I.

 

ystic is the mead hall where Mousefate sleeps,

A place of broad beams—the bones of old trees.

Lanterns are lowered from the rafters,

And candles burn bright upon the mantle stones.

Beneath glow the embers of late winter,

The coals of life-blood that keep out the cold.

Here dwells the Mouseking and his lordlings,

In a famous fortress, fathomed in a vale.

Now at Mousgard the king in rueful dreams

Feels the stirs of Fortune’s quiet leaving

And waking finds the sun as red as blood.

To benches then he calls his ten best knights

For council in the hall, and finds them there,

In mid-morning feast, free from worldly cares,

Ensconced in comfort, knights of great renown:

II.

ir Tallak the Tall, foremost and noblest, 

Lanky and long-faced, leaf-thin and tree-tall– 

The king's trusted teller of warfare tactic, 

Who had witnessed the weeping man-mountain 

In the test of his long-strided travels. 

Sir Kollok his brother, fattest, boldest, 

Whose laugh was loudest to ring in the hall; 

Who had roused resting farmers to retain 

Their farms and freedoms– to fight for their land, 

To battle mangey brigands on the moors. 

Sir Garmail the Wise, gatherer of lore-books, 

Whose mind played games of wit, writ, and riddle; 

Careful and crafting, considering all 

Behind dull eyes, where below rested his 

Wily, white old whiskers that outward sprang 

From fur dark and dun, draped in well-worn clothes. 

Sir Hattamar his son, hale and young, 

Lover of lasses, lucky warrior, 

Boaster and battler, with wide, broad shoulders; 

Whose fur was fox-red-brown, whose frame was stout– 

Wearer of the red hauberk– the king's gift. 

Sir Gomoll– grim-faced wearer of old wounds; 

His beard was knotted and braided with beads, 

His paws had payed the price of battle-play: 

Atop his harry horse he had fought foes 

On a time, by pale moon in dead of night, 

Slaying them by sword, or strangling them dead 

With his wolf-paws, his awful bear-grip; 

Survivor of a dozen battles lost, 

Sole honor-winner of a dozen more; 

But old age now quickly crept upon him. 

Sir Skaltr– not strong or smart, but jolly! 

Long-laugher, lewd and merry joke-maker: 

With the tip of his lengthy tail he could turn 

The nozzle of the nearest beer barrel! 

Yet fair and free was his mind and mettle, 

The son of peasants whose plight he wept for. 

Sir Bregoson the Brave– the broad-bearded, 

The rescuer of the royal daughter; 

Proud was his plumed cap and plate-breasted mail, 

His muzzle princely, for prince he was born 

Across the sea in a sun-warmed kingdom– 

But betrayed there by his Mouseprince-brothers, 

And shut out in shame to shape his own path; 

So he sailed the sea to serve Mikkeltar. 

Sir Hafsdan the Short, but long in the nose; 

Most humble he was, yet highest in praise 

For his hearth-fellows, his friends in combat; 

A conscience to the king, keenly hearted 

To soul-sorrows and the spirit of good. 

Sir Danoson the Silent, swift with a sword: 

His cape was green, his shirt ungarnished white. 

A mouse mysterious in demeanor– 

What rainy lost roads had he ranged upon? 

What woodlands walked to wade the other side? 

What shadows suffered where sunlight was black? 

How felt the meadows to meet on his paws 

When he passed them through? What sights had he seen 

That he should always clap shut his own words? 

Last was Sir Wulfson, woodland-adopted, 

Uncut, uncouth youth; yearning wanderer, 

Least of the band for his heart was elsewhere: 

In the forest where the Mouseking found him 

Bundled in a crude basket of briars.

III.

he mouse-knights were mirthful, jostling their mugs 

Of honey-made mouse-mead— a merry-cheeked drink! 

In the Mouseking’s hall, between wooden walls 

They laughed, telling tales, told from sip-to-sip; 

All but Danoson, who was deaf and dumb 

Even to the good jokes, Gomoll’s gory jokes! 

“Call the bard to sing!” said Sir Hattamar, 

“Or I will recount my feats of tourney, 

“Labored to my liking, loathful to your ears!” 

The mouse-knights groaned, grunting disagreement, 

For no knight could name so well his own deeds, 

Though they be granted earth's greatest strength 

Or gold-gifted tongue. 

 

Deeds depicted decorated the hall

Of mouse story told, of heroes of old: 

Sir Galamar rode, on red-cloth tapestry, 

The dragon of Duthgr, to dagger him dead. 

"There's a legend our deed-loon hasn't met!" 

Jested Bregoson and jabbed his fellow 

In the shoulder, sharing a joke and wink. 

Hattamar exclaimed: “A true hero-knight! 

The deed of deeds is dragon-slaying. 

Few have gotten such glory to engrave 

On their tombstones or in tales by bards. 

In the wastes of wilderness one might find 

A lesser serpent, a ground-slitherer; 

But the old worms of wing we see none of.” 

Garmail replied, “Nay, but I have heard that 

In the hall of Hengest, the high-lord 

Of ancient Asbar, hung a dragon skin 

Said to be Hofferny's hide, the hottest 

Fire-breather, whose flames smelted mountains; 

Whose mere fumes were murder to those that breathed.” 

Sir Bregoson joked, “By Hattamar's boasts 

“We should then shrink up: heated breath indeed!” 

And they all laughed, even Sir Danoson. 

 

Now the mouse-bard came and called for his mead,

The draught of story, for skill in telling. 

He plucked the harp, whose strings became the past, 

And his voice made visions spring on their minds 

So that they saw Galamar the good thane 

Standing among them, greeting them as old 

Friends whose familiar faces he had 

Lost a long time ago in early years. 

“Come fellows!” called he, “on towards that fire,” 

And he led them down deep into the dark 

Through earthen tunnels that saw nothing till 

At last, a red-gold glow, a dragon, 

They glimpsed through a gap, dragging his belly. 

Now they sprang out in a fierce formation, 

Wounding the worm, wasting his body to death. 

The deed now being done they loudly boasted: 

“I have slain it!” shouted Sir Hattamar— 

“Struck it in the side, stabbed it through the heart!” 

And in that moment they believed his words, 

Hanging their smaller deeds upon his own. 

But from a dank cold corner of the hall 

Came the king to the edge of the fire. 

“Many summers have gone since you have slain 

Anything, Hattamar. Why do you boast 

And desire deeds you have not dared to do?” 

And his thane could not comprehend his king 

And looked his eyes away to the wall 

And saw Sir Galamar still sitting still. 

 

Kollok called “Well, king! Come join our drinking!

The morn was mirthful, merry now's the eve; 

Let the king laugh out, lord of his table!" 

The king spoke, “No, Kollok, no cup will I sip 

In a smile. No smirk shall pass on my cheek. 

As you pursue glories bygone in dreams 

My nightmares pursue me in open light. 

I awoke from that womb of woven dreams 

And the lifted veil revealed this vision: 

Darkness drawing closer; the fires of fate; 

The world all enshrouded, at last extinguished.” 

So said the king standing before them, 

His gray eyes downcast, his whiskers all drooped. 

Then Kollok spoke thus: “What question is this 

Haunting your head; what help would you ask? 

Is it world-ending war or mere worry? 

Oft in other times you artfully caught 

The snares of Future's signs, subverting them 

With the Singing Sword, heaven-sent steel. 

Speak specific of your sights and visions, 

Tell us in truth what great task we must do 

My king, that we may remain long on this earth.” 

The Mouseking outstretched his arms to them, 

And across his paws lay an iron sword, 

A jagged scalper ere unseen in Narn. 

Twice has Sgriffa taken the sky of late, 

In my dreams his eye at last saw Mousgard. 

Now this unlucky sword signals some fate 

Yet uncome, but coming quickly to us." 

On oaken table, ugly to behold 

They set their eyes on that weirdly weapon. 

 

Sir Hattamar spoke “Sgriffa is a sign, 

Why weep at a sign? His wings fly by wind, 

His hunting is birdly as a hungry beast. 

Let me take aim and set an arrow high 

To fell that flier with my fair bow-skill. 

As for this strange sword I'll swing it proudly, 

A worshipful weapon, if it wins wars." 

 

The king spoke, scolding “You scoff at a sign? 

The northern Narn, whose nourishing waters 

We drink, are the day-counted drops of tears 

Whose spring are the eyes of the giant man, 

Kneeling among mountains as high as he, 

Weeping for his fellows, lost forever. 

That is no symbol: Sgriffa no mere sign, 

Whom our forefathers knew by feather-sight. 

Even in youth the Singing Sword you knew

By significance, why it sits nearby

The throne even when the thrush sings in spring.

Heed your history better, Hattamar,

And use your mettle, maybe a little." 

 

Now Garmail, who grasped the ghastly foe-sword, 

Spoke lowly in a chanting tone these words: 

In the furnace-forges of Old Skalhar 

Might such a sword be shaped of iron rock. 

No weapon has so wearied on my paws, 

Nor so heavy on my heart, my head so pained. 

No scurvy smith-mouse smelted this iron 

By a careless kindling camper's fire. 

This sharpened edge was cut by a master, 

On machines that make mountains shake; 

So I have gleaned of this ghost-made weapon 

From our fathers' past, yet furbished anew; 

So I have heard and read in history. 

If I risk the scorns of my fellow warriors 

So be it, and all my wits flown from me, 

For I fear the wielder of this weapon." 

 

Then the Mouseking said “truly speaks Garmail, 

And let no laughing loose from careless lips, 

For this fearful scalper at first light came 

By quick carrier in quiet passage 

Of night, nimble in his noiseless travel. 

At dawn he delivered his dark tidings: 

When he spoke the sun itself sank sadly, 

Falling back to the shade and shame of night," 

 

Thus spoke Sir Tallak, surveying the sword: 

Often we have faced great foes that fought us, 

Who sought to steal and stake claim to your house. 

Is it difficult, lord, to lift our swords, 

To nurse them again for Narngaren's sake? 

Again we must upraise an army here 

To turn these truants from our turf and walls. 

Lazy and loutish have land-farmers grown 

On matters of arms, moorlands past their care. 

Let us dispatch this news, and draw the blades 

From these farmland folk, fresh in mind and blood. 

Arm now and we avoid the enemy 

If he comes sooner and later marching. 

Allow me leave, lord, to enlist soldiers; 

I shall rally them and tally their swords 

To save Narngaren." 

The king considered, “Sir Tallak you talk 

To trouble me with yours words of tactic. 

I bid you behold and believe these signs; 

Oft in older days I dreamed visions 

That showed me my foes, that I should kill them. 

No face now is shown me, but nimble hints; 

Shakings of earth, the shadows that follow. 

This weapon's wielder is the world's last foe, 

Coming unknown to us, our long-lost fate." 

The king's whiskers wilted, his wise head drooped, 

His paws raised up in petty despair. 

 

Now Sir Kollok spoke “Mouseking, my good lord, 

Dim indeed is this news, but be yet bold! 

Hold your head high for hope of honor 

Whilst I live the foe shall still find a fight!" 

The Mouseking laughed, his voice lifted at last, 

“Listen aright, dearest thane of Mousgard, 

I know you have heartstrings to play the fight, 

For in other days you made the sun brighter. 

But heed the signs and know the nearing end. 

Outward and inward they appear to me, 

Half-hidden muzzles of horrible visage, 

Blinking in the blackness of their berth, 

Groping from their graves, out to grasp me dead, 

Murmuring madness, marking sharp outcries 

In the night. On our knees shall we plead them, 

But they shall be the peace-breakers as we 

Shall be the broken; no battle tactic, 

No last hope for honor shall preserve us, 

For none may hold the heeling, sinking sun. 

All that is life is laid on this table, 

For what is death but the last drop of mead, 

Drunk by brothers on this bench, as we here." 

 

Then Sir Hafsdan spoke his true-hearted thoughts: 

“Thus our dark daegrim is indeed foretold; 

Such is Mousefate, as with men of old, 

A story of sadness, spread on the world 

As a deadly seed, deeply sown in earth, 

Growing and growing, and choking the ground. 

Yet what blame may we burden given signs? 

Sgriffa is the signal, not Fate's own sword 

But we mice wield swords, as warriors should, 

Against other mice because they fight us; 

And so evil is sown, like thrown seed, 

Earth corrupted with the corpses of kin, 

Blood bespattered to berth in the soil; 

And so bogs begin, and barrows are dug, 

And the land lies solemn like a graveyard, 

A garden for doubting ghosts to graze on. 

I deem that the old world that died to man 

Was dry with the choking dust of death, 

Or rank with rotted corpses that rose up. 

Why should death not return to rebuke us 

If we are the slayers of our own sorrow? 

Why should mice dare fight, and not simply be? 

Then would the ground grow green again with life 

And Mithern-earth be merry, and made good." 

 

The king replied “Hear the moral teller! 

How well you spoke, Hafsdan. Yet who shall mark 

Your wisdom? In what book shall they read it? 

Shout your phrases louder so Fate may hear; 

Now look your ears! List his laughing silence. 

Gardens and gadflies! You gain us nothing! 

Twice has Sgriffa flown from his high-perched seat, 

Twice cast his winged shadow over Mousgard; 

Now this weird weapon appears to us here, 

The sign most certain of our future fate; 

So let us attend unto our hour." 

 

Then good Sir Garmail spoke “It is reckoned 

In the annals of Aglayca the Young 

That Sgriffa secretly scouts all the lands 

So that no place escapes his piercing eye. 

It may be that Mousgard and the Mouseking 

Have caught his eagle gaze in ancient days, 

Written in the past, unrecorded or lost." 

Thus the king replied “keenly have you scanned 

The old books, Garmail; and as old books say: 

The belly of the bird is the beacon 

Of trouble, by tyrant or by terror; 

If my dreams be truth, and not delusion, 

I am right to reckon the wrathful bird 

The signal which Future waits fast upon." 

Garmail replied “Is he yet the signal, 

Or yet the warning of the waning world? 

In some stories, say bards, he kills not." 

And the king replied “In others he eats 

The insolent that set their houses high 

Upon hills, in the honor of the sun; 

In valleys we live to avoid his wrath." 

Then young Sir Wulfson spoke aloud his thoughts: 

“Does the eagle's eye now pierce the deep vale? 

Is he not satisfied to swoop and slay 

Aloft the hills, to hawk the houses there 

Of mice who defy wisdom for smugness? 

What wrong have we done that he widens his wing 

To delve our deep dorms?" 

The king was irked sore at this insolence, 

And replied, “How the young still pine for peace! 

Save your thoughts in your skull, Wulfson, 

Or better drain them to fill them aright 

With reality! Speaking against storm 

Will not break it; you wallow in words 

In your sea of wishes. Fix now your eyes 

On the sun that sets, not the one that rests 

In your private conception, safely stowed 

From sight of sorrow. Injustice juggles 

Not balances, the boat we sail, the earth; 

No arrow, sword, or spear may stop or stave 

Fire's finality. We are all to fail!"

Now the warrior mice sat silent in doubt, 

Waiting with worry, weary in heart

While Meggr the Mace lay ruin and wrack.