Bows of The Steppes

A scourge upon the land, like lightning rode this mighty band,
Steeds' hooves like thunder, and arrows like rain,
Sweeping across the Magyar's plain.

A duel of the bow and the lance,
The Iberian eagle, their last chance.
Walls thrown down, torn asunder,
Raging inferno roaring with beastly thunder.

Water runs red, mingling with blood,
Fallen defenders lie mangled in mud.
They’d see their homes and treasure aflame
Rather than let Batu ride off with their name.

Sabres and hammers storm citadel walls,
The blood of Hispania sees the invaders fall.
Their dead pile high, riddled with bolts and ash,
From here to there, in desperate dash.

Vengeance dealt, Belastrinos' split skulls,
Thousands of invading riders culled.
The Khan, receiving his wages of fire and death,
Watches in anger, this pointless breath.

For neither hide nor hold shall they gain,
But face the steadfast, resolute Spanish reign.