Árstíðir Lífsins Saga á tveim tungum II: Eigi fjǫll né firðir 1. Ek býð þik velkominn I: Velkominn í lífit, ávarpar maðr sjálfan sik. Ek býð þik velkominn, ungt líf sem þitt augum orgar til vera setrs. Unga flón, er flúðir leggja aldr feigrar móður. Þín barátta við at fin- na þau fyrstu lífsskref er fengin mér í hendr, til hjálpar. Undrsamligar grænar hallir liggja fyrir, blikandi byrjar láð í sólarsilfri lofa undir sem ofan. Flýr glóð af tryggum stalli hrjótgrams ok aldrstrega. Snark elris garms, grenjan húsbrjót- sins, hið breiða hljóman horns minnar iðju. Ungt líf, ert þú velkominn til glams stoðar er friðar ok lífi safnar, ok sleppir lífi þeirra lifanda aptr. Hér, er strit lífs ok aldrtila ávalt umlyk- jandi. Hér, sundvorpuðir eru ætíð viðar hunds bræðr, sárgagls hirðimeiðir ok Haddingja lond. English: I Welcome You Once welcomed to life, man begins to judge and fight. I welcome you, young life as you open your eyes unto this world. Young foul, escaping from the death of a dying mother. Your fight to find the first steps into life is pla- ced in my helping arms. Wonderous green cast- les ahead, blinking sea of the silver sun above and below. Embers flee from a secured place of fire and death. The cracking of the fire, the howl of the wind, the wide sound of a horn I blow. Young life, you are welcomed to a world that gathers peace in life, and releases life from the living again. Here, the struggle of life and death is ever present. Here, winds are everlast- ing brothers to fire, wood and water. 2. Bróðir, var þat þín hǫnd Bróðir, var þat þín hond? Mik dreymir grímu-draum, af dimmum skýflókum, af selju grandi ok hrapmunna hendr komandi frá hvítum ásjónum Hlés dætra. Starandi augu af drungalegu andliti, í sárri kvol, ná stjarn- ljósi mínu. Bróðir, var þat þín hond? Þat hau- ka klif hvarf undir kalt flóð ásynju blóðs ok dansandi kroppar leika enn sitt aldrtila tafl, fjarri neðan við steymandi svarbláan himinn jarðar. Broðir, var þat þín hond? Ek man þau skip nálgask gegnum dimma skýflóka, sem klufu sundr fellihryn fjalla at opnum svarðar strondum jotuns hins forna Boðnar báru mín móðir eitt sinn kvað. En sem þau skip færðusk nær við sjónarrond skýja grátrs ok ór hvítrar Ránar munni, augu mín lokask ok þá birtisk fyrir mér aðeins eitt nafn, aptr ok aptr. Óláfr þrænda buðlingr á þessu landi viðda, Óláfr sá ser færir bitr stríð án enda, Óláfr, dómr yfirvofandi vígnaðrs staffs sem aldrei féll fyrri. Bróðir, var þat þín hond? English: Brother, Was That Your Hand? Brother, was that your hand? I dream a dream of night, of dark clouds, of storms and a fist coming from the white faces of the daughters of Rán. Staring eyes of a gloomy face in bitter agony reach my stars of light. Brother, was that your hand? The hand vanishes under cold waves and the dancing bodies play again their game of death far below moving dark-blue skies of the earth. Brother, was that your hand? I remember approaching ships through dark clouds that cleave daughters into open skulls. Giant-old myths my mother once told me. But as the ships approach the scenery of winds and high waves, my eyes close and reveal only one name again and again: Óláfr, king in this land of wood, Óláfr, bringer of bitter wars that never end, Óláfr, impending doom to trees that never fell before. Brother, was that your hand? 3. Sem járnklær nætr dragask nærri Sem járnklær nætr dragask nærri, long haukstrond viðar ok kastar heljar hittir fyrir þær mikilfenglegu gáttir þeirra þróttar þings holls, er engan tók enda. Gneistar gneifðu ok margr halr safnaðisk um alls viðar her í þeim andans dal er ek kalla heima. Gegnum hvískrandi nið skýja gandrs, Landvættir mik kalla út at berja loganda dal augum. Villtr dans bræða markar meinþjófs, Hogna meyjar viðs. Deyjandi glæður mæta stjornum ofan þegar þær mæta gæsku Vidda bróðrs. Með grosin græn ok brúnan svorð undir mínum ilkvistum ek geng at megin stað átrúnaðar. Þórr ok Týr, Freyr ok Ullr, Ek veit þér eruð oss næs á þessar- ri helgu nótt Ísa brots komu. Svo háir eru jotna vegir Fornjóts sona, ok svo breið eru vápnagjoll at flæða skal úr Háars saltunnu. Minn ennis- máni nam sjá Hákon goði í fjarska, kalladi at manna sjotnum. Með Yggjar éls bál reisk í hendi ek heyrða ræða svo hatrsramma. Klæddr í brúnsvort klæði krýpr krúnrakaðr maðrinn, með heift, frammi fyrir goðanum. Hrafnkell, hið unga skáld ok fylgjandi munka dróttins hefr verið leiðandi í vorri byggð. Svá skyldu goð gjalda, gram reki bond af londum, reið sé rogn ok Óðinn, rán míns fjár hánum. Fólk mýgi lát flýja, Freyr ok Njorðr, af jordðum. Leiðisk lofða stríði landáss, þann er vé grandar. (Egill Skallagrímsson, Lausavísur 28) Morðsólar veik máli meiðir; sinnar leiðar gekk ramms hotuðr rekka rógs í þorp ór skógi. Menfergir vas margan móthress í bœ þessum vetr, ok vann til mætrar vargnistir sér bjargar. (Anonymous Poems, Plácitusdrápa 29) Hrafnkell lýtr niðr at dolkbrands dokkvri grun í bljúgri bæn. Með handar tjolgr uppreistar. Honum er kastað í sand-hvítan fórnar pytt laussra líkama. Hrafnkels fljúgandi tunga biðr friðar sem þó aldrei kemr. Þjód á hart, sús hlýða hildings boðum vildat lofða kyns meðan lifði, lýtum kend fyr hendi. Sú rasar aum í aumar óvísligar píslir; ey grœtir þar ýta uggr, en vætki huggar. (Gamli kanóki, Harmsól 38) Fynk þola flæðar auknir fleygjendr þrimu leygjar - þar liggr elds á oldum íma - frost með bríma. Morgs onnur þar manna meiri ógn ok fleira angr, an ór megi tunga, óvegs, frá því segja. (Gamli kanóki, Harmsól 39) En sem tunga hans flograr um múgin sem kallar upp af hatri ok sorg, sækir morðbálið leið sína at hvítum skýjum Hranfkels sjónar bergs. Sem Hákon dregr fram pínt Heimdallar hofuð, skal hin lærða tunga fylgjara hins bjarta manns ór suðri ekki fleiðra meir. Landa andar, Háars þeg- nar dýrra ríkja, hvar er sá friðr er ek heyrði at mundi stafa af handa gapmunni Heimdallar er ek kom í dal þenna fyr longu síðan? Myrk er sú tíð komandi, ok verjendr anda landa leiða hana á brott úr þeim stað sem nú er roðinn logðis lodda logleysunnar. English: As The Iron Claws Of Night Draw Near As the iron claws of night draw near, the long hands of wood and fire meet before the majestic doors of never ending houses of trees. Sparks fly and many men are gathered around holy fires in this spiritual val- ley I call home. Through whispering sounds of the wind, I am called out by Landvættir to behold a valley alight before my eyes. A wild dance of brothers to the fire giant with trees. Dying embers meet the stars above when they meet the kindness of the wind. Blades of green, grounds of brown, both of them are beneath my feet as I walk below towards the centre place of whorship. Þórr and Tyr, Freyr and Ullr, I know you are near to us on this holy night of the ar- rival of spring. So high are the moutains of fire, and so wide the blood must flow out of the bowl. My eyes see Hákon goði from afar, shou- ting towards the village. With the sacrifical knife raised, I hear a speach so hateful. Clad in brown-black cloths, a tonsured man knees acri- moniously before the goði. Hrafnkel, young poet and follower of the god of the monks, has been a leading figure in our community. Let the gods banish the ruler, pay him for stealing my wealth, let him incur the wrath of Óðinn and the gods. Make the tyrant flee his lands, Freyr and Njorðr; may Þórr the land-god be angered at his foe, the defiler of his holy place. (Egill Skallagrímsson, Lausavísur 28) The destroyer of the war-sun broke off his speech; the hater of the fierce strife of men went his way from the forest into a village. The batt- le-fierce neckring-destroyer was many a winter in that town and the wolf-feeder earned a good living. (Anonymous Poems, Plácitusdrápa 29) Hrafnkel bows down to the blood ground of worship. With hands raised, he is thrown into our hallowed sand-white sacrificial pit of released bodies. Hrafnkel's flying tongue prays for a peace that never comes. The group of people, known for sins, who would not heed the commandments of the prince of the race of men while it lived, faces hardship. It rushes wretched into wretched, uncertain tor- tures; fear grieves people there perpetually, and nothing affords comfort. (Gamli kanóki, Harmsól 38) Flingers are the flame of battle, swollen with fal- sehood, endure stench, frost with flame; there lie embers of fire upon men. Many another greater terror for dishonourable men is there and more sorrow than my tongue is able to discribe. (Gamli kanóki, Harmsól 39) But as his tongue flies around a shouting au- dience of hate and grief, the knife seeks its way towards the white clouds of Hrafnkel's eyes. As Hákon drags the suffering head forward, the le- arned tongue of the follower of the bright man from the south sings no more. Spirits of the earth, gods of the kingdoms so dear, where is the peace that I learned to be leading hands of Heim- dallr when I entered this valley long ago? Dark are the seasons to come, and guardian spirits of the land lead her away from a place now reddened with the blood of turmoil. 4. Gamalt ríki faðmar þá grænu ok svǫrtu hringi lífs ok aldrslita Gamalt ríki faðmar þá grænu ok svortu bringi lífs ok aldrslita, þá er sér engan endi eiga. Skógar eru þeir kallaðir, en grænir hreifa kvistir á því steinda ljóni þeir virðask mér. Ek ráfa gegnum dokkvan himin ok uppljó- maða Leifins grundar mána viði, umkringdr dansandi Álfum. Hvar er sá friðr er Viðris van- da veðrstafir fundu eitt sinn í þessum lífssolum sem sér engan endi eiga? Úr fjarska vígleipr Surts brennir sjóvoll við svorð. Guðbrandsdalr er sá kallaðr ok Yggs ærir hljóta að hafa flúið frá Hliðskjálfa sínu er ek nálgaðisk þann stað sem brátt skal aldrei verða aptr. Brá merki mín nam sjá fylkingu Hvíta Krists, án tolu, leika hormungar song hinna syngjandi randar mána millum toptar nokkva, helgt Heimdallarvtan ok vápns viða. Á hvítum sandi, útskorið líknes- ki Belja dólgs er brennt ok beljandi glæðurnar fylla himininn af heift. Þegar trjágoðið hrynr fram á jorðina sem flaut í oddlá loganda, margir váru skornir hálsaar ungra sem aldna ok hofuð þeirra klofin endrkasta élkers botnum Ymis á ný. Í miðju þess alls ek sé hinn umsnúna hersi veita sína ræðu hatrsfulla yfir þrælalýð. Dag reis sinn með sigri snjallastr faðir allra - sonr huggaði seggi sólar hauðrs - af dauða. Áðr batt flærðar fróðan fjanda heilagr andi fast ok fyrða leysti fremðarstyrkr ór myrkrum. (Anonymous Poems, Leiðarvísan 31) Ótraulla má ollu aldýrr faðir stýra; sterkr es engr, svát orki aptrat dróttins krapti. Gramr skóp hauðr ok himma hreggranns sem kyn seggja; einns salkonungr solar snjallr hjalpari allra. (Anonymous Poems, Leiðarvísan 29) Sem straumar af heiðnum vápna læk hefja flæði sitt í árnar, ek ráfa á ný inn í þann sárgagls hirðimeið sem forðum. Hvar eru þeir staðir er ek eitt sinn heima kallaði? Er þat nú sú stund sem mistilteinn hæfir hinn gofga hugstrandar hall Baldrs ok drífir þessa alda heima til Rag- naraka? Eru þetta ljósskipti goða varnenda? Er þetta stund sú er jarðar hrísla skal bresta ok brenna bitrlega niðr í svorð? Allar blóðeisur ok bendagar Krists ok ásmeginna aldinna virðask nú há einvígi sem spýjandi fleina flóð vellr úr undirforlum tungum Loka. English: A Kingom Of Old A kingdom of old embraces neveren- ding green and black circles of life and death. Woods they are called, but green hands on this lion of stone they are to me. I wander through dark skies and alighted trees surroun- ded by dancing Álvar. Where is the peace that men found once in these endless halls of life? From afar, swords of Surtr set horizons afla- me. Guðbrandsdalr it is called, and gods must have fled from their thrones when I approach a place that soon shall never be again. My eyes see countless soldiers of the White Christ play a dreadful song of singing swords in between houses, divine Heimdallarvtan and trees. On white sand, a carved statue of Þórr is set afla- me and screaming embers fill the sky with rage. When the wooden god hits the blood-soaked ground of flames, many young and old thro- ats are cut and open heads mirror the worlds of Ymir again. In the middle, I see converted hersir delivering hateful speaches towards an enslaved flock. The most valiant father of all rose from death with victory on his day; the son of the land of the sun comforted men. Previously the ho- nour-strong Holy Spirit bound fast the deceit-le- arned fiend and released men from darkness. The altogether precious father is able to govern everything indefatigably; no one is so strong that he is able to impede the Lord's power. The king of the storm-house made land and heavens as well as the race of men; the excellent king of the hall of the sun is alone the helper of all. (Anonymous Poems, Leiðarvísan 29) As streams of heathen blood start to flow into rivers, I began to wander again into the woods. Where are the places that I once called home? Is this now the time that mistilteinn hits the gra- ceful heart of Baldr and drives these worlds into Ragnarok? Is this the twilight of the gods? Is this the time Yggdrasil shudders and bitterly burns to the ground? All knives and swords of Christ and gods of old seem to duel now that sputtering blood boils out of the plunging tongues of Loki. 5. Um nætr reika skepnr Un nætr reika skepnr ok finnask á ýmsum stoðum. Anda dans sem varir fram undir morgunroða. Opt hefi ek dansað undir stjórnum með brennandi glóðum nætur- himinsins. En þessi nótt er ekki sem þær fyrri. Ókennt hljóð vekr mik upp frá fjarlægum stað millum fornra skjalda viða. Úr fjarska leiftrandi birtisk silfrað ljós ok leiðir mik at hellna lundi. Þar í heyrða ek andana umkringja ljósið tun- gum talandi 'Óðinn ok munka dróttinn hafa aldregi verið nærri þínnum niðjum í vanda, ok bræðr bera sitt lífs grand at hvor oðrum fyr eigi longu síðan. Þetta svikula hnefa land Loka hefir ávalt verið nærri þínum niðjum, dansandi leik Ægis bróðrs ok Ísheims í koldum londum almdrósar íss. Þitt hyski skal allt leitt í dans á ný, ok bogafjall brynvarið þinna niðja skal troða annan veg en þinn!' Blinduð af tindrandi ljósi er brýst út, hún fellr niðr til jarðar. Er hún lítr aptr, hún nam sjá biðjandi greipar brjóst er faðmar hrælinns fors - roðið blóðkerti í lundi. English: At Night Creatures Wander At night creatures wander and appear in various places. A dance of spirits that lasts until dawn rises. I have danced the dance often with the stars and burning embers in the night sky. But this night is different. A stran- ge sound wakes me up from a distant place in between trees of old. From afar, a glimmering silver light appears and guides me towards a cavernous grove. On it, I hear spirits surroun- ding the light speaking in tongues. "Óðinn and the god of the monks have never been close in your troubled kin, and brothers brought their death to each other not long ago. The trea- cherous hands of Loki were always close as your kin danced the play of fire and ice in cold lands of swords. Your family is taken into the same dance again, and the shielded hands of your kin have striven towards other pathways than yours!" Blinded by emerging flickering lights, she falls to the ground. When she looks back, she sees praying hands that embrace a blood-daubed sword on the grove. 6. Heiftum skal mána kveðja Heiftum skal mána kveðja. (Anonymous Poems, Hávamál 137) Hoggorma mun hefjask herði-Þundr á landi; sjá munu menn á moldu margar heila borgir; nú vex blára brodda beystisullr í fjollum; koma mun sumra seggja sveita dogg á leggi. (Anonymous Poems, Lausavísur 16) Ræst ramr iotun runar. Rístum rún á horni, rjóðum spjoll í dreyra, þau vel ek orð til eyrna óðs dýrs viðar róta. (Egill Skallagrímsson, Lausavísur 9) Ræst ramr iotun runar. Hrærizk heimar, hristizk steinar. Vatn vill leysisk, villisk disir. (Vilhjálms saga sjóðs) Ræst ramr iotun runar. Þat hefr hverr, er verðr er, loks. (Anonymous Poems, Málsháttakvæði 25) English: For Hatred The Moon Should Be Invoked For hatred the moon should be invoked. (Anonymous Poems, Hávamál 137) A hardy warrior will harry here soon; men will see on the ground many forts of brains; singing of sword-play will sound in the hills; dew of blood will dampen many legs (Anonymous Poems, Lausavísur 16). A strong giant carved runes. I carve runes on this horn, redden words with my blood, I choose words for the trees of the beast's ear-roots. (Egill Skallagrímsson, Lausavísur 9) A strong giant carved runes. Worlds move, stones shake, waters unleashed, bemused are the Dísir. (Vilhjálms saga sjóðs) A strong giant carved runes. Each gets what he deserves in the end. (Anonymous Poems, Málsháttakvæði 26 7. Er hin gullna stjarna skýjar slóðar rennr rauð Er hin gullna stjarna skýjar slóðar rennr rauð, grænt ok svart rennr þá landið þat er sér engan endi á. Á þeirri stundu, hinn dokkvi leikr vígnaðrs stafa brýst út. Á þeirri stundu, kaldir fýris garmar dansa sinn dans við anda nætur. Fylgjendr Hvíta Krists veita mér eftirfor er þeir sjá mik flýja inn í nót- tina. En þat er um seinan, hún hverfr í heiðna holl sem er þeim hulin. Troll kalla mik, tungl sjot-Rungnis, auðsúg jotuns, élsólar bol, vilsinn volu, vorð náfjarðar, hvélsvelg himins. (Anonymous Stanzas from Snorra Edda, Stanzas from Snorra Edda 9) Era auðþeystr, því at ekki veldr hofugligr, ór hyggju stað fagnafundr Friggjar niðja ár borinn ór jotunheimum. (Egill Skallagrímsson, Sonatorrek 2) Ek ráfa um auðlegan stað einsomul. Úr fjarska heyrast oskrin, en þetta skjól skógar tryggir mik frá stríðs ræðu þeirri. Silfruð sunna leiðir mik á veg minn, norðr upp sem Ullar aksþollar hvísla birtleg orð segjandi frá rigandi hræ- mána úr ok feigð minna niðja. Fylking sú er í nóttinni ferðask ok nálgask mik, mér er boðið at fylgjask at til Yggjar brúðar, hvar sogð er sú spá af dansandi benvondum brátt rísandi. Til hjálpar þeirra er ljósið sjá nema um daga, oðru sinni á ný. Óláfr, þrænda buðlingr í þessu landi viða. Óláfr, berandi bitra stríða, þeirra er sér engan endi eigan, Óláfr, dómr nam óma at þings viðjum þar aldregi fallið hafði fyrr. Er þetta þín spásýn? Er sá hjálparlaus mergjar salr frá þangs láði lifandi, er sú biðjandi haukar ferja í lundi- num lifandi? Vítt es orpit fyrir valfalli rifs reiðiský, rignir blóði; nú er fyirr geirum grár upp kominn vefr verþjóðar, er þær vinur fylla rauðum vepti Randvés bana. (Anonymous Poems, Darraðarljóð 1) Skapt mun gnesta, skjoldr mun bresta, mun hjalmgagarr í hlíf koma. (Anonymous Poems, Darraðarljóð 3) Framm skulum ganga ok í folk vaða, þar er vinir várir vápnum skipta. (Anonymous Poems, Darraðarljóð 4) Vindum, vindum vef darraðar ok siklingi síðan fylgjum! (Anonymous Poems, Darraðarljóð 5) Vindum, vindum vef darraðar, þars vé vaða vígra manna! Látum eigi líf hans farask; eigu valkyrjur vals of kosti. (Anonymous Poems, Darraðarljóð 6) Bróðir, þér lífit, ek finn þat nú bitrleg storm ský dólgbrands dokkva safnask at Stiklastoðum. Nú er ógurligt um at lítask, er dreyrug ský dregr með himmi; mun lopt litat lýða blóði, er sóknvárðar syngja kunnu. (Anonymous Poems, Darraðarljóð 9) English: When The Golden Star Of The Sky Turns Red When the golden stars of the sky turns red, the never-ending land of green turns black. At this time, cold winds dance their dance with night spirits. Followers of the White Christ chase me as they see me fleeing into the night. But it is too late, as I vanish into pagan castles unseen to them. They call me troll, moon of dwelling-Rungnir, wealth-sucker of a giant, trouble of the storm- sun, delightful company of a prophetess, guar- dian of the corpse-fjord, swallower of the wheel of the sky. (Anonymous Stanzas from Snorra Edda, Stanzas from Snorra Edda 9) Since heavy sobbing is the cause - how hard to pour forth from the mind's root the prize that Frigg's progeny found, borne of old, from the world of giants. (Egill Skallagrímsson, Sonatorrek 2) I wander a forlorn path alone. From afar, scre- ams are heard, but this wooden shelter protects me from the speeches of war. The silver sun guides me on my path up north as trees whisper bitter words telling of a rain of blood and my kin to be slain. When I am approached by a band of night travelers, I am invited to follow to a place where the prophesised dance of swords will soon emerge. To help those who see the light of days a second time again. Óláfr, king in this land of wood, Óláfr, bringer of bitter wars that never end. Óláfr, impending doom to trees that never fell before. Is this your prophecy? Is the helpless hand from the sea alive, is the praying hand from the grove alive? A wide warp warns of slaughter, blood rains from the beam's cloud. A spear-grey fabric is being spun which the friends of Randvér's slayer will fill out with a red weft. (Anonymous Poems, Darraðarljóð 1) Shafts will splinter, shields shatter, the dog of helmets devours shields. (Anonymous Poems, Darraðarljóð 3) Let us go forth amongst the fighters when our dear ones deal out blows. (Anonymous Poems, Darraðarljóð 4) We wind and wind the web of spears and then stand by our stalwart king. (Anonymous Poems, Darraðarljóð 5) We wind and wind the web of spears, there whe- re the banners of bold men go forth; we must not let his life be lost - valkyries decide who dies or lives. (Anonymous Poems, Darraðarljóð 6) Brother, you are alive, I feel it now as the bitter storm clouds of blood gather at Stiklastaðir. Now it is gruesome to gaze around as blood-red skies cover the sky; the heavens will be garish with the gore of men while the slaughter-war- dens sing their song. (Anonymous Poems, Darraðarljóð 9) 8. Um nóttu, mér dreymir þursa þjóðar sjǫt brennandi Um nóttu, mér dreymir þursa þjóðar sjot brennandi. Um nót- tu, mér dreymir reykvallar draum ok lífgalla. Surtr, þínir niðjar eru nú nærri mér. Ek fer gneppr af nekkvi, niðr til Surts ens svarta sveit í eld inn heita, sveit í eld inn heita. (Anonymous Poems, Hallmundarkviða 10) Harðverkr, Hrøkkvir ok Hástigi, Hræsvelgr, Herkir ok Hrímgrímnir, Hymir ok Hrímþurs, Hvalr, Þríngeitir, Þrymr, Þrúðgelmir, Þistilbarði. (Anonymous Þulur, Jotna heiti I, 2) Surtr ok Stórverkr, Sækarlsmúli, Skorir, Skrýmir, Skerkir, Salfangr, Oskruðr ok Svartr, Anduðr, Stúmi, Alsvartr, Aurnir, Ámr ok Skalli. (Anonymous Þulur, Jotna heiti I, 4) Ek ríð hesti Hélugbarða, úrigtoppa, ills valdanda. Eldr er í endum, eitr í miðju. (Anonymous Poems, Lausavísur 12) Svalg áttbogi ylgjar ógóðr, en varð blóði grœðir grœnn at rauðum, grandauknum ná, blandinn. (Arnórr jarlaskáld Þórðarson, Fragments 2) Ek sé hræ regn fallandi búka af himni. Brámá- nar sjá fyrir sér jotunlíkar grinder beina, væng- jaðar fljúgandi ofan. Ek sé rotnandi valhræ etin af skorpum tonnum ok elris svita. Ek sé fjolð kastað til aldslita með valvondum, undvorgum ok drúpðum dólgráum. English: At Night, I dream Of A Burned Village At night, I dream of a burned village. At night, I dream the dream of fire and death. Surtr, your kin js close to me now. I go stopping for good reason down to the dis- trict of black Surtr, into the hot fire; district, into the hot fire. (Anonymous Poems, Hallmundarkviða 10) Harðverkr, Hrøkkvir and Hástigi, Hræsvelgr, Herkir and Hrímgrímnir, Hymir and Hrímþurs, Hvalr, Þríngeitir, Þrymr, Þrúðgelmir, Þistilbarði. (Anonymous Þulur, Jotna heiti I, 2) Surtr and Stórverkr, Sækarlsmúli, Skorir, Skrýmir, Skerkir, Salfangr, Oskruðr and Svartr, Anduðr, Stúmi, Alsvartr, Ámr and Skalli. (Anonymous Þulur, Jotna heiti I, 4) I ride a horse, with hoarfrost mane and dripping forelocks, bringing evil; the toarch ends burn, the middle brings bane. (Anonymous Poems, Lausavísur 12). The evil offspring of the she-wolf swallowed a wound-swollen corpse, and the green surge, mingled with blood, turned to red. (Arnórr jarlaskáld Þórðarson, Fragments 2) I see a rain of dead bodies falling from the sky. The eyes envisage gigantic skeletons with enor- mous wings flying above. I see rotted carcasses consumed by sharp teeth and fire. I see masses thrown to death by swords, axes, and spears. 9. Ek sá halr at Hóars veðri hǫsvan serk Hrísgrísnis bar Ek sá halr at Hóars veðri hosvan serk Hrísgrísnis bar. (Eyvindr skáldaspillir Finnsson, Háleygjatal 6) Hinn, es varp á víða vinda ondurdísar of manna sjot margra munnlaug foður augum. (Bragi inn gamli Boddason, Fragments 2) Vel hafið ydrum eykjum aptr, Þrívalda, haldit simbli sumbls of mærum, sundrkljúfr níu hofða. (Bragi inn gamlí Boddason, Fragments 3) Enn sem hangatýr fleygði sínum fleygigeyr um folk, dýr valkastar báru meyjar losnuðu frá. Sem ek nálgask Stiklastaði, mín dokkvu hvarma skógar stjornur nema við þúsundir dólg fangs buri markaða tákni Hvíta Krists. Ek he- yrði bardagaópið 'Knýjum, knýjum fram Krists men, Krossins men ok konungs men!' Margr maðr hóf aðgongu til bardaga sem eigi gat unnisk. Sem orrustan gegn óteljandi heiðum bændum brausk út, ek heyrði margan randar glaums þoll falla sem limar þeirra ok hofuð voru klofin fljúgandi vandar valsendum. Ok þó, bardagaópið ómaði um dalinn allann 'Knýjum, knýjum fram Krists men, Krossins men ok ko- nungs menn!' Ort vas Óleifs hjarta; óð framm konungr - blóði rekin bitu stól - á Stiklar stoðum, kvaddi lið boðvar. Éiþolla sák alla Jolfuðs nema gram sjalfan - reyndr vas flestr í fastri fleindrífu - sér hlífa. (Þormóðr Kolbrúnarskáld, Lausavísur 23) Blendusk við roðnar und randar himmi; Skoglar veðr léku við ský of bauga. Umðu oddláar í Óðins veðri; hné mart manna fyr mækis straumi. (Eyvindr skáldaspillir Finnsson, Hákonarmál 8) Sortnar himinn ok rennr rauðr sem Óláfr þiggr margan sárelds spora af andstæðum Yggjar runni. er vængir hrafns ævinnar fylkjask um Dana hloð, ek heyrði minn bróðr til einskis fram mæla: Hoggum hjaltvond, skyggðum, hœfum rond með brandi, reynum randar mána, rjóðum sverð í blóði. Stýfum Þóri af lífi, leikum sárt við bleikan, kyrrum kappa errinn komi orn á hræ, járnum. (Egill Skallagrímsson, Lausavísur 39) Enn sem vápnum beitt gegn beittum heiptar- tungum, gjallar vendir ok hræþolls gandar sku- lu fylgja eptir þeim fljúgandi hrælinni, ok stin- ga til jarðar sverðverjandi niða mínum. Regn ok þrumuský byrgja smám saman sýn Hugins niðja, ok ek fell til jarðar. Um grímuna, er hvítir faldar Báleygs brúðar hefja for sína undir silfr brá himinsins, fer ek ráfandi at dauða dalnum. Ek hvísla ok sé hvar hinir dauðu nú þegar skiljask frá lifendum, ok eygji skert skarar land míns bróðrs á oddbreka grundu. Ek lyfti hans Hamðis geyr ok byrðar stalli með mínum straumtungls mjúkstalli ok tek at hvísla bón fyrir hans lífi ok afkomu. Hans brúnar steinar opnask ok beinask at mér sem ek mæli. Hann hvíslar hinstu bæn hins Hvíta Krists svo hann megi inngongu hljóta í fjorbrots land áðr sjórnir hans lokask um eilífð. En sem ek lít upp, inn í dauðadalinn á ný, sé ek hann aðeins ráfandi stefnulaust inn til skuggalanda. Gullin tár falla mér úr drjúpandi þungu hofði, er ek geng aptr að grana mínum, sem ek eitt sinn bauð velko- minn til Báleygs brúðar. English: And That Man Wore The Grey Shirt Of Hrísgrísnir In The Storm Of Hóarr. And that man wore the grey shirt of Hrísgrísnir in the storm of Hóarr. (Eyvindr skáldaspillir Finnsson, Háleygjatal 6) The one who threw the eyes of the father of the ski-dís into the wide hand-basin of winds above the dwellings of many men. (Bragi inn gamli Boddason, Fragments 2) You have well driven back your draught animals, cleaver asunder of the nine heads of Þrívaldi, ab- ove the famous drink-provider of the drinking party. (Bragi inn gamli Boddason, Fragments 3) But as Óðinn threw the spear into the people, animals of war came loose. As I approach Stik- lastaðir, my blackened eyes catch thousands of warriors marked with the sign of White Christ. I hear the battle cry "Forward, forward, Christ's men, cross's men, king's men!" Óláfr's heart was energetic; the king pressed for- ward Stiklastaðir, rallied his host to battle; steel weapons inlaid with blood bit. I saw all the firs of the storm of Jolfuðr shelter themselves except the leader himself; most were tested in the ceaseless missile-blizzard. (Þormóðr Kolbrúnarskáld, Lausavísur 23) Red colours mingled beneath the sky of the shield-rim; the storms of Skogul played against the clouds of shield-rings. Point-waves roared in the storm of Óðinn; many people sank down be- fore the tide of the sword. (Eyvindr skáldaspillir Finnsson, Hákonarmál 8) Many men begin to march towards a battle that cannot be won. As the battle against countless pagan farmers emerges, I hear many trees fall as their branches and heads are cut by flying spe- ars. And still, the battle-cry echoes through the valley: "Forward, forward, Christ's men, cross's men, king's men!" The sky darkens and turns red as Óláfr receives many a wound from opposing forces. When wings of darkness approach the king, I hear my brother cry out in vain: Let polished hilt-wands clash, strike shields with brands, test our swords' shine on shields, redden them with blood. Hack Þórir's life away, play the pale man foul, silence the troublemaker with iron, feed eagle flesh. (Egill Skallagrímsson, Lausavísur 39). But as weapons oppose the fierce tongue of an- ger, swords and axes follow the lead of the flying spear and pierce the sword-wielding member of my kin to the ground. Rain and thunderclounds start to limit the view of the raven and I fall to the ground. At nighttime when the white dress of the earth starts to move under the silver eye of the sky. I wander below to the valley of the dead. I whisper and see where the dead already start to isolate from the living and espay the ruined body of my brother on the blood ground. I lift his head and shoulders with my hands and begin to whisper pleas for his life to survive. His eyes are opened and fixed on me as I speak. He whispers a last prayer to the White Christ to grant him entrance to the land of the dead before he shuts his eyes forever. But as I look up into the valley of the dead again, I only see him wander aimless- ly into a land of shadows. Golden tears fall from my heavy head as I walk back to my horse I once welcomed to this world.