Howling. He had heard it too that night, and for all his jests, Thorvall had pulled the hide blanket tight about him.
Dawn was still a ways off, and sleep seemingly had no wish to embrace the Oathlord, and so he walked the ramparts of the makeshift fortress.
Word-fame they hoarded in heaps, even now it lays glittering about them. A name that will wear out the tongues of men in it's telling. Sometimes a name is not enough to leave behind though. Sometimes we leave our friends in the earth, a mark of our deeds.
Ramparts was a generous term. A palisade of hewn pine, twice the height of a man rammed tightly into the earth. They loomed over the Oathlord as he paced along them, idly working his way toward the southern gate.
As he did so, he remembered he words he had spoken over freshly mounded earth all those years ago came back to him.
He had not lost any of his folk in Dunland, but when he woke in a sweat to hear the howls, he realised the last time he had been in the land of the Hillmen was the final campaign before Desten had died, before his exile from the Mark. Before the spiral of events that left the Oathsworn ranks in tatters and a saga's worth of their names upon the stone of remembrance.
Earlier that night, when the tales were told about the fire, between stories of the Clans and the Cwn Annwn, he had spoken of his lust for glory. How in his youth he had valued fame as highly as any battle-won hoard. How he had sought fights that seemed impossible to win. How he had encouraged his legend's growth.
He had lied.
He had not lied regarding his youth, for that desire for such renown still gripped him fiercely on occasion and marred his judgement.
He had lied by making light of it, as if it were something the Oathsworn should embrace as they once had. As if he still did.
The battle on the heath had shaken him. When the arrow struck Alweard he had felt sick to his core, as if he were being dragged back through those memories all in the space of a few brief moments, worse for already knowing how they would unfold. How he would again be speaking words over mounded earth blurred by smoke and tears.
He had felt it at Wrecca's duel at the gates of Faldham, felt it each time Adriwyn vanished for weeks on end. "The weight of leadership..." His father had told him, "Is heavier upon your shoulders than a torc and a fine cloak."
He watched as the watch changed at the southern gate. A young man, no doubt riding in his first campaign had been roused bleary eyed to take his turn. Thorvall could not help smile at the distant memories it stirred.
A long, mournful howl sounded in the hills just then, no more than a mile or so distant. A wolf this time, but all the same with the talk of Cwn Annwn the lad visibly balked, near enough dropping his spear. The Oathlord could not help but worry after Aeshaeidr in her tent, the shieldmaiden of Forlaw had been more unsettled than most at the speak of demonic hounds.
The warrior the youngster relieved from his watch was an old one, a few darker hairs remaining in a sea of silver-grey. He smiled warmly at his young companion, deeply-lined face creasing.
"Look on the bright side lad, at least it'll keep you awake." He spoke with a grin, patting the boy's shoulder and pressed a flask into his hands. It wasn't until he walked away the smile dropped, a pale look of nervous exhaustion clear upon his features. He near jumped back into a cart when he saw Thorvall step from the shadow of a tall tent.
"Lord..." The man stammered, "I...all quiet at this gate lord."
Thorvall paused, pursed his lips as he forced the brightest smile he could muster past the doubt that had threatened to choke him.
"Good, means you couldn't hear me snoring and farting up a storm over there then."
Winking at the man he clasped his shoulder in a manner he hoped was reassuring. He earned a laugh and a smile, owing less to his humour he thought, and more to the gesture itself.
Muttering his thanks, the aging warrior walked back to his tent and Thorvall made for his own, pausing to offer the lad on watch a grin and a wave.
Word-fame can be hard won by throwing yourself into a fight that looks unwinnable.
Often it is grown by tall stories told well into the right ears.
Sometimes keeping it is a thing as simple as convincing those looking to you for guidance that you aren't a clap of thunder away from filling your breeches.
