The Addition:

The hollow words, like a dog’s warning bark,
sounded; no action followed the remark
that corresponded to those manly threats.
And such judgement the guilty man forgets.

All frothing white, like a mad dog, rages
the river at losing hard fought wages,
the souls of men nearly drowned in its depths.
So it remembers the frustrated deaths.

About themselves the Preachers do behold
a living prison made of soldiers bold,
in warlike manner, circling him round.
They bring forth shackles. Shortly they are bound.

The Poem so far:

I. The Sacrifice

II. The Rebel’s Council

III. The Battle

The bright flashing pillars with wild sparks
jumping through the air in dazzling arcs
before them raged in twisted turmoil,
and cleaved the drowned earth, tearing up the soil.

Its voice was too loud for the five to hear,
the tones causing blood to pour from their ears.
Dizzily collapsing into the mud,
they sank into the quickly rising flood.

The four monks, next to the single traitor,
lay supine by the freshly made crater.
The cavity, dug by the lightning’s wrath,
became the swirling center of a bath.

Soon over-swelling this little pond’s banks,
the swiftly growing waters joined its ranks
with the encroaching river’s deadly edge,
thirsting to fill mortal lungs with its dregs.

Helpless, they lay as men already dead,
awestruck by the bolt passed over their heads.
Chilled tentacles of the rising currents
seek to bear them to final interments.

Groggily, the traitor’s thin limbs convulse,
the rising tide causing him the impulse.
Water reaching his nose startles the cad.
He awakes in a frenzy like one mad.

He sits up, staring at the bleary world.
Circling around him the earth and sky swirled.
Spewing dirtied water out of his mouth,
he saw the soldiers marching toward the south.

The city’s armies, marshaled for battle,
reminds the traitor of herds of cattle.
Like tired beasts driven across long plains,
they know not the reasons, losses, or gains.

These sleepy musings blind the fallen man,
unaware as water around expands.
A wave from the river, catching them all,
begins the five’s doomed and panicked downfall.

Currents carry in deadly swift fashion
the five away in a tide of passion.
The drowning men careening towards their death
are slowly robbed of any and all breath.

Yet not before one soldier would observe:
“Hark, in the water those floating forms swerve.
Look to it, men, for there are men in need.
Prepare a boat, cast off, do this good deed.”

And so by their foes, the rebels were saved,
plucked from the depths in which they were enslaved.
But known were the faces redeemed from doom
by marshaled forces, the Knights of the Tomb.

Fear then fell upon the bleary Preachers,
who through their drowned mind made out the features
of their capture-rescue by gracious fiends.
The situation the traitor redeems.

With splurting coughing he chokes out the phrase:
“Help me, I’ve been made prisoner to crazed
homogenous wizards who’ve beat me sore.”
At this the captain of those hard knights swore:

“I know these, your companions, and you, worm.
At offered lucre prostrate you do squirm,
and betray men more worthy than yourself.
But our protection you’ve won, lousy whelp.”

The hollow words, like a dog’s warning bark,
sounded; no action followed the remark
that corresponded to those manly threats.
And such judgement the guilty man forgets.

All frothing white, like a mad dog, rages
the river at losing hard fought wages,
the souls of men nearly drowned in its depths.
So it remembers the frustrated deaths.

About themselves the Preachers do behold
a living prison made of soldiers bold,
in warlike manner, circling him round.
They bring forth shackles. Shortly they are bound.