Fallowblade by Cecilia Dart-Thornton Page B

Blacksmith’s Corner. For King Uabhar the invasion had begun well.
    That night his triumphant troops, their spirits high, sang songs of ancient battles as they drank their ration of ale around their campfires:
    ‘Time bygone, wicked goblinkind came down from northern heights,
Laid siege to lands of mortal men and ruled the death-dark nights.
Through many battles terrible, both wights and men engaged,
But Silver Hill was named amongst the greatest ever waged.
    From mountain-halls the goblin hordes poured forth with eerie sound,
But, combat-ripe, the Slievmordhuan soldiers stood their ground.
Ever towards the south men turned, expecting soon to see
Three companies of reinforcements, armoured cap-a-pie.
    “We’ll hold this camp,” their captains cried, “Until relief arrives!
We’ll not surrender Silver Hill. Defend it with your lives!
Noble Sir Seán of Bellaghmoon commands us in the fray—
No bolder or more valiant man ever saw light of day.”
    Yet goblins thronged, wave upon wave, in numbers unforetold.
Alas! The ranks of mortalkind boasted few swords of gold.
They found themselves outnumbered, yet unyielding, pressed the fight.
“The north-bound troops will join us soon! We’re sure to win the night!”
    But ere the goblins issued from their vast and sunless caves
In secrecy they had despatched their crafty kobold slaves,
Who, under cover of the dark, by pathless ways had crept.
They struck the northbound companies and slew them as they slept.
    All through the night at Silver Hill Sir Seán of Bellaghmoon
Fought on beside his men. At last the sun rose, none too soon.
For, as night’s shade gave way to day the goblins had withdrawn.
A bitter scene of carnage spread beneath the rays of dawn.
    “Alas!” cried Bellaghmoon. Sore anguish creased his noble brow.
“Ill fate has met our soldiers, else they’d be beside us now!”
“We must retreat,” his captains urged, “before the setting sun,
For goblins move in darkness. They outmatch us two to one.”
    But bold Sir Seán of Bellaghmoon cried, “Never shall we flee,
I’ve sworn to fight for Silver Hill, though death should be my fee.”
His troops thus stayed upon the mount, aware there was no chance,
And when the sun began to fall they sharpened sword and lance.
    As darkness came a-creeping, goblins overthrew them all,
Hewed off the head of Bellaghmoon and of his captains tall,
Hoisting the severed polls on pikes. Unto their eldritch halls
They bore their dreadful prizes, for to nail them on the walls.
    Above the gates of goblin-realm they hung their grisly plunder.
The mourning winds keened through the vales, the mountains rang with thunder.
But proud Sir Seán who fought so well, he did not die in vain.
Ye bards and minstrels, sing his praise and eulogise his name.
For, hard against all odds, he would not let his sovereign down
And through harshest adversity stayed loyal to the Crown.’
    All the while, high above and far away from the clamour of war, Asr ă thiel journeyed westwards in her sky-balloon accompanied by her maid, Linnet. The servant leaned on the basket’s rim, gazing dreamily at the landscape over which they were gliding. She enjoyed flight, and her mistress had tutored her well in the rudiments of crewmanship.
    Preoccupied with the straitened circumstances of her kindred and worried about her friends who must defend Narngalis, the weathermage was piloting the aerostat somewhat absentmindedly. It was sufficient. After numerous flying hours she had no need to consider what to do next. Her intuitive perception of altitude, and of wind speed and direction, combined with her own observations, enabled her to find the right level to catch the currents she required. Without having to think about it she let heat escape from the sun-crystal a short while before she wanted to ascend, and shut it off a few moments before she wanted to stop rising. Inexperienced pilots often overshot, rising too high before levelling off, but Asr ă thiel, to whom the