I

  Mighty in arms, wert Ragimmund’s ilk,

  Who didst from the north, filch

  All that Aecheans’ held dear, whether it

  Was made of gold, silver or sewn with silk,

  Freely flow’d the blood of his foes not unlike milk

  From livestock, lo! How quick

  His men-folk wert by blade as in the thick

  Of battle! Victories they built as one might lay a brick

  Upon one another, each one ne’er to filch

  And steal from one another, each one kith

  And kindred, each of them quick

  To concord, and even more swift,

  Though born north of the river that cast a rift

  Betwixt the upper and southern lands and cliffs,

  Though barbarous none wert adrift,

  Those who came south, along with westron filth,

  To raid and skirmish fierce as silk

  Is soft, that they might filch

  Gold, lives, fierce and quick,

  Ioan son of Blagoslav, strong as an ox

  Was his arm, thick his shoulders,

  Who when a-horse was always aloft,

  His blows rained down as boulders

  Might upon e’ery foe,

  The very mightiest of warriors,

  Ne’er meek as a doe,

  Their hearts many which smoulders

  Still with valour that can only grow,

  As they did defy the chief most of warriors,

  Of the eastern most tribes to throw

  Themselves forward against courtiers

  And guards a-horse, as accustomed to snow

  As to mud and cliffs, was Ioan who as boulders

  Might be, was inevitable and didst flow

  Through rank after rank of the Dorians,

  His grandfather’s grandfather, fierce and defiant,

  From the most northerly land

  He came, his axe in hand,

  Thus Jusuf arrived from the hinterlands,

  No less great than his forebear, and no less grand,

  Upon e’ery brow he didst brand

  His heavy mark, such was his might that he didst dance

  About the battle throughout the land,

  He and his band,

  More than one strand

  Of Ragimmund’s men in grand

  Manner fought along the sward and land,

  Of the most southerly river-strand,

  These men, chiefs of the east,

  Their wing in flight,

  Swarmed forward that they might feast,

  Upon their enemies, and blight

  Their lands and reap,

  What ought to be their delight,

  That they might reach,

  By way of war of unright

  Manner, those lands west

  Of newest sea, that of little vice,

  This conquest fill’d them with zest

  Of the most hearty and joyful life,

  ‘Twas why they and the rest

  Of those that follow’d them wert rife

  For chaos, anarchy as they didst test

  Themselves against wind, and the rest

  Of the river, and southron men,

  II

  Also from the north,

  Came forth,

  Jonatan the Bold of immense worth,

  He who ne’er didst fold

  Whether in battle or to the mould

  Of other men, such his spirit’s might, this it must be told,

  That in days of olde,

  His was the least controlled

  Of men, yet also the most extoll’d

  Where loyalty and discipline or so the poets told,

  This didst happen in days of olde,

  When men treasured land and gold

  Above life and clothes,

  Only tales told

  By poets of olde,

  Didst they treasure most,

  Many wert the boasts,

  That he had made, none of them gross

  Or squalid, or false, each one of the most

  Superb quality, and didst well decorate the throat

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  Of many bards, who made note

  And learnt both by rote

  As by affection, his many deeds of note,

  That won him many toasts

  On many a nights, and among many hosts,

  So that he was ne’er lost,

  In those days or in later ones, from hosts

  Of the most honourable sort, that he may boast

  The greatest of deeds, and most extoll’d

  Of natures, his was a disposition of greatest

  And most valued worth,

  Chief-most of all warriors,

  Mightiest of heroes,

  His rage still smoulders,

  Who hunted many does,

  Many whom lifted boulders

  And in defiance of all woes,

  That didst visit themselves upon their warriors,

  This, men of all stripes whispers

  Still in admiration of the man who withers

  Rivals and foes alike, the fiercest

  Of all wolves destined

  To Ragimmund swears

  Oaths, the strongest

  Imaginable such was the mightiest

  Of Men’s worthiest

  Of deeds, and courageous name, that not the youngest

  By nature, or by dint of deeds, he was all swears

  One of the greatest,

  Pulled from the bloodiest

  Of fields, as he was from legend’s most famous

  Of tales that stretch to such lengths to be the longest,

  This men didst sing in loudest

  Tones and in the proudest

  Of voices

  Of Jonatan the Mightiest

  Of vanguard captains,

  And the very finest

  Of masters of the blade, and worthiest

  Of foes to the captains

  Of the Varangians, that stood tallest,

  And wielded the steeliest

  Of axes, and wore the finest

  Of hauberks,

  Of Jonatan’s father, he who didst run

  Throughout the forests’ under the suns,

  Across many lands he flung

  Himself, he and his father who wrung

  From many blood and glory, that none

  Could e’er question

  His greatness, so that many songs were sung,

  And many more yet to be spun,

  Noble was he, and about his neck hung

  Until his death, when from his lungs

  And from this mortal-coil he was wrung,

  This his son stung,

  Even as the death of his own father stung

  Him, when in the grips of youth,

  Yet now no longer the youth

  He once was, he flung

  Blow after blow, upon those who stung

  His father to death, and hung

  His battered corpse in far-flung

  Woods, and left cow-dung

  By its feet that it stunk

  And all wouldst run

  From it, yet not Jonatan who wrung

  From them every droplet of just

  And righteous fury, his father ne’er unjust,

  Ne’er one to wrong or fill his lungs

  With corruption, so the bards hath sung,

  Dorian and barbarian they sung

  And sing still, of those lands he didst lunge

  Forward for, and didst hunt

  Men across, and didst overcome,

  III

  From the Wiess-River, surged the wolf,

  Across a great gulf

  He came, might was he full

  Of, even as he was brimful

  Of manly honour, beard thick as wool,

  Ne’er anyone’s fool,

  His hatchet his tool,

  Ne’er to let rage engulf

  Reason, save when in the cusp

  Of glory’s indignation, In a great huff

  He wouldst not allow there a gulf,

  For any to lull

  Away from him, those his axe might cull,

  From this life, if in spirit dull,

  That his chieftain might well rule,

  And that they might drool

  And salivate and feast in true

  Fashion upon the Empire, and all it didst engulf,

  The wolf he was dubbed,

  Ne’er one to be lull’d

  From duty, or bullied

  By gods or men, his honour unsullied,

  Many wert those he harried,

  Many those his sword flurried,

  Swift as a bolt of thunder he hurried,

  Ne’er once dallied

  The warrior, or his father who bloodied

  When arose the need

  Of his chieftain, always he defended,

  Thus Jusuf and his father didst succeed

  Where others failed,

  The two destined to ne’er be sullied,

  Whether it be by honour, or gutted

  By dishonourable murder, both unwearied

  By his nature, he was utterly ruled

  Only and solely, lest he be domesticated,

  As wicked men are wont, and so diminished,

  Lo! The wolf’s steel fangs are bared,

  His barest form of being revealed,

  And his might thus flared

  Across the land, and his foes punished,

  As was right and good,

  Born about the river,

  That didst in olden times deliver,

  Countless the men he didst render

  To naught, by blade that shone silver

  That in the suns’ light didst glimmer,

  And with its own light glitter,

  So that it call’d hither

  All who might seek to pilfer

  Its master’s life, such was his nature,

  So great didst his warrior

  Nature gleam and glitter,

  That men might higher

  Than the heavens elevate their

  Selves and their fellows, by war, nature

  As by the sword’s silver

  Song that didst once echo and titter

  Throughout all the lands, its wielder

  No less grand, and no less austere,

  His father threw himself,

  Into the woods,

  That he might find the Elf

  That was master of many elixirs,

  And better his father’s health,

  Unlike tricksters

  Who desire only wealth

  For themselves, and ne’er to share the tinctures

  Or the good health

  With others,

  Thus it was that the Elf

  Whom he sought, made him the mixtures,

  Yet always there is a price to Elf

  Lore, And the price for the elixirs

  Remains unknown, when his health

  Began to fail, he vanished for parts

  Unknown and remains’ unfound

  To this day,

  This man likewise named

  Jusuf of the Wiess-River,

  Who when Ragimmund first reign’d,

  Served faithfully and ne’er didst differ,

  Always he deigned

  To neither defy nor bicker

  With the man who reign’d,

  Such was how he didst differ

  From others, for his fidelity was not feign’d,

  So that his master

  Great and might, was ne’er pain’d

  To doubt his loyalty, or courage ever,

  Such was the unfeign’d

  And faithful nature

  Of Jusuf, of most famed

  Memory, and his leal father

  Both of whom

  Were cherished by Ragimmund the Grey

  IV

  To the west they stood,

  To the south they look,

  Ne’er their lords they forsook,

  Though they be loathe,

  To before battle fold,

  When south they might flood,

  And spill the blood

  They thirsted for, such was their rude

  Ways, that they thirsted for land, mud

  And to rule

  O’er all that they might draw into their fold,

  Theirs was the bold

  Ways of barbarians, such their rude

  And backwards ways,

  Though ne’er dull

  In wits wert they,

  Those that await’d wert to be full

  Ones, for their brightest days

  Wert they said yet ahead, true

  Many wert the ways

  That they thought this to be true,

  As horses they didst bray,

  So that many civilized men rue

  Their presence there to this day,

  Into this gap plunged

  The warrior who always

  First into danger lunged

  Where another dallies,

  Rarely wert his foes at ease,

  When they sought across the valleys’

  Born by the river that dost feast

  Upon Doria’s green glories,

  Raiding the land with such expertise,

  Pressing to the great worries

  Of the Dorians, who fearful of disease

  And barbarians, fell back in a great flurries

  None keen to perish before these

  Barbarous tribesmen,

  A thousand steel fangs

  Bared and the fields

  Hardly barren rang,

  Many wert brought to their heels,

  More chose more narrow paths,

  Quick to claim a great many yields

  From those that dashes

  O’er vast unwieldy fields,

  Across crimson fields,

  O’er the river,

  Ne’er once yields

  The mighty captains, ne’er to bicker,

  Ne’er to relent in the fields

  Or to let themselves differ

  Whilst they tore through yonder

  Ranks, Cutting here and thither,

  Ne’er failing, they wert to ne’er

  Allow the most bitter

  Of fruits, to dampen and delay

  Them from their advance, and their

  Terrible conquest of yon river,

  By Jusuf the wolf-slayer,

  And Jonatan the axe-wielder,

  Along with Ioan the most legendary

  Of captains, each of them enjoy’d the favour

  Of their ferocious master,

  V

  Thereupon emerald rises,

  Along the thickest bog,

  There where the river arises,

  In defiance of war’s fog,

  Few wert its guises,

  Trickery rarely didst it flog

  Against those that slices

  O’er it and didst mock,

  Its myriad vices,

  Visible as men didst hop

  And flood and in small and great sizes

  Reduced to slop,

  Their foes didst slide

  Down from top

  To muddy low-tide,

  Their cries carried aloft,

  And emerald rise,

  Great was the wroth,

  Of all those near the rise,

  Though dragon-standards

  Held by men fierce as salamanders,

  Of golden make and glitter

  Wert their standards, that dost glimmer

  And shine, bright as the suns’,

  Defiant as lions’ wert the sons’

  Of Doria, who in days of olde

  Sought more than just gold,

  They fought for conquest as for land,

  Seizing by their own hand,

  What they might gain,

  Yet ne’er to inflict mindless pain,

  This though the barbarians held them in disdain,

  And wouldst feign,

  Take what was theirs by right,

  By way always of might,

  They hoped to make a fight

  Of all things, if only to blight

  The savage foe,

  Who unlike a doe,

  Ne’er shied away,

  For an hour or a day,

  VI

  Theirs was the first clash,

  They the first to dash,

  This because they wert most rash,

  Of Ragimmund’s command, this in a flash

  All didst know, from the first to the last,

  From their first breath, to their last rasp,

  That only cowards give way, and men shalt last

  Against all blows, every sword slash,

  That is if they wish to call themselves first and last

  Men, this was their gift, and their curse, as they didst clash,

  Each one of them struck fast,

  Eager not to be the last

  Across the river and in the midst of the clash,

  Lo! They struck thusly in a flash,

  And as mightily as a volcanic blast,

  This was the task

  That they didst cast

  Unto themselves, as many didst amass

  A great many victims along the vast

  Sward of the river, all while they didst canvass

  To their side a great mass

  Of friends and sword-mates, to dash

  The enemy to shreds, and in a rash

  Of hot-blooded nature, he didst thrash

  All who didst rash

  In nature, forward against him dash,

  This men didst chant

  Vociferously was their way,

  Jusuf the Panther who didst lance

  Through many chariots’ that day,

  As they acted as ones fey,

  And didst prance

  Forward their horses quick to bray,

  As they advance

  To flay

  From enemies’ their flesh and to dance

  And demonstrate the old way,

  The old war-dance

  That has long held sway,

  War they went to, that they could prance

  And didst flay

  The whole of the legion, and dance

  Upon their remains, and sway

  The rest from valour to fear, and lance

  From them all courage,

  Or so it appear’d, their fear he didst enhance,

  Even as they didst rally, and bray,

  In the madness

  And show of rashness,

  Went men after men,

  That their foes might be rent,

  Ne’er didst they fail

  To against one another rail

  And rain blow after blow,

  As skilful as a farmer with a hoe!

  Ne’er timid as a doe,

  Swift as the river’s flow,

  None their backs didst bend,

  Nor could they relent,

  Now that they stood

  As in a flood,

  Along the river’s side,

  Many wert those left by the tide,

  Innumerable those that swarm’d

  And relentlessly darken’d,

  The river’s sward

  By way of the barbarian’s sword.

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