Miss Fixit - Slay Bells!

'Twas the night before Frostval, and all through the town
Not a creature was stirring; they're all dead on the ground.
The slay bells were hung from the handle by chains,
Their ringing meant Ni'Kolas soon would bring pain.
The children were burning, and hearing their cries
A smile and bonfires danced in his eyes!

The marshal in his hauberk, while guarding his liege,
Had just settled in to outlast the siege;
When outside the gates there arose such a clatter,
He sprang to the wall to see what was the matter.
Away to the bulwark he flew like a flash,
Gazed o'er the ramparts at a world full of ash.
The moon through the smoke was the color of blood,
And the army outside had churned snow into mud;
At the rear of the legion was the source of their dread:
Eight giant frost wyrms towing a large mighty sled!
And its giant elf driver made the bravest man ill;
All saw that Ni'kolas had come there to kill.

More rapid than eagles his dragons they came,
And he grunted, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
Atop the portcullis! and then over the wall!
Now the rest of you slackers,

MAKE THAT BLASTED GATE FALL!"

As a landslide that down the iced mountainside roars,
The elf crash at the gate shook the guards to their core.
And up to the throne room the dragons they flew,
With the sleigh full of arms, and Lord Ni'Kolas too.
And then, with a bellow, he lept from the sleigh!
When the dust had all settled, he exclaimed "LET'S PLAY!"

The marshal sped back, and entered the yard,
In time to see Ni'Kolas slaughter the guards.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his toes,
And his clothes were all stained with the blood of his foes;
A sack full of skulls he had flung on his back,
His butcher's prizes spilled from the neck of his pack.
His eyes -- how they twinkled! his laughter inhuman!
His cheeks flushed in exertion, his hair matted ruin!
His wide toothy mouth locked in a wide grin,
And a tangled white beard descended from his chin;
The grip of his flail he held tight in his hand,
And the carol of its bells sang o'er the land;
His huge bulging biceps stand out as he swings,
And with each deadly blow his Slaying Bells ring.

He was mighty and fell, a right savage old elf;
The marshal blanched at the sight, then gathered himself:
A steeling of nerve and a soft-whispered prayer,
He called to Ni'Kolas and met his cold stare;
Neither spoke a word, both lept straight to their fight,
Their weapons rang loudly as they clashed in the night;
The elf was the clear better of this contest,
But the marshal fought hard -- like one demon-possessed.

The Slay Bells pealed out our hero's death knell,
But he found in him one desperate strike as he fell!
He mightily plunged his blade through the elf's chest!

"Happy Frostval... to all..." and fell to his rest.