[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 through the

Eastern  Kingdoms  since high summer the preceding year. Empowering her troops

with  great  sorceries,  she had s een all opposition fall before the ravening

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, an d 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 battle-lord Talus

Ebonfy  re, a man of sublime brutality whom many beleived to be possessed by a

demon-spirit  from  the  dark  realms.  Emboldened  by their victories and the

expansion  of their queen's dark dominion, the hordes of Mytos K'unn began the

incursion  into  the lands of the Northern Tribes, beginning with the grim and

brooding territories south of the Snow Kingdoms... the rugged homelands of the

warlike  clans  which  had  been  recently  united  into a strong realm by the

powerful warrior-king Caylen-Tor, a man known to his allie s 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...

bu t Caylen-Tor has vowed that a searing torrent of blood and steel shall meet

all  those  who deign to enter unwelcome or drive their standard 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 Blackhelm Vale, the valley known for centuries as the Gate to the

Northlands, soon reaches the highla nd 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 in his sacred lands.

Scouts  soon  return with the information that the enemy is camped at the base

of  the  valley,  preparing  to  march  with th 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  e  xpanse  that is Blackhelm 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 si lent 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 of 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 v alley 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 seet 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 form 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 kiss of steel,

All surfeit from supping 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 reddened.



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 swordthrust

and  my  own  blade  snakes  out  to cleave the neck of the attacker, shearing

through  his  veins in a shower of d ark red. An enemy blade opens my shoulder

to  the  bone,  but  I sweep 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 mas s. 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  vau lt to the saddle of a riderless black war-horse 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,

For on this night of red swords we have wrought a legend,

Forged in the fires of our rage, and tempered with the spilled blood of the

slain...



O' grim gods of battle, empower us this night and always,

Anoint us with the crimson rain, forever feed our steel with slaughter...

Let every blow be a killing blow, grant us eternal victory, 'til we die a

warrior's death.



And  so  did  Caylen-Tor  turn  the  armies  of Mytos K'unn back from the

frontiers  of his northern kingdom. Those enemy soldiers who fled the field as

the  mist  lifted  and their banner fell, are hunted down and brought to their

knees  before  the king. Summoning a surviving warrior Mytos K'unn, Caylen-Tor

gives unto him two gifts with which to return to his queen; one is the fallen,

sundered  banner  of  Mytos  K'unn,  the  other  is  the  cloven head of Talus

Ebonfyre.  The king's words ring out over the blood-drenched m oor: "Take this

message  back  to  your queen... if ever again she deigns to strike against my

people,  the  slaughter this night will seem as naught compared to the havoc I

shall  visit  upon her then." When news of the defeat and the fearsome message

of  Cayle  n-Tor  reached  Mytos  K'unn, Zyrashana's spells of regal dominance

waned,  and  her many courtiers and councillors, liberated from the imposition

of  subservience,  plotted  against their queen, 'til soon she was driven from

the  great  royal  palace  by  her  own  el ite guard, her throne seized by an

ambitious  baron  who had won the favour of the nobles and mages of the realm.

Evading  inprisonment  and  surviving  only  by  her  mastery  of  spellcraft,

Zyrashana  fled  to  the  satrapies of the east, and nothing more was seen or

heard of her for some considerable time...



[Lyrics: Byron]

[Music: Jonny Maudling]