Being the first leod in the lore-song telling of Enwe-mindiari, or The Forsaken Daughter of Mindiar. 

A battle won upon a hill

emblazoned with a sword.

A mighty man they call him,

who remains a weakened lord.

His tales of noble deeds

were sung by lauding throng.

But ‘neath a simple spoken word

then faded shimmering song.

A warrior vicious was he

whose deeds of valor jarred

the bold and iron-hearted

and left wide valleys scarred.

His steed of war emboldened

bade lowering peasants heed.

The glowering noble hailed them

as naught save feeble-kneed.

Then on he rode with warriors strong

undaunted, well he fought.

A fleeting thought, a darkened doubt

thence marred his glory wrought.

A harsh hand was his comfort

for proud, unyielding will.

When fallen he awoke

to victory standing still.

His army, wearied, fled afar,

bereft of unveiled light.

And now he felt the quickening blood

of dreading men in flight.

The cold and deadened brow of one

unmoved by feeble cries

now cringed in wounded visage marred

by wrathful, stunned surprise.

The limb in severed pieces lay –

he lashed the creeping cold

and cursed what still remained to him

a life – or death – untold.

For glory was but all he held

as worth dear sacrifice –

so long as other men would die

he fain would bear the price –

yet even for this specter,

the bane of his disgrace

of what his erring word had brought

to this forsaken place.

So fear, then, will you fools

who emulate his aim.

His tale is surely written,

but this warrior has no name.

 

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