Ive posted this in a different subforum, but it belongs here as well.
Its from Silverlock, by John Myers Myers. A modern manca. 1948falls unknowing into the Commonwealth of Letters.
The party is at Heorot, where Hrothgar is celebrating Beowulf's double monster kill. A skald sings The Ballad of Bowie Gizzardsbane.
Harsh that hearing for Houston the Raven:
Foes had enfeebled the fortress at Bexar,
Leaving it lacking and looted the while
Hordes were sweeping swift on the land,
Hell-bent to crush him. The cunning old prince
Did not, though, despair at danger's onrushing;
Hardy with peril, he held it, perused it,
Reading each rune of it. Reaching the facts,
He thumbed through his thanes and thought of the one
Whose guts and gray matter were grafted most neatly.
"Riders!" he rasped, "to race after Bowie!"
"Bowie," he barked when that bearcat of heroes
Bowed to his loved prince, "Bexar must be ours
Or no one must have it. So hightail, burn leather!
Hold me that fortress or fire it and raze it.
Do what you can or else do what you must."
Fame has its fosterlings, free of the limits
Boxing all others, and Bowie was one of them.
Who has not heard of the holmgang at Natchez?
Fifty were warriors, but he fought the best,
Wielding a long knife, a nonesuch of daggers
Worthy of Wayland. That weapon had chewed
The entrails of dozens. In diverse pitched battles
That thane had been leader; by land and by sea
Winning such treasure that trolls, it is said,
Closed hills out of fear he'd frisk them of silver.
Racing now westward, he rode into Bexar,
Gathered the garrison, gave them his orders:
"Houston the Raven is raising a host;
Time's what he asks while he tempers an army.
Never give up this gate to our land.
Hold this door fast, though death comes against us."
The flood of the foemen flowed up to Bexar,
Beat on the dam braced there to contain it.
But Wyrd has no fosterlngs, favors no clients;
Bowie, the war-wise winner of battles,
Laid out by fever, lost his first combat,
Melting with death. Yet the might of his spirit
Kept a tight grip on the trust he'd been given.
"Buy time, my bucks," he told his companions.
"Be proud of the price; our prince is the gainer."
Bold thanes were with him, thirsty for honor,
Schooled well in battle and skilled with all weapons;
Avid for slaughter there, each against thirty,
They stood to the walls and struck for their chieftains,
Houston and Bowie, the bearcat of heroes.
Twelve days they ravaged the ranks of the foemen.
Tens, though, can't harrow the hundreds forever;
That tide had to turn. Tiredly the thanes
Blocked two wild stormings and bled them to death.
The third had the drive of Thor's mighty hammer,
Roared at the walls and rose to spill over,
Winning the fort. But the foemen must pay.
Heroes were waiting them, hardy at killing,
Shaken no whit, though sure they were lost.
Ten lives for one was the tariff for entry;
And no man got credit. Crushed and split skulls,
Blasted off limbs and lathers of blood
Were the money they soughted and minted themselves --
Worth every ounce of the weregild they asked.
Of every eleven, though, one was a hero
Turned to a corpse there. Cornered and hopeless,
They strove while they yet stood, stabbing and throttling,
Meeting the bear's death, dying while fighting.
Chieftains of prowess, not chary of slaying,
Led and fell with them. Alone by the wall,
Travis, the red-maned, the truest of warriors,
Pierced through the pate and pouring out blood,
Kept death marking time, defied it until
His sword again sank, sucking blood from a foeman.
Content then, he ended. So also died Crockett,
Who shaved with a star and stamped to make earthquakes.
Kimball, the leader of loyal riders,
Bonham whose vow was valor's own hallmark.
Crazed by their losses, the conquerors offered
No truce to cadavers; the corpses were stabbed
In hopes that life's spark would be spared to afford them
Seconds on killing. Then some, taking count,
Bawled out that Bowie was balking them still;
Like weasels in warrens they wound through the fort,
Hunting the hero they hated the most.
Least of the lucky, at last some found him,
Fettered to bed by the fever and dying,
Burnt up and shrunken, a shred of himself.
Gladly they rushed him, but glee became panic.
Up from the grip of the grave, gripping weapons,
Gizzardsbane rose to wreak his last slaughter,
Killing, though killed. Conquered, he won.
In brief is the death lay of Bowie, the leader
Who laid down his life for his lord and ring giver,
Holding the doorway for Houston the Raven,
Pearl among princes, who paid in the sequel;
Never was vassal avenged with more slayings!
The teenage Sam Houston lit out for the territory. He traveled alone through hundreds of miles of wilderness, and was adopted by the Cherokee. Huston's tribal name was Colonneh, The Raven.
Myers describes the Sandbar Fight as a holmgang. Thats exactly right. A holm was a small island. Two men, or two groups of men, rowed to the island and settled their differences. The winners rowed back.
The Sandbar Fight was an American holmgang.
:thumbup:
