The Turning War

The grim and horrid creatures of the night

came out in force, armed to fight
with jagged swords, long spears and shields,
they rushed upon the horses in open fields.

The campaign lasted for days but became
weeks of spilling blood in vain,
as hundreds more from mountains poured
with vile tempers to settle their score.

The goblins of Kinderval’s dark smell
mingled with barbarous men who fell;
themselves both lock in battle against,
Mithar’s farmer’s sheltering-stone fence.

The King, Priests and saliors all rallied
beneath their banners, rushed the valley
and fought with all they had in hand
unto the last of kin, they vowed to stand.

Sholthrax, leader of the Goblins
came before the face of Lord Calvin
chieftain of the decimated tent city,
whose men gave their life in plenty.

They fought, both long and fierce,
matching swing for swing, not pierced;
that those about them, friend and foe
alike, encircled them to watch each blow.

For an hour till dusk they bravely fought
finally winning first blood the other bought,
balancing skill for skill, yearning to slay
the other’s weakness sought that day.

As the sun set on that seventh week
a distant horn rang out so bleek
as yet another called forth upon that field;
louder they rang for a champion to be killed.

The man cursed the beast before him
as the goblin anguished his missing limb,
for their bloody dance unwavered went;
till the man’s severed leg finally bent.

In that very moment, when the sun fell
Lord Calvin gave an encouraged yell,
but Sholthrax cut short his fate
as his goblins headed for the city’s gate.

With the defeat of Slavath’s Judge,
the goblins killed those who refused to budge;
breaching the walls, pulling them down
ever seeking to unseat Mithar’s crown.

Within reach of that certain goal
their forces grew ever more bold;
ravaging in brutality, unmeasured in death,
even nursing mothers were felled to last breath.

Suddenly, then the tides did turn
as a great horde of arms – burned
to life – in discovery against the victor’s sway
a grave calamity was averted that rainy day.

Lord Valenfay, great grandson of Lorin,
triumph their champion at war’s end,
meeting the dwarf lord’s gathering might,
upon the battlefield just in sight.

Then without cause or reason, they all died
for each goblin fell against his brother's side
leaping from great height or on their blade
forfeiting their hard won victory that way.

A hollow celebration for Mitharians lords
as seven thousand, eight hundred lay in gore,
wasted lives for a wasted cause gone mad
weeping widows, and fatherless young all sad.

Yet a great following was mustered about
that usurper lord who sought another rout
as three hundred named him their lord king,
others still banished them with a vile sting.

The old cultic mindset had won out
over the dejected victors, no matter how stout,
departing to Ipstha’s eastern divided mount;
where the dwarven years have lost count.

Through the ages of deviling hard stone,
residing deep in the earth’s hallow bone
sheltering down, and away from the world
as loners, cast in their own mysterious whirl.

That usurper king, exiled his kin to follow
a new hope, their pride did swallow
as they fled, up the Luhun’s River
they never complained, shrank nor shivered.

The heartland of Eriduah, once was green
but a desert waste, had engulfed that dream;
its halflings, vanished to other parts
for the world had changed their happy hearts.

Valenfay’s people left the bitter behind,
those who felt betrayed, were unkind;
yet the splintered remnant who stayed
under their judges, new beginnings they made.