Deep into the stony hills, miles from town or hold,
A troupe of guards comes riding with a lady and her gold.
She rides bemused among them, shrouded in her cloak of fur,
Companioned by a maiden and a toothless, aged cur.
Three things see no end: a flower blighted ere it bloom,
A message that miscarries, and a journey that is doomed.
One among the guardsmen has a shifting restless eye,
And as they ride he scans the hills that rise against the sky.
He wears both sword and jewels worth more than he could afford,
And hidden in his baggage is a heavy secret hoard.
Of three things be wary: of a feather on a cat,
The shepherd eating mutton, and the guardsman that is fat.
Little does the lady care what all the guardsmen know:
That bandits ambush caravans that on these trade roads go.
In spite of tricks and clever traps and all that men can do,
The brigands seem to always sense which trains are false or true.
Three things are most perilous: the shape that walks behind,
The ice that will not hold you, and the spy you cannot find.
From ambush bandits screaming charge the pack train and its prize,
And all but four within the train are taken by surprise.
And all but four are cut down as a woodsman fells a log,
The guardsman, and the lady, and the maiden, and the dog.
Three things hold a secret: a lady riding in a dream,
The dog that sounds no warning, and the maid who does not scream.
Then off the lady pulls her cloak, and in armor she is clad.
Her sword is out and ready and her eyes are fierce and glad.
The maiden makes a gesture and the dog's a cur no more.
A wolf, sword maid, and sorceress now face the bandit horde.
Three things never anger or you will not live for long:
A wolf with cubs, a man with power, and a woman's sense of wrong.
The lady and her sister by a single trader lone
Were hired out to try to lay a trap all of their own.
And no one knew their plan except the two who rode that day,
For what you do not know you cannot ever give away.
Three things is its better part that only two should know:
Where treasure hides, who shares your bed, and how to catch your foe.
The bandits growl a challenge and the lady only grins.
The sorceress bows mockingly and then the fight begins.
When it ends there's only four left standing from the horde.
The witch, the wolf, the trader, and the woman with the sword.
Three things never trust in: the maiden sworn as pure,
The vows a king has given, and the ambush that is sure.
They strip the trader naked, and then whip him on his way,
Into the barren hillsides like the folk he used to slay.
And what of all the maidens that this bandit raped and slew?
So as revenge, the sorceress makes him a woman, too.
Three things trust above all else: the horse on which you ride,
The beast that guards your sleeping, and your shield mate at your side.