The Saga of Maister Björn of Marpurg

Dark was the night when I opened my eyes,
looking above to the cloud-covered skies.
How can the gods see our journey so far,
now that we sailed past the lands so bizarre?

Tales of this voyage can never be lost,
we must preserve them no matter the cost!
Runes must be drawn on blank parchment with quill,
words must be forged with a masterful skill.

From Mead of the Poets a sip I will take,
may Bragi be watchful of verses I make.
I know this adventure to you might be new,
but I swear that every last word here is true.

Let us begin our story at sea,
where we are mighty and where we are free.

Somewhere along the Hispanic rough coast,
a river was blocked by an enemy post.
Many a soldier and ship were on guard,
breaching this force would again be quite hard.

‘Twas a few months after time of Yuletide,
when we got orders from Björn Ironside.
“Leave the defenders and town of Seville,
east is where we shall find even more thrill!”

Leaving a gift to the gods at the altar,
we were the first through the Strait of Gibraltar.
Mediterranean Sea! What a sight!
Far-reaching waves of the pure ancient might.

First, we turned south to a huge unknown land,
realm of the dark folk, with camels and sand.
The air was too hot, so we promptly set forth,
around known Hispania, along its coast north.

In uncharted waters excitement was born,
and none was excited like our king Björn.
The waterside towns were for us like a quarry,
the bountiful booty would surely bring glory.

No one could stop or resist our ranks,
and soon we had reached southern lands of the Franks.
With trees turning golden the winter was near,
the camp was set up and Narbonne put to spear.

Docking our ships, we escaped winter seas,
counting the gold from our raids since Cadiz.
Stunned by our mountain of silver and more,
we gave thanks to Odin and Freyja and Thor.

Björn’s expedition was already great,
but he dreamt of legends, of testing his fate.
His reputation was matched by no other,
yet one was still greater, old Ragnar, his father.

Could great deeds of one be by other outdone?
Who was more glorious? Father or son?

The blooming of flowers and snow melting down
gave us the chance to expand our renown.
Before we moved on, we prepared a great feast,
then loaded the ships and set sail further east.

We met an old farmer, hardworking and witty,
he showed us the way to a famous old city.
This ancient jewel once was emperor’s home,
the centre of power, the city called Rome.

Conquer the city of unrivalled splendour,
take all its gold and enslave the defender!
But then, when the City came into our sight,
we didn’t attack or display our might.

Bold and most cunning a plan was devised,
near death our king wished to now be baptised.
He died and the townsfolk let some of us in,
we carried a coffin with Björn within.

Then, during the Christian farewell ceremony,
our leader rose up, his conversion was phoney.
We killed the surprised ones and opened the gate,
the whole army rushed in to seal the town’s fate.

Standing by once a great shrine of Fortuna,
we heard ‘twas not Rome, but the city of Luna.
With seat of the Pope just a few days away,
we turned our ships, sacking towns on the way.

Björn drove us to new lands, defying the odds,
what pushed him beyond is known only to gods.

When mouth of the Tiber was already near,
from deep sea a mountain began to appear.
It rose ever higher and looked kind of red,
we then realised it, in fact, was a head.

Its limitless body could tear us asunder,
for it was none other than great Jörmungandr.
Struck down by terror we urged to go back,
yet Björn was careless and roared to attack.

The Serpent of Midgard just winked with one eye,
a terrible storm came at us from the sky.
The toughest opponent a mortal could meet,
to Loki’s huge child we admitted defeat.

Five dozen years since great Charles was crowned,
a day from the City we all almost drowned.
Far to the south was compelled the retreat,
Sicily’s where we regrouped our fleet.

Before we moved on from this life-saving isle,
nigh Surtr’s own guard post we camped for a while.
What was our purpose, Björn had to rethink,
now that he saw we could die in a blink.

We had so much gold we could carry no more.
To raid was the old goal, the new to explore.

Several ships were sent south just to scout,
for farmland and traders they had to look out.
They later reported of oceans of sand,
of huge pointy buildings and temples so grand.

The bulk of us, wearing the civil attire,
went east to the realm of the Roman empire.
Dominion of gold and of beautiful opal,
Mihael ruled it from Constantinople.

We docked near a town and we didn’t invade,
the curious locals soon came out to trade.
Sadly, the Drunkard on faraway throne,
thought us a threat, wouldn’t leave us alone.

Just as our commerce had spread through the region,
we had encountered a full Roman legion.
Instant attack took us all by surprise,
thousands of them wanting our demise.

From chaos formation of shields would contrive,
now we had to fight for a chance to survive.
Line after line crashed in frontal assault,
Roman advance quickly came to a halt.

My group was sent round the enemy flanks,
calling to Odin we wedged in their ranks.
The enemy thought we were not a strong force,
but they’d never met the shieldmaidens of Norse.

Rivers of blood mixed with rotting dead smell,
six of the Romans for each of us fell.
Some went to Valhalla and many to Hel,
from slopes of the mountain where ancient gods dwell.

Constantinople was left quite defenceless,
but Björn decided more sacking was senseless.
After this victory we wanted peace,
so we abandoned the coastline of Greece.

We all love the sea, waves of perfect light blue,
but that was the last time our king saw this view.

Our fleet ‘cross the sea the south wind would deliver,
and then we rowed hard up an emerald river.
Soon the white mountains presented a wall,
when autumn was ending, Björn first heard the call.

East he was drawn by invisible lips,
across frozen peaks we would drag our ships.
Downriver we sailed, in a valley concealed,
we reached the most perfect and magical field.

The presence of gods in our hearts we could feel,
for there in the distance we saw Yggdrasil.
The World Tree had left every soul there in awe,
but none was prepared for the next sight we saw.

She sat near the river below the full moon,
on oversized zither she played a deep tune.
A neat purple dress under flowing dark curls,
a goddess-like smile and eyes like brown pearls.

Our blonde king was smitten, ‘twas love at first sight,
he never yet saw the world shining so bright.
We stayed until thick snow gave way to warm spring,
then witnessed the utmost miraculous thing.

Standing there, high by a freshwater source,
Odin himself on his eight-legged horse.
The Allfather wanted us home we now knew,
but Björn would not come nor would some of his crew.

He named a town Marrberg, which means the horse-hill,
to honour the place where grey Sleipnir stood still.
He laid down the crown and in woodcarving trained,
with his curly wife until death he remained.

'Twas here that Björn reached the unreachable fame,
for Maister of Marpurg the first he became.