Chapter 23 - the New Plan I
No one knew exactly what to make of the man that had come up the corridor, looking for someone in armor to tell his wild tale to. They believed him, of course. The man had no idea they were already onto what he had seen.
Wulfgar, was ever leery of any trick. He privately talked with the others he took council with, how could they prove to themselves that it was no trick and the man was not merely a spy. Cunningly sent into the enemy camp. To seemingly be warning them, yet actually be there to see what he could garner about their readiness and troop numbers and capabilities. After all, Wulfgar pointed out. That was what he would do if he were planning an invasion.
It was Arroch, who had the solution. He smiled his quiet madman's smile. Grinning like an idiot as he explained to them, what they had all missed.
The district the man had said he came from? Was their own Ryeamund's former south-land district. If the father of this man truly was the one of the second-in-command to only the high woodsman himself? If his own father had truly agreed with what his son said he saw all around him that no one else suspected? If his father really had sent him to see where the armaments were going in truth? And created this mission for his son to see to?
Well then. He would be able to pick Ryeamund out of a hall full of big-men, and easily. Ryeamund could then confirm who he was. That his father was what he claimed him to be. Ryeamund could even confirm the nature and character of the father, and indeed his son, that this story made sense to him.
Arroch was proclaimed a wise genius for this observation. He waved it off as something any of them would eventually have come up with, he had just been lucky enough for it to pop into his helmet first.
They told the man that they believed him, and that they had to decide what to do about it. They were initially relieved to find out the man was excited about a feast. A feast with limitless meat. Breads? Stews? He was ecstatic. Arroch took this as a great omen. He was not used to good food and drink on the regular, just like Ryeamund had been when they had found him.
Arroch and Theyer and Sooth took him to a 'tavern', which was of course a great-house. The man had it already explained to him, that he had to stay up there with them, at least for a time. They had to let him have a couple hand sized loaves of winter wheat bread, and a small bowl of stew… before they could even get him into the hot bath house. They exchanged knowing silent glances. They had seen this before.
Word had already been sent out ahead of them. No man nor woman? Was permitted to harm one hair on this pickle's head. They were not even so much as to tease him. He was to be toasted, clapped on the back, and admired. Told how wonderful he was. He was a V.I.P. They had all been told beforehand, on the sly? This guest was to be treated as if he were an extension of the wise steward's own body.
If they had to they could hold him as a very well kept prisoner, but they would prefer to have him stay of his own accord. A prisoner that likes his prison? Was much easier to keep around, and guard. If he were a spy of some kind? He would slip away one night on the sly. Then, the Ravens would have him.
The man had initial misgivings about disrobing with other men and bathing in the hot pond. He was not used to pretty women coming in, and taking his clothes and things away to clean and care for them. These three tall friendly men… put him at ease slowly. He did take to the fine-mead and another small bowl of stew in the bath quite well, however.
There was no hooting and hollering like normal out in the great hall. No one was allowed to act up and be themselves. No entertainment or sport would come out of anyone. They needed to put this man at his ease. Have him enjoy his stay.
The man couldn't believe the smells of the foodstuffs, and they had a hard time to keep him from filling up on morsels. Did he not want to wait for the great whole boar? Turned out that he did.
Ryeamund, on cue, sneaked in quietly. While they were all feasting. Sooth noticed it first, that the man kept looking over. Over and into the far corner opposing the far corner they were seated at. Over in Ryeamund's direction. The man kept glancing over. Started asking seemingly nonchalant questions. Were there any other former woodcutters up here? Why, none they knew of. Was there anyone else up here, that was from the south-lands? Once again, none they knew of. Why?
He kept glancing over, and finally asked if he was permitted to walk into the far corner, and mix with the men. He was told it was a fine thing.
He stood and regarded Ryeamund on the sly, then slowly inched his way closer and closer. Peering at him. The three oxen? Knew Ryeamund would look a bit differently to him now. Especially with his fair hair instead of the walnut-stained brown he would have known him to sport previously, let alone the new clothes. He finally appeared to have decided. He went and stood nearly in front of Ryeamund, with a couple of other big-men in between them. He announced in a firm voice…
"Ryeamund! It is you! Little Rye! DEFILER of GOATS!"
The other big-men around and all kings-men, were slightly taken aback by this V.I.P. newcomer suddenly 'denouncing' Ryeamund. They were also initially worried, when Ryeamund stood up. Rolled his neck around on his shoulders slowly. Placed one hand on the table, and nimbly leaped over it. Cartwheeled onto his hands and walked over to him, before dropping back to his feet to stand directly in front of the taller, bigger man, and to stare seemingly fiercely into the man's eyes.
The last time anyone had seen such a performance out of Ryeamund? Or even heard about it? He had beaten a man to death with his bare hands. Before anyone could get their hands on Ryeamund to prevent him injuring the big fellow, however, Ryeamund solved their great problem for them.
He grabbed the taller guy up at his waist and hugged him off the ground, rotating in a circle. They both exclaimed their surprise at meeting, and clasped forearms like brothers. Ryeamund even grabbed the taller man roughly by the head, and gently tapped foreheads with him.
"Aye, see it? Now this man, he knows our Little Rye quite well. Ryeamund does the cat head bump with him. The man expected it."
Ryeamund had not been in on the plan and had wondered why he had been asked to make himself quiet and scarce, over in the far corner. Yet, he would do anything the farmer's ox asked of him, without question.
Ryeamund all but walked over arm in arm with the taller man, and changed seats so the two of them could be with the other oxen at their table. The man wanted to hear everything, they had all thought Ryeamund was surely dead. He had after all, gone off with the big men of the north, and was never heard from again. They assumed he had been beheaded as a warning to other south-landers 'invading' the far north lands.
Apparently, that was what people thought happened to anyone that went up the corridor that didn't already belong or had been invited up there. Ryeamund told the man, he had fulfilled his goblet dream. He was a real fighting man, he wore the king's own armor. He had two trophies. That his former 'ax handle tricks', had even allowed him to learn to sword fight some.
Ryeamund had to dispel many of the man's misconceptions about the far north. No, all the far north-men did not wear armor, as had been the case in the old days. Only the King's own men. The man said had not Ryeamund himself told him, he would not have believed that taxes were this low up here, and that lease farmers could just sit on their land, drunk if they so wished, and simply eat their own pigs… if that was all that they wanted out of life.
'Aye, the kingdom should have some drunkards, if the drunkards have good cheer. They entertain the men, with wit and song and tale. They are a left handed blessing, if but a small one.'
The man could hardly believe it all. They were all told such lies about the far north, it wasn't even funny. Ryeamund told him that if he insisted on the harder life of a woodcutter? The steeper higher hills were a thing to get used to, but that the soft trees up here? Would be as warm butter for a woodcutter well used to the hardest of woods.
Theyer and Sooth and Arroch, had been in the hot bathhouse with this fellow. A southern lowlands woodcutter. They had seen his body out of his tunic and trousers. He was taller than Ryeamund, but as Ryeamund had claimed? Though not as wide as Ryeamund himself was, these woodcutters worked hard labor from sun up to sun down, and the man had muscles to prove it.
He didn't seem to have any Rhyshian in him, so his labor muscles were not rippling and squared off like Ryeamund's own. His were in the fashion of an original north-man… rounded chest and shoulder muscles. A thin layer of fat and gristle all over his build. The thicker, fuller body hair of a man descended from purer north-man, mixed with a smattering of the local barbarian outlanders.
While the man was off with Ryeamund showing him around the hall and grounds, Arroch pointed out to the other oxen seated on either side of him. These woodcutters? Were living as Ryeamund had described. Mostly off of found food in the woods three seasons out of the year. Little meat. And? Worked far more than any woodcutter should be worked.
Gotten up before sunrise. Running up the hills to get to the job site. Running home after it was dark. Not provided good food and drink. Thinking it was normal, to be paying out of pocket for hard axes to be made. For wedges to be made. For decent boots like the men needed. All on a pittance of low coins to begin with.
They did not know, that woodcutters are supposed to be provided decent temporary lodging for far enough away job sites. Provided with extra food and drink to keep them well. Paid well to keep them working with more fervent effort. Given a satyr's feast every week. Given some time off if they were away, to spend with family.
Sooth the truth-man? Opined that there was a damned small army of these musclebound, hard drinking, hard fighting, pissed upon barbarians down there. They were all as in love with the high king as Ryeamund was, the man that had ended slavery.
Theyer the talker surmised, that the gossip they were fed? Was from the nobility, filtering down to the common pickles. Don't go north, why, they will cut your head off for going up there. The far north-men? Barely tolerate us. We are all small weak cowards, as far as they are all concerned. Civilization, such as it is? Is down here… those drunken raiders up north? Are all crazy. The high taxes, all go north. What, except trouble, comes back down from there.
After the feast, the only "sport" allowed was arm wrestling. No load boasting, they were to put on their best behavior for this V.I.P.
Ryeamund had to assure his oxen, this man was quite representative of what almost all of the high hills woodcutters looked like. Although, he pointed out, this man was a tree man like himself. Normal ground men? Would not have the agility and the ability to do "tricks" as he and Ryeamund could.
The big-men all cheered with good nature, when Ryeamund and his fellow woodcutter he was so happy to see? Got into a few horns of fine-mead, and wanted to race on their hands across the hall and back. They put two really long benches together on their sides, seats to seats. They did another set next to that one. They wanted to race down the thin edges it created.
They found an old but stout table? So Ryeamund and his old friend could have ax throwing games, for drinks. They were surprisingly good at hitting a fairly small mark, with both great axes and little hand axes alike. Ryeamund had the superior great ax accuracy, but this man had grown up with a woodcutter father, so… he had the much better tiny hand ax accuracy.
They were both tree men, and not ground men. It didn't take little Rye long to eye up the big, open, timbered roof above them. With no attic floor, the two of them could leap up from the table, and chin themselves easily up. They instantly started leaping from timber to timber, chasing each other and running from each other on the timbers. As easily as a normal man would do it on the ground.
Ryeamund had his muscular arm around the fellow's stout shoulders most of the night. The oxen heard Ryeamund explaining to his old friend… things were civilized up here, as he could now see. This was no "southern shit-hole", the man was not to go about trying to wager for sport with these men. Blood and teeth were not a normal FreyDay activity up here.
When the man went out back, to take a piss? The oxen asked Ryeamund what the man was "capable of", in regards to his quality during an examination with his fists.
Ryeamund assured them, if they were to have sport and wagering? He would put coin on this man, versus "most" of the other big-men he was looking around at. Ryeamund explained, that the tree men? Were the ones that hit hard and fast and straight like he did. The ones that had fast and sure footing, as he did. Could walk on their hands as easily as a man walked on his feet. Once again, as Ryeamund did.
Apparently when a woodcutter wanted to gently suggest to a man boasting for a fight, that he was not pissing around with a normal woodcutter, that he was screwing around too lightly with a tree man? You cartwheeled and walked around on your hands, to let them know they were fucking with a tree man, so they knew what they were going to get, in case they didn't already know.
When Ryeamund had walked on his hands up to the Bear? The Bear had already not taken Ryeamund's polite suggestions it was not a wise idea, even though Ryeamund was telling him, he really needed to rethink his not-so-wonderful bright idea.
Why did they think Ryeamund had wanted to become a blacksmith helper? For the strength. Then a woodcutter? For the strength and reputation. Then a tree man instead of a "mere" ground man? Because… those were the scariest men in a fight in the taverns around all the villages. Even the drunken blacksmiths didn't fuck around with the tree men. Plus, all of the woodcutters? Were great with simply any piece of wood they picked up to defend themselves with, if the unruly tavern wanted to fight with more than one on one.
Ryeamund explained that if a woodcutter was in some tavern, and they believed him that the locals had surrounded him, and collectively beat the shit out of him, and thrown him outside in the piss ditch all the taverns had? For no just cause?
They then all got together after the word went out that a fellow woodcutter had been treated in such a fashion. Within 'about one moon's time'… a month just about. All of them had gotten word to one another, and would assemble and sort of 'invade' that village. All went in the tavern at fault on the prearranged night. Called all of the cowards on. Put themselves in a corner? And had it out with all the drunken barbarians in the tavern, at once. Collectively, to teach them a lesson.
Apparently, when a dozen men walked into a tavern on their hands? Everyone would grow silent as the grave. They knew they were just about to be lit up and pissed out. And if they didn't already know, then they were about to find out.
Their custom? Was to give a collected sack of coin to the tavern-master, because him and his help? Had to mop up the blood. Sweep up the teeth. Were going to be out of coin for a while, on account of all the hard drinking hard fighting men that would not be spending much fun time at the tavern for a while.
Freyer, his long lost friend? Clapped Ryeamund on the back, and assured them… that this was their "ringer". The young short quiet man, light in the beard. That no one that didn't know him or know of him? Would ever forget.
Freyer explained, because he knew "Little Rye" was far too quiet and polite to boast of it? This was their very mascot. When they took the "little guy" somewhere they needed to make a mild impression? The little guy cleaned house and spread blood and teeth around. Then? Everyone was looking at what the big men might be capable of.
Ryeamund? Made them all appear to be twice as big and tough as they actually were. Plus? He kept them in hard coin. So they could afford real food and drink.
Later in the night, when Ryeamund was uncharacteristically in his goblet a little? The three oxen looked over, and saw Ryeamund pointing up at the gold crown nailed up on the mantle above the great fireplace. The new man was toasting it, as Ryeamund was doing as well. Arms on each other's shoulders.
Arroch looked from Theyer to Sooth. They started talking. No wonder they had the problems they had down south. The locals in the rougher taverns? Thought that any "boasting big-man" wanted to be examined. For sport. As all the locals did, for fun. Small wonder, that sometimes the goon squad sent to settle the locals down? Sometimes came home rougher for the wear than they had gone down. A bigger team of better big-men had to be assembled and sent.
Because, it was obvious now. If you sent down a goon squad to clean house, and teach the locals a lesson? The call went out. The blacksmiths and all the woodcutters were waiting for the next chance. They weren't as dim as they had thought down there. If the goon squad came down and settled the matter? The locals knew what to do about it. They waited. They gently caressed a few armored merchants. Which brought down the bigger, better prepared goon squad. The locals? Were waiting on it. The blacksmiths and woodcutters were on all but standby.
They then all waded in to spread blood and teeth around, because they felt pissed upon by the armored merchants. Who were upping the ante on the "sport". No damn wonder, you had to finally send down a big squad of Bears with swords and axes and war-hammers. To threaten the locals, that enough was enough.
There was nothing even remotely resembling law and order down in the southern shit-holes, everyone knew that. Up here, they had a great-house in every village. It saw to law and order before any real problems ever got started. Down there? They had nothing but blacksmiths and woodcutters. Nothing short of a big force of fully armored and well armed men, was going to have any effect whatsoever, and even at that? They had to be prepared to lop off heads, to make an impression.
It all made perfect sense now, in hindsight. As things often will. Little Rye. Hated by his village boys. Who all piled on him when he tried to fight back fairly. They chased him off beating him with sticks back to his lease farm. The obvious son of an invader.
He had become first a blacksmith. Then a woodcutter. Finally, a tree man. So he would be one of the best fighters around. He had become their mascot. He examined the blacksmiths. He examined bully woodcutters. They had taken him in, and gefted him expensive boots and axes. He had finally belonged somewhere. He had stained his hair to better fit in. He paid them back, by letting them make hard coin off of his fighting ability and strength and courage. They had provided him with better food and drink, and even saw it get taken home to his poor, broken father.
When the "initial" big-men had wandered in and boasted? They got knocked the fuck out, and tossed into the piss ditch. The goons had been sent down to up the ante. It had sort of worked. The locals had waited. Gently roughed up any other big-men they next saw. To bait the goon squad in again, then? They were ready this time… and in came all the blacksmiths and woodcutters they could find.
When the matter was finally resolved? It had been with a big goon squad, of the very worst big-men they had. The Bears. They had to go in armed to the teeth, and threaten armed warfare, to settle the locals down.
Arroch thought to himself. It was just as the North Star had told him about something else. Sometimes, fighting a battle was doing no real good, it would simply need done over and over again. Because you weren't cutting the head off of the snake.
A young woodcutter had been there. Their mascot, as it were. He hadn't liked this situation one bit. Armed men coming into their village, because they couldn't abide by hand to hand fighting. Men loudly boasting, that they were all the sons of cowards and drunkards and weaklings.
Ryeamund? Had risen up through the ranks of the toughest men to be found anywhere he knew of. He had discovered, that there was one more step up that ladder he could take. He had taken it, as any other level he had risen to.
Do or die. Life isn't much worth living anyways.
He had examined the blacksmiths that used to get drunk and chase him around with hammers for fun. He had examined all the village boys that used to pile on him with sticks and chase him out the village. He had become not only a woodcutter, but their scariest type of woodcutter. The tree men were the hardest hitting, surest footed, strongest and bravest men they had. No wonder Ryeamund wanted to become a far north-man, and to become a "real" fighting man. It was the last step he could take that he had become as strong, and as feared, and as respected as he could possibly be.
They eventually had Ryeamund and his friend back over, and ran this supposition past the two of them. The two muscular woodcutters? Ryeamund and his good friend Freyer? Looked at each other with furrowed brows, and looked back at them. Confused.
They both wanted to know, why had the armored merchants went to the fighting taverns in the first place? Then, felt pissed upon when they lost fights. Why would anyone go to a fighting tavern and boast, then expect anything else to happen? Particularly if they were outsiders, not men from the village or a surrounding village. You would wake up in a piss ditch exactly like you had asked for.
Arroch looked at Theyer and then to Sooth. None of them knew this. It was a classic what-the-hell moment. They asked the two of them, what a fighting tavern was, other than the obvious.
There were obviously taverns for regular people. And, taverns for the fighters. The blacksmiths and the woodcutters. You had to keep the blacksmiths and the woodcutters separated, naturally, as best you could. This was accomplished by putting a small hammer on the blacksmith tavern signs, and a small ax on the woodcutter tavern signs. What else would keep them separated as best anyone could, to keep the two from having at each other. Why, the smiths and the woodcutters, were practically all but teams of fighting men. They only teamed up when outsiders came in causing trouble. Being in the interior? With virtually no raiders to go to work on? They ended up fighting each other. So everyone could have some sport to wager on. That's what a fighting tavern was.
Blacksmiths went to "hammer" taverns. Woodcutters went to "ax" taverns. They only went to each other's taverns when they wanted to fight. Woodcutters were always traveling from place to place, hearing word of work. Blacksmiths? All traveled around, to learn and share trade work with each other. The marks on the signs? Told them where they belonged.
Organized wagering, so everyone could have fun every weekend? Every village had one. It was the tavern with both a hammer and an ax on the sign. It was the local prize fighting arena, with sports betting for fun. A local reckoner was always on hand, to keep track of all the bets.
The hammer taverns, were smaller. Not nearly as many smiths around. There were always more woodcutters, so that was the bigger tavern. But, every village had to have a fighting tavern, even if they had none of the other two. Where else were the men supposed to go to fight and bet on it.
Arroch and Theyer and Sooth were flabbergasted. All the problems were being created, because the south and the north had vastly differing customs. The language was drifting apart slowly, and the customs were even more different over time.
The merchant errand big-men? Had no damn clue of all this. They were wandering into any tavern they found. A little boasting and toasting, as was normal. If it was a small village? They would have just one big tavern. It would then be the fighting tavern.
Theyer observed. What would any big-man say, deciding to hit a new village and a new tavern, out and about for a novelty?
"Aye, where be a real man's tavern, with good food and drink? Where the real men would go!"
The locals? Seeing armor? Would send them to the nearest fighting tavern.
Sooth figured it out first. The most likely truth? The nobility, were not going to explain the nature of the constant problems. They liked the scary fighters fighting each other, instead of coming for them for the way they treated the locals as slaves in all but name.
The nobility had the locals believing the north-men were coming down to cause problems. The locals? Thought they were protecting their own villages. Short of any raiding, as any interior south-land would not have.
When you asked the nobility, what the problems were? They explained they had their hands full with the locals. The "problem" was never going to end. It had the north and the south at odds, and the problem got constantly reinforced. The nobility? Were thieving hand over fist off of the locals. Had the only men able to stand up to them, fighting each other as well as the big-men. Who were the only people that could put a stop to the noble bullshit.
The nobility? Were making out like bandits. They were taking all but the teeth out of the local's heads, and working them half to death. They had the locals in the small villages all hating the king's men, and wary of any armor they saw. The only people that were on the pickles side? The nobles found a way to keep them from ever seeking help.
Why, just look at what the big-men think of you all, see how they treat you in your own lands! Imagine what they would do to you, if you went up there!
When Ryeamund took Freyer out the back to wander around and look at the little farm, and to see the real war dogs Freyer had heard of, but never yet seen one up close? Arroch had a chance to really think.
The North Star had taught him, that Loki was behind the gold weapon trick he was exploiting. That he had learned it from somewhere. This pig shit? Had been going on the last fifteen odd years. It was a very slick trick. Whoever and whatever was responsible for bringing the gold trick to Loki? Was most likely responsible for this trick.
The nobles, were playing both ends against the middle. They were smirking. They had the north-men and the south-men, fighting each other. Instead of taking their own heads, as was needed. They had both of their enemies fighting each other, in perpetuity… giving themselves a free hand to work mischief.
They had the North Star, chasing his own tail. They had the high king attempting to herd cats.
Arroch asked his friends to let him be for a few moments. Arroch closed his eyes, and instead of asking for wisdom? For the first time, he used it in reverse. He told the oracle what he believed he might have figured out. Silently, as was his custom, inside his own head.
He added at the end that he apologized in advance, for having the temerity to even suggest that Odin himself might need wisdom given to him, instead of the reverse. Please forgive him if he was in error, or if it was any insult or matter of disrespect for trying to use this oracle in the reverse fashion. He meant no harm and no insult, only to help if he could. He heard a firm, familiar voice in his ear. Bold news. On cue. An answer that was completely unmistakable, and it snapped his eyes open.
"Thank you, Arroch. For bringing this to me. I am forever in your debt."
Arroch started and looked up at the face that went with the meaty hand on his shoulder that had accompanied the voice in his ear. It was Ryeamund. With his other arm around Freyer, his southern woodcutter close friend's shoulder. He had been thanking him for bringing his great friend to him, to be in the north with him.
Arroch told him to enjoy his time with him, and that if he could? He would have brought all his woodcutter friends up to feast and drink with him every weekend, if such a thing were possible. In Arroch's own head, with briefly closed eyes… he silently and quickly added to the oracle, a final question… would that even be a good idea?
The answer was instant.
Ryeamund responded again. Before the two walked around some, socializing with all the other men.
"Arroch? That would be the best thing ever."
Arroch started chuckling. It grew into mild laughter. The laughter grew, and he couldn't stop. Both his oxen started looking at him quizzically, then more and more men. He was laughing now like a complete madman… the men were in their horns and in their goblets, but all having fun. They roared and toasted him. Arroch stood and toasted them back. He stood fast, pointing at the old crown on the mantle…
"DEATH TO PETTY TWATS!"
The men all yelled their approval and stood, raising their drinks. Repeated it back in unison, roaring at the tops of their considerable lungs. Pounded on the tables. Waved their arms, shoved each other, and playfully pounded on each others shoulders.
That was their job. That was what they were for.
Ryeamund eyed his close friend Freyer. Rolled his neck around on his shoulders. He gestured at the nailed up gold crown, that someone had taken as a trophy off of a petty king somewhere, that had failed his examination concerning the true-ness of his works.
The yelling continued. The pounding on the tables grew to a fevered pitch.
The other big-men, thought nothing of Ryeamund and what he did next. He downed his horn of fine-mead, grabbed another in each hand, off of each of the two nearest oxen to him… downed those one after another. Arroch, and Sooth, and Theyer… all were flabbergasted. This was not like Ryeamund, at all. Neither in any way, nor in any manner. To chug three large containers of fine-mead in such a fashion.
Amid all the growing and sustained screaming, yelling, table pounding, and items getting tossed around? Ryeamund amazed his three friends yet again with something so far out of his character they knew of, they couldn't believe what they were seeing and hearing.
After the third horn? Ryeamund went crazy. He marched around. Gesticulating madly. The men roared their approval at it, and the noise grew. It now became positively deafening.
Ryeamund clenched his fists. Leaned back and with wild, crazy eyes… simply roared at the top of his big lungs. He looked around, with his suddenly scary and flashing eyes, eyes that danced with adrenaline out of nowhere. Gesticulating even more madly now. He wanted it louder. He got it.
The drunken big-men loved it, and they roared their approval back, and Ryeamund did it even louder.
The oxen were all taken aback. But, especially Arroch. To everyone else in the great hall of the Bear, who was no more? The noise was a combined thing. But Arroch was sure he heard Ryeamund clearly above it all. Which really shouldn't be possible, yet he was sure it was so.
When Ryeamund's mouth was open and bellowing? He could hear it, and more importantly, feel it inside his guts. In between roars, each louder then the last? The gut rattling ceased. His battle-cry, could be felt as well as heard. It shook the great-house. The noise and the vibrations all reverberated through the hall, and shook every man in it. Everyone else, Arroch was sure, simply thought it was a combined noise and energy.
Arroch knew different. He began to laugh like an utter and complete madman. He marched around with Ryeamund. Both had the crazy eyes now. Both were all but waxed on adrenaline, and it flashed dangerously in their eyes. The men loved it even more, and they all roared in unison, pounding in unison.
Arroch and Ryeamund were laughing and roaring like madmen. Pounding on each other's chests and shoulders. The men loved it, and increased their volume. It became a self-sustaining oscillation of power that grew.
Arroch knew what no one else in the great hall knew.
Ryeamund? Was giving off the waves of warm heat and vibrations that he thought only the North Star could give off. It passed in this situation, for the noise of the place. It covered it nicely. Ryeamund had the ability to roar and give off energy every bit as much as the North Star himself could.
It didn't scare Arroch, not in the slightest. He had already suspected who Ryeamund was. He had already had it confirmed by the North Star, so he now knew and already believed. This? Was just the final proof. The High King had already told him. Men of any quality, would simply flock to Ryeamund and follow him eagerly.
Their very own god of thunder and battle was drinking and feasting among them. Thor himself was in this great hall with them. He walked among them. Roaring his own battle cry with his army he was assembling.
Arroch smiled as he looked around him, at what was going on, how the men were acting. They loved it. Even Theyer and Sooth had caught it and were standing on their chairs as well, screaming. Arroch studied and marveled at the ground, beneath his own two feet.
The very earth was actually trembling.