“[…Uos-brhu-Dabh] brought forth a horn,
a brazen thing of power wrought
to summon wyrm-kin to sky,
a call to war; he blew it long,
the note a fearful tone of doom.
It passed through heavens,
it called through earth,
was heard by beast and bird and man
and great trees shook and mountains wept,
the clouds made way and rivers froze;
the horn-blast lingered, faded slow.
And then there passed a peace in heaven,
a still on earth – a silence prospered,
the like of which was known to few.
The call it was to every wyrm,
the kin of those who battled gods,
fought well to hold their earthly lands
when ancient ones, the first-born kin
had wish to conquer all that lived –
the dragons would have none of that.
They shredded flesh, ground skull and bone
of those who would be all worlds’ kings,
cremated many, slashed and tore
til stronger, greater, gods were formed
who fought with fire, lightning, wind,
and breath and sword met storm and hail
and death-counts tallied high for all,
until a peace was reached at last:
the last few gods made good their homes
in Heofenroost and Westenthorn,
while wyrm-kin held the worlds between.
And then, they went their many ways,
to sulk in burrows, sleep in caves,
their glories lost, their tales forgot
as endless tribes soon filled the lands,
to rule what once were battlefields,
cremation grounds, and lakes of blood
for two great races; shapers of worlds.
A swarm of dragons, dozens strong,
once exiled far, the barrows’ guests,
from every burrow, every cave,
every hollow, every peak –
from every place where dragons dwelt,
those solitary, sulking things,
misunderstood and hated sore,
there came a rumble, then a cry.
Barrows burst, the earth upheaved;
the ground gave birth and mountains fell
as brothers, sisters, kin of Skróth,
the ageless, wondrous serpent-kin,
came to the call of Uos-brhu-Dabh,
the blacksmith of the golden eyes,
their timeless kin, their onetime lord,
the one who stayed the gods’ advance,
fought back the foe in former days
when gods were many, tribes and kin;
[…]
The wyrm-kin flew, like battle-geese
eclipsed the eye of Sóli, soared;
the terror unlike any seen
by living eyes, or even thought,
by minds still sane; the sight was sore,
held fast minds and fettered hearts.
And the wyrm-kin choir chanted forth,
in ancient tongue and poetic weave
a song of glory, victory,
not heard by any ear yet made,
yet carved since time’s dawn in every heart
of serpent-kind, to one day be sung;
and terror smother all who heard;
black fire rode the winds ahead,
raced over […]
And mortals, gods, and foes alike
could but stare [...]
as once again the worlds burned,
the work of wyrms – and gods’ own pride [...]
and thus, so passed the end of things,
of gods and tribes, of lands and speech,
and wisdom, works and books and treasures;
above the flame-fields and the wreckage
of the worlds they once helped shape,
the wingéd ones, the sky-born stood,
their burning victory, a pyre
for all that walked and spoke and crawled
until, the birds gave voice to morning,
the bloody dawn they greeted loud;
the raven was the first to speak,
he called his kin, the dew-winged ones,
to feast and flock, to fatten well –
some things, then, would still remain.
And then the wyrm-kin went their ways,
to caves and holes and pits returned,
to waken when the ash had fled,
and seek another world to share.”