Through field and plain had struggle raged,
And now, at last, had come
To make the bastion of men
And rivers crimson run.

As drowning men might clutch at straws,
So magi clenched their staves;
Fickle Fate had turned her hand,
But not the one that saves.

But ancient magic, wrought against
Event of such a need,
Heard Hell come pounding at the gates
And grimly then took heed!

Thrice, and thrice, and thrice again,
And thrice the warning rang,
As, shimmering their iron call,
The Tierif Arden sang!

So great a victory that day,
Of many, then, the last;
The portals stood ajar no more—
The demon threat was past!