Mægenwuda Beaduwe Sang

Hark! Back to those days dire and sullen
when errands told of an evil shadow
growing ever greater, grim beyond reckoning,
along the lands which the Lords of the Fyrnings
had watched keenly for countless years.
Vast was the forest that fenced that mark,
hindered any host hazarding to lay claws
on hills of mirth and meadows green.

And yet it was marked that beyond the border,
in those ancient woods, axes had been ringing
for many a year, in the malice and design
of a thrawn lord of thralls and wights
strange-like and strong, that struck terror
in the hearts of any who beheld them nigh.
Black were the blades that bit those trees,
felling with hatred and foul meaning.

Then Mæþelbrand king, mindful of peril,
the son of Ósbrand, sent out a host
of war-bound thains to thwart as they might
the force that defiled that forest so greatly.
Bent on banishing these baleful wretches,
who had hitherto slain heralds and woodsmen,
the men of Mæþelbrand made for their dwelling,
grim deeds abiding, and grief to come.

So many were the foes they found lurking,
so cruel the warrows that waylaid them there,
that whole the host hasting thither
was slaughtered that day, slain among trees.
There fell Ecgmund, with honour and courage,
and fair brothers Folcweard and Þéodweard.
Last of all stood Eofor, ever be he sung –
hundreds he had hewn ere the horde speared him down.

Great was the mourning of Mæþelbrand king,
his rage the fiercer. That Fyrning took an oath
to avenge his people, punish the evil-doers.
A thousand men he could muster no longer.
The ruing ring-giver rallied yet again;
in the corners of the kingdom he called war-friends,
reminded men of the many glory-deeds
of their fathers before them, in fellest of times.

Many answered, aid they would give –
tied to their land, true to their king.
In scores they rode under skies grey
to meet in Hammerdene, that hoary dale
before Mainwood, the mighty forest
where the dark host dwelt in malice,
ever eyeing with ill desire
in day and night the noble kingdom.

With bright banners, in blinding armour,
the Fyrnings went forth to face that menace.
Loud was the thunder of thousands of men
as they claimed in full those fearsome woods,
where doom and death in darkness waited.
Ill-boding sounds issued from afar,
deep in the heart of that dour stead –
the creeping brood encroached the host.

Like to a sudden flame the fighting began,
for stern Mæþelbrand was struck by an arrow,
the unlucky leader left Middle-Earth.
Great was the clamour as the clash hardened.
Heardréd took lead, leapt to the front,
the son of Heorulf on his horse Andfara
unbound a battle-rown, bloodied his sword.
A good thain that was in that gory hour.

The wave of war-guests waxed the more,
greater in number than the noble host,
seemed to overbear and burst through ranks.
The far-come fiends would falter not
in their ruinous wrath; wretched was their shape,
beast-like their bearing. The beams of Mainwood
reddened in the rush of rending metal
as the day grew dark and the din grew louder.

Countless men were killed in the cold of night
by the black hands of horrid strangers.
Nóðgrim the axeman would not go home;
that roaring giant was riddled with arrows.
Ælfgár the Sheen they shot down as well,
as he bought time for trusted friends.
And never again would gallant Wynfriþ
return to tell tales of battle.

And hope seemed lost, till the light of dawn
shone with clearness upon shield and blade.
Heart was rekindled, for recalled was now
the Secret Fire, the Flame Imperishable,
bringer of life, burner of evil.
The singing swords of the sons of Fyrna
at last ended the onslaught of darkness
and drove away the dreadful wights.

His right hand hewn, Heardréd the brave,
that fearless leader beloved by many,
was henceforth hight Heardréd Flame-hand,
for him was lent the Light of Fyrna
in the hour of need. And naught was heard
ever again of the evil lord
who dared threaten the dales and hills
of that green kingdom of glory and mirth.

E.F.