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A storm rolls in from the sea |
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Covering the land with black thunder clouds |
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Rain whips the ground at their feet |
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As they come ashore in this foreign land |
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Thunder brakes the silence |
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Of five hundred men assembled on shore |
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Gazing through the misty rain |
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At the mountain not a mile away |
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So dark and silent it stands there |
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The mighty Amon Amarth |
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Reaching for the cloudcloked skies |
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So grim and fearful in might |
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With the wind in their backs, they start walking |
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Decisive men of the north |
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They strive through this darkened land |
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With only mount doom in their eyes can see |
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A forest of one thousand spears awaiting |
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Awaiting the battle that will be |
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A cry of war emerges |
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Echoes over the field |
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Warriors run like wolves up to the slopes |
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Bodley charging the enemy lines |
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With weapons so fearsome and sharp in their hands |
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And shields of oakwood and steel |
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They slit open stomachs and split sculls to the jaw |
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Intestants cover the field |
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The defenders are weak in this brutal war |
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The northmen have power and guts |
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A bloodshed like no one has seen before |
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None can escape their cuts |
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Arrows with fire fly through the air |
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Torching houses and shields |
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The Vikings can feel victory is near |
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As the enemy heedlessly flees |
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A gust of wind blows in from the north |
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Clearing the clouds away |
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As twilight falls and the stars come forth |
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And the sea wolves return to the bay |
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Corpses lie scattered all over the field |
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For the ravens to eat as they please |
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The mountain is now left there behind |
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As they sail with the first morning breeze |
