"Three hundred men hastened forth, wearing gold torques, defending the land – and there was slaughter. Though they were slain they slew, and they shall be honoured to the end of the world; and of all us kinsmen who went, alas, but for one man none escaped."

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“The men went to Catraeth, swift was their host, the pale mead was their feast and it was their poison.”

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“He glutted black ravens on the rampart of the stronghold, though he was no Arthur.”

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