Fro their homes they took themselves unto yon southern foldan, they hungered that bloody day of death once more, where blades don meet flesh and bone, where arms are cut off and the heads don roll. Where men become as beasts wild or as prey stalked, where those caught in such snares are left in the lurch - forgotten, their tale’s end.
Nigh the word of the Wolfhead’s fercoming reacheth Olaf, the king of Norway. His loving the Romans hath everbranded him the fiend of the folker, no hand doth he give to them if they not forespeaken the el beliefs of the Romans. Gan he to besmite all who doth aface or arfeth against him, ek he ferbroyed those daren to strid with him.
Sat upon his altherfowlest kingchair, bewriting his will into law, he spoke unto his hird, “How such does it come to pass that those lowly man-beasts wishen to depose I? Their minds are lost, without wit, free of reason, they are a few whilst my domain doth reach unto all of Norway, from its northern fjorder reaching unto its southern, eastern, and western. Knowen they not my wrath unto their ways, ‘tis no longer a world fit for old gods and folkways. Let my will be done in this land, so strike at those heathens wherever they don go or gang.”
So it came that he sent a band of warriors along with a bode to yon wolven band, upon their yercoming they called out, “O ye, spare thine own blood and lay down thy sword and ax. Haste not unto thy doom, for the king doth call ye to worship-” The young wolf stepped forth from the band, caring not of his foes number or strength of arms.
“Tell me not your words of Christ, for I know why I am made.” The bodesman reached for the young wolf’s hands, “Child! Go not to thy death alone.”
“Old man! You knowest not my lifeway, for you and I are not like. Harken ye, sickerly, yesternight I dreamt of my death. My mother hath bid me bathen in the blood of foes and fiend, to how myself a goatheman and freek. Indeed, I forespoke to the erila about its meaning. Forsooth, this dream hath a forebode of my lonely death. Bodesman, hark to me once more. Thou’rt weak, no freek are thee, but I foresense within thy bosom a freek’s soul. I shall gang unto my death and rip and tear with might, and slay and drib the heads then slay once more. Sickerly, my time hath come, when my spear falleth, let me hear the ravens’ cry, for doom doth await. I swear, with a fateful glint shall I grab at my bane, then I shall take my place in yon Hall.”
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He then looked to the king’s altherloathsome men, “I fear not death, I fear not the sword that cuts or the arrow that thrille into the hearts. The wolves han come for your souls, so bid yer mothers and childer weepen for ye, and that yer god showeth ye mildheartness, for none such shall show ye this day.”
The bodesman stared broyly at the horror and awesome thing before him, as the young wolf rushed towards the king’s band.
The young wolf swung his sword and limbs and arms and heads dropped to the earth. He cast aside their blades with a mighty slap, rending their flesh from their bones, and dribbing their heads from their shoulders. Arrows flew at him and thrilled into his flesh, and cuts and slashes meted his body like a craftwork. The ground grew soggy as marsh from the life of his foes cut, and when he slashed his blade into their necks the blood stanked and rained down.
Finally, the others took aback and a great warrior from among them came forth brandishing a greatsword to dare the young wolf.
The young wolf rushed and sprang, his sword crashing upon the warrior's head, shattering into dust. The warrior cackled and punched the young wolf in the gut, making him heave blood. So sprang he once more and grabbed the warrior's head and thrilled his fingers into his eyes, and with his teeth tore into the neck. The warrior screamed and gargled, throwing himself to and fro, hoping to loosen the freek from his body. With a spat and stank the young wolf had in his teeth an eder. With that, the warrior fell to the earth, erding into the mirelike ground.
The young wolf had been gashed, maimed, and thrilled beyond help. The warrior had slashed his stomach, and his gut shown. He lyfteth his shield once more and ran at those left, but an araded bowman marked him, and an arrow thrilled into the young wolf’s eye.
He turned to his kinsmen and brothers, his forebears and chief, and to the bodesman. He dropped upon his knees, and with a fateful strike, his head fell into the endless gore, what had once been was no more.
Lives ran short upon these fields, where blood doth flow and heads doth roll. Where the blood runs as the water does from the hill, and the green earth becomes ashen gray. Without hope.
Tears flowed from the chief’s eyes, “Forsooth, if I had foreseen such ellenmearth before his doom, I would have given up my place as chief and made it for that one. No longer is he the young wolf, for he is one I, a forold chief, doth evest. Young and free was he, sickerly, his tale shall be carved in stone for all to see, forever shall we sing of his great deed this day.”
The bodesman stood agape of mouth, staring at the one who had brought to an end his grueling journey to yon north - now beheaded, laying upon the earth. His mouth shook and his hands jerked, his hand crept to his waist as if to grasp a sword, but he aknew that he was no freek, just as the young wolf had said.