And Now For Something Completely Different
A Contribution to the Emerging Art Right
Historically, poetry has been ranked among the highest art forms of Western civilization. That is not the case today, except perhaps in the field of rap where a form of spoken poetry with rhyme and meter is still worthy of respect.1 But even the finest raps cannot compare to the great poetry of the past, poems that moved a man’s soul to war, love, triumph, and tragedy.
I don’t talk much about my career as a game designer and fiction writer here. It’s my primary source of income, and I write millions of words per year. However, I have not written poetry for my games or comics. Or, rather, I had not. About a year ago, a poem arrived in my mind, virtually complete, as if channeled by some external force. I have not shared it with many people, but a few of my close associates have recommended that I do so, as part of the rising “Art Right” movement (so named by its chief proponent,
). In any case, the themes of the poem very much reflect the themes of this blog.The poem is set in a fictional world called the Auran Empire. Some of the words are from a constructed language spoken by the Aurans. You can download a primer on the Auran tongue here if you’d like. The words in the poem are pronounced approximately as follows:
Alakyrum (“city of sacred war”): Ah-lah-KIE-rum.
Ammas Aurë (“serene sea”): AW-mahs Are-ay
Audarian (“of the morning light”): Aw-DARE-ee-ahn
Auran (“of dawn”): AW-rehn
Bellësyre (“sword of fire”): Bell-AY-sire
Opelenea (“majestic land”): OH-pa-lehn-ee-ay
Parthalan: Par-THA-lahn 2
Tarkaun (“emperor”, literally “big bird”): Tar-kahn3
Tirenea (“crown land”): Tear-EHN-ee-ay
Without further ado, the poem.
Alakyrum
Ten thousand men-at-arms a-marched,
O'er mountains grim and deserts parched
From the vales of great Tirenea
To the lands of Opelenea,
Where on the salt-encrusted sands,
Alakyrum, in its splendor, stands.
Purpled were that city's walls,
Like heaven's hue when sunset falls,
From which it flew, in proud rem’brance
Of victories won, those knightly pennants
That had been born in bronze array
In battles 'cross the Ammas Aurë.
Ten thousand men came to a halt
In that land of sand and salt.
They marshaled arms before the wall,
And dared demand those pennants fall!
"Alakyrum! Desert jewel -
Our Tarkaun does your demesne rule."
In answer to the Tarkaun's claim,
The city's bowmen set their aim--
And flights of arrows fletch'd in black
Came at the Aurans in attack.
A thousand perished in that rain--
Nine thousand more still stood unslain.
Nine thousand then took up their shields,
And strode across those bloody fields.
The cadence of their sandaled tread
While stepping o’er one thousand dead
Missed not a mark, slowed not a beat.
No man fell back, nor thought retreat.
Those proud pen’nts! Those purpled walls!
Those sun-swept spires and stately halls!
So high, so tall, so fine and grand--
They’d see them tumbled to the sand.
Their jaws were set, their faces grim,
As they fell on Alakyrum.
Nine thousand men, void of pity,
Had vowed that they’d destroy the city.
They battered rams against its gate
And called for blood, insatiate.
Though mangonel and trebuchet
Hurled stone from sky at them all day,
Mangling bone and shatt’ring skull,
The Aurans forayed without lull.
With sword they struck bronze panoply,
And made such loud cacophony
That those within the citadel
With hearing knew of coming Hell.
Eight thousand men made breach the gate,
Led at the van by their Legate,
That noble-born patrisien,
The val’rous lord Audarian.
The Legate wielded Bellësyre
(Which means, in Auran, “sword of fire”).
Now cleaving left, now hewing right,
‘Til all before him broke in flight.
“By this or’chalcum falx,” he cried,
“A hundred foes of ours have died!
By more such deeds, we’ll win the siege.
Press on, press on, outdo your liege!”
Six thousand men pressed on and on,
Debouching to a verdant lawn
Upon whose lush and watered fields,
Had formed in phalanx, locking shields,
The champions of that splendid town.
And to their fore, in gleaming crown
Came the king of Alakyrum.
When he began to sing a hymn,
The Legate knew him! “Parthalan,
Friend of mine in childhood gone,
Why did you not surrender to
Our Tarkaun’s sovereign claim on you?”
Six thousand men, hoplites devout,
Stood at the ready to find out.
“Audarian, my oldest friend,
’Tis well to see you ‘fore the end.
By skill and luck I gained command
Of this city of salt and sand.
But when they made me king and lord,
They made me swear upon my sword
That never would I bend my knee
To Aura’s golden tyranny.
The oath I’ve sworn I will not break.
So we must fight though my heart ache.”
Six thousand men who knew no fear
Charged shield to shield and spear to spear
And in the melee’s first foray,
Another thousand passed away.
Shields were splintered and swords were dull,
And combat slipped into a lull.
Five thousand men fell back, regrouped,
And in their second charge recouped
The deaths they’d suffered in excess.
But still there were a thousand less
To carry on the savage fight
As it went on into the night.
Four thousand men were painted red
From blood that pooled by mounds of dead.
Above the field in dark’ning skies,
Fell crows gathered to dying cries
Of countless fallen friend and foe
Whose dreams of glory came to woe.
And grim was Lord Audarian
To see good men made carrion.
But Auran eagles never yield
While any man still bears his shield.
And so he called out to his friend,
“Let’s bring this battle to its end.”
Four thousand men now stood aside
To let by duel their lord decide
Whether this day’s sacrifice
Would in the eyes of gods suffice
To satisfy the Tarkaun’s claim
To rule this city of marveled fame.
King Parthalan with stately step
And smiling face and eyes that wept
Approached legate Audarian,
And one last time embraced his friend.
“When Tarkaun tried to claim my land,
I hoped that you’d be in command.”
Two men, though friends in sentiment,
The legate of a regiment,
And monarch of a polity,
Were set at odds by destiny.
Audarian, his falx aflame,
King Parthalan, first of his name,
Each struck down his dearest friend
And brought a valiant life to end.
Now in that land of salt and sand,
Where old friends took their final stand,
The salt is tears, the sand is mud,
Where like brothers they mingled blood.
==
I hope this poem moved you. Thanks for reading. If you’d like to read an exploration of the poem’s themes, you can find a (very kind) review and discussion of Alakyrum over at
’s substack, .I once dated an MFA who asked me who I thought the best poet in the world was. When I said Eminem, she broke up with me.
Parthalan is from a dialect of Somirea, in the Sunset Kingdoms, and isn’t Auran. Sadly the Somirean language hasn’t yet been translated into English.
While the word “Tarkaun” seems to share phonology with English words such as Archon, Khan, and Grand Moff Tarkin, it actually is an Auran word meaning “big bird”, which is a kenning for “eagle.” The eagle was the battle standard of Audarius Valerian, the exarch who established the Empire; following his acclamation he adopted Tarkaun as his sobriquet. Because of his fame, the term later became the title of his successors.
Beautiful and sad. It reminded me of 'The Lions of Al-Rassan', by Guy Gavriel Kay, because of the epic battle between friends. I absolutely loved that book. Beautiful when people fight for self-governance, sad when others fight for power. But so common among humans.
Epic