VII.

S the racket rumbled down the low road 

Attentive eyes and ears now saw and heard 

Spiked wheels sliding a wagon of wicked war, 

Vast in width and tallness terrifying; 

Three-hundred mouse-slaves hoisted their heave-chains, 

Lowering the tower down the valley. 

Seeing this trial, free-mice were scared stark, 

Turning tail to flee to hillsides uncertain. 

Was the king's vale now unsafe by Sgriffa, 

Who hunted on hills, and sent now soldiers? 

Calamity was he whom the carrion 

Fowl, likened by feather, followed in the sky. 

Now the skull-wearers whipped to steer the slaves, 

To set the Fyordsmog nigh the fortress walls. 

When thus the tower struck sight of mouse-eyes, 

Scared servants and mouse-maids scurried to cellars, 

Sculleries below, or bedrooms above 

In foolish faith of their half-sword-skill. 

“These brigands mean to mount upon our walls! 

Fly you away now, you sword-less servants! 

Fight now, you sword-knights, or else why brandish 

Steel, softened to mold, hardened for sword-gore? 

This is Mousefate! Make your last boast the best!" 

Thus cried the warden to his companions, 

Who a-perched had seen people of all places; 

Yet in the drove to defend their dorm-home 

No thane thought his red-hued fur familiar. 

Sir Hattamar clutched close the pale scalper; 

Sir Skaltr warned him: “Leave that lug-some sword; 

You'll not lift it high enough all this night, 

Or have the heft to swing it soundly"; 

Hattamar heeded not this wise warning. 

Sir Tallak spoke strong commands to soldiers, 

And sent them to stay to await the entrance 

Of the hall, to spring the skulls in surprise: 

“Unexpected we'll widen our army 

Out the gate to take and besiege their war-god; 

Beneath their ladder we'll unbridge their loft 

And send skulls falling to meet their shadows, 

Trapping the others atop without path 

But to meet our mice, muzzle to muzzle." 

et apperceived was no lengthy ladder, 

But a club, obscured behind the tower, 

Lugged and bolted with cogs and cords of chain, 

A blade so big to batter down battlements; 

Riggings and ratchets knotted the bracket, 

And skulls clambered and swung from the ropes; 

A squawking, bellowing bell, the knell of doom, 

Rusty and rotten, rumbled in the air. 

The towering foiler, carver of mountains, 

Stood raised and reaching high into the sky. 

Its thunder growled, its high-arched single arm 

Of armageddon smote hard the stronghold; 

The rusted blade of the behemoth broke 

In twain the fortress, stone by very stone. 

In that instant all terror was unbound: 

Mouse-folk fell, smashed by burden of stone-falls; 

And those thanes who stood at gate awaiting 

Saw the whole of the hall, falling as hailstones; 

They clambered to keep close to the corners 

Of the door-gates, death soon to gape through it. 

Few lived who did not flee the broken hall, 

Yet no courtiers were killed, for none were kept. 

Then the minds of good-mice were confounded, 

And they stood still a-shock, but again found 

Themselves, in heart-rage: Angry blades clutched, 

Dark eyes fiery, grim hate in joint keep, 

Lords, mice, Narngaren's only peace, quick rose: 

Silent to urgent, valiant war; xenoes 

Yet zealous clattered the once calm courtyard. 

In sleeping triumph lay the wall-breacher, 

But its blade did not long breathe all quiet 

For the skulls kindled it to raving red: 

A hidden furnace in its hauted skewer, 

Striped with wick, filled with pirate war-powder; 

It lit across the hall, flamed wall to wall. 

The castle was afire: its stones hurt with heat, 

Its wood-beams burned, its curtains were caught 

And their colors vanished as smoke-wisps. 

he door-gates now burst, giving way to skulls, 

The foemice, who squeezed, seeping through, sneering, 

Greeting the good-mice in the glaring hall; 

Then Tallak and Kollok took up this cry: 

“This hour will make our honor! Fight!" 

Such a clash and crash of cold steel there was, 

Fierce, red fighting, flashes of eyes and swords. 

The sky was dark with surly storm clouds, 

Now moonlight retreated, neglecting its light, 

Last comfort for courage, in lunatic strength. 

Light glanced, gleaming of war-gear blazing, 

Fiery reflections of fur and fury. 

Sirs Tallak and Kollok, true-knight brothers, 

Bore a brunt of hacking, blows of brute force; 

“Kollok!" cried Tallak, “I ken they will kill us, 

Not kiss us kindly, or keep us as kin!" 

“Brother!" cried Kollok, “these be bad skull-mice, 

Corruptions of mouse; choose your kin well!" 

This heartfelt, grim jest they shared between them, 

Showing the skull-fiends how swords are wielded. 

Sir Tallak's smite was deft, and swift, and sage: 

Skulls he slew, their heads shattered and scattered. 

“Mouse-thanes!" cried Tallak, “mark the foe-mouse bows!" 

Now an arrow-volley, venomously-tipped, 

Traced its arc through air, into mouse-thane hearts. 

Sir Kollok cut the air, catching the barbs, 

Saving some mice-fellows who saw not the bolts. 

The horde swarmed the hall, hell-bent and breaking, 

Smashing mead-benches where good-mice once drank!

VIII.

ow King Mikkeltar came with his soldiers, 

Armed all for bloodshed, athwart the hall. 

Above the broken, unbridged stairs came a shout: 

“The queen is killed!" came the cry of that voice. 

When he heard this the king wept wild tears, 

Remembering Bekka, his beautiful bride; 

And prince and princess, his pride of kingdom; 

O stubborn love! They had not fled; 

Hopeful of heroes they had hid above, 

Confident the clouds would yet clear away; 

They felt no tremor or terrible thunder, 

Saw no helmets of foreign-come hundreds, 

Secluded in safety such was their thought; 

They coddled and embraced, closed in their room. 

But the burning blade, the bright behemoth, 

The Fyordsmog, had cut them to the heart. 

“The queen is killed!" came the cry again. 

The king did not dab his tears, but let them drop; 

Revenge now, not duty, raged in his eyes. 

His mouth moved to make his warriors ready 

With words of war, but swallowed them away, 

Save a single cry: 

“When men will not fight, mice must take to sword!" 

Thus he cried the mouse's call to combat, 

And to the fire-breach they followed him, 

Serving warriors, whose names I thus recount: 

Antlak, Aent, Eytla, Ongor, Onthor, Utt; 

Bersen, Butgur, Bintu, Dekkli, and Dask; 

Fersa, Firsi, Fergi, Ingeld, and Ink; 

Grithma, Gottuld, Gorsson, Heflan, and Hof; 

Laplad, Musma, Mirgr, Mosfur, and Mek; 

Rus and Randol, Rothga, Sithgur, and Suth; 

Thorson and Thrayson,Thomborson, and Wirt; 

And all those whose names tales tell us not of. 

Now at their appointed places these people 

Of Mousgard, now both meek and stout-hearted, 

Fought as they fair could, fearing of their lives. 

Sirs Tallak and Kollok kept up their part 

Of the foe-flooded hall, faithful to the king. 

But the throng was too strong and thick for two 

To hold the hellish, swelling horde at bay; 

Kollok, though wrathful, his reach reliable, 

Though he left six foemice slain each side, 

Was caught by the knives of the impious knaves. 

Cuts of scalpers clamored (calank!) and claimed 

The mouse-knights in the mead-hall of Mousgard. 

Sir Hafsdan, short but harmful to his foes, 

Held the stairs with his trusted sword, Shwert, 

Guarding room-halls where mouse-maids hid mouslings. 

“I am stunted short, like a cute mouse-babe 

So I can cut you cleanly at the waist! 

Meet Shwert, your new mate!" 

Twelve skulls he split thus, and still was fighting; 

But a wretched rat relished his strong-bow: 

An arrow-shaft sped, sealing Hafsdan's fate. 

Sir Hattamar fought, fanatical flames 

Encroaching around him; enemies felt 

A blazing burn from the blade in his paws, 

A-flurry in the flares of fire, steel-hewn light 

Thwarting the skulls like a thief in the night. 

Hattamar the handsome, hero-son of Garmail, 

Made no mocking boast, minding his sword-swing. 

Twelve skulls he pierced, seven he severed 

Neatly at the neck, unknotting their heads. 

Heat was unheeded by him, who was proud, 

And his poor paws were parched, his fur burnt off; 

Good Sir Hattamar, haughty he had been, 

A jocular jokester, but just and true; 

Mouse-maidens would weep; their merry wooer 

Future had unfairly snuffed like a candle. 

Sir Skaltr warded the cellar below, 

Mocking the foemice to a mind-fury, 

Saying, “I am not smart, so I am told, 

But you, friendly skulls, have clean-scraped scalps, 

So baldly do you wield your own weapons; 

My little mouse-son swings his oak-twig better!" 

The skulls made to mob Skaltr, but he slipped 

Aside, skirting their wide, swaying, stray swings; 

The foemice tumbled in a furry blur 

Down the cellar stairs, dizzying at the door. 

Skaltr booted beer barrels on their heads; 

Twelve skulls he took thus, toppling and killing 

Them as they clambered. But Mousefate had come. 

From the corner of his eye, Skaltr saw plain 

The specter of his sister, lost to him 

Young still, as the last winter he had seen her, 

When the snowstorm wind blurred her away. 

“Skaltr, brother. I admire your bravery, 

But why tarry here, away from true home? 

Merla, your mouse-wife, awaits you with mirth, 

Father and mother, they are unharmed there." 

That was it for Skaltr, whose paws gave up sword, 

Who left Mousgard behind for mouse-world, 

To embrace family again, at last. 

ow only five knights were left for fighting: 

When the Fyordsmog fell it had flattened 

Sir Gomoll to the ground, but the old knight 

Was alive, unailed; alert he crawled out 

From under burning blade, barely above 

His outstretched arms and widened eyes and ears. 

A skull he met who slashed his shoulder 

With a scythe. Sir Gomoll grasped the ghoul's throat 

And throttled him; grabbed the weapon and wrenched 

It from the fiend's paws; threw the foe against 

The scorching spikes of the Fyordsmog; 

Flung the scythe aside. "Small, sorry weapon," 

He spat, and recovered his furnished brand. 

Wounded he made way to a toppled wall, 

And fought single-handed the swarming skulls. 

“Fluffy-furred brats! I fed your fathers fish, 

And you repay me with mere raps and taps 

From your feeble blades! You rascal fools! 

Go doze again in your salty sea-dorms, 

Come back when your fur is matted thick like mine, 

When your breath does not betray your birth 

By pirate parents!" 

Five skulls more he skewed, but the scorch of heat 

Bent his bearded head; but his last stroke struck 

A cheating churl who had set torch to him; 

Fur still afire Gomoll fought till his flame ceased. 

Sir Bregoson stood on crumbled stones 

And kicked the enemy in the muzzle. 

He boasted below to the brutes these words: 

“File for your floggings, filthy fiends, 

I have slain more foes than you have sent here!" 

His broad blade, iron-bound, branded across 

The sea, he swiftly swung– shlank! That knight took 

Ten tail-less skulls and made them head-less! 

An eleventh foe, a late-hour skull, 

Brought forth his ill will with dagger drawn; 

His head leaped, lopped off by lash of the blade, 

By a swift, swinging turn of Bregoson's sword. 

Atop the wall the warrior was at advantage, 

But a twelfth foe took hold of Bregoson's beard, 

Dragging him down to dagger him dead; 

Curse those hidden knives that spring unknown, 

Cowardly cutters that curs use for killing! 

Bregoson brought that skull by battle force 

To the floor inflamed; a firestone hearth 

It was now, singing fur, wilting whiskers! 

The foe-mouse skull-helmet fell away 

Letting light shine on the mouse muzzle, 

Grim eyes glaring, fur grizzled and gruesome; 

That foe made feint to sink his sharp fangs 

In Bregoson's shoulder, but the shadow 

Of a thirteenth skull, unlucky number, 

Stood behind Bregoson to betray him, 

Stabbing his turned back, spending honor's blood. 

Now twice betrayed was Bregoson, a prince 

Expelled from birthplace, passed across the sea. 

Now the hellish horde heavy-filled the hall, 

Crammed in every corner of the castle. 

When the skull-wearers were sighted seizing, 

Those fools that first did not flee the castle 

Leapt the ramparts, plunging to their deaths. 

By Meggr's mace alone many lay dead 

As his weapon cracked and crashed around him. 

Encircled by enemy eye and axe, 

Mikkeltar's mouse-thanes met them blow-to-blow, 

Keeping the king alive, catching the sword-cuts 

With their own weapons or their own bodies. 

The skulls screamed curses and spit at their foes, 

“Slavemice and sloppers! Shratgatamaga! 

Kill the crown-wearer, the king of all wealth, 

Rob all the riches, ravish the kingdom!”

ow Meggr the Mace made way in the hall 

To stand before the king's throne set with fire, 

And sent the seat to cinders with his mace. 

His eyes roamed the room, seeking out riches, 

That would suffice his resplendent hunger: 

For goblets and garnets, and golden horn-cups, 

For the dragon-drink, the draught of long life 

Brewed of blood and bone, a brutish legend. 

But he found no jeweled white fountain springing, 

Nor the murk of mouse-born myth and fable, 

Only the desperation of defense. 

King Mikkeltar fought, old-aged as he was, 

Oft as a fresh warrior, fighting with joy 

In the luster of light, lucky and quick 

Then as an elder, old and aching in bones. 

But the Singing Sword led his battle-sight 

As the king of mice killed for his kingdom. 

Now catching sight of Meggr's helm iron 

He wearied once more, drained of warrior-zeal, 

Facing his war-foe: the fate-bringer. 

Meggr called: “Face me, Mikkeltar the Mild! 

I have scalped raw the skull of your castle, 

Bow your own head now, for my mighty mace; 

Monarch face me, for I am the Anarch!" 

Mikkeltar perceived his foe, the Mace, 

Who grinned greedy beneath his ghoulish eyes; 

This malefactor had murdered his family: 

Bekka, most beautiful with bright blue bows 

And ribbons trailing freely from her dress; 

Princess smiling, fat furry cheeks, large eyes; 

Prince practicing, image of his father 

All this he thought in a fleet, flashing tide, 

For dreams may flood the mind in a moment. 

Rage renewed, voice betraying no age, he cried: 

“By Fafner's Fire I'll flay your fur off, 

You rat! Naked you will greet the darkness!" 

Now Meggr's mace and the Singing Sword 

Which Mikkeltar brandished up bright above, 

Clashed in high upstroke and the silver song 

Of the sword sliced the mace's spikes in twain! 

Once more Mikkeltar spoke to make a boast: 

“This is the sword sent of the sacred tree 

Though Fate strike me down, still I will slay thee!” 

But the chest-smasher, its chain chortling still, 

Rose up again and arched above his head, 

And delivered down a damning blow. 

The king keeled afloor, clutching his weapon; 

His head was hurt, his helmet cloven through; 

Meggr with his mace mocked the fallen king, 

Saw surrender in the saddened monarch, 

Felt victory before his inflamed paws; 

His paws were burning, blackened in ashes! 

But he felt fire as a welcome friend. 

Now Sir Garmail, Sir Danoson, Sir Wulfson, 

All that was left of the ten worthy knights, 

Bounded over the south wall on horses, 

Over the crumpled, crashed walls once haughty. 

Then thunder trembled in the ears of all: 

The rollicking repeats of freed horse-hooves, 

Untamed steeds stampeding from the stables! 

Over the broken battlements they burst, 

A created frenzy of hounds and horses; 

In they leapt into the fiery fray 

Trampling skulls, ghoulish goons who groaned grim 

Under the onset of steeds and greyhounds. 

Real rain fell, and real thunder rolled and rose 

As the sky poured down its dark and its light. 

Some quick of wit mounted a passing steed 

And thus advantage gained the ground, and gave 

Freely to their foes final, high-borne blows. 

ir Garmail strung his strong-bow and stretched it, 

Well-aimed the arrow amidst the throng, 

And sped it to slay Meggr the skull-leader; 

Meggr the Mace fell, flat-faced to the floor. 

How game-eyed was Garmail! Gone was his youth, 

But age and experience aided his arm; 

The sixty and nine summers of his life 

Fixed before his mind; but Future was wroth, 

Survival was vain: A fresh-drawn volley 

From the birch-hewn brigand bows, cut in hate, 

Bore down like snakes, straightened for striking 

Mice dead, defender and dastard alike. 

And good Garmail too, fell to gory death 

The prince of puzzle, poem, and wisdom,

Who had solved the seven strifes of Asbar, 

Battled by wit the beast that blinded its prey 

He too fell astray of life, to meet gory death. 

Sir Danoson rode over the wretches, 

The hooves of his horse— hammers on their heads. 

Sir Danoson was proud, possessed of joy 

In war; sword-wielder and glory-getter! 

He leaned but a little in his saddle 

To swoop and sever the heads of his foes. 

“Taste the steel of honor, tail-less traipses!" 

Was his shout; he was the shadow on them. 

Here was Danoson with his true-heart shown, 

A deed-doer, song-worthy for stories! 

Sir Danoson was brave: the bite of his sword 

Sent sixteen sorry skulls to the floor-stones, 

Slain, and their sculpted masks splintered and smashed. 

But an able old archer, a skull-mouse, 

Clambered the rubble, observing the knight 

Astride his steed. The bow's bolt burst 

Forth, a-quickened on an errand of death. 

Curse that arrow! That dart of destruction, 

Ignoble needle that needed no nerve 

To stretch and spring the string, slyly slaying 

The warrior abaft, his eyes unknowing! 

A flash before him, memories flooding, 

Danoson dreamed the road that drew him there 

Many measured miles and moorlands ago, 

Past the marches, fens, and forest passways: 

A small whelping dog, begging pups attached; 

A mouse-lad hiding from his father's work; 

A rat-bone seeress, and stranger mouse-folk; 

The open, wild wolds of Narngaren, 

Where he had found his heart-home in the hall 

Of Mousgard, where Mikkeltar embraced him. 

Sir Danoson flew down in a death-dive, 

Into the fire. 

mong mired spears, mounted mouse-thanes sent 

The skulls shrieking shrilly in a scatter, 

Turning and terrified at the tempest 

Of their own devising: the mad onslaught 

Of fire; flock and furor burnt fur 

And flesh enmeshed in ash and shards of wreck 

And ruin; the sludge of embers and ash 

That raining waters had thus washed upon. 

Now the slave-mice, by some recovered strength, 

Or strength discovered when death draws close by, 

Broke from their bonds and bounded to the fray, 

Scrambling for swords, spears, and scalpers to fight 

Against their enslavers, the skulking skulls 

Who frighted now at fire, and facing 

Opposition on every-each side 

Felt their own fearsome weapons wounding them 

In the paws of poor, peaceable peasants 

And farmers, and folk from foolish Asbar. 

By this strategy were they overcome! 

Such is the skill that strikes at battle time, 

When pulse quickens the paw to firmer grip 

The blade a burden that becomes as air 

When the heart heightens, and hamstrings tighten, 

And sinew of sword and soul made to one. 

Or else battle-fear may strike other mice 

Heavy and deep, a hole in their gut; 

Horror-struck, their hearts stuck high in their throats, 

Ashamed in their shaking, they shield their eyes. 

Battle is the brother of brutish truth, 

Which no mouse can know till it confront him. 

Thus fought these slave-mice, called Thobald and Bild, 

Borduc and Bandr, Bittgr and Forflad; 

There was Formuslak the Fair, son of Nyr, 

And Grimrirson, a gray-furred grand-mouse 

With all his mouse-sons: Agrim, Attor, Ask; 

There was Turpin, a tree-mouse archer, 

And Glara the Gainly, gifted in weight; 

There was Guthgar, goat-bearded wilder-mouse, 

Enslaved at his hut, now laughing aloud, 

Fighting the fiends that forced chains upon him; 

There was young Yersow, yet but a mouse-lass 

Maiden that yesterday was yoked in chains, 

Now swinging a scalper plucked from a corpse; 

There too were Gothrir, and Friggloth the Fool, 

Kinbrook and Kirkla, counted of hundreds. 

By their paws had lurched the ruinous spike 

Upon Mousgard, their parent protector. 

Now they fair fought in the final hour, 

To end the onslaught. 

IX.

hat of Sir Wulfson, woodland-adopted? 

Over the opened wall he had entered 

With the Renward, unready for battle; 

Armed and armored, yet afraid for the fight. 

As a page he had played with oaken sticks 

In mocking-battle. Here was bloody practice 

With almighty weapons, blades of hard edge. 

He raised his sword to suffer the skull-fiends, 

But willed his eyes away, wishing no sight. 

Still horsed on his steed, he steered in chaos, 

Fearing the flames, but faithful to his task. 

His horse careened and kicked its hooves about, 

Harassed by hell-thanes, Fate's horrid soldiers. 

“Leave here, you flea-rats!" he firmly warned them, 

Wresting from the reach of their reeking paws. 

“Come then, you, captain, keep this broken tail!" 

They hurled it at him– a bloody mouse-tail; 

King Mikkeltar's own. 

The king's fallen form confronted his eyes: 

His friend and father, his forest-savior. 

Now his heart welled with unwanted war-hate, 

The desire to destroy evil-doers: 

These merciless mice, life-mockers, 

Like jeering jokers, yet jesting not. 

Rage upon rage, revenge his thirsty lust, 

Brimming and bursting, burning in his head, 

Blotting out songs of the beautiful past, 

His hatred now overcame his fearful 

Dread of dealing death blows– and he dealt them! 

Splitting one skull, and so the one beneath; 

Slashing at shoulders, shattering the bones, 

Thrusting through throats to the thick of his blade. 

Now a sneaking skull slashed the horse's hind; 

Now rearing upward, now running outward, 

Went Wulfson's mare-mount, maddened with foul fumes, 

Out of the ashes, out of the rubble, 

Out to the cool moor where wet grass waited 

To quench her hard hunger and deep thirst, 

To salve her savage wound; to sleep and rest. 

Wulfson's hind-paws were caught in the stirrup, 

Sliding down sideways, clutching the saddle, 

Grounding to grass, gasping for breath. 

No soothing thought for sleep slipped on his eyes, 

But beheld the battered, broken castle 

Despaired in death-throes, deserted by mice: 

Staggering soldiers and straying skulls; 

Mothering mouse-maids– holding mouslings close; 

Horses and hounds were neighing and baying; 

All the living were gone, leaving by the dead, 

Save for a single soul: Sir Wulfson. 

He turned to Tintavel, truest horse-friend 

And last friend that was left him on that day. 

Arrows sticking from her stomach and neck; 

Wide-eyed and rasping in weakness of breath, 

She too left him there, her eyes opened wide. 

“O! My mare! My King Mikkeltar! O Mousgard! 

And Narngaren lost!" 

Smell of ash and burnt fur foully filled the air, 

An upward rain of sorrow and regret. 

When Wulfson's last tears had washed like dew drops 

In the morning grass, his gaze turned again 

To see the clouded sky serenely gray, 

Drifting slowly, dispersing its dark veil; 

Now the sky opened plain to blue expanse. 

The sun surveyed the surface of the earth, 

Bleeding down light on those that bled below, 

Making green again what gray had shadowed. 

The king and his faithful keep-thanes lay dead, 

Their mail half-shining silver in the sun 

Or blackened deep by the breath of fire. 

Among these lay many other dead mice: 

The careless citizen-fools of Asbar, 

Who thought lofty thoughts, but threw their freedom 

Away in the wind, were drawn to slave-chains, 

Marched by Meggr over the moorlands 

They too found their hour, their own last strength 

To fight, death-doomed, defending Narngaren. 

And those farmland mice who first roamed freely, 

But stolen from their homesteads to be slaves 

Had found freedom again at the final hour. 

The dreadful dirge-guests, the diminished skulls, 

Lay still at last in the open sunlight, 

Their war-masks stripped from their muzzle-faces: 

Yet mere mice that Mousgard might have welcomed 

In a better hour, as free-mice should, 

Beckoning their brethren to the mead-bench 

To break bread and drink burly beers and ales; 

Tasking their guests to tell a tale their own, 

To shape a lay-song of unsung heroes; 

Sharing draughts to friendship, shouting—Mousgard! 

In praise of the past and present to-come. 

Among the mortal-dead was Mikkeltar: 

Wulfson saw the glint of the gleam of his king 

In golden armor, and golden cap-helm. 

Wulfson went to him and wept at his side, 

Unearthing the Mouseking from the damage 

And dross that covered the kingly muzzle: 

One eye was closed, bruised and beaten; 

The right eye remained open, still seeing. 

With last breaths he gasped words softly: 

“Wulfson. Least worthy of my warriors; 

Your muzzle I desired to see again, 

You the most: who disdained this darkness, 

Yet you held true, though youngest among us. 

Wasteful seasons you spent, singing, sighing 

For the wind to whisk you away, away.... 

I was jealous, wishing to revive my youth, 

But harshness was easy in my worry. 

My son is dead. Yet in you I see myself: 

I would have saved you, last knight, as my son. 

I see beyond you with open eye the blue sky, 

And promise of strong Spring, songful Summer, 

Fruitful Autumn, and a Winter most bright. 

With my closed eye I see my forefathers 

Standing in green gardens full of life: 

Picture of perfect peace, pure in promise; 

In quiet dorms they dwell. They embrace me..." 

Then his open eye closed on the land of Narn, 

And his spirit sped, as he said, to hills 

Of his fathers, fair fathoms from there 

Where none may wander, as from wilderness, 

From waking world to widened life-lands. 

His body was burnt, as believed by mice, 

To leave behind life; but lone Wulfson knew 

The king went to dwell in the dorms of kin, 

Real rest to receive. 

X.

ulfson perceived a peaceful countenance

On the muzzle of the departed king: 

Eyes were not clamped or teeth clenched defiant, 

But slept deep as in comfort of kind bed. 

Wulfson wondered on the images before him, 

Daydreams floated now before him as clouds. 

Death seemed no enemy, followed aright: 

Yet Future was uncertain, fraud, and fake. 

It was Future that sat and spun the world, 

Worrying all whiskers with wasteful wishes; 

Death stood a sturdy door against the wind, 

The gate to greater comfort and reward; 

Future clouded clear vision of the present, 

But death unblinded the eyes to behold 

All times and all the world in clarity. 

“All my days I have wondered and wandered 

Seeking serenity in the woods and wildness: 

Only images of the peace I apprehend 

On the king's countenance, eyes of content, 

Greeting his great sires in girted gardens, 

Finding real rest for his fainting paws. 

Now I shall strive on earth to attain well 

That reward, and not let Future fool me 

To run in games of round, repeating races 

On his wicked wheel. 

Life is not his keep, but his limited pen; 

Death is not his ward; he keeps us from it; 

Fire is earthly flame; dark is mere dusk. 

All mice have mocked death, retracted from it, 

But I shall embrace it when it arrives, 

Yet not retreat to it like a rat hole." 

Wulfson laid the Mouseking on a solid stone, 

Wide to encompass his muzzle and arms. 

“Farewell Mikkeltar, mighty yet mild, 

King of many sorrows; yet you are home." 

Sir Wulfson crawled and staggered, scaling up 

Onto the hill, out of the lost valley, 

And rested himself under an old tree; 

A singular oak apart the cast-down castle, 

Overlooking the wreckage from on high. 

Though all strongholds were extinguished in might, 

The life of Narngaren still flowed strong: 

Farmers, hunters, free mice dispersed throughout, 

For Meggr's greed had given them wide berth. 

All skulls that escaped that night, by their nose, 

Were forgotten, freed from former folly; 

Slaves who lived, set free again, breathed afresh 

The air, returning to rest on the moors. 

Sir Wulfson built anew castle Mousgard 

On the hill of old, overseer, sentry oak; 

The oak he cut across and carved a table, 

Broad, spacious, filled full with food and drink, 

A mead-hall for warriors, welcome to heroes. 

A monument in the vale he mounted, 

With Mikkeltar and his knights entombed. 

Wulfson as king reigned now in Narngaren, 

The seven strongholds he restored aright 

And peace prevailed in his time with no plight, 

Save the sorry skirmishes of the feuding fool. 

Narngaren was newly named Narnaran, 

To shoo the shadow of sorrow away. 

But no mouse, prophet or king though they be, 

Can command thought, or time control; 

Or pretend power to possess and play 

The shifts of the earth, or of the mind.