Braedthurnir Tolfsaga - The Tale of the Twelve Brothers

[THE FALL OF LEOWRAC]

The king pursued his quarry, his princes with him,

As a wolf-pack might. Where fangs would bite,

Instead were mighty swords. Bright Myrkybriardmest,

Blade of Kell, was shouldered in eagerness in the chase,

As he followed his father's steps. The foul enemy,

The defeated Vargs, fleet-footed in the darkness,

Would turn about to fight the royal host. But, each time,

As the ugly ones stood, their ranks would be smashed aside,

As the swords of the Banahgarians showed their battle-worth.

So it went on, until finally, as a blood-red dawn broke,

The remnants of the Vargish army was routed from the land.

Leowrac and Kell pursued them to a scarp's edge,

And here they stood, the sun showing the enemies flight.

Below was a basin, deep and broad. And at the base,

Far below, lay a wide forest, thick with tall trees.

To look down at them filled a man with fear and dread,

Of the unknown things that dwelled in the depths.

It was at this moment that Leowrac spoke, voice solemn.

"My son, my time here is spent, I will die soon.

This accursed blade, its steel and iron, is the bane of me.

From when I first held its hilt, hammered in the forge,

I felt it taking my mind. It is monstrous and soon,

Very soon, it will overpower me. Stalwart Kell,

Even as king, I do not know how my life will end.

Will I drop before you, my soul flown from my body?

Or will I live on, my flesh a puppet for the sword-beast,

That spirit that hot furnace did forge within it? Kell-son,

Sword-brother, I bid you slay me, take my life with sharp iron,

Should I not die. Do not stay your hand, destroy me,

And thus also the evil I may carry inside my mind."

So spoke the king of Banahgar, Wreccan's heir,

And for a moment his face was full of peace,

Looking on his son for the last time, before his life's end.

And as a canker can take a man, causing him sickness,

But as fast as the sun does set, spreading darkness,

Did Leowrac's sprit sink. No life was left, no goodness,

The evil of the sword had consumed him utterly.

And so, in his madness, he made to attack his bairn,

Kell, his youngest son facing him. They fought.

The bards do sing many stories of the titanic struggle,

Between father and son. On the crag, they crashed together,

Wrestling for an advantage. Leowrac attacked many times,

Fey and wild in his madness. Kell made a stout defence,

His great weapon, as tall as any man, became as a wall,

And thus they strove against each other. And so it went,

As they took the measure of each other, and many blows,

Mighty strokes of the three blades, were dealt by both.

And they fought ferociously, until the sun fell from the sky,

And the land darkened, deprived of light until dawn broke.

And then, in desperation Kell devised a plan to defeat,

And outwit his father. He feigned a trip, and fell to ground.

Leowrac did not stay his hand, but aimed strike at his son.

But Kell, brave and bright, was quick and the blade,

That made to deal mortal harm, was taken from that hand.

Instead of demanding quarter, fearing death by steel,

He swung his other sword, seeking his son's vitals.

His youngest son, great his skill, was not ready to be slain,

And did show the king his hammered-edge. That blow,

Truly struck with terrific force, echoed to the mountains,

And they trembled totheir roots. Leowrac's time had gone,

And all of the land would lament for their lost king.

For, with Kell's strike, he had stumbled and slipped,

And the cliff beckoned, claiming his life, his body crushed,

As he fell far from the knowledge of men. No funeral would there be,

As his body was lost. No pyre would be lit for Leowrac;

The deep ravine formed his grave, the forest his cask.

And so Kell looked down into the forest, filled with grief.

His mighty father was slain by his son's sword, and so,

He bowed his head with woe. He was wounded and weary,

The battle had left him bloodied, battered, and barely alive.

But in his hand, he carried a cold comfort; the coiled iron,

And polished steel, of the great sword Sverthfiota. Kell,

Although full of woe, was offered hope in this blade,

This weapon of ancient lineage. And in the gathering dark,

Kell stood, and carefully sheathed both swords. His wounds,

Many and deep, did not trouble such as he as he travelled,

And he returned to the ruins of Rekke-Hoell before dawn.

Narin was given the king's sword, and did groan and grieve,

His brothers with him, as they discovered their father's death.

And the land mourned with them, its king taken away.