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Bal-Sagoth - "To Dethrone The Witch-Queen Of Mytos K Unn"
(The Legend Of The Battle Of Blackheim Vale)
(Music: Jonny Maudling; Lyric: Byron)
THE CHRONICLES OF WAR:
The vast armies of Mytos Kunn, marshalled by a sorceress of great power
known as Zyrashana the Witch-Queen, had been cutting a swath
throught the Eastern Kingdoms since high summer the precending
year. Empowering her troops with great sorceries, she had seen
all opposition fall before the revening
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, and 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 Zyrashanas
legions, commanded by the fearsome and unswervingly loyal bettle-lord
Talus
Ebonfyre, a man of sublime brutality whom many believed to be
possessed by a demon-spirit from the dark realms. Emboldened
by their victories and the expasion of their queens dark dominion,
the hordes of Mytos Kunn began the
incursion into the land of the Northern Tribes, beginning with
the grim and brooding territories south of the Snow Kingdoms...
the rugged homelands
of whe warlike clans which had been recently united into a strong
realm by the powerful warrior-king Caylen-Tor, a man known to
his allies 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... but Caylen-Tor has vowed that a searing torrent of blood
and steel shall meet all those who deign to enter unwelcome or
drive their standart unbidden into his land... As grim winter
slowly yields to spring, the armies of Mytos Kunn begin their
march northwards, and news of the advance of the Witch-Queens
forces into Blackheim Vale, the valley known for centuries as
the Gate to the Northlands, soon reaches the highland 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 into his sacred lands. Scouts
soon return with the information that the enemy is camped at
the base of the valley, preparing to march with the 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 expanse that
is Blackheim 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 silent 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 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 warriors 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, Ill 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 valley
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, well return with many
heads this night.
The death-ravening black fury fills me,
The spatter of hot blood sweet 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 from 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 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 rebbened.
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 sword-thrust and my own blade snakes out to cleave
the neck of the attacker, shearing through his veins in a shower
of dark red. An enemy blade opens my shoulder to the bone, but
I swept my axe out in a deadly arc, its iron head rending armour
and biting deep into flesh. Talus Ebonfyres abdomen yawns open
and he staggers back as his intestines spew forth in a pulsing
mass. 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-Queens warlord and flees howling into the night...
I vault to the saddle of a riderless black war-house and seize
the banner of Mytos Kunn... 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 oer 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,
Forget 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 warriors death. And so did Caylen-Tor turn the armies
if Mytos Kunn 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 of Mytos Kunn,
Caylen-Tor gives unto him two gifts with which to return to his
queen; one is the fallen, sundered banner of Talus Ebonfyre.
The kings words ring out over the blood-drenched moor: "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 Caylen-Tor
reached Mytos Kunn, Zyrashanas spells of regal dominance waned,
and her many courties 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 elite guard, her
throne siezed by an ambitious baron who had won the favour of
the nobles and mages of the realm. Evading imprisonment 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...
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