Warrior Kings Gone-By

An epic I wrote when I was 16. We were tasked with converting a key theme of Thomas More’s 15th-century text Utopia into narrative form. I chose the following: More’s criticism of the excessive amount of power given to the nobility in Medieval England, and their disposition to rule by distancing themselves from the plight of the peasants and living in a hedonistic, isolated world removed from wider society. I was also studying the Old English text Beowulf at the time, and so I wrote this narrative in the style of a Beowulfian epic.

I would eventually like to rewrite this now that I am older and with a proper rhythmic structure, whether that be a rhyming scheme or some implemented meter.

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In the days of old, when warrior-kings with wind-weathered cloaks

would rally masses of troops to battle!

Those days birthed valiance and nobility.

Now season-beaten men and green boys all put to work,

Under the grip of far-away rulers.

Soldiers would not see these rulers sheathe red swords

In the name of their brethren;

Nor would they witness their lords laughing in the comfort of camaraderie,

Nor would they awake to the fearsome sound of the spear-din,

then rise with duty, heartened by their king.

Those winds had long passed from Acomb.

Now lily-livered lords sitting in their castles

send their noble warriors to the sword’s sleep.

This merciless age gave birth to few fearsome warriors in the infantry,

bearing the hard task of guarding Acomb.

Of one lineage three egenrations stood,

Bowing without question to their far-away kings.

First there was Damon,

A man of worth,

Born for the weapon-storm.

Renowned across the world,

Enemies and allies alike all humbled in his glorious presence.

Then came Amare, son of Damon.

He was not as accustomed to the sword as his father,

Yet in all his life his body’s candle shone with a brilliant light.

He was truly an honourable man.

Now comes Barin, some of Amare.

A fierce warrior was he,

a high-ranking commander.

It was said that Barin carries the battle-strength of Damon

and the goodness of Amare,

And across the lands of the hidden rulers it is

joyously spoken that he is the greatest of his line.

So! In the coldest winter where the breath of the north

shrouded the realm in its frost,

Acomb was vulnerable.

The frost-rain made the fields of forage bare,

And many a good man and woman passed over into death’s dominion.

The lords of Erdas received news of this frailty

from the blood-swans hiding amongst the trees.

Aredhel, a noble from Erdas, spoke to his companions:

“Peace? What is peace when our forefathers slept harrowed, fearing the sword of the Acombi!

When they awoke, their food and gold had been plundered!

Now, the Acombi people weep as the winds of winter-time butcher their realm.

We must release our own men on that land,

And avenge our ancestors!”

This roused the lords to gird their people

with war-garb and command ride of the wave-steeds.

When the whale’s-way let pass the warriors,

the land of Acomb flooded with the malign men.

And here started the revenge of the Erdish,

with intrinsic wrath they settled the blood-feud.

Word of this carnage

reached the Acombi nobles on their shadow thrones,

who armed their winter-weakened men with rusted war gear,

proclaimed them defenders of the realm.

And through the wintry cold the men marched to their bane.

So now to Barin

and his three companions in the forest of Vilhelma,

An hour’s journey from the slaughter.

Barin, spurred on by his ardour,

broke grievous silence:

“Calan, Asmund and Gudrun. Our lord-kings commanded our jouirney here,

To collect food and fish for the starving people.

Our ring-keepers harked to the call of the gods,

As they sent us here unknowingly of our true purpose.

I seek to take the horse-path to the coast

Where the ravagers revel in their evil joy

And then feed their commanding warriors to the blood-worm.

Truly, I fear the risk of death. Yet, I must go anyway, For this in the gods’ will.

My brothers, do your hearts bid you come?”

Gudrun replied:

“We will go gladly, not for joy of battle or the chance of death,

but for the valour that spurs us onwards.”

So the three noble warriors embarked on their endeavour.

They followed the horse-path swiftly,

Their mind’s worth supporting this burden.

The green forests of Vilhelma gave way to high-grass on an open land,

and the high-flying flame began to return to its slumber.

Duty drove the warriors forward,

yet men only hold the bodies of men and soon their bodies burned.

Yet they pushed on, parrying the suffering.

And their efforts were rewarded with the sight of waves.

Now, the gods’ stallions began to show their light,

lighting the blanket of darkness that covered the world.

The Erdish men were scattered along the coast -

for revenge-given jubilation filled their hearts

and mead flooded their bodies.

Barin spoke “I will scout out these cruel commanders,

Lay carnage among their ranks. It is likely that I will

Fall to the sword eventually, but the Erdish will have many more losses.”

The three others gave word of assurance,

and followed Barin into the dragon’s den.

The gods muffled their footsteps that night,

And shrouded them in shadows.

So, those four brave warriors

Walked through their enemy, into the tent of the commanders.

Four men sat on a bench,

drinking, accompanied by two women.

One wore the garb of a bearskin, marking his high rank.

Swfitly, not waiting for a fair fight,

Barin unsheathed his sword and slew that man-bear.

Panicked, the other Erdish men unsheathed their weapons in their drunken frenzy.

And here the (first verse of the) song of swords began,

And it was over as quickly, for Barin’s companions

Swiftly made work of those vile Erdish.

Barin’s blade lay many a man to rest this night -

And Calan and Gudrun and Asmund fought by his side,

causing chaos in their unified wake.

Soon over four dozen men had been killed

and yet the noble warriors were unceasing

In their pursuit of death.

But this whirl of weapons was eventually stopped

By the sheer numbers of Erds.

For the Erds, mead gave way to monstrous merriment,

As they held Barin’s men to the sword.

They relished in his howls of pain.

Yet Barin never begged for mercy,

And when the gods gave him strength

He kicked at an Erd and stood up,

A bold act.

Barin, bloodied and weaponless,

Awaited death in defiance.

And then the gods took mercy,

For death descended upon the Erdish,

as the army of Acomb appeared in a vast number.

Those season-beaten men of Acomb fought this battle

ferociously and the green boys did not feign their fealty.

Yet they were not warriors,

And so the night rang with the tunes of death.

Hours later, when the high-flying flame awoke,

Few men had survived from either side.

Gudrun was one of these gods-chosen men to live,

yet in the grievous march back to Acomb his heart

was beset by the burden of death

for his three companions were killed

In the battle;

Yet Barin fought like a wild thing

slaying eighteen Erds before his fall,

And Calan and Gudrun also fought bravely through their pain-stupor.

And so all men mourned,

As Gudrun did,

For their flame-farewelled friends.

But, when the remaining warriors returned

and the events of the Battle of the Whale’s Way were informed

To the nobles of Acomb,

And when they saw the widows weeping

And heard the children howling

They sat gaily on their shadow thrones,

For although this song of swords had cost many a life,

The wolf’s wine had not been poured from their glorious bodies.