 
A Bard Out of Time

and Other Poems

By Robert P. Hansen

Copyright 2014 by Robert P. Hansen

Smashwords Edition

# Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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# Connect With Me

For reviews, updates on my writing, excerpts from my novels, samples of my poetry, and links to my work online, visit my blog at: <http://www.rphansenauthorpoet.wordpress.com/>.

Follow me on Facebook at: fb.me/RobertPHansenAuthorPoet

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# Additional Titles

Poetry Collections

2014: A Year of Poetry

2015: A Year of Poetry

2016: A Year of Poetry

A Bard Out of Time and Other Poems

A Field of Snow and Other Flights of Fancy

Last Rites . . . and Wrongs

Love & Annoyance

Of Muse and Pen

Potluck: What's Left Over

Fantasy Novels

The Drunken Wizard's Playmates and Other Stories

Angus the Mage

Book 1: _The Tiger's Eye_

Book 2: _The Viper's Fangs_

Book 3: _The Golden Key_

Book 4: _Angst_

[Book 5 is the Aftermath series]

Aftermath

Book 1: _Aftermath_

Other Novels

_Installments_ (mystery / literary)

_Please Don't Eat the Penguins_ (science fiction)

_The Snodgrass Incident_ (science fiction)

Short Story Collections

Exploitation and Other Stories

Have You Seen My Cat? And Other Stories

Worms and Other Alien Encounters

# Acknowledgments

"All Hallows Eve" Copyright 1995 by Anderie Poetry Press. Originally published in Autumn issue of _Feelings_.

"To the Gods, I Sing" Copyright 1994 by Michael McKenny. Originally published in _Bardic Runes_ IX.

Special thanks to Ronda Swolley, of Mystic Memories Copy Editing, for the copy edit and Linda Foegen of American Book Design for the cover art.

# Dedication

To Richie, a long lost friend.

# Table of Contents

Title Page

Connect With Me

Additional Titles

A Bard Out of Time

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Epilogue

Other Poems

About the Author

# A Bard Out of Time

Part 1

Once while I was in Dun Keep,

a brothel did I pass,

and I wondered if the price were cheap

to get a piece of —

The hill had moved beneath his feet,

staggering his words,

but he regained his steady beat

through the grassy sward.

I walked in through the brothel door

in search of a comely lass,

but found, instead, a troublesome whore

with chains of iron and whips of brass.

I tried to run, I tried to hide,

but I could not get away —

His voice was broken in mid-stride

as both feet slipped away;

About his knees, like ropy claws,

were two thin, thorny vines

with flowers budding toothy jaws

up and down their lines;

They squeezed and pulled with all their might

to fell his bardic stance,

but instinct brought his sword to strike

a whirling dervish dance!

The vines had twisted round and round;

His sword was twirling death;

The flowers, tufts of reddish-brown

with floral scented breath,

had tiny teeth that gnawed his skin

with hunger's taste unleashed,

until his sword untangled them

from his tunic sleeve;

His fingers burned from tiny snags,

but soon his legs were free

from the tattered, severed rags

of deadly snarlweed.

When the thrashing settled down,

the vines were all but gone;

He shrugged and turned to move away

as if no war was won;

A moment passed for him to catch

the strangled breath he'd lost,

and when he found his voice again,

he resumed his raucous song:

I tried to run, I tried to hide,

but I could not get away;

That she-devil of a twisted whore,

she chased me all the way!

Up the stair and through a door

and out the window I fled;

On the roof I found myself

with a fate far worse than death!

She cackled out in playful notes

between her broken teeth;

"I give to you the thing you want!

I give it to you free!"

The roof was far too small for two

despite its length and breadth—

Oh! but for the will to jump

and plunge myself to death!

Alas, my love for life's too strong

to give it up so soon;

I should have understood the signs,

but I was thrice a fool!

She stalked me like some kind of prey;

Her cackles filled the air;

The stinging cracks of leather whip—

Chain links everywhere—

She blocked me in and closed the gap;

Her poundage flexed to pounce;

She must have weighed three hundred pounds

if she weighed an ounce!

The rooftop creaked and buckled

with every step she took,

and then a rafter snapped in two

and sent her through the roof;

I was too startled by the sight

to move to stop her fall,

and listened as her bovine screams

echoed off the walls.

I could have helped to save her life,

but I was more concerned

with fleeing from that dreadful place

of such sadistic charm!

Something deep inside me said

that she was still alive,

and so I scampered down the wall

and fled into the night.

The hills had turned to forest

as he finished up his song;

His brother's inn was getting close—

it wouldn't be too long

before a night of revelry,

of good food, wine, and friends;

His heart was lifting with his mood

to meet the journey's end.

He came upon the twisting road

that led to Shallow Dale,

but could not see the faces of

the shadows that he felt.

A cackle rumbled through the air,

and chills went down his spine.

He heard the clank of brassy chains;

A woman cried: "You're mine!"

He felt the skin upon his neck

creeping down his spine;

He heard the stomping of her feet

pounding through his mind;

The fear he felt was much the same

as when they first had met;

She was a whore of ample size

that he would not forget.

Then laughter rumbled impishly;

A youthful man emerged;

The look upon his boyish face

was all the man deserved!

The startled bard brandished fists

and chased him down the road;

He cursed him for a devil's brat

with every breath and word.

They ran around until at last

the anger eased away,

and then he hugged his brother's son,

forgiving him his play.

"Your magic's getting better, son;

I never would have guessed

that your illusion was the cause

of such a wondrous jest!"

"Uncle, I could not resist;

Your voice was raised in song;

A simple spell is all I cast,

but it was all in fun!"

They walked along, side by side,

into the village square;

They found the Inn of Scarlet Wine

and ordered up some beer.

His travels had been weary ones;

His heart was full of cheer;

The bard was taken to his room

and soon retired there.

He hid the gold that he had won

and left his sword and shield;

He locked the room with special care

as he rehearsed his spiel.

He strolled into the common room

with purpose in his stride;

He carried in his tender arms

his one and only pride.

The villagers had gathered round;

Their voices filled the room;

They knew the minstrel had arrived

and revelry would come!

A place was made for him to sit;

The wine was freely poured;

The villagers awaited him:

They knew this gifted bard.

The minstrel tuned his trusty harp,

and expectations rose;

As quiet filled the common room,

he struck his singing pose;

He cleared his throat with dignity;

He took a gulp of wine;

He saw in every single face

that they were his this night.

My friends, I fear my heart grows old;

My spirit cold and bleak;

For I beheld a dreadful woe

upon a village street;

A bard had come to sing some songs—

or so it seemed to us—

I went to listen with the throng,

since I was curious;

Would her lutist skill be strong?

Would her voice be fair?

Would she want to trade her songs?

Would I even care?

Her technique was quite unique

and drew my interest in;

I listened with the villagers

and this is what she did:

Her horse's hooves were used like clubs

to pound a steady beat,

and when the rhythm had been set,

she began to speak:

"I bid to thee a wondrous day

and offer thee my croon."

Her voice held music in its depths

that nearly made me swoon.

"The songs I play will have no name,

and mine must not be told;

So gather round, gather round,

and see what may unfold!"

The rhythm of the horse's hooves

against the wooden block

sent a message through the square

to those she hadn't caught;

It was the only sound to hear

until she strummed her lute;

Its chords were plucked with striking ease

that slowly built at tune.

The mournful lilt was obvious

to all the common folk,

and soon we heard her gentle voice

as she began to talk:

"This song I sing in memory

of one I dearly loved,

who lost his life while battling

the dragon Astranov.

"He was a friend of many men

who wore the warrior's clothes;

His heart was pure as fresh-lain snow;

His sword was sharply honed.

"He'd heard a tale of misery,

of famine, fear, and death

and followed rumors to a mill

along a river's edge.

"The miller's girl was still alive;

No one else was there;

She would have fled, if she could,

if there had been somewhere —

"But where? Where? Where to go?

The village was her home!

She'd never left the miller's creek—

There was nowhere to go!

"I will not tell the tale she told

that warrior fair and strong;

But I was there beside him when

he vowed what would be done!

"'The dragon Astranov will die!'

he swore upon his sword,

and off he went to find the beast,

for that miller's girl!

"He surveyed all the countryside

and found no living soul;

The villagers were surely dead—

all but the miller's girl;

"She was, it seemed, the only one,

and he could not believe

the story of her hiding out

where dragon's cannot see;

"He'd heard a dragon's sense of smell

was keener than a sword;

So how could it have missed the girl

beneath the flooring board?

"He questioned her until she cried,

then cursed his callous heart;

He had suspicions that she'd lied,

but how and where to start?

"He tried to ease her suffering,

but she was far too proud;

She let him have an upstairs room

while she slept on the ground.

"But when the morning sun arose

and he came down the steps,

there was no miller's girl around—

Through the door he crept;

"He found her by the river's edge,

watching water pass;

She heard him moving up on her

and whirled round too fast.

"An evil gleam was in her eye;

a short sword in her grip;

A feral snarl issued forth

snaking past her lips.

"She lashed out with deceptive speed

and nearly ran him through;

But he had managed to avoid

being cleft in two.

"Her second thrust —such maddened force! —

was met with trusty steel;

His sword was knocked loose from his hands,

but he refused to yield!

"The young girl's eyes were changing now

into a reddish glow;

She dropped her sword with fiendish glee

as she began to grow.

"Her skin was tinted brimstone red;

Her scales were breaking free;

Her tail was stretching out of sight;

Her legs were thick as trees;

"Her claws and fangs were sharply honed;

Her tongue was sharply set:

'Oh warrior friend, I must admit,

my appetite is whet!

"'This village wasn't quite enough

to fill my hungry need,

and now you've brought to me dessert!

A tasty little treat!'

"The warrior ran like any man

when dragons look at them,

and while he fled into the hills,

there followed this refrain:

'I be a dragon big and strong,

I eat little people all day long,

I roast 'em, and I toast 'em,

and I throw 'em in a bowl;

I munch 'em, and I crunch 'em,

and I swallow 'em whole!'

"His fear-filled flight was much too slow

to get him from his plight;

Soon the dragon scooped him up

and gently took a bite;

"Then with a playful toss or two,

the dragon chuckled deep:

'This morsel is a healthy one,

a healthy one, indeed!'

"Now, you may wonder why I chose

to sing this dreadful tale;

I thought I'd set the atmosphere

before my dinner bell!"

When her song had met its end,

a strange thing then occurred:

Horse and woman rearranged

into a dragon pair!

I stood transfixed in fear and awe

while they began to feast;

Then something broke that dragon's spell

and freed me from the beasts;

I won't deny my coward's act —

I am no match for dragons —

And so I fled the village square

and hid behind some wagons.

There was nothing I could do

to stop the village slaughter,

but when the dragons finished up,

I chose to follow after.

They did not leave the village square

while still in dragon shape;

They shifted back to human form,

and I made my escape;

They walked with deep contentedness —

their paunches stretching wide —

But when I strummed my trusty harp,

they stopped cold in their stride.

They spun around with blinding speed,

but I was out of sight;

I'd hidden in an alcove's shade

and held my harp-strings tight;

They muttered hisses to themselves,

then turned back in disgust;

I mouthed a silent heart-felt prayer

to that bastard Onus!

My voice rang out in robust tones;

my harp brought forth a tune;

I sang a verse of dragon's might

and all of mankind's doom;

I hoped my guess would serve me well

and life would still go on;

While the dragons listened in,

I played a soothing song.

I eased the tension with my song

and drew them in my spell,

but just before I finished it,

I told them I might sell;

It would cost them just two things:

my freedom and their song;

The hatred boiled in their eyes:

I knew I wasn't wrong.

She spat an oath and then agreed

and gave her dragon's word;

Then I sang the final verse

and played the final chord.

They left me standing with my life

and with the song they sang

of how the dragon Astranov

achieved her fearful fame.

I've sung that song a hundred times

in many village squares,

to warn them of an unnamed bard

who rides a coal-black mare.

It was the most that I could do—

despite the tragedy—

I am a bard, a lowly bard,

not a hero, me!"

Absently, he strummed his harp strings

egging on the boisterous crowd;

Someone brought another flagon,

and he slurped its contents down.

While he pondered what to sing next,

someone in the crowd spoke up:

"No more songs of death and ruin!

A song of love is what we want!"

As they settled into place,

their mugs were full once more,

he said to them: Apologies,

_my friend_ : I can't ignore

This solemn duty that I have;

The people must be warned!

But now it's done, and I will be

a bawdy troubadour!

He considered for a moment,

then began to strum his harp;

It was such a rapid tempo,

that he had them from the start.

I was lucky to be present

when the maiden Charity

was abducted by an ogre

who professed his love for she;

He had brought a gift of treasure,

one he thought she would adore,

but when she saw the rotting wolf skin,

she just threw it on the floor!

When he howled his deep affection,

she turned pale as ghosts would be;

Then she fainted from the horror

as he stood dumbfoundedly.

Then a thought went passing through him —

We know how rare that that can be!

He reached down to lift the maiden—

He took away poor Charity!

He was not the brightest ogre

that I've ever come to know,

and so he never even noticed

when I followed out the door.

The ogre went into the forest,

down a trail and to the left;

On his shoulder was the maiden

that he wanted for his wife;

I made sure he didn't see me,

but, in time, I lost their trail;

When I finally found his haven,

I tried to save her from that hell!

His cave was cut into the hillside,

its roof of solid stone;

To the ogre, it was heaven,

to the ogre, it was home;

When I heard the maiden screaming,

I was sure she was afraid,

until the ogre dropped his loin cloth—

then she fainted dead away!

What they did I will not tell you,

but the noises that they made!

I guess the maiden changed her standards—

Then the ogre went away!

She just lay in utter rapture

with no thought of her escape,

and when I offered to assist her,

she just said to go away!

I went back into the village,

unsure of her sanity,

and told the people of the ogre

and the maiden Charity.

They just chuckled at my stupor,

then they told me of the tale

of how the maiden threw some silver

in a magic wishing well!

All she wanted was a lover

unlike all the men she'd had;

What came after was the ogre,

and at first, she thought him mad!

In the days that quickly followed,

she fell deeply into love,

and once a month they still repeat it

when the full moon hangs above.

We just hang our heads in sorrow

for the men who have no wives,

for none among them can compare

to the ogre's ten-and-five!

Raucous laughter rumbled from them

as he listened with a grin;

When their comments eased to silence,

to a chuckle now-and-them,

he still sat there softly strumming,

waiting for the proper time;

When he felt them growing restless,

he prepared his favorite rhyme:

This song I purchased from a man

with hair of silver-gray;

He's sold me many others, too,

since that fateful day.

I traded in my innocence

and blind naiveté;

He taught me all about the world

with every song he sang.

He was my mentor for a time,

and this was once his harp;

He showed me how to find the words

and when and where to start;

He taught me how to build a tune

and play these tangled strains,

but I have never been so moved

as by his first refrains.

The music that he chose to play

was dark and glumly strung,

and as he set the morose mood,

this is what he sung:

"My aching head was weary and

my thoughts were all but clear;

A wretched scent assaulted me

from dungeon cells too near;

"The smell was too familiar;

I knew from whence it came:

A putrid thing of terror:

A troll as known by name.

"I moved away as best I could

from that noxious stench;

It smelled too much like rotten wood,

decaying fish, and death.

"I huddled in a corner's cramp

and looked about my cell,

and from the light of yonder lamp,

there wasn't much to tell.

"The cell was damp and musty

with rug of matted straw;

The window's bars were dusty—

I heard the troll guffaw!

"There came a massive scraping sound

from the cell next door to mine,

and then a claw came creeping round

to see what it could find!

"It patted round a moment, but

before it turned away,

laughter filled the dungeon's hall

like sickened donkeys' bray;

"A chill that wasn't made from cold

splintered through my spine;

An image too intense to hold

went jumping through my mind;

'Come, my little human friend,

I find I need some food;

I promise you an easy end,

if you promise to be good!'

"I never knew a troll before

and did not know they spoke,

So I was unprepared, for sure,

when the silence broke.

"Just as I would answer him,

a new sound came to bear:

The sound of footfalls coming down

the musty dungeon stair.

"A moment later came the source,

and shudders ran me through;

It was a person of great force,

without a doubt, I knew.

'Welcome to my humble home,

my friend from years gone by;

You know by now you're not alone,

and now I'll tell you why:

'A troll is quite uniquely made

and very hard to kill;

Its severed hand or sharpened claw

regenerates until

'it is another troll

with all its skills intact;

Together with its mother-troll,

the twain make their attack.

'But what of you, you ask of me?

Where do you fit in?

The troll's my tool for treachery,

and soon, revenge begins.

'You see, a troll has fingers,

and each one can be cut,

and like the wrath that lingers

in the bottom of my gut,

'They feed on seeming nothingness,

getting stronger every day;

Their hunger's pull is endless;

It _never_ goes away.'

"I watched his smile slipping down

as he looked in my cell

concentrating on the words

for casting off the spell;

"When he finished chanting,

there was one thing I knew:

No matter what he asked of me,

I would surely do!

"His smile came back once again

as he unsheathed his sword;

The troll held out its hand to him

as servant to his lord.

"One finger from the troll was cut—

It wriggled round and round—

He turned to me and held it out—

I made squawking sounds.

'Here you go, my long-time friend;

Your dinner has been served.

Not the most pleasant one,

but no less than you deserve!'

"I tried to fight the spell's control

but could not break its hold;

I took the finger of the troll

and swallowed it, whole."

He played the final, haunting notes

as if his harp had died;

Then let their echo fill the room—

a weepy, ghostly sigh.

He paused and said in whispered tones

to make them strain to hear;

"I asked him if his song was true

and met his sternest glare;

"If it is true, I ask of you,

then why are you not dead?"

"I'll tell you why I did not die,"

but that was all he said.

His subtlety was very good,

as single notes were played;

He struck them almost carelessly,

as though his fingers strayed;

Soon his notes grew into song,

with peaceful melody,

and in a solemn, vibrant voice,

he sang this song to me:

"Two days of terror came to pass,

the troll in me unbound,

and I became a writhing mass

of twisted, anguished sound;

"It felt as though my world would end

before the troll emerged;

That burning, churning, tightening

I could not seem to purge;

"Not a moment passed me by

my belly didn't burn;

Nor could I ignore the way

the finger ever-turned!

"I felt it twitch and seem to grow—

Was it now a hand?

My doom had come to take away

a haunted, tortured man.

"And then his footfalls echoed down

the dungeon stair so near;

His laughter settled on the ground

with trilling, chilling cheer.

"He'd been there several times before,

to ask if I was well;

He'd watch me writhing on the floor—

It wasn't hard to tell—

"I'd grind my teeth and glare at him—

His smile ever grew—

If I were free, I'd be killing him—

This, I'm sure, he knew—

"But this time it was different

from all the other times;

'My friend,' he said, with some regret,

'I think it may be time

'for you to know the truth of trolls

and how they can be killed.

A flaming torch will burn up trolls,

and acid always will;

'The acid works at greater speed

to burn the troll away;

What's in your stomach's all you need

to eat a troll a day!'

"His eyes held no compassion-

all there was was glee;

He saw by my reaction

that I could not believe:

"If what he said was really true,

then why was I in pain?

I felt the twisting finger, too,

moving round again!

'I see you don't believe my words;

It's all the same to me;

But I believe in just rewards

for what you did to me.

'It wasn't long before I found

a cure for what was done—

For two long days I wandered 'round

before I found the one

'whose skill was truly evident;

He stopped that dreadful spell;

But every hour I had spent,

I cursed you thrice to hell!

'So, when I was myself again,

I started making plans;

I finally came across the means

to make good my revenge.

'The troll was not expecting

all the power that I wield,

and so it was quite easy

to make the creature yield;

'It wasn't long before I saw

the poetic artistry

of tricking you with the troll

and letting you believe

'that it could grow inside of you—

although it never could—

It's hunger pains that trouble you,

and I've brought you some food!

'Now the time has come at last,

when I have seen it through:

I'll give to you your last repast

before I run you through!"

"With these words, he had produced

a meal extraordinaire;

There was no way I could refuse;

I ate with rabid flair.

"The pain inside my stomach fled,

and soon I ate no more;

The prospect that I'd soon be dead

came rushing to the fore—

"You don't spend time in dungeons

without some time to think;

They haven't kept me in one long

before I've broken free.

"Every thief I've ever known

has a secret place

where he keeps his favorite tools

handy, just in case;

"Though my clothes and boots were gone,

my body still was there;

A pick was woven in among

my twisted locks of hair;

"It took some time to dig it out

and pick that dungeon lock,

but when I finally worked it out,

away from there I got!

"Escaping was not very hard—

He did not think I could—

Once I was beyond the yard,

I scurried through the wood

"'until at last I came to rest

inside these hallowed walls;

I do not know what might be next—

but _that's_ another song!

When he finished with his ballad,

and his tale had been unfurled,

I regarded him with wonder,

and my thoughts began to whirr;

I could sense a deeper meaning

in the rhythm of his song;

There was something that was missing,

something else that should belong;

I considered for a moment

on the ballad he had sung;

then it struck me like a bad note:

What was it he might have done?

What had brought on such desire

for revenge from such a man?

I posed this question to my mentor:

How was it that this began?

I remember his sly smile

and the gentle nod he gave,

then he started playing somber,

wretched notes that screamed in pain;

These he teased to softer texture

where his voice crept in between;

Here's the ballad I procured by

asking him to please explain:

"I huddled in among the trees

outside the castle walls,

a creeping, shadowed mystery

with feather-soft footfalls;

"The lamplight of the passing guard

was lost inside the fog;

I crept forward, softly forward

from tree to fallen log;

"When the light had finally past

without a warning call,

I hurried through the fresh-cut grass

and up against the wall;

"It was just as I remembered—

brick and mortar, creeping vine,

tiny fissures for my fingers,

perfect toeholds I could climb.

"My breath was taken in with caution,

I climbed into the night;

The guards made no abrupt commotion;

Everything still seemed all right.

"I made it to the battlement;

The guards were chattering;

I landed with a muffled thud

without them noticing.

"I hurried 'cross the catwalk

to the inner wall

and fastened on my grapple hook

and set the rope to fall.

"'I vaulted quickly over

and hung on to the rope

and listened to their laughter

as they shared a private joke.

"The grapple slipped a little,

grating on the stone;

I slid down from its middle,

dropped down to the ground;

"That's when they must have heard me—

They began to shout;

Alarm bells started banging,

and guard dogs were let out.

"I sprinted 'cross the courtyard

and found a place to hide;

It wasn't long before the guards

had caught me in their sights.

"I stood there for a moment;

They leveled their crossbows;

I sprinted for the castle wall

as they released their bolts.

"I heard the clang and clutter,

the clamor of their shouts;

I scampered up a ladder,

hoping to get out.

"I saw the feet above me

as I topped the castle wall;

The guards were waiting for me:

My best bet was to fall.

"I let go of the ladder

and landed in a roll;

I heard the guardsmen banter

as they readied their crossbows.

"It isn't very hard to know

when running isn't wise;

When you are ringed by crossbow bolts

and one is in your thigh;

"I did the only thing I could:

I screamed with all my might:

"Mercy! Quarter! Hold your swords!

I beg you, spare my life!"

"The scraping of the guardsmen's feet

as they gathered round

echoed with finality

through the courtyard grounds.

"Someone struck me on the head,

and all the world turned black;

I would have thought that I had died,

except one brutal fact:

"My hands were held behind me;

My thigh was screaming pain;

A stranger stood before me,

and he was not my friend.

'I see you now are waking,

and I hope that you are well;

I have some pointed questions

whose answers you will tell.

'But first I must relieve you

of all your weaponry—

The picks inside your boots,

wherever they may be."

"He searched me with a master's skill

and nearly found it all;

A single thing was hid too well

that I will soon recall.

"He asked me what I wanted;

What was worth the risk?

I told him it was nothing:

just a magic disc.

"The disc, I'd heard, was mighty,

one that I could sell;

It would fetch a handsome price,

and I would make out well.

'There are no magic discs in here,

in this sacred keep;

I sentence you to spend a year

in the mines that run beneath;

'And when that year is over,

you will be set free—

Unless you die, of course!"

He laughed maliciously.

"He left me in my dungeon cell

to think on what he'd said;

My future didn't bode too well,

but better that than dead!

"I scratched an itch behind my ear

and brushed my collar's lip;

Both were still sequestered there,

the garrote and the pick.

"It's not that I'd forgotten—

I was still in shock—

The blow had nearly broke my skull

and rattled all my thoughts!

"So when the guard had turned away

and I was given time,

I searched until I found the string

that freed the garrote's line.

"From there, it wasn't hard to do,

once I took the pick

and turned all my attention to

the lock that needed picked.

"The lock was quite a fancy one,

with many little tricks,

but I am skilled and had them sprung

within a few minutes.

"The door slid open noisily

as rusty hinges flaked;

The guard came running hastily—

but just a bit too late.

"The garrote slipped about his throat

and tightened 'til he bled;

I kept the pressure up until

I knew that he was dead.

"Then I gathered up my gear

from a table in the hall,

put my boots back on my feet,

and leaned against the wall.

"I rested there a moment,

made sure it was still there:

The vial—most important—

was still sequestered where

"The seam between the sole and heel

were glued with surest hand,

along with the instructions

that my employer planned.

"I hurried up the dungeon stair

and followed narrow paths

until I found the bed chamber

marked upon my map.

"This was where His Lordship slept,

alone or with his wife,

and this is where I softly crept—

but not to take his life.

"I do not kill for profit,

nor do I think it's fun,

but deep, deep down, I do believe

at times it must be done.

"I regret the guardsman's death,

but did not have a choice;

I had to get up to the lord

with very little noise.

"I heard his quiet whispers

to the woman in his bed,

and eased a little closer,

until I saw his head.

"He wasn't wearing armor—

or any other clothes—

The vial was unstoppered,

ready to be thrown.

"The liquid in the vial,

with sureness of my aim,

struck the lord and lady,

and they began to change.

"The liquid oozed and bubbled,

mingled with their screams;

I fled in fear of trouble—

as well as other things.

"I hid out in an alcove

as the guardsmen hurried past,

I scampered through the shadows,

upward, 'til at last

"I found myself upon the roof.

Moving with great care,

I found the grapple, rope, and hook

that I had hidden there;

"It wasn't very hard to do,

to thread the grapple line

and hook it to the battlement

and leave that place behind.

"But I had carried out with me

the sight I had beheld,

the twisting of their living flesh

into a molten shell.

"The plan had been successful,

from beginning to the end;

Let them think I was inept

by getting caught, and then—

"They wouldn't guard me very well,

and I would be inside

to send the lord into a hell

that he could not abide!

"Escaping had been easy—

Chaos had ensued—

I was free, if queasy,

lost within the wood.

"I hurried through those wooded hills

and found my trusty steed;

I made it to the sacred shrine

of Onus, God of Thieves.

"There is where I rested

while my thigh-wound healed,

then back to stealing trinkets—

let other people kill!

"Although he never died that day,

I never will forget

the screaming of the pair of them

writhing in that bed.

"Her face was all in motion;

his was twisting skin;

A scalding transformation

had started to set in;

"Their faces were no longer

human shape or form;

The visage of the monsters

was starting to reform;

"The sight that was emerging

was pure grotesquery:

Their hair and teeth were growing

lycanthropically!

"Their screams turned into howling;

Two wolves had come to bear!

In seconds, it was over:

I was out of there.

"My life has changed dramatically

from that moment on;

I've chosen much more carefully

all the jobs that I have done.

"So far as I can say, it's true,

in almost every way—

until I suddenly awoke

in that dungeon, on that day."

I was certain it was over

but found I was in err;

In the silence struck so simple

came more notes of somber flair.

As I listened to the music,

came a sadness to my soul;

Deep, resounding, oh-so-tragic

was the music's gentle pull.

Then with quiet, intoned whisper

that filled up the silent hall;

The tragic tale my mentor sang me

I will now replay in full;

"I had heard a lonely growling,

just beyond the sacred shrine—

A far-off, doleful, plaintiff howling

through the hills of knotted pine;

"It all started on that evening

when the full moon came to light;

A deep, resentful, soulful moaning

echoed through the deepest night;

"Weeks went by, and still this howling

filled the eerie countryside;

Then I saw it in the meadow:

a female werewolf in midstride.

"She was not a lone wolf maiden:

there beside her was a man

who gripped her collar, firmly, certain,

with a lover's gentle hand.

"When he saw me standing there,

a wicked grin emerged;

'We meet again, my nemesis—

The last time, to be sure!'

"As he stroked the shaggy collar

of the werewolf's matted fur,

She responded with the slavered

tongue, like a delighted cur;

"He nudged her gently forward;

First she quivered, then she leapt;

'Easy love, there is no hurry;

Our vengeance will be sweet!'

"She shivered as he chuckled;

Then he turned to me:

'Your death will be forthcoming,

full of misery;

'It will not happen suddenly,

nor will it be by pain;

But suffering you will endure;

You'll beg to have it end!

'There is but one cure to be found;

It doesn't always work;

I will not tell you what it is,

and neither will the wolf!'

"He smiled with an earnestness

that I could not displace

and whispered something to the _were_

and she jumped for my face.

"I tried to dodge her beastly jaws—

She twisted in the air—

She scratched me with extended claws

and left me crouching there.

"Her tail wagged harshly back and forth—

Her yipping was extreme—

She left me crouching fearfully

as though it were a dream!

"The wound was almost nothing

but must have been enough;

The female _were_ was satisfied

and softly padded off.

"She rubbed her side against the man;

He stroked her furry chin;

She started howling as she changed

to human form again.

"There she stood in naked flesh,

a smile on her face;

He took the cloak about his neck

and wrapped it round her waist.

"Then he turned to bow at me

and bade me ill farewell:

'Now you'll be a bit like her,

inside a twisted hell!'

"I did not understand his words

until the next full moon,

when spasms ripped apart my form

and left me in a swoon.

"I woke beneath the morning sun,

naked, cold, and dazed;

I did not know what I had done

for many, many days.

"It wasn't 'til the fourth full moon

that I became aware

that I was changing to a wolf;

I had become a _were_!"

Here, his music wavered,

recalling ancient pain;

Then it picked up pace again:

a simple, light refrain.

"Lycanthropy, lycanthropy,

what a change you've made in me:

"My hair has grown so rapidly;

My wounds heal much more readily;

"And now my heart has broken through

from this most sadistic cue:

"When the moon is full, I start

changing to a wolf-in-part,

"but no silver do I have

to make arrow, blade, or shaft;

"And so I live as half-a-man

until the moon is full again,

"and then the wolfish fangs will sprout,

to rip and rend and shred and gouge;

"The taste of blood, the taste of flesh—

my appetite is quickly whet—

"The screams of fear, the screams of pain,

drive me down a frenzied chain;

"One by one, they slake my thirst

until I very nearly burst,

"and then the sun begins to rise,

blinding me—my human eyes—

"The tears well up in agony—

I've survived again, you see—

"and all I really want from life

is an end to all this strife.

The playfulness within his tone

was quickly set aside;

A somber melody began,

as if his harp has died:

"Six long months would slowly pass

before I gained control

of the sickness I possessed,

the part that was a wolf.

"The urges came at awkward times

when fear or anger rose,

and every full moon I would find

the wolf in me exposed.

"The hair and claws come bursting out

with painful little pricks;

From deep within, a feral shout

upsurges to my lips—

"It erupts as strangled howl

that I cannot control;

A soulful, mournful, tragic howl

to match my tortured soul!

"The first time that it happened,

it caught me by surprise;

I'd haggled with a merchant prince

for a better price;

"He would not budge a copper coin,

and I refused to pay;

Frustration passed beyond the point

that held my wolf at bay.

"Cries of fear—The summoned guard—

My instinct to survive—

The merchant's wail—The guardsman's sword—

My need to stay alive—

"The taste of blood—The raging howl—

Singes from a torch's flame—

The scrambled flight—The midnight prowl—

Daylight bringing change—

"Impressions, only, of that night—

my world had come unwound—

Enough to send me into flight

far from that hapless town!

"I somehow found my tangled way

back to the temple grounds;

The priests held little sympathy:

They unleashed the hounds.

"They came at me with viciousness,

but once they caught a whiff

of the wolf-blood in my veins,

they came up short and stiff;

"They whimpered with their tails hung low,

their noses to the ground,

The High Priest said, 'We had to know.'

and whistled for the hounds.

"They looked at him, then back at me,

before they went inside.

I waited half-expectantly

to be rebuffed. Instead:

"The High Priest told me of a tale

about the werewolf's curse;

It started with a wishing well

and Old Demonicus.

"He was a wizard of great skill

and greater devilry;

He didn't want to end up killed

by normal weaponry;

"And so he made an evil pact

and Onus made him pay;

For every contract He transacts,

He does it His own way.

"For a normal weapon's strike to fail

to cause him mortal wounds,

he had to feel the bitter pain

and change into a wolf.

"Onus laughed, spat in his eyes,

and left him lying there;

The wizard cursed Old Onus' Bones

for making him a _were_.

"He spent his lifetime searching for

any kind of cure,

and found a perverse pleasure

in creating other _were_.

"He died one night in solitude,

beneath the full moon's gaze,

A silver dagger ran him through—

That's what the High Priest said.

"Now that I have had some time

to come to understand,

I've drawn the stark conclusion that

I'm now more wolf than man!"

He eyed me with an intense look

that shook me to the core,

and then he smiled whimsically

and struck a gnarled chord.

"The wolves are howling to the moon,

not far beyond that door;

I sense their presence in this room,

the breeze upon their fur;

"I smell the scent of stale dog breath,

and feel their thirst for blood;

I hear their pad-falls bringing death,

and taste their slavered tongue;

"Do you hear the fear of the hart?

The panic in its haggard breath?

They know they have that poor deer trapped;

It smells impending death.

"The hunt is calling to my wolf;

It's restless and wants out;

The pack—my pack—prepares to kill—

Let's have another draught!"

The sudden shift enveloped me;

The barmaid brought the ale;

I paid. We drank. He laughed at me

and then resumed his tale.

"Years have passed, and still I dread

the coming of the moon

The little tingle in my head,

reminds me of my doom;

"The only thing that's kept me sane

through all these tortured years

is my pack. They are my friends,

and soon they will be yours!"

Here he paused amid his song

and let the music fade;

The silence lingered oh-so-long

before he turned to say,

"The High Priest had refused to me

the right of every thief:

The right of sanctuary

in their time of need.

"The temple doors were firmly set;

the windows closed and locked;

The guards were armed with silver bolts;

Their crossbows all were cocked;

"I took the hint and made my way

along a troubled stream,

and when the full moon showed its face,

I responded with a scream....

"In the morning when I woke,

I was not alone;

I had been joined by a wolf—

a young, gray, female one.

"She was the first of many;

She is the best of all;

She leads them on their hunt tonight—

There's triumph in her howl—"

He shuddered as in ecstasy;

His fingers stilled the strings;

His nostrils flared; he licked his lips;

And then he looked at me.

"She calls for me, a plaintive wail,

but I must stay away;

I found a wizard with a spell

to keep my wolf at bay.

"You see, there is a tragic twist

in this sordid tale;

The curse I bear is not the worst;

There is a worse one still.

"The first full moon that came to pass

when I remained a man,

I went into the woods in case

the wizard failed, and—

Until this point, his voice had been

in perfect pitch and tone,

but now it wavered with the strain

and crumbled to a groan.

"She was there, that lovely gray,

that beauty of a wolf,

to see me through that wretched change

that we have spoken of—

"But when the full moon topped the trees,

I remained a man;

I felt the wolfish urgency

but not the sudden change!

"The gray was writhing on the ground—

She yipped from intense pain;

Her fur retracted—limbs extended—

She cried out yet again—

"A human wail escaped her lips;

her eyes were full of fear;

She tried to run, but only tripped,

as I called out to her.

"She quivered in a huddled mass;

I sang a soothing tune;

I sang and sang until at last

the setting of the moon.

"She never spoke a single word

that long and dreadful night,

and with the coming of the morn,

she began to writhe;

"She shifted back into the wolf

and fled from me that day;

On nights like this—successful hunts—

she pines the night away.

"Her woeful howls are for my wolf,

the one the spell obscures,

and when the moon is bright and full,

and she's in human form,

"We find a dark secluded glen

and share a night of love;

A blissful night but once a month

is all we'll ever have.

"Her curse, you see, was but my own,

reversed and thrust on her;

The wizard's spell had gone all wrong;

the price was paid by her.

"The cost of being free again

was far too high to pay;

I had to hunt that lordling down:

I had to make him pay!

"I saw his castle hadn't changed

when I approached the gates;

The only thing that made it strange

was my accursed fate;

"I did not try to sneak inside;

His wrath had been assuaged—

or so I thought. I did not hide—

a very big mistake!

"He recognized me at first sight

and called upon his guards

to put me in their crossbow sights

before I'd said a word.

"I tried to dodge the crossbow bolts,

but several found a home;

I bear the scars in chest and thigh,

and by this severed thumb."

He paused his strumming for effect

and showed me it was true—

It ended at the knuckle joint—

and then his play resumed;

He struck a solemn, tragic note

that hung like broken limb

dangling from shredded bark

in chilling, heavy wind.

"I lost my wits and fell in faint

from blood-loss and from pain,

and when I woke to blurry thoughts,

I had been caught again."

Here he paused to take a breath

and let his song unfurl;

Ominous resounding notes

that caused my hair to curl.

His voice was firm and deeply set;

His words were chosen well;

His song was filled up by the soul

of what he must have felt.

"I was hanging by some shackles

in that dungeon of discord,

praying by the minute

in the hopes that Onus heard;

"The God of Thieves had mercy,

and He heard my fearful plea;

I pulled with all my meager strength;

The shackle chains broke free!

"I was shocked into inaction

and fell flat on the floor;

The taste of rot and mildew,

I'd often known before.

"It wasn't quite so bad this time,

and soon I found my poise;

I shuffled round the dungeon cell,

barely making noise.

"My fingers sifted through the muck

with diligence and care,

until, at last, I found the thing

I'd hoped would be in there;

"The sliver of a broken bone

was more than I dared ask,

and with a patient, tender touch,

I bent down to the task.

"It wasn't like a metal pick,

but I could not complain;

The shackles fell like burdens lost—

my hands were free again!

"I next turned my attention to

the lock within the door;

The shard of bone just snapped in two

and crumpled to the floor.

"I stood there for a moment

with my eyes and mouth agape;

I cursed the God of Mischief twice

for such a twist of fate!

"I heard some muffled laughter

in my twisted frame of mind,

and realized with a staggered thought

that all of it was mine!

"It brought me to my senses

in a way I can't explain;

I dropped down quickly to my knees

and searched the floor again.

"I'd been locked up for far too long—

my mind was bound to break—

I had to free myself from there

before it was too late.

"Despite the efforts that I made,

the best that I could do

was find more bits of broken bone

that quickly snapped in two.

"I finally gave up trying

and sought another way;

Perhaps I could deceive the guard

when next he came my way?

"When next I heard him coming,

I was back against the wall;

I held the shackles loosely;

He made his warning call;

"The key turned slowly with a clank;

The cell door opened up;

The guardsman entered with a limp

and brought a water cup.

"His eyes were cruel and vicious

as he poured it on the ground;

I smiled with a vengeful gleam—

The shackle chains came down.

"They struck him just a glancing blow,

but as he turned to run,

I wrapped them round his pudgy neck

and pulled that guardsman down.

"I badly felt the urge to kill,

but something stayed my hand;

Despite the cruelties he had done,

he was still a man.

"I stood there for a moment more,

then left him in the cell;

I used his keys to lock the door

and took the water pail.

"I knew the best way to succeed

would be to leave at once,

but, first, I prayed in gratitude

for guidance from Onus.

"He must have listened to my words—

and more, he must have cared!

For when I reached the catacombs,

I knew my way from there!

"Perhaps it was by chance alone

or traces in the dust?

But when I reached the outer end,

I prayed to Great Onus:

"If you free me from this place,

I swear my soul is yours!

I'll steal whatever you may want

and leave it at your door!

"I felt a searing as of flame

that burned into my mind,

and in its wake it left a map

of masterful design;

"A single phrase was uttered then,

that only I could hear:

Seek The Temple of Chagrin,

and all will be made clear.

"Whirlwinds made of dust and air

erupted all around;

They circled in with blinding speed

and raised me off the ground!

"The next thing that I noticed

was the next thing that I saw:

I was standing at the gates

inside the castle wall!

"I quickly mingled with the crowd

and filched some needed gold,

then passed the guardsman at the gates

to flee into the world.

"Soon I found myself in here

for winter had arrived,

and thanked the Mighty Onus

that I was still alive!"

I wintered there and learned this song,

this song that I have played;

And then my mentor went from there

to find that sacred place.

Here he paused to let them rest

and order food and wine;

Then he used the old outhouse

and sidled back inside.

He'd finished with his mentor's song

and thought once more of him;

He wondered if he'd ever found

The Temple of Chagrin.

A smile crept across his face

as idle fingers strayed;

He knew his mentor would succeed—

at least, that's what he prayed!

How could Onus let him fail

when He had chosen him?

Yes, his mentor had to find

The Temple of Chagrin.

A gentle touch upon his arm

with soft apology;

The serving wench had brought him back

from his reverie;

He coughed a bit and drunk some wine

then left the past behind;

He started in a melody

to complement his rhyme.

That day began my brief tenure

as apprentice bard;

My mentor taught me what he could,

then gave to me his harp;

He left with swiftness free of tears,

and I with saddened heart;

He sought The Temple of Chagrin,

and I to play his harp.

His journey I cannot describe—

I haven't seen him since—

But mine has been a wondrous one,

and how it did begin!

Here the melody grew chipper,

though it seemed a bit downcast,

as he sang with fond remembrance

of a distant, budding past.

I walked in darkness through the day

and felt her eyes on me;

The forest, dank and dreary gray,

was perfect scenery

to keep her hidden from my eyes,

distorting every sound;

By nightfall, though, I knew for sure

that she would come around.

I made my camp with simple means

and cooked a bit of stew;

Then plucked my harp upon my knee

and sang a song or two.

When I paused to sip of wine

and softly fondle strings,

A tiny thing of brownish green

emerged from mighty tree—

The bark, itself, had split in two

and quickly closed behind;

The tiny creature looked at me

and quavered for a time.

I watched her nervous shivering;

She tried to hide it well;

I set my harp inside its case,

despite her startled yell.

We both were frozen for a time,

and then she turned to flee;

I stopped her with a playful note,

half-inside her tree.

She paused and slowly turned around,

and I began anew;

I played with vigor through the night,

and with each passing tune

the tiny creature edged more near,

until she brushed my arm.

It seemed to be a twist of fate:

the music was my charm!

I charmed the dryad with my song

and left her in the wood;

It saved my life and spared my heart—

which may not be for good!

I've heard the rumors—like the rest—

of how a dryad can

enthrall the heart, enslave the mind,

and love to death a man!

I speak for almost every man

who's ever thought on it:

Of all the ways that we could die,

I think we'd all choose that!

There were some rueful chuckles

and playful crude remarks,

and when they settled down again,

his harp resounded dark.

My next encounter set me straight—

this world can be unkind—

I went in search of knowledge of

the Tomb of Chosen Rhyme.

I talked to many fellow bards

and learned from all of them;

It seems that sharing songs can bring

about some steadfast friends;

The first was Lillard of Highland—

the first elf that I knew—

It was he who told to me

the first of many clues.

It sent me to a far off land,

and soon I was quite lost;

But glad I was that I had gone,

and glad to pay the cost!

For this is where I found the song

that I will sing for you—

But be warned, it may be glum,

even though it's true!

He paused to let the echoes fall

and then he froze his face;

His voice was somewhat less than hard,

and held them all in place.

How fortunate it was for me

to come into the town

upon the day of reckoning

for all the Raggamon;

They are the lordlings of the town

and somewhat less than sane;

They treat their people like their slaves—

except their favored men;

They love their boys in special ways

that we consider queer,

Since they prefer them young and prim

and full of naïve cheer.

They take the boys to raise them up

and fill their minds with fluff

that they protest with manly charm

is how they're meant to love!

For generations long forgot,

these oddities have grown,

until their presence could be seen

throughout the tiny town.

I wandered in with open mind

that quickly seemed to close

when men in armor looked on me

with sensuous repose!

There is a saying that I've heard

about a wizard's hut:

When in a stranger's place,

it's wisest not to touch!

I found an inn and got a room

and rested for a while,

and then a message came to me

from High Lord Pedi Fyle.

He is the seventh in his line,

despite his eerie bent;

He offered me a pouch of gold

to sing my songs for him.

I must admit to some distress—

my manhood is my own—

but then I gathered up my harp

and strolled about the town.

I chose to play a merry tune

that many like to hear;

About a dreadful little town

where everyone is queer;

It seemed the people were amused

until the guard came by;

The common folk were still oppressed:

The guardsmen showed me why.

But just before they locked me up,

I showed the guards the note

and asked them where the castle was

of which the High Lord wrote.

A guardsman checked the High Lord's seal

and paleness struck his face;

He bowed down low and took me there

and warned me not to play

the merry song that he had heard

that roused the people's ire,

unless I wished to be locked up,

fulfilling _his_ desire....

I took his warning as was meant

and waited in the hall

until there ushered in a man:

The High Lord Pedi Fyle.

A single glance was all it took—

It lingered far too long!

I was taken to the court

to hear his favorite song.

I listened as he played the lute

with skill and subtlety;

His voice was high and tinged with lust,

as was his melody;

He sang of boldness and of love

and how the two are shared;

He sang of boys in bonded state—

It didn't seem so odd!

I felt his voice caressing me

with gentle puffs of air,

and then his lute was set aside—

but not so was his stare!

His voice was tender, whispering

the words his song entranced;

I strained to hear the dainty sighs

of boys lost in romance;

The power of his song was strong,

but when his arm touched mine

and gently played my tunic loose,

I felt deep in my mind

a warning of what was about—

The spell was woven well!

Then my will broke free of it,

and I reversed the spell!

I began to sing of love more

natural and complete,

of how a boy and girl could find

each other oh-so-sweet!

And then the lordling chuckled long

and softly pawed my chest;

He said that he would trade me songs

and asked to hear the rest.

He sat with straining ears and mind

and listened to each tune,

then played for me a tune in kind,

as bards are wont to do;

I know I stayed for near a week

before the trade was done,

and then I packed away my gear

to leave the little town.

But something seemed to be amiss—

The streets were all but bare—

And then I heard that siege was set,

and I was stuck in there!

I have a mind that's free to roam,

and so I chose to play

a song for all the empty streets

of how the warriors pray:

They pray for guidance in their aim

and ask for courage, too!

But if their god's forsaken them,

they pray for mercy, too!

I played them songs of bleak despair

and songs of death and doom,

and when the battle came to bear,

it ended rather soon!

The people gathered to rejoice,

and I played on and on,

until that night of revelry

had merged into the dawn.

I finally slept a dead-man's sleep

and woke with clearer mind;

I gathered up my harp and gear

and left that town behind.

But just outside the broken gates,

I met up with a man

who paid me very well, indeed,

for working through his plan!

My duty to this man was done;

The battle was a rout;

I took the gold he handed me

and put it in my pouch;

The week had seen me gain so much

in gold coin and in song,

but somewhere in my churning mind,

I wondered: _Was it wrong?_

I seldom mingle with affairs

of man or beast or god;

My duty is to none of them:

It's only to my songs!

But when my purse had gotten dry,

and I was much in need,

Lord Hammerstein proposed a plan,

and I too-soon agreed!

It doesn't matter anymore:

The task I did is done;

But still my conscience questions it

and asks if it was wrong.

The notes were slyly tapered off,

as was his whispered word,

and then he set his harp aside

and went out through the door;

The room was quiet, but abuzz,

when he went back inside;

The morose mood he had enjoyed

was quickly set aside,

and in its place a forlorn look

was wryly written there;

With painful joy in every note,

his music filled the air.

As is the wont of many men

when winter snows abound,

I tend to find a village inn

where I can settle down

to hibernate until spring thaw

when birds and beasts awake,

and late one winter found myself

as restless as a snake.

The sun was warm, the air was crisp,

the snow was melting fast;

I could not stay a moment more,

a guest in Fowler's Gap.

I packed my gear and stowed my harp

and said farewell to all;

They tried to warn me not to go

with words of late snow-fall.

I told them not to fret for me;

My woodsman skills are fine;

And then I strode with eager speed

to feast on fresh sunshine.

I walked all day and made my camp

as snowflakes fluttered down;

I gathered wood and made some stew

with snowflakes all around;

The snow was falling with such speed!

The inches mounted up,

and I began to wish I had

remained at Fowler's Gap.

I kept my fire tended warm.

I tried to thwart the snow.

Soon the wind was howling out

that it was in control.

I guess it must have been two days

before the storm was done,

and when I woke, I was snowed in—

Where had the sunshine gone?

I managed things as best I could,

and near a fortnight passed;

My food was very nearly gone,

and I was at a loss!

The snow was deep, my fire warm,

and there I chose to stay.

I kept from losing wits and hope

with all the notes I played.

I played a tune of wordless pain,

of loneliness and fear,

and as I finished with its notes,

I saw a rabbit there.

Ask me not from whence it came,

for I have no idea,

but as I played another song,

it brought the rabbit near.

"Come, my little rabbit-friend,

I hunger for your bones;

My fire burns with warmth to spare,

and I am all alone."

It edged in closer to me, then,

entranced but still afraid;

I called it nearer to my hand,

and this is what I said:

"Fear you not, my rabbit-friend,

for I will love you dear;

Come to me with twitching nose,

but come you not with fear."

The rabbit soon was at my side,

and water filled my mouth:

What succulent and tasty meat—

of that, I had no doubt!

But as I reached to grasp its neck,

I saw a second beast:

A snow-cat had been chasing it,

my quaking little feast!

The snow-cat poised as if to jump—

my spell had eased away—

I clutched the rabbit to my chest

and found a way to play:

"Snow-cat leave your fangs agleam—

no need to bloody them;

This rabbit is too small to feed

both snow-cat and a man;

"So go you now and go in haste;

Return you not to here!

Leave this tasty morsel for my pot—

I caution you, take care!"

The snow-cat sat a moment more,

then sauntered off with pride;

I marveled at its poise and grace

in every bounding stride;

It disappeared into the wood,

and then I ceased to play;

The rabbit still was looking good,

but somehow I had changed.

I said with grim compassion

in an understated tone:

"Go now, little rabbit-friend,

go back to your home."

I nudged the rabbit with my hand

and pushed it to the snow,

but it looked back with sullen eyes

and still refused to go.

I knew my hunger was too great

for sentimental whims,

and yet, the rabbit seemed to like

the warmth tied to my skin.

I told it it could stay a bit,

but then it had to go,

and then it said to me—I swear!—

"But I don't like the snow."

I know that snow can sometimes blind,

and solitude can kill;

Surely I had lost my mind—

But then the rabbit squealed:

"I like you bard; I will not go;

the fire feels too good.

My name is Astra. What is yours?

I dwell in yonder wood."

My mind was dull; my voice was frozen—

How could this be real?

There couldn't be a human tongue

within that rabbit's squeal!

"What is wrong, my lovely bard?

Am I too small for you?

A rabbit really loves to breed,

and I thought bards did too!"

The rabbit hopped up to my side

and rubbed against my knee;

I could not take it anymore,

this strange insanity—

I grabbed the rabbit by the neck,

and I began to squeeze—

But something kept me from the kill—

I flung it to the trees.

I know the snow had eased her fall,

for soon I heard her voice.

"I see, my bard, I'm not your type—

Perhaps I should rejoice?

"I've waited years to be set free—

a kiss is all I ask—

I am a princess underneath

the curse the witches cast;

"Will you, Bard, be kind to me?

Nuzzle me but once?

If you do, I promise you,

I'll leave you at first chance!"

The rabbit was once more in sight,

and I was quite insane;

I told her I would do the deed,

if she would just be gone!

She hopped with glee up to my knee

and offered me her nose;

I took a breath and kissed her quick,

just as she had proposed.

The change took time to come about,

but when she was herself,

I looked on beauty incarnate:

A lovely maiden elf!

My tongue was tied as once again,

she swept my words away;

She kissed me softly, warm with love,

and said a brisk good day!

She leapt with vigor through the snow

before I found my voice;

I yelled for her to wait for me—

but I had made my choice.

She never stopped her happy flight,

and I could not catch up;

To think I could have been her prince,

if I had not been gruff.

I stopped to stare upon the snow

where footprints, light and free,

had barely cracked the surface drifts

that swallowed up my knees.

I made my way back into camp

and sat with sorrowed heart;

I lost myself in favored songs

regaled upon my harp.

The snow-cat came back once again

to stare and swish its tail;

I stopped my song and looked at it,

and thought it just as well:

"Kill me then," I said to it.

"Why?" was its reply.

"I could have been a prince today,

and now I wish to die."

The snow-cat pondered on my words,

then leaped to sit by me.

"Kiss me well, my princely man,

and I shall be set free."

I laughed aloud and cursed the gods,

then kissed the snow-cat's lips;

I felt a stirring in its skin,

and at my fingertips

the snow-cat changed into a man

whose first act was to spit;

I mimicked him with earnestness

and more than some regret.

He drew his sword; he struck me down;

He stole all that I had;

He left behind my trusted harp—

For which I am quite glad!

I would have died a frozen twig,

if not for travelers

who saw the smoke of dying flame

and came to sell their wares.

When they arrived, my skin was cold,

but still my heart did beat;

They stirred a fire from the coals

and cooked some stew to eat.

When my fever finally broke,

and I was sane again,

I found that I had not gone far

before the snow set in.

The village was still fairly close,

and I was in a dale

that has been said to hold a ghost:

Fair Astra of the elves.

The tale they told of how a man

had loved her for a time,

but could not cope with growing old

while she remained so prime;

He paid some witches for a curse

that changed them both for good,

into the prey and hunter that

still roam those haunted woods.

It's also said that travelers

have had the strangest dreams,

and this, they claimed, was all it was:

A sleeping fantasy.

It did not tell me where they went—

my clothes and golden coin—

nor did it tell me why I felt

my heart had been destroyed.

He let the little lost-boy look

remain for several notes,

and then he took a sip of wine

to ease his drying throat.

With idleness, he drew them in

with notes of growing greed;

They plucked the air with spritely tones

that gathered in their speed.

He let the notes trip on themselves

and let the music blur,

and when he started singing out,

his voice was somewhat slurred.

I had drunk a bit too much,

and soon my eyes grew blurry;

When I woke to sunlight's touch,

I tasted something furry;

"What is this?" I asked the air

and prodded for an answer;

Then it came, and all at once,

I knew it spoke disaster!

Her sigh was lustrous, most content;

Her hands were gently straying;

Her bed was covered all in fur,

the bed where I was laying!

What I had done, I now recalled

in bits and pieces, only;

Had I said, with loosened tongue,

that I was feeling lonely?

Yes I had, and she'd replied

that she was lonely also.

Would I like to spend the night

inside her cozy hole?

I must have drunk more than I thought—

My memory's uncertain—

For when I staggered through her door,

it looked like grasses woven.

Down a darkened stair we went—

It seemed to drop forever;

At the bottom was a room

that led into another;

There is where she took me next—

her inner sanctuary—

What happened there left me perplexed—

She was a bit too hairy—

The darkness seemed to ooze around

with sticky little fingers,

and even drunk it seemed unreal

and gave me tiny shivers.

Then a light without a source

grew into twilight's tenor,

and there she was in naked force,

leaning in its center.

If I had been a bit more sane,

I would have fled that creature,

But I was in a drunken state

and saw its perverse pleasure.

It may be strange—indeed, it was!

She was more cat than woman!

But supple were her dainty claws,

so full of pent-up passion—

I won't describe the things we did,

nor how the morning ended;

It think it will suffice to say

that cat was simply splendid!

The crowd had grown with raucousness

that now was free to fly;

He let the people have their fun

until the jeering died,

And then he strummed a softer note

and looked upon the crowd;

Before he sang this song to them,

he turned his head and bowed.

They were perplexed, but not for long,

for he had sat back down,

and as he sang this song to them,

a feeling gathered round.

I've trod this path a hundred times,

though every step is new;

I choose a road to travel down

in search of worthy tunes.

My goal is simple in its lot,

as are the songs procured;

And every one I cherish dear,

as is the wont of bards.

I seek adventures to be held

and work them into song;

Every story that I've told,

has started out as one.

But many of the things I've seen

have not inspired me,

Like when I met some lonely men

who dwelled in misery;

Their lives were seen as worthless lots;

Their wives as painful woes;

I've seen ten thousand on my paths—

They're everywhere I go.

They do not see what's really there;

Instead, they just complain;

I wonder how they would react

if they lost all those pains?

And then, of course, the loves I've known

for days or weeks on end

have filled my heart with earnest song

that never reached my pen.

The children that I meant to have

have never come about,

but lullabies are waiting them,

here inside my mouth.

A man I knew and thought a friend

was somewhat less than that;

He tried to steal my harp and songs—

This was once his hat!

And then there was the farmer's barn

that burned one summer night;

The village gathered to his cause—

it was a wondrous sight!

For all these things that touch my soul

and leave their stain in me,

I've never felt the urge to write

or sing or melody;

And so they all become a part

of all my other songs,

by filling up my spirit and

by creeping in among

the words and notes that I arrange

and play upon this harp—

Without this simple treasury,

I'd have an empty heart!

As I wander through the lands

in search of melodies,

I store these treasures where I can

amid my memories,

and when I find that special one

that builds into a song,

I let them settle in the words;

It's where they do belong!

He stood and bowed a second time

and thanked them with his eyes.

"Such a song I sing for you

for all that you've supplied!"

He took a moment to relax

and let them mill about;

Then he leaned back once again

and sang with weary mouth:

I was looking for the satyrs

near the village of Dry Moon

to talk of bardic matters,

when I heard a wondrous tune.

It grew in volume in a clearing

deep within that sylvan wood;

Then I saw a satyr dancing

and I quickly understood.

Several others followed after—

one by one and in small groups—

I was awe-struck by the satyrs

playing on their silver flutes!

They danced and frolicked with abandon

as their flautists played some more;

Came the satyrs from the woodland,

chasing down a dreadful boor!

The boor was snorting, winded, panting;

Still he tried to speak his mind;

All the satyrs danced around him,

stomping out in perfect time!

Their songs were lively, vibrant pieces,

full of words I did not know;

The dreadful boor was crying, helpless,

as the satyrs aimed their bows!

The flautists' tones were tuned to sorrow;

The satyr's dancing slowed its pace;

The bows were knocked with poisoned arrows;

Solemn looks fell into place.

Then, as one, the notes were silenced,

and the arrows flew through air;

A moment later, their act forgotten,

the satyrs danced in joyous flair!

The dreadful boor was weeping gently—

Not in pain but pure relief—

The arrows missed him, evidently;

They had buried in a tree.

Then one satyr, gray and bearded,

spoke in garbled human tongue:

"You the boringest we've hearded:

come up not to here again!"

Then the satyrs gathered, joyous,

singing loudly to the wind;

As they went back in the forest,

I approached the weeping man.

I could see he was a minstrel

by the harp he clung onto,

but his singing must be dismal

for the satyrs were so cruel!

It was common knowledge to me,

ever since I was a boy,

That a satyr's love for music

is their second favorite joy!

I consoled the weeping fellow

with the words I knew he'd hear:

"Hear you not the ogre's bellow?

Hear you not the maiden's cheer?

"Singing is a passion for us,

but for them, it is much more;

Pleasing them with human chorus

is a task for seasoned bards."

I neglected to inform him

of my status as a bard;

I kept my mission coyly secret:

To approach the satyr lord.

Where this minstrel failed to please them,

I was certain to succeed;

In the village, I appeased him

with a tankard full of mead.

Then I left him drowning sorrow

and retired to my room

to prepare to sing tomorrow

songs of joy and songs of gloom!

I awoke with eager fingers

and a mind alert and fresh,

Then I went to find the satyrs

to explain my one request

to provide some entertainment

in the form of song and dance.

They agreed, a bit reluctant,

and I thanked them for the chance;

Then I sang a string of ballads

that bespoke of youth and spring;

By the third I'd met their challenge,

and they rose to dance with me!

It is a test a bard must answer

to be worthy of the name,

and as I watched the satyr dancers,

I could feel my growing fame.

Hours passed with little notice;

Days had come and gone!

We danced and sang two hundred ballads

before I went back to Dry Moon.

I stayed that winter in Dry Moon

and played them many songs;

My fame and fortune grew and spread

among the other towns,

and then one day in flurried snow,

there came a messenger.

He stood outside the tavern door

and bellowed for the bard.

I heard the voice like thunder claps

and saw the shaking wall;

I took a breath and went outside

to meet the man who called—

But, I found, to my distress,

no man was it outside;

A giant stood outside the door—

his shin was just my height!

I yelled "Good meet!" and craned my neck

to look up for his eyes;

He bowed down low and brushed the roof,

and here was his reply:

"Good meet, fair Bard! I bring to you

an invitation for

a night of revelry and song

provided by my lord.

He's heard the tale of how you won

the favor of the satyr,

and asks for you to play for him—

if you are that worthy bard!"

I asked him who his lord might be,

and when this night would come;

He said it was the great and mighty

Thogg. Tonight would be the one.

_Tonight_! I thought with sudden dread,

for I was unprepared;

But challenges I can't resist,

and so we went from there.

The giant plowed a healthy path

with his massive feet,

and through the drifts we made our way

into the forest deep.

We walked with plodding doggedness

until a cave appeared,

and then I felt a dread duress

with every step he cleared.

I did not wish to meet this Thogg;

I could not take my leave;

Would I be the giants' guest?

Would I be their slave?

The giant stepped inside the cave—

There was nowhere to go—

I followed through the entryway

and down that retched hole!

The tunnel branched out several times,

but I marked every turn

with rhythmic beats I memorized

and lyrics quickly learned!

At last the giant stepped aside

and bade me to go on;

I took a breath—regretted it—

and then the dread was gone!

Inside the massive chamber,

sitting on his throne,

Thogg was playing idly

with a massive bone;

He glanced at me—a lowly sneer—

and set the bone aside;

"You will play, and I will hear,

and then I will decide;

"If you deserve the fond acclaim

the satyrs have bestowed,

I will release you without harm

and you'll be free to go!

"But if you fail to please my ear,

if your melodies fall flat,

if your bardic songs are poor,

you'll end up there—with _that_!"

He gestured at a makeshift cage

high upon a shelf,

where that boorish minstrel raged,

fuming to himself.

I did not stare for very long—

What good would staring do?

Instead, I said, "There is a song,

that I can sing for you."

The giant who had brought me here

plucked me off the floor

and set me on the stone cold shelf

near Thogg's massive ear.

The giants watched, their gazes stern;

The minstrel looked away;

I plucked my harp; I struck a tune;

and I began to play.

I played a simple, friendly song,

a smile on my face,

and then I sang a second song

at slightly slower pace;

The third song sung was slower still;

The fourth had sluggish chords;

By the fifth—a lullaby—

the cave had filled with snores;

The minstrel was the first to fall;

Thogg was fast asleep;

I played a final whispered pall

to make sure it would keep.

The spell was perfect. I was free!

But where was I to go?

The shelf was high. The climb was steep.

There wasn't any rope.

I saw but one way to escape,

to get me out of there:

Leap across a ten foot gap,

grab the giant's hair,

slide down that giant's rancid cloak,

and drop down to the floor.

Would the giant waken? Would

he sleep no more?

Would the sleep spell hold him fast?

Would my leap be short?

Would I find my way outside?

Back to Dry Moon's warmth?

The choice I had was simple:

Take the risk or stay?

I roughly woke the minstrel;

I took the time to pray

to any god that listened,

to any god that cared,

and then I took that giant leap

that got me out of there!

The minstrel? He was with me.

The giants slumbered on.

The labyrinth? Confused me,

despite my simple song!

I sang the song correctly;

It led us both astray;

And then quite unexpectedly,

the minstrel saved the day!

The mistake I made was simple—

Indeed, a foolish one!

Without that boorish minstrel

I would have been undone!

I sang the song correctly,

if we were coming in;

But we were fleeing from that place,

from the other end!

I had to sing it backward—

no easy thing to do!

But that minstrel, though a boor,

helped me make it through!

He sang my lyrics in reverse,

off-key and dry as dirt,

And hummed the rhythms I had set

to get us out of there!

The entryway was dimly lit

by twilight on the snow;

The path the giant plowed for me

was outlined down below;

From there, our journey scampered;

We hastened to Dry Moon;

When we arrived, the innkeeper

nearly fell into a swoon!

The giant had left them dismayed;

He thought we both had died;

He told us of the horrid tales,

of other bards who tried!

Few returned in haggard state,

their bodies bent and bruised;

Most had simply disappeared;

All had been abused.

The room I had he'd rented out;

The minstrel's still was there;

He offered us a discount rate,

provided that we shared.

While we dickered on the price,

the floor began to quake;

A giant was approaching fast,

and then the giant spoke:

"I know the bard is in there now;

Thogg has sent me for him;

I demand you send him out—

or I will come in for him!"

The innkeeper had paled to ash

with the giant's words,

and then he made a bellowed call

for the village guards.

They were there, in his inn,

amid the common room;

Dining, drinking, whoring, sleeping—

what guardsmen often do—

I looked at them; I glanced outside;

My choice was them or it;

"Wait!" I cried, as they approached,

"I'll go out there _if_ —"

I paused. They waited, took a step—

"the room is free 'til spring!"

The innkeeper protested,

reluctantly agreed.

I stepped up to the inn's front door;

I opened it with care;

Out I went with utmost caution,

to meet the giant there.

I did not know what he would do;

I was not free of fear;

The giant was the same one who

had led me to their lair.

Beside him was a massive cask—

Was it to be my cage?

He spoke before I even asked:

It was to be my pay!

He thanked me for the wondrous songs,

the deep refreshing sleep,

and said that Thogg had been impressed—

I was a bard, indeed!

The cask was full of potent beer—

a strange but pleasant taste—

I sold it to the innkeeper,

at the going rate.

I stayed there all that winter

and halfway through the spring;

I taught that boorish minstrel

how to play and sing!

He had a memory for notes,

for lyrics and a tune;

Technically, he was adroit,

but had the drollest croon.

I taught him how to pitch his voice,

when to pause his play,

how to modulate the notes

to pounce upon his prey!

By the time we parted company,

his skill had much improved;

A bard he still might never be,

but nevermore a boor!

He paused for longer than expected,

plucked a wayward string or two,

Felt fatigue as it descended,

ordered up a dwarven brew,

sipped the tankard slow and steady,

held it high above his head,

and when the silence had descended,

this is what he said:

I find that I am growing weary;

My throat is rough and sore;

The calluses upon my fingers

fall in flecks upon the floor;

I'll sing but one or two more ballads;

short and simply set;

And then retire to my chambers

so I can get some rest.

My journey here was long and troubled;

A week I plan to stay;

More songs I'll play upon the morrow

and every other day!

His voice was hung in sadness;

His tone was mollified;

He played a morbid, tragic riff

meant to terrify!

The sudden shift to the macabre,

the drunken audience,

the mournful wails upon his harp,

the darkly lit cadence,

Evoked a tenseness held by fear

from all the gathered throng;

His music trembled on their ears

as he began his song.

Sometimes in the darkest hour

over lands that have no name,

My spirit leaves my body's power

and escapes its fleshy grave;

Out in darkness flies my essence,

never falling from its height;

Even thought eludes my presence,

etched in shadow, lost to light;

Looking down from high above me,

seeing things like none before;

Every aspect of the scenery

'cross the gray and empty shore

seems to whisper in the darkness,

drawing out a chilling sweat,

and reaches out with firm caresses

and the gentle kiss of death;

Volumes ripple through the stillness

spoken to the walking dead;

I return to roost, still restless,

in my coffin's cushioned bed—

But the body isn't comfy,

and the pillow is enslaved,

and I realize rather numbly—

I'm in someone else's grave!

He finished with a playful flair;

The tension was released;

Cathartic laughter filled the air;

He barely even paused-

My final song this eventide

is known to all of us:

It is that tragic tale of yore,

the Ballad of Ignatius!

Exaggerating every letter,

punctuating every sound,

Pontificating without mercy

to his fellows gathered round,

Ignatius, Lord of Ullwart,

ally to the King of Fyord,

Bequeathed some ballads lacking virtue—

save to those who loved his word!

Ineptitude beyond believing—

no one told the Lord the truth—

Except for Old Man Enri Opus,

widower of Princess Ruth.

Outspoken, careless, blind to reason,

blind to all beyond his grief,

He confessed our common torture

as he sought to find relief:

"Oh, Lord of Ullwart, please forgive me,

please forgive this ancient man;

Perhaps my ears have but deceived me,

but I fail to understand;

"The ballad's meaning has escaped me

and your voice is less than clear;

Another stanza that evades me

will destroy my tender ear!

"Indeed, my Lord, I beg for mercy;

May an old man take his leave?"

The silence stumbled for a moment

so the Lord could quickly weave

a web of answers strewn in verses

that were sung in perfect time.

"My friend, forgive me for my folly,

but my meaning is sublime;

The Ballad of the Ancient Dragon

is important to my task,

but I find no sincere reason

to refuse you what you ask."

Appeasing both the Lord of Ullwart

and the ballad that was sung,

old Enri Opus bowed with honor

where he once had tightly clung.

The door closed; the silence lingered;

then the Lord of Ullwart said,

"I will not stop for interruption,

save for someone nearly dead."

The venom of the words he whispered

carried through our chilling bone;

Then we listened to his playing,

reminiscent of a groan!

As his rhythms gathered slowly,

bonding into something whole,

a sense of deep, impending danger

grabbed us in its eerie pull;

When he finished with the tragic

tale of ancient dragon lore,

enthralled by visions he had brought us

of that mighty carnivore,

we were waiting for the symbol

that would free us from his spell;

We were at the heartless mercy

of a Master Bard from hell!

Paralyzed by song and magic,

we were frozen in our place;

The Lord of Ullwart drew his sword and

moved before the fireplace;

Enveloped in the smoke and cinder,

he appeared the devil's son,

approaching Vester with his weapon—

fiendishly, he had begun

the massacre of all his fellows—

Lords and Princes, Queens and Maids—

Laughter—haunting, dry, malicious—

rang out as his sword was raised—

But it was stifled to a gurgle

as an arrow struck his throat;

Buried deep within his chortle

it had done its deadly work!

Ignatius collapsed in silence;

His lifeblood squirted free;

The spell was broken in his dying;

With his death we were set free!

Amazed that we had not been taken

by the frigid grip of death;

Confused by all that was occurring,

I inhaled a strangled breath;

Then I saw our savior standing

calmly setting down his bow;

It was old man Enri Opus

who had come to overthrow

the Lord of Ullwart, who had visions

of becoming King of All;

Instead he met the old man's arrow

in his Winter Dining Hall!

It seems that old man Enri Opus

felt the magic of the spell

And knew the Lord of Ullwart meant to

send the gathering to hell.

We thanked him with our hearts and pockets,

making sure his needs were met,

and then I spun this simple ballad

to ensure we don't forget.

Elaborating but a moment,

I will sing but one more line:

The Lord of Ullwart was my brother,

and his goal was also mine!

Despite their clamor for more ballads,

his harp was set aside;

His dwarven brew was quickly guzzled,

and he called it a night.

The days went by, the songs were sung,

then came the time to leave;

They plied him well with silver coin,

fine food, and potent drink.

He left them with a fond farewell

when wanderlust sunk in.

Some months went by, and then he met

a long-remembered friend.

# Part 2

It happened in a village inn,

late one stormy night;

He'd taken refuge from the rain

until the morning light;

While he slept—despite the gloom—

a thief amid the dark

crept silently into his room

and stole his trusty harp!

In the morning when he woke up

and saw his harp was gone,

he searched the room in panic—

nothing else was gone!

Just the harp, his trusted harp,

his livelihood and love;

He fled the room—and came up short—

the hallway was abuzz

with soft refrains he recognized:

His harp was being played!

A muffled but familiar voice

sang in bold refrains!

He took a breath and made his way

to the common room;

He paused amid the entryway

and joined in the song!

I'm about to sing a ballad

of two brothers tied by blood;

One I knew for but a moment—

He was fair and pure and good!

His mentor smiled and kept plucking

without missing any beat;

He approached him, strongly singing,

as he pulled up a second seat!

The betrayal of his brother

struck him down to beggars' clothes;

All he had in his possession

was his sword and broken bow;

He was cursed to poorest stature

and condemned to live in fear;

For his brother, trusted brother,

could not bear to have him near.

It was brought on by a woman

whom they both had loved so dear;

So they battled for her beauty

and replay it once a year.

A bitter wedge had grown between them;

Their arms were crossed again;

Combined with two long-silent voices,

full of anger, full of pain.

Thrust and parry, flash and flurry,

dodge the weapons' deadly blows;

From the battle's hurry-scurry,

I observed enough to know:

Answers seldom come through violence,

though the problem might seemed solved;

Anger boils in its essence,

stewing 'til it has evolved

into something vile, vicious,

well beyond our firm control;

When we've paid the worst of prices,

one too costly to behold!

It's a sad and sordid story,

one that never seems to end,

when a brother must be buried

by another he called friend.

As they battled on in silence,

faces masks of hate-filled glare,

Brilliant, deadly, sword-blade dances

of two men whose skills compare.

Neither seems to be the better;

Every parry meets a thrust;

When exhausted, they give quarter—

as they knew they surely must!

Once a year in humble splendor,

the beggar and the lordling fight;

Neither one will be the victor,

for the curse is strung too tight;

In the center of attention

as the tears of sorrow flow;

I have seen that weeping beggar

watch his lordling brother go

to a quiet narrow valley

where his brother lay in vain

in a ghostly mausoleum

with the lordling's tortured name.

That was where the beggar's curse was;

That is where my mentor went;

That is where he strung these verses

for that beggar and his kin!

A few more dainty, soft refrains;

His mentor stilled the harp;

He nodded briskly: "We meet again,

my not-so-humble bard!"

"Indeed, my friend" his quick response,

"and I heard you were dead!"

His mentor shifted in his stance,

"I nearly was," he said.

The crowd was small, impatient,

and called out for more song;

They paused in their reunion

to sing a second one:

This song was born in ruins

overgrown by knotted pine

that tangled up the memories

and twisted up the rhymes;

Those woods were borne of angry men

whose eyes have long-since closed;

Their ears will never hear again;

They've been too-long exposed;

Their skin has crawled from flesh and bone

and fed the plants around;

Their limbs will never stand alone,

will never dance around;

The muscles that were once so trim

are trimmer, now, indeed;

They fed the roots their nutrients

and sated growing seed;

The trees are dank and strangely warped,

as if in anguished pain;

The vines that drape like fetters worn,

resemble tarnished chains;

The undergrowth is rich with rot,

and fungus thrives therein;

Their presence tells of things forgot

and years that lie between'

But if you listen for the wind

on days too still to break,

You may perchance to hear the men

if they should deem to speak;

You'll hear the cries of horrid death

in these, their graven woods;

With every leaf, their passing breath

is fully understood;

The trees reflect their mad repose;

The rot reflects their mind;

But who are they? No one knows,

these soldiers left behind.

His mentor shifted melodies

without the slightest pause,

a strident tone with urgency—

a little dangerous—

He did not know the ballad;

He could not sing the words;

His mentor winked and then began

amid the eerie chords:

The land that I was walking through

was lush with greenery;

It surrounded me with pleasantness

and lovely scenery;

The trees were set in careful groves

with glens at every turn;

The flowers were like beauty froze

within the misty morn.

The streams were full of burbled words

and fish that leapt about;

The birds were singing brilliantly

with liveliness throughout;

It seemed the chatter of the squirrels

was more than simple sound—

Until they all were hushed at once,

and silence gathered round.

I stopped and looked with keenest eye

and saw but not a thing;

I stood as still as death, itself—

I stood there listening—

The silence seemed to be complete

until a twig was snapped;

I caught a whiff of horse-like sweat

and glanced a hunter's cap.

The head appeared above a bush,

as did the bow he held;

The arrow, knocked, was aimed at me;

I was standing still.

The sound of branches parting

resounded in my ears;

Others moved in from behind,

and still I felt no fear;

If they had meant to cut me down,

I would have died by then;

I waited for their leader's words

before I spoke to him;

The voice behind me was a full

and rumpled baritone;

It was the kind a lover has

that makes the women moan;

"Who is this?" he asked the air

and prodded me with spear;

"A little man is in our woods?

What is he doing here?

"Perhaps he is in need of work—

a target for our game?

Tell me, human, who are you?

What is your little name?"

I spoke my name in centaur tongue

and bade them all good meet;

I told them I was just a bard

in search of challenging.

A silence fell upon the wood;

the arrows all were dropped;

Their leader circled to the front—

There he chose to stop.

He pondered me with intellect;

He slowly bowed down low;

"Good met, fair bard, and welcome

to the centaur home."

The pleasantries were traded well;

Apologies, forgot;

And soon I found myself a guest

in that centaur's hut.

It is a custom in their land

that bards are given rest;

On the morrow, with the dawn,

they may attempt the test.

First a song is played for him,

then he plays for them;

The last one to run out of song

will be the one to win;

The prize is known by many bards,

but few have ever won;

It is a silver, magic harp

that never loses tone;

The centaurs charge a healthy sum

from every challenger,

but if the bard should be the one

to sing with greater splendor;

He may keep the magic harp

and use it as his own,

but when he dies it is returned,

since it is but a loan.

To ensure its safe-keeping,

the centaurs give the bard

some twenty members of their pack

to be his honor guard.

We started playing at the dawn,

and songs were sung all day;

By midnight neither one had won,

and sleep was still to wait!

The centaurs reveled through the night

as we played on and on;

For several days, it went like this,

until the seventh dawn;

Exhausted, both in body

and repertoire of song,

The centaur played his final tune,

and I played my last one;

The centaur laid his harp aside

and bowed with deep respect;

The magic harp would soon be mine—

if I had one song left!

I searched my mind with utmost care,

but nothing could I find:

The challenge could not be complete—

the challenge was a tie!

Even though I did not win,

the centaurs honored me;

They kept the magic harp, of course,

but gave me back the fee.

A dozen centaurs rode with me,

as escort and as guard,

for sixteen days I was, to them,

The Master Bard of Bards!

It wasn't 'til they were long gone

that I could sadly smile;

I could have sung them one more song

about Lord Pedi Fyle—

But that was not my purpose;

I did not want the harp;

The purpose was the challenging:

It was its own reward!

His mentor let the music fade

and handed him the harp;

"A song, my friend, a fair exchange,

as is the wont of bards.

"Sing for me a ballad!

Sing for me a tale!

The last we'll play upon this day—

Make sure you choose it well!"

He took the harp and strummed a chord;

A friendly melody;

He knew his mentor hadn't heard

The song he chose to play:

There is a village that's purported

to exist in wasted lands,

a lush oasis that's supported

by a god's most kindly hand;

In this seldom spoken legend,

there is hinted many times

of a relic that's been hidden

in the Tomb of Chosen Rhyme.

It is there that I have dreamed of

finding glory, fame, and song,

and I searched out other legends

speaking of that relic's home!

Such as Roland's Yodeled Ballads—

True, they are a bit obscure—

There I found the key I needed,

in his convoluted verse!

Next, I gathered my equipment,

stowed some loaves of travel-bread,

and started on my fateful quest

filled with hope, full of dread!

I won't describe the paths I traveled

to that relic's sacred home,

and I'll skip the tawdry battles

that I struggled through alone.

Silence, endless, free from people

can be treasure for a few,

But my need to be with others

grew and grew, grew and grew—

Until at last, my lonely roaming

in that desert's wretched heat,

left me dizzy with confusion,

without water, no food to eat;

I passed into a blessed darkness,

succumbed to sleep's embrace,

knowing that I would not waken.

The blinding sun upon my face.

But, of course, I did awaken—

How much later, I don't know—

Above me was a wondrous maiden,

smothered in the sunlight's glow;

That maiden saved me, nursed me,

brought me back to healthy state;

Then she acted as my guide

and led me to that sacred place.

I was in the lush oasis

that I'd hunted for so long,

searching for that sacred relic

mentioned in the legend's song!

The maiden led me through her village

to the Tomb of Chosen Rhyme,

but she did not follow after,

did not go into the tomb.

I approached with cautious footsteps,

wary eyes, and gentle hands;

The legend spoke of dangers, secrets,

pitfalls that would slay a man!

Only he who was deemed worthy

could approach the relic's home;

If he was found to be unworthy,

all he'd find would be his tomb!

Every time there was a pitfall—

Every time that danger came—

I avoided being wounded;

I avoided being lamed!

Then I found a hidden trapdoor

with a passageway beneath;

I drop so softly to the floor—

stirring up the scent of death!

The passage ended in the distance

at a silver-plated door,

I heard voices, lots of voices,

overlapping, muddled words!

Quiet whispers, quickly spoken,

fell upon my well-trained ear;

Words of warning were betokened

of a doom awaiting there!

Heedless of the garbled warning

from these voices merged as one,

Shrugging off my indecision,

I stepped forward; I moved on.

As I crept up to the doorway—

It opened magically!

Light erupted in the passageway,

nearly blinding me!

My eyes adjusted quickly;

This is what I saw:

A thing of utmost beauty:

A gem-encrusted harp!

The voices called harmonically;

Their welcome most robust;

They called to me, joyously,

"Come and join us!"

I took a step inside the room—

Their chorus rose in pitch!

I held my hand out for the harp—

How could I resist?

But as I reached out for the harp

to touch its magic strings,

the echoes of a long-dead bard

said these words to me:

"The price of glory that you seek

will weather down your soul;

It is not meant for human hands:

Take flight, my son, and go!"

I knew that voice from long ago—

It taught me how to sing—

It was my father's gentle tone

reaching out to me!

It broke the rapture of the harp;

I dropped my reaching hand;

The clamor of the other bards

renewed their brisk demand!

"Come! Come! Come, my friend!

Join us in here!

Play! Play! Pluck a strand

for all of us to hear!"

How alluring was this relic?

A moment more, I would be lost!

But slavery to that instrument

was far too great a cost!

I turned and fled that dreadful place

before I could succumb,

despite that relics' urgent pleas

to join Chosen Rhyme!

His voice fell silent;

His music carried on;

The urgency was spent;

The song continued on:

The maiden who had saved me

could not believe her eyes;

No one ever had returned;

No others had survived!

I did not tarry with her;

I did not tell my tale;

I had to flee that harp's allure

before I was compelled

to return and touch the harp,

to rescind my soul,

to join all those other bards

under its control.

My father left when I was nine

upon a foolish quest:

He sought the Tomb of Chosen Rhyme,

and there he failed the test.

But through his failure, I was saved:

The harp did not snare me.

Through his failure, I was saved:

I roam the world still free.

With this ballad, I honor him:

I had gone upon my quest

to find the Tomb of Chosen Rhyme

to bring to him success!

Instead, I found my father—

a tortured, troubled soul—

captured by that relic,

under its control.

I had no way to free him;

I had to leave him there;

But I can warn the other bards

to stay away from there!

He played a few more cautious notes;

He set the harp aside;

His mentor clasped his shoulder;

He had no tears to cry.

The crowd, though small, regaled them well,

with coin and gratitude;

The innkeeper provided them

with wine and ample food;

An hour later, they found themselves

strolling down the road.

"It is time," his mentor told him,

"for the meeting of the bards."

"What is that?" he asked his mentor.

"Where will it take place?"

"I cannot tell you where we gather

for the great exchange;

"I must take you to the meeting

of the Master Bards;

Only those who have a patron

get to play their harps."

They travelled down the secret paths

that led them to a lake,

and rowed out to a tiny isle,

where they had to wait.

A dozen Master Bards were there;

Four more yet to come;

Not a ballad had been shared;

No songs had yet been sung;

The sharing would come later,

when the time had come,

and he would take the center

to prove that he belonged;

His songs would be inspected;

His play would be critiqued;

The Master Bards would test him

before they would bequeath

the title of a Master Bard,

accept him as their own.

Then would start the steady trade

of all their new-spun songs!

# Part 3

The time had come for them to sing;

The Master Bards were there;

Encircled in a granite ring

with magic in the air;

Sixteen Master Bards sat still;

Four initiates would sing;

The moon had risen, bright and full,

above the gathering;

The stone bequeathed an eerie glow;

The night grew eerie-calm;

The Master Bards deferred as one

to the greatest of them all.

"We are summoned to this isle

for this sacred task;

Once a decade we compile

all our songs and ask:

"Should new members be allowed

within our special ranks

to become a Master Bard

for all the songs they sang?

"Those with skill of melody,

those with skill of tongue,

are far from such a rarity

that few of them belong;

"Minstrels, troubadours—

they can sing and play,

but Master Bards spin magic words

that others can't evade!

"Many bards spin magic well;

Many have the gift;

But few there are who can excel—

some are in our midst;

"The test we have is simple:

Four songs you will play!

Spin for us a magic spell

to prove that you should stay!"

The Master of the Master Bards

turned expectantly,

to another Master Bard's

youthful protégé.

The youth took up his lyre,

propped it on his knee,

thrummed some notes, cleared his throat,

and strung a melody.

This song may be familiar

to such a worthy host;

It is the Song of Aster Gray,

a badly troubled ghost!

I was staying near the palace

of an oft-admired king,

When they called me to bear witness

of her tragic passing.

I took my lyre to her bedside—

She lay as pale as ice—

I played my sweetest ballads,

softest lullabies;

I played and played those soothing songs

until her time had come,

and then I set my lyre down

and left her private room.

She was buried without treasure

in a simple tomb of stone—

a mausoleum for the daughter

of a mistress of the throne.

I was paid and left the palace;

I sought out other songs;

I was still in search of ballads

when the new moon came along.

A farmer offered to provide me

shelter from a coming storm;

The food was simple that he gave me,

but his hearth was toasty-warm;

I repaid him for the kindness;

I sang his daughter lullabies;

I eased her terror from the lightning

and the mighty thunder's cry!

His music slowed. His voice spoke low.

His eyes went far away.

He barely whispered what came next,

amid his soft refrain.

The lullabies I sang to her

were very much the same

as those I sang to Aster Gray

on her passing day;

The farmer's daughter, Aster Gray—

they were of an age—

and when I sang those lullabies,

they brought her back again!

Her ghostly apparition—

still as pale as ice!—

slowly manifested—

much to my surprise!

It settled down upon the bed

next to the farmer's daughter,

and listened to the songs I played,

and lingered long thereafter.

He paused his play. He scanned the ring.

He finished without music.

You may think this song to be

little more than tragic,

He pointed with dramatic flare

just beyond the circle.

But there she is, Aster Gray,

my sad little miracle!

There she was, that apparition,

floating just above the ground

just beyond the circle's fringe,

making not the slightest sound;

The greatest of the Master Bards,

bemused but not impressed,

turned to the initiate

and asked, "Illusion, yes?"

She is not mere illusion;

She is not mist and fog;

She is an apparition

summoned by my song!

She follows me everywhere;

She haunts my lullabies;

And when I sing of Aster Gray,

she makes a baleful cry!

As if she knew the time was ripe,

She let loose a horrid wail,

A doleful shriek into the night,

as if she were impaled—

The Master of the Master Bards,

waved his aged hand;

He muttered but a few crisp words,

and Aster Gray was gone.

The young man frowned then smiled,

shrugged without concern,

struck a playful little tune,

and finished up his turn:

At least, that's what I tell them,

when those have dared to ask,

but, yes, it is illusion—

My special bardic cast!

I weave the magic in my songs

to bring them more alive,

but only for the special ones—

when the time is right!

The young bard set aside his lyre;

His mentor deigned to speak;

"A fine display of bardic flair—

Would you not agree?"

Before the murmurs could erupt,

the Master of the Master Bards

held up his hand to interrupt,

and said, "It is a worthy start.

"But that is all; there will be more—

far more before we're through!

We must consider all the chords

before this night is through!

"He has three more songs to sing;

Three others still to start;

So let us move on with this thing,

and hear another bard!"

Another of the protégés

was given leave to play,

He strummed his lute with playful ease,

and limpid, dainty strain.

I met a woman in the market

who proclaimed to me,

her name was Aaron Breedlove

a man of tragedy!

She said she had a story,

a tragic, woeful tale,

one that bards would sing of—truly!—

about a haunted wishing well.

Here he paused to softly mutter

words too low for them to hear;

In their minds they seemed to gather,

soon becoming all too clear!

He was speaking words of magic,

which his music had enhanced;

They were growing more romantic

as his lute-strings softly danced!

The music eased into a passion

held in place by will alone;

He began to play at random,

wildly shifting pitch and tone;

This display of random patterns

seemed to build upon a frame,

and when his voice returned unbidden,

it struck them all like drops of rain!

Aaron Breedlove was a young man

born of nobles from Old Port;

He was raised to learn of ruling,

but was not the ruling sort.

So he left his father's castle

at a tender, youthful age,

shedding all his royal duties,

seeking for a better way!

Through the weeks that quickly followed,

he became much more aware

that a woman was quite different—

more than form and lustrous hair!

Then one day in drunken stupor,

came he to a wishing well;

Far beyond the grasp of reason,

far too drunk to sanely tell,

he tossed in a pouch of silver—

Not for him a single coin!

As he stood there—no, he tottered—

pondering what could be gained,

an image of the lovely maiden

gave him insight for his wish:

"I wish to understand a woman!

I wish to know just what she is!"

When he finished his transaction,

thinking only of the maid;

There began an odd sensation,

and he felt his manhood fade!

Searching quickly for its presence,

with his dainty fingertips,

He could not conceive its absence—

Yet he could not find a grip!

Overcome by drunken terror,

weeping in a drunken fit,

he ran off in naked horror

trying to locate it!

At length, he slumped against a tree trunk;

At last, exhausted, he passed out;

In the morning, when he woke up,

the wish, the loss, had been forgot!

A headache was consuming him.

A chill was on his skin.

His bladder, full, demanding—

His cold and empty hand—

The urine flowing down his thigh—

brought him to his senses

and reminded him of the night,

of the wish, and of his losses!

A strangled cry escaped his lips—

A high-pitched female squeal!

A frantic search that bore no fruit—

The wish had been for real!

His tones were clipped and hectic;

The magic had been strung;

The bards within the circle

shifted—every one!—

A woman sat for every man,

and each looked on in dread—

could they forbid inclusion

of this wretched bard?

His song was nothing special,

the music sharp and blunt—

But the magic that he could control

was far more than enough!

A dreadful fear enveloped them:

What if the shift he'd done

to change them all to women

became a permanent one!?

Before this fear consumed them,

before they fled their plight,

his wretched song had been resumed,

and sucked them deep inside—

Weeks went by in sorrowed state;

His manhood remained lost;

He sought out wizards, asked for aid,

whatever was the cost!

For two long years he struggled;

For two long years he fought;

For two long years, he remained

a man in a woman's body.

And then one day, it ended:

He accepted what she was.

He became a lovely maiden;

He became a dainty host;

He became a serving wench;

He became a cook;

He went shopping in the market;

He learned how to knit;

A year of this—and more!—went by

before I heard her tale,

And I agreed a tragedy

about a wishing well

would make a splendid bardic song,

one that I would sing!

And sung I have, that wretched song,

despite the change it brings!

The Master Bards were near to tears;

His lute fell to a mumble;

Several seconds passed before

the lute strings softly hummed;

The gathered bards were patient—

The music still was playing—

They waited for the song to finish—

He turned to them, saying:

Such went that fateful meeting,

in the marketplace,

but I returned anew in spring

to find there was no trace

of the woman Aaron Breedlove,

of that tragic maid;

But of the man named Aaron Breedlove,

much more may be said!

The wish he made that fateful day

had long-since been fulfilled:

He understood the woman's way;

He understood her skill;

Once he had accepted it,

when man he was no more,

the wish he'd made relented,

and he was man once more!

The magic in the lyrics—

The music in the spell—

The Master Bards were men again!

Their dread was gone as well!

The spell within my ballad,

The feelings that it brought,

We're only figments in your mind—

No changes have been wrought!

The power of suggestion

and hypnotic play

were all the magic held within

the song I played today!

The Master of the Master Bards

held up his aged hand;

"A potent spell," was all he said,

then gestured to a man

who held a pair of wooden drums

covered by deerskin.

When silence fell, he nodded once:

"Now you may begin."

His drums were three in number—

each a different size;

His boots had tiny cymbals—

cleverly disguised;

The largest drum thumped out a beat—

b-BOOM! b-BOOM! b-BOOM!

A heavy thudding, pulsing beat—

b-BOOM! b-BOOM! b-BOOM!

The cymbals tinkled now and then;

The other drums were struck;

Their softer, shriller pattering

stole away their breath—

Their heartbeats matched his rhythm—

b-BOOM! b-BOOM! b-BOOM!

And when he had them in his grip,

he sung of death and gloom!

I trained with sword and shield

throughout my youthful years,

and then there came that fateful day

I first wore battle gear.

I looked and felt a prideful man

in splendid finery;

Complete with tassel-crested helm

and weighty armory;

The feeling didn't last too long—

I was much surprised

to find an itch I had to scratch,

right between my thighs!

I twitched a bit and ground my teeth

and forced my hand to stay;

The itch grew on relentlessly,

and I began to pray!

"O God of War have mercy!

Grant me strength of will!

The enemy is growing near,

and they're intent to kill!

"This itch is too distracting;

This itch is in the way!

By all the oaths that I can bring,

Take this itch away!

"I'll spill much blood, I swear to you!

The enemy will die!

Just end this dreadful itch I have!

I will bravely fight!"

The God of War was silent;

My plea was cast aside;

The itch grew more demanding

with each and every stride!

The itch spread wildly down my legs

and up my back and chest;

Ignoring it as best I could,

I went with the rest!

We joined ranks behind the king,

his banner in my hand;

The itch had grown relentlessly—

I could barely stand!

I twitched, I itched, I whimpered—

My comrades looked at me—

And then I dropped the banner—

Ripped my armor free—

I scratched that itch—and all the rest!—

and rolled upon the ground;

I could not stop that wretched itch,

despite the battle sound!

I writhed upon the sodden earth;

The call to arms was made;

I tried to stand; I tried to march—

I ripped my clothes away!

The sound of clashing swords arose

upon the battlefield;

I grabbed my sword, sought out the noise,

and made a vicious yowl!

I must have looked a dreadful sight—

naked with a sword—

a deep red rash from head to foot,

an angry, pain-wracked scowl!

I charged into the melee's ranks,

but every man I neared,

backed away, did not engage,

as if consumed by fear!

The battle waged throughout the day

and deep into the night;

Though I fumed, though I raged,

no blows I struck that fight!

Twilight fell as dawn approached;

The enemy were dead;

The itch was barely tolerable;

My skin was crimson red;

Welts consumed my chest and thighs;

Blood oozed from open wounds;

I tried to help the injured, tried

to tend their wounds,

but every time I came near,

they paled and shied away;

They put up such a clamor,

that I was sent away.

At noon, the healer came to me;

He looked me up and down;

He shook his head and asked me:

"When did the itch begin?"

I told him all that I could tell;

He shook his head again;

He offered me an ointment;

I spread it on my skin;

The ointment worked like magic;

My itchiness was gone!

I asked him what had caused it—

He shook his head again.

"The armor that you donned today,

The padding underneath,

enflamed your skin because you have

a dreadful allergy."

My warrior's days were over;

No cure was there for me;

If ever I wore armor,

that rash would torture me!

I did not leave my sword behind;

I did not cease to train;

I left the service of the king

and never fought again!

The drumbeats and the cymbal

slowly disappeared,

until one sound alone remained,

the first one that they heard:

The steady, thudding, pulsing beat—

b-BOOM! b-BOOM! b-BOOM!

Then he changed its stolid pace,

until it had slowed down

to half a beat each second—

Then slower still it went—

Each time the beat had been reduced

they felt their heartbeats skip!

All at once the beat was stopped—

Their heartbeats also ceased!

They clutched their chests and gasped—

He smiled wickedly!

Then, all at once, he slapped his drum—

a sharp, resounding BOOM!—

All their hearts beat free again,

free from his magic tune!

The Master of the Master Bards

was first to catch his breath;

He glared at the initiate

and then he shook his head!

"Our magic is not meant to kill;

Our magic should not harm;

Our magic ought to help, to heal,

not to raise alarm.

"I do not doubt your talent;

I do not doubt your skill;

But what about your motive?

Is yours an evil will?"

The drummer sat, admonished,

and then his patron spoke:

"Master, do not be so cross—

Can't you take a joke?"

The Master of the Master Bards

rebuked him yet again:

"Such folly is misguided

and you should understand!"

"Indeed, I do—both you and he;

His humor is perverse!

His bardic skill exemplary!

Forgive his playful jest!

"Look beyond your discomfort!

Look beyond your fear!

See what sits amid our court:

A Master Bard for sure!"

The Master of the Master Bards

sadly shook his head;

"Perhaps it's you who are misguided,

if you think the jest was good."

He waved away the protest,

"No matter, we shall see

who among the four there is

on which we'll all agree.

"For now, there is but one to play,

and when his song is through;

We shall retire to consider

what we are to do."

The conflict wasn't over,

but had been set aside;

His mentor turned and winked at him;

His harp lay at his side;

The Master of the Master Bards—

His mentor and his friend—

Gestured with sincerity,

and said, "You may begin."

He set the harp upon his knee;

He strummed an impish chain;

He shook his head in misery—

There was no way to win.

He sighed and set the harp aside.

He looked upon the bards.

He sought the magic deep inside.

He lifted up his harp.

I do not know if this is true

or just some minstrel's tale,

but I will sing and play it through,

then bid you all farewell!

His mentor frowned and stared at him;

the others looked askance;

But once the song had been begun,

it put them in a trance!

In the rafters of a temple

was a wicked, wicked man,

who came to steal the silver

in the coffers of the clan.

He crouched inside of shadow

like a spider for a fly;

He watched the priestess praying

and the others walking by;

With an effort more than human

that he thought could not be done,

he waited without patience

as they walked out, one by one,

and then the priestess was alone,

her candle burning low;

He scampered down the temple wall

and landed in a roll.

A sudden flash of burnished steel;

Darts went singing past;

They found a home with sickly speed,

deep in the priestess' flesh.

The priestess doubled over

with a squawk and muted prayer;

The poison tips had done their job

with little left to spare.

The wicked man was ruthless;

He rifled through her corpse;

He took the pendant from her neck

and earrings from her lobes!

The copper coin she'd kept for luck

had failed her on this day;

It came to rest with subtle clunk,

when he put it fast away.

Then off he went with silent speed

to get the altar stones;

He knew the temple rooms by rote:

They once had been his home!

He found the treasure room with ease,

despite the traps they'd set;

He placed his feet with purpose,

and his thoughts were firmly set.

Three coffers stood within the room.

Two were filled with death.

The third one had a needle trap,

where silver bars were kept.

With that chilling thought in mind,

he worked with special care;

When the poison needle flew,

he wasn't standing there;

Before the deadly trap reset,

he smashed the coffer's lock

and placed the silver that he found

beneath his priestly smock.

He eased his way with cautious steps

back to the outer hall;

He scampered with a spider's skill

up the temple wall;

He rested on the rafter's perch

until the morning light,

and when the hue and cry went out,

he joined in the fright!

His agitation was sincere,

if from a different source;

He was afraid he would get caught

and lose his life, of course!

But in the crowded temple hall—

Priests were everywhere—

One more priest was just ignored,

and he escaped from there.

An acolyte with nervous eyes

and too much intellect

confronted him outside the halls

and quickly met his death.

The body fell with wilting ease,

and soon it would be found;

The wicked man fled with haste

to leave the temple ground.

When he reached the sacred grove

where he had left his steed,

he found the tether had been cut—

and cursed the other thief!

He heard the cries of hungry dogs,

and chills slipped down his spine;

They settled in his empty gut

and told him he would die!

As the notes were finely gathered;

When his words had all been sung;

He released the tautened harp strings;

Into darkness, he was flung!

As his body slumped and tumbled,

all the Master Bards looked on;

Then his mentor, fearful, stumbled,

sought a pulse—the faintest one!

They were frantic, tried their magic—

His protégé did not respond;

Several seconds passed by, hectic,

then a voice came from beyond:

He is but a young apprentice;

He does not belong with us;

Does he have such mighty magic?

Does he have a wondrous voice?

I am Randolph Weaving Fingers—

You may know me from before—

I was one among your number,

in the tepid days of yore!

An ancient bard emerged from shadow,

moved into their startled midst,

picked up harp and started playing,

gentle, soothing, tragic riffs.

I'll sing to you of awe and wonder

at the mighty task I saw

and bring to you a broken feather

from the wing of Dragon's Claw!

Those monks are known by many people

as a mercenary band;

They work for any who pay silver

to perform the tasks at hand.

I stumbled on their mad endeavor

late one chilly afternoon,

and then I could not help but wonder

if their deaths were coming soon!

Even madmen would not enter

in the lair of Darkwing Bane—

How could they expect to kill her

and her mighty dragon flame?

I thought to leave them in their glory,

but my curiosity

was too strong to be denied it,

and I went so I could see.

Her cavern lay before their army

of two dozen half-crazed monks.

I hesitated for a moment,

then I followed where they slunk.

I saw their skillful, silent passage

through the darkened tunnel-way.

The first one fell into a pitfall

filled with molded spikes of clay!

Not a single sound he uttered,

though his pain was plain to see!

When we reached the dragon's shelter,

they were down to ten and three!

Then, in silence full of furor,

all of them attacked as one!

Weapons glistened on her armor—

Spears and staves about her danced!

She awoke in storming anger,

lashing out with sharpened claw;

Monks were shaken, bruised and battered—

One was hanging from her maw!

Horror filled me as they battled;

Body parts were strewn about;

Still the monks would not surrender,

dwindling without a shout!

Then the dragon roared in anger,

rearing back its mighty head;

Then I saw her lunging forward,

falling as if she were dead!

I sought to find a wound or reason

that had caused her quick demise,

and I saw it in her belly,

just above her massive thigh:

A spear had buried in her gullet,

struck her heart a fatal blow;

As she fell, the monk who struck it

had been sadly crushed below.

Death and blood were strewn about me;

No one else remained alive;

The monks had died in silent glory

as they took the dragon's life!

For a moment full of silence,

I looked on the carnage there;

Then I shrugged and started searching

for the dragon's treasure trove!

Randolph Weaving Fingers finished,

dropped the harp, and disappeared!

Then another apparition

made its way among the bards.

He was bedecked in dented plate,

and broken shield and sword;

When he spoke, his voice rang out

deep and bold and strong!

Hold! Hold! Hold them back!

Keep your men from running!

Hold! Hold! Hold them back!

The enemy is coming!

Guard your flanks! Watch your back!

Aim with steady finger!

Kill the bastards who attack!

Kill them all for King Ur!

This is the chorus that was sung

upon the battlefield,

by the haggard warriors when

King Ur refused to yield!

They stood their ground with pike and sword

in mud and bloody bodies,

waiting for the great attack

of King Curry's armies.

Days went past, the hour came,

and hunger fed their bellies;

Then they saw, upon the ridge,

the flag of Curry's army!

Hold! Hold! Hold them back!

Keep your men from running!

Hold! Hold! Hold them back!

The enemy is coming!

Guard your flanks! Watch your back!

Aim with steady finger!

Kill the bastards who attack!

Kill them all for King Ur!

First the arrows filled the air

and landed without mercy;

Then the rush of man and beast

from King Curry's army!

Good King Ur would not retreat;

They waited for the skirmish;

King Curry's men saw them there

and came on without worries!

Halfway down the valley's rim,

King Curry's army waited;

Arrows filled the air again

with volleys unabated!

Hold! Hold! Hold them back!

Keep your men from running!

Hold! Hold! Hold them back!

The enemy is coming!

Guard your flanks! Watch your back!

Aim with steady finger!

Kill the bastards who attack!

Kill them all for King Ur!

Good King Ur declared retreat

and moved his army backward;

Onward came King Curry's men,

marching ever onward!

Arrows would not fly again;

Archers stumbled forward,

falling down the muddy slope

that King Ur had covered!

With the order he had sent,

the trap was built and hidden;

Unbeknownst to Curry's men,

the archers had been stricken!

Soon the word was passed around

from Good King Ur to others,

and his army made their way

around the pitfalls' borders!

Hold! Hold! Hold them back!

Keep your men from running!

Hold! Hold! Hold them back!

The enemy is coming!

Guard your flanks! Watch your back!

Aim with steady finger!

Kill the bastards who attack!

Kill them all for King Ur!

The rush was made and soundly blocked

as battle waged eternal;

When the carnage broke at last,

King Curry won his funeral!

Good Kind Ur, the war's victor,

went through his tattered army

telling them that he was proud

of beating Curry's army!

Quickly heard throughout the ranks,

the battle cry erupted;

Good King Ur, it has been said,

was struck by tears of love that

he was shedding for the fallen

and the living wounded;

All the men who saw this feat

would leave there most astounded!

Hold! Hold! Hold them back!

Keep your men from running!

Hold! Hold! Hold them back!

The enemy is coming!

Guard your flanks! Watch your back!

Aim with steady finger!

Kill the bastards who attack!

Kill them all for King Ur!

Hold! Hold! Hold them back!

Keep your men from running!

Hold! Hold! Hold them back!

The enemy is coming!

Guard your flanks! Watch your back!

Aim with steady finger!

Kill the bastards who attack!

Kill them all for King Ur!

As the strident echoes faded,

the balladeer did too!

Then another wandered in

to sing as if on cue:

That old clod has never sung

any song worth singing;

His repertoire has never sprung

the joy he should be bringing!

Battle hymns and ballads,

warfare glorified!

He was a morbid, boorish bard,

long before he died!

But die he did, and we were sad,

for none could take his place;

Enough of gloom! Let us be glad!

Put on a happy face!

It happened in the midst of summer;

Unexpectedly, it came!

A storm blew up, quite unnatural,

that bestowed a yellow rain!

Never had I seen such nonsense

as a yellow puddle deep

with the sun still shining brightly

on the giant yellow stream!

Not a warning had been given

ere the yellow rain appeared;

Not a cloud or peal of thunder—

The yellow rain was everywhere!

As quickly as the rain had started,

it fizzled to a drippy end!

Had this yellow rain departed?

Would it start to rain again?

Then I heard a sigh—loud and heavy—

coming from somewhere behind;

I turned to search the cloudless heavens—

and I saw a massive thigh!

No more yellow rain was coming;

No more tinkles from above;

For the giant I was watching

had decided he was done!

Looking quickly for a river

that was free of yellow rain,

I dove in and scrubbed with vigor

to remove the yellow stain!

Pausing for expected laughter,

finding that there would be none,

he resorted to another

brief refrain to get him some!

Come, now, fellows, that was funny—

Perfect low-brow humor that!

Lighten up! Enjoy the moment!

I will help you do just that!

I once frolicked with the faeries

in their magic faerie hall!

Perchance we need their faerie magic

to remove this dreadful pall!

With a playful bit of magic,

he brought forth a faerie storm!

They erupted from the shadows,

quickly taking shape and form!

Flitting this way, flitting that way,

they confused the dreadful scene;

All at once, they departed,

with a playful, impish scream!

In their wake, their anger risen,

Master Bards prepared to weave

all the spells that they had mastered

to make the apparitions leave!

Then the Master of the Masters

cried out in alarm:

"Where is he?!" he asked in fear:

His protégé was gone!

"I am here," said his apprentice

as he moved into the ring;

"I have finished weaving magic:

Four songs did I bring!"

His mentor wrestled with emotions—

relief and anger, fear and rage—

"How could you—" he started, harshly, then

demanded he explain!

"The test demanded I show magic;

Four songs I was told to sing;

The first was played to set the stage;

Then with magic, I could bring

"the bards who sang their favored songs—

Long-dead though they are—

Appeared as apparitions—

Although in truth they were

"mere projections of my mind

given solid form;

No ghosts were they! Their songs were mine!

Shall I sing three more?"

The Master of the Master Bards—

His mentor and his friend!—

Spoke for all the Master Bards:

"Your test is at an end.

"The magic that you have displayed,

The songs that you have sung;

Will be discussed when we debate

if you should be among

the ranks of all the Master Bards

or cast out from our ranks."

Then he turned to face the others:

"Shall we take a break?"

The test concluded, decisions made,

Three Master Bards were named;

One there was they forced to leave:

The one who played the drums!

His skill was great, they all had said,

but not his humor spun;

The evil magic he had played

was of concern to some;

They told him he could try again,

when next they gathered here;

Ten more years he'd have to wait

to be a Master Bard.

He left without objection;

His mentor chose to stay;

For sixteen days they traded songs;

For sixteen days they played!

The meeting of the bards disbanded;

Sharing of the songs was done;

The Master Bards took separate roads,

in small groups or alone;

His mentor led him to the road

that led back to his home,

then took his leave—this time for good—

no longer would he roam.

He stayed but for a few days time

in his brother's inn;

Then sought adventure one more time

as wanderlust set in!

# Part 4

The night was dark beneath the sky;

the grass was tall and still;

The bard lay down for the night

atop a narrow hill;

He slept as deeply as he dared

but still not light enough;

They stole up from a shallow vale

and rummaged through his stuff;

They found the harp and plucked a string

that squawked into the night;

The bard awoke, alarmed, intense,

to see the strangest sight:

The creatures looked like human boys,

but only at first blush;

They stood no more than three feet high

with bodies built to crush;

"What are you?" the bard declared

as muscles held him tight;

"Leave my things alone!" he blared

beneath his captors' might;

"We are dwarves," said one of them,

his accent harsh as stone;

"What are you?" he countered back,

as if he didn't know.

"I'm a man!" the bard replied,

his voice was filled with pride;

"Hey!" he cried in fear-filled rage

as they tossed his harp aside.

"Why?" The dwarf was curious.

"My harp—" the bard replied.

"Has value?" asked a bearded dwarf.

"Not much," the bard denied.

"I play my music on it, dwarf,

It's only value is to me."

That was near enough to truth

the dwarf would ever see;

"Music?" A dwarf had found the wine.

"Song and wine?" the dwarf implored—

The other dwarves replied in kind;

The harp was brought before the bard,

"You will sing and play for us."

How could the bard refuse?

They let him go and gathered 'round;

his hands took up a tune;

He played a strident melody

and sung a boisterous song;

His gift to know his audience

had never proved him wrong.

The raucous strains of Angel's Groom

frolicked through the air

to land on eager dwarven ears

that fell into his snare!

He changed the tune with subtlety

to mold a lullaby

that sent the dwarves to peaceful sleep

beneath the darkened sky.

At last the final dwarf reposed;

at last their snores were heard;

Except for one that feigned his sleep

and tricked the tricky bard!

As the bard retrieved his things,

a melody was played

upon a flute of tender pitch

so delicately made;

The tune regaled the lullaby

the bard had just employed;

He turned to see a flautist dwarf

that left him most annoyed;

The bard declared, "It isn't done!

No songs unshared are stole!"

The dwarven bard—for which he was—

said, "So I have been told."

He raised the flute to mouth once more

and kicked a dwarf awake;

He played a melody (of sorts)

the bard could not forsake;

The dwarven duo sang and played

a song so strange it hurt

And then the dwarven bard reached down

to grab a fist of dirt;

The dirt was flung into the air

and glowed a golden hue;

It hung, alone, above the ground,

and then the dwarf said, "You?"

The bard went deep inside his mind

and felt the song return;

He played the notes and formed the words;

His bardic power burned;

The dirt went flying in the air

and turned a rugged red;

It circled like a comet's tail

about his weary head.

The dwarves were gone, but not the song;

it lay within his mind;

He thanked the dwarven bard he'd met

for leaving it behind;

His gear was gone—at least in part—

but he was not upset;

He packed the things that still remained

and sighed with some regret:

What other songs they might have shared,

this dwarven bard and he,

would surely build upon his fame

and bardic mastery!

At last he sighed and lay back down

to dream of things unreal

and made himself the greatest bard

that dreamland could reveal....

The morning brought the scent of rain;

by noon, the bard was soaked;

He stood his horse on muddy ground

beneath a withered oak;

He rested while the rain increased

and wished he had some wine;

The dwarves had drunk their fill of it

and left no drop behind.

At last the weather broke in two,

the clouds divorced the sky,

The sun shone down on misty wood

as if it were an eye;

"Look" it seemed to whisper out,

"See what I can see?

The forest grows, my little bard,

around this sacred tree!"

The bard got lost in tangled webs

of purest fantasy

until a windy voice broke up

his soggy reverie.

The leaves had shaken all at once;

the branches bent and swayed;

The raindrops scattered to the ground;

his horse had run away;

"Hmmm," the deep, sonorous tone

seemed like a heavy sigh;

The bard had thought he was alone

in his weary plight;

"Ah! I see," the voice went on,

"A little manly thing!

It's been a goodly many years

since last your visiting!"

The earth began to shake and stir;

the mud began to fly;

The tree bent down to touch the ground

and gave a friendly sigh;

"My name is Yurp," the treetop sang

like rustles on the wind;

"And who are you that comes my way,

my new-found little friend?"

The bard looked on with wondrous gaze

upon the oaken trunk;

It held a dozen knotty eyes

that gleamed with sappy gunk;

"My name is unimportant, Yurp,

I'm just a lowly bard;

I play upon my trusted harp,

and measure out my words."

He knew he'd stretched the rhyme a bit,

but who would ever know?

Besides, a bard was given leave

to stretch a word or note.

"A bard, you say? Unimportant?

Who measures out a word?

What is that, my little friend?

I know not of this bard."

The bard let out a toothy grin

and gave a graceful bow,

"Let me play my harp for you

and sing my wares aloud!"

He freed his harp from leather case

and plucked to check its tune,

"The song I'll sing is one I love,

it's called Clarise's Bloom."

The notes were swift and light of air;

He danced a little jig;

He turned his body in the air

and sang as if a kid:

Clarise was a maid,

a maid of Inverness;

She wasn't very old,

but old enough, I guess!

She liked the peasant boys,

but one she liked the best;

and brought him candied treats

She'd sneak out in her dress.

The candy that she brought

had melted on her breast

She let the peasant lick it off

And lifted up her dress;

The peasant boy was not too bright

but had experience,

and so he knelt on bended knee

to taste of other flesh;

He didn't like the flavor, though;

It smelled of bitterness

But when he saw the cherry stem,

his will could not resist!

"Oh," he chortled gleefully,

"My lovely virginess,

I'll pluck your flower swift and true

for you, my dear Clarise!"

She squealed at first but not for long;

He passed her false defense;

She didn't know he lacked in skill,

And he did not confess;

He plucked her flower from the vine

with too much eagerness,

and she let out a horrid scream

that woke her governess;

He fled before he got the sword

and left her in a mess;

She lost her maiden-head that night

and gained a baby's dress;

The flower grew to bear some fruit,

much to her distress,

and so she fled into the hills

around Keep Inverness.

The bard betrayed some ill-at-ease

when Yurp did not respond;

He had expected laughter from

the silly rhyme he'd sprung;

Perhaps he should have sung a tune

that focused on a tree,

But, lo! Behold! He had no song

that he could duly sing.

Shortly after he had stopped,

Yurp looked down, stretched, and stood,

"My apologies, my new-found friend,

that wasn't very good;

"Granted I am not so keen

on habits of young men,

but I have heard some others sing

with much more skill, my friend;"

The bard was taken quite aback—

Then further back he went—

He bowed down low and softly said,

"I'm sorry, Master Yurp."

On that sad note, he went away

and found a muddy track

Soon he'd sing to men, again—

for which he had a knack.

It took three days of gloominess—

both weather and his mood—

Before he came upon the town

outside of Sheltered Wood.

He found the Inn of Corded Wood

and sat with ease at last;

He didn't want to sing at first,

but word had spread too fast;

With wine and urgings from the folk,

he reluctantly agreed

to sing some songs for all of them

and sat with practiced ease;

He cleared his throat and strummed some chords

and eyed the gathered throng;

His voice was sure and strongly set

as he began his songs:

The secret life of Jeban Da,

The past of Grim DeFleece,

The Honor Guard of Hobart's Claw,

and Widow Aster's Feast.

These songs are sung from time to time

by bards who bear the right,

and I shall sing them, one by one,

for all of you tonight.

We'll start with Widow Aster's Feast,

and then move on from there.

The mood was struck by languished note

of morbid, dark despair.

The day began with drastic news:

The King lay in his bed;

At least his body still reposed,

but not his royal head!

The queen had risen with the dawn

while King and court still slept;

She poised above her royal mate

and not a tear she wept;

Her hands were strong and gripped the sword

and raised it in the air;

The downward stroke was keenly aimed

with utmost loving care;

The King lay still; his head did not;

it rolled onto the floor

and bounced about with mocking grin

until it reached the door.

The Queen was cold but felt no fear,

no grief or false remorse;

She plucked the head up by the hair

and, triumphantly, she cursed:

"If only I had done this deed

so many years ago;

I would not have felt such loathing need

to let my anger go!"

She laughed insanely for a time

and hid the head from sight

before she called the royal guard

to see his royal plight!

"Oh! My King! He yet does sleep

that long, eternal rest!

We must not tarry! We dare not dally!

Today, we'll have a feast!"

The men, of course, were not too keen

to celebrate his death,

but when they saw the Queen insane,

not one exhaled his breath.

The feast was soon prepared with haste,

the Queen was bright with cheer;

She danced and sang with earnestness

until the morning neared;

And then she left to soon return

to call the feasters near;

When all were looking at the Queen—

Her gaze was crystal clear—

She said, "My friends of noble birth,

my husband now is dead,

but here I have his final gift:

I give to you his head!"

He paused amid a string of notes

to give them room to breathe,

and then he struck a sorrowed chord

that almost made them grieve.

Alas, my friends, the Queen was lost;

her madness was complete;

The nobles of her royal court

stumbled to their feet;

In haste, they freed their crazy Queen

from life's tormenting grasp;

A knife was thrust by drunken hands,

eliciting a gasp—

_"What?!_ " the Queen demanded—loud—

as blood began to flow;

She died in fury, rage, and hate,

and cursed the fatal blow;

Her son, it was, whom justice brought,

through tears too feigned to see;

_"I'm sorry_ ," was his whispered lie:

His plan would now succeed.

The Queen was not her purest self;

her mind was not her own;

She died within unloving arms;

The Prince let out a moan;

The herbs supplied in deepest night

had brought about the deed,

and now the Prince would have the throne

to satisfy his greed!

Poor Aster, Queen of Turish Gra,

poor Erlic, King of same;

Poor Turin, Prince whose soulless plan

had driven her insane;

He held the throne for two short years,

then lost his head, as well,

when peasants stormed the palace gates

and sent him straight to hell.

The sternness of the bard's sweet voice

held warning for them all:

If they were taken in by greed,

then by greed they'd fall!

His voice was husky as he chirruped,

"More wine to soothe my tongue!"

And when he'd drunk a hefty draught,

his fingers had begun;

"My friends," _he said, in hollow voice_ ,

"I once was given leave

To hear a most uncommon tale

I still do not believe:

The tale began one foggy night

in some forgotten inn

when I encountered Jeban Da,

an old, decrepit man.

He moved on rusty-hinges legs

from armor ages old

and sat with such a heavy sigh

his story must be told;

I ordered wine for he and I

and lent to him my ear,

then listened to the strangest tale

that I would ever hear.

"How old am I?" He asked of me,

"Sixty-nine?" I said;

He chuckled wryly for a time

and softly shook his head;

"Thank ye kindly for the jest,

but I have seen far more;

One thousand six—or thereabouts—

give or take a score."

There was no hint of humor in

those weary, golden eyes;

He whispered softly, more than sad,

"If only I could die."

"You see, I've lived beyond my years—

indeed, beyond yours too—

And all the people that I've known

are dead—except for you."

A touch of fear began to creep

from spine to quivered flesh,

but he continued to repeat

his fervent wish for death;

"One thousand times have I been slain,

one thousand times I've died;

But always, always, do I rise

hale once more inside;

"I've lived through battles none survived

and felt assassin's blades;

I've fed so many beasts of prey—

and yet I am unscathed;

"I've witnessed miracles, my friend,

and acts of evil mien;

and through them all, I lived, I died,

again, and yet, again."

He sighed so soft I barely heard

then shrugged the eerie mood;

"Do you wish to live forever?"

Then, I understood.

"I stole my way upon the lair

of Dragon-Keeper's Sky,

and found a magic wishing well

and wished I'd never die;

"My wish was granted—this I know—

for soon, the Keepers came,

and I was captured by the men

and tortured past insane;

"They'd kill me in some fiendish way

through torture, pain, and woe,

and I'd return to wretched life,

which they would sunder low;

"Oh! The methods they devised

to test their skill and luck!

And so it went for untold years

until The Woodsmen struck.

"They came at night—or so I'm told—

and slew the Keeper's men,

But when they found the dungeon cells,

I was dead again.

"They set me on a funeral pyre

and burned my flesh and bone,

but I returned to life, once more,

and found myself alone;

"I wandered, free, a hundred years,

and watched my body fade;

But when I died an ancient man,

my body was remade—

"I lived again, a youthful man,

of barely twenty-three;

And wandered through the lands once more

with hopes to be set free.

"Eternity is far too long

for any man to bear;

I know this for a fact of life;

I'm on my way to there."

With those deep-set, golden eyes,

he held me in his gaze,

"Tonight, again, I'll die once more

to wake in younger days."

His eyes grew dark and free of life,

his body slumped and fell;

I prayed to all the gods I know

to rest his troubled soul;

But as I watched his lifeless corpse,

it shimmered like a dream;

And when it settled down once more,

a youthful face was seen!

His music died and silence fell

to linger in the room,

and then he played a solemn note

that stank of coming doom.

He rose from death to smirk at me

and clapped his hands with glee;

"Hello, Uncle!" he chortled out,

"Never fear! It's just me!"

The music changed to impish pace,

his tone became a lark

As he resumed the final verse

with voice no longer dark;

I sternly glared before I laughed,

then gracefully, I bowed;

"A clever jest," I said in praise.

"I'll get you back," I vowed.

He'd drawn them in the clever tune

and laughter fluttered free;

He drank more wine to whet his voice

then played a melody;

Its pattern wove a tangled web

of humor laced with cheer,

And then he sung the whispered words

that made them strain to hear:

His name I shouldn't tell you;

His crime you soon will know;

His hair was crinkled like a sheep

and colored white as snow!

Today, I'll call him Grim DeFleece;

Tomorrow? Who can say?

He walked among the sheep at night

and lay with them by day!

His father left him busy;

His sisters left him pure;

The sheep were somewhat leery, though,

for reasons left obscure!

He loved his ewes with pleasure;

He loved his rams as well;

But when he saw his special lambs

his heart would firmly swell!

The sheep were more than nervous;

The wolves were kept at bay;

The boy was said to have the gift

that kept those beasts away!

The day we met was shaggy;

The night we shared, unsure;

The sheep were bleating skittishly—

a sound almost demure!

I witnessed something tainted;

I saw it all that night;

What it was I will not say,

but surely it's not right!

The morning came at midday;

The dawn returned at dusk;

The dour face of Grim DeFleece

had fallen gray as dust!

His father sent a message:

Today, the sheep would sell;

He gathered up the rams and ewes

to take them to the well.

The lambs, of course, had followed,

as sheep are wont to do,

and all were cut for butcher's meat

or sold for mutton stew!

The shepherd's son was dismal,

as if his love had died,

and all that night he lay awake

and cried and cried and cried!

Here he paused to build effect

and changed the tune once more;

A solemn beat resumed the song

with humor in the score;

I tried my best to comfort him;

I tried to ease his pain;

But when he got a bit too close,

I crushed him once again!

He bleated like a broken sheep;

He fled as horror-struck;

I fled, as well, away from him

and praised the God of Luck!

A few more lively chords were played

to end his comic song

And then he sought the outhouse door—

the night was getting on;

A brief respite to eat some food

and drink some heady wine,

and then he'd finish out the night

and leave the town behind.

The Honor Guard of Hobart's Claw

is one you all should know,

Written by an ancient bard

whose name was never known;

I met my mentor late one fall

When I was very young;

I grew convinced a bard I'd be

with every song he sung;

He taught me all the basic chords

and how to scan a rhyme

But, most of all he showed me how

to keep in perfect time;

The winter faded into spring;

his wanderlust returned;

I'd come to love him like a friend

and felt my passion burn;

I begged and pleaded days-on-end

for him to teach me more,

and then, at last, he cursed my soul

and gave to me this score:

The melody was simply strung,

the pace was slow and firm,

He gazed into the distant past

with old eyes, soft and worn.

A witch was drawn and quartered;

Her curse was fiercely thrown;

The king would die a dismal death

that none had ever known.

She died without repenting;

The king was furious;

The Priest of Onus came to prey

and left with many purses.

The thief was given penance—

A hand was all it took!—

but, after they had cut it off,

They let him have it back!

A thief whose hand is missing;

A witch whose curse was thrown;

The pattern of the king's demise,

like wheat, was slowly sown.

When Hobart left the city,

He went to Onus' shrine

and prayed for vengeance on the ones

who punished such a crime;

He'd only stolen money—

and not that much at that!

What right had they to do this deed?

He cleared his throat and spat;

Onus is an ornery god;

His follower was heard;

The hand was thrust in open flame;

Its flesh was quickly charred;

The bones were black with soot;

The flesh had burned away;

Hobart knew what he must do

to make the bastards pay!

Hobart sought an evil witch

and bought an evil spell;

He took it to the royal court

and sent his judge to hell!

The magistrate was drinking;

The king was telling jokes;

The feast was strong and lively

for all the royal folks;

The Hand of Hobart entered;

its fingers stalked the floor;

It leapt upon the magistrate

and squeezed with magic force;

He choked and sputtered madly;

He tried to breathe and failed;

The king was horrified, of course,

and watched the spectacle;

The hand released its victim

and dropped as lifeless limb;

The king called for the royal guard,

and they came rushing in;

The hand was tried for murder—

Its guilt was guaranteed—

The royal guard and royal court

appeased the nervous king!

The execution folly

embarrassed all who came;

The king was now a sorry joke

And laughter was his fame!

The curse had called for vengeance;

The king was bound to die;

The final blow would come at last

in every peasant's eye;

The king was gently coddled;

His rule became obtuse;

His orders fell on deafened ears,

until he asked, "What's the use?"

He hung his head in sorrow;

The hand had done him in;

He became the laughing stock

throughout his vast kingdom!

The day approached with fervor;

the time had come at last;

The king decreed his mental state

was lost amid the past;

His last request was followed—

in jest or pity's sake?

He ordered all to send away

the life he couldn't take.

A royal feast was gathered;

The peasants ushered in;

They ate the feast that was prepared

and walked back out again;

The courtyard filled with peasants;

Each brought a throwing stone;

The king stood in their circled midst

and all the rocks were thrown!

The smile on his dying face

put tears in many eyes,

but none were shed by Onus' Priests,

who watched with no surprise;

Vengeance had been mollified;

The curse had been fulfilled;

The tragic death the king decreed

had left the peasants chilled;

The court was thrown in shambles;

No king could be proclaimed;

A dozen years of kingless rule

before one could be named!

The cousins didn't want it;

The courtesans refused;

His children weren't legitimate

and others were excused!

At last, a family member,

who'd drunk more than he should,

Proclaimed himself the rightful heir

and all said that he could!

The crown was thrust upon him;

The throne became his chair;

The curse befell their newfound king,

and he lost all his hair!

His sanity was questioned;

The doubts were softly said;

That king was called the Restless King:

In three months, he was dead.

The kingdom fell to chaos;

No rulers could be found;

The peasants flourished in their midst,

and so did every town!

Alas, the land was conquered;

Too many people died;

All because a witch's curse

and Onus' Priest's combined!

His voice had gotten weary;

he played a few more notes;

He set his harp upon the floor

and rested while he spoke:

My friends, my stay has brought me joy;

I hope the songs I've sung

Have given you a brief respite

from the chill this day has sprung;

But, now that spring's upon us,

I fear I must depart;

I long to go exploring—

although it breaks my heart.

The morn will find me leaving;

The night will find me gone;

But I will take you with me,

although I go alone!

He idly strummed some wayward notes

and tweaked a weary grin.

They begged him to continue on—

Reluctantly, he gave in.

This ballad plagues me to this day;

It sorrows me to tears;

It came to me one weary trade

in my younger years;

The bard who sang it was a eunuch

for the Queen of Sespetune;

His voice was lovely, filled with beauty,

holding to a tenor's croon;

As he sung his tortured ballad,

with his lilting, boyish voice,

my heart grew heavy, cold and sad;

He sang with such remorse!

"Dunkirk soared the skies above

on wings of burgundy,

and then he dove with subtle flair

and perfect majesty;

"His aim was sure as archer's bow;

It took him to his prey;

His talons struck with sword-like force

to steal the life away!

"His grip was firm as armored glove

and delicate as lace;

As he took flight, once again,

he climbed with haunting grace;

"He flew to me on tender wing

and landed on my wrist;

I took the rabbit from his claw

and sang with earnestness:

'My lovely Dunkirk, I thank you

for sharing this with me!

I shan't partake of it until

you've had your fill to eat!'

"He ate a slice of rabbit flesh

as if he were a king;

I set him on his wooden perch

and cooked the rest for me.

"We travelled on for quite some time

through rolling hills of grass;

I sang the ballads I had brought

to help the time to pass;

"A strangled squawk from Dunkirk came

behind a solid _THUMP!_

He fell in limpest, stillest form—

A dead, unmoving clump!

"I hesitated, lost and numb,

until the men approached;

I stared where Dunkirk had been struck—

His neck and wing were broke!

"The men were unaware of him;

I could see no more;

They dragged me from my startled steed

and rumpled through my gear;

"They took the coin that I had won

with songs a king could hear!

They took my steed and ate my food

and stole my battle gear!

"They gave me back my wounded harp,

whose strings they snapped in two;

I did naught to stay their hands—

What else was I to do?

"Then they left me standing there—

Alone with Dunkirk dead—

I vowed to Onus—and He heard!—

That I would have their heads!

"It took me many moons to plan

the vengeance that I sought,

but when it came, I was prepared,

and this is what I wrought:

"I sang a song with magic words

and built the imagery;

I turned the leader of the men

into a bird of prey!

"His body shifted painfully—

I relished every scream!

The feathers came through beautifully—

Golden sunlit beams!

"The brilliance of the gold he sought

was finally his to wear,

and he replaced what I had lost

as Dunkirk's tragic heir!

"His flight was awkward to the eye;

His hunting skills were none;

And yet, I knew, he would replace,

my friend that he had wronged!

"He flew with me for many months,

and then an arrow came;

The archer disappeared too soon

for me to learn his name.

"So when they ask me of my bird

with feathers steeped in tea,

I tell them all my blackbird's name

is simply Mystery!

"This ballad tells a simple tale

of birds of prey and men,

and how, with magic in our midst,

there is no gap between!

"But what of Dunkirk, first to be?

My bird of prey and friend?

He and I were travelling:

Two mercenary men!

"But in a tangled battle of

a war two kings had waged,

Dunkirk caught a magic spell

hurled by a mage;

"It changed him to bird of prey

of richest burgundy,

and I avowed to find a cure—

which wasn't meant to be.

"The spell the mage had struck him with

also touched my harp;

When I sing a certain song,

his magic will erupt;

"It works its way with brutal force

from deep within my soul,

until I must unleash it all

in one melodic throw—

"I use this spell with utmost care—

sometimes it will fail—

For I am not a magic-man

who understands it well!"

He played a few more subtle notes

and set his harp aside;

He rose to leave, collected coins

and made his way outside....

# Epilogue

Three days later, all alone,

atop a swollen rise;

He cowered, panting, on the run

against a chilling sight;

He took out harp;

Began to play—

Would it keep

the beasts at bay?

He struck the chords

as they closed in,

composed the lyrics,

and began to sing:

Ensconced in armor wrought from flame

with swords of molten stone,

the warriors came upon the scene

in search of flesh and bone;

They left a trail of smoking earth

and stared with eyes aglow;

Their feral grins and rancid howls

were all we had to know;

We fled like dogs from cracking whips

as fear entombed us all

and prayed to gods that no one knew

that we would never fall;

But Rastus did and broke his leg;

We left him for dead;

His wretched screams pursue us still

and fill us all with dread!

At length our bodies failed us all,

as one by one we fell;

The monsters stalked unerringly,

those wretched beasts from hell!

All but me, the last who's left,

witness to their acts,

but not for long, since they are near

and soon they will attack!

The smell of smoke surrounds me now;

No coward though am I!

The only thing that keeps me sane

is singing my next rhyme!

Their claws are cold and burn li—

# Other Poems

A Visit to Valhalla

Odin came to me one night

to offer me a deal,

an eight-legged pony ride

to Valhalla for a meal.

In exchange for such a treat,

he didn't ask for much:

Just my worship given free

for His godly touch.

You might think it rather odd

to see Him standing there,

But I'd studied Him so long,

I didn't really care

if what I saw was really there

or just some crazy dream,

and so I said to Him, "Why not?"

to see what I could see.

He nodded once with slight incline

then whistled loud and shrill;

A cloud-rimmed portal opened up,

and He made good our deal.

From the portal's writhing mass,

there stepped a wondrous beast,

an eight-legged brackish steed

to take me to my feast.

He whispered softly in its ear;

It bobbed its lovely head,

then came to nuzzle up to me:

"Climb inside," it said.

I didn't understand at first

what mighty Sleipnir meant,

but looking closer I espied

a sight I won't forget:

The horse's back was not at all

what I had thought to find;

Inside it was a coffin-stall:

its head-stone's name was mine.

It was then I knew for sure

that this was not a dream;

Odin stood before my eyes

in our reality!

My steed's impatience came to bear;

It nudged me with its nose;

I gently climbed inside its chest;

the coffin-lid slid closed.

You do not know what terror is

until you've been entombed

inside a horse from ancient myth

in unenlightened gloom.

A darkness deeper than the sea

collapsed about my form

but opened momentarily

as if I'd been reborn.

I found myself inside a room–-

the horse was quick away–-

with proper clothes and tools to groom

my beard of pepper-gray.

The mirror (too ornately made)

showed me who I am:

With helmet, shield, and unsheathed blade,

a striking Viking man!

I stood and stared in solitude

as moments came and passed,

then Odin came into my room

to see to my repast.

He guided me through ancient halls

and past fine tapestries

depicting battles, Viking ships,

and cities under siege;

He led me to an angled room

whose walls were far away

and seated me beside his throne

and told me not to stray;

The floor was wide and empty;

Where was the Viking throng?

A moment later, Loki came

with merriment and song:

"Thor, the son of Odin,

that store-bought hammerhead

is chasing in that dreadful boar,

so we can all be fed;

"But just in case the boar might win,

there is no need to fret,

for Loki is a warrior, too-–

though some of you forget.

"I've borrowed several odds and ends

from friends and foe alike,

in case I need to steal the scene

and enter in the fight."

There came a yell of utmost rage,

as only gods might make;

Thor thundered through the entryway

on clouds of lightning blaze.

Loki chortled gleefully

and danced about the floor,

then tossed Thor's hammer playfully

until there came The Boar.

The Boar was growling rabidly

and bounced with malice due,

but Thor fought on relentlessly

as weapons broke in two;

"The God of Thunder met his match

without the slightest pause,

and Loki, God of Mischief,

is surely not the cause!

"Do not blame your brother god

for finding what you lost;

I toss it now to your hand—"

and with those words, he paused.

Loki threw the Hammer true:

It sparkled in its arc

and landed firmly in Thor's hand,

and soon it found its mark.

The boar was struck between the eyes

and staggered to its knees;

A second blow was all it took

to slay the massive beast.

"By the gods," I muttered in dismay -–

then chuckled to myself:

Those gods were all about me now

in Valhalla's dale.

Loki turned to gaze on me—

a mirthless, brutal stare—

what courage that I still possessed

deserted me right there.

Then he smiled sweetly down

and honey from him oozed,

"What's this?" he posed with earnest frown

that slithered and confused:

"A little man of living flesh

whose beating heart yet bleeds?

To visit Asgard for a time—

Will Odin lets him leave?"

Odin's tone would brook no threat

as He replied in kind –

"He's my guest throughout the feast –

keep it close in mind!"

Loki's face was much alive,

dancing with his thoughts;

I wondered if he might defy

the orders Odin wrought;

And then He smiled fiendishly

and from his lips there came

an offer to beguile me

with sights I've never seen:

"Shall we go to Jotunheim,

where the Giants are?

There are mountains you can climb,

but I doubt you'd get too far;

"The Giants like it none-at-all

when strangers come their way,

and if by chance you fail to fall,

they'll push you anyway."

I realized that he spoke to me

and Odin didn't mind;

I finally found a voice to use

and squawked, "I must decline."

Loki seemed a bit put off

but not for very long:

He found a seat of blackest stone

and whistled private songs.

The boar was butchered where it lay

and quickly sent to roast;

Flagons full of amber mead

were brought in for a toast;

But just before the flagons' loft

there came into the hall

another god I recognized:

Tyr, the God of war.

The legends say he lost his hand

when Fenris bit it off,

but I hadn't realized that

the bleeding never stopped;

It dripped and oozed from open wounds

of ragged, shredded flesh

and left a trail of spattered sound

with every godly step.

He wore the wound with stoic pride

and purest bravery –-

and came to sit at Odin's side

with godlike majesty.

The flagons raised in unison

as Odin's voice rang out;

A million voices echoing

one resounding shout.

I hadn't seen them saunter in

with all these gods around,

But listened to their festive mood

as flagons were slammed down.

I joined in the revelry

and drank my fill of wine;

I ate of many wondrous foods

that helped to ease my mind.

Thor and Odin spoke of things

while Loki listened in;

I couldn't understand their words:

they weren't for mortal men.

Tyr, I noticed, seldom spoke

except when spoken to;

He sat in silence, like a stone,

and nibbled at his food.

Sometime in the midnight hour,

I drank one flagon more

and tumbled from my hero's perch

and passed out on the floor.

I woke in piercing darkness,

drenched in sticky sweat;

Once again, I was at home

in my double bed.

I lay in panic for a time,

but not for very long;

The memories came creeping back

like sluggish, drunken song;

It took some time to sort them out -–

Was it real or just a dream?

One image I could not deny

was Odin's one-eyed gleam:

It held within its omni-stare

a hope of things to come,

a resurrection of the gods

of mighty Viking men.

I finally shrugged it all away—

It must have been a dream—

But all that night I lay awake

beneath His one-eyed gleam.

When the morning sun arose

to race across the sky,

a jaunty ray of sunshine chose

to dance on Odin's eye:

The statue seemed to match the gleam

and I could not deny

that it was shining on the patch

above his absent eye!

There is another tidbit

that I have yet to tell:

My visit to Valhalla

ended up in Hel!

I won't describe the things I saw,

the grotesque misery,

but will repeat what Odin said,

spoken just for me:

"This is where the liars go

and those unfit to wear

the pride of Viking sword and shield

and robust Viking beard!

"A promise made had best be kept

until your dying day,

or here is where you will be sent

for endless suffering."

Then he roughly brushed my brow;

I fell down in a daze;

I woke up next inside my room

beneath his one-eyed gaze.

I fully realized what I'd done

and what I must now do:

My worship to Him has begun

and always will be true!

# Bloodlines

An evil moon shines down on me,

hinting of things to come,

concealing horrid memories

of the devil's work that I have done;

Fangs unsheathed of canine teeth

and hair that's lost control;

A madman's lust for human blood,

unfettered by a soul;

I seek to sate my sudden need

with the first I come across;

I sink in deeply with my teeth,

ensuring that no blood is lost;

I rip and tear and rend with claw

while shreds of flesh surrender

to the rabid beast in me

that tastes the fresh blood of her;

Her screaming falls on eager ears;

Her blood goes racing faster;

Until the final scream cuts off—

I've sucked my lifeblood from her;

The blood is sweet as nectar's breath

dancing on my tongue;

It trickles down my swollen throat—

too soon, the meal is done;

I revel in the luxury

of the massive high I feel,

but only for a moment's breath

that makes it seem surreal;

I flee the scene that I have made

and find my way to home,

where I sit and ponder on

the dreadful deed I've done;

With the passing of the rush,

the fix's potency,

I feel deflated, all at once,

and ease off into sleep;

I wake with blood dried on my chin,

no wound from which it flowed;

A rancid taste is in my mouth

that makes me gag and choke;

I cleanse myself as best I can,

discard my tattered skin;

I stare into the empty glass

at what I've always been;

I wonder if I'll ever die—

Will peace for me be found?

The tears go slipping from my eyes

and fall without a sound;

Who will come to slit my throat?

Or plunge into my heart

a weapon made with finest skill

from simple, silver start?

Until that day, I sit and pray

with eerie dreams of death

and steal the sickened souls of life

that cling to barest breath;

I let their tainted blood to flow

to slake my endless thirst,

for finding where my next hit is

is always what comes first....

# Best Laid Plans

The bottles all were empty,

the fluid had been spilled;

The mice were licking up the drops

around the broken still;

My eyesight had gone blurry,

and I could barely see;

The mice were growing way too fast,

way too fast for me!

I'd studied through the journal

with caution and with care,

Assembled all the alchemy,

but I was unaware—

The title of the journal—

I hadn't thought it true—

But I found out way too late,

as mice about me grew;

The cats were all in trouble—

The mice had grown so fast—

There was no hope that I could see—

Would the serum last?

The mice had more than trebled—

some as large as dogs—

But the biggest ones I ever saw

would rival even hogs!

When the mice had left me;

when I was all alone;

I cleaned up my equipment

and burned that wicked tome.

If you don't believe me,

I will understand,

But if you do, I beg of you:

be careful what you plan!

# sWORDplay

Have you ever heard of Moxy?

Or the words of Lexicon?

What of Medic with Apoxy

and the mighty Paragon?

They are heroes of the ages

spoken of with tragic note.

The greatest of the Sages,

Lord Encyclopedic, wrote:

"At his side was kindly Medic,

healer of the fallen men,

raising armies with his magic

by restoring life and limb;

"Their companion in this battle

was a finely spoken one;

He was often known to prattle,

did this wordsmith, Lexicon;

"Three in number were the fellows

who had sought Lord Paragon

to release him from The Bellows,

dungeon of The Burning Son;

"There they slew the evil dragon

that had captured Paragon

who had gone there on an errand

that was worthy of the man;

"Paragon had sought a treasure

stolen by The Burning Son

and returned with fullest measure

with the gift of truth he'd won;

"In the end, our heroes prospered –

Moxy, Medic, Lexicon –

They had freed our mighty master:

Truth was held in Paragon!"

Such it was and has been quoted

by the sages of our time;

Lord Encyclopedic wrote it –

perfect rhythm, perfect rhyme –

Now it's time my song has ended

for my words are at a close;

Now my duty has been tended

for this circle's bardic prose.

# Payment in Full

The pouch of gold weighs heavily on me;

My thoughts are tangled in an evil spell;

If I do this, I never will be free,

And yet, I slowly creep in for the kill.

The voices sing and empty mugs are filled;

The King has joined in the revelry;

His voice is like a minstrel's steady trill;

The pouch of gold weighs heavily on me.

I listen for a time in misery;

This indecision is a bitter swill;

I pledged to slay His Pompous Majesty;

My thoughts are tangled in an evil spell.

The jester starts to sing out loud and shrill,

in tones that ruffle every tapestry;

I make my choice, no longer feeling ill:

If I do this, I never would be free—

But what is freedom tinged by slavery?

A servant to a lord of evil will?

But, this assassin, I could never be,

and yet, I slowly creep in for the kill.

The knife is honed with mastery and skill;

The King is standing, swaying drunkenly;

I thrust the blade and feel his life-blood spill

and at my side there rests so heavily

the pouch of gold....

# A Ballade for the Peasantry

The trumpet bore a lingered tone

that floated to the valley's core

and settled sadly in the loam,

delivering its painful chore.

The tone had come but once before

to tell the people to prepare

for chaos in the Noble court:

The King had died without an heir.

The King was scarce encased in stone

before there came a dreadful war;

So many craved the empty throne

that carnage ruled from shore to shore

and all the land was fiercely scored

by fires belching in the air,

and then the claimants numbered four.

The King had died without an heir.

The armies fought 'til two, alone,

were strong enough to fight some more,

and when they met, it would be known

which claimant would become the lord

of all the Kingdom and the poor

and all the treasures that were there,

behind the sacred, vaulted door.

The King had died without an heir.

As was the case in days of yore,

too many died who didn't care,

and all because the trumpet roared:

The King had died without an heir!

# Conquest

It started when the King of Urlap died.

The line was split between the burly Prince

Dimitri and his cousin Ungar. Love

of power dominated as each man

attempted to become the one to rule

the kingdom. Enter: the Dragon Lord.

It had been decades since the Dragon Lord

had brought his armies forth. Some said he'd died,

so quiet he had been, but he still ruled

the Dragon Horde, waiting, watching, a prince

of darkest magic at his side. No man

was he, this Dragon Lord: He had no love

for man or elf or dwarf. His only love

was magic: It would make him overlord

of all the lands, but, first, the lands of man

would fall. So when the King of Urlap died,

he left his slumber and attacked. The Prince

was well-prepared for battle, claimed his rule,

and stood his ground. His cousin claimed to rule

as well but went to Urlap Keep. His love

of life was strong; he sent for aid. The Prince

of Elves, Ne'ween, despised the Dragon Lord

and came at once when told he hadn't died.

The battle for the world was fought by man

and elf and dragon in the lands of man.

The dwarves sat out; they had no need to rule

the upperworld. So many thousands died;

their flesh and bones became a swamp with love-

less thickets, bloody pools. The Dragon Lord

was met in battle by the Elvish Prince:

They fought with magic, sword, and bow. The Prince

was struck a mortal blow and fell. A man—

his name is lost—then struck the Dragon Lord

a lucky, deadly thrust to end his evil rule.

The dragons fled. Dimitri held no love

for Ungar, but was glad he hadn't died.

The Dragon Lord was slain. The Elvish Prince

had died. The balance was renewed, and man

returned to rule a world in need of love.

# Bride Price

Embellished by an ornate seal,

The missive came by messenger;

It held her perfume's strong appeal

but not the promise of dowry

that I had hoped I would procure

through clever words and gentle touch;

I read the missive to be sure

the price of love was not too much.

If I accept their modest deal

to wed the Lady I adore

for such a trifling of weal,

I would admit my hearth is poor;

Although my love for her is pure—

This nonsense! Oh! It is as such

that I have grown a bit unsure:

Is the price of love too much?

This is an effortful ordeal

to court the Lady and implore

with earnestness and love and zeal

when I am far more insecure;

This marriage that I would secure;

This woman that I yearn to clutch;

I've sought to find a simple cure—

The price of love may be too much.

In answer to her missive's lure,

I shall accept the simple hutch

and wed the lovely Guinevere:

The price of love _is_ _not_ too much.

# The Maiden

The lovely maiden knelt upon the floor;

Her dress of white was thrown about her sides;

The tears and fears she knew had come before

To many other warriors' would-be brides.

The battle would be waged upon a hill;

His army would be fighting for His cause;

She prayed and prayed that He would not be killed;

For if He was, her life would soon be lost.

For three long days she waited for the word;

When dust-clouds could be seen beyond the moor,

she hurried down the steps into the yard

where she had stood so many times before.

But when the army's flag was drawing near,

She saw her lord in front, upon a bier....

# Old Harridan's Ballade

The tone was deaf to Eros' call,

but Ares heard its biting tongue;

He sent a warrior to the ball

to slay the beastly Harridan,

who tried to thwart her lover Grun

from wedding Hobart's daughter Mae.

The havoc wreaked was havoc hung

upon the feast of Judgment Day.

The Warrior met the castle wall

and fought the castle guardian;

His sword was sharp, his stance was tall,

and all about were pieces flung.

(A piece or two had tightly clung!)

With sword agleam from battle's fray,

the Warrior entered on the fun

upon the feast of Judgment Day.

The Warrior, dressed in blood and gall,

approached the Lordling and his son,

then passed them by to stroll the hall

while all about, the bards still sung

the might of Grun, the Lord of Dunn,

who sat upon his throne, a-sway,

and reveled in his glory, stunned,

upon the feast of Judgment Day.

His sword was swift to Justice-done;

The Warrior took his prize away;

The head of Harridan was strung

upon the feast of Judgment Day.

# the crumbling statue

The ruins of the village is in tears,

and none but I can hear her weary cries;

Her forlorn whimpers cradled by the years

have mingled with my heavy-laden sighs.

Our solemn wailing settles like the night

and drapes the valley with a tender dirge;

We pine for those who faced the tragic blight

that all their efforts could not seem to purge.

The bones of all the dead are buried deep

in dust of ages lost to tempered steel;

The ghosts of peasants march like milling sheep

on crumpled stone. The village streets are still.

The ruins cry, but do not cry alone;

I am her humble seneschal of stone.

# Burly Hank and Me

[1]

There is no brawling in the Ceptic Tank

between the sewer rats that dwell in there;

The owner of the pub is Burly Hank,

whose muscles bulge too much to be ignored.

It's said he crushed the skull of Iron Jake

for swearing oaths on Burly Hank's dead mum,

and when he caught a thief who tried to take

his money from the till, Hank ate his thumb.

I saw him fight a dozen men at once—

he didn't even break out in a sweat—

I knew that I would never stand a chance

of winning any money from my bet.

And yet, I stood my ground and, eye-to-eye,

I said to Burly Hank, "Today, you're mine."

[2]

Now, Burly Hank is not a man to laugh,

so when I spoke those words, his eyes went blank

until a dry and rancid epithet

escaped between the lips of Burly Hank.

At first, I didn't understand the sound,

despite the intent creeping in his eyes,

and then I found myself upon the ground

in time to dodge his massive, bulky thigh.

His gleeful chuckles sang out loud and clear

as clapping from the patrons joined in;

The chorus of his stomping drawing near

was like a dirge in twilight for a friend.

I clenched my teeth and flexed my brawny fist

and wondered how I would get out of this.

[3]

I fought with all I had and then some more,

but all that I achieved was just a groan;

But as we battled on, this thing I swore:

If Burly Hank went down, I'd run for home!

I dodged until my face was turning red,

and swung until my arms were falling off,

then, just as I believed I'd soon be dead,

the mighty Burly Hank told me to stop.

Now, Burly Hank has honor for his soul

and honesty is marrow in his bones,

so I backed off and waited, dutiful,

as he sat down with muffled little moans.

He stared me in the eye with new respect:

"A draw?" he asked; I nodded – _what the heck?_

[4]

What happened next I could not understand:

The crowd had hushed to whispers dancing 'round;

Then came a cry of "Burly Hank's a sham!"

but it was quickly silenced by the crowd.

I drew a breath and glared with sternest eye;

My gravel voice broke through the Ceptic Tank;

"I challenge any man who will deny

the strength and skill of mighty Burly Hank

to show his face and say it to the man!"

The silence settled like a passing breeze.

and then the nervous crowd pushed out a man

who stumbled forth and fell down to his knees.

While Burly Hank just stared in pure contempt,

the foolish little man fell down and wept.

[5]

The sight was sickening for all to see,

but Burly Hank just nudged him with his toe,

and then he turned and winked his eye at me

to tell the little man that he could go.

He scampered off with groveling and bows—

appreciation showed with every move—

I know he'd learned to close his squeaky mouth,

but never will he learn to speak the truth.

So, Burly Hank and me, we shook our hands

and had our fill of wine and salty food;

We toasted through the night like new-found friends,

and in the morning didn't feel so good.

That's when I went to claim my wager won –

I'd bet that I would last until the dawn.

# Tomb Raider

The darkness has covered my tracks – and my plan;

The Tomb of the Pharaoh is waiting for me;

I hasten to lever the stone from the door

and enter with lantern from which I will see.

The pitfalls and dangers I easily meet;

Too soon, I stand in the presence of God;

I push on the coffin to open the lid

and feel as though something is waiting inside.

I lift up the lantern the better to see;

A breeze comes from nowhere to blow out the flame;

The darkness is eerie, like death on the wing,

and I am regretting the reason I came.

The silence of ages still clings to the walls;

The scent of time passing still hangs in the air;

My moment of triumph has fallen down low,

and I whimper softly, "I'm sorry I'm here."

My voice sends a shiver down hallway and spine,

Returning like clockwork on echoing time;

A teardrop and prayer I solemnly spend;

A voice in darkness responds: "You are mine."

# Abernathy's Misfortune

I trudged through muck that crept up to my knees

and kept my eyes upon the starry night;

I felt a presence in the chilly breeze

and knew that something out there was in flight;

The screeching came from somewhere much too close;

Although I tried, I could not seem to run,

and then the odor tickled in my nose:

The haunting witch's hour had begun!

The sucking of the clinging, muddy ground

was sending echoes through the eerie wood;

It seemed to shout to everything around:

"An idiot has come to be our food!"

A chuckle seemed to settle on my skin

before I felt its talons sinking in....

# Familiar Loss

When Abernathy met his strange demise,

I felt it as I would have felt my own:

The piercing talons gouging out his eyes

elicited much more than just a groan;

His psychic screams were loud and full of pain;

They rattled through my mind like broken glass;

I felt the creature striking out again

and went with him into the gray morass;

His screams turned into whispers on the wind

and faded slowly to a silent pall.

I felt his death and knew I'd lost a friend,

the closest, dearest friend among them all.

I crushed the tears that threatened to explode

and turned my full attention to the road.

# The Summons*

Darkness, black with eerie fringe,

red and orange beneath me singe,

fiery hells surround the hinge,

and yet the door dost hold.

Arms akimbo, hands aflame,

no one speaks his hell-bent name

though they think it, just the same,

and yet the door dost hold.

Shadows flecked with bloody grime,

suspended thoughts in streams of time

anchored in a thing sublime,

and yet the door dost hold.

Demon with your sweetened smile,

hands held open, full of guile,

words unspoken still defile,

and yet the door dost hold.

Cloudbursts, sudden lightning strikes,

Rumble-thunder no one likes,

Flaming rains flood through the dikes

to crash against the door.

All the runes the spell demands

set within the pentagram

with finest skill and firmest hand -–

I cast the door aside.

Wisps of ash betrothed to fire,

Ghosts float past in gay attire,

Chaos reigns in firm desire

around the open door.

Laughter, cruel from sickly mind –-

How could I have been so blind?

A gentle shove comes from behind:

I meet the other side.

I fall as one within a dream

and turn to see his eyes agleam;

His laughter mingles with my scream:

He slowly shuts the door.

Moistened tongues that gently dab,

hands upon my shoulders grab,

cold talons, claws that deeply stab—

I look in hungry eyes....

*"The Summons" may have been published by _Luna Ventures_ in 1996 or 1997; however, after sending a query about its status without receiving any response, I withdrew the submission.

# And the Dead Shall Inherit the Earth

A potion sipped by moistened tongue;

A mind whose thoughts are freely spun;

A hand that's firm but gently held;

And whispered words of tortured spell;

The magic flows like well-made web;

The content sings of pain and dread;

The corpses flung from death betrayed

have stirred, are rising from their graves;

The silence gasps as movement creeps,

and once again are they who sleep

whose hands decayed and eyes of dust

upward through dirt are thrust;

The earth is bleeding tangled dead

with drops of blood that quickly spread

across the cemetery lawn

like frozen thoughts unbidden drawn;

A voice of driest crinkled leaf

has summoned them, said, "Come to me."

And come they do with heavy stride

to stand as one, side by side,

an army dead for years untold,

their rusted swords held high and bold;

all gathered round their master and—

He cast his incantation wrong!

The dead whose voices seldom sing

Enclose him in a corporal ring;

His cries of anger, fear, and dread

appease the hunger of these dead.

When bony grips and toothy grin

have finished with their master's skin,

they crunch on bone from leg and arm

and crush the faulty magic charm

whose flaws betrayed the wizard's dream,

choking off his final scream.

The moral here? A simple one:

Leave a sleeping corpse alone!

# Spell-Bound

A thaumaturgic circle made of chalk

derived from powdered bones of murdered men;

The symbols and the runes will never talk,

but will speak volumes to the demon-kin;

So simple are the lines and markings wrought,

and yet they will contain the deadly beast:

An inch inside, a world so danger fraught;

An inch outside, a world in seeming peace.

The demon-kin moves slowly in its cage

and surveys its integrity for holes,

and, finding one, it screams in gleeful rage

and steps with certainty and firm control.

He reaches for the wizard's tiny neck

and stretches it until it starts to crack....

# All Hallows Eve

October rains have brought a sudden chill

that seeps into the marrow of my bone;

I stand like pine upon a broken hill

and find that I no longer stand alone;

Behind me in the mist, there is a form

escaping from the shadows of a cave;

Unleashed with vigor from the building storm,

it creeps in silence to a waiting grave;

I watch it folding back the sodden earth

to disappear inside a darkened stair

and feel my spirit gently giving birth

to horror that is well beyond compare—

until a claw comes reaching out for me,

and I am petrified and cannot flee....

# Blueblood's Ghost

Blueblood's ghost was an ornery sort,

haunting the alleys of Salem's port,

chasing the men with a merry laugh,

and clacking the cobbles with his phantom staff.

For the women, he used a different ploy,

serenading them with a lover's joy,

his voice was full and strong with sweet

for any poor lady he happened to meet.

The boats, it is said, could hear him bewail

for miles about in midwinter's gale;

Shudders would spin down the sailors' spines:

"Blueblood's Ghost," muttered time after time.

But the truth of the matter—if truth be told—

there were no ghosts left to behold,

For a figment was he from the distant past,

a fragment of legend with mythical cast.

But tell this not to the fearful men

who swear they hear him, time and again,

Nor to the ladies, blush though they do,

who whisper in secret of their lover's coo,

For they will run you out of town

or find a stake and burn you down—

So nod your head and agree with them,

the odd little villagers from sleepy Salem.

# A Moral Dilemma

If I can kill and slake my thirst for blood

and leave the siphoned bodies where they fall,

would that turn me into an undead stud

instead of just a creepy guy from hell?

Vampiric lusts have always come and gone

(it is the nature of my quaint disease),

but I have managed to forestall it some

by drinking blood from captive chimpanzees.

The nutrients I get aren't quite enough

(there's something missing that I need to have),

but I can compensate with human blood

while working on the mortuary staff.

This does negate my blood's anemia:

I haven't had to kill to get my blood.

# Sage Advice on Monsters

[1]

A monster has a wicked attitude

because its hunger never seems to end;

Engrossed completely in its search for food,

he has no time at all for making friends;

I tell you this so you might comprehend

the plight of wicked monsters on the prowl,

and maybe if you try to understand,

you won't be found inside their cooking bowl.

So, if you see a wicked monster's eyes

looking hungrily into your own,

just say, "Hello," and you might be surprised:

you could enjoy a dinner in his home.

But then, again, I could be quite in err;

It could just be a hungry monster there.

[2]

Now, dragons are another thing, indeed.

I met one, once, when I was very young.

You don't go near their shiny claws or teeth

unless you want to be a dinner bun.

Their arrogance is legendary stuff;

Their ego is the only thing there is

that can surpass their appetite for blood.

It is a blessing that so few exist.

They do not yearn for friendly company

(their only wish is for a tasty meal),

and so, the wisest course for us must be

to flee from dragons flying in to kill.

Unless, of course, your courage is extreme,

surpassing every bit of reasoning.

[3]

I knew a man of courage named B'Rul,

who wished to slay a dragon for his love;

If you ask me, I think he was a fool:

There is no living woman worth that much.

He spoke to many sages in the land

in hopes that they might tell him where to go,

until he came across a willing man

who knew of where a dragon made its home.

The gold was given freely in advance;

B'Rul was bound to go and not return,

which made it quite unwise to take a chance

of not receiving payment that was earned.

It was a sound decision that I made:

I never saw B'Rul alive again.

# B'Rul

I smell the scorching scent of dragon's breath

and hear the grinding of its gnashing teeth;

The salty spray of blood means certain death

for all within its grasp—including me!

The thunder of its roar is like a God's;

The shaking of the ground is frightening;

A warrior has a chance, so sing the bards,

and so the legends claim, eternally.

But here I stand, a foolish idiot

with tiny sword of rusted, dulling steel,

a revelation churning in my gut:

I know I do not stand a chance in hell!

I close my eyes and swing with all my might

and pray that I might make it through the night....

# Flying High

The dragon flew on winds adrift

to smell the carnage down below

that smoke and chaos chose to lift

above the trampled, bloody snow;

She felt her hunger grow and grow

and closed her eyes in utter bliss

and followed where the currents go

into the Mountains of the Mist.

Her senses craved to gently sift

the textures of her fallen foe

who seemed, to her, a trifle miffed

beneath the burnished, searing glow

that she had chosen to bestow;

In truth, she found she could resist

the craving that she brought in tow

into the Mountains of the Mist.

And so she flew above the rift

and passed the village Broken Bow

that read the portent as a gift

(a dragon's rare, as we all know)

when she went by and didn't throw

a single, warm, emblazoned kiss

and then they watched the warm wind blow

into the Mountains of the Mist.

Still held enraptured by the show,

forgetting where the mountain was,

the dragon crashed with force untold

into the Mountains of the Mist.

# The Serpent's Tongue

They came with vengeance late one dreamy night

and brought afflictions to the village folk;

The giant serpents with their poisoned bite

were singing riddles and sadistic jokes.

Their poisoned fangs were frightful things to see

attached to human heads with snake-like tails;

More frightful still, their songs of mockery

and haunted laughter like a banshee wail.

They slithered through the streets and struck with ease;

They brought with them a slow and painful death;

And not unlike a fetid, wet disease,

they infiltrated deeper with each breath.

They never once attacked us with their teeth:

They killed us with their twisted gaiety!

# To the Gods, I Sing

Winter blows her blustery wind,

and the cold hard snow comes blown' in,

but I'm warm, cozy and warm,

huddled by a fire, amid the storm.

My mind fills with thoughts of flame;

My soul is strong and free of shame;

My heart is cloaked in a web of fire;

My fingers caress the mystical lyre—

A tune I play, to warm the blood!

The song erupts in torrid flood!

The words and sounds of a long-lost tune,

soft ballads and lyrics so long unsung.

An epic of burning desires that be

in glorious Celtic history,

with bards and druids and wizards afoot,

gold and silver and other such loot—

A treasure trove of words I sing;

For the ears of one and all, I sing!

O' glorious past that beckons me

from the frozen wastes of my misery;

Come, O Lords! Come! Come!

Take a weary soul to home!

And leave an earthen shell behind:

A feast for the hungry wolves of time.

To the Gods, I sing!

# Magic Wood

When I went strolling by a hidden glen,

I paused to watch a lively little show

that's seldom witnessed by us modern men:

An elf was dancing lightly on the snow.

The dance was one of intricate design

with weaving patterns shifting to and fro;

I felt a rhythmic answer in my mind

to fill a question that I hadn't known.

The urge to dance came overwhelmingly;

My heart was beating with its lively song;

I could not stop the twitching of my feet

because the elfin magic was too strong—

And then the elf was gone, and there I stood,

perplexed and all alone amid the wood.

# About the Author

Robert P. Hansen teaches philosophy at a community college and writes fiction and poetry in his spare time. His work has appeared in various small press publications since 1994.

