War Of The Athelings

A split in the Nordic tribes, has led to a war among kinsmen.

The soothsayers had foretold thuswise, 
A dread of the Vikings slighted by wrath,
With the death of the king's son Halldor, 
At the hands of the athelings too weary.

Unwieldy gods unloosed upon the kith, 
The fearful berserkers within their path,
And amidst the fortnight their swift anger, 
Raught thorps who weened too dreary.

A bode betided and gart the kinsmen, 
The beshrewing and unwavering fright,
As the fight for wald and a bloody war, 
Befell upon them in the unwitting week. 

Upon an eerie night a blustery storm, 
Struck a shale of the strand with might,
As deafening bellows of the berserkers, 
The men gaumed in howls of the gleek. 

The blood of the Norsemen splattered, 
From the gory brine onto the thick dales,
As the spate of wanton fiends slit byrnies, 
Griding inward the depth of their hearts.

Shaking as a thunderbolt then sweeping, 
The souls of the fallen men in the swales,
As the daring standing squirmed in death, 
With a pricking sharpness of hetter darts.

The berserkers plundered without ruth, 
The thorps beyond the endless knolls,
With the howling wolves that billowed,
In a murky shade of the dreadful night. 

In bear skins and swarthy mire as guises, 
Striding as heathens abreast wizen trolls,
As a horde of heanlings fearing nothing, 
And roaring loudly as madmen in sight. 

The weird of the northern thedes upheld, 
By a lave that withstood of wayward men,
As a wary bode that a soothsayer foretold, 
And forewritten by the runes of the elders.

The walls of kinsmen did not withstand, 
The grill onsets that betided by the glen,
Fighting in a bain and fouse witherness,
Falling as high-hearted sons and fathers. 

But weaned from amongst the berserkers, 
Three brothers fighting against thralldom,
As the gods unleashed a brother's wrath, 
Upon the lofty athelings and their meeds.

Sigurd, Drengr, Ingiald, the sons of a king, 
Sought to have eft their yearning selfdom,
And the names of the sons of Valdimarr, 
The thedes did not forget or their deeds.

Therefore within the span of eight nights, 
The thorps rid from their lands berserkers, 
When tearing a strong bond within them, 
And the might of the athelings afterwards.

Upon the back of a whirlpool of winds, 
Riding and slaughtering their keepers,
Whilst the gods had not forsaken them, 
Helping them as their foe fell hinderwards.

Bosom mothers herried their greatest tir, 
With the brothers known by the thwarters,
Within the years and wars of the thedes, 
That spread too swiftly and never yielded.

The worthy tale of the three brothers told, 
Around the fire with the sundry followers,
As a war of the athelings began eftsoon, 
Onto the broad lands the wigends wielded.

Reviews

[Warrior]

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