Chapter 50 - the Matter
The high king's wise steward, greatly enjoyed the festival. He even enjoyed the long journey to get there. Though he didn't particularly enjoy sleeping on the ground and other things a rougher and coarser man might, he had quickly became almost giddy with joy.
Before he had left, the North Star had told him. Go, and enjoy yourself. Enjoy some time being by yourself. Without me. See if it agrees with you.
The steward was overjoyed, when he quickly found out the first few days into the long trip. He wasn't waking up in the North Star's clothes. He wasn't sleepwalking. He wasn't waking up in strange places, wondering what he had done and how he had gotten there.
When he finally arrived, he was initially worried how things might go with Eira, and even more so with Ryeamund. He had, after all, woken up with the Lady Eira in his bed. After a night of food and drink. Ryeamund was pounding on the door to his bedchamber, and he was not particularly happy about finding his wife in his bed.
Eira and Wulfgar and Arroch had fortunately been handy, and all three of them grabbed Ryeamund and clambered all over the powerful man when he made to grab the Steward up and wring his neck. Indeed, from the moment the southern farmer had arrived in the far north, people quickly began whispering about him. Be neither fooled by those loose flowing clothes, nor his shorter height. This man is "as wide as he is tall" was the way they spoke of such things. He doesn't even need a weapon, he kills men with his bare hands. The Bear was another giant, and his size hadn't helped him one bit when he insisted upon making a matter for no real reason with "Little Rye".
After that night and morning? Everyone had to take some care to attempt to limit Stuart and Ryeamund from being in the same room. They would get to words, then the words would grow harsh and the next thing you knew? They were pushing and shoving and putting their hands on one another.
Things had finally came to somewhat of a head, at a feast. "The matter", as it came to be called, came up again. This time, however… things were different. Ryeamund found himself laying hands on the steward. Again. Who though he was a true giant, and a powerful man of great strength? He was a Gentle Man for scrolls. Not given to what was called "unruly" behavior. The steward went off to the bath house for a private bath, after yet another of these situations. The North Star himself, however, came out of the bath.
Everyone about shit themselves. Things were bad enough, as it was. Everyone knew from years back. This Rhyshian giant, a Gentle Man of wisdom and scrolls, one of the highest reckoners to be found? A man of the highest possible manners… had suddenly one day transformed. The day of the first great battle for the original petty kingdom? That was the first time anyone laid eyes and ears on the North Star.
It was like an entirely different man. His voice boomed. He was rough and coarse, in all things. He suddenly had no misgivings about putting his hands on other men. Nor, of putting more than his hands on the enemy. He rode at the front of his men, and charged directly into the front line of the petty king he opposed. By the time his men caught up to him? He was off his warhorse, and smashing men's brains out of their ears through their helmets. Picking up men by the throat and breaking their neck.
Bellowing at the top of his lungs that men had angered Odin himself, and that they would pay the dearest cost for daring to do it. Well tested fighting men were in great fear and broke and ran for their lives. All his own men, looked with wild eyes at one another. When he screamed his own battle cry, they could actually feel it in their bodies. It shook their guts. They swore the very earth beneath them shook in time with his voice.
His men went berserk. They stayed with him. They followed him. They stood at his side, laughing like madmen as they struck down waves of the wicked petty king's army assembled and come for them. The North Star strode up to the petty king's own great gates and smashed the iron hinges with a big war-hammer, and led them into the man's own throne room. They killed the few men left with ease along the way.
The North Star himself killed the king on his own marble throne, and the throne broke. He took the king's head as his first trophy, and sat it on the table in front of him as they all feasted to celebrate their victory. At the king's own tables, themselves. The celebration went on most of the night. Stuart's booming voice called for toasts, and he got them.
The next morning? Stuart woke in a strange bed. A large, and very fine one. Two pretty serving wenches, that he did not remember anything of. He knew nothing. He had went to sleep the night before the first battle, afraid for his life the next day, sure that he was all but a dead man. All he knew? He woke up in the king's chambers, with two pretty girls waking up and smiling at him.
The two serving wenches, scurried away quietly and efficiently. The first whispers of Staurt's madness went around. They swore the tale they told was true. Everyone else? Soon found out they did not lie nor stretch the truth in any fashion at all. The mild mannered gentle giant was back, and he was greatly shaken by what everyone told him.
Wulfgar. His friend. The young master swordsman known to have blood as cold as ice. The very man who had gravitated to Stuart when he first started going around, trying to rouse men to oppose their horrible petty king. It had been Wulfgar that protected the gentle high reckoner. Gathered fighting men to him. Attracted other RavinLunden men like himself to come and join in, so they could have a proper king for once.
Wulfgar had been there at the very beginning. Everyone sent for "the Wolf", to come and see what he could do with Stuart. He sent them all away, and sat and talked with Stuart, alone in that room. For half the day. When they finally came out? The gentle giant nervously had another feast with everyone the next night. The same two pretty young girls that had spent the night with him, celebrating the great victory and coming good days? He rebuffed them. He didn't cavort with serving wenches lightly.
Everyone, simply smiled and nodded their heads. They toasted him gently, in quiet voices. The gentle giant preferred tea. The occasional small goblet of wine. He retired to bed quite early, and bid the men to stay up and have as much rough fun as they wanted. The same two serving girls? Came to his king's chambers, and he merely wished to sit and talk to them. After all, he was in coin to another girl, a high reckoner like himself. He was highly embarrassed, and worried what people would think of him. He was a Rhyshian Lord.
He had taken oaths, to never seek high office. The men had to make him become king. They wouldn't let him refuse it. He tried to get them to "give" the crown to some other man. First Wulfgar, then others that had fought from the beginning. None would. They demanded him.
It soon became apparent, he had suddenly gone mad. But it also quickly became apparent, how good of a thing this was. A gentle giant of a high reckoner. Wise, kind, gentle. His rule? Beyond pleasant.
Then, the neighboring petty king started to cast eyes on the petty kingdom next door. Suddenly, the North Star was back. Then? Gone again, when the battle and then the feast was over. Word got around quickly. Through one petty kingdom after another. We are ruled by a mad king, and that's putting it mildly. He's a full declared madman. Yet… all agreed. We love our mad king. Just look at the results.
It quickly became custom. It didn't take but a few seconds to see and hear if you were dealing with the North Star, or the wise steward that served the king. Merely a glance from afar, was all it took. The North Star? Dressed in the old fashion. Leather and fur. Bare arms and legs, showing his powerful, rippling muscle. The gentle wise steward? He was a man of great reckoning, and things about the garten. He preferred looser, flowing clothes. So he didn't frighten people with his size and strength.
Other than the periodic "madness"? Stuart found himself in the position of being the king. Rapidly becoming the high king. He eventually grew tired of waiting for his high reckoning coin wench, and he sent for her. He sent her gifts. He sent her love letters and poetry he wrote. He heard nothing back. All gifts? Were brought back. She would not accept them. She stayed in her home village.
Stuart eventually went to her parent's house. He sat outside, and waited patiently to be found and recognized. He was there to make her his queen. Would she not enjoy being the high queen, above all others in the petty kingdoms?
No. She would not. She was a kingmaker. She was taught to breed carefully with men. Stuart was a great man, in all ways. Tall. Strong. Gentle. Wise. The highest reckoner. Yet… he was clearly mad. You don't breed with madness. You don't encourage it. She swore, she loved him as much as ever. But she couldn't.
Stuart fell into a deep depression. Wulfgar watched his best friend quite closely. He had to keep a watchful eye on him, that he wouldn't take his own life. Stuart one day told Wulfgar, that he had as much as he could take. He was going to poison himself, and be done with it.
Wulfgar did the only thing he could think of. He began drinking and eating with and after Stuart. He told him. You take your own life? Fine. But, you will be killing your best friend too. That, since you know this? Will be murder.
The deep depression finally passed, though it took a long time. The North Star himself? Grew a heavy heart. He hadn't thought anything of enjoying two pretty wenches at the celebration feast. After that, he sent wenches away as well.
And so, the mad king, the best they had ever known? Would have no heir.
When "the matter" happened? Eventually the North Star came out of the bath, in his leather and furs. He walked over and stood there, in the middle of the big feasting tables. The big booming voice came.
"Aye. Where be the man that laid hands on my steward!"
Ryeamund calmly stood up.
"That man? Would be me."
"You will not lay hands on my steward."
Ryeamund was a quiet and polite man, for all of the rest of his ways. He walked up and stood in front of the North Star.
"I already have."
"Why do you not run!"
Ryeamund sighed, then smiled thin.
"I've been waiting for you. King."
"Will you dare put your hands on me, then."
"Aye. I caressed your steward gently. I trust you do not expect the same."
No one knew what the hell to do now. No one wanted to put their hands on "Little Rye", he was well known to beat even a true giant to death with his bare hands. Of course it wasn't like the North Star himself didn't have the same reputation, naturally. He had lifted large men up with one hand in battle and snapped their necks… then tossed them aside like a chicken.
Then, there was "the matter" itself. Someone had put their hands on Ryeamund's wife, Eira. It wasn't as if he wasn't "allowed" to have it out with the man that had done it. Of course, while there was no law against putting your hands on a king in their culture? Well, it wasn't thought a wise thing to do. Least of all, a man like the North Star.
Everyone there that night was treated to "entertainment", the likes of which they had never seen before, and knew or sensed they likely would never see again. No one could put their hands on either of them. There was nothing else to do about it, but to put their teeth together and watch.
Fortunately, neither one went for weapons. They were both content to wrestle around and beat the ever loving shit out of each other. This went on for quite some time. The North Star was a true far north giant. Well over seven feet tall. Half Rhyshian, and half pure north-man. He had the extra size of the biggest north-man, but the sleek rippled muscles of the large Rhyshian giant. He was as wide through his arms and legs and trunk, as Ryeamund himself was.
Ryeamund was a lot more nimble, and fought like a tree man. The North Star was simply a huge man that had strength and size beyond all measure. Things were more "even" than anyone there would have guessed. Not one man cheered, nor dared to place, take, or so much as suggest a wager. And so, they all sat and watched. Staring at each other with open mouths at what went on. Chairs and tables and everything else went flying as these two bulls went at it for a time.
When they were done, they were both marked up. Limping and panting and bleeding. Little breaks as they both got injured and fatigued finally grew more frequent. The North Star was the first to say something, finally.
"Do ye yield?"
"Nay."
"You… would put your hands on Odin himself, for touching your wife?"
"I just did. I will continue to do so."
"Aye. I have been enjoying your gentle caress, for some time now."
"Then enjoy it as long as it pleases you."
"It no longer pleases me."
Were they going to keep doing this? Perhaps until one killed the other, then.
"I am sorry I put my hands on your wife. Do you accept my apology."
"If you mean it. Aye."
They shook hands. It was over. The North Star stayed with the men for a while, enjoying the feast and fine-mead. As did Ryeamund. After a time, the North Star went off to the bath, and returned a while later. Cleaned of blood, and back in his normal loose flowing clothes. It was the steward once again.
He looked around. Frightened. Confused. He was holding his ribs. He had trouble breathing. He was limping and bleeding. Wulfgar ran to him and got his arm up and over his own shoulder, and led him off.
Ryeamund himself was more than a frightful mess. He was limping and holding his ribs, and had trouble getting up and sitting back down all night as well. Eira helped him into the bath house, and he came back out cleaned of blood and they left the quiet hall. No one could quite believe what they had just witnessed.
When both had recovered fully? Ryeamund and the steward made up and shook hands as well.
"The matter" was thus finished with and over.
As time went by, however. People began to notice that Eira was with child. When you reckoned back the number of moons, it was frightfully obvious. You counted back months, and you arrived at… well… right around the time that "the matter" first showed up.
Eira was a kingmaker. Ryeamund and Eira had been unable to have children, and so Eira had picked out two Sons of Odin. That is to say, two young boys at the garten, that both had mothers that had died in childbirth. Both had lost fathers of great renown in the great battle for the corridor. Shan was born. The older "brothers", became kingsmen. Eventually, Eira and Ryeamund and their three sons went off.
Ryeamund had been one of the Rhyshian lords in the battle for the corridor. When men around him elected him as their champion, when asked who did they fear in battle among themselves? Ryeamund became known as a dark lord. After the battle was over and won, the North Star and the steward both tried to reward him. He would have none of it. He said what he always did.
"If there be bandits? Come and get me. I will take a few men, and deal with them."
Eira and Ryeamund and the three sons did not go off on their own. The North Star farstgefted "Lord Mjolnir" his own district. Down in the southernmost reaches of the south-lands.
A thoroughly unremarkable petty king had finally withered and died. He was not a problem petty king, yet he was not held to be any great prize, either. His southern district he ruled, was as any other land in the south-lands. Unruly, to say the least. It was far from the biggest district in the kingdom; it was one of the smallest, if not the smallest among them all.
Ryeamund had come to also be known as Lord Mjolnir. Now, appointed to rule a district of his own? He was as an appointed petty king, though the north-men did not call them kings. They called them "stewards". And so, upon this appointment? Ryeamund, was now the High Lord Mjolnir.
Everyone where he lived, in the high king's own district? Knew who Ryeamund Thorson was. They all knew then, that Lord Mjolnir was Ryeamund. Outside of the area? All anyone knew, was that the High Lord Mjolnir would take over stewardship off of a thoroughly unremarkable petty king. It was jested, if the petty king was a no account, or a by account. The High Lord Mjolnir, though? Well, simply everyone knew who he was. By reputation. By tale.
And so, when Ryeamund and Eira and their three sons went far down into the south-lands? Ryeamund arrived at his stewardship lands. He had asked, if he could get other than the petty king's own lands; he wanted somewhere quiet and more private. His lands were up against the border to the next out-land to the south. Just "under" so to speak, a tiny farming village. Some pig farmers, mostly sheep farmers. Some crops. Open meadows, surrounded by rolling hills. Border lands, to outside the kingdom.
Naturally, the people of that tiny village? Knew that the great High Lord Mjolnir was coming. The man that had fought with the North Star himself, at the great corridor battle. Tales of what had gone on there, had gone around and were still going around. Fantastic tales, of men bellowing and shaking the very ground, heard over all the considerable battle itself. Great-men, like the North Star, and Lord Mjolnir himself.
Ryeamund went to three different taverns when he first set foot in the village. Neither of the first two were to his liking. The third tavern? He didn't mind it. The tavern-keeper said this was "the quiet tavern" in town, and he didn't go in for the noise and commotion of the other two. You could bring your wife and children here, with no fear.
The tavern-keeper was happy to have a quiet and polite man, and his wife and three sons stay in a couple of rooms for a short time. The keeper and his wife and daughters, were telling Ryeamund the gossip. A new High Lord had been appointed to run the district, to replace the petty king that had died. They were waiting to meet the great man. They had heard tall tales of him.
Ryeamund winked at Eira sitting next to him.
"Aye. I am Ryeamund. They call me Ryeamund Thorson. I am a man of low reckoning. I am steward, to your High Lord Mjolnir. He asked me, to see to his concerns here. I speak for him."
The tavern-keeper asked him how he came to that great station in life.
"I fought at his side, in the corridor. Do you know of the oxen?"
"Aye."
Yes, everyone knew who the "oxen" were. They fought beside the high king himself, up in the heart of the battle all of the day it went on.
"Aye. I was one of the oxen."
Ryeamund was traveling in the far north-man fashion. In armor, with a robe over him. He held out his oxen sign coin he wore around his neck. Was he a leader of his men?
"Nay. I am the least of those great oxen. I was the last man chosen to wear the sign of the ox, before that day."
Everyone asked what he wanted, what changes he would require. What was High Lord Mjolnir's will.
"Aye. These southern districts? Are well known to be unruly. My land lord asked me to see it become a quiet and orderly thing."
And, as easily as that? The High Lord Mjolnir. The great-man, the dark lord. One of the heroes of the great battle for the corridor. The man with tales and tall tales around his name both in and around his district he lived in, up in the highest reaches of the far north. The High Lord Mjolnir? All but vanished and disappeared, drifting away like the morning sun dispels a puff of fog in the warming air.