The First of Snowberg

This is written in the Old Norse Meter fornyrthislag by Magnús hvalmagi, though the general construction is inspired primarily by epic Anlgo-Saxon poetry.

It is the traditional charge of the Baronial Bard of Concordia to chronicle the deeds of the Snowberg Army at Pennsic. In AS 48, Magnús hvalmagi held the position of Baronial bard, but could not witness the Pennsic battles. Instead, he recounted the tale of the origin of the Snowberg army - the tale of a long-lost warrior of the north whose bravery inspired generations.

©2013 Peter Olsen

1. The world was joyous -	wealth and peace were
found in all the lands -	few were troubled.
But idle minds	and idle souls
flourished in those fair	fields of plenty.
A sin begat	a greater sin,
and soon the ills	of ailing hearts
tainted and tortured	the track of men -
evils arose	to wreak their doom.
2. Far to the west	was found a cleftland
stretching deeply -	still it is so named.
Deep in the belly	of boiling earth
was birthed a beast	of burning rage.
Of ache and hurt -	of heart-woe and
sinful vengeance	was sired the monster.
The enemy of man	was eager to work
his schemes and plots	through the sky-burner.
3. The worm of flames	on wings of smoke
took to the sky	and scoured the land.
It razed cities	and ruined farmland -
its greed begat	a grief profound.
Too little it owned -	the land was ripe
and rich with prizes	it possessed not.
Its wanting grew	for want of grace,
and with it grew the rage	of the wrathful demon.
4. To the East it gazed -	a gainsome plot
it thought that place -	a prize to claim.
From the air it loosed	an oily flame-gout
and landed in the ruins	it left behind.
Where trees once stood	now stained earth
alone could be found -	no life survived.
The woodlands rusted	like weapons of iron
where the creature stopped -	still they are so named.
5. To the north lay	the linden-halls.
A cry went out -	the oaks of battle
moved to reclaim	their calloused soil!
Fierce the fighting -	the flame-clash of
sturdy trees	of trials was felt in
every land -	and in every hearth.
Terrible their losses,	but at last the woods
of wounding-poles	repelled the corruptor!
6. Back to the west	the wyrm retreated -
fleeing at once	the wasted rustlands.
To fairer fields	far it hastened,
to tend its wounds -	and tender its revenge.
A host of the dead	it dragged from the grave -
tattered banners	and bloody flags
raised from the depths -	red with corpse-mud
that cuprous lake -	it is called this still.
7. In the East rallied	an army valiant,
with strong-limbed	and long-remembering
warriors eager	as wolves at the feeding.
They marched to that place -	that mire of death -
to meet the host	of the hell-fiend
and put an end	to the evils of men.
Hall-Konr lead them -	that hero of old -
none since the Geat	were known as well!
8. Met at midfield	the mass of spears -
no din of swords	since was as deadly.
The fiercest of men	fell to the past -
but the pure souls	of savage Tygers
welled in their breast	as they battered the foe!
Soon they pressed	the sea of rotting
back to their graves -	that ground they took
and that lake was cleansed -	cleared its good name.
9. But victory was brief -	that villain with fury
descended from the sky	and scoured the ranks.
Its hell-fires	flooded the plain
and rent to ash	the ashes of valor.
Countless their dead -	their courage faltered -
no blades could bite	that beastly hide.
Mighty Hall-Konr	hacked at the fiend,
but stony claws	struck him to the earth.
10. Slinked and stalked	the serpent of hell
to the fallen liege,	that lion of men.
A great breath	it gathered to loose
a river of death -	a red flame-sea.
The gout erupted -	but razed no man,
the shower parted	by a shield of iron.
Clad in a byrnie	of black and gold
was an oak alone -	lost is his name.
11. That brave warrior	buffered his king -
saved his sovereign	from certain death!
With dwarf-steel	he struck at the beast,
hewed its hide	with a hungry blade.
The wretch howled	and hurried away -
but he grabbed its tail	with a grip of iron.
Then homeward hied	the hell-fiend and foe -
and never again	were they known to roam.
12. The day was won	by a warrior unnamed -
a hero hidden	in the heart of battle.
All that remained	was the mantle he'd worn,
a scrap of fur	from the frozen north.
Said the warriors	who'd watched as he fought
that strong as ice	he stood his ground -
a frozen mountain -	a frigid beorg
of stone and snow -	and still we are so named.