Chapter 10 - Chapter 10 - Village V

Chapter 10 - Village V

   After Ryeamund had eaten, he preferred to sit and rub his distended midsection, for a little while at any rate. A man who is well used to starving and barely scraping by, quickly learns to fill up when food is available. To stretch the stomach, as you did not know when the next great meal will come along. Farmers have periods of plenty, interspersed with periods of much less. This was a time of plenty obviously, so, stretch and fill.

   Ryeamund finally walked over to the Bear's table. He dipped his head quite low, and held it for several seconds, before coming up to toast.

   "To your man, the Bear. I mean no jest. He sought battle. He fought bravely. He fought with all he had. To the Bear!"

   One man arose, and toasted it back. By two's and three's, the other Bear cubs followed suit. Ryeamund tapped his breast, and held it, his head again down. He did seem sincere. When he turned to go back to his own table, one of the men came out and asked him to sit with them for a little while. Would he play dice with them.

   "Aye. Yet, my father did not approve of wagering."

   "Well then man. Bring yer men over, if it pleases them. We can wager dice for drinks, and not coin. To get to the truth of the matter, I believe coin is in short supply, at this moment."

   The man smiled. He seemed honest about it.

   "I will ask my Heyermannen's leave of it."

   And Ryeamund came over to ask if this was okay. Theyer and Sooth agreed it seemed all right. Arroch was finally eating a plate of food, and Theyer and Sooth were starting to pick at food as well.

   The four of them came over, and sat with the men. They were playing "low dice". Low dice, used only one die. A one, was a loss, and you had to take a sip. A six was a win, and it would offset a one when it came. A three and a five were both a sip to give away. A two and a four were a pass and you kept rolling. When you finally got a one, with no previous six to cancel it out, you took a bigger drink and passed the die.

   It was but an idle distraction, to go along with gossiping and drinking. It encouraged social interaction. The men already knew Arroch and Theyer and Sooth. After a few small goblets of watered down mead, Ryeamund was much the same as he always was. Quiet and polite, but would talk with people and smile.

   The men slowly started to talk to him. After what he had done, it was obvious they now feared him. When he had laughed like an evil madman, holding the man's face out for them to see, before he destroyed the man completely… well, it had been a clear warning. Had not the Bear done what he did to instigate the entertainment, it could have just as easily been any of them now coughing up blood and twitching, near death.

   Licking the man's blood off of his own hands and smiling, probably had made much more of an impression. Arroch and Theyer and Sooth realized that Ryeamund did not seem to understand that most men would have an upset stomach after seeing bad violence, whether at their own hands or the hands of another. His easy manner before and after, and even during… followed by his leisurely attitude and hearty appetite directly afterwards, were almost certainly the most telling things about the new man. Without anyone asking, it was obvious the oxen had not named him Thorson as an idle boast.

   As the idle talk came slowly, most were keen to hear of Ryeamund and where he came from. These men were not often on merchant errands, and usually were sent by groups or even whole… as bigmen. Bigmen was their term for what they were. Big men, wearing armor, who would not run from battle.

   They were usually used for command work when it was needed. They were usually commanded by someone else Wulfgar placed over them temporarily when on a command. If someone wanted a gaggle of bigmen, to stand around and be obviously at beck and call, to impress some foolish noble somewhere? This was the goon squad. This was the infantry. There were other great-houses like this. Great-houses of bigmen.

   If some tavern somewhere had managed to cause any problems with merchants, it was a cinch they would go to the tavern, and… well… be themselves for the evening. It almost always left the proper impression upon the locals. The message would be received loud and clear, with no one saying a word. You hassle people who aren't hassling you? Interrupting the high king's errands? This can be sent to a tavern near you. If the locals then wanted to "up the ante", these men were happy to simply wager on their outcomes.

   If the RavinLunden located a remote camp of the rest of some bandits, well, Wulfgar's "ravens" would set things up, then they came in to mop up. Collectively, all the bigmen great-houses were referred to as Wulfgar's "dog packs". Because that's how they were used, and as well because all bigmen great-houses had an extra feature beyond the little farm out back for the food. They would raise and train and make use of war-dogs.

   Any war dogs that didn't make the grade, were still useful. They were given to farmers to guard from raiding wild pigs and wild boar. A well trained but not violent enough war dog? Was highly prized to guard herds. These were gigantic Molossers that originated in far away mountainous regions. Even the shy dogs were dangerous, and could only be used by men that knew big dogs. These were not house pets, they could only be used effectively by farmers that were not scared to put their hands easily on large animals.

   Only the RavinLunden were expert enough in their training, use, and sorting through them… to know which ones were used to "herd" their children. You could let a pack of children loose, unsupervised, and know that any bear, wild pig or raider that happened along? Would have their hands full while the children went to safety. These dogs were game, even the shyest of them. Once they considered a human to be theirs? They would not back down from anything that threatened, and would stand and fight to the death. While wagging their tails.

   'As be the owner, so be the dog'

   During low dice, one man was getting comfortable and in his goblet, and made a sporting crack about Ryeamund's several bad rolls.

   "Aye, bad rollers turn, it is…"

   And his man next to him, shot him a look. The man smiled nervously, and went quiet. They were all used to dealing with the Bear? And this man had just removed him. Like a spring bud.

   Ryeamund chuckled and piped up.

   "Aye, I can't have this. Ye men? I tried to tell the Bear this, before he examined. I am a man for fun! Ye need not fear me. Point and tease, and have good sport with me. I laugh with ye. My woodcutter fellows, back home? They know of it, they can declare me a defiler of goats, and I laugh with them."

   "Nay… the Bear, he declared ye a coward. We see how that matter went, then."

   "Aye. I told the Bear, do it in fun, I enjoy such. The Bear went out of his way, for the matter to not be in fun. I tried to talk him out of it. He would have none of it."

   "Aye. Next up? Is the poor rolling defiler of goats, then…"

   The men laughed nervously. Ryeamund raised his goblet.

   "Aye. To defiled goats, that they bore more milk and cheese!"

   "And why not the sheep, man? The wool is a handy thing to hang onto! Ah!"

   Ryeamund laughed.

   "Nay, the sheep would seem a finer thing, but the truth of the matter is, they kick too much."

   The men started laughing now. Arroch caught Theyer's eye, the talker saw it as well, his glance back said. Ryeamund was able to put the men back at their ease. He didn't want the men scared of him. He had bargained with the lead animal, Arroch realized. He would never have to bargain with any of these men, nor likely any man that talked to them. Arroch could just picture Ryeamund dealing with an unruly animal, then going back to handing out treats and caresses.

   Theyer wondered aloud, that since they had enough men, why were they not playing high dice instead?

   A Bear cub, in between rolls at low dice, explained it.

   "Aye. We have no reckoner handy. Even if we did, it's not half the fun, to have each roll reckoned for each man."

   Because, to play high dice? You had to sum the two dice you rolled. Three, seven, and eleven were "wins". Single six was a save-up, and double sixes was the best. One-one, two eight, and one-three had special meanings. For instance, only a one-three could "beat" a one-three that came back to you (reversal). And why not, what with there being 13 months in the year.

   Thirteen lunar months of exactly twenty-eight days each, likewise made the two-eight combo a special win. One-one was a nod to the "extra day" that occurred every four years. Without its sacred extra day every four years, the crop planting dates ever so slowly over generations moved towards winter, through it, and back to spring again. One-One was also informally known as "snake eyes", as it was said to resemble a serpent's keen gaze. One-One would eliminate you from the game if you rolled it, until you were restarted in a new game after it ended.

   The seven was naturally the seven days of the week. (Moon's day, Tyr's Day, Woden's Day, Thor's Day, Frey's Day, Satyr's Day, Sun's Day)

   In addition to instigating social drinking and gossiping and therefore friendship time spent idle, the game was cunningly crafted so as to help people remember all the things they really needed to remember. How many days to each month, how many months, remember the sacred extra day, how many days in the week.

   It aided children learning these necessities. Perhaps it did not hurt any that it also aided illiterate fighting men to keep accurate calendar, if they found themselves alone for an extended period of time, with a command on a certain day.

   Theyer did not press the issue. He had learned in the past long back, that even hinting at poking fun of a man for not knowing how to figure sums and differences, was not a good omen for later on in the evening. Even if you were not calling the man stupid nor even hinting at it? He would likely take it as such. Then, later on? Some other thing was 'the matter', even though the real matter was the previously perceived insult.

   Ryeamund brought it back up, hell, the man didn't know any of these finer points on social interaction with men like this. Ryeamund most likely felt as if he were hanging out with the woodcutter crew at the tavern he said the men would drag him to once a week.

   "Aye, about reckoning and scribbling to count? The head woodcutter can do some of that. Other than handling the men and the work, he was able to do some reckoning and scribbling. A man can not rise to the Heyermannen woodcutter, answering to the petty king's man, but if he has ability at that."

   "Can you do any of it?", a Bear cub wondered.

   "Nay… after I am out of fingers, I need to be told the next measure, as all woodcutters do, save for the Heyermannen."

   "Theyer? You reckoned a lot of coin…"

   "Aye, okay. But… I can not do high reckoning. I can count one measure. I can count the other measure. But, I have to then count the whole things all over again, slowly. I can not properly bring them together. I am useful to a merchant, but, I am no king's reckoner."

   "Where did you come by all that, then."

   "When I was a wee one, my mother was keen friends with a RavinLunden that could do more. My mother caught extra coin watching other children. One of the girls showed us a bit as we might. It was a bit of fun as a wee child in the winters, trapped inside."

   "Is that how you got to be a kingsman then, Theyer? We don't have that many smooth talkers as you, and your sword arm is a fine thing."

   "Aye, that, and I was keen on hunting with my uncle. The two led to this."

   "Yer uncle had cause to hunt a bit with the RavinLunden then, did he? That was how ye came by Wulfgar, then."

   "Nay, not as much as that. When Wulfgar was about, we were children, and when there? I was as the RavinLunden children all were. I ran from him as they all did. On account of the sweetbread stories."

   Everyone laughed, the milk-skull stories terrified all the children.

   "But, Wulfgar noticed ye for the hunting, then."

   "Nay. Wulfgar declared me a useless hunter, by Raven standards… I would admit, it might not have been my finest hour."

   Everyone laughed at his admission.

   "How then, man."

   "Oh, be entertained, by the tale of it, then…"

   "I came home one day, otherwise a more than fair day, till then. And I was all set to piss my trousers and run. There be Wulfgar, sitting at my father's table… I reckoned the man had come for me skull. Aye, my father has to actually go and chase me down. I mean, chase me down, like a chicken for dinner… It is funny now? But… I was scared."

   "I'm almost a young man, and I pissed my trousers.Mmy father setting me down, saying that it is okay that Wulfgar has come for me." Death its goat-defiling self, is sitting, and looking for me? In me father's own house, man! I must say, poor choice of words, to a child that days earlier, that evil eyed man, declared useless. I thought the two matters were somehow related."

    "My father had to farstgeften me into that chair, I tell you. I imagined, I was to lose my skullcap, for some error. The man had declared me useless days earlier? Now this man is at my father's table… looking… for me."

    "Wulfgar had me show him what little reckoning I could do, he claimed I could be taught to use a sword and a shield, yet, he wanted any reckoning he could find."

   "You have a handy sword arm man."

   "Aye. All from Wulfgar. You do not run with that man for a winter or two and not reckon a few sword strokes now and again."

   Ryeamund appeared confused.

   "Hold. Ye all claim, that reckoning is high and important of quality to the kingsmen? I believed ye were all fighting men. You are not all… big-men" ?

   "Aye, we are. Yet, Wulfgar and the high king? Are keen to find a reckoner. Wulfgar has a keen desire to find as many such as he can. Ye get promoted if he sees it."

   "Oh, aye, Ryeamund. Every merchant run? Needs a reckoner."

   "To count coin."

   "Aye, but so you do not throw the king's gold away. Ye can not have men easily swindled by a crooked merchant."

   "Hah. That's why I always barter local. It doesn't pay to be involved with coin without some reckoning. Low merchants in the villages, are fine for ye trust. But, not any I do not know when off the lands."

   Ryeamund was making a face.

   "Ryeamund? Ye eat too much?"

   "Oh… nay. I was just… supposing."

   "What matter, then?"

   "Me and me father, we half starved, on our lease farm."

   "Ye were not good farmers? Ye had rocks for dirt? Hard to starve, growing food, it is."

   "Nay. I am supposing… if the tax man swindle, or, if it be the petty king."

   "Or both. Would not one know of the other?"

   Theyer now made a face like Ryeamund's…

   "Theyer? What, then…"

   "I was just reckoning… what a good examination of Ryeamund's tax man and petty king would declare of them."

   "Aye. The high king will get around to burning the grease off of that pig, in time."

   Theyer furrowed his brow even more… so Arroch noticed.

   "Theyer? Ye got the look. What man."

   Theyer laid out a rough plan.

   "The North Star has a keen wit, I am sure of it. Yet, the man can not read minds."

   "You can, then."

   "Nay. Yet. Would it be so hard to catch the two of them, with the missing sweetbread?"

   "How say you that, then."

   "Let us suppose. What would be the result, if a high reckoner, would pretend to be the farmer. With a few grays. The sons, could be a couple bigmen."

   "It could work. Yet, most of the high reckoners we have and can trust, are mostly RavinLunden women."

   "Farmer needs a wife, does he not?"

   Arroch smiled.

   "The North Star would hit the roof timbers, if ye brought him a tax man with missing sweetbread in his coin purse."

   "If ye could put hands on more high reckoners, ye could have one in each village."

   "The RavinLunden women?"

   Arroch laughed…

   "Oh, Aye. As if the RavinLunden, are going to let us steal all the wives and daughters for a whole winter or two. Pretending to be married to bigmen playing farmer? If the Ravens don't crossbow you on the way down, the women kill ye in yer sleep. We can not barely drink in their great-house without a cast iron pot over a man's skull. And that be the women. "

   "I did not claim my plan was perfect. The topsoil of the matter is sound, I reckon. A man could grow some plan on it."

   After a time, the cubs asked of Ryeamund's job back home. Was he a farmer, or a woodcutter? Another said he heard Rye was a blacksmith. Ryeamund explained he was a lease farmer, but they needed coin for food. Hence the smithing and woodcutting. Ryeamund admitted he was a poor smith, but a fine woodcutter.

   Asked how he knew which he was better at, Ryeamund explained that when a smith helper is chased around with a blacksmith wielding a hammer, it is not a good indication of much coming success in the field. The men thought this was the most amusing self-declaration they had heard in a while.

   Ryeamund explained that after a short time, the woodcutters would show up at his father's house on the way up to the hills, and were disappointed if Ryeamund had to deal with the farm that day, and his father couldn't be without him.

   Other than cutting wood with determination, the woodcutters were quite happy to have a bad blacksmith in their numbers. The men figured out for themselves, that Ryeamund was probably "useful" to the head woodcutter, on matters of dealing with bully woodcutters that drove new men away.

   When pushed for a tale, Ryeamund explained that in the heat of summer, high in the hills, for lunch the woodcutters would take a short dip in a cold mountain stream. You wanted your clothes wet, just not your boots. Apparently the game was to hide the new guy's boots and you had to have a spring's egg hunt to find them.

   Ryeamund explained it was fine the first few times, but when one man took to throwing them up into the trees, burying them, putting rocks in his gifted expensive boots and hiding them in the water? Well, the men got the idea pretty quickly.

   Ryeamund decided to examine the older woodcutter who would not quit, when the others were done hazing the new young kid. Ryeamund explained that he never did cut with the young men's crew, he went straight to the men's crew. This apparently didn't gel with some of the bigger men, to have a young buck suddenly in demand.

   The head woodcutter, apparently, began to use Ryeamund to aid him in his human resources difficulties, dealing with such men that were otherwise good cutters. Arroch was silently beginning to get a much clearer picture of Ryeamund's childhood and young adulthood, that had produced this man for their benefit.

   Young kid. Quiet. Polite. Shorter. Somehow different in some way no one could put their finger on. A pile of village boys would all have fun with him every day. In the south villages? There were no men in armor everywhere, the only men-at-arms were hired by the nobility.

   In the absence of great-houses and bigmen, who would be the biggest, scariest, strongest men around that everyone was scared of? Nobody fucks around lightly with a pissed off blacksmith, and nobody fucked around with the woodcutters. These would be the men with big, muscular arms. Loud voices. Fighting among themselves practically for fun. One would grab a big hammer most men could not wield effectively, and the other would have hand axes and great axes, and ax handles around them at all times.

   If such a young kid suddenly developed a late growth spurt. Did not grow taller, but thicker? Arroch could just see it, clear in his mind now. All these farmer boys, were most likely taller. Ryeamund's father had him quit trying to hang out with the boys in the village, and Ryeamund drifted to the animals for social interaction.

   Ryeamund would learn to wrestle around large farm animals and thought nothing of it. He went off to be a blacksmith helper when not farming. His muscles blew up like balloons. The blacksmith helper, well, he did all the heavy labor, and got none of the fine work the accomplished smith performed.

   The blacksmiths could not train him to be a fine smith, but his labor skills? Woodcutters would notice him. More hard labor. Bigger arms and back again.

   Then? It dawned on Arroch what surely happened. The quiet kid, picked on. A year or two later, starting to bulge with muscles. He had enough of some big giant woodcutter, and decided he might as well see how it went. After he laid out one or two woodcutters, his balls had dropped. And, once some men notice they have a sack…

   The woodcutters had a new mascot. They bought him new boots. They bought him axes. He fit in. With the big men in town now. They started taking their young mascot to the tavern, as any group of big men would.

   That was when it happened. The blacksmith that used to chase him around with a hammer? All the taller boys that had picked on him until he stayed on his farm and wouldn't come to town anymore? "Hey! Little Rye is back! Let's all have some fun with him in the tavern! I almost forgot how much of a fun game that was!"

   Now, this would be a much more amusing but true tale to tell, except for one fine distinction. No one, not even Ryeamund himself, without bigmen in armor to spot it… no one would even know what a Thorson even was.

   The village children, the drunken blacksmiths that used to chase the boy around with hammers? They all thought it was going to be fun picking on Ryeamund, every weekend in the tavern.

   He was a Thorson. His heart would not race. No butterflies in his stomach. No hand and foot tremors to deal with in his first fights. The sight of his first bloody face and broken ribs, would not phase him. He would calmly return to his watered down ale and the meat pies the woodcutters bought their young mascot friend.

   Ryeamund had likely spread blood and teeth and cracked bones all over the taverns. Politely, no less.

   Then? His poor father, his wife had died giving Ryeamund birth. Alone. Poor. Heartbroken. Other than a fine, strong son the man had nothing in the world left… except, some house cat he fell in love with.

   Some giant had come and stomped Ryeamund's father's cat to death as a warning to the young man that he was not going to get away from his childhood of getting picked on.

   Arroch knew what happened, sure as the sun will rise every morning.

   Ryeamund Thorson had went directly to the man, dragged him by the throat to the middle of the village. He had done to that giant man, what he had just demonstrated on the Bear.

   He had held the man's broken face up so everyone would see what they were going to get, if they did not leave him alone. Just like a bigman held up a severed, bloody head as a warning to the raiders. Completely unaffected by blood and violence, Ryeamund had licked the man's blood off of his deadly fists and smiled. Probably walked off and had himself an ale and a meat-pie.

   The villagers had all gotten together, and for nothing more than mean spirited fun? They had created a monster. Then one day, the monster came back. They now had to deal with what they had created. They reaped nothing but their own bitter harvest. A very dangerous harvest they had sown with malice aforethought.

   'Aye. I live in the inside southlands. We have no raiders to test myself on.'

   Where would such a man go, after father died and the lease farmers were starving. When the women would be as terrified of the monster as the men that had picked on him now were?

   Gee. Impossible to guess, Arroch thought.

   Big, muscular, men wearing the high king's armor would occasionally come through. The merchant errand men were a lot more polite and formal to the locals. But, the occasional gaggle of bigmen coming through on their way to and from command work? They would boast in the tavern. Proclaiming the borderlands were inhabited by but the sons of drunkards, weaklings, and cowards.

   These big, armored kingsmen? Served the high king, and the high king alone. They took heads off of petty kings that abused the common people.

   Save for Ryeamund's father, and the woodcutters that were his best friends? No one had ever once been in his corner. The high king had ended slavery and involuntary thralldom. The father would have told him what a great man the high king was.

   If not for the North Star, Ryeamund would have been stuck in that village the rest of his short ass, miserable life.

   The more Arroch pondered, the more he saw as clear as on a fine spring morning. The scared kid had first become a blacksmith. Then a woodcutter. Where do you go next, to take the next step up to see what you're made of?

   It was sitting right in front of Arroch. Handing him the low dice. Smiling and having fun. That scared, short kid that got picked on and run out of the village? Had come up through the ranks of every group of big, scary, men that he could find.

   He was now here, to show the "bigmen" that had proclaimed him the son of cowards and weaklings. To Ryeamund? All words meant exactly what the words meant, and nothing else. Ryeamund was now happy. He had beaten, and likely to death or close enough, the biggest man he could find up here.

   He was weirdly polite about it; the Bear insisted it happen.

   Some tiny piece of the jigsaw puzzle was not in place yet, but Arroch had no trouble finding it now. Ryeamund had more or less "disappeared" to the villagers for a couple years, and came back simply a holy terror that would spray blood and teeth around, if you did not heed his gentle warnings that he was best left alone.

   Ryeamunds secret dream inside? Was most likely, to now return once again to the villages. An even bigger and scarier monster than ever before. Yet, he had nothing left to possibly prove, to anyone, anywhere. By the gods, Wulfgar had publicly hugged him warmly. Death itself was his friend now. This man would no doubt, soon dine and enjoy ale with Wulfgar and the high king himself, if Arroch was not much mistaken.

   Holy shit, it occurred to Arroch what was next. Where was Ryeamund anyways, he hadn't noticed the man slip away. Glancing around, when a kingsman suddenly disappeared, it was usually to service some serving wench in the barn. Not Ryeamund. He was sipping his watered down mead. Munching on a piece of smoked boar with a slice of smoked cheese on it. Standing at the big fireplace where the boar platter was parked. Gazing up at the skulls and shields.

   Ryeamund was running his fingers over the crown, that was nailed up on the mantle, the trophy someone had put there some years back.

   Arroch smiled to himself. Ryeamund had just figured out today, that petty kings were no longer any more important than ants bigmen stepped on. All that was required? The High King's command.

   Ryeamund was repeating the successes of his youth, over and over again. Go… join up with the big, scary men. Succeed or die, there was no other way. Then… come back home and politely spread teeth around, to the people that had well earned it. You were doing the world a service. You were killing giants, that no one else enjoyed any more than you did.

   Ryeamund wanted the petty king's head. On his belt. He wanted to show it to everyone in his village.

   'Aye. I bargain with the lead animal. Once.'

   The mighty Thor, wanted Loki's head. It was just dawning on him that he now had a way to get it.

   Ryeamund wandered idly back over and sat down.

   "Arroch?"

   "Aye, Ryeamund."

   "We are here all the night, and all the day and night tomorrow, are we not?"

   "Aye, and all of Sun's Day for rest as well, if ye like. We are just off an errand, we are to be well treated for our success on the North Star's errand. It is our custom. Ye enjoy it?"

   "Oh. Aye. I could not be more pleased. Can I use the warm bath when I wish?"

   "Ye can live in it, the whole time, if ye wish. All the great-houses, in every village? We are All brothers. Go, and have what you will have, yer in ye brother's house, man. Take some mead and well smoked boar and cheese with you, as well."

   "Aye. Where be the rags and such at?"

   "Ask one of the girls. The kitchen and pantry and the like, are their concern."

   Arroch erroneously assumed Ryeamund wanted to get the blood and gore off of him he had not long ago taken a bath in.

   "As a woodcutter? We get thorns and chips of wood, down in our knuckles. A good soak in hot water, and we can dig out the thorns."

   And Arroch watched as the man explained his actions and shuffled off to get in the bath. The thorns in his knuckles, were of course shards of teeth. He was idly starting to pick them out on the walk there.

   He was about as concerned with it, as was an ordinary man picking his teeth after a fine meal. Arroch one fine night not so long ago, in his wine horn, had thought it sport to try to strike Odinson. Not content to have slapped an ox on the ass and lived to tell the tale? He had proceeded to slap the ox on his sack, before they handed Ryeamund his own coin.

   Arroch closed his eyes and shivered. Gave himself a silent prayer…

   "Odin forgive my lack of wisdom."

   Honestly not yet in his goblet to any degree, Arroch snapped his eyes open when a voice as plain as day spoke in his ear to answer him.

   "I forgive you, my wayward ox… now roll the damn dice, man. You are up, and your eyes are closed, and you mumble."

   He had just had a sudden flash of fear, awe, and respect that quivered his bowels, and he had closed his eyes out of shame. He hadn't realized he had spoken it aloud, softly.

   He rolled the single dice, not even much concerned, just to get it out of the way. If you believed the old tales, you believed the gods sent omens. You just had to listen and believe.

   At least Odin forgave his wayward Ox.

   Arroch was sure that he was either completely right, or, and perhaps equally likely… that he was going completely mad.

   He laughed. His men and the Bear's men looked at him and smiled. Hey, at least you're having fun, their eyes seemed to say. He was chuckling like a madman, he assumed. Perhaps he even was. What did he even care anymore worrying about it. There was no way he had a direct line to Odin himself, when calling for wisdom.

   Silently. To himself, and for sure not aloud this time, he was no longer frightened or even surprised now.

   "Odin? If I be not a madman, and ye truly wish to speak to me… what would you want me to send your son right now? Just tell me."

   He opened his eyes back up, simply because someone had touched his right shoulder, and talked in his ear. It was Eira. She had to put her mouth all but on his ear for him to hear her gentle voice over the din of the great hall and the bigmen in it.

   "Ox… where is Ryeamund going? He doesn't jump into his goblet like you men do… what may we get him ?"

   "Oh, that then. Ryeamund has thorns in his hands. He bargains for a long hot bath, to get them out. It is, he would claim, a woodcutter's remedy. This? He just now told me, as he left. Can you not get help for the man's shoulders, while he is at it. See to the man… he just paid for ye uncle's farm, woman. He just struck down the giant that was ye women's burden… was this not what ye said, in the kitchen?"

   Eira smiled.

   "Aye, my little Ox. I'll fetch the girls. The dogs have whole casks of mead and wine out for them already. The dogs will be fine for a while now, will they not?"

   "Aye, woman. They will."

   Now silently, in his head. Just to assure himself he was a complete, raving, madman.

   "Odin? I beg you, explain to this woman, how to speak to Ryeamund as I do? I do not have the tongue for it. Ye might well tell all the men."

   "Eira! I must tell you something!"

   It was Theyer. The silver tongued man. The reckoner of the group.

   "What, then. Some haste, I have matters with the girls."

   "Listen to me, Eira. You need to understand something, about our new man. It is important. In fact? I counsel you, all you men need to hear this. I beg you."

   Eira put her hands on her hips, and all the several oxen and the Bear cubs they were friendly with, all eyes and ears looked to hear what was so damned important. Theyer instructed them, as gently as he could. For their welfare.

   "Aye. Know this. Ryeamund in there. That man that just provided us with such well done sport? Aye, know this, and know it very well. Our brother Ryeamund? He will hear the words, and he will not hear the jest or what ye really mean. Take great care what ye say. If you think it wise… now then, Eira?"

   "Aye…?"

   She wondered. What had she done to injure the man.

   "Eira, ye remember in the bath? Ye all but gently offered a trip to the hay barn, with Ryeamund? I know ye were offering a compliment, to the look of him, out his tunic. Aye. Be I right?"

   "Oh, that. Aye… I remember. I saw him. He's an ox with his tunic off. You men were staring at him as well. I told him, he's as big as a beast for the barn. Would a bed even hold him? Aye, what better compliment to pay such a man as that."

   "No, Eira… that is not what ye said. What ye said, was… ye are a beast, fit for the barn. And? I am telling ye, here and now? That is what Ryeamund heard. Do ye reckon what I am telling ye, woman? Do ye men reckon what I am counseling you men on."

   A Bear cub countered. A fairly big one.

   "He… he is not that dim. And? He told us to have sport with him. Why, the man declared himself a defiler of goats, for our sport. I do not see this… how came ye by this wisdom, then. What is the example."

   "Ye want the example? Aye… and here it is. Know this, and know it very well. We were on the road with our Rye. We were in wine with him, and boasting. Boasting gently. Rye said something about showing the one-eye, so he knows not to get mad at the words. We? Ask the other two oxen if I say true… we thought it some toast of Odin."

   "The next boast? Ryeamund suggested sport with Arroch, here. Ask Arroch what happened to him. Rye caressed him ever so gently, not like the Bear. Now. All we knew? Was that we traveled with a beast of a man. Then? We declared him not our friend before handing him the coin. Before we could tell him he was not our friend, because he was now a brother. You all know the jest, it's all but custom now."

   "He was all set to have all three of us. Have you heard about the sport in the meadow, then? Aye, we all have. Ryeamund explained to us, when we explained the jest to him? His custom is… show me the one eye, so I will not act on ye words. I will look for the jest, then… it is what we call the wink. If you do not wink at him, a man risks dining with the Bear, on porridge. Now then… Let me shiver the very bowels of every man in this room. Answer me the words…"

   "When would Ryeamund have ever seen bigmen, in their armor… in his south-lands village. Tell me, then."

   "Oh… only when… there were matters in some tavern or village. You know of it. The locals reckoned they are going to be in their goblets, and put hands on any king's merchants? We get sent to that tavern, and are told not to be polite. So they learn what comes of putting your hands on the king's men. All men must respect the North Star's armor."

   Theyer smiled ear to ear.

   "Okay, man. And… what was yer boast… when ye Bears were about the taverns in the south? I know of it. The Bear always laughed of it. Repeat it… go on, then. And take care ye do not soil yer trousers, when it strikes ye… go on…"

   The Bear cub looked confused, but he easily recited:

   "Aye! All know, the men of the south are but the lesser sons of cowards, weaklings, and drunkards!"

   Theyer stood, and his eyes glared. He was almost shaking. Everyone looked at him with a furrowed brow… all but Arroch, who was smiling.

   "Aye! I tell ye, those were the same words Ryeamund told to us, on the road! He said he was tired of having grown up, the big men of the north, all knowing he was but those exact things. Do ye think it was an accident."

   The Bear cubs, all looked at each other. Back and forth. They had been down there. To many villages. The south men were taking to getting drunk, and fighting with the king's merchants. An example had to be set… that was several winters ago.

   They suddenly caught the drift of Theyer's observation. One boy in the tavern, already knocking blacksmith and woodcutter teeth out for having sport with him? He never once forgot those words.

   Theyer stood, hands on his hips.

   "Aye. Now, we are all on the same soil of the matter then, are we not?"

   The Bear cubs grew silent. Looked at their goblets, and their plates. To the hall that led to the bath, and back at their plates again.

   "He… oh… you put these matters together…"

   "Ask Arroch. Ask Me. Ask Sooth… the man's goblet dream? Is to become a real fighting man. To see that he could. And? To see that the men of the south are, and he said these words, every time in his wine, which is rare for him… to prove he is no coward, no weakling, no drunkard."

   The cubs wanted to know what they should do?

   "Aye. We three already bargained to FarstGeften the man we favor a small farm. He thinks he's getting a couple pigs, maybe a goat or three. We put armor on the man, because we all saw his quality… he loves us three. Now? You men? Do what you will do, but I would counsel ye, as I have. Aye?"

   They all shook their heads in unison, and looked at one another.

   They all knew who had always been the man to speak up the same boast, in every tavern they were under command to visit. The Heyermannen of course. It had, each and every single time? Been the Bear himself.

   Eira laughed and smirked at all of them.

   "Well. While you men sit here, and reckon how ye are all going to bargain to keep yer teeth. Me and the girls? Are just about to go and give Odinson a nice shoulder rub. One of the girls will tend the poor beast's knuckles. You boys have fun now… I think I need to explain the jest of declaring a man a beast fit for the barn, while I wink… does he like mead, or wine?"

   "Mead…"

   Eira turned to walk off and get the girls.

   "Aye. Mead."

   Arroch sat there more than a little amused. Ryeamund was a quiet man. He had been as polite as could be, trying to talk the Bear out of examining him.

   And? He now knew he either had a direct line of communication with Odin? Or, he had gone off the far edge of the cliff of madness. Which was just as well. Madmen have their own gift, and that was just as fine a thought. Why? Either way he reckoned it, he couldn't be stopped. Because his motives were pure.

   Arroch took a sip of mead, and wondered. What was it going to be like to fight next to the mighty Thor himself. What was Berserk-er rage going to feel like. Men say it feels like the power of the gods themselves flow through your veins. Grown, tested men shit their pants and flee before your bellowing. You stack your enemies like cord-wood all around you. Giant men break and flee from your very gaze finding them on the field.

   You go blood drunk. You wallow in it, and you enjoy it… if only temporarily. As a reward for your courage, and your determination, and your loyalty. Your reward is a temporary taste of what it feels like to actually be a Thorson… then it goes away. You grow faint, it leaves you all but collapsed.

   Because you're not a god.

   In their belief system? Going into a battle rage was a 'geft' from the gods. No longer nor ever again would they be blood thirsty barbarians, giants in size but easily outwitted by smaller warriors with wits, as back in the first days, when they were still but little more than true beasts in the fields.

   It was said, only once the giant men of the north learned wisdom, did they become finally true men. They initially only hunted. Their god was therefore a hunting god first and foremost. This god was revered, as one can imagine. This hunting god was still important, yet only to the hunters. The hunting god agreed that Odin, the first father, should lead the gods and all the men as he was wiser and could do it better. He, would tend to the hunt, where he could do his best.

   Odin, the all father, in all the old tales still taught and repeated. Long ago written down on scrolls, that the true tales be never forgotten, and in their original form. He was once a real man. He was 'Die FurstenMannen', the first man. He gave wisdom out to all the beast hunters, and promised that after his death he would go to Valhalla.

   From Valhalla, he would rule. And he would come back. Again and again, until whatever final battle might one day finally come. When Odin, ever mindful of all his children, did as he often did and checked up on men? It was always as a weak, old frail man. The elders were watching you, and sometimes it was Odin himself, seeing through their eyes. Briefly to check up on you, as he might feel to.

   Like any other God, Odin was very real to the north people. The fervent belief in the old faiths lessened somewhat, over the generations down in the south border lands that had spread out some over time, before the North Star forged the first mighty one true nation.

   Odin, once a real man. Flesh and blood, walking the earth. Was like any early man, a rash and bold giant. In every story, and they vary in the manner of which he loses an eye. Now, a real man that loses one eye, very quickly learns caution. He is now wiser.

   Through this sudden gift of wisdom, he realized it's benefit. He promised those around him that wept at his passing. That Valhalla would be prepared for them, that he would rule then by speaking to them through omens. You needed to be very wise indeed, to hear him whispering to you. But, that once you listened to it… it drove out the whispers that were not wise, and were bad.

   Loki, part evil. Whispered evil naturally. Mixed with his good half, the mischievousness. He lived in Valhalla and around it because he had when actually alive, aided his brother Thor, back when they were still fighting together. Loki's mischievousness and wits for battle were useful to his mighty fighting brother. Together? The two of them won countless battles against the dim witted giants.

   Loki went evil after a time though. Thor, after being cast aside himself, learned humility and wisdom and politeness and graciousness. He was taken back. He ended up smashing his own brother Loki down after he had grown his characteristic mischievousness into full blown evil. To Valhalla Loki still went.

   The giants whispered to big men to take and to push and to be selfish. They were to be ignored by a man that had even half his wits about him. Giants were dim witted primitive beasts, they were certainly not to be listened to when they whisper to the living. You tune that shit out, if you could.

   Odin whispered wisdom. It was said that it could drown out the sound of the giant's whispers easily, once you heard it and looked for it. A man with even half his wits about him? Is worth any ten gigantic dimwitted fools.

   Loki… was to be listened to his whispers. It was where very clever came from. It was another godly gift from Valhalla. You were supposed to, however, ignore Loki's evil whispers. Odin commanded you were to imitate, both him and his son Thor. Not Loki, who went evil.

   Every human being anywhere you went on earth, these north-men saw, were one of these. You had dim giants. You had small but fast and clever hunters. There were lesser gods of love, beauty, justice, poetry and everything else. The RavinLunden held all of them to be almost equal to the big three. Odin, Thor, and Loki.

   What would later become Europe, erupted all around the general area. Vast lands outside the barbarian kingdom in every direction but north. Other religions came and went, and swept wherever. The south lands though, held onto a lesser, distilled-down version. The big three, and many people either partially or fully no longer believed in the old gods.

   Such was progress, as contact with the other lands was sort of de-Viking-izing the south. It was happening very, very slowly? Yet, it was happening. Already the north-speak and the south-speak was showing constant signs of drifting slowly apart. As even continents slowly drift apart imperceptibly? So too, do human languages drift.

   Early in meeting Ryeamund? The "north-speak" they used as an everyday language, was more than close enough for them to more or less fully understand everything Ryeamund said as he talked with them. The conversation was sometimes short and clipped. The north speakers were very quickly able to adjust around so as to not miss much.

   Ryeamund likewise, was as they were experiencing. Vowels and consonants used differently, little rules added, changed, or subtracted. As time went on though, he easily figured out more and more of what he was eloquent enough to say. It made a lot more sense for him to learn everyone else's way of talking, he reasoned.

   A person that didn't travel between the high north and the far south? Wouldn't really think so much of anything else of hearing all of them try to speak to each other as they first traveled together, than that they were all complete nincompoops, unable to speak properly.

   By the time they were all to the first village however, a couple moons of travel time had already worked wonders. This, however, is the reason that Ryeamund had so many early misconceptions about the far north.

   In the south-lands, it was obvious they needed their bigger far north brothers. But between the language shifts, the cultural shifts, and the constant low-level outward pressure to assimilate slowly… there were huge differences between everyday life "up there" where they ran shit the old or "proper" way. And the loose shit the south ran everything with.

   The whole of the south-lands, and all of its districts? Were rumored by the High King's personal steward himself, to have said of them that:

   "Collectively? What are they, but a complete pain in my ass. It is as if I am trying to herd house cats."

   Simply because each of the outer-most south-lands? Was slowly but surely being influenced and infiltrated, in a most insidious instance of instability, by whatever was developing on the other side. A completely different way.

   These different influences? Were creating a region of lands in the kingdom that were each different from the other. There was constant low-level friction. If not for the strong North Star, able to send down "big men" who were eager for the chance to go out on command, order would quickly descend into chaos. And everyone knew it.

   Petty kings, and a smattering of stewards appointed by the high king himself, ruled each district. The district the furthest to the west, varied hugely in every way as compared to the one furthest to the east. What ended up the southern most district, was again, it's own world compared to the rest.

   One high king in the north, as it turned out over time to be true, could only control so much land overall. His own land was limited by the mountainous terrain and impassable mountains beyond his borders up there. The south-lands were the only place to grow. And grown they had over the generations.

   Even if you controlled the next lands over in every direction. Tried to make some kind of huge empire as men called it. Even if it were somehow completely undisputed. What would the point of doing it even be? It would not be one people, one nation. Empires, while sounding glorious? Necessarily contain entirely different whole kingdoms.

   The North Star said:

   "The wisdom of Odin on this matter? Is to no longer conquer any more. It would destroy what little was left of the true old way."

    The rest of what was out there? They did not want. The small men of the world? They could have it. It would render them into something that was… not what they were supposed to be.

   Now, the king's very own steward, ran around like crazy assuaging as many foreign kings and their people, or whatever the individual ruler titled himself with and the people called themselves… that the North Star was not out to raid, invade, and take over any more lands. He merely wanted his borders respected. He encouraged trade, and sharing people if the people wished to relocate in or out, of their own accord. He placed great value on foreign wisdom.

   'Come in peace. Or, come not. Stay in peace. Or, stay forever.'

   The North Star was imitating the old petty king, when he accepted the RavinLunden. The wisdom was the same.

   'Take what aids ye, reject what ails ye.'

   Now, all these foreign lands, and all these supposedly friendly borders? Well, nothing in this universe is perfect, after all. Periodic bands of raiders, which was really just a catch-all name for any group of malcontents who for some reason insisted on running around looting, pillaging, raping, robbing… whatever nonsense they were up to.

   The north-men one and all, from high north to far south, all agreed on one thing.

   They were no longer the true barbarians. The rest of the world was gone insane. Only the North-men, have retained and advanced wisdom.

   The south-lands, however… and their compelling need to have constant dealings in all ways with their various neighbors? Had a need for "nobles". For some reason, everything from diplomacy, to trade, and everything else… all the foreign lands from all directions? Wanted to deal and bargain and reason… with a class of nobility. As they were used to doing.

   'These so called nobles, through the south lands? Are the lot of them, as but turds that float in a pickle barrel. In all ways. These turds may bump up against one another, I care not, for that is what they are but for… Now, for a time, I can still eat the pickles from that barrel. Not for long, however. I find I must quickly remove the occasional turd.'

   Everyone knew exactly what the high king said publicly. Nobility was a necessary evil, that had to be tolerated… but little else. It was the only wise way to deal with the various strange cultures outside their borders.

   The common people? Those even unworthy of being kings-men? Ordinary north-men? Were held in high standard. The pickles, the fruit of the pickle barrel.

   It should not need mentioning that the king's metaphor, though rife with hyperbole and simile alike… well… it's about impossible not to understand the regard he had for the 'nobility'. They were the turds. The act of 'plucking' an individually and particularly problematic turd out of the pickle barrel?

   "By whatever means at hand. It matters not the method; when done? The turd is simply gone. That is the foundation of the matter."

   That, was what the High King expected from everyone from top to bottom in the whole of the kingdom to understand, it was said. Why some 'nobles' still continued periodically getting up to their tricks? No far north-man could fathom.

   It was clear to everyone, that it was true. They could grow no larger, and still remain one nation. They could barely maintain for a full generation, what they already had. Peacefully, that is.

   Invasion from the outside? Is easily dealt with. You go, and you simply exterminate the resistance. Then you leave. Invasion from within? Much more difficult to sort such matters out both fully and completely. Killing your own people had to be a last resort. Killing problematic outsiders? Obviously a first resort, then.

   This is the world that Ryeamund had been born into. He felt fortunate that despite all the trials and tribulations of his youth, it had led him to be sitting in this fine hot bath house. Two pretty women were seeing to picking 'thorns' out of the woodcutter's hands, one on each. The third was kneading his shoulders.

   He had sought to bathe alone, but without finding a girl, it would take him forever and a day to find the rags and such. Eira and two of her girls had ended up tending to Ryeamund Thorson's late night hot soak. The last girl had volunteered to as she herself put it, 'work what remains of the rest of the beasts', and she waved as she left. Eira explained after she left, that she had her eye for some time upon one of the men, so she was off to see about it.

   Ryeamund grunted approval, and nodded his head yes, under the hot rag over his face as he enjoyed. Having the two women tend his hands, was he thought a pleasure reserved only for kings. As long as he had them turn around while he slipped into the water and was seated and invisible again, he was fine with it. Few men that like women would likely reject the prospect.

   The woman and the younger girls dutifully turned around, because as Ryeamund had asked of them:

   "I don't mind, as long as it is nothing indecent. Let me get in the water at yer back."

   In fact, all three kept taking peeks, and smiling at one another. The bathing of men and women, seeing one another, was no sin in their culture. In the North? The old ways dictated it was fine. In the South? The various religions sweeping hither and yon? Were influencing slowly. Now wenching was supposedly a sort of minor sin among the south lands. Why, no one could fathom. The men preferred the wenching system, from farmer to king alike. The wenches? Now consulted on the matter? Liked being wenched before marriage. How the south was finding a matter out of this, no one was in any way able to figure out.

   This was why the far outside lands had to be kept out, by force if diplomacy failed. There was no bargain on it.

   They knew, according to their religion… that there would one day be a final battle. They called that battle Ragnarok. Good would join up to fight evil that had joined up as well. Evil was said to win in the end? But, that those final heroes that fought the last great battle? Would be honored among all, in Valhalla.

   Some thought, that the last battle they would lose, was perhaps simply the battle to stay living the old ways, as they should. Contact with the outside world? Brought with it slowly the changes. They would lose the battle in the end, but it would take a thousand years to fully undo, that which is about perfect, in their own estimation.

   'Let each man and woman, do as they will. Let each of them work together or not, as they will. Ye do not work against each other, is but my only command.'

   So, Ryeamund was shy about being seen getting into the water by the woman and two older girls. The woman and her girls? Were not the least bit shy, seeing someone naked was a normal thing.

   'Shy in the south, bold in the North.'

   Now, while Ryeamund to any outside eye would seem to be at his ease? He was not, and he could assure you of that. He greatly feared going against any of his father's wisdom's. The problem was, though… Ryeamund had been declared a man, and his father died a relatively short time later.

   Ryeamund had been in the act of trying to locate a suitable wife, as was their custom when declared a man. His father had still required him to not go wenching… yet. It needed to be explained to him, how to go about it decently and properly, and therefore wisely. He might not wench ever once, he might wench forever… he would soon begin his father's instructions… when the old man had suddenly expired. This caused Ryeamund the closest thing he had in his world that resembled fear.

   He knew he did not sweat, nor tremor as other people often did, when worrying. That did not stop him from ever worrying, however. He would have to endure the constant mulling it over and over again in his mind. That was an essential part of his personal curse. Without true fear, at least as other men described it? At least their fear period? Would end… worry, Ryeamund's biggest fear? Was an unbeatable foe. It had to be endured.

   This situation, Ryeamund saw. It had been, yes, declared decent on the surface of the soil. Yet, three pretty women in the bath house with him in the water without his trousers? Was obviously a wormy prospect at best, under the seemingly pretty grass of the matter, on the top of it.

   Ryeamund was not against wenching. He just hadn't known he was going to have to come to a decision this quickly. He hadn't thought about it. He was on the spot, and father had died before his final commandments on it. Now, he saw, was an unwise time to need counsel. Gently begging his aging father, his father had smiled, and said he was sure he could decide for himself. He already knew the first and most important rule of everything, covering wenching thru marriage. At least he had that.

   From beneath the wet rag over his face, Ryeamund asked if he could have anything. The two younger girls giggled before answering. Ryeamund knew most women giggled.

   "What would you have, Ryeamund."

   Eira spoke for them, usually.

   "It is Thann. I can hear him, just barely, scratching at the door, now and again. I would have Thann."

   He couldn't see the girls look at each other. Furrowing their brow, then simply shrugging at each other. Eira simply kept rubbing his shoulders, she didn't seem concerned. He wanted one of the men, and specifically the one named or called 'Thann'.

   Ryeamund's left hand girl, as he thought of her, patted his hand sweetly and spoke.

   "I will be right back. I will grab your Thann."

   She went to the door, and only opened it slight enough to squeeze out, hiding whatever was going on inside, as politeness dictated. She walked around, got a large plate of the roasted boar, still warm over the charcoal brazier that was still well-stocked. Added the well-smoked and salted boar he liked as well. Some cheese she sliced. He liked the smoked cheese. And a pitcher of the mead he liked. One of his goblets. Then, she got him a clean horn, the men preferred it most of them.

   She stopped gathering her things, and grabbed a man who was not fully in his goblet. Yet he yanked her off her feet into his lap, threw his hands around her, and kissed her on both cheeks. She smiled, she knew the men meant nothing by it. She touched his face, more than slapped it, as she asked him:

   "Where is the one called Thann? Where is the Goat? I do not know him."

   He popped his leg, which flung the not tiny young girl onto her feet.

   "Now that, young wench? Is a good question."

   "Ahoy! Ye well soiled oar men! Which one of you drunken raiders, is called thann… THANN!! Come here! You are required, in the bath house! I am sure, it is a matter of great importance!! Perhaps, you should not tarry, ye sluggard!! TEND to yer LABORS, man!! THANN!!"

   The girl walked around, calling as lightly as would be audible in the din of low commotion. Finally, it became painfully obvious. Thann was a little street dog. Arroch confirmed this for her.

   "Aye. Ryeamund favors this dog, for his own reasons. He called it Thann to us, earlier. This be Thann."

   Thann wouldn't let her bargain to pick him up. He was wary of everything around him. He did come in for a quick sniff. He liked that. What she could not pick up? She knew how to entice. A piece of smoked cheese, was effective bait. Thann followed her to the door of the bath house. Took a sniff. Scratched at the door and whined. Looked at her. Looked at the door.

   "All right, ye little street rat. I see you know yer friend is in there. I am getting to it…"

   She managed to juggle the tray, the pitcher and horn… all with one hand. Serving wenches are adept at this. Luring with the smoked cheese after opening the door enough to admit the dog was also about wide enough for her to fill up the opening politely and wiggle in much like the dog had.

   Thann scanned the room briefly, and silently jumped up on the wide stone rim of the great bath, and walked over to be with the quiet man he liked. He now ignored the lure of the food, to remain where he was. Sitting almost touching his new master he had just picked out.

   "Oh, that is fine…"

   As his hands were finally done having the thorns picked out, as he put it. One of the young girls said it.

   "Hold. Soak them, as long as ye want. When done, we will poultice and wrap it. It will keep the scar and the swelling down."

   Eira seemed done with his shoulders, and bopped him a couple times on his meaty shoulder to pronounce him done, and she chuckled.

   "Ryeamund, do you mind if I stay and talk to you. While you enjoy your wet cloth?"

   "Nay. I do not mind."

   The one young girl made a face at Eira. Us too?

   Eira's face said she didn't know. So, they waited. Ryeamund didn't seem to be in any great hurry to select any particular wench. If at all, was beginning to occur to them.

   They looked at Eira silently.

   "Do something!"

   "Ryeamund? You said we could talk. If you are comfortable, do not move. Ryeamund? I want you to imagine I just gave you the wink. Your one-eye. All right?"

   "Oh, aye. I will look for jest in your words."

   "Fine. Ryeamund, do you remember when I declared you a beast fit for the barn, earlier today?"

   "Aye. Declare it again, then. It is no matter. I am, after all, the Defiler of Goats, am I not?"

   The girls giggled.

   Ryeamund's hands found the pitcher of mead by themselves, by feel. He didn't want to lose the rag. He grabbed blind, and he first found the northern horn before the small goblet. He filled it slowly, and carefully held the horn upright after a sip. Stayed the rag on his face, he loved it. Any one watching could see the visual "ah-h-h…" that was his unwinding when it came.

   "What shall ye talk about, woman."

   "Well, Ryeamund. First and foremost… I am what is called a Gentle Woman. Do you know what that is, Ryeamund?"

   "Aye and Nay. Aye, that I know what a woman be. Aye again, that I know what gentle be. Combining the two matters? I reckon not."

   "Nay then. A Gentle Woman, I am a woman that follows… the Gentle Way. Would you mind experiencing the Gentle Way?"

   "If it be nothing indecent, then I shall."

   "Ryeamund. The Gentle Way is the complete opposite of anything indecent. The Gentle Way is all that is decent and pure."

   "I could stand to hear of gentle and pure things, woman."

   "Well then, let us begin, and see where the conversation leads us then, Ryeamund."

   "Am I to be examined, woman."

   "Aye. But ye will be examined gently."

   "Aye, then."

   "Now then, the Gentle Way is made of many parts of the whole thing. The main matter, is that we are going to build a barn, a barn made up of logic and reason and wit."

   "Aye?"

   "Aye, woman."

   "Now. The foundation of the matter, will be upon which everything else stands. The foundation of this matter, will be that ye claim to have a curse. I know of it. Is this true? If it is true, then we have a solid foundation of the matter at hand."

   "Aye."

   "So, everything else will be built upon this foundation of the matter. Ye claim that on account of ye curse, ye only, at times, hear the words and not the meaning behind the words. Aye?"

   "Aye."

   "So, this is an easy matter, then. The matter, is that earlier today? When I declared ye a beast fit only for the barn…"

   "Aye."

   "At that time, that I spake those words ? I did not know of ye curse. Ye need not say aye or nay, for you know that it is so."

   "Now then, the main matter, which rests upon this solid foundation, and the added explanation? Is that ye were under ye curse at the time I spake this to ye. Again, ye need not say aye or nay, as you know it to be so."

   "I am going to declare, that ye likely think that I said that ye were some animal, and that ye were fit only for the barn. Is this so?"

   "…aye, woman."

   "So then. Ryeamund Thorsen may not already know that it is a custom, up here, that saying those words… actually means the following plain words: for the first thing, when I declared you a beast? That was a compliment. Saying that a man is a beast? Is to say that the man has the muscles of a horse, or… an ox. If I had known of ye curse? I would have instead said. Aye, Ryeamund Thorsen? Ye have muscles like an ox."

   "And, for the second thing, woman?"

   "For the second thing? Saying that ye were fit only for the barn? In plain words. Ye are too big and muscular a man, for a regular bed. Ye will break the bed, only laying in it. The fresh hay? Will not break, under ye size and strength."

   "Now then, Ryeamund… do you now see where our conversation is leading us to."

   "Aye. Ye have declared to me, what ye really meant. And such was a compliment."

   "Yes, Ryeamund. Now, that you know this, does this change anything?"

   "Well, aye. It changes that I thought the wrong thing. It changes that now I know you meant the words well, and I took the words bad."

   "Anything else changing, Ryeamund."

   "Such as…"

   "Do… you now want anything else."

   "Actually, yes. I assume it is okay if my Thann comes in with me."

   "You… want yer Thann."

   "Aye."

   And, Ryeamund reached out, and sidled his meaty arm around Thann, and scooped him smoothly onto his chest and side. Holding him, as if a couple year old child. Thann got up and around so he could rub Ryeamund's face.

   "Yes, little Thann. We will herd goats again. Father missed you…"

   Eira's look was complete dejection. The other two younger serving girls? Looked to her, questioningly. Eira seemed to give a slight fume, which quickly dissipated with some looking around abruptly, crossing her arms… none of which Ryeamund was privileged to know. Face covered with the rag, he loved his warm wet rag on his face.

   The one girl gave Eira a look… and Eira finally gave up somehow, and shoveled her hand silently at the bath. The girl simply smiled, sly.

   "Ryeamund? It is me, Hlin. I brought you mead several times. I sat in your lap…"

   "Aye. I know ye."

   "Ryeamund… we have a saying of words, up here. Shy in the south, bold in the north. What it means, is that in the south, where you are from? You believe that bathing is shameful. In the north? That is not the custom. If you remember, we girls turned around when you boys all got in. Nothing was indecent. Men and women can bathe together in the same water. It is not shameful. So… this is no matter then…"

   "Aye."

   And, she got to shoot both of her work girlfriends a sly, shit-eating smirk that really made the one girl smile broadly, and Eira go tight lipped.

   Not because of what she said, but because as she shot them both the sly shit-eating grin that said it all? She had undone her dark leather corset all the girls wore. Once she undid her main robe belt, most of her clothes went with it. Stepping out of her boots while sticking her tongue out at her friends like a little girl. Once again as before. This made the one girl smile and Eira fume silently more. She hurried up and got her everything else done, and stepped right into the large warm pool.

   With four wide walls lined with seat, Ryeamund was in the middle of side #1. The girl sat in the middle of wall #2.

   The remaining girl looked over at Eira, and pouted into a wan little smile. As she did the same as Hlin.

   "And, who is that, then?"

   "I am Var. I keep bringing you meat and cheese. Hlin and I just did your thorns."

   Hlin asked Eira if she wanted the last, open wall seat to herself. Eira said nothing intelligible, more of some kind of murmur and head movement, combined with a face that somehow conveyed her irritation that Hlin and Var were ahead of her, trying to see who could be the first to "sit in Ryeamund lap", as they called it.

   At the moment? No one was getting any action, save for Thann.

   Eira looked over at Ryeamund, and sighed slightly as she disrobed, much like the other girls had. The only difference, was that the other two just looked at each other. Had the woman gone mad? Surely. She had silently taken her own long, light sword out of its scabbard. Quietly. She eyed first one of the girls, then the other. They both smiled and held their open palms towards her.

   Eira got in the water. Instead of sitting on the bench wall opposite Ryeamund himself, the last seat left open for her. Facing him normally, so as to place her as his center of attention without him realizing it. No. Eira simply stood there.

   "Ryeamund…"

   He asked lazy.

   "Aye…"

   "Girls? Poultice and bind his hands for him. I judge them soaked enough. And Ryeamund."

   "Aye, woman…"

   "Will it be as no matter if I remove that silly rag off of yer face, then."

   "Aye. If you will…"

   She didn't move. Ryeamund waited patiently. No movement in the water. There was but a curious swish of a noise in the bath house. It felt as if someone had no doubt whisked a long, thin stick at him. Grazed him with it. Like the village kid's playing little games, like he saw earlier on his trip in. He was a touch in the children's touch and go game. It had pleased him.

   Then Eira lifted and threw off the "silly rag", as she had called it. She just did it with the tip of her sword. It returned easily and lightly to it's exact prior location. Ryeamunds cheek, right next to his eye.

   He looked at her up that sword, as if it were a gun-sight.

   "Aye. I see I have your attention. Now then, yer men said that yer father instructed you to never raise the back of yer hand to a woman, is this correct?"

   "Aye."

   "Good. We will get along fine, then. I mean to sit in yer lap, man. Do each of us understand the other?"

   "Aye."

   Eira walked over and placed her sword around him, resting it on the wide rim they all sat up against. She sat on his lap. Facing him. She smiled as she said it.

   "Keep yer teeth together. All you have to do, is simply sit there…"

   The two girls giggled and splashed each other. Eira laughed and kissed her new boyfriend.

   Eira was a serving girl, that much was true. All of them were. Eira was not just the head serving girl for her looks. Eira was a high reckoner. One of the more valuable gems in the kingdom, since often enough did the high king speak of reckoning being a needed item in short supply, in the exact words of the king's own steward. A man most people preferred dealing with, as opposed to dealing directly with the North Star himself.

   Eira was in no way noble, she was as any other common girl among the country she loved and lived in. The high north. But, among her own villages, the RavinLunden? She was very highly regarded by them. By their own personal standards? Which of course meant nothing, but still.

   By their own internal respect to their villages, Eira was known as the Lady Eira. Outside her own lands, though? She said of it, in between kisses on Ryeamund's lap.

   "Outside my own lands? I am common as can be. Yet, I tell you. My own people? Regard me as one of the King-Makers. I marked your shoulder with my own sword. Tis but a scratch."

   She put her coin she wore around his neck.

   "This works just like your coin you got from Arroch. I marked you. You are mine. Is this okay? You said yourself, Ryeamund, in idle talk with us three. We heard you."

   "You said, among father's few instructions on the matter, you were to first look for a woman that looked like she could bear you a son without being torn in two by the child's strength. Did you not?"

   "Aye."

   "Fine then. Judge for yourself. Your son's and daughter's lives? Would be in capable hands. Ask any man out there privately, so as not to embarrass the man in front of the others. I doubt you will find a man out there that will not admit I can cross swords with him. In RavinLunden? We women grow up playing rough with the boys."

   "It is said, that when we get old enough we figure out the boys are for more than fighting? We are expected to go MannenYeagyn. That is, in plain speak. The Men Hunt. Just like you men all wench? RavinLunden women, do MannenYeagyn. I am in MannenYeagyn. Ye wear my coin, for now. If you would have it."

   "Am I not to have any other wench now, woman."

   "Ryeamund. I am not unreasonable. You can have any woman you get to so much as talk to you, while you wear my coin. Unfortunately, their inattention will be no fault of your own. Among my people? Once I mark a man publicly? I dare any woman to so much as look at him. If I am had tavern entertainment of, I will come and take a trophy if I want."

   Ryeamund questioned her.

   "Aye. For certain."

   "Aye. Everyone knows of it. Go on then, ask anyone. They can all tell you."

   "What will they tell me."

   "I did not begin MannenYeagyn at the same time, as other girls my age. I am from a line of Kingmakers. I am expected to handle a blade as well. So, when the other young girls began their MannenYeagynung ? I stayed with the boys. If boys wish, they get instruction on swords, and how to play with them. If a girl wishes? She may. I was expected to wish for it."

   "I spent a couple of winters. Hunting with the RavinLunden men. I was not a burden, I am told. I was instructed to use a sword, with wit. As the men were. My BladdenMeister was considered to be capable as an instructor. After a couple of winters, he said I was capable of claiming a trophy if I wanted to."

   "I asked him if it was necessary. He advised me? That the first time I felt I was being made a fool of, publicly? I was to demand an apology. If I did not get it? I was to claim one trophy, that I would only have to ever do it once. That it would set a fine example, for others to follow."

   "So? I did. The man I took issue with? His father interfered. So I took his trophy as well. I never had to do it again. My BladdenMeister seems to have been proven true, on that matter. You will see. I am going to go out there and have a few horns of ale. With the boys. You can watch. I will show you, how I bargain with the boys. And the men."

   "I do not limit myself, as most other women do, to asking politely, as all women will. I am not simply RavinLunden, I am Rhyshian. I am considered, if only among my own people? To be bred from only the finest stock. Am I not taller than you are accustomed to seeing a woman?"

   "Aye…"

   Ryeamund had to agree. She was tall, and not just for a woman only. Her height was taller than Ryeamund's own, for certain. She was as tall as some of the men out in that room. She was no giant, but for a wife? She had leg muscles. Long and delicate and rounded, but pronounced. Her calves bulged, and her thighs were thicker, with a woman's sinew.

   When she was done with her Ryeamund lap ride? She smiled and simply stood up.

   "Now. We will go have a few horns, and mingle with the boys. I want to show you off, Little Rye."

   She winked at him.

   "I'm going to get dried off, and change into something I am more at home having sport in. These two? And the other girl serving out there still? They are allowed to sit in your lap as well, Ryeamund, and kiss your cheek. Yet? Only my girls, that wear the same mark I do. Is that in any way unclear, Ryeamund?"

   "I am clear on the matter."

   "Have fun with him, girls. He is fine breeding stock. Imagine my tall sons, thick like he is. With fair faces. Poultice, and bind, my man's hands carefully. And enjoy the look of him. Bring my new pet out, after an hour or so. I will be into a few horns by then, playing dice with the men. I intend to provide my new pet? With suitable entertainment… such as the men seem to enjoy."

   "Ryeamund…"

   Eira quizzed Ryeamund, after she had stood up, naked and unconcerned about the effect of it. Dried off at her leisure, idle talk and all smiles.

   "Ryeamund? Do you not enjoy having a wench now."

   "Aye."

   "Fine, then. You… are goat-fucking mine, until such time as I want my coin back. Do you understand me, Ryeamund?"

   "Aye, then."

   "Ryeamund? I would remind you, my new pet. You have been informed, I assume, that around the RavinLunden women. You are risking a cast iron pot upside yer thick skull, if you get to being too clever with your hands, without permission. Aye?"

   Ryeamund smiled.

   "Aye, the cast iron pot. The helmet, I remember it."

   "Good. See that you remember, I handle more than a cast iron pot only, if I am not pleased. You will soon see… judge for yourself if you do not agree, that I am fine breeding stock, for men such as you are. I can instruct any large son on any matter I wish… but as I said? You will see for yourself. I am not to be called a kingmaker, for no reason."

   "Oh. And? I am what is called, a Gentle Woman. I follow, the Gentle Way. You will find? I am polite, to everyone I meet. My BladdenMeister asked this of me. As did my GartenMeisters, before him. I would not see their wishes, held in vain."

   "Because I am who I am? I am also a high reckoner. Any man and any son that gets inside my sword arm's reach? I instruct the boys and the men, as well. I was blessed to be asked to instruct the children in the Garten. It is my main matter, outside this job. For while I am held to be all but noble, on my own lands? I am common in these lands. It matters not."

   "I do not need yer coin. I have my own. I do not need yer protection. I am my own protection. I am capable to handle my own affairs. I require but your politeness. I like it. I need nothing beyond your idle time."

   Hlin giggled out.

   "Lady Eira? If you are done having sport with your new pet, may we not tell him? Of yer bargain."

   "Aye. As I say yet twice now, bind… that… man's… hands… and… poultice… them. 'Deit nu', if it pleases you. I know it will please me."

   Lady Eira smiled, and went off and out. Ryeamund had not said a word at the way the woman dressed herself. Soft white cotton trousers. Short but thick and soft cotton trousers. Loose but obviously fitted for her. The top of the waist, as all trousers, had its drawstring. Her stomach was taut. Sleek. Muscled as a woman can be, sometimes. In fact, once in the bath? It was hard not to notice that all of them were not only tall, but looked overly athletic on top of it.

   She wore an oversize soft cotton tunic, thicker than natural. She put her own armor on. Smaller and lighter than a man's, it mainly concerned her breasts and her ribs and back. Her serving girl's leather corset fit inside her armor like a glove. It was all armor wrapped with well fitted strips of thick but soft leather. Wide straps over her shoulders, plated as well, riveted it all up. It looked to be strong and light. Oiled and plated with fine, thin, steel that would weigh as nothing. Her "leather dress" was but strips of thin, strong leather, with again the finest steel plating riveted on. Fine smith work. Expensive. Rare.

   She tied her long, dark red hair back, with a leather thong.

   "I am polite. But, I drive more than the usual woman's bargain. My people call me, a SheldMadden. A shield maiden."

   She shrugged.

   The north-men. Call us… in jest? The Valkyrim. Do not confuse gentle, with weak."

   "You no doubt hear about the old tales. When petty kings were still foolish enough to attempt to come up our corridor, the last time."

   "Aye."

   "Then. Know this. Ask any man, out there. All the old tales, put on scrolls? Tell that there were a few women that came down out of the mountains. With the men. They wielded small, light swords and were said to be as effective as most of the men on that matter. Well then. I am their descendant. I am bred to be the strongest. The most wit. To have a sword arm, such as a woman may have. Among the tallest. And the most nimble. I am no accident. We have a saying, with words."

   "You must plant winter wheat, if you are to expect winter wheat. What these words mean, Ryeamund. Is that if you would have tall, strong sons. Look to the plants you see, and choose. Seed wisely. Does this seem wise, to a farmer?"

   "Aye."

   "Well then. The girls are dying to tell you of your goats and pigs. You girls have an hour. His hands, and take him to see his goats and pigs, then. Explain his FarstGeft to him. Then bring him back, as I say, within the hour. I want my man to see me have such sport, as a woman may enjoy. Ryshian women, do indeed, wear trousers, if they wish."

   She wore tight fitting, fine leather moccasins. Then she smiled. Blew her new boyfriend a kiss goodbye. Then she rose and left. Out to have a few horns of unwatered mead. And to have some sport. She was gone, and the girls quickly put green gooey paste that smelled of pleasing mint on his knuckles, and bound them with long strips of fine cotton cloth. Gently.

   "Okay. We have an hour, Rye. Let's get you dried off. The place is a short walk from here, We will be back in half the time if we make haste. Pigs and goats…"

   Ryeamund smiled, and the girls explained as they dried him off, in turns, smiling. Got him all but dressed. They explained what a FarstGeft was. They were not many minutes fast walking, and they were down a short trail that dumped out on a few acres. They continued, around and out the back. There were several small acres like this one, rolling hills out the back. They walked back, and Ryeamund heard animals. There were about a dozen sows in a rudimentary pigpen. Grunting, while laying up for the night.

   They turned him around, and he saw a pen of small dairy goats. He couldn't immediately reckon how many. A small herd of them. The kind that were edible if you wished, but they were mainly used for milk and cheese.

   This cottage cheese, made at home? With the free salt up here? Wow, Ryeamund could not wait. His mouth watered at the thought. And the pigs? Bred, they would make many little piglets. All of which would every year? Be more than any man and his friends could ever eat. As were the goats.

   "Aye, women… you do not jest? These are mine ?"

   The girls exchanged knowing sly smiles, and giggled it out.

   "Aye, Ryeamund. Yer Heyermannen, Arroch? He wagered as much coin as he could lay hands on, when he did. He won more coin. He pledged to give a man more than he asked for some dirt he could not sell, to his satisfaction. This is your dirt, Ryeamund. As are the goats and the pigs. There is a small, but dry house. That was the last man's house. Do with your house, what you will do with it. Our Lady Eira's uncle, lives up there, in the house we passed up on our way here."

   "Aye. Am I leased, then?"

   "No Rye. Ye own it. In whole, man. It is yours. It belongs to you. The wagers saw to it, Rye. If it comes easily? It is best given away easily. Your brothers like you. They insisted you have it. They each have small farm concerns of their own. They wish you to enjoy the same."

   "Aye. What is me tax, then."

   "What tax. The Kings Man? Pay a tax? The high king would laugh at a man declaring that. The king's friends pay no tax. Now. We will make haste back. If you do not wish to sleep in a tavern? We will see you sleep comfortably here. Only after you have eaten, and been entertained."

   "Come, Rye. We are not noble in these lands, but, Rhyshians, as well as RavinLunden, respect our lines. Our ancestors? Are well thought of. Now Rye?"

   "Aye."

   "Come. Let us make haste. My Lady Eira waits for our idle time. Did I not help see you dressed? I would ask you see Hlin and Var dressed. In our armor, as the Lady wears. We are shield-maidens, as she is."

   Hlin and Var both smiled easily. Held their hands out to him, not unlike any other girl wanting to do so. He walked off hand in hand with the girls.

   "Now Rye… Is seeing us into our armor such an unbearable task, as a man might not enjoy his labor?"

   "Nay… a fun matter."

   The girls walked back, hand in hand with him, taking turns explaining anything he wanted to know. They went in a side door, and off into a side room. Ryeamund helped them out of what they wore, and into their matching dress as his own wench preferred to wear.

   Hlin and Var each kissed a different cheek, then went out and shouldered open the doors. They both did the same, not a second apart from each other. They drew their swords they each carried, one for each hand, slick. Raised them, like the men would do.

   The loud tavern, filled with rough customers. In their goblets. These women were cheered. They were mascots, of some kind. Ryeamund was walked over behind these girls. Who no longer looked exactly like girls.

   They yelled like the men did. Brandished their weapons as boastfully as the men did. Maybe, even a little more so. They sought to try to keep up with these big men. The men cheered them. They must be something to behold. Ryeamund saw this looked much as when he had fought for coins, testing himself in the taverns, with those that sought to cow-tail him.

   They wanted to do it with swords, however. That was an entirely different prospect, indeed.

   The men were already pounding the tables as his own new wench Lady Eira downed a large drinking horn. She raised it to show it was empty. She yelled with them. Some that dribbled out, off her chin? Didn't matter, and neither the drops from her horn above her head. If the men didn't care? She wouldn't.

   "Ei - ra - Ei - ra…"

   And she announced loudly, as the men did.

   "That's Two! You know the rules. Do not bring me a third horn, of unwatered, fine mead… and not expect me to entertain you!"

   She stalked around, as the men might. Enjoying getting all worked up, like they did. These girls were not as tall as Eira, nor built quite as strong. Yet, they were each the equal of Ryeamunds height, and not as dainty as they might appear to be in the serving wenches get ups. With armor on? They looked like they were all business. They could all whoosh their lighter swords around quickly, as Eira could.

   All three of the women? Would look Ryeamund right in the eye, like a man would. Address him just as simply. They were pretty, they just acted similar to the men, when they felt like it. As they did when Ryeamund got to help them put their armor on, and help buckle them in. He got two more kisses on either cheek again, as they smiled.

   Var looked back at Rye, in between raising her swords and swishing them for the men's benefit and cheers of approval. She bounced on her feet, light, as if on springy boards. Then she stuck her tongue out like a little girl suddenly, and made a face. She smiled, then the pleasant smile and eye contact became anything but mirthful. She turned and yelled again.

   They joined Eira, taking their horns of unwatered mead, to their own boasts and cheers. Mascots, like her. When they had all had their somehow sacred third horn of "fine unwatered mead", they were all quite worked up. Stalking around. Yelling.

   The men enjoyed it. The men enjoyed it even more, and roared with approval, when the women started warming up with their dual slender swords they favored. Eira and one girl would flash their weapons at each other in waves, and blocked each others. Faster and faster, they were actually aiming at each others midsection, each taking turns stalking back, then forwards. Rhythmic, almost dance like. But, obviously deadly as well. One did not dance with sharp swords.

   The men roared their approval. Their women, they declared? They could send down but women on a small command, and see what the petty kings think of that bit of sport!

   The women could dart in at each other nimble. Thrusting their already long, light swords out that few coins extra in length. When they thrust-ed out the furthest, they shot their lead foot out and down as they went, stretched out in a long low crouch, quick as anything.

   Just as quick, it seemed as if they flicked their foot, and instantly regained their feet. Coming in or going out, quick like a house-cat springing around. Lady Eira finally managed to tap one, then the other, now and again. The two didn't like it, and would rush back in on her. Determined, and obviously feeling pissed upon, having been tapped with the tip of one of her swords.

   Eventually, one of them tapped Eira's armor. They were all three panting now. Eyes flashing anger and determination, just like the men did. Eira held her girl's arm up. Toasted her well done. The men roared it as well. Their mascots.

   Eira and the girls came over, and all sat around Ryeamund. Eira's self declared new pet. Did Ryeamund enjoy their entertainment? Aye, he did. They had the last girl fetch them a couple pitchers of fresh water, the one that had volunteered to keep serving, while they got to have all the fun.

   They all kept hooting and hollering, periodically, working their arms and legs in slow, little bursts. To keep warmed up. They rested easily, drinking water, for almost a half an hour. Then it was time. They had warmed and oiled up their sword muscles. They had rested. They were ready to have fun.

   Eira loudly walked around the biggest table, the men hooting and egging her on. She declared them all cowardly sons of drunken raiders, why was there not a man among them that would dare face but a woman, then.

   Aye. There was such a man. One stood up. Then another. And another. Lady Eira wasn't satisfied. She wanted a fourth man to face them. They would need it, she claimed.

   The men "ooh-ed" approval of this. The men clapped and a fourth man was selected, and went up to join his friends. Then the men went and got their swords. Swung them to warm up as long as they cared to. None cared about it. Fools.

   The four of them, were supposed to try to land some kind of hit on any of the three women, if they could. The women, of course? Were whirling around swords longer, and faster, than theirs. Eira didn't take long to tag her man out. She picked his sword up with hers, and handed it back to him, to great fanfare and hooting and hollering. He took it pissed, and came at her even harder. He just got swatted with the flat of her sword. Twice. He was tagged out.

   Three on three, it was a much harder prospect with the men. They were having trouble even with the extra man. The girls started getting the occasional tap score. They let the men stay one-on-one. One man finally got a tap on one of the 'little' girls, and Eira stopped them all. She pronounced the man well done. The men cheered him.

   It was obvious to Ryeamund, that these people were just playing at ax handle tricks, for sport. Not trying to kill one another. They cheered each other. They were all expected to show personal bravery, though.

   They did it twice more, with two more sets of four men each time. These women, with both their swords, seemed all but superior to the men. Why did the men seem to enjoy this so much? Then it struck Ryeamund. The women had longer dual swords. The men had shorter, heavier single swords. If a man could get any tap against this whirling onslaught? Defend a little bit against it coming in twice on him? He was more capable with his single sword. Against another big, slow, heavy sword-ed man instead? He would eat him alive.

   The Lady Eira and her two girls were dripping with sweat now, like the men at play. It was obvious they were enjoying themselves. They liked the attention.

   Everyone took a break. The girls slowly became more like girls for a time. They passed around a big horn in turns. Sipped at it.

   "Aye, girls. Are yer muscles well oiled now?"

   "Aye."

   "Aye."

   Hlin and Var didn't even have to look at Eira, these three were as the Oxen all were. A team, since before childhood.

   A voice hooted up out the back, a teasing echo of wit.

   "Aye, is the goat defiler back in his coin then? Or did ye coin the man, Lady Eira."

   The men hooted and hollered at this dry wit. Eira stood and smirked, scanning the audience.

   "Aye. Always from the back, it is. And that is the best compliment, is it not?"

   The men chuckled. No one was dumb enough to stand up and insult her. Just a little sport from the back, half hidden. For fun only.

   "Yes. I have a new pet. I find him quite handsome."

   Another catcall from the back, on the other far corner.

   "Is he better than the last one, then?"

   "Aye, he is. But a scratch, and you boys lose yer water. This one? At least did not piss his trousers when I marked him. Which is more than I can say for the last!"

   Ryeamund sat with either of Eira's girls. Little tan, sweaty beasts. Still fighting with the boys, all grown up now. The last girl still serving, walking around… plopped herself in Ryeamund's lap and kissed his cheek before she was off again, and ended up in some other guy's lap. They had said she had her eye on one of the men, perhaps that was him.

   No longer panting, Eira and the girls were much more at ease. Ryeamund thought because they started unbuckling their metal armor, perhaps the show was over. It was apparently just beginning. They didn't keep the leather corsets, either. They were now in just their thick tunics and short white trousers, and their seemingly signature tight little leather slippers.

   "Aye. If me girl's muscles are well oiled now, and we have lost the silly boy's weight? All right girls! Shall we show them what a gentle scratch, feels like?"

   "Aye!"

   Both girl's jumped up, raising just the one long, thin sword this time. They joined each other, walking up and down the men's tables. Eyeing them. Smirking. All but daring them to stand up.

   Eira was looked at to address for them. She was, quite obviously, the girl's Heyer, now what the hell would she be called anyways? She was no mannen, and neither were the other two slightly more dainty ones. They clearly liked boys. They all three just insisted on playing rough with the boys, then into adulthood if they could.

   Eira smirked and pointed at the one. With her long thin sword.

   "Nay. I grow tired of repeating myself."

   "No ma-…"

   "Var! Address not these hairy beasts I see. Use the language of the petty pampered kings! Let them hear you!!"

   Little Var yelled the following, with more force than a cute young girl should be able to summon. Least of all, while holding a wickedly long thin sword around over her head, once again, as the men did it. Marching hunched over, stomping in abject rage:

   "NEMO ME IMPUNE LACESSIT!"

   Ryeamund had absolutely no idea what the little tan, blonde demon had screamed at the top of her lungs… but the men obviously had memorized whatever it meant. They approved of it seemingly more than anything else. They went crazy. They hammered the tables. Showtime.

   Var finally stayed standing in front of one of the men. A big one. She just stood there, and waited. The men hooted and hollered, all either teased or toasted him. He had to get up. He would never hear the end of it, if he took a pass. She took the man's horn and took a sip of it. Gave it back to him. The man shook his head yes. Gave her some lip no one could make out. She gave him more back, but they both laughed. Everyone here, but himself? Ryeamund figured they all already knew each other's taunts and teases.

   The men didn't wear armor when drinking and eating, and apparently after warming up, these girls did not want any either. Eira and Hlin each did the same, to much pointing and gossiping as they stalked around, scanning the men's faces, for whatever it was they were looking for.

   They always seemed to pick out the bigger men, however. Hell, it was likely the whole damn point of the show, Ryeamund figured. This couldn't be simply pure entertainment anymore. The girls were not doing their choreographed yet impressive warm-ups anymore. They wanted men with single swords each now. No more armor to be seen.

   They went in the order of selection. Little Var had done it first, so apparently she had her man first. The man stayed at the ready in the middle of the floor. Var made a show of prancing around like a little girl, holding her hand over her mouth and making a pout-y face. Showing off. Teasing the boys.

   The man finally walked in on her, she bing! bounced away like… well… pretty much like a small cat if nothing else quite fit. The blonde girl could spring around just like a barn cat. She had reach as well, with the length the thin but long sword allowed her. It was no laughing matter because she could swing it faster.

   She stalked the big man. Ended up simply circling him quickly, left then right. Poking in now and again, teasing him with her sword. If he got too brave, she swished it past his face or his chest, and he backed up. The men "ooh-ed" and "aah-ed" for these. This was quite a show they put on.

   She quickly started darting in, poking out quickly and springing back up from seemingly kicking her leg. She started yelling softly and started poking twice in a second time, further with the added poke's new length. He hadn't been able to come in on her, now he had no escape from her advances. She had quickly worn him out enough, and instead of "ooh-ing" the men with another stab past him, it looked like she had poked him in the pelvis. But she was just holding her blade up stiffly at him from below.

   Everyone grew silent. She eyed him, he just dropped his sword, and held his palms out quickly. Var finally whirled away on her heel… simply ripping her long sword off of the man's thigh…

   "Aye!! That's a scratch, innit!!"

   Var still had her hard "game face" on. So the boys would know she meant all business. She celebrated her easy victory. Like a giant man would, yet she was a tall girl. Still, she could geld a man at will. She widened her feet out, and shuffled around, laughing like the big men would. Something was clearly lewd and obscene in her widened stance, twisting and springing and shuffling, the men hooted and hollered. She was taunting them.

   Then, she went and sat down with Ryeamund. Winked and smiled at him. Sweaty like a farmer at chores, but smiling and calm now.

   "And? That is how the matter is done, Ryeamund."

   "Now, the others?"

   "Aye, of course."

   "You girls, you do this every end of week?"

   "Aye. Var and Hlin? We grew up with Lady Eira. We were raised with the RavinLunden, mostly. We were among the girls that could beat the boys in the stick games we all played as children. Then, these same boys will not let us play with swords with them? No chance of that, man. What else did the fools think those stick games were for, then."

   She took a sip of water out of the water horn, then downed gulps of it. Wiped her mouth like a little blonde man.

   "Aye. Lady Eira came alone, the first night. After that? She said we were welcome. So, we did."

   "You girls, were not scared?"

   "Why would we be. We were the girls that could beat all the boys in the stick games, man. Not so funny, when the girls take metal sticks. Like the boys have…"

   And she flashed Ryeamund a quick hard look, and laughed it off. Winked at him.

   "So. What are ye women called. Ye must be called something, then."

   She smiled.

   "Aye. We have been called… many things, I am sure. Mostly from the back of the hall, as you saw? As is polite. If you want fun, taunt them from the back, where it is polite to do. Taunting these 'mannen frunt', as you see we three doing now? We are being… rude.

   "We are called, in jest? What now, the cat pack, is I believe the last one that stuck."

   "Why the cat pack?"

   "Well… there are obviously Wulfgar's dog packs about, aye?"

   "Aye.", Ryeamund wondered.

   "Eira jested, we might as well have a cat pack, then. Once my Lady did such? We three had to. We went and took the blade like the men did if they wanted to. When they were declared men. We were all declared women. So? We follow Lady Eira, from birth. Running. Hunting. Dancing tricks. Stick games. Then? Why not have a BladdenMeister, if she was to have one. We insisted. Here we are. Nay, if the Lady Eira can do it? Her three best girls can, as well."

   "I do not know sword work, woman."

   She smiled.

   "Why would you. You have to run with Wulfgar, for a winter or two. With the RavinLunden. Or? Allow us and the Lady Eira to show you how stick games are played well. It is the same."

   "Ye women… ye ran with Wulfgar?"

   "Aye! He's RavinLunden. As we are. Who else in goat fucking wastelands would show us how to swing a blade as such? He is distant kin to Lady Eira."

   "What is that indecent little dance, ye were doing when ye boasted."

   "Aye… some big man, a winter ago it was, he was in his goblet, making some indecent dance about the matter. Aye, I had him, three times. I scratched his tunic well, as I would, until I got a nice red scratch fer him."

   "It is true, that Lady Eira, took a trophy?"

   "Aye, two. Everyone knew of it, it was gossip for a month or three. She said a woman only had to do it once. That would be a fine example, then."

   "So? We two did the same. Wulfgar? He does not approve, of all this showing off. But, I insist. I will make fun of the boys, as they would."

   Hlin did the same thing as Var had done, and got to it quicker. She only circled back and forth several times, bopping about like a springing cat, when she had him. One of her springs about? Was neither left nor right like all the others… it just flashed into a quick poke that was very long out to its point. She finally poked right next to the man's neck, and held it. She simply whirled and ripped it off. Harmlessly, but the message was loud and clear.

   She then turned her back on him, and went to sit. Raised her sword lazily on the way. Some big man stopped her by the wrist, she gave him a glare… when he smiled and slapped a big horn into it for her. The men hooted.

   She came and sat down, and drew her feet up onto her chair with her, and gathered herself in, like a smaller girl would. Then stretched out, crackling her little muscles, like a small man would.

   She stuck her tongue out at her friend, and smiled. Hard, like a man would. Then it vanished… and she downed the horn water twice, before burping and both girls laughed.

   The girls teased each other for sweating as pigs.

   Eira's own floor show, did not take nearly as long as either of her girls. She was much more business like about it, a lot quicker to put her blade neatly on the man's neck, and ripped it back off, swishing it.

   Then all three were sweaty and smiling and done.

   Eira sat in Ryeamund's lap, and waved at everyone. Kissed his cheek.

   "Did you like the goats, and the pigs then, Rye."

   "Aye, woman. I did."

   The last remaining serving girl came by, and dropped off small dry rags for them all.

   "Aye, girls. Did one of ye, not oil the wood, as I said?"

   "Oh, Aye. It took but a moment, while Rye admired the goats."

   "Well… let's be off then. Ryeamund? Girls? Are we done for the night? Unless Ryeamund would rather stay in the tavern tonight, and see what sleep he might in a chair. Or, if ye fancy yer own quiet house and bed to sleep in, come on then, man. Var already sparked the oil on the fires in the place for us."

   They all dried off, and put their boots on for their walk, changing in a room off the side of the bath. They all walked leisurely out the side door they had used earlier to come in at. It was the same short walk to the little farm.

   Eira and the girls took him in. The girls set about sparking little oil lanterns everywhere. A much smaller stone bath was in a back room. Its oiled wood had already been sparked like the fireplace had, and the kitchen's smaller fireplace.

   The girls all undressed, and then mainly Eira undressed Rye, and they all sat in the smaller tiny bath house. Nothing indecent, as Ryeamund now said. It didn't last too long, their soak. They just wanted to get their exertion off of them. Before bed, or whatever they were up to. They both dried off light and quick, and dressed and walked out and off.

   Eira told Ryeamund, they were either going back to help the one girl, hang out with the boys, or even go home and go to bed, which was what Eira said she wanted to do. Eira got dried off, and dressed. She explained before leaving that she lived with her Uncle, in the little patch where this place was entered into. She left it for him to have it dawn on him that he lived in her backyard, though he owned it himself. Had paid for it himself, though he didn't really know at the time.

   Ryeamund put the last cotton short robe on from the hooks, and walked around. He found an empty small kitchen, and a small empty pantry. A small sack was left on the middle of the kitchen table.

   It was Ryeamund's original bag of coins he came up with. They didn't want his coin on their original bargain. The meaning was clear; put something in yer kitchen and pantry with it. Ryeamund left it where he found it, and walked off to the bedroom. There was a large pile of fresh hay on his bed frame area. Cotton blankets over it. A few extra thinner cotton blankets, and a woven wool blanket if he needed it some night.

   He laid down and didn't have the slightest bit of trouble falling asleep. The rhythm of quiet noises from the dozing pigs and goats was a soothing prospect for him, the sounds of his youth and young adulthood.

   Ryeamund was completely happy about being dead to the world, and all it's pleasures and problems.