Of Hanging Moss and Valor

Beneath moist hanging moss,

Galmar lay down his blade,

Heaved a sigh, thrice,

And cast a look outside.

 

 

Apparitions, ghosts of slain men,

Chatter of men slaughtered

In moments of reckoning,

Fed by shrouded avarice.

 

 

Years aplenty lay ‘fore him,

Yet death smiled at him,

As had he smirked at those

Lost in want of cold mead.

 

 

Clap of swords outside,

Rasps of hunters rancour,

Footsteps of hunters close,

Eager blades, hungry blades.

 

 

Tyranny lost in lute blues,

Overcome by virgin mirth,

Of hips in swirling halls,

Of dulcet tones by Bach.

 

 

Should he turn himself in

To justice laden Judas?

Murder, a deceit, a crime,

Murder, a clown’s pantomime.

 

 

Should he redeem his sins

Along the plains of Tiber

Walking a deserted crow path

To eternity; hope for salvation?

 

 

Nay, said Galmar to his self,

A mercenary fights till his last,

Another heave of breath,

Blade unleashed, a battle cry.

 

 

Hunters blades did turn

To the final cry of a hero,

Turned in glee of murder,

Murderer to feel the joy

 

 

Of a hundred blade in his heart,

Pain surging through each vein,

Two men he struck upon,

Ninety eight pierced his flesh.

 

 

Beneath the dark sky he lay,

Sweet soil and rain,

Joy swept unto him,

Of a warrior brave.

 

His last thoughts –

 

“Spider fall and fail,

Spiders rise and web,

Till he makes merry

And is thwarted by the Fair.”