Lyrics - Battle Magic
1. BATTLE MAGIC
Sorcerers and
shamans, weave your spells of war,
Ensure our mighty sword-arms are the strongest and the quickest.
Entwine us with great battle magic 'til we stand knee-deep in
gore,
And by all the gods, we'll ride to where the fray rages the
thickest!
The war-song of the Wolves of Caylen-Tor,
as heard at the Battle of Blackhelm Vale.
2. NAKED STEEL (THE WARRIOR'S SAGA)
Legends etched
into the ancient stone dolmens on the Dark Moors...
THE ORACLE OF WAR: The crows will pick your bones clean...
Never sweet the kiss of cold steel.
THE EXULTATION OF BATTLE...
THE WARRIOR:
Blades aflame with witch-fire burning,
Bright swords blessed by nine king's blood,
The elf-witch weaves war-spells upon us,
Neath the wolf-moon's gaze we shall slake our steel!
THE WARRIOR: Battle Magic empowers my thews!
THE ORACLE OF WAR: The crows will pick your bones clean...
THE WARRIOR: Red-Tooth thirsts to smite and slaughter!
THE ORACLE OF WAR: Never sweet the kiss of cold steel...
THE SHAMAN'S DECREE:
Born beneath the thrice-cursed cromlech (destined for deeds of
greatness),
Three stars aligned to assauge thine newborn cries,
Foretold, the hilt of Red-Tooth awaits thine hand (kingdoms shall
fall before thee!),
And in the Nine Scrolls thine death prophesized.
THE WARRIOR:
The clarion of battle beckons me... Red-Tooth crackles with
searing spectral energy. Aye, emperors and kings shall perish
beneath my blade! The head of the Eastern Chieftan adorns my
spear... I've a throne to usurp! INTO THE THICK OF THE FRAY!
THE SHAMAN'S DECREE:
This heart that pounds like a hammer,
This heart that pounds so strong,
This heart that pumps a great warrior's blood,
This heart will pound for half as long.
THE WARRIOR'S VOW:
By all the gods... I swear the ireful edge of dwarf-forged steel
shall meet all who dare stand against me! My destiny awaits... I
shall carve my path in carnage, and inscribe my saga upon the
scrolls of legendry in the spilled blood of slaughtered kings!
THE ORACLE OF WAR: Carnage! And the crows shall feast upon the
eyes of the slain!
The final dolmen of the Dark Moors is mysteriously missing,
believed removed thousands of years ago by troll war-bands as a
trophy of battle...
3. A TALE FROM THE DEEP WOODS
The ravens are on
the wing!
My scramasax is red (stained with the blood of many Mercian
warriors),
The ravens are on the wing,
By Offa's decree I am an outlaw,
Branded wolfshead by my own king.
(The orm-garth awaits me, darkly astir with ophidian malice...)
The ravens are on the wing!
Ash for our spear-hafts,
Yew for our bow-staves,
Oak for our deck planks,
Oak and elder our shields.
Hail, o' great liege of the ancient woods, ruler of the deepest
forest... you, who were reigning o'er your time-veiled kingdom
centuries before the arrogant men who proclaim themselves kings
of this island ever supped of life's bitter-sweet draught...
I give you my hail,
I give you my blood,
I give you my life,
O' sylvan liege.
My life bleeds forth unto the earth (from many deep and dire
wounds),
To slake your roots, great old king... (as I rest my
battle-ravaged body against thee.)
The ravens are on the wing!
Ten leagues ride on lathered steed,
Gold in hand to a sword-for-hire,
A blood-eagle carved by Saxon steel,
And two score slain earns royal ire.
Gwynned lies two days westwards,
Still further south, the weregeld calls.
Mayhap with All-Father Woden's favour,
My deeds may yet inspire the skalds.
Litha's moon gleams high o'er the tallest oak,
Ancient king in this sylvan court of elm, ash and yew,
The wood-spirits watch from gnarled bough and bole,
As I pull two Mercian shafts from my bloodied thews.
The ravens are on the wing!
I give you my hail,
I give you my blood,
I give you my life,
O' sylvan liege.
Beneath the oak, I rest, bone weary,
Thirsting for a horn of ale or jug of mead,
And yet how could a heathen man wish for any more,
Than the healing balms of English trees?
The ravens are on the wing!
4. RETURN TO THE PRAESIDIUM OF YS
I was spawned deep
beneath the Pre-Cambrian sea, the scion of a far distant sun...
I have traversed the endless stars, and journeyed to a myriad
galaxies...
The dimensional gates of the multiverse are mine to voyage
effortlessly beyond,
Cosmic infinity is naught to one such as I... I am as one with
celestial eternity...
Clad in gleaming pentlandite armour, on a whim I may reshape
entire worlds,
Or extinguish the blazing light of a sun... and I remain forever
enchanted by sylphs...
I have seen demons lick your ivory hands,
And watched you ride naked upon the backs of fire-dragons...
Your eyes sparkle clear as hoar-frost,
And yet they are thrice as devoid of warmth.
Wielding this power cosmic, the omniverse is mine to conquer!
Our progency shall rule the very cosmos itself!
Arcane power lances from my fingertips,
Life withers before my baleful gaze.
The proud citadels of great antediluvian empires
Have been razed to the ground by my zircon blade.
Your invocations unleashed the great worm
Which compelled the devouring seas to Atlantis...
Riding the screaming crest of fettered lons,
I shall bring my crystalline chaos where order reigns!
Return with me... beyond the stars...
Rule with me... a thousand worlds...
The Galactic Nexus has empowered me (I am gloriously, eternally
omnipotent!)
And as a god I shall return to the Praesidium of Ys!
5. CRYSTAL SHARDS
I stand engulfed
by the moon-magic of a winter eve's dream,
Enraptured by bloodlust, and nine fire-gems ablaze,
I am beckoned by sylph-spells and the jewelled sword a'gleam,
As the great war-fleet of Ys sails the crystalline waves.
6. THE DARK LIEGE OF CHAOS IS UNLEASHED AT THE ENSORCELLED SHRINE OF A'ZURA-KAI (The Splendour of a Thousand Swords Gleaming Beneath the Blazon of the Hyperborean Empire Part II)
ALTARUS: You must
learn to control your spirit-form, Xerxes... for by mastering the
art of traversing the mists you may effortlessly travel to many
places, and many times. Countless secrets will be unlocked for
you, and great enlightenment shall be yours.
XERXES: Yes, master... and yet, there is one realm which
intrigues me above all others, one era which occupies my thoughts
unceasingly... What of the clash between the Royal Army of
Hyperborea and the Wraiths of the Chaos-Liege?
ALTARUS: Ah, yes... command the mists, Xerxes... gaze into their
limitless depths... compel them to show you that martial vista
which you so fervently seek.
XERXES: Yes... I see the massing forces, the battle is imminent!
How splendid the Imperial Army looks as it fronts the foe... into
the fray they ride!
Chapter 1: The Bloodying of the King (The Armies of the
Hyperborean Empire steadfastly engage the Horde of Wraiths)
THE KING:
Imperial Cavalry... advance! RIDE THEM DOWN!
In to the fray! Demonstrate unforgettably the art of Hyperborean
warcraft!
Spearmen, form into Omega Phalanx.
Archers, notch arrows, prepare to loose.
Warriors, stand ready... Sound the clarion!
Hearken, sons of the glorious Empire...
Here we stand upon the Field of Blood...
Though this day we may die,
Our legend shall live forever.
ALTARUS: And the armies met upon the Field of Blood which
stretched lifeless before the aeon-veiled citadel which men
called the Shrine of A'zura-Kai, a mysterious and foreboding
place steeped in ireful omens and legendary dread... Aye, the
carnage of that first clash was phenomenal. The Hyperborean
Cavalry tore gloriously into the foremost rank of the
shadow-warriors, the enchantment of the Crystal of Mera rendering
the squamous pseudo-flesh of the wraiths fully vulnerable to the
steel of the royal legions. The king himself rode at the
forefront of the onslaught, his ensorcelled ebon blade hewing ten
to the left and cleaving ten to the right, his grim eyes gleaming
beneath his shimmering horned and plumed helm. The momentum of
that first charge threw the dark ones into shrieking disarray,
and the vanguard of Chaos fell back before the thundering resolve
of the Imperial attack. But the baleful, poisoned blades of the
wraiths took their toll upon the Hyperborean horsemen. Raught by
leprous swords and spears, men and mounts fell screaming to the
dusty earth, where they were mercilessly rent and devoured by the
slavering jaws of the Chaos-Liege's minions. Aye, glorious was
the courage of the royal warriors, admirable was their mettle...
for every Imperial Knight felled by the dark ones, five wraiths
met their deaths beneath the slaughterfall of royal steel. And
yet it was not enough. Like a slithering tide, the shadows
engulfed the cavalry, and the bloodied king ordered the
Hyperboreans to ride clear and regroup. Then, with volleys of
shafts as their herald, and the Battle-Prayer of Hyperborea upon
their lips, the Imperial Guard marched into the ravening embrace
of the melee, and never in the grim and sanguineous history of
battle was there a clash to rival the slaughterous magnitude of
that awesome engagement...
THE ARCH-WRAITH:
Minions of Chaos, rend their flesh, crush their bones, devour
their souls!
Chapter 2: Havoc at the Shrine of A'zura-Kai
THE KING:
Onwards with our spear-heads gleaming,
Meet them with cold steel a'cleaving,
Fall only when our hearts cease beating,
Men of Hyperborea.
ALTARUS: At the King's command, the clarion was sounded to move
the battle-hardened veterans of the Seventh Fen-lander Army into
a flanking position to unite with the remnants of the Royal
Cavalry. Like a purifying storm the allied Imperial forces clove
into the wraiths to deal righteous pattern-welded death unto
their nighted foe. But at that moment, black terror descended
screaming from the twilight sky... howling swarms of winged
fiends, hurled forth from the malignant bosom of Lord Angsaar,
soared razor-taloned into the fray. Beseiged man-to-fiend upon
the field, and harried from above by the shrieking horrors of the
Chaos-Liege, the Hyperborean Army began to falter, and to fall.
And lo, beholding the carnage, the King raised high in his left
hand the ancient Crystal of Mera, and in his right gauntlet he
brandished the Bane of Angsaar, the dread Shadow-Sword once
wielded by the Chaos-Liege's immortal nemesis... and he spoke
aloud the terror-fraught and aeon-swathed words of invocation
which he alone had been audience to deep within the
shadow-haunted Mountains of the Dead...
THE KING:
By the darkling powers of the Shadow-Sword, I call forth the fury
of the storm to rend the massed legions of Chaos!
ALTARUS: And at the sound of his baleful Words of Power, the sky
split wide in fury, and searing tendrils of ruinous lightning
lanced inexorably forth from the heavens to rake and reave the
massed hordes of Chaos...
XERXES: The fearful spells he had learned from the Mountain...
did their casting win the battle for the King's legions?
ALTARUS: The fiends were dealt a staggering blow by the sorcerous
incantations, the power of the spells inexplicably magnified by
the enchantments of the Crystal. The Wraiths were routed soundly
by the elder magics, fleeing the field howling their anathemas
and maledictions against the King, and the winged horrors fell
seared and burning from the enraged sky. But the twisted
machinations of insidious Chaos had prepared for the King one
final blow in this dread confrontation... aye, the Chaos-Liege
had reserved his most heinous perpetration 'til the last...
Chapter 3: The Awakening of Chaos
LORD ANGSAAR:
Fly, my winged sentinel of the night,
Deliver unto me the Ninth Crystal of Power,
That I may at last be free once more...
Come then, mortal! Test that cursed blade of black steel against
me if you dare! O' great king, your pitiful army shall be swept
away before my wrath! 'Ere the dawn, ten thousand shall die!
THE KING:
For the eternal glory of Hyperborea!
ALTARUS: Striking from the swift darkening sky, Angsaar's
Arch-Wraith, which had been watching the battle with gleaming
inhuman eyes, leaped to the attack and smote the King, engulfing
him in its ebon wings and driving its steel-rending talons into
his golden armour. And yet it was not the life of the Royal Scion
of Hyperborea which the fiend sought to take on that fateful eve,
but rather that which the King held tight in his gauntleted
fist... the Crystal of Mera. Wrenching the glimmering
antediluvian jewel from its keeper, the Arch-Wraith unfurled its
leathern wings and soared into the deepening gloom with a
cacophonous cackle of victory, leaving the King to roar his ire
after the fleeing wraith.
XERXES: But what did Angsaar want of the Crystal? I know he
battled his immortal nemesis over possession of the mystic gems
many aeons ago... but what use would just one of the jewels be to
him?
ALTARUS: After rising from his Chamber of Slumber, the
Chaos-Liege's power was direly depleted... and he was unable to
venture beyond the obsidian walls of his Citadel of Shadows,
being compelled to control his wraiths and fiends to undertake
his diseased schemes on his behalf. When he ascertained that the
wizards of the Royal Court of Hyperborea held in their possession
the Ninth Jewel of the Galactic Confederation of Mera, the most
powerful of all the crystalline keys to the Psionic Epsilon
Matrix, he began to formulate an elaborate scheme which would
gain him the gem and facilitate his liberation, sundering his
fetters and allowing him free reign to spread his vile influence
across the land once more. Utilizing to its fullest extent the
dark art of sorcerous mind-control. Angsaar succeeded in placing
spies and traitors within the King's Court, and thus set into
motion a dark chain of events treacherously crafted to bring the
Armies of Hyperborea to battle at one carefully predetermined
place... the Shrine of A'zura-Kai... an ancient citadel built
over the site where, many thousands of years ago, one of the
Galactic Confederation's galaxy-spanning star-chariots was cast
forcibly to earth by the tempestuous skies of a powerful cosmic
witch-storm... a place where resultantly, the star-born energies
of the Prime Crystal would be magnified tenfold, if wielded in
unison with the correct arcane incantations which Angstaar alone
knew...
XERXES: Then the battle, the defeat of the wraiths, all that had
been merely a ruse... a scheme implemented by the Chaos-Liege
merely to realize his ultimate ambition of the sundering of the
mystic shackles?
ALTARUS: Aye... the Shrine would act as a portal, a gateway
opened by the power of the Crystal, a yawning aperture in the
dimensional barrier through which Angsaar could escape the
incarceration of his Citadel at last. And as the Arch-Wraith
soared the night-winds on its return journey to its malign
master, the Prime Crystal clutched in its bloodied claws, the
King knew as he watched the Shrine of A'zura-Kai begin to glow
with a great and ominous sidereal luminescence, that he had on
that battle-fraught eve defeated one dreadful menace on the Field
of Blood only to unleash an infinitely more terrifying foe... But
the Chaos-Liege had reckoned without the power of the one thing
he feared the most... the one thing which had the merest
glimmering hope of thwarting his dread scheme and restoring order
to glorious Hyperborea...
XERXES: Yes, the only chance... the last hope for victory...
ALTARUS: The Shadow-Sword. Evident once more was the fearsome
extra-dimensional intelligence linking the sword and the gem, the
same crystalline sentience which had guided the King to the
mountainous resting place of the ebon blade, and had shielded the
presence of the sorcerous immortal weapon from the dark one until
it had been brought into play upon the field of battle, that
magical link placed within the Ninth Gem by the Immortal if ever
again the power of the Shadow-Sword should be needed to bring to
bear against Chaos! And with the Arch-Wraith disappearing into
the massing dark, that yard of fearsome black steel spoke once
more to the King in the same long dead tongue it had burned upon
his mind deep within the Mountains of the Dead, the essence of
the Immortal mystically encased within the blade instructing the
Scion of Hyperborea to commit himself to one final, cataclysmic
deed... a deed which would end the aspirations of the Chaos-Liege
forever, or plunge Hyperborea and the kingdoms of the world into
an endless abyss of eternal suffering and a ravening maelstrom of
limitless carnage and galactic terror...
XERXES: What was that deed? What could stop the Chaos-Liege? I
must know the outcome of this confrontation!
ALTARUS: The vista begins to darken... the mists once again weave
their spell to withold their timelost secrets. Practice your art,
Xerxes... hone your skills, and the final outcome of this epic
tale shall soon be made known to you...
7. WHEN RIDES THE SCION OF THE STORMS
Dover, England:
September 1594 (the recollections of a war-weary mariner)
Hearken boy; for I would tell thee a tale before we set sail for
the Bay of Biscay on the morrow. I was not always called by this
name, you know... To you, I am Caleb Blackthorne, battle-scarred
master of an English galleon, survivor of a score of sea-fights,
cheater of the notched blades of many an over ambitious Spanish
pirate... the Scourge of Medina Sedonia! But to many others over
the countless centuries since my first birth, I have been known
by a host of other names... so many that even I begin to forget
all but the ones distinguished by the most vivid deeds... for I
hide a wondrous secret, boy... a secret some would call a
blessing, but which others would deem a grim curse. Aye, it all
began a very long time ago...
Memories of death and life...
For countless thousands of centuries I have walked the earth...
I have seen endless battle,
And untold centuries of slaughter.
I am reborn once more!
The same grim spirit once again given flesh...
O' to be ravished by the seductress death...
The Scion of the Storms:
Dethroned 'ere Atlantis fell, haunted by a dark queen's curse,
My son's soul shackled by this spell of endless death and grim
rebirth.
Fly, o' skyborne steed of Lyonesse, ride the tempest's wings,
I am the scion of the vengeful skies, a god to warriors and
kings!
Reflections on lifetimes of carnage:
I have been slain by Roman gladius,
And by Norman spear dealt a mortal wound,
The threads of my ensorcelled destiny
Endlessly woven on some unknown cosmic loom.
I have lost my life to longbow shafts
Fighting for the English crown,
And mayhap I'll end this mariner's life
A good three score fathoms down!
I marched with vast armies 'ere gleaming Atlantis sank beneath
the waves...
I reddened my blade against Caesar's legions long ago...
I stood beside Boudicca at Colchester...
I dealt honed steel death from the ranks of Arthur Pendragon...
I slew and looted gloriously at Lindisfarne...
I slaked my scramasax at Maldon...
I crossed blades with Brian Boru at Clontarf...
I slaughtered left and right with Harold at Hastings...
I dispatched Norman swordsmen with Robin of Loxley...
I wielded a Claymore at Stirling Bridge...
I was in the thick of the fray beside Henry at Agincourt...
I spilled blood for the White Rose at Bosworth Field...
I captained a galleon against the great Armada of Philip II...
I have witnessed the rise of corrupt religions, but my heathen
blade was red countless centuries before their flaccid laws were
ever carved in stone.
They call me the Scourge of Medina Sedonia... my ship sails at
dawn, and may our English steel ring gloriously against the
cutlasses of the outlander pirates!
Aye boy, it is a strange tale indeed. I know not why I am
destined to live and die in this way, my soul moving from life to
life, ever dying and being again reborn, with every memory of my
past incarnations intact. A whim of the gods? An ancient
sorcerous spell? Some cruel machination of fate, mayhap? Or is it
all for some mysterious, greater purpose? Sometimes I feel the
gaze of inhuman eyes upon me, and fragments of some past
existence which I cannot wholly recall flash before my mind's
eye. And time and time again I know precisely when I am to die in
the fray, for always 'ere the fatal blow is struck, I see him...
grim and noble astride his great winged steed, gleaming spear
crackling in his grasp, beckoning me onwards to the next life...
to ever more slaughter and carnage... Yes, adour and brooding
spirit he is, and in his burning eyes I see a great secret which
I must discover, a powerful mystery I alone must solve. I cannot
speculate as to what strange destiny the fate!
s !
have written for me in the stars... but the gods have decreed
that this is the path I must follow, and I am sure that my
adventures are far from over...
8. BLOOD SLAKES THE SAND AT THE CIRCUS MAXIMUS
Thoughts of an
Iceni gladiator, awaiting the opening of the arena portcullis:
Memories of rebellion (Carnage at Camulodunum):
Iceni Messenger: Hearken! The Ninth Legion has been put to the
sword!
The war-Chief of Queen Boudicca: Onwards to Camulodunum... wet
your swords! Redden the earth with Roman blood!
I remember the carnage at Camulodunum...
The glorious clash of Celtic sword against Roman gladius,
The pride in the eyes of our war-queen
As we hacked down the Imperial Eagle,
And the severed heads of centurions gaping atop our spears.
Bloodshed and Battle: 61 AD (C.E.)
They had gone too far, these invaders from the east, with their
imperial eagle which they dared to drive into our sacred soil...
pompously claiming our island as their own. They who marched
across the world expanding their empire all for the greater glory
of their succession of debauched emperors, reclining upon their
ivory thrones in the heart of sweltering Rome. Aye, they had gone
too far... After their brutal annexation of our sovereign Iceni
lands and the vile rape of our Queen Boudicca's royal daughters,
the Romans had the sown the fields of carnage and they would reap
a grim harvest of slaughter, without doubt! They had enraged the
Red Queen, and by the gods, they would pay!
We certainly taught the arrogant invading dogs a lesson, at any
rate. The omens and portents spoke of vast bloodshed and great
carnage, and after our slaughterous victories at Camulodunum (the
Temple of Claudius burned wonderfully!), Londinium and
Verulanium, the cursed Romans finally dared to meet us honourably
upon the field of war at Mandeussedum. They sent fifteen thousand
legionaires, their armour gleaming like gold in the sun... but it
would still yield to our swords and spears, no matter how it
sparkled.
The Roman scoundrel, Governor Suetonius Paullinus, battle-scarred
from his campaigns against the Druids, was able to choose the
ground upon which to make his stand, and so it was that he
selected as the battlefield a narrow valley, fronted by a flat
plain, with dense woodland at its rear. Aye... Mandeussedum,
"the place of the chariots"... I remember it vividly.
The Governor's army looked unnerved as wee took the field. I'll
never forget that, iron Roman fortitude or not! We were one
hundred thousand strong, infantry and cavalry, both men and women
warriors, as is our Celtic custom, in the ranks together, all
annointed with woad, all roaring oaths and vows to our ancient
gods, who were surely grimly watching the epic confrontation from
their great thrones and vast halls. Our war-chariots thundered up
and down the Roman front, the charioteers screaming abuse at the
grim legionaires, decurions and centurions, and hurling spears
and other missiles which clattered against the Imperial shield
wall. And not one Roman javelin or pilum was hurled in response,
not one arrow was loosed in retaliation. They were disciplined,
I'll give them that.
We were swelled by our victories, empowered by our noble cause,
enraged with the battle frenzy; thirsting to take as many Roman
heads as our bright blades could sever!
And yet we were perhaps somewhat overconfident that day...
Abducted from the Iceni:
In the aftermath of our defeat at Mandeussedum, I was captured by
Romans with a veiled intent... (though three of them died at my
hands in the attempt!)
Nero was growing bored with the gladiators, slaves and
lion-fodder at his great Circus, and so had requested Suetonius
Paullinus to provide the citizens of Rome with new
entertainment... The Emperor had heard much of the wildness and
fighting spirit of these barbaric Britons who had brought such
woe to his far-famed legions; these painted, pagan tribesmen who
had resisted the Empire's iron fist where the glorious phalanxes
of the East had not.
"Agents of the Imperium... hearken to my words", Nero
had demanded. "Bring to Rome some of these tribesman for the
Games. Let us pit them against our most ravenous beasts and our
greatest gladitorial champions."
And so I was taken in fetters aboard a Roman trireme, the blood
of slain legionaires still crusted upon my thews, I was taken far
from the fens of my beloved homeland, to tread the sun baked sand
of the Circus Maximus... to fight for my life in the Imperial
Arena.
Arrival at the Circus Maximus:
The Circus Maximus was certainly a splendid sight, I'll admit. A
vast colosseum with great stone columns and tiers, huge ornate
arches and mighty statues of grey marble. Countless people filled
the seats surrounding the sandy floor of the Arena... and in his
opulent royal enclosure, flanked by gleaming guards and
grovelling lackeys, sat the great Emperor himself...
Emperor Nero: Fight, barbarian outlander! Please us, and mayhap
Mars will smile on thee this day!
Iceni warrior: Bah! I do not hail to your Roman gods, and you are
not my emperor! By Cernunnos, the blood of my enemies shall stain
the sand of this cursed arena red this day!
The Combat Commences:
They unleashed the lions first. Hunger maddened beasts, goaded
into a frenzy by the cruel point of many a pilum... And yet my
own hunger, the hunger for revenge, was greater, and my honed
steel was sharper than bestial fang and claw.
And so they ranged their finest warriors against me. Three more
iron gates around the arena yawned open, and they strode from the
colosseum tunnels amidst a cacophony of cheering from the
assembled Roman spectators, urged on and showered with martial
adulation from the massed arena crowd, who howled their bloodlust
without cessation.
I studied my opponents... there were two trained gladiators,
champions I was told, who had never met defeat in the Games...
and then there was another like me, a captured warrior forced to
fight for his life. This one was a towering reaver from the
Northlands with a bright yellow beard, hefting a crude axe with a
single iron head. I lifted my iron bladed Celtic shortsword with
its bronze hilt (the same sword which, mere days before, had been
slaked with Roman blood... and its blade would soon be red once
more with the blood of my captors, by all the gods!) and nodded
to the reaver. An understanding passed between us... we knew we
were here simply as sword-fodder, and we knew we would both fight
these Roman dogs to the death!
The first gladiator moved towards me; he was a giant of a man,
standing nearly seven feet tall and clad in dark leather and
bronze armour from head to toe. His full-face visored helmet was
set with ornate metal fittings and encrusted with jewels of
various hues, and a vast black horse hair plume rose from the
metal crown. Strapped on to his forearms were two black
vambraces, to each of which had been secured twelwe inch serrated
blades, and they gleamed brightly in the hot afternoon sunlight.
He began to circle me slowly, his eyes hidden beneath his great
helmet. To his left, I saw the second gladiator begin to close on
the Northman. The yellow-bearded axeman's opponent was a huge
steel-helmeted Nubian, wielding a wickedly pointed trident and
carrying an embossed iron buckler with a great spike jutting from
its polished centre.
Far above, upon his great dias, the Emperor gave the signal for
the combat to begin, and with the battle-lust engulfing me, with
the red mist swirling before my eyes, I vowed to my northern gods
that I would show these leering Romans the fighting spirit and
battle prowess of my people... I would leave the arena littered
with the bloody corpses of my opponents...
I would cast off the imperial fetters and return to the fens!
Aye, I would escape, and make all Romans fear my name, and compel
Nero to rue the day Julius Caesar had first ordered his legions
across the grim grey sea to my ancient island... BLOOD FOR
BOUDICCA... CARNAGE FOR CERNUNNOS!!
To be continued...
9. THWARTED BY THE DARK (BLADE OF THE VAMPYRE HUNTER)
The contemplations
of Joachim Blokk:
As my sword drips black now with the unclean blood of another
slain fiend, it occurs to me that history will most probably
record me a fanatic... as for more years than I care to remember
I have dedicated my life to the caseless pursuit and destruction
of the loathsome undead. Indeed, it was long ago that I commenced
with the wreaking of my grim vengeance upon the denizens of the
dark, and by the blade of my sorcerous katana, Fiend's Bane, I
vow they shall all pay for taking my beloved from me! Fanatic?
Mayhap. But by all the gods of vengeance, I'll leave a fearsome
legacy 'ere I die... a legacy wrought in retributive bloodshed
and screaming terror!
Drowned in the icy lake of tragedy,
Forged in the fires of revenge,
Driven by the winds which compel a man to destiny,
Haunted by the whispers of the dead.
Blood is black in the moonlight
As it was when I pierced the heart of my betrothed,
Blood is black in the moonlight,
Her undead gaze gleaming ire upon me.
Blood is black in the moonlight
I held aloft her head to my grim gods,
Blood is black in the moonlight
(Now I am eternally bonded to my blade)
And ever I am thwarted by the dark!
Gods of wrath, hear my vow... sate me with revenge this night!
Come to me, darksome fiends, taste the edge of ensorcelled steel!
Night has fallen, the hunt begins...
Vengeful carnage 'neath the moon!
And as I put brand to her pyre, I swore then to my gods that
those vile creatures who tore the life and hope from my beloved's
breast and replaced it with that unspeakable sanguineous ravening
would repay a hundredfold in slaughter and bloodshed for their
misdeed... I would hunt them to their worm-ridden tombs, wherever
they crept or slithered upon the earth, and wreak my honed steel
revenge ceaselessly unto my own grave. Such was my vow!
Aye, this bride of Masayuki steel, ensorcelled by wizards at its
forging... to me she is as pure as the newly fallen snow, kissed
by the breeze at dusk... and yet she has supped deep of the
ichors of many men and fiends alike.
Shadow spawned demons ravening for my blood,
Yet the thirst of my blade is greater!
Aye, all they shall feast upon this night will be cold steel!
I hear the slither of scales on silk,
Fiend's Bane replete with undead slaughter!
I am the scourge of the devils who dwell in darkness...
(but the darkness writhing in my own soul is so much deeper...)
Their flesh burns at the touch of my blade of searing vengeance,
And I cast their malign spirits screaming into limbo!
Darkfall, and the autumn moon glimmers on my steel...
Now it is time to hunt and slay once more,
For the night has come!
10. AND ATLANTIS FALLS...
And lo, I
witnessed the vast seas rise forth like a great ravenous beast, a
devouring maelstrom of cataclysmic fury; and the gleaming spires
and citadels of proud, ancient Atlantis were consumed, to gleam
no more... save in the dreams of sorcerers and warriors... aye,
and poets and kings.
The astral testimony of Altarus the Traveller