"To Dethrone The Witch-Queen Of Mytos K'Unn (The Legend Of The Battle Of Blackhelm Vale)" by Bal-sagoth

[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]