The Count is joined to Mayhem, and Oslo set ablaze
The whisperings of evil things that echoed in that place
Boil and bubble to the surface, hardening black hearts
Creatures of the night emerge to practice wicked arts
In Helvete the plotters gather, the Black Circle of the damned
Odin, Thor and Freyja are the symbols of their land
And with the pride of Lucifer, the unborn Morning Star
They hatch a scheme infernal, to reclaim who they are

Black skies over snow-white ground
The walkers in the dark
Lit pyres from sanctified firewood
And watched the flames burn bright
Fantoft, Skjold and Åsane
Were scoured from the Earth
Vengeance for crimes of Uppsala
Arise, the pagan light!

Filled with the fury of the gods, The Circle strikes its blows
Concealed no longer from the eyes of those whom they oppose
Grishnackh’s dark designs are spread, infecting all they touch
But some within the Circle yearn for a greater rush
While Euronymous and Ihsahn talk of gods beneath the earth
And Samoth walks with Grishnackh through the ashes of their work
Another black-girt warrior is about to sow the seeds
Of internecine bloodshed, the blackest of misdeeds

In a forest deep and dark
The first lifeblood was spilled
Obsessing over murder’s art
Faust embraced his need to kill
The knife he wielded slick with blood
As he left his victim there
In Lillehammer he would lie
With thirty-seven wounds

Word, it travelled through the scene
Of what Faust had done
A pact of secrecy was sworn
To keep it from the sun
But tales of death were music to
The ears of Count Grishnackh
With Fantoft’s blaze still in his eyes
He dreamed he could surpass