‘The Shadow-Fiends’

Afar off in the woods

A little hamlet stood

Of kindly-hearted folk,

Not so noteworthy

In acts good or bad,

But merely made their way

In the world steadily,

Working day by day

And remembering

God and neighbor.

But as the years went by,

They became more worldly-wise.

They still offered

The yearly sacrifice

Of the best of their labors

At the altar

Of the Thunder God,

The mighty ruler

In the heavens above,

And bowed to the Great Ones

In the Hall of the Blessèd

Nearby, caring for their tombs

And for their bodies,

And sharing together

The Meal of Friendship,

Forgiving past sins

And renewing old ties.

Yet they did not walk

The Circle of Penance

Beforehand for cleansing,

But made an easy road

To walk or ride a beast

To the holy place.

The daily prayers

And other rites

Also went unused,

As time in field and forge,

At lively dance hall

Or quiet story-teller’s home,

Filled their fleeting days.

But their forgetfulness

Of God had an effect

Unknown to them,

Weakened their bond with Him,

And the protection

Of His power ebbed.

And then of a night

A rift did open,

Black and foul and smoking,

And through it came

The shadow-fiends,

Floating along

By their two jagged wings,

Bodies short and fat

Like a spider’s,

Skin black and scaly like a snake’s,

Arms and legs spindly thin,

Hands and feet all like -

Three claws apiece,

Two afore and one aback,

The oval head,

Sometimes more than one,

With its sev’ral eyes

And little mouth

Filled with razor fangs.

They have no care

For one another

But go one by one

Alone throughout a land

Seeking what they might despoil.

And here they did the same,

Moving slowly

Through the hamlet

In their frozen malice.

Whatever living being

Came into their presence

Met with death or madness,

And plants withered

At their icy touch.

The village folk

Now hastened to the holy grounds,

A haven from harm,

And asked the lore master

What might be done

To overcome the dreadful foe.

Quoth he, Leofwin,

‘The Old Ones say

That a sword imbued

With heaven’s power

Must strike the doorway

Of the demons to close it.’

‘And will you do this deed?’

‘I will,’ answered he.

Chose now they did,

The elders wise,

A warrior-band

Leofwin to guard

On the fearsome quest:

Alfgar, Athelric, Edsig -

Sword masters without peer.

The four best blades

They gathered from the hoard

Dedicated

At the yearly

Sacrifices

As gifts to God:

Four large claymores

With double edges

And two-handled hilts;

Shining steel above,

Glittering grip below,

Inlaid with sparkling stones.

To bless the blades

And consecrate themselves,

They walked the Circle of Penance,

And then Leofwin

At the altar

Placed the swords upon it,

And, saying the words of power,

A lightning bolt

Shot down from the sky

And entered the four weapons.

A glowing fiend-bane

Each now held in his hands,

Radiating

A warm blue-white light,

Throbbing with the power

Of Thor Himself.

Scouts had found the fiend-cave

And the dark doorway.

The four hurried thus-ward,

The blades ringing

In the wind as they ran

And as the Three

Did deadly battle

With the shadow-fiends

Along the way.

At the mouth of the cave,

Alfgar, Athelric, and Edsig

Bade Leofwin

To wait until they should

Clear the path for him

To the rift inside.

He hid; he waited;

His breath was baited.

But no one came.

Suddenly he heard

A breathing not his own

And felt its icy coldness

On his very neck.

He whirled and faced

The bulging, soul-devouring eyes.

It flung its claws at him

And cut into his chest.

Leofwin, unused to battle,

Fell dazed to the ground.

But the singing

Of his blade revived him,

And the next swing

Of its claws cost it an arm.

Out came a low, rough roar

And a stench of putrid gore,

But he kept a fixèd gaze.

Its frantic lunge

Was met with a final blow

Of Leofwin’s blade,

Which hewed the creature in two

But shattered the fiend-bane,

Leaving a hilt in his hands.

Waiting was through;

He darted for the cavern.

Inside a horrible sight:

Wrack of slaughtered bodies,

Many fiends mangled

And dismembered.

But among them, alas,

Lay his three friends,

Asleep after heroic deeds.

He mourned them

A moment only,

For duty would not

Allow it longer.

The sword of Edsig,

Smeared with black, stinking blood,

But still glowing, giving light,

Was near at hand.

He grasped it quickly,

Ran further down.

Then he saw it,

The gaping tear.

He hurled a blow

With all his might

At the evil gate,

And power from the sword

Burst forth, sealing the door,

And then splintered and raced

Across the countryside,

Annihilating

The remaining shadow-fiends.

Three days of quiet;

The people came forth

To see if the tidings

Were good or ill.

The scouts crept back warily

To the fiend-cave,

Finding the doorway closed

But their friends dead.

Leofwin, too,

For the power unleashed

Was too much for man to bear.

The villagers bore the bodies

Solemnly to the

House of the Blessèd,

Where each was entombed.

Every year on the night

Of their battle,

The villagers

Honor their acts of valor.

And every year

The lore master

Would warn the folk

Against slackness

Toward the Thunder God,

Lest evil overrun

Their land again.

--

Holy Ælfred the Great, King of England, South Patron, pray for us sinners at the Souð, unworthy though we are!

Anathema to the Union!