Sounds like the plot line from a Monty Python skit.
Kinda makes me want to sing a traditional Norse song that warms the heart.
Vítt er orpit
fyrir valfalli
rifs reiðiský,
rignir blóði ;
nú er fyrir geirum
grár upp kominn
vefr verþjóðar,
er þær vinur fylla
rauðum vepti
Randvés bana.
{See! warp is stretched
For warriors' fall,
Lo! weft in loom
'Tis wet with blood;
Now fight foreboding,
'Neath friends' swift fingers,
Our grey woof waxeth
With war's alarms,
Our warp bloodred,
Our weft corseblue.}
Sjá er orpinn vefr
ýta þörmum
ok harðkléaðr
höfðum manna ;
eru dreyrrekin
dörr at sköptum,
járnvarðr yllir,
en örum hrælaðr ;
skulum slá sverðum
sigrvef þenna.
"This woof is y-woven
With entrails of men,
This warp is hardweighted
With heads of the slain,
Spears blood-besprinkled
For spindles we use,
Our loom ironbound,
And arrows our reels;
With swords for our shuttles
This war-woof we work}
Gengr Hildr vefa
ok Hjörþrimul,
Sanngríðr, Svipul
sverðum tognum ;
skapt mun gnesta,
skjöldr mun bresta,
mun hjálmgagarr
í hlíf koma.
{So weave we, weird sisters,
Our warwinning woof.
"Now Warwinner walketh
To weave in her turn,
Now Swordswinger steppeth,
Now Swiftstroke, now Storm;
When they speed the shuttle
How spearheads shall flash!
Shields crash, and helmgnawer
On harness bite hard!}
Vindum, vindum
vef darraðar,
þann er ungr konungr
átti fyrri!
Fram skulum ganga
ok í fólk vaða,
þar er vinir várir
vápnum skipta.
[Wind we, wind swiftly
Our warwinning woof
Woof erst for king youthful
Foredoomed as his own,
Forth now we will ride,
Then through the ranks rushing
Be busy where friends
Blows blithe give and take.]
Vindum, vindum
vef darraðar
ok siklingi
síðan fylgjum!
Þar sjá bragna
blóðgar randir
Guðr ok Göndul,
er grami hlífðu.
["Wind we, wind swiftly
Our warwinning woof,
After that let us steadfastly
Stand by the brave king;
Then men shall mark mournful
Their shields red with gore,
How Swordstroke and Spearthrust
Stood stout by the prince.]
Vindum, vindum
vef darraðar,
þars er vé vaða
vígra manna!
Látum eigi
líf hans farask ;
eigu valkyrjur
vals of kosti.
[Wind we, wind swiftly
Our warwinning woof.
When sword-bearing rovers
To banners rush on,
Mind, maidens, we spare not
One life in the fray!
We corse-choosing sisters
Have charge of the slain.]