The Lord with Half the Ice at Heel
From the Private Annals of the Church of Pelor.
Transcribed by Beltak, Scribe to His Radiant Servant, Tremak the Plush.
The 9th day of Marpenoth in the Year of the Ruins Reborn.
Yesterday, as I strolled from the Shrine towards the newly built Chapel of Rest, I passed old Yolanda Haxenby, Effie Greenwood’s mother, sat in the shade of the morning sun behind one of the old pillars. Sat at her feet, transfixed, were some of the youngsters of the town; Oriana Small and Alicia Lowfield who go everywhere together, and little Jocelyn Greenwood, Yolanda’s grand-daughter.
Yolanda was singing, in that croaking voice of hers, an old verse. One of few remaining tales of the Great Collapse, passed down from generation to generation. Nothing more than fairy stories these days. I’d heard the verse before, but Yolanda used some odd words here and there, more archaic than our current tongue. As I listened, I thought of the old book that Valino had brought me from the Stone Circle.
When Yolanda had finished and the girls had run off to play in the central plaza, I asked her about the words, and what the verse meant. Unfortunately, she didn’t seem to know any more words, or even what they meant. It’s so frustrating that we have a book that seems to be from the past, and yet we have no way of finding out what tales it can tell.
However, I have copied Yolanda’s verse down, in the faint hope that it may be of use in the future.
The Lord with half the Ice at heel is marched from land of waste;
Their fighters drink the rivers dry, their Dancers blight the land.
He that stands will die for nought, so to sea with all our haste,
Let honour be to those that flee, not those left under sand.
A crash of drums starts the charge, the ground moves under foot,
Blackened shafts fly through the air, the East becomes the night.
An icy wind begins to blow, through soldiers it doth cut;
The Dancers with their masks of fear bring the wind through might.
Ten score of friendly soldiers fall, with ice upon their lips,
No time to call and no farewells, the city left to rack.
From Dancers’ call a storm arrives with havoc on the ships,
Few escape the boiling bay, ne’er to venture back.