Round bubbling cauldron, fire light glittering off rusty pauldron,
The goblin's elders, the tribal leaders, chief and priestess,

Huddled in a meeting, eagerly seeking,
Through this darkened meeting, a sly, nervous greeting,

With mage of power, who towered over, this underground bower.

'Twas battle they spoke of, allies soon to be realised,
Through the wizard's spells they'd be fealised,

And the goblins' war with the orcs at last unleashed.

So by word and by spell, dark groups of Hell,
Ogres and kobolds, by magic encouraged to be bold,

All in a band enfold, the wizard lead numbers dread untold.

Trolls out on the moor, caught whiff of some spoor,
And crept with stealth, to take some poor souls health..

He looked like a saddler, dressed in leather that was no armour.

His flesh they would gather, his skin chewed into lather.

But a terrible surprise, when he started to rise,
And fire burned like sunrise, in a ring before their eyes!

After a bit of a jargon, they went to a wagon,

And then they snored like a dragon, up on top of the mountains.

Giants are frightening, but not terribly brightening,
So one of them looked at the writing, scribbled in whitening,

Marked out on a tree, then his mind was not free.

Into a gathering, the mage told giants his meaning,
And they smiled at the dreaming, of glories soon to be thieving.

Unto the orc chieftain, all cunning and gleaming,
The wizard arrived, and with some pride,

Told the green-skinned, muscled and mean one,

Of the goblin tribe, and all of their bribes.

Laughing and grinning, at the foes soon to be grieving,
The chieftain, a prize for his lies, the mage he was giving.

Then killed him, and and his treasures he'd skim.

But a sorcerer is not so easy dead, and though dreadfully bled,
The chieftain's mind had fled, and the wizard he helped to a bed.

As as a spell of charming, struck whom so ever should harm him.

Rannoch Moor it was called, a deadly bog was its floor,
The orcs to the North, the goblins South.

Along crept the goblins, against the hills of the Westward,
Only place where their raggedy army could onward.

Alas their surprise, when in the valley foes did arise,
Ten thousand orc soldiers, hidden in pits not a day older.

Slaughter and mayhem, bloodthirsty bedlam, shattered the pass,
At the head of the giant morass.


After the cleaving, the goblins were leaving, and the orcs celebrating,
When down the hillside, rolled a tatty old wagon..

Pottery vases, smashed and erased, as it all crashed and bashed,
Dark cloud escaping, buzzing wasps the valley encloaking,Screaming and howling, itching and scratching, the orcs in disarray.

With dreadful keening, trolls came a screeching, down the hillsides.,
Bones ripped and crunching, limbs chewed and bleeding,
There was a terrible feeding.

Pulling limbs out from dozens of bodies, the trolls were contented eating, When burning logs, to fast to out jog, rolled them into the bog,
Up on the hills, giants hurling great oily barrels, flames many left still.

Flesh burned and smoking, the trolls died there choking,

Never again would they rise.

Grinning, leaping, down hillsides sweeping, giants came a stealing,
Looting dismembered bodies, but then started bleating,

Over golden leavings, and soon the heavings, and then the reavings,

One by one, giants this world were leaving.

In the end, only four remaining, when before they could wend,
They were stricken dumb, with limbs quite numb.

And soon there were none...

"Well done job! Your wizard's gob, has made them fight and rob!"
General Gade, of the dwarven army, praised old Silverblade.

"Any chance, you'll do such a job, on elven glade?"

But Gade was only joking, while Silverblade, orcish loot was stroking....

All original art, writing on this site, copyright of Steven James, "Silverblade the Enchanter" ©2012