Wulfgar leaned back in his chair at the head of the main table in the hastily constructed Mead Hall, his foot tapping nervously at the long delays necessitated by the demands of proper tradition. He felt that his people should already be on the move, but it was the restoration of the traditional ceremonies and celebrations that had immediately separated, and placed him above, the tyrant Heafstaag in the eyes of the skeptical and ever-suspicious barbarians.
Wulfgar, after all, had walked into their midst after a five year absence and challenged their long-standing king. One day later, he had won the crown, and the day after that, he had been coronated King Wulfgar of the Tribe of the Elk.
And he was determined that his reign, short though he intended it to be, would not be marked by the threats and bullying tactics of his predecessor's. He would ask the warriors of the assembled tribes to follow him into battle, not command them, for he knew that a barbarian warrior was a man driven almost exclusively by fierce pride. Stripped of their dignity, as Heafstaag had done by refusing to honor the sovereignty of each individual king, the tribesmen were no better in battle than ordinary men. Wulfgar knew that they would need to regain their proud edge if they were to have any chance at all against the wizard's overwhelming numbers.
Thus Hengorot, the Mead Hall, had been raised and the Challenge of the Song initiated for the first time in nearly five years. It was a short, happy time of good-natured competition between tribes who had been suffocated under Heafstaag's unrelenting domination.
The decision to raise the deerskin hall had been difficult for Wulfgar. Assuming that he still had time before Kessell's army struck, he had weighed the benefits of regaining tradition against the pressing need of haste. He only hoped that in the frenzy of pre-battle preparations, Kessell would overlook the absence of the barbarian king, Heafstaag. If the wizard was at all sharp, it wasn't likely.
Now he waited quietly and patiently, watching the fires return to the eyes of the tribesmen.
"Like old times?" Revjak asked, sitting next to him.
"Good times," Wulfgar responded.
Satisfied, Revjak leaned back against the tent's deerskin wall, granting the new chief the solitude he obviously desired. And Wulfgar resumed his wait, seeking the best moment to unveil his proposition.
At the far end of the hall, an axe-throwing competition was beginning. Similar to the tactics Heafstaag and Beorg had used to seal a pact between the tribes at the last Hengorot, the challenge was to hurl an axe from as great a distance as possible and sink it deeply enough into a keg of mead to open a hole. The number of mugs that could be filled from the effort within a specified count determined the success of the throw.
Wulfgar saw his chance. He leaped from his stool and demanded, by rights of being the host, the first throw. The man who had been selected to judge the challenge acknowledged Wulfgar's right and invited him to come down to the first selected distance.
"From here," Wulfgar said, hoisting Aegis-fang to his shoulder.
Murmurs of disbelief and excitement arose from all corners of the hall. The use of a warhammer in such a challenge was unprecedented, but none complained or cited rules. Every man who had heard the tales, but not witnessed firsthand the splitting of Heafstaag's great axe, was anxious to see the weapon in action. A keg of mead was placed upon a stool at the back end of the hall.
"Another behind it!" Wulfgar demanded. "And another behind that." His concentration narrowed on the task at hand, and he didn't take the time to sort out the whispers he heard all around him.