"If ye hit ye mark well, stand fast, stand still. Do not jump, do not boast."
And so without thinking, that was what he did, on autopilot. He just stood there for a few seconds. The men were frozen, but for their looks at one another. Then, Ryeamund picked up his smaller great ax. He took the same stance, and his hands found this ax's grip. All by themselves; automatically.
'Ye hands will reckon for themselves in time. Let them.'
He raised it at the one on the left, and lowered it but once. Left man had the benefit of having just seen his leader go from standing awaiting battle, to death gurgles and throes in a flash. He ducked and ran off and his friend stood rooted, shaking. Ryeamund simply swiveled towards him now. Right man was fleeing before Ryeamund could get his ax moving.
The tall north-man behind him walked up towards him; Ryeamund held his hand over his shoulder. So, the man froze and did not speak… Ryeamund could hear crashing through the underbrush. He intuitively had arced around, homing in on both the terrain and the noise he was running towards automatically. As a woodcutter can, easily.
His three friends trotting, in full armor through the underbrush, were still on the straight path the tracks started on. Once in the underbrush? The tracks disappeared. They no doubt knew they were close.
Ryeamund whistled, loud and shrill. It cut the air, and it was easy for anyone at any distance to hear it. He did it then three times in succession. The first would alert Heyermannen, who had been in the woods with him and knew of it; the three more, would allow all of them to get a bearing easily, while on the trot.
No time for anything but quick, terse words.
Ryeamund pointed at the crashing underbrush, now clearly veering to their position. "Three north-men, my friends", and Ryeamund started to run. Ryeamund had learned when young, that once he struck the leader the henchmen would disperse, they almost always did. They went from hero to zero in a flash of switched fortunes.
He had but to outrun two cowards… two cowards who were frightened, most likely now without their leader. Even if he couldn't catch them, he could drive them far enough back and away from the road for it to be much safer. Also? They would not be doing this again in this area, even if they did live and escape him. They would frighten any others they knew. If they lived, that is.
They had a good head start, and none of his friends in their great heavy armor would be able to keep up. But those two he sought? They had leather on. Thick leather. Weight. Not as much as the metal armor, but still, weight to run with.
The leather men with their head start were running as fast as their feet could possibly carry them. Ryeamund ran fast, but not at full tilt. They were in hot, frightful blood. Running in panic. It would not last… he could overtake them, and while he would not be well rested when he was upon them? They would be drained.
Ryeamund lost sight of them briefly, but could clearly hear them. Then eventually he was in sight of them. They had veered off more, yet more down and away from the road. One was lagging behind the other, trying desperately to keep up with his friend. Ryeamund quickened his run; he was getting closer. He slowed to match the pace of the laggard and dropped his great ax still remaining, and his hand automatically found one of his two tiny hand axes. He buried it in the back of the man whose pace he had matched. It was fairly easy, it was only three twirls of a hand ax. It didn't bring him down, but his hand could not get to it to pull it. It had stumbled him but he recovered his run. It might kill him; then again, it might not.
But, his friend would think it a bad omen indeed, Ryeamund reckoned. Ryeamund now did not know if the leather man ahead had kept running, or perhaps was circling around. It would depend. Ryeamund was beyond whistle range now.
If they ran, good. If they chose to circle around and now chase him? He could outdistance them as easily as he had caught them; he could move much faster. That leather armor must be heavier than he thought. He simply turned and ran fairly fast back towards the way he had come. The terrain had led down into a sort of gentle funnel. He would easily meet his friends soon. No doubt all three of them trotting after him, perhaps even the fourth north-man he had seen but not yet met.
When he judged he was close, he stopped. He heard absolutely nothing back the way he had come… the leather men were fleeing or hiding. He was starting to hear the intermittent far off noise, which was no doubt his companions. The leather-men could not circle around and come back, and make themselves run any faster than their panic flight, which he already knew he could outpace. It had to be his friends, and could not possibly be the enemy.
He trotted easily towards his companions. If he was being pursued, though he doubted it… the two men, one badly wounded, would not be capable of much when all four or five of them stood together. If even they followed.
He whistled several times when they were close, and he stood to wait. He had stopped by where he had dropped his last remaining great ax. He stood and leaned on it, awaiting his friends. When they came into view finally, they ran up to him. Heyermannen was following behind this new north-man, who was about in between Heyermannen's gigantic size, and his two slightly smaller friends in a line behind him.
This new north-man, now led the four of them as a mother duck leads her ducklings. Ryeamund instantly and intuitively saw they now took their cues from this man. Who quizzed him quickly on what had transpired after the chase started; he had already no doubt informed the other three of the basics that had begun the chase.
Ryeamund's travel companions wanted to go with this man and follow the two fleeing. No one questioned Ryeamund's account of having buried a hand ax in the man's back. Asked if it merely lodged in the leather armor, or penetrated? Ryeamund admitted he didn't know for sure, but he described how the man stumbled and recovered.
Despite Heyermannen's constant desire to go with, this new north-man decided for them. He informed them, that what they all did not know… was that his men were closing in ahead of them on the road. It had been a trap for these three. His men would have seen them following him, and closed in behind them. That had been the plan, until these three had charged behind him suddenly.
The new north-man decided that if Ryeamund was being circled back upon, the one or two would now disperse, they would not risk anything with a greater force, given what had already happened, he reckoned. He said he would run lightly after them, and see if he could pick up a blood trail once he had sign to follow. They would all go back to the road, and follow on as if nothing was amiss, and were not to be surprised when they were suddenly surrounded; it would he his men, and it was fine.
They were instructed to tell his men, to go "North by Northeast; into the bigger of the funnels.", with the idea being maybe, just maybe, his men could make it ahead of the fleeing man or men, yet… it would not happen quite quick enough. But, they would still try.
Ryeamund spoke up, and told the man.
"We all can not… but I can."
He handed his ax to Heyermannen, and said he would run ahead. With no weapons and no armor? This man's men had a much greater margin of error to get moving. The man nodded that if he would do so, he would appreciate it.
The man said to use his name, and it was Wulfgar. His men would then listen to the young man they did not know. He was instructed to say 'In the name of Wulfgar… ye are to…' then tell them as he had said. If they did not believe him, he was to hand them an iron coin he gave him and told him not to lose it, nor was he to keep it after seeing his men.
He asked his three companions if he would do as he was instructed, and Hayermannen said "Aye!", and tapped his breast.
Ryeamund set off. He was not very long past the wagon once he hit the road, before large men in armor and furs, carrying various wicked looking weapons appeared in front of him. Others were coming up behind him, and he heard some more in the brush alongside both sides of the road.
He held out his hands so they could see he had no weapons in them. When the head man started to instruct him, he rudely cut him off.
"There is no time for all this! In the name of Wulfgar… ye are to head north, by northeast. With all haste. Ye are to… take the greater funnel, said he."
The head man looked to the man almost beside him, who shrugged back at him. The man did not draw his big sword, but he did, and somewhat ominously, put his hand upon it.
"Why is not Wulfgar here telling me this !"
Ryeamund decided what time he had created by running faster without armor, this man was wasting, deciding what was going on just like Heyermannen would do. He remembered the iron coin. He tossed it at the man, who caught it and looked at it.
Ryeamund raised his voice to a firm level, and told the man he could ask Wulfgar when he met him, and to give him his coin back.
To his surprise, the man turned and trotted off. But, not before tapping his breast hard and dipping his head, and all his men followed suit, practically in unison. All were off with no further word, and within seconds there was naught upon the road save for their tracks and the noise in the underbrush, which soon faded.
Ryeamund thought about waiting for his wagons and friends to meet up with him, but he decided he might as well not start being lazy just yet. He turned around and ran back to meet the approaching wagon and his friends. With no great haste to make, he ran but lightly.
He stopped short of them, and they all met. Ryeamund asked what they were to do next. Resume their travels, or did they have other instructions.
Heyermannen said they might as well have lunch, there were no bandits about now. So they did. Over a fuller, thicker bowl of greens that would have been a normal amount for lunch, and extra dried meat and mushrooms and wild onions. Ryemund was, as they all already knew, quite keen on food.
They seemed to have some keen interest in watching him eat and drink, but what it was he could not puzzle out. When Ryeamund idly asked if Wulfgar had anything else to say after he had left, did he miss anything? Heyermannen responded:
"Aye. The Wolf says, tell the border man. If I find his small ax, when I meet him, I will return it to him."
Ryeamund said that would be a fine thing, that he had 'loaned' his new leather friend a small ax; it would be polite for him to return it. Heyermannen burst into laughter, and it seemed the funniest thing he had heard yet. Then all three kept in chuckles. Their new friend was picking up on their dry humor they all displayed.
Ryeamund did not know why they quizzed him so, but they did. Did his stomach rumble? No, he said. Why should it. Did he want to take a break before they set off again? Or break all day and night, then set off? No, he said. Why should he be lazy and rest. He reminded them, he was keen on finding a pig or two, and maybe some of those 'all but free' goats they spoke of, as if they were nothing to obtain and have.
Ryeamund started at them. What, they wondered. Ryeamund grew quiet, and looked at the ground.
"I spoke quick, and I spoke harsh, to move those men. I am supposed to speak lightly to men in all of their beard. But, time was in haste."
One of the men smiled, and assured him it was fine. He reminded him, that he did not speak harsh to the men… Wulfgar had done so. Once he said 'in the name of…', then presented Wulfgar's 'token' which proved it? It was as if Wulfgar were there himself.
"Oh. That is fine, then. I would not have it keep me from pigs, I own in whole…", and he trailed off, now looking down again and quieter.
"What?", the man prodded.
"My father. It would have been the finest thing. To return a winter or three later. With my own pigs, and goats. With some small coins. And… a father waiting. But… he is gone."
"Aye. Yet, take heart, Rye. He is with ye ancestors now. They see it, men say."
"I… hope they approve."
All three smiled, and took turns assuring him that indeed, they thought his ancestors approved.
Ryeamund after lunch, and a horn of the wine they gave him and all but made him drink, was highly excited when they told him they were a week from the first village. Weather aside, which was so far much in their favor, and looked to continue.