Braedthurnir Tolfsaga - The Tale of the Twelve Brothers

[NARIN GOES NORTH]

So,

Before the sun had broken over the mountains in the morning,

Leowrac's foremost heir did drink from the journey-cup,

And head north. Before many suns had set, the signs and marks,

Of battle were clearly seen. The reek of burning homes,

Hung heavy in the air, and here and there were bodies,

Bloody and badly marked, bereft of their lives to soon.

They saw no sign or spore of the fell beasts, save the debris,

Once a village, now broken stones and timbers lying askew.

Fearing no danger, wise Narin did lay down his head to rest.

"Should some Varg, stalker of the night, assail me as I sleep,

He will find that he faces no farm hand, or fearful peasant,

But a son of the royal line of Banahgar, whose sword-arm,

Sinew and bone, will not fail. Sleep, say I, we need not fear!"

So spoke Leowrac's heir, casting down his head, welcoming sleep.

And in time his company slept with him, bright armour,

Helms, halberds and shining swords all heaped together,

Ready for use. But through the night they slept in peace,

And in the morning began work. Under Narin's eye,

And to his plans, piled earth became a lofty, wide palisade.

But this time at night, after work, and after meat and ale,

As the King's thanes lay, through the darkness terror crept.

And then the Vargs fell upon the few, foul cries and roars,

Sounds of nightmares, now were heard. Narin rose,

As his faithful began to fall, pain and fear assailing them.

Wrathful, he seized bright Uirnauga, a weapon of light,

Carefully forged to keep the king's heir safe and whole,

And with it he stood against his foe. Opposed by such a man,

Fighting with dread anger, death about him, the night-demons,

Bringers of pain, felt their boldness fail. And so they ran,

Leaving the men of the good land, leaders, sons and husbands,

To mourn the night's mishaps. A man's soul may be summoned,

Cold Juraidh calling when his time has come. But no man,

No warrior of Banahgar should be taken from the land,

Life stolen by dread creatures, creeping from the night.

So, they grieved their loss. Worse, when the sun gave light again,

They realised their rampart of earth and stone was wrecked,

Torn down by the terrible claws, cruel talons of the Vargs.

The next night, after a day of new building, came another attack.

This time, bone-tired, the men lacked the numbers or heart,

Not willing to wage such a war against a wicked enemy,

And they ran. Rage filled the belly of Narin, royal thane,

As the heat in a furnace rises as the smith fills it with coal.

Such was his wrath this night, and so he stood, sword in hand,

Leaping and whirling in the fight, letting his men escape.

And when the Vargs were again filled with fear and woe,

Only then did Leowrac's son leave that place; a great leader,

He steered his men to safety, in the still of the night.

And over the coming days it went on in this way;

The Vargs would attack at night, and the men would retreat.

Before long, they were few in number, and not far away,

No more than a day's march from Rekke-Hoell.

And so before much time passed, the rumour of battle and death,

The sorrowful song of sword and shield, sought Leowrac's ear.

And hearing this, he gathered his carles around him,

Sturdily armoured, flashing boars above their cheeks,

Sharp blades and wide shields they bore. The people's shepherd,

The king of the land, then led this army down,

Seeking out his eldest son, and the survivors of his band.

And when father and son met on the field, through battle,

The elder became aware of a Vargish army, beyond numbering,

Heading for his house and home. Too many to handle,

Even for one such as the king, who the Rissi spoke of in awe.

Rekke-Hoell proved to be a refuge, where the king could stand,

And issue instructions in his way, inviting his sons,

Those twelve strong men, to stand beside him.

Their words were of war, and their warriors and weapons,

But only in secret did Leowrac let his doubts loose.

There did his mind dwell on a dangerous salvation;

The un-named blade, buried and bound. With this boon,

This cursed war-gear, a king could save his country.

But at what price? So Leowrac thought, never speaking of it.