Wrenogal: Act III, xlvii-xlix

xlvii

So while Wyveria chased Wrenogal

(that is, while she chased Lydoria’s song),

her Durn and his good crew were pivotal

in being where good characters belong.

I say that—being one now set apart

to see the story as if from above.

The pieces you have come to know now start

to line up snug as fingers in a glove.

And first to line up so (besides the blade,

and better—for one side, at least, was good)

was one such fated meeting fitly made

on Warponde’s docks where two strategists stood.

For when Durn came up dockside, he’d confer

with who but he, the sore ill-fated Zlyr.

xlviii

They had a problem there in Warponde’s walls:
the king of Lewellen was to arrive.
Thus shipways fell to indefinite stalls,
while still the docks buzzed as bees of a hive.

No man would take them, no ship would embark,
not ere the king was coming, and not aft,
for while the ships were presently so parked,
they’d be a fortnight longer backlog trapped.

Durn skulked the pier, then, doing his best craft,
awaiting eavesdropped words that could be won,
and over seaspray did someone’s words waft:
“I must make Ostia, ere eaves the Sun.”

The boy leaped up to see who spoke the word,
and saw Lewellen’s wealed and woeful lord.

xlix

A reckless race ran through Durn’s mind just then,
when seeing such a prospect on this pier,
and he forgot how many able men
could easily remove him far from here.

“King, Wrenogal’s pursuer! I have word!
My mother knows the one you seek! And I,
bereft of her so long, cannot afford
to wonder longer if she’ll live or die!

I think she’s gone to Ostia! That’s where
you’re headed, yes?” He stood, supplicant, short
enough to hold the stature, though not wear
the posture of the supplicant’s report.

But Durn knew drawn eyes forced men to be fair,
and, sure enough, Zlyr said, “I’ll take you there.”