My wits toggled from this injured and betrayed woman to the Infidels
The pagan **** on the left flank of the one on the woman advanced
It ended quickly as I brandished my long sword and decapitated him
The man on the right had enough time to grip the hilt of his yataghan
I eviscerated his gut with my short rapier as he looked in astonishment
The man in the core remained; had his way for the last time on earth

The worst of the three had occasion to make ready with his scimitar
This soldier froze at the sight of my face and looked in fear, “Al Thom”
A sobriquet by the Saracens is legend and foe Sir Thomas de Charney
His fear turned to anger as he knew deaths door was at his very feet
Coming at me in rage I brachiated my legs at his shins and felled him
Laid on sward, unable to riposte, confidence winnowed, he still lived

Pulling him up on his ****, I forced his eyes to the girl [nun] a last time
Then I whispered to him in Arabic “Remember her face forever in Hell”
I put the man out of his misery with blade through his throat, ‘farewell’
As I stood up I ordered my sergeant to inquiry on the others and report
My mind was spinning as I turned to her; I advanced with foreboding
Protected all my life, women are what Father told me were so beautiful

Trembling and barely covered I took my surcoat and covered her body
Her head was down but I saw multiple bruises; she had been ravaged
She lifted her face; I froze, but in a muddle was able to ask her name
Looking through me with piercing blue eyes.... “my name is Dagung”
Though sternly contused, her skin looked pale and as soft as pure satin
Her lips were full, beyond nocturnal dreams my ***** became ruttish

Stunned and bemused I recovered, no glozing; could hardly breathe
With thanks my sergeant appeared, gave report; Ludd was now secure
I ordered 30 knights to stay on until the morrow with standard orders
Assistants and physicians remained to afford the townsfolk provisions
One physician tended to Dagung as the hovel’s fire was being damped
The remaining knights were to return to Gaza with me immediately

Haste we must to assemble additional assaults as our enemy has noted
Approaching my horse I heard a high pitched voice of a young lass
I turned, already clothed in a ragamuffin type frock was Dagung:

Dagung:    Please my lord, may I come with you?
Sir Thomas:    Ba-ba-uh, My Lady, I can’t

She was clearly an English girl, could not been more than 15 years old
“I’m sorry my lady” as I mounted my horse, I watched her walk back
Cued, “Men, let’s move it”, with alacrity we made way back to Gaza
About 10 minutes later I heard sounds of hoofs rushing close behind us
It was Dagung on horse catching up to make way with me back to Gaza
My thoughts were- my life was about to change;   I then broke a smile
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~­~~
To be continued
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the north there is a man who screams when the waters sing
For he once came cross the banshee of the seaside spring

And in that failing light saw wrapped her pallid strands
Round the whole of her one and sallow pointed hand

To the trunk-grown sword and verdant surcoat 'tween
A phantom defiler, a hanged man, the crime unseen

She sullen moved to mournful wail, deep of soul
But found no purchase in mortal air to extol

For where once was this sad shadow's throat
A cruel sentence had some former blade wrote

In a sick and seeping horror the man did freeze
As the banshee descended towards the trees

At length the water sprang from earth again
His movement restored, bloods color to skin

The greatest terror he recalled in lonesome woe
Is of the dead woman forced to her silent sorrow

There he stood with sword in hand. Looking out over the fields. He walked among them, the long departed. Checking over armor for family crests. The wealthy nobles had paid good money to guide their spirits first. Of course, he knew this was pointless. Souls go when they please, and return all the same. The issue lies with those who do not understand they are dead, or those who refuse to. A phenomenon common on the fields of battles long passed. But that did not really interest him right now.

He was looking for a Regalian surcoat, a family of some note in the border lands between the two kingdoms of Erasta and Celune, the only one with any weight in the middle-ground game of royal politics as a matter of fact. The youngest son of house Regalia, Hensen, was due home from the ****** Fields days ago. Armed with the best weapons and armor a royal name could buy, and still sent to die all the same for the gain of his father. Not that it mattered, but that wasn’t his place to say.

He searched for some hours, scanning through the corpses until finally he broke concentration with a sigh and a smile.
“Ah, there you are!” quickly he moved the bodies of the dead around him in order to make some space, carefully inspecting each one for wounds as he did so.

He pulled out an ornate flask and a small hooded lantern with a gently burning candle from his bag. “Well Hensen, today’s your lucky day!” He turned to face the others around him, “Buuuuut..you!” he said, pointing a finger at one of the solders. “You’re quite a stiff looking fellow, but remarkably well preserved considering. You’ll do nicely.” With that, he began pouring out the contents of the flask in a circle around him. Taking special care not to splash Hensen as he did so. Once 3 full circles leading to and from Hensen had been made, he placed his lantern on the body he had noted.

Once he was sure those preparations were done correctly, he pulled a flute from his pack and began to play. The somber, eerie notes of the Taker’s song rang out soundly through the fields. And in a few moments time, seemed to be joined by voices unknown, keeping the tune. To the untrained ear, this chorus would appear to have no origin, but he knew better. And as the voices grew louder and louder with the song now rapid and thunderous in nature, he let the instrument loose from his lips and held his sword at the ready. Suddenly there, a spirit came, quick as a flash and gone again. And a moment later, a burning sensation. It made the first pass. Luckily, not fatal.

It came again a second time. Though now that he was expecting the attack, not fast enough. In an instant he turned and instinctively his blade had found a fatal resting place. With a horrified look, the spirit let out the word, “Taker…” and was gone in a blink. The body of the soldier it had once belonged to now drained entirely of what little color remained as he turned to face Hensen. “Right on que.” He said as the spirit of Hensen began to flutter in and out next to the body of the soldier. For a few minutes the voices continued to sing until eventually the song came to a quiet close. And with a start, The eyes of the soldier opened.

“Welcome back Sir Hensen of Regalia. We missed you.”

Into an inescapable
invisible net watery entrapment wove
ransacking access to treasure trove
compromising, jack-knifing,
and zapping diversity,
equity and integrity
grooming yours truly
into unbridled total lit Aryan  
of minimum headroom,
a webbed wide whitened world
spun me nippy nap noopy
until woozy with dizzy spells
pitched me body sky-high
analogous to being tossed
on par with a Mattie Mattel doll
or like a tempest in a teapot
indiscriminately flailing me courtesy
the tempestuous seas by jove
from wuthering heights hove
and immediately found me plummeting
slamming me mercilessly likened
to a crash test dummy into troughs
upon saturating me despite
wearing layers of clothing and armor,
including an arming doublet or gambeson
as an under-layer,
a mail hauberk or full plate armor,
and a cloth surcoat over the mail
to display mine coat of arms,
and protect the metal from the sun,
yet escutcheon coat of arms
bore the brunt of whiplashing
withstood the ceaseless bashing
now cue In Greek mythology,
Typhon (or Typhoeus)
the monstrous giant,
and the personification of violent storms
nonstop breaking fast
devastating onslaught of pounding
analogous to frenzied
bay city roller coaster fiend
uber towering, hash-tagging,
and similar to battering ram
videlicet pitting humungous
wall of water drove,
where tsunami swept me from above
spitting mine lovely bones
upon a deserted island.

To remedy a fate worse than death,
or orange hair oaf at date
of original date
crafting manuscript then becoming
forty seventh president,
or contracting one
of several viral diseases named pox
permeate heavy shut tight door
with numerous deadbolts
and sophisticated locks
and impossible mission to out fox
analogous to roach infestation,
who favor nesting within custom made
Roper men's shoes brand name Docks.

Upon prima facie first blush
me mind's eye all atwitter,
sans long forgotten
"FAKE" ****** exploits
set mum (chrysos anthem) all aglitter,
boot like short order cook I hapt tubby
quickly realized trumpeting collusion,
a near fatal collision course
with Das scribe's antimatter
caw zing friggin insomnia
finding ma noggin scrambled
likesome lithesome cockamamie critter
whipped into frenzy
like battered butter
holy grits, alm manned
in fight of ma life
cause I haint acquitter
baa (jaw edge), ah woe – cup
early this morning feeling
hedged hog extremely bushed 'n bitter,
this raging red bull inside me mind,
now body wheeling wickety wack,
lichen to moss elf gut seasonal litter
bitta asthma - insides
got balled into wah racket
like quietly rioting unfetter
herd plain tennis (see) hens,
gone south tub bespatter
ear hilly jawboning jabberwocky
reducing gray matter,
and all flesh sundered
into meaty platter
to pulverized, irradiated,
cremated... faux fluffernutter batter
analogous tummy Aunt
Jemima's famous flapjacks,
she fantastically fashioned better
than Betty Crocker
tossing spatulated glommed
**** suitable as bonesetter
high as the Taj Mahal,
while she merrily jabbered,
her native patois singsong blatter
all this inaudible clatter
muffled 10,000 maniacs mad as a hatter
madly clangorous dinner cowbells
aroused bacchanalian sybaritic skitter
ring jitterbugging fantasies
of barenaked ladies doth splutter
as bedraggled, frazzled, grizzled...poetry
like cocky rooster that did stutter!