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
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.
Inspiring verse! I'm overwhelmed with the urge to find me an axe!
And this poem really grips one and draws one from one line to the next somehow, even more so than the last one. The pace seems quicker, the story more urgent.