A Story

["Ruth A. Cardiff" <71175.1357@compuserve.com>]

Good Gentles,
	I beg a few moments of your time. Having just returned from a 
Mundane business trip to San Antonio, I was reminded of a story. And so  I 
would like to share with you one of my favorite tales. As my memory is not 
perfect, and my copies of the original book keep failing to find their way 
home, any mistakes in the telling are mine, and not the authors. And so I 
would like to give you, as far as my memory allows, a heroic tale of heros 
and battles as told in the book SILVERLOCK by John Myers Myers,

	I give you
		The Ballad of Bowie, Gizzards Bane


	Harsh that hearing for Houston the Raven
	fools had enfeebled the fortress at Bexer
	leaving it lacking and looting the while
	hords were sweeping swift on his land, hellbent to crush him

	The cunning old prince did not though dispair at dangers onrushing.
	Hardy to peril, he held it, perused it. Reading each rune of it, 
reaching the facts
	He thumbed through his thanes and thought of the one 
	whose guts and gray matter were grafted most neatly.
	'Riders' he rasped, 'to race after Bowie'.
	'
	'Bowie' he barked, when that bearcat of heroes bowed to his loved 
prince,
	'Bexer must be ours, or else none shall have it! High tail it, burn 
leather,
	Hold me that fortress or fire it and raze it. Do what you can, or 
else do what
	you must.'

	Fame has its fosterlings, free of the limits boxing in others,
	And Bowie was one of them.
	Who has not heard of the holmgang at Natchez. Fifty
	were worriers and he faught the best, wielding a longknife
	A nonesuch of daggers, that weapon had chewed the entrails
	of dozens. In divers pitched battles this thane had been leader.
	Winning such treasure that trolls it is said, closed mountains for
	Fear he'd frisk them of treasure.
	
	Riding now westward, he rode to the fortress,
	Summoned the garrison, gave them his orders.
	'Houston the Raven is raising a host. Time's what he asks
	While he tempers an army. Never give up this gate to our land.
	Hold fast the fort, though death comes against us.'

	The flood of the foeman flowed up to Bexer
	Beat on the damn braced there to contain them.
	But Wierd has no fosterlings, favors no client.
	Bowie the warwise winner of battles, laid out by fever,
	lost his first bout, melting away.
	Yet the might of his spirit kept a tight grasp
	on the task he'd been given.
	'Buy time my Bucks' he told his compainions
	'Be proud of our Prince and our Prince is the gainer.'

	Brave thanes were with him there, eager for slaughter,
	Well schooled in battle and skilled in all weapons,
	Shaken no whit, though each against thirty.
	They stood to the walls and struck for their leaders,
	Houston and Bowie, the bearcat of heros.

	Ten days they raved the ranks of the foemen,
	but tens though can't harry the hundreds forever,
	that tide had to turn. Tiredly the thanes broke two
	wild stormings and bled them to death. 
	The third had the thrust of Thors mighty hammer.
	It rose to the wall and rushed to spill over, winning the fort.

	But foemen must pay. Ten lives for one was the tariff for entry
	and no man got credit. Crushed and split skulls,
	Blasted off limbs and lathers of blood, was the money they asked
	and minted themselves. Worth every ounce of the wiergeld they 
asked.

	Of every eleven though, one was a Hero,
`	Turned to a corpse there, corned and hopeless.
	They strove while they yet stood, Stabbing and Throttling
	Winning a Bears death, dying while fighting.

	Heros of prowess, not chary of dying, fought and fell with them.
	Alone by the wall, Travis the Red Maned, truest of warriors,
	Kept death marking time, defied it until, 
	his sword sank again, drinking life from a foeman.
	Contented he ended. So also died Crocket, who
	Shaved with a star and stamped to make earthquakes.
	Kimbell, the leader of loyal riders!
	Bonham, whose vow was valours own hallmark!

	Crazed by their loses the conquorers offered 
	No truce to cadavers, the corpses were stabbed
	In hopes that life's sparks would afford them seconds
	on killing. Then some taking count, bawled out that
	Bowie was balking them still!

	Like weasels through warrens they wound through the fort
	Seeking the hero they hated the most.
	Least of the lucky, at last they found him. Fettered to
	Bed by the fever and dieing, a shred of himself.
	Gladly they rushed him. But glee turned to panic!
	Up from the gripe of the grave gripping weapons
	Gizzardsbane rose to wreak his last slaughter.
	Killing, though killed. Conquored, he won.

	In brief is the death lay of Bowie the leader
	Who layed down his life for his lord and ring giver
	Holding the doorway for Houston the Raven
	A pearl amoung princes who paid in the sequel.
	Never was vassel avanged with more slayings.


If you liked that, read the book. Silverlock is about a man who never read 
a good book in his life, who finds himself in The Commonwealth of Letters. 
To give you an idea, the above story is told at a party at a little place 
called Heorot. The party is in honor of this viking guy 'Wulf (Beowolf). 
The main character wants to know what is with the funny green arm hung over 
the door. I consider myself well read, but figure I only get at best 2/3 of 
the references. Get them or not, it is a damn entertaining story. 
Recognizing old literary friends is an added bonus.


			Yours,
				Miriam, who needs a drink after all of 
that, or atleast a backrub.