Only the weak believe, that what they do in battle, is who the are as men Far in the north neath hills of stone in caverns black there was a throne, by flame encircled there the smoke in coiling collumns rose to choke. Slowly his shadow like a cloud rode from the north and on the proud that would not yield his vengance fell; to d**h or thraldom under hell With fire and sword his ruin red and all that would not bow the head like lightning fell the northern land lay groaning neath his ghastly hand.