Lines on Harald Hardrada Sigurdsson inspired by his life and the warriors way. Written by Giles Kristian
I was fifteen years a youth When the steel-storm raged at Stiklestad And my kinsman King Olaf, not then a saint, In golden helm and mail clad Fought King Sveins hordes in high-summers heat. Like thunder the shieldwalls clashed,
Hungry blades biting again and again. Forward, forward! our desperate cry, On, Christs men, cross men, kings men! And ravens croaked in the darkening sky.
Against a rock we held our ground, A storm-tossed, sinking, shivered wreck. And I saw the good king cruelly struck In belly, leg and royal neck. It is hard to fight against such ill luck. But fight I did and killed men too
In the sword song and the arrow hiss, And then was felled against that rock By a gory axes thin-lipped kiss. A good man bent and bore me off.
I took the east-way then, and far To the lands of Grand Prince Jaroslav, And learnt of kingship, craft and court And of the wiles a king must have. Upon the Russian steppe I fought.
I built a fleet of sleek wave-steeds And honed my blood-worms anger. Then filled my ships with fearsome men, The destroyers of eagles hunger. We came to hack and rip and rend. At Fulford Gate the battle-sweat flew.
My banners haft pierced English sod. We made such slaughter of their earls, We crossed the dead-crammed swamp dry-shod And thinned them of their fine housecarls.
The fury grips me in its claws, I see their king in the gore-stained throng And I soak the earth with slaughters dew, As the ravens croak their greedy song, And Sword-Norse hack and slash and hew. The wound-sea flows now all around,
And their Harolds gift before me lies, Seven long feet of English ground. The arrow like a swallow flies And weaves my death beneath English skies. End