by Democritus
Black-headed woman walks this way,
16 weary soldiers march their last day,
Night descends with a frightening pace,
Turns their life into a macabre race.
Echoes scream with bloodthirsty cries,
Sounds of death, in hollow places lie,
14 men charge with relentless endurance,
Clad in rusted mail, the Kingdom’s insurance.
On ebon steeds the force moves on,
Their task must end ‘ere break of dawn,
11 blood brothers hold a life in their hands,
The future king lays sick in far away lands.
Cruelly attacked in volleys and waves,
With an antidote held that they must save,
The evil horde plunges swords deep,
Yet 9 heroes approach the Keep.
Before them, a party of foes awaits,
To halt them before they reach the gate,
Metal tastes flesh in frenzied delight,
Guards open the doors for 2 brave knights.
Up the steps they wearily climb,
Sickly Prince hears death’s chime,
Duke’s dagger flashes in vile betrayal,
The lone troop shoves a knife through his scale.
Glass vile recovered from the corpse of his friend,
All his brothers lost, their land they did defend,
He offers the elixir to the boy’s trembling mouth,
Yet the fire it was to quench had already gone out.
He stares at the boy, healthy, though weak,
The whiteness of eye, the blush in his cheek,
The sorrow in his soul builds to rage,
Battle cry loosed, scimitar uncaged.
15 ghost forms line the walls of the room,
Lives lost for naught, they stare in the gloom,
The lone blade swings in a sickening arc,
The Prince’s head falls to the floor in the dark.
15 dead souls call for their brother’s return,
The lone, living soldier feels his ears burn,
He climbs the parapet, looks out at the mountain,
Now the 16th poor soldier lies dead in the fountain.