Chapter 1 - Ryeamund I
Lord Mjolnir was a man of great renown, far and wide. Common low people throughout all the petty kingdoms that made up the (now) one nation, knew of his name. His status was already all but legend when he had not yet seen 20 winters in his life.
A long time ago, a few years before Lord Mjolnir's birth, there was not yet a whole nation. It was not a long journey from one petty king's land to the next. Customs and laws and everything else varied so greatly as you moved throughout the lands, that it was complete and utter chaos.
They were all collectively the "men of the north" to the rest of the world, and were outside their own lands thought of as raiders and bloodthirsty barbarians. From the beginning of all things, this was not an inaccurate description of them.
The men that lived in the northernmost reaches, in the mountains, were feared by all. They could not be invaded in any way possible from the north, as the arctic circle itself prevented such. To the west and east of them was almost the same, and was some of the most rugged and inhospitable mountains and fjords the earth could create. But these men called this "home", and loved it.
With the only possible invasion route coming from the south, the only passable approach between impassable mountains, they had the advantage of having their backs to the wall, and walls to the left and right of them as well. Any fighting man knows that when facing superior forces, you first and foremost want the wall at your back, and preferably a corner if you are alone and you're to make any stand worthwhile of your ancestor's approval.
The overly tall, overly muscular men of the north had gathered in a natural "corner", and it was their lands, completely undisputed. No one else sought to pass through much less attempt to live in these regions. Long winters, short summers, mountainous terrain. And what people there were? Were all bloodthirsty barbarians and raiders.
Everyone in all the southern lands, feared them when they went on raids. Even if you managed to cobble together a superior fighting force in number, the fighting qualities of these men made each of them easily worth any 10 or 20 other normal men of the southern lands. They thought of all else "below" them. They lived and sat on the "top of the world".
They only farmed as little as they had to for subsistence and not much more. They preferred mainly wild game and fish and fowl. Not much more animal husbandry than was necessary for their needs. Even the animals were like the men in these lands. Taller, thicker, and more aggressive. Hairier. Their horses were muscular beasts just as they were. They prized gigantic "war horses" which outside of war itself the rest of the world only valued to be work-horses, not fast riding horses.
Their skill with boats and fishing had allowed them to conquer the seas. If Viking ships as they would much later in history one day become known, were sighted? Grown men shit their pants. The rest of Europe was terrified of them. Their shallow-draft boats allowed them to go up rivers and estuaries in search of new places to raid.
If you even managed to cobble together a big enough force of men to give them any real resistance… you still had to wander around wondering just where they would next pop up and strike. You went broke keeping a standing army all year for the one day they (maybe) saw use. The barbarian raiders? It cost them nothing. The men of their lands… were all first and foremost nothing except a warrior. Farmer, blacksmith, hunter, craftsman, trader… all came as mere hobbies.
So, it cost the barbarians nothing to have their great army. Their enemies went broke trying to be ready. There was simply no answer. The only silver lining in the whole gray cloud, if you can even grace it by calling it such was that they preferred to gather in small bands to go out raiding just for entertainment, and adventure.
There was no attempting to invade them back to teach them a lesson, because all they had to defend was the narrow corridor that led to the highlands surrounded by impassable mountains. All the raiders then assembled and banded together and came down that corridor in a great mass. They slaughtered like wheat the larger numbers of men that were foolhardy enough to even attempt it.
Each time, a slightly greater petty king would assemble an even bigger army of even better equipped and better trained and better "tested" fighting men. It produced, every time, nothing. Well, nothing except that after an easy win against the sissy "woman's invasion" they laughed at… they now brought all their great war-horses with them. No other men could stand against them on foot, and their horses had armor and seemed to be as blood-thirsty as the men.
No, all you "achieved" was enraging them. Each time, the same thing had happened. You were immediately cut down and destroyed… then, the shit really hit the fan. The wolf came down out of the mountain. They laid waste to everyone in their path in any direction they went. All fled terrified before them. They took anything they could carry off that they felt like. Gold. Women. Food. Tools. Weapons. Human heads… whatever. Then they destroyed simply everything. Every house, every crop, every barn, every fortification.
There was basically nothing that could be done. The occasional raid was preferable to the invasion, and in some fashion became a sort of "tribute" to the barbarians of the north. Over time, these "southern low lands" had been invaded and re-invaded so many times by the barbarians of the north that no one dared even live there. When there is a great dragon sleeping, it is not generally thought wise to build your farm on top of his tail.
Even if you could live there, and get along with the barbarians from above the northern corridor, and even profit from trade with them… there was little point to it. Eventually, some petty king would yet again try to invade. They would obviously come through there, and you would be screwed. Even if that army passing through left you alone? You knew what was coming back down that failed corridor. And so, over time, no one any longer bothered with what the north men called the "southern border lands".
Decent farmland, and highly prized among the barbarians these southern border-lands were held to be. Almost somewhat "flat" to them. They were long used to scrabbling farms on mountainsides, all rock and sand and clay. These lands? Were a great prize to them, and over time they took them as no one else dared touch it anyways.
Men that were thought to be weaklings or cowards or useless drunkards among their own people gravitated down to here. If a man were under 6'6" tall, 260 pounds? Better to make a farm and raise your family here, than stay and be nothing at all. When the rest of the lands to the west, the east, the south of the border-lands discovered they were there, they were initially terrified. The scary beasts of the north, were spreading out. Ouch.
They were a little shorter and weaker than the giants in the mountains. They tended to not be as aggressive as the barbarians to the north. They were slightly more reasonable to trade and deal with. A merchant class sprung up out of them. Finally? The wild beasts of the north had produced "something" that could be reasoned and dealt with. Somewhat, at least.
Reasonable and optimum are not to be confused, however. While these men were not as gigantic as their northern big brothers, they were still considered big men to the lands around them. While they were not as aggressive as the beasts in the north? These "small cowards" from the southern border-lands were still a terrifying thing to the others around them.
Other people moving through their lands on trading routes were polite to them. Because if they felt insulted? They simply killed the man that had insulted them. They first told them why they were going to kill them? Then they did it. And it was not considered a big deal in any way for them to do so. If anything, it raised their status among their fellow men.
When these men ventured out of their own lands? People were more than slightly nervous seeing a small train of them headed for their village. These men did not wear merchant's robes. No, these "merchants" only went out in full armor. Riding their great war-horses, who typically wore armor to match their owner. If your village expected to trade with these men? You in practice needed a separate horse-keeping area. Because their horses were so big and aggressive, they couldn't be stabled with normal sized quarter horses. You needed equally capable taverns to stable the horse's owners as well.
They came in and all but took over your tavern, and if there were enough of them? They formed smaller bands that each took over their own tavern. They were big, strong, boastful men. Men who took no insult, and once the trading was attended to? They now had coin. They wanted to feast. They wanted to drink. They wanted women for the night. What today might be thought of as rough biker bars would be the closest thing that ever once came near to the tavern-keepers that catered to these men.
If you had the sack and balls to put a big horn on your tavern sign? You were asking for them when they came through. Now if you could handle it, it was well worth it. A merchant with a lot of coin, and a thirst for drinking and feasting? Well, there was a lot of coin to be made in a surprisingly short time from them.
These men were not intractable. They expected a man to boast, and loudly. Of what he could do if he were called upon to do so. But, don't go too far while you're at it. If you took them too lightly? One of them would simply stand up, down his large mug or pitcher of ale, and then lift up his big ax. He would finger the great big ax lovingly, and say "Then come and feel the gentle caress of my ax, little man…". You now had the choice. They would not force you to fight, you had to want it.
Then, the others would simply sit and bet on the outcome. With each other, with any there that wished to enjoy this fun sport as much as they did. You could actually wager on a death match between your friend that called one of them on, and that man's brother would sit and drink with you. Actually put his arm around you, and raise a toast to your man, that he was so brave.
When you were sitting there, if that man's brother died, the brother was fine with it. It had been an agreed upon match. Both wanted to fight. One might die. The man was happy his own brother died with a weapon in his hand, fighting. Because now he was worthy to enter Valhalla in the afterlife. You hadn't robbed him of a brother; you had gained his respect. He now liked you, you were the brother of a brave and hardy man. You might be worth something as well.
That was rare, though. Almost always, your man fell. The same Viking would sit there, and drink with you. He would toast your dead man. He was brave. He died with a weapon in his hand fighting. He might right now be in Valhalla, and this Viking was happy for you.
If these beast-men had no one else to fight them? They simply fought each other. For practice, for fun. You agreed upon weapons to be used, and you agreed upon how far it was planned to go.
You could strike with the flat of the sword, you risked nothing beyond grievous bruises, tendon injuries, broken bones. What they considered a fun time. What other people called "fighting until first blood", these men called "for a mere goblet of blood; not all of it". And, if a man who had agreed to fight just to the goblet, accidentally killed his opponent? He was sorry. Truly sorry. He might do anything he possibly could to make up for it.
Or you could agree to fight for "all of the blood", which was of course to the death.
It should be intuitively obvious what would almost certainly happen if a large number of local men got drunk and banded together to set upon the Viking merchants. They would simply all down their ale, stand, and take their weapons out. Quite calmly, and matter of fact. Any man that wished to escape with his life was welcome to do so, but any that came to them were cut down. Like wheat. They thought nothing of it, and when it was over? They simply went right back to their feasting and drinking.
Now, if you knew how to act around them, well… that was another matter entirely. They would buy ale and wine by the barrel and invite you to feast and drink with them. The rougher and rowdier men, learned to enjoy their occasional presence in those rougher, coarser taverns. Do not insult them, do not raise your hand to them, do not attempt to steal from them. Then? Feast and drink, there's plenty for all!
Tavern masters who knew how to deal with them, made a tidy pile of coins. Which left only the matter of the women. It was a common misconception that these barbarians simply carried off any woman they chose, drunk and yelling, off to the barn and hay bales to be ravished all night. In truth, their own personal code forbade raping a woman unwillingly. The rape stories no doubt came from the misunderstanding of what "willing" means, quite naturally.
One simply must understand, that these barbarian merchants? For all the hell and terror they raised out drinking and feasting… they were on their absolute best behavior. They thought they were being as accommodating and as gentle and as nice as they could possibly be, in their dealings with these small men around them when out and about from their home lands.
They had rules, and they obeyed more and stricter rules when out on merchant errands. Now, big strong men with coin in their pocket, out for a night of feasting and drinking. Well come on now, what do you expect after all. The local women, wherever they went? Some, even many of the women enjoyed seeing such big strong men. Men that all the other men both feared and respected. And now with temporarily enhanced coin to go with their permanently enhanced masculinity.
Big, strong, proud men. Big coin purses. No, plenty of single women simply flocked to the taverns on these nights. The women did not have to go through any of the preliminaries as they did with courtship with the men of the village. These men were open about it. "Come! Sit with me, woman! Eat from my plate! Drink from my cup! You are a fair wench to set eyes on!"
Didn't take too long for the man to first put his arm around her. He would grab her and kiss her if that went well. Later on? Plop her in his lap for the night, if she didn't put herself in his lap. When the man was ready to go to bed? He was big and strong and drunk, he was singing and boasting of his abilities and would carry the woman off on his shoulder, while his comrades toasted him.
Now, if the woman didn't want carried off later? All she had to do, was simply not sit next to them. Or, if you did sit with them willingly, when the man put his arm around you… well, if you didn't like the advances, you had to yell and punch and kick him. If a woman gave a drunken Viking merchant "spirit" in such a fashion? His comrades teased him with good nature, and toasted the woman's high spirit. If the drunken Viking didn't take her "gentle hint" she wasn't interested in all that, well, his friends would restrain him and allow the woman to "escape" his clutches.
This invariably would end in the same fashion each time. Several big strong men, drunk and laughing, wrestling and rolling around. No weapons and only striking each other with "the flat of their hands".
In one village, when the first girl got up the nerve to go in and stay seated next to one she picked out? Her girlfriends that went with her, quickly got jealous. The best wine, the finest ale… and the wonder of all wonders, the best meat as well, and as much of it as you could eat. These men didn't buy a plate of the best smoked boar. No, they bought the best hog the man had on hand.
When she was "carried off" over his big shoulder at the end of the long night of drunken revelry, naturally her friends were keen to hear her tale. How was it?
"He tossed me onto the hay bales, and tossed himself next to me. What would you think happened."
"We would know, and not imagine it! Tell us!"
"All right… best way to describe it? I was ridden hard and put away wet, for what little sleep I was to get, I tell you."
"Once, or… twice?", her one blushing friend had asked.
She simply blushed dark red cheeks, and held up fingers on one hand. "At least three times."
"And what did he do?"
"You know how they fight? Let me say this then, as in a fight, 'anything goes', that's all I'll say of it."
"Anything?", her friends asked excitedly.
She smiled and nodded, still blushing.
"Anything. These are not shy men, I tell you."
"The… others did not rape you? We heard tales…"
"Not if you don't wish so, they don't."
Then, all the women had giggled. The next time these drunken Vikings came through? There were more "willing wenches" than just the one. Two of the women had even gotten into a fight over who was going to sit next to one of the more handsome ones. The men roared with approval at this entertainment. They placed bets, and toasted the women. The man that had been the subject of their fight, decided his lap had enough room for the both of them, if they could now contain themselves and their high spirits.
At the end of the night, his men were impressed he could carry one of them over each shoulder to his hay pile in the big horse stable.
So, where were all the rape and gang-rape stories coming from, one might well ask next. In truth, if the woman had a husband or a courting man to account herself to the next day, what else would she do after the Vikings had left.
"Oh, that… simply say you were carried off! What's your man going to do about it, anyways? It's the easiest way."
Rough men such as these have other uses as well. People traveling? Actually liked to join them on the road. There was almost no chance of being raided and robbed. And if it happened? Well, the stories got around. Apparently, after an unsuccessful robbery, which saw the 'merchants' cut them down, as if they were wheat… these men left some to guard the travel group, and rode off. They tracked where the horses these robbers were on had come from, and found the rest of them. They cut them down like wheat as well, then rejoined the main group up the road two days later… with heads on their belts, as a warning to any others trying such.
The men called them their "trophies" they wore on their belts. They claimed they were decorations for when they got back home.
As one merchant traveling with them had related the tale:
"Aye, we were set upon by bandits, we were, and more of them than us, easily. As ye well know, they cut them down, and set off after them, that they might find the rest of them. And aye, the madman that led them, did come back with a human head on his belt, which he refused to dispose of. Well, several days later, this happened again. That man with the head on his belt? Said he, 'Pah. I will send them on their way.', and he rode out, alone, to greet them. This man sat on his horse, all calm, and listened to the bandits, all screaming and describing what they would do. He laughed, and held up the head in one hand, his great ax in the other. An ax so great a man can not lift it. Said he to them: 'Aye. This be the last man that tried to rob me. I have three wee boys at home, and I have but one plaything to give them. Which two of ye will see that my other two boys have something to play with.' And aye, this be how they negotiate with teams of bandits."
This was the world, such as it was, that Lord Mjolnir had been born into.
Yet, it is impractical at best, and even impossible at worst… to attempt to relate the story of Lord Mjolnir, without telling first and also the story of a common man, whose name was Ryeamund. Because these two men's lives and fates were intertwined. One high and noble, the other common and not nearly as "great" a man as was his Lord that he served faithfully. In truth, neither of these two men could have existed without the other.
In modern times, practically any powerful person at the top almost certainly has their faithful man Friday. The famous quarterback, winning the super-bowl… will if he tells the truth, drag some lesser and unknown "assistant coach" onto the screen, and demand the world recognize this great coach! The coach that was his college coach, who taught him all he knew, made him into everything he became.
The coach that found him when he was still a nobody. That believed in him and said:
"No, you can do this, and here's what it takes!"
Then taught him both the game, and almost invariably? They will tell in some interview how this coach taught them the most important lessons of life, and how to live it properly… so that everything comes together in the end. And the world only then can see the quarterback shine under the big, hot, bright lights of stardom.
Now, make no mistake about it. This assistant coach rises along with his star pupil, they always do. The assistant coach would never be assistant-coaching the offense in that super bowl game, were it not for the heroics of the star.
Yet, it is all too easy to forget. That the "star" would not really ever have become the star, were it not for the devoted dedication of that assistant coach. For all those long years of hard work and selfless giving behind the scenes leading up to "the big day". The day where the whole world suddenly notices the star, because it arcs across the sky briefly in some monumental and awesome flash of fire and light.
Their fates are enmeshed so intricately, that if one falls… the other falls from grace soon or even immediately after. If either assistant coach or "star" forsake the other or feud? It all goes away as quickly as rain down a gutter.
Lord Mjolnir then, quite simply would not be Lord Mjolnir in any way at all, were it not for his behind the scenes, ordinary man…
Ryeamund.
His father named him Ryeamund, as was his own name, and as was his father's name, before him. He was the only child of a small lease-farmer. His mother had died giving birth to him, and he and his father worked their little leased farm to scratch a living out of the world, and not much of a living at that.
The son always wished for more, and when not helping on the farm, he had first thought to be a blacksmith, and then a woodcutter to make ends meet. He himself said later of it, "I can aid a real 'smith in his labors, but, I am better as a woodcutter."
The father had approved. A few extra coins to help out the tiny subsistence leased farm. The ability to gather your own wood and timber and handles, and to sell the extra, for a few more coins as you needed to. And, simply the wonder of all wonders? Swords that were broken in testing. These were tossed for junk into a pile, as they did not make the grade required. Ryeamund had access to free steel, of more than enough quality required to make a great plow. He could make ugly but functional metal shovels and rough looking axes, that none the less held an edge better than many others. Even if they just didn't look half as good.
Then there was the matter of Ryeamund himself. He was a half a head shorter than those men around him in his village, but he had a wide strong back. Thick arms, and even thicker thighs and calves. He was well known to be a quiet and polite man, but he was not to be trifled with. Where other men would want to settle differences with weapons? He would call a man out, publicly. When asked what weapons he wanted to fight with? He just held up both his fists. "We each get two hammers".
When drinking, even the farmers and craft workers wanted some sport. It was common for the men to fight hand to hand, and see who could take the best blows, and stay standing… as well as who could deliver the best blows. Ryeamund quickly from childhood earned a well-deserved reputation for his ability to fight with "naught but his own two hammers", IE, his fists. When a man is rarely knocked down and almost always wins, even against much bigger and stronger looking opponents? The betting takes on a new dimension… odds.
You didn't bet Ryeamund would win, you couldn't get much out of that bet, it was all but a foregone conclusion. What odds would you give? Ten and even twenty coins to but one coin were normal bets, just so you could get a bet off of one of his fights. Side bets as well. How many blows before a man fell unconscious. How long before the man rose back up and could stand? A cup with a small hole that dripped water drops steadily into a cup with regular lines was used to time such a thing; you bet against how long before the man could stand again.
Reckoning beyond ten (fingers) was a rare ability among these men. To reckon how many "lines" before a man rose (it could be more than 10, such was Ryeamund's reputation) a man dropped pebbles with every line achieved into a cup. A tax collector who could reckon well had been paid in the village when passing through for tax time, to make a board for them.
You didn't have to know what fifteen lines was, you simply had to point at a line of marks. The longer the line of marks? The bigger the reckoning of that number you were indicating. To prove your choice? You tapped a small sharp nail with your mark on it next to your choice. After the man (finally) stood again and stayed up? The pebbles were laid out slowly, one at a time, until it matched a line of marks. The closest man's nail to that line? Won. If two men were equally distant from that line, they split the winnings.
When outsiders from other villages came through, much more coin could be made off of Ryeamund and his hammers. People from other lands passing through? Were all but mined from losing bets. These fools would wager their (larger) man against this shorter man. And didn't seek odds! Why, they were practically donating coins to the locals who knew what Ryeamund was made of. The man was a woodcutter and a metalworker, and it had rubbed off on him. He seemed to be almost made of wood and metal.
Somewhat uncharacteristically quiet and polite, when drinking around him you had to take some care not to insult him too greatly. He was known to let friends and even enemies have sport with a good nature to it, but… you had then best heed him, when he told you enough was enough. It was said he would warn you the first time quietly, politely, and even make it fun and humorous. Your second warning? Not nearly so polite, not nearly so quiet. He plainly threatened you in no uncertain terms.
"I am the son of a lease farmer. I spend much of spring nipping buds. I will nip this in the bud, and just as easily."
Your third warning? He simply smiled and called you out; and that was that. You could back down, and be a coward who couldn't back his feeble words up. Or you could face him, and in all probability lose.
You would think such a man would attract less problems from it all, but as it turned out? Surly men came to test themselves against this Ryeamund. They didn't expect to win, they just wanted to see how long they could last against him hand to hand. The longer you kept your feet against him, the more times you could strike him, was a figure of merit.
How many Ryeamund blows could you stand? Quit boasting of it man, and demonstrate it… "let the pebbles tell the tale of it". For a second cup of pebbles was used as well now. Each blow you took before you fell, was a pebble in your cup. And everyone bet on that as well.
Ryeamund held himself out to be what he was. A simple, common man. A lease-farmer, and a small one at that. Sure, as the only son he had his father's birthright guaranteed to him, but what was it? The man owned nothing he and his son hadn't made for themselves. They leased their land. The taxes were hard to meet even then.
He never despaired though. He was known to be a quiet and polite man as compared to those around him, even when "in his goblet" as was their phrase for it. Yet when drunk, those who knew him well, knew you could get him to tell his dreams. To go somewhere, and get something more out of life. Seek adventure, and seek good fortune. Maybe to come back with enough of a coin purse to purchase some land. If drunk enough, and with good enough of a friend? He would admit it.
"Aye, if I could one day? I would go off, and seek another thing."
"What thing?"
"I have learned of farming. I have learned of woodcutting. I have learned of smith work. I would add one more trade to it."
"What other trade?"
"To be a real fighter. I am sick and I am tired of hearing how we men of these south border lands, that we are but the descendants of weaker men, and cowards. I would like to… test myself, against other better men. See what I am actually made of, when it happens."
"Ryeamund, are you serious? Your fists won't save you, mighty though they be. A sword, wielded by a man who knows that work? Ryeamund, you are a good farmer, and a great woodcutter. But, that trade? If you fail at it, you are not asked to leave the smith shop, you will be dead. You are a great man for us in the woods! We want you here, not in Valhalla."
Ryeamund would look at them, and simply say:
"Aye, I know that. Such wits as I have, tell me this. Tell me, man… do you like being called the sons of cowards, the sons of weaklings? I don't like it. I would like to walk among the bigger men of the north, with my head held high. I would show them they are wrong about us."
"Aye, Ryeamund, I understand that. But, what if you fail? What good would come of it."
"Well… being called smaller and weaker, when the big men are down here on some errand, I can abide that. They are truly bigger, and we know it's true. But the coward part? That… that, I would change."
"Aye. With your death, most likely. Think on it. What would the odds be when that sport was bet on, do you reckon."
"If I die, and do not run, and face it? Then, those big men of the north will be forced to admit, we are not all cowards."
And, such was Ryeamund's "goblet dream", and all knew of it. Every man has his own goblet dream, and that one was his. Every man can have his own dream after all, and that was the one he chose for himself.
Ryeamund's father took ill one particularly harsh winter, and the old man had died. This was soon after Ryeamund's receiving his father's public birthright feast. It was their custom, for a man to seek a wife after being declared a "man" by their father, after this birthright ceremony. But his father's death saddened him, and his heart was not into finding a woman yet. He spent more time with the animals and the woods than the company of others.
After his father's death, Ryeamund no longer took his customary good cheer with the hard work of the lease-farm, and helping out the smiths, more hard labor many men could not stand. He even seemed to take almost no joy in his woodcutting, the thing he was best at, and excelled in.
One day, he looked around him. A mother who died giving him life, that he had never met. His father was dead and he was still a young man. Sure, his father had given him all he possessed in the world, but other than some tools it wasn't much the two of them owned. The land was a lease, and so the house and all its contents that could not be carried off belonged to the owner of the land as well. Ryeamund had nothing in the world he hadn't made with his own two hands.
No mother, now no father, and nothing that he could not replace, anywhere he wished. A lease-farm? You can get that simply anywhere, if you look like a man that can work. And one glance at Ryeamund, and any man simply knew this man's big arms and legs and wide, strong back was capable of any amount of work necessary.
He had decided. His heart was now not in it anymore, to seek a wife and give her… what. This farce will continue another generation? No, he decided. It will not. He took a cart, and instead of gathering wood and timber, he cut as many saplings of the hard wood as he could, and stacked them in the barn, bound with cordage he had twisted and braided himself.
When the North-men came through, buying bundle-wood for ax and tool handles? He would offer it to them free of any coin, if he was but allowed to go with them. He had a small bag of small coins saved up. That would ensure they might take him with them, that he not be a burden to travel with them.
The men of the north, the big men from the far north, have mainly only pine and it's a soft wood. Not suitable in the least for hammers and tool handles and ax and shovel handles. They need to come down and buy hard saplings. They fashion the various handles on the long journey back to the top of the world. Ryeamund reckoned he would learn that fashioning. He would seek to work for coin, instead of for simply food to eat and scrape by.
But, that was just the practical logistics of it all; his true purpose? Was to see himself tested. He felt in his heart that he was no coward, and no weakling. He wanted to prove it. This was just like the blacksmith work he did on the side… it would cover him to seek his true fortune, to see if he had what it would take to become a man of the far north.
When the big men came through, it worked just like he had planned. They could not believe their good fortune. Free saplings of the hardest woods, dried and hardened already. Free labor to help fashion them on the long journey. And what was more, if they allowed him to tag along as far as he could stand? He had a bag of small coins to feed himself, he would be no burden.
He pointed out, that he had some tools and hammers and axes, those went with him to sweeten the deal. They were initially excited he was a smith as well, but deflated he didn't make "fine" swords, only serviceable but ugly ones. Still, they had to admit. There were villages at home with no smith, and a poor smith is better than no smith at all. He could do some smith work, or pitch in and help a better smith, as he was well used to already. A woodcutter is useful anywhere there are people that need fires for cooking and warmth. And, if he insisted? A hard ugly wood-ax is much better than no ax at all.
When the tax man came around, he informed him that he was leaving. When his land-owner found out he was gone, he could lease to another, and all of his belongings went with his house and land, since he didn't own it.
He could only do this, because there was a new high king in the north. All said he was fair and just. The high king had risen up, and led the men around him against their petty drunkard king that was useless. The men had wanted him as their new petty king. Other petty kings around him? Had been eager to add his little kingdom to theirs; instead? This "petty" king turned out to be anything but… his men took great heart, and they not only beat back the neighboring invaders, but fought their way to that petty king's great-house. Then the high king himself had personally struck that petty king down dead with a great war hammer, on the man's own throne.
He enforced his own customs and laws upon now those people as well, and they enjoyed it. He saw to no high taxes. He renounced titles and lands of greedy "nobles" and set them common and on their way. Each time his little kingdom was attacked? His men were happy about it. They went and did the same again.
The people he took over? Did not feel as if they had been "conquered". No, they claimed they felt liberated. Men were coming from other kingdoms, practically all but begging this new, fair and just king… would he please come and take their lands as well? They wanted to live as his people lived. No greedy "nobles" taking everything for themselves.
It became quickly known, and word spread even quicker. After being added to his kingdom? You were part of an ever growing sized lands. This petty king was fast becoming less "petty" with each new land conquered. The smaller petty lands could not stand up to him, so his lands were the only ones that were secure.
You did not dare to attack him and his lands and his people. But even then? Other king's people wanted what those people had. Petty kings lost populace escaping to be in his lands, to escape the high taxes and the unfair treatment. Then, the rest of the people came and begged him to come and take their lands. Add it to yours, we want it.
As word of his fair and just rule spread, it became a quick game of dominoes, and one by one all the other small petty kingdoms were taken over. Forged into what was now a nation. This high king, didn't have the fear of his people, he now had their respect. His men took heart in battle. He didn't have to raise an army, men came and begged to be picked to be one of "his men".
This was just before Ryeamund's birth. He was now a free man, and not "owned" by his land lord that owned his lands and leased it to his father. This was the high king's law, and it was not idle words. If you held people against their will, and the high king got a word of it? Well, the shit would soon hit the fan. The high king's law was not to be taken lightly.
The high king put an instant stop to the raiding as well. Any men that went on raids, either in their own lands, or abroad? The high king came in and raided them. The south border lands, were at risk to be raided from without; if you wanted adventure, to fight, to make war? You had but to come and offer your service to the high king. He would send you on a legitimate fight.
This high king would have peace, if the other lands around his would only stop raiding and invading. As big as his lands had grown, as many men as he had that loved him and couldn't wait to go to Valhalla in his name? Peace, such as peace was thought of at the time, descended for the first time ever, across the high king's lands.
Slavery was outlawed. Involuntary "thralling" was abolished as well. If a man wished to be in thrall to you, he could offer it, but you could not demand it of him. You were required to pay him something for his labors and obedience.
So there were still petty kings everywhere, but now their petty king powers had limits. If you were being abused, you had somewhere to go to seek justice. And, if the king's own trusted men crossed into your lands, and did not approve, well… everyone knew what would happen. The high king's own men came, in force. One petty king was made a famous example of. For keeping slaves. The high king made him his only slave ever. He was forced to clean up after pigs in a barn for a whole two years, then released. A poor common man, who was not man enough on his own to now cause any harm.
If the petty king's injustices weren't too great, the king demanded a new petty king be chosen, and he didn't care who they chose; if that man didn't measure up to the high king's personal standards? Well, they now had an example of what would happen.
Now, often enough the high king had to handle these matters twice in the same petty kingdom. In any such case? The high king appointed his own petty king, a man he himself chose. He was now the steward, and his word and his customs were as the high king's.
"Know it, all of you. If you be wicked, you will fear me. If you be just, you have but to respect me."
Ryeamund decided he was but a common man, and would never be "great". As he served better blacksmiths, so too would he seek to somehow in some way serve this great man. If he could not serve this great man, and he was not worthy? So be it, he was as nothing anyways… he would then seek to serve one of the king's men. If he were not worthy of that? Then, he would serve a man who served a king's man, and so on. He would find his place in the greater scheme of the world. He sought to be weighed, he sought to be measured. He wanted to know what he truly was, and there was no other way to find out.
The bigger far north men had taken him up on his offer. He could tag along with them, if he didn't cause any trouble. Ryeamund was overjoyed and went with them as happy as he could remember being in a long time. He was finally going to see what he could become, what he might be.
Every night when they camped, without being asked, Ryeamund silently went out and cut wood for a big fire. He enjoyed the exercise at any rate, and he was making himself as useful as he could to these bigger men. If any chance ever one day came to test himself, he told himself he would not shrink from it, he would stand and face it. He would win, or he would die. He had to know.
The bigger men simply shrugged, and one said of his plan:
"Do as you wish. We are big men of the north, but, raiding is forbidden by the North Star. So, our raids have turned into merchant runs for these fine ax handles. Our arms are big and strong. Sadly though, our trees are soft."
Another of them added:
"Aye. I miss the sport of the raids that older men talk of, but in truth, I come home with more hard coin in my purse than I ever did see carried home from any of my uncle's raids. It is not so bad a thing, Ryeamund."
Yet a third added:
"Now, if you are like me, and you sound like you want to be… well, no need to raid, you go and find any of the king's men. They will send you to where the high king is pleased to have you fight. Now, if you prove you are made of hard metal at that? You will rise among men, or, you will be cut down. But, that's even better; you are given a free pass into Valhalla. Where the brave live forever."
Every now and again, if it seemed like there was no chance to be set upon, these big men would break out one of their small casks of strong wine. They would get drunk and boast loudly of their worth as a man-of-arms. They asked Ryeamund then:
"You know nothing of sword work beyond making one. Why can't you use one for its intended purpose?"
"Well, I come from the inside southern border lands, as you know where you found me. I have no raiders to test myself on. My plow, my ax, my hammer… these are all I need."
"But, you said you can fight. What do you fight with? Words?"
Ryeamund held up his hands, and smiled.
"I am not threatening you, I like you men. But you ask, so I tell you. Where I come from, it is said these are my two hammers I carry with me everywhere I go."
The bigger man's friends hooted and toasted him; they liked this.
One proclaimed…
"Finally! Some sport, such as it is. We have a sporting match, all we need now are wagers, men. Ryeamund! What odds will ye take?"
"I don't care what odds you men wager with, that is not my concern. I will enjoy the test. You can all enjoy the wager, such as you make them among yourselves."
"Ryeamund, we can't all bet on you, and we can't all bet on the bigger man. Here, you risk but one coin to me? I will give you… five coins to your one coin, if you are still standing, if this bigger man goes down and stays down."
"Aye…", said the other, he would do the same.
Then, both looked to the third big man. Finally he said:
"All right and well. Aye for me too. What say you, Ryeamund? Will ye risk but three small coins? If you fall, you lose but three small coins, and your purse can handle it, by the size of it. It is a small thing to risk. But, if ye win, you will have five small coins for each hand, and yet another five coins on top of those. Three measures of five. What say you?"
"Aye."
The men hooted and hollered. They egged Ryeamund on, they wanted to see this. For if their bigger man fell, the biggest of the three of them? This would be fun for them to tease him and have friendly sport with him about it. They could then tease him for costing them coins, they could tease him for being felled by an unarmed, and much smaller man of the southern border lands. He risked being felled by "the descendants of weaklings and cowards". If Ryeamund fell? He lost nothing, as he was expected to lose anyways, on account of his smaller stature. Ryeamund liked this, he realized he had nowhere to go but up, and he couldn't fall any lower in station than where he was already.
The men took seats around the two of them, in a rough circle they had agreed upon that the men should seek to stay in. You could run, but not very far they said.
It didn't take long, Ryeamund didn't shy away from the huge man. The bigger, stronger man… was slower. His fists came out in great, wide, swinging arcs. Windmills that didn't land on anything but air. Ryeamund was in his element. He had long ago learned not to strike up at a bigger man, you strike his ribs, and take his wind out of him. When the bigger man grew more and more frustrated he could not land a blow on the smaller man that would not run from him, he bellowed and came straight for him, screaming and with a wild face.
Now the bigger man had lost his calm, and what little technique he possessed. Just when he was about to have him, Ryeamund calmly stood his ground, he shifted his weight and his feet… and he launched one of his straight-in, faster punches. He caught the giant coming in face first. Right on his forehead, and the big man dropped and fell down, tripped over his own two feet.
Ryemund stepped back to the edge of the circle to see if he was done, he would not come in on a man down when it was just for sport. The man almost got to his feet, and fell over. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he went to sleep. The friendly and boastful drunken giants were thrilled to no end. The cheered him, they grasped his hands in turns, they clapped him with their big, meaty hands on his smaller but stout shoulders. They didn't need to be asked for their wagers, they handed fifteen small coins over, and proclaimed it a bargain.
These big men had a big sense of humor, if nothing else was normal about them.
"Now, you two mind my reckoning; he sleeps when he should be tending to his poor wager. I will aid my sleeping man, and do it for him."
The other men laughed as he got five small coins out of the big man's purse and tied the strings back up and put it back where they had found it.
"As if I wouldn't have paid twice as many coins, but for the fun I can now have with this one…"
Indicating the man that was finally trying to get up, and kept rolling over. He was smiling, but looking around confused. He was seeing stars. Ryemund stood over him, smiling friendly, and extended his arm out to help him up. The man smiled and batted his hand gently away.
"Aye, well done little Ryeamund. But I am a man, it is our custom I must raise myself if I am to keep calling myself a man…", and he finally gained his feet. He was unsteady for several seconds, and had to shake his head several times to get the stars in his eyes to go away, and to know he could walk again. Then he held out his hand to clasp forearms with this little but powerful man of the south.
"See? When I have raised myself… now we can have hands. Well done…", and he looked over at his friends, who were smiling at him.
"Ah! Go on, I asked for it. I know I have to take it. Have your sport with me…"
And the men all went back to drinking. They boasted a little less though. Then, they asked Ryemund why he did not boast.
"Oh, that. My father, when I was little, told me this… If you tell your own tales, that is good. But, if you refuse to tell your own tales, and make light of them… then other men will tell your tales and boast for you. And, that is better. So, that is what I do. Also, my father taught me to do, not to talk. Working, fighting, whatever I choose to do… I am to do it, not to talk about it."
The men looked at each other, then nodded. They agreed, that this was wise counsel.
The bigger man that he had just struck down, stood up. He felt his forehead gingerly, he already had little robin's eggs on his forehead, the imprint of a couple of the smaller man's hard, callused knuckles. "What say you, men? I say, this man no longer travels on some bargain with us; he is our friend. What say you?"
The other two both said "Aye!", in unison, and raised their horns of wine to him. The bigger man spoke up again before sitting back down.
"There's only one small matter, friend Ryeamund…"
"And, what is that?"
"Your name, man. You said you were a lease-farmer. Ryeamund is old speech name for "man of the Rye", a farmer, yes?"
"Aye. My father farmed rye for his main crop, it's what the lease lord wanted. He gave me his name. I was Little Rye, then was Ryeamund when declared a young man."
"Well, men will give you any name they see fit, and there's naught you can do of it, as men will call you what they will. We have a long road ahead of us, we have plenty of time to come up with your new name."
A little while later, when they were quieting down and getting near sleep, one asked the biggest man:
"So? Tell us, Heyermannen. What did it feel like?"
"Of what?"
"What did his hands feel like, when he struck you?"
"Ha. You can easily enough figure that for yourself, first hand, if you want to. Little Ryeamund seems willing and able to well demonstrate it for you."
"Aye, but I am now wiser for seeing it. Again, I ask you… what did his blows feel like?"
"In truth? it feels like being struck with a wooden practice war-hammer to my ribs, I tell you. And that last blow to my head? It feels as if I were struck by the hammer of Thor himself, I think. Little Rye? It will be some time before I seek to lightly try that again. Well done."
Ryemund heard one of them say. "You are the wiser for it, are you not? The North Star himself says, 'wisdom has its price', and the price of this wisdom, is those beautiful red robin's eggs you wear for a few days, big man."
"Aye… enjoy my fool's crown…", the bigger man agreed. Then they all fell asleep one after another. Ryeamund was awake longer, but silent. He could not believe his good fortune. He was not yet a whole moon away from home? And already he had his fondest wish. He was on his way, up the corridor. He was going to the far north, and was going to see if he could learn to live and walk around with the big men of the north. The oldest father had rewarded him for his hard work, and for his courage.
He might actually make something out of himself, after all. These great giant men of the far north were a bit of a surprise to him. These were not bloodthirsty barbarians, they were men, just as he was. They were just bigger and stronger, that was all. He was making friends as easily as he did down south in the southern border lands, once he was an adult. Life was good, and things were looking up for him. He hoped his ancestors had seen it. He just wanted first and foremost, his ancestor's approval, and that was all. He now saw a clear path to get it.
When he returned home one fine day? He might well have a large coin purse, and tales that were not stretched beyond their truth. Because some southern men had gone north up the corridor, to try what he had; most never returned. He vowed that if he ever did prove his worth to himself, he would return home. And tell them all of it. "You men? are no longer thought of as the descendants of cowards and weaklings… I have seen to it!"
Some things in this world could indeed be changed. For the better. And he could perhaps do some small part in it, to help. Surely, this trip couldn't become any better. Yet, he would have to wait and see. He had nowhere to go but up.
He, the lowly son of a poor lease farmer, who had almost nothing in the world? He was on his way to the very top of the world. Life was good.
He fell asleep with a smile on his face.