Filed under: blank verse, epic, poetry, ragnarok | Tags: blank verse, death, epic, fantasy, Online Writing, poem, poetry, ragnarok
Where once the yearly snowmelt flood had carved
A narrow serpentine defile, that poured
Itself onto the plains until there was
No more snow left to melt, now were there walls
And roof, rough hewn and roughly thrown into
A rude, windowless, serviceable hall.
No tapestries hung there, nor trophies high,
But means and implements of war lay stacked
Against the granite walls. Bedrolls and stores
Like houses huddled covered all the floor
Save where a table long enough to seat
A hundred men sat empty and drowsing,
Its polished face dull in the little light
The iron braziers on the wall spat forth.
Into the wooden throne upon the head
Klua cast himself. At his right hand and left
On benches long but vacant Shane and Varr
Sat down to listen. “Much that you must know,”
Klau said, “you burn to ask. First hear my tale.
Some answer it may be. There at your back,
Should you hunger or thirst, is journeybread
And small beer. More than these we do not have.
Your pardon beg I for the welcome,” Klau
Smiled wearily, “if it does not befit.
These evil days for hostcraft leave scant time.”
“These are not days,” said Varr, “for any man
To stand upon his honor. Long ago
We learned to hold our tongues and utter not
Our pain at wounds of body. At itches
Of soul, merely, no less we can do.” Shane
Pulled off his gloves, laid them on the table
Across eachother, and said but “Tell on.”
He warrior boy unclasped his heavy blade
And in its scabbard laid it on the board.
“My homeland, in the places men draw breath,
Was poor and paltry. My people were dark
In features and not given much to speech.
No heroes had we, nor no warrior kings,
But bandit lords of whom we lived in fear.
The only weapon I had ever seen
Was an old sword, as long as I was tall,
That all my childhood hung above the hearth
And never left its sheath to taste the air.
My father had no guess at whence it came,
It had always been there, for all his years.
There might it have remained, but for a day
Darksome and dank under descending clouds,
Backlit and broiling with fearful portents,
Huddled and hushed with looming thunderhead,
When tidings came of bandit princes, scarce
An hour before the ravagers themselves.
What could be done but what we did? We sat
Behind the bolted door and prayed for what
We knew we would not get, that they would leave
And we by miracle would be untouched.
In through the shabby walls, like water through
The rotten log fallen across the stream,
Came cut off screams, the tread of heavy boots,
Wailing of children who knew not their fate
Even as its iron jaws around them closed,
The rustling roar of flames, the ring of steel,
All waxing in volume as they drew near.
Then came a blow upon the door, that I
Felt as if it had struck me in the chest.
Ere I could cry ‘what?’ to it, my body
Had sprung up to the hearth, snatched down the sword,
And charged the weakening wood. The brigand was
Balancing in his foot a second kick,
But I, knowing not what I did, unsheathed
The blade grown black with smoke and long disuse
And in one motion clove the door and him
That down he toppled, bleeding in the mud
With shards and splinters covering his head.
I had just time to see that all around
My faceless gathered foe, with spear and sword,
With hatchet and long knife, then I was in
Among them like a rabid dog. As does
A man missing a step accelerate
And take his next three steps too swiftly, shoved
Forward by his own juggle-balanced weight,
So did the weight of my too-massive sword
And my colossal anger drive me on:
If I had stopped, and let momentum fade,
I could not have lifted either again.
My hands taught me to fight e’en as I fought.
I parried, I struck back, I marveled that
I had done either, even as again
I parried, I struck back. Though they hit me
Time and again, so that with sweat and blood
I was anointed equally, I gave
The pain as little heed as does a bull
In his ferocious charge give to the hedge
He tramples through. The blood flowed in my eyes
And blinking I fought on, my blindness but
Making my rage more deadly and more wild.
When I had blinked my vision clear, the foe
Each one lay slain and slaughtered. Then the rain,
Clear, cool, and stinging on my wounded side,
Broke, came down, washed the bloody scene away.
With it came weariness, frigid and deep.
My eyes slid shut. I felt I fell asleep.
I woke to water splashing on my brow
And wondered for a moment why the sky
Should show so bright a face unto the rain.
Yet as I sat upright, I found that I
Was face-up in an infant brook, and not
Beneath the thatched and dripping eaves. It lay
Within a wooded hollow. From above
A gentle waterfall played cross my cheek
As lightly as a falling leaf would land.
As do the juices in the sun-ripe fruit
Pool in the bowl-shaped bite and gently ooze
Along the concave, to drip off the edge,
So did the waters glide around me to
The bottom of the hollow, under roots
Of oaks ancient and muscular but bare,
Beneath few fallen trunks, between the stones,
Nourishing the few ferns that still showed green,
Before it wandered off behind the trees
And rocks the height of men. Three days I lay
Too weak and too unwilling to move more
Than gathering wild blackberries took. There
Would I yet lie in lazy hermitage
As beasts that perish do, fearing not what
The next day’s dawn may bring, and are content,
With nothing but a sword whose onyx blade
I never would recover strength to lift,
But that on the third day the sun burned blue:
The spring that fed the waterfall dried up
So that naught but the barest trickle fell,
And the sweet berries I subsisted on
Turned sour and flavorless, like stricken grass.
That night I slept uneasily. I felt
Again some dire malevolence stalked round
My place of refuge, where I had not strength
To do more than watch it smash in the door
And, grinning like a bonfire, cut my throat.
The morning broke cold, clear, clean, and quiet.
My hand remembered how to grip the hilt
And I could feel my fate approaching. I
Did not have to wait very long at all.
Before the sun stood in the middle sky
A figure blundered over the low rim
And slid its muddy way to where I stood.
It was clothed in decaying rags. It stank
Of long-burned compost. I could see no face
Behind its mask of mud and rusty ash,
Nor hear no breath, instead a sizzling hiss
As when the smelted ore is plunged and cooled.
It scrambled staggeringly to its feet
And crouched as does a runner waiting for
A split-second long signal to be gone
Or like the rabbit that thinks itself heard
But not yet seen, and waits prepared to bolt.
Where it stood, lurking, the ground putrified
That had nourished and nursed me, and I felt
Within me something crumble like a dam.
Ere I had told my limbs to move, I leapt
Across the streambed, naked sword in hand.
The thing raised a notched hatchet, far too late.
Overhead and straight down I slung my sword.
With both my weight and its I smashed its skull.
I split it like firewood, from pate to groin,
And cracked the rock it stood on. As it fell
Already crumbling, I behind me heard
Laughter deep and satisfied. There a man
Armored and armed, venerable but strong
Smiling at me beneath a single eye,
Stood where the waterfall lately had poured.
‘Well met, young juggernaught,’ he said, ‘You need
No long encouragement, I see, who are
Impatient so for glory that you join
The battle that roars thunderously around
Your ears without waiting for recruitment.
We are both fortunate. I have no more
Time to spare for recruiting. You will here
Find glory that needs no officialdom.
Bring you your sword. I must be on my way,
And that right swiftly, or all will be lost
And this world will not see another day.’
He led me down the streambed, till it joined
A river rushing stonily around
Our knees, so that we left not track or trace.
The current pulled doggedly at my shins,
Worn breeches, and thin shoes, and pushed at my
Center of gravity, as a wrestler
Twists first this way then that, now pressing hard
Now giving way, to topple with surprise
His foe. My sword I carried on my head
Away from the cold waters that crowded
Against my ankles like an eager dog.
We marched all day, our faces toward the press
Of current, the Old Man in front of me
Who toiled in his wake, and as we went
He told me tales of warriors who had died
Fiercely enough to win an afterworld
Of war. He said I would be counted high
Among them: ‘It may be you are the one
Who, in the pages too vast to be read
Wherein we move and live and have our day
Of glory, is written to slay the foe
To save this world and everything it means.’
All night we walked. I could not have seen the
Guide in front of me, save that fireflies
Appeared around him. So we forged upstream
Beneath a live, shifting celestial globe
Forever scribing constellations new
And unforeseeable. Up from the stream
They shone back, rippling like the figures seen
Darkly through wrinkled glass. As does a fort
Upon a moonless midnight, hung with lights
At every door and window from its crown,
Between the crenellations, to the foot,
Athwart the gate pillars on either side,
In the black fathomless moat waters throws
Its own reflection, so seems it to come
Shouldering through the featureless darkness
Toward the wanderer to ride above
Him, as he draws near, on light-doubled height,
So loomed his dark shape ever before me.
At sunrise, he spoke ‘Halt,’ and drew my eyes
To a divide between two mountain horns.
There in the early shadows, I could see
A grand ruin. I followed him beneath
An arch whose gates rocked hinge-askew ajar,
Across a weed-thronged courtyard. There upon
A stairway of card house toppled flagstones
A faded crone stood, bent upon the sight
Of the sunlight sinking along the slopes.
My guide greeted her, ‘Hail, great Grandmother,
Who told me there was no hope. Did you see
How this one crushed the Soot as easily
As men crush flies?” She did not raise her eyes,
But said, ‘How long is it since you killed flies?
They are more hardy than your platitudes
Would credit. When I said there was no hope
I meant it. And I speak the truth. You bring
Another mortal martyr, and you dream
That the inevitable is a lock
That only wants for finding the right key.
The first of your defenders fell last night.
More will join him, before tomorrow’s dawn.
Already, the Soot press to torch your hall.
My people are gathering to this place
To make good our escape. If you have sense,
You will fly with us, else this refuge is
Become a gallows. I have not your taste
For gallows-speeches.’ The Old Woman turned
To push her way past us and down the stairs,
When her hand chanced to brush mine, and the hilt
Of the weapon I gripped. Her eyes snapped up
And she stopped in mid-step, and when she spoke
It was not only with her voice. ‘This blade
Will deal the final blow that will be dealt
In this war. That will be the end. Past this
I cannot see.’ She shuddered, and pulled tight
Around her shoulders her worn shawl, as if
The frayed threads could hold off the portent she
Had uttered and set hovering around.
She spoke no more to us. The Old Man paused,
Then sighed and swallowed his frustration, said,
‘Well, it is good to know I have not lost
My eye for a good warrior. I guessed right,
When I guessed which I could afford to lose.
If you are so essential, then we must
Arm you more fittingly.’ He led me in—
You would not know this room, it was so ruined—
And from the stores before you he took out
This savage armor, this shirt of wolf-hair,
This fury-drugging warpaint. ‘This store was
Laid down in days that were called ancient in
Antiquity. My people have changed much.
Not one of them would recognize the arms
They once went proudly in. They have changed much,
But not enough. We still have not learned hope.’
He knelt, one hand laid past paternally,
Upon my shoulder, like a sacrament
Administered in secret, hastily,
He fixed both my eyes with his steely one.
The sunrise filled the doorway, as if poured
From a well on the sun of liquid light,
Cold, colorless, and clear in the clean dawn.
He spoke, ‘Now you must do, and not divine.
Must act and know you will not understand.
Beyond this place, there lies a maze of caves
Delved down below the very mountains’ roots
To the foundations of the world, which are
Ideas. All worlds are founded on ideas.
From there I can go forth to any world,
In them will I be safe and stay unfound.
I play chess with the darkness, and myself
Am king. All will be lost if I am lost,
So you must be content to be a pawn.
It may be out there I will find the one
Who is the key the Old Crone mocked you for.
It may be I will be pursued, and you
Will be left to defend against nothing.
It may be that the Soot will break themselves
Upon your stout defense, and win our war
For us. It may be all my fears are vain.
But you, until you see me once again,
Must hold out, must endure, and must await
I know not what.’ I feared that he might breathe
Apologies, so for the only time
I spoke to him. ‘I will endure, and woe
Befall him who makes test of it. Master,
Go boldly where I do not understand.
When you return, as you will, this place shall
Yet hold firm and unbreeched, and so will I.’
The Old Man almost laughed. He smiled and said,
‘You have told not your name, Klau Berserker.
You know not mine. Perhaps there is no need.
Deeds, and not names, are our best weapons now.
But know this, if your name were known across
The multitude of worlds I’ll wander through
And honored in each one as it deserves,
They yet could not make up, with all their sum,
The honor in which I shall hold you.’ Then
He rose, he turned his back, he vanished in
The dark archway you see behind me. Since
That day I have done much, yet have done naught.
I have repaired the wall. I have mustered
Such forces as survived the Soot so far.
I have kept safe the way out to the worlds
And made the path level. I have opened
My stronghold to the Witchfolk refugees.
I have held out. I have endured. I have
Awaited you, Champion, and the day
You bring upon your heels. Soon will this sword
Again taste battle, and soon comes the day
Of glory and salvation, when I strike
A blow to end all blows. Your eyes shall see
The glory of the toppling of our foes!”
Klau shut his eyes, and smiled as if in bliss.
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Songs to Setirov. 