Canto Four ~ It is Crone’s Day and Gundhag’s dead carts arrive at the bastions of Garland Legion on the southeast wall of the capital city of Laurá Luné.
She carries with her the infant boy wrapped in rags. The wounded men upon the carts are in greater number than is her custom in bringing to the details of healers that now pour forth from the walls of Garland Command, the largest and chief of legions in the empire. It would appear she makes a point.
Abandoning her cart, she orders a serviceman to bring General Alcroft. Knowing he will be refused, she begins to make her way inside to meet with him acknowledging the General’s fretful eye above in the Tower Watch.
The wounded man the young, graceful boy had been aroused by is attended to by a Nurse’s Wife. They are the bulk of the medico’s work force and distinguished by their uncommonly clean, white gloves.
As the man is carried past the boy, the nurse is swiftly, efficiently murdered. The man is taken; the guard is handed off as one of the injured and the boy leaves with his prize.
General Alcroft orders that the witch be stopped before she reaches him. Upon turning from the window however, he suddenly finds himself alone with her. His guardsmen lie incapacitated on the steps outside as he attempts to deal with the stench and fear of her. Although she jokes with him in her way, the witch’s treatment is anything but cordial. The animosity she demonstrates is tangible. His apprehension is more so.
The combat losses of two days past are not, in her perspective, acceptable and she makes clear her intentions to have it changed. Her function within the hierarchy of the city’s command structure is not entirely apparent, yet as always she insists on having her way. In this case, that Colonel Cridge be given the necessary men and supplies needed to pursue the conflict. It is far less an order than an undisguised threat.
However, after she has left him, his very private thoughts allude to a course long followed that no longer can be altered. The General has made a coward’s pact with Death. Though in fear of the witch, he yet will not abandon his plans. He trusts himself implicitly and has always understood his nature. General Rory Alcroft is a True Coward. This knowledge and his ability to use it to advantage make him a very dangerous man indeed.

Canto Four

‘Tis now Crone’s day, six morns ‘til Harsh.
Cold rains boil mists throughout the marsh.
On city streets the hungry seek,
so cold and quiet, hidden, meek,
scarce food and shelter for their young. 5
On dawn days hence all hopes are hung.

Encamped upon the higher hills,
ensconced between mud flooding rills,
the walls of Garland Legion stand
with waters run off bastions grand 10
that in the drear and gusting pour
seem somewhat less grand than before.

Though twenty miles to south, the Host
stands pitched in battle round its post,
its leaders wait in comfort fit 15
for those in old alliance knit
to keep thru bonds, held taut by grace,
positions safe and power’s place.

As some crows fly direct in rain
the distance there and back again, 20
from soft command to dying men,
is easily within their ken.

However, down upon the ground,
in hills the rain and wind can pound,
one’s travel taken at the tramp 25
is deeply trenched and gravely damp.

Yet if perchance by cart one goes
then time allotted grows and grows.
Commensurate with what one hauls
the journey made is slow and crawls. 30

So when Gundhag and her bare boy
are seen at last, ‘tis little joy
expected to be heard from her.
Though always seeming on some burr,
such often times her strident mood 35
is dangerous. It does no good
to argue then should snapping bark
seem worse than bite. Not on a lark
her snarl to test. Each can be cruel.
To push her hardly seems the fool. 40

As surgeons and their aides~de~camp
see coming up the hillside ramp
the carts and wagons queued behind,
the vast majority soon find
another place they’ve right to be. 45
Unless of course they’re meant to see
to soured witch and proffer aid.
For such the sum’s niggard that’s paid.

Reports of conflict far from field
that small opposing force did yield 50
and casualties within a range
acceptable are not so strange.

Nor such the witch’s wagon’s fill
of wounded up the steep, long hill.
But guardsmen back upon the road 55
reported each one with full load.
The hag as yet had not relieved
the marginal (who no one grieved)
of chance for life. Such time is waste
spent saving those whom Death could taste. 60

Small columns of the guard fan out
as healers carry, fetch and shout.
As first of them arrive at carts
Gundhag slides from her horse and starts
her trek to fort with child in arms, 65
wrapped tight in rags to shield from harms.

“Alcroft!” She barks at first she sees.
“Bring his to me afore he flees!”
The Healing Guard begins to speak,
but she snarls first. “Is minded weak? 70
You fool! You tempt me. On now. Go!”
He turns and runs against the flow.

The graceful boy who serves the hag
stares after them while wrapping rag
he stole from wounded man behind. 75
His slender eyes, ‘til hard to find,
squint sharper still as though the rain
he’d squeeze from sight to fall again.

A healer comes with swaddled hands.
Steams rise from him, his hair in strands. 80
The nurse lifts injured man to back
and taking care to balance stack,
starts measured strides to hospice tent.
On past the boy his throat is rent.

The fingernails he keeps are long 85
and swiftly back where they belong.

Now, as the guard chokes out his life,
the soaked, white gloves of nurse’s wife
are stripped from him. He’s tossed along
the slowly moving train of strong, 90
quick arms who never questions ask
while serving their appointed task.

The boy’s tight arms raise up the man
who not before, but now he can
keep tenderly all to himself. 95
He smiles. He’s such a wicked elf.

~ ~ ~

Within the bastion high above
the field where men still push and shove
to bring such wounded that they own
(those in their hands whom they have sewn) 100
to front of service line that slows,
a man stares down. His anger grows.

The tiny figure weaving thru
the Healing Captains and their crew
moves ever swifter than he thinks 105
its tiny legs could~ then it winks.
She glares at him, eyes clear and pale.
White God’s the bitch makes him feel frail.

The smile she cuts him brightly shines
from twisting teeth that gold refines 110
then disappears beneath the walls
of forward bastion to its halls.

An aide steps forth from out the dark.
He sharply stops upon his mark,
salutes and so begins to speak, 115
when with raised hand and tight held squeak
that’s imperceptible in voice,
the aide’s relieved of any choice.

“Good Captain, send the nurse back down.
Remind him who here wears the crown. 120
The witch must wait on first floor court.
As I arrive have brought my port.
And Captain? Please, one goblet’s fine.”

With arm on chest’s diagonal line
the aide leaves with abundant gloss. 125
Salute to guard’s a subdued toss.

The man at long, thin window sighs
allowing moments with closed eyes.
Then gathering his war cloak snug
turns leather boots on molding rug 130
to find himself alone in room
with witch that reeks of rotting tomb.

The dead stench from her makes him reel.
He grips himself beneath his steel.
The fearful rage that raises bile 135
in moments will his mouth defile.

This foul effect she has on most,
if not quite all, the men at post.
She combs her hair with childless hand
addressing him a bit too grand. 140

“Good morrow gloried Lord of Some.
I comes to you first moment come.
Hag ask you guardboys not impede.
We make this quick. I’s babe to feed.”

Her hair rebounds due grease and weight 145
of remnants worn to decorate.
He stirs. Then shakes, though hard he tries
to hide from her what’s in his eyes.

“Just what in hell gives you the right?
You cross me, you’ll be hung tonight. 150
My Guardsmen best be dead at post.”
His color drains. He seems a ghost.

The short, grey witch waves thru the air
her broken stick with comic flair.

“To Hell and back I sent anon! 155
Poo pah, I joke. They is not gone.”

She laughs and laughing chokes on cud,
then spits a wad as black as mud.
His shoulder heaves against the door
prepared to find the locks and more 160
to hold it tight and keep him trapped.
It swings away. The men lay sapped
of will to stand or consciousness.
In time his will he must address.

At window looking down she turns. 165
“O Gen’ril, hag see fever burns.
I feel from here though window cold.
You lis’ten slow. I no be bold.”
His regal bearing dec’rative,
the General turns around to give 170
attention full to her as though
naught here was odd. All things just so.
Her grin teased wide can’t help deform
her face as bugs swirl round in swarm.

Small task, she thinks. Not for some time 175
has he made her work magic’s rhyme.
Still, cruel she is and such it was
that cruelty can as cruelty does.

Such image of her plays a part
more large than merely her cruel heart. 180

“O, mighty Alcroft look wisely
upons the lives I brings and see
that smallish there they numbers are
than those I leave way gones afar.”

He nods his head with dignity 185
in hopes (or prayer) the game will be
played ever as ‘twas played before.
He need now only seem the bore.

But as she steps from shadows back,
in her demeanor he sees lack 190
of ugly, impish, spiteful git
and sees instead a growing fit
of cold, hard rage drawn tight and lean.
His bowels speak to him clear and keen.

Contempt as vulcan mass now quakes. 195
A rising heat as fury wakes.
Then softly speaks she, softer than
Alcroft has ever heard a man
speak whispering at Death’s dim door.
A tone subdued he’s heard before. 200

When Death has come for him he’s sold
the lives of others. Hence, he’s old.
With Nightmare, Death leaves lists of curs
the man still owes. Gundhag’s harsh purrs
make Alcroft feel that she is come 205
so Death may now collect full sum.

“Too many lives be lost today.
If Seer claiming this right way,
I saying now~ it be damned wrong.
Be nothing here of Hell so long 210
you need kill many like this more.
If kill like this again, you door?
I lock and hide where no one find.
No matta’ who you kiss behind.

This fight like play act for some kings. 215
Throw men from stage as if they things.
Tall Colonel Cridge, he do this work.
Ah! See you eye! See you ear perk!

He slaughter, slay and kill again.
He pile upon his back you sin. 220
Fool feel this destiny his right.
Be wrong. It curse that trap in night.
His Clovis people, they be few.
They cling to woe. Be nothing new.
But Alcroft send brave men to die 225
then from they fears he hides to fly.
You give command, but take no risk
and toss they lives to wind as whisk.

It stopping now. No preen for king.
You give what Cridge need for this thing 230
and shut you mouth. Take credit none.
May be still live when he be done.”

And now her eyes are wide and bright.
Her pumpkin smile’s reflecting light.

She softly coos to child in arms. 235
The incongruence of her charms
can frighten as will her black arts.
She spits at him and so departs.

He blinks and does not see her leave.

Alcroft is not a man naive. 240
What weakens others strengthens him.
He cultivates an image prim.

With dread above the stair’s dark case
he feels fear crawl about his face.
So cold and rich and always sharp. 245
Thru all his spine pulled taut as harp
strings high and brash tuned near to snap.
The fear will soon come warm to lap.
It’s part of him. He lets it come.
The panic he can drown in rum. 250
Though dare he not ignore her threat
(the danger she can pose he’s met)
all’s come too far for him to veer.

He’s kept companionship with fear
all thru his days. Such is the lot 255
of coward’s lives. Of those who’ve bought
their way from Death and so submit
to that which is for coward’s fit.