At about the same time, in Tuggle City, the fifth wave of Bloody Thrashers finally managed to overrun the apes on the West Bridge. The battle had been hard fought, and many goblins lay dead at the bottom of the trash moat, along with several apes.

Ape warriors on the city side of the West Bridge immediately began chopping at the support ropes with large axes, as soon as the first goblins started crossing. The sharp axes tore through the ropes quickly.

The green foe tried to scramble back, but the ropes gave way fast and the bridge tumbled towards the filthy moat. It dragged several goblins that were hanging onto it into the nasty sewage and garbage twenty feet below.

The apes still held the East Bridge, barely. A group of goblins had just been pushed back while the West Bridge had been falling. Now a sixth attack wave was beginning to form up to attack again.

“Take the bridge!” a scrappy yorg screeched in his foul language.

Fifteen to twenty Bloody Thrasher goblins raced onto the planks of the rope bridge, attacking the last three gorilla guards that still defended there. The gorillas speared through the front rows of goblins, killing seven or eight of them, before one of the enemy managed to get close. The goblin stabbed the front gorilla with its small sword, cutting through his belly.

“We goes together!” the wounded gorilla growled and grabbed the goblin that had sliced him and pinned the squirming creature to his chest with his massive arms. Both gorilla and goblin toppled off the bridge into the trench below, adding to the growing number of corpses scattered about the garbage.

The two remaining gorillas fell back, and after grabbing axes, began to chop at the bridge’s ropes. It held for a moment, and then fell with a loud thump into the trench.

This time the goblins were smart enough to hold back. Goblin arrows flew through the air striking one of the axe apes, sending him into the trench, following the bridge that he had just toppled. 

The Bloody Thrasher Tribe spent the remainder of the day setting up camp around Tuggle City. The ape warriors howled and pounded on their chests in response to the boo gah drums of the large hordes of arriving goblins that took up positions on all four sides of them.

 A few skirmishes broke out between ape spear warriors and goblin archers, with both sides firing their weapons across the large trench during the last hour of sunlight. Many goblins and apes fell during these exchanges, until finally the apes retreated into their huts.

“Take cover!” a large silverback gorilla ordered the apes. “There’re too many of the little green mens!” By the time the last red ember of fading sunlight disappeared from the sky, the apes were completely trapped inside of their own city.

Gorilla King Gorin knew that the green hordes would come in the morning, because goblins liked to attack at first light. The big gorilla frowned. The fight with the green mens will be fierce for they have come for one purpose, to destroy me.

                                                             *     *     *        

Back on the western edge of the Central Rim, Lord Harth and his squad ran smack into the center of a large horde of goblins from the Skull Crusher Tribe. Both groups hesitated with surprise, until Harth shouted, “Attack!” Battle erupted everywhere. When it was over, thirty-five goblins lay dead.

The patrol lost a lord, a captain, and a yule. Once the wounded were tended to and the goblins were burnt, they saddled their dead companions. It was grim work.

“Their metal weapons are costing us lives,” one of his archers shook his head.

“Losing two is tough, but they lost thirty-five. There’s no way they can sustain this level of losses. Let’s ride,” Lord Harth ordered.

The squad turned north, heading for the foothills of Kaylor, planning to ride through the night. The Central Rim is just too thick with green for my liking, Lord Harth thought.

                                                         *     *     *

The following morning, another squad suffered a loss. Lord Felix’s patrol had taken three days to finally enter the Eastern Rim. They had stayed close to the foothills of Hogarth, turning north only after they were deep into the Eastern Rim territory.

Lord Felix was one of the youngest Yule Rider squad leaders, but he was smart. He had initially planned to try and swing around any would be goblin forces and surprise them by attacking them from the north, as opposed to riding into them from the south. He expected that most of the other patrols were riding straight into ambushes. 

His plans changed when he saw smoke coming from the very distant Lookout Peak, a small rock hill, which was actually the only hill on the Eastern Rim. It sat back towards the center of the territory.

Unlike the rolling hills of grass on the Western Rim, or the rock-strewn fields of the Central Rim, the Eastern Rim was one giant flat grass plain. Except for Lookout Peak.

Lookout Peak was basically a large pile of rocks, no more than half a field long and about seventy-five feet high at the very top. The yule patrols often used the peak as a campsite, due to the visibility it provided in all directions over the flat terrain.

It was Lord Felix’s favorite place to be in the entire Upper Glen. He loved to stand at the top and feel the wind blowing across the plains. But he wasn’t thinking about that now.

“Could be a goblin trap.” Captain Login interrupted his thoughts. Login was a short stocky man.

“Possibly. I don’t think that any yule patrol would be lighting campfires in these dangerous times,” Lord Felix mused.

“Or it could be that a patrol left behind some burnt goblin dead,” the captain offered another possibility.

“I’m concerned that it could be one of the other yule patrols signaling that they’re in trouble. Lookout Peak has been used in that manner in the past. I think we should go check it out,” he decided.   

After a short ride, Lord Felix’s patrol approached the foot of the peak. Several goblin archers, fourteen in all, jumped out from behind some boulders. They began firing arrows. Two yules were struck in the first volley, causing minor wounds.

Lord Felix’s patrol consisted of Captain Login and nine archers. They dismounted, and after a brief arrow exchange, defeated the goblin archers. They tossed the Swamp Crawler Tribe’s bodies into their own breakfast fire.

“I’m going to climb to the top of the peak and take a look about,” Lord Felix said to his stocky captain, who gave him a knowing grin, “Have the men attend to the wounded yules until I return.”

Lord Felix made the rugged rocky climb to the top of the peak and began to scan north. He closed his eyes to enjoy a warm wind that was rushing in, blowing through his long brown hair.

A second later, he sensed movement behind him, but it was too late. A huge yorg, who had been hiding behind a nearby boulder, brought a wooden club down on Lord Felix.

The tremendous blow caught the man on his shoulder, breaking his collar bone, and sent him sprawling onto the large flat rock that he had been standing on. So stupid, of course they would have a yorg.

Lord Felix tried to draw his sword, but screamed out in pain with the effort. “Now you bleed!” the muscular yorg said in human and was on him quick, reigning down blow after blow, killing the young man.

The men below had heard the attack and were rushing to their leader’s aid, when the big yorg turned and charged down the peak towards them. A volley from the nine archers quickly dropped the goblin leader. The men hurried to Lord Felix’s side, but he was gone.

Captain Login took charge of the patrol and ordered the men to wrap their fallen leader in a traditional tarp. After they tied him to his yule, the saddened group rode hard, heading back south towards the Frontier Fortress at Kaylor. Lord Felix had been well liked and was a big loss for the Yule Riders.

                                                           *     *     *

Back down in the Lower Glen, High King Tronin and his men arrived at the Two Towers of Dwain, late on the second day of their journey. They made their way through the wooden buildings that dotted the fields in the shadows of the two towers, until they arrived at a large, well-kept stable.    

An elderly stable keeper approached them, and after recognizing the high king, quickly bowed, saying,” Always room for your horses my king.”

The stable keeper wiped his hands on his brown tunic and took the reins of the high king’s horse. The old man had been the stable keeper for as long as Tronin could remember, although he could not recall his name.

After seeing to their horses, High King Tronin and the men of the White Sash Brigade made their way to the East Tower stairs. They could see the golden shields with their red dragon emblems ringing the very tops of the towers high above.

The only entrances into the East and West Towers were large wooden stairways, nearly thirty feet across, that climbed up to third floor doorways. These stairways were made of sturdy oak planks, and could be knocked down in times of danger, leaving the towers very secure.

Just how long would it be before the stairs would need to be taken down? Tronin couldn’t help but wonder.

King Heath, master of the two towers, met them at the top of the stairs. He was nearly a foot shorter than the high king and had long flowing brown hair that reached down to the middle of his back, with a flowing brown beard to match. 

Behind King Heath stood two of his tattooed lords. The men of Dwain had a long-standing tradition of tattooing the entire right side of their bodies after completing their Quests.

The kingdom’s founder, High King Dwain, had tattoos all over the right side of his body. The men Dwain continued the custom, not only as a sign of respect to him, but also to signify their commitment to the Two Towers.

In times of war, they also braided their long hair. These rituals set them apart from the lords of all the other kingdoms and created a strong sense of comradery amongst them.

Tronin and Heath clasped each other’s arms at the wrist, in the customary formal greeting of the men of the Glen. Both leaders had a genuine friendship and respect for each other.

Following the customs of his people, Heath bore tattoos all over the right side of his body. His were pictures of various towers, including the two of his own kingdom.

“Blessings on you and your house,” King Heath said.

“And on you and yours,” High King Tronin gave the traditional response.

“As always, I’m pleased to see you my liege, but I fear that you bring bad news with this unscheduled meeting?” King Heath inquired.

“Bad indeed. Are we prepared?” Tronin asked.

“The Great Meeting Hall has been properly prepared, and the meeting is set for first thing tomorrow as you requested,” King Heath answered then asked more directly, “What’s the trouble?”

“Are all the kings here?” Tronin continued his questioning, ignoring Heath’s.

“The elves arrived yesterday, and we saw the dwarves approaching from some distance behind you. The king of Keyorlock hasn’t arrived yet,” King Heath answered, realizing that he probably wasn’t going to find out what was going on until everyone did.

Tronin trusted Heath and considered him to be a good friend. They became closer after Heath’s only son, Prince Dorn, had not returned from his Quest. It was a tragic time for the man.

Tronin had stayed at the Two Towers of Dwain for six months, helping his friend through the worst time of his life. Still, he didn’t share the reason for his visit with Heath because he was hoping to learn more first.

King Heath led Tronin to the high king’s chamber located near the top floor of the East Tower. His White Sash Brigade guards had rooms along the same hallway.

High King Tronin had a quick meal in his chamber and then sat quietly, in deep contemplation. Many thoughts were tumbling around in his head. Time was short and he needed to proceed quickly, but cautiously.  

Tomorrow’s meeting is going to be difficult, and I will need to pick my words carefully. The dwarf kings are brash and aggressive, often wanting to act before planning. Their counterparts, the elves, like to over contemplate any action and were often slow to respond to threats. He had to get both races support if they stood a chance.

High King Tronin was not worried about King Heath. He and his people were fiercely loyal to him and would support him completely. King Cobborath of Keyorlock was a different story.

The sorcerer of the Red City, as Keyorlock was often called, was power hungry and Tronin did not trust him. He was a master of fire magic and knew many powerful spells.

Cobborath had never acted against the high king, but the Great Helm had shown Tronin many things. Dark things. The mysterious sorcerer was conducting strange magic in his red towered city and had become quite powerful.

Whenever the Great Helm focused on King Cobborath, it gave off an aura of distrust. Tronin took this as a warning, one that he planned to heed, especially during the meeting planned for tomorrow.

Thinking of the Great Helm reminded Tronin that it was time to put it on. He reached into his pack and pulled out the ornate head piece. The more he used the helmet, the more menacing that it appeared to him.

Tronin hesitated before he slipped it on, knowing that he would assuredly suffer a terrible headache from using it so soon after the last time. Unfortunately, it couldn’t be avoided.

He needed as much information as he could get before tomorrow’s meeting. It had only been a few days, but tough times called for tough actions, so he slipped the helmet on.

It felt tight around his head, almost like a steel glove, clutching at his brain and digging into his thoughts . . . . . swirling lights and flashing images began to come into focus . . . . . goblin armies marching in unison down the trails of Timber Lake Mountains . . . . . hundreds . . . . . thousands . . . . . the great fortress at Gilead melting . . . . . seven flying beasts . . . . . dragons . . . . . large and ferocious . . . . . flying over the Lower Glen . . . . . giants . . . . . dead things . . . . . the images were coming fast now, almost too fast to comprehend . . . . . then the white towers . . . . . giant spiraling white towers with white banners blowing in the wind . . . . . then fire . . . . . fire and worse . . . . .  men, elves, and dwarves lying dead . . . . . piled five, six bodies high in the fields of the Glen . . . . . blood mingled in a giant pool . . . . . then a dark figure . . . . . evil . . . . . a spell caster . . . . . then a final image that shocked him, so much so, that he nearly ripped the helmet off . . . . . the images became a whirlwind causing High King Tronin to pull the helmet off his head.

It slid off with a sucking sound, followed by a deep throbbing in his temple, which began immediately. High King Tronin laid back on the bed and closed his eyes.

He was exhausted, yet didn’t fall asleep until several hours later. Sometimes the helmet exacted a greater cost than the headaches. He couldn’t escape the last image that the Great Helm had shown him.