CANTO III: King Fanhal comes to the Weixranbo, and makes preparations for the war. The feast, and the seven paladins described.
The king is come to Weixranbo in force:
Seven-thousand Sothbori in arms,
Seven-thousand men of forest born
Who answered Fanhal's summons of alarm.
But many tarried long upon their farms
For spring's first planting, after winter's ice
Had covered sleeping earth in gentle white.
Seven-thousand spearmen on the road
Which mighty Ranhor built in the deeps of time.
Seven-thousand men to swell the host
Of Weixranbo, whose many towers climb
Above the place where Ranhor's highway winds
By many stages to the Gates of Red
Which Ranhor built to stem the tide of dread.
Blazing flags and pennants streaming blue
And gold beneath the sunrise waved aloft.
Among them, Fanhal's jeweled banner flew
In which the golden chariot of Dawn
Was set by hand in blinding gold, while soft
Above it all the stars of heav'n around
Danced amid the likeness of a crown.
And there amid the banners, high-plumed helms
Went nodding up the road towards the Gate
While dark-eyed daughters lifted silken veils
To gaze upon the youthful sov'reign's face.
For he was grave and glad, and such a grace,
As though it were from Starland long ago,
Dazzled on his brow like summer snow.
The women danced, the trumpets made to sound,
And all within the Mountain ready made:
The ancient corridors were decked with gold,
The mixing-bowls were filled and tables laid.
Many songs were sung upon that day
Of victory, and fame surpassing time,
And many boasts were made amid the wine.
Seven-thousand spears had come to war,
And seven-thousand more upon the Isle
Waited, stern and watchful evermore
To do the will of fair Thoranrai's child.
But of those fourteen-thousand, rank and file,
None were loved among the sons of men
More than Fanhal's seven paladins.
See them sitting round him at the feast--
Orufal, the Lord of Weixranbo,
Is seated at the right hand of the king,
While on the left his sons in silken robes
Of red and azure raise a glass in toast.
The beaker shines of amber--crystal gold
Which fell from heaven's porches long ago.
Such lovely youths to warm a father's heart--
As like to men as youths may hope to be.
And all men hold them high, in good regard,
For they are close companions of the king.
For in the chase, or tilting at the ring,
They vie with him to bear the wreath away,
And he with love their loyalty repays.
Neralu and Neras they were called
Who even now the songs of poets name
Among the spear-companions of Fanhal
Greatest in the tally of the slain.
For those two youthful warriors won their fame
By valor at the rear-guard of the king
When both their blood was mingled in a stream.
Orufal, the Lord of Weixranbo,
Their sire was, the lordliest of men
his hoary head was crowned with a wreath of gold
Which Fanhal's mother gave him when revenge
He sought against the slayers of her kin.
That Orufal it was who, blessed by fate,
With Fanhal's father stormed the iron gates.
Seven paladins of old there were,
The mightiest of Fanhal's mighty men.
And of those seven, famed through all the earth,
These first three were close as any kin
Among the race of men have ever been.
And closely still their bodies rest beneath
The Mountain, in the Chamber of the King.
Fifth among those champions of the king
Who ate and laughed beside him at the board
Was a maiden, fair and terrible of mien,
Skilled alike with spear and flashing sword.
Yalyan she was named, and for her lord
A pure and gentle love within her breast
She secreted, and tenderness suppressed.
For Fanhal's heart was claimed by Reiran fair
Who heavy on him laid the bonds of love.
So Yalyan many deeds of valor dared
By which the name of paladin she won.
She would wash the mountain with her blood
When Mawish landed with his monstrous horde
And raised aloft a red and hungry sword.
Geilarjana, tall and long of limb,
Beside her sat at Fanhal's feasting board
And loudly told to all who sat near him
The mighty lineage of his father's sword.
For Geilarjana, newly come to war,
Was gifted with a blade of Living Ice
Forged for battle in the Years of Night.
That blade was forged to bear the Children's hate
And work the vengeance of their dreadful oaths
Against the Arjabori, hateful bane
Of the seven shining towns of Lanenom.
Geilarjana perished far from home
When he the tyrant met upon the field
Who Drauzanath, the Lying Blade, did wield.
Laran, greatest bowman in the land
Gravely read the faces of the guests.
That man was keen of eye and quick of hand,
But kept his counsel locked within his breast.
Spare of word and smile, self-possessed,
The love of worthy men, O treasure rare,
He well deserved for the mighty deeds he dared.
He it was whose arrow, so 'tis sung,
Struck the thigh of Orkon in that part
(When bat-like over Denthfeld's plain he hung)
Where he was wounded by a Nalshbo dart.
For his deeds, the bowman's mighty arts,
The Children have not ceased to sing his praise
Though all things* dwindle in these later days.
*Some MS mem'ries
And who, to sing of archers, could forget
Raoseina of the Southern Tow'r?
He stood upon a stony parapet
And sent his arrows raining down in showers.
He proved his courage in the dreadful hour
When, all his arrows spent, they thought him lost--
But he found secret paths among the rocks.
There were many heroes in those days
When still the world possessed the might of old:
The blood of Starland running in our veins,
The memory of Orusen the Bold.
Their names are more than my poor book can hold,
For it is task enough for my weak pen
To tell of Fanhal's seven paladins.
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