Оригинален текст
The Legend Of The Battle Of Blackheim Vale)(Music: Jonny Maudling; Lyric: Byron)
THE CHRONICLES OF WAR:
The vast armies of Mytos K'unn, marshalled by a sorceress of great power
known as Zyrashana the Witch-Queen, had been cutting a swath throught the Eastern Kingdoms since high summer the precending year. Empowering her troops with great sorceries, she had seen all opposition fall before the revening
swords of her forces since the first bloody campaign; the invasion of the ancient and noble realm of Delania. The aftermath of the final battle had seen the systematic slaughter of the Delanian royal family, and the torture and execution of all those who had been loyal to their banner. During the ensuing months, more kingdoms and satrapies toppled before the might of Zyrashana's legions, commanded by the fearsome and unswervingly loyal bettle-lord Talus
Ebonfyre, a man of sublime brutality whom many believed to be possessed by a demon-spirit from the dark realms. Emboldened by their victories and the expasion of their queen's dark dominion, the hordes of Mytos K'unn began the
incursion into the land of the Northern Tribes, beginning with the grim and brooding territories south of the Snow Kingdoms... the rugged homelands
of whe warlike clans which had been recently united into a strong realm by the powerful warrior-king Caylen-Tor, a man known to his allies and enemies alike as the Wolf of the North. Thinking the barbaric tribesmen little threat, the Witch-Queen intends a largely unopposed march throught their lands to strike at the wealthy and fertile realms beyond the Mountain Kingdoms to the west... but Caylen-Tor has vowed that a searing torrent of blood and steel shall meet all those who deign to enter unwelcome or drive their standart unbidden into his land... As grim winter slowly yields to spring, the armies of Mytos K'unn begin their march northwards, and news of the advance of the Witch-Queen's forces into Blackheim Vale, the valley known for centuries as the Gate to the Northlands, soon reaches the highland stronghold of Caylen-Tor. Grimly taking up his sword and spear and donning the woad of war, he vows that Zyrashana shall pay in blood for every league she has dared venture into his sacred lands. Scouts soon return with the information that the enemy is camped at the base of the valley, preparing to march with the dawn. The court shamans forsee rivers of blood and untold carnage, and great battlespells are woven as Caylen-Tor leads his vastly outnumbered Northlander warriors to the misty, moon-swathed expanse that is Blackheim Vale. Legends say that the blood of many kings has been spilled on the dark earth of the valley over the generations, and Caylen-Tor promises to his grim gods that the earth will once again drink deep this night. With his army silent and brooding beneath the moon, he knows that whatever the outcome, this night shall see a legend of war written in blood and the deaths of men... a legend none shall soon forget...
THE WAR TESTAMENT OF CAYLEN-TOR (ON THE NIGHT OF THE BLOODYING SWORDS)
O' grim gods of battle, empower us this night... Anoint us with the crimson rain, feed our steel with slaughter... Let every blow be a killing blow, grant us victory, or a warrior's death. Come, moon-fogs, descend to cloak our numbers, the heady scent of battle beckons, My ash-hafted spear feels good in my hands, girt 'round with spells, (our flesh gloriously) woad anointed Ravens awaiting slaughter soar high above, blood-worms bloat on red carnage, I'll carve the moon-wheel in their flesh, as havoc churns the heather!
A swirling mantle of mist magic swathes us, powerful spells woven by the fen-witches of the great mere... Deep night and moon-mist shall be our allies as we surge into the fray! At my bidding, the fog clears for a brief moment, and I gaze down upon the valley to behold the army of the Witch-Queen... great tents arrayed upon the heather, powerful steeds tethered, the light from countless burning brands illumining the night, many warriors standing, weapons in hand... aye, all sword fodder.
Entwined in war-fogs,
Entwined by war-spells...
Blessed in blood as raven-saters, slake the thirst of steel burning bright,
Reap the harvest of spilled entrails, we'll return with many heads this night.
The death-ravening black fury fills me,
The spatter of hot blood sweet on my lips,
This yard of steel sings a deadly song in my grasp!
Cleaving bodies left and right, a head falls with each swing of my blade.
A storm of shafts screaming from yew-bows, (through their armoured ranks we shall) carve a path with steel, a blood-drenched swath!
And the thirst of the earth shall be slaked with blood at the fields of carnage...
A staggering sea of crimson, a towering mountain of ravaged flesh,
All enraptured by the searing deep of the grim chalice of battle...
Brooding gods of the north, display to these outlander thralls thine ire,
Envenom our blades with the death-kiss of a thousand serpents,
Unfetter the dread war-wolves within us,
That their claws may rend, and their jaws may be rebbened.
The Bloodying is at hand!
My spear hammers into the chest of a warrior, and bright blood erupts from his lips as he falls to the heather. I turn aside a vicious sword-thrust and my own blade snakes out to cleave the neck of the attacker, shearing through his veins in a shower of dark red. An enemy blade opens my shoulder to the bone, but I swept my axe out in a deadly arc, its iron head rending armour and biting deep into flesh. Talus Ebonfyre's abdomen yawns open and he staggers back as his intestines spew forth in a pulsing mass. I sunder his head with another blow as he falls and his skull yields to spill its steaming contents to the earth. As I watch, a writhing, shadowy form rises from the smitten corpse of the Witch-Queen's warlord and flees howling into the night... I vault to the saddle of a riderless black war-house and seize the banner of Mytos K'unn... for every one of us that has fallen, we have taken five of the enemy screaming with us... the battle is ours!
Bright moon, gleam o'er moor and heather, wood and vale, deep fen and lake,
Grim mountains crowned with snows, great rings of stones, black `neath the stars.
The storms extol our ancient glory, great mounds feed us, power from the sacred earth.
With faith and steel we walk our shadowed paths, our blood runs as fire, swords blessed by sorcery.
Wolves of the north, raise thine steel to the skies, revel in the pride of your wounds,
Let our victory-song ride the winds of this blood-gorged eve,