Early in Sikvarp, Huge Sweyn and Tiny Thegn
Cheerful words shared over broken fast
By the Great and Small of any axe wall
Yet to the recovered, tidings came
of Nicor – spoor; a tale of the missing
Facts could bear no other meaning
Nicor suffered to swive and thrive
Foul trafficking in place of whetstones
licking at blades to hasten their end
Spake the Thegn
Wights have slain my people. They yet live.
This I am not prepared to permit.
So we shall go now and kill them all
Gefndene men well knew this work
these cruel and powerful foe
a Burden borne many times before
Yet resolute they mapped their course
Thegn took up his war gear anew
Plain the byrnie runemarked the steel
Dark axe, scramaseax – shields left on the racks
Bright silver spread careless of cost
to equip with amulets from the waid-priest
Thegn-hoard unlocked the better
to serve Thegn duty
And so into the dark waters of the White Sea
narrow and fearsome gulch
With the little man brave and determined friends and followers
Leofdag the Thunor-wise, bold and resolute
A true friend of the friend of mankind
Noble Wistan, rune-spear at ready
Gesith Hrothgar veteran of Summerlands
Herewulf knife-cunning crafty in war
Tohrwulf never found wanting in pluck
Herefrith the marshman wise about water
Scorning danger to free the land above.
First in the Littleman
assailed in a trice by lurking coils
serpentine coils and teeth
he matches with ancient blade
striking, stabbing madly as the nicor slices him alike
blood and ichor silent gush into the dark waters
Erelong the blows of Osgar tell on the evil guardian
moving onwards sees another in cunning pretence
but heeds not its tricks nor its pleas
slays it but yet at end is poison fang bitten
soon enough falls prey to venom and slumps with its corpse
But those on the side of Wight come to see
this man has allies as hard bit as he
as the onslaught of Gefndene
slaughters them on and ever on
Hrothgar and Wistan pushing forward
The Woden-blessed and the fearsome hunter
Terrible in their wake, noise of Galdor
As Leofdag hurls forth the wrath of Thunor
In wounds the Nicor Extracts a stiff price
They pay all and take its life
Leaving them masters of the foul cave
Litter of dead men and yet one last Nicor
Nothing moot, they kill outright.
All four slain and heads displayed
And back to the priestess Lytelman carried
To face a future
Of Gruel again.