The Birth of the Solenarions

by Jarl Gregory of York

IT WAS HIGH summer in the fourteenth year of the dread Lemming War Host. The crops stood tall and green in fields that shimmered in the August heat, filled of promise but not yet ready for harvesting.
"Fourteen summers," mused Gyrth as he whipped his oxen toward a shady bend in the road.
"Don't even think of it!" snapped Perigrynne, taking a firm grip on the seat so as not to be bounced backwards into the jumble of oddments that invariably accompanied Gyrth on all of his travels. "Even eighteen summers is a little young for an old road apple like you."
"Lemmings, Perigrynne, I was thinking of lemmings."
"What? In this heat? And in broad daylight? That's disgusting! Even James wouldn't . . ."
"Not those lemmings. The Lemming Warband. It's been fourteen years since we started the Lemming Warband. And the next hosting is just a furlong short of a fortnight away."
"By Odin's Test, you're right!" shouted Perigrynne. "To stand with my brothers, battling bravely to stem the grim tide of beastmen in black..."
"To be sure," Gyrth interrupted before Perigrynne achieved full spate. Deftly moving the ale jar out of Perigrynne's reach, he continued. "Battling bravely indeed, Perigrynne, slaughtering our foes in heaps. In the sun. In high summer. In armor."
"But it's traditional," said Perigrynne. "What is triumph without struggle? What is life without the threat of death?"
"Hot," said Gyrth. "Life is hot. And dusty, especially in the shieldwall. There must be a better way."
"I've seen you with a spear, Gyrth. You couldn't stab the whale's bath if you were swimming in it."
But Gyrth didn't seem to hear. He let the reins drop from his hand as a fey look stole across his weathered features. The oxen began to crop weeds at the roadside, but Gyrth paid them no heed.
"No, Perigrynne, not a spear. Do you remember when we were among the Byzanintes at Miklagard? Remember their bows? Not the whippy things we used as boys to hunt rabbits on the steadings. Heavy iron weapons. Crossbows, Perigrynne!"
"Surely that is no manly way to face a foeman!" snorted Perigrynne, a sneer beginning to curl his nether lip.
"But they would be on your side, my friend. They would impale enemy commanders as they gave orders to counter your sword charges. And enemy spearmen carry no shields. We could slaughter them before they killed your own shieldmen. Before you were left defenseless to the mercy of column charges."
"And yet," said Perigrynne thoughtfully, I have a responsibility to use all reasonable means to keep my loyal shieldmen hale. But not so fast, my silver-tongued friend. Where will you find these bowmen? I'll not have you depleting my shieldwall!"
"Not at all," said Gyrth, a crafty man, "I will find new blood. Trust me! You know I have your best interests at heart."
In spite of the heat, Perigrynne felt an inexplicable chill, and the rest of the ride passed in silence.
The time of the hosting came and Gyrth struggled and sweated manfully through several of the battles, all the while dreaming of standing back out of the reach of the darting blades of fast young men, slaying them with guile, preferably from the shade. And in the evening around the victory fire, Gyrth searched out visitors to the Lemming war camp, younger sons as yet untried in battle, tradesmen's daughters, anyone who would listen to his stirring tales of the dread Lemming Warband. He taxed his charm and wit to the fullest, selling not swords, nor cheap glass beads, nor horses with teeth expertly filed to points so as to make them appear younger. Rather Gyrth sold the joy of battle to ale-sodden youths.
When he judged his word-spell fairly woven, he cast his good eye across the fire to see what he had caught. Here sat a maiden, comely yet strong looking. Her brown eyes sparkled with the mischief of Loki. Next to her sat a slim young man with a cute, pointy beard, soft uncalloused hands, and black leather boots that reached nearly to his codpiece.
"At least he has a trigger finger," Gyrth mused, searching further. His roving eye fell upon red-headed twins. "Hmmm. I'll be happy to train them myself." Leaping to his feet, Gyrth cried out in a strong voice, "You could all know the joy of slaughter! You could all be Lemmings! Sign here." He fixed the cute, graceful boy with his manliest grin.
"Ah, not me. I'm a bleeder," the boy managed, finally catching the drift.
"Pox!" called out another.
"Allergic to blood!"
"Plague!" the twins shouted simultaneously.
"You don't understand!" roared Gyrth over a rising chorus of increasingly dire medical conditions. "It won't be your blood. We're just going to shoot people from a long way off, eat orange slices in the shade and perform mystical rites at midnight involving southern wine and silk underwear."
"Oh," said the bearded youth, obviously much relieved. "I already have most of that stuff anyway, and I would love to try some orange slices."
"It's settled then!" crowed Gyrth, and the archery unit was born.

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