O most glorious city which graces the sky,
father of knowledge, of valour and hope,
mother of beauty, of order and love,
I am your child, and I beg for a boon,
that you in your glory might serve as a guide
and give me some sign from your orderly systems,
some clue from my comrades, the voice of the peers,
that my words may serve well, proper and true,
as I write of the deeds of the one-handed hero,
that I may bring glory to him, who fully deserves it
and win some fame for my name by right of my words,
and by bringing such light to our names, part of a whole,
bring back glory to Hallifax, which honours us all.
The bloody caste comrades marched on the mountains,
shining spears in their hands, bringers of justice
for a treaty betrayed by the king of the dwarves,
who traded honour for gold from the smoke shrouded city.
Their duty propelled them deep into the dark
into closed spaces, no proper place for their spears.
The soldiers adapted, when forced from their lines
and each man marched in the darkness alone
save for the the sight of one trusted comrade.
There could be little order in such a dire war,
no sounding of horns, no ordered lines.
Each man hurled his javelins when he thought best,
or closed in for the spear-work as his judgement decreed.
Red blood filled the caverns as they set to their task,
even thus hindered the bloody caste proved the braver,
unmatched in their valour, unmatched in their skill,
and driven by love for their comrades and city,
who could stand long against such men?
The dwarves who resisted soon turned to flee,
for though gold-lust and greed may break an oath,
they drive no man to accept grim death by the sword.
Retreat turned to rout turned to general slaughter
as the bloody caste comrades searched for the king
that he may pay the price of his base treachery,
both for the foolish oath breaking itself
and for the true crime, the desert alliance.
There is only one penalty for such a foul crime,
only one price could be paid as justice demanded.
Thus the spear-bearing citizens searched for the king
that his life might be forfeit for grim justice's sake.
Honourable Lothoh bore arms for that cause,
a son of the city bearing bright arms for its sake,
with white wings framed by the bronze of the breastplate,
pale hands grasping the long spear, the tool of his trade,
and the sheltering shield, for which he had won no emblem,
and the humble sword on his belt, of steel unembellished.
He killed his first foe on that dark day in the deep
and a second as well, on the same throw of the javelin,
and then he pressed on, searching in the black tunnels
for the one who had broken faith with his comrades.
He had the good fortune to march to the forge-room
where the dwarf king had cowered, away from the fight.
He had shed his gold crown, the better to hide,
for he knew he would pay for treason with life.
Lothoh called out to him, bade him to kneel
that justice could come quickly by the edge of a sword
and that blood might be shed quickly, with no hint of pain.
The king made no comment, but knelt down by a forge,
placing his head on an anvil, sighing a sigh.
When Lothoh strode over, the king jumped to his feet
and laid his treacherous hands on the soldier,
pushed with all power on the sword-comrade, forced him aside,
seized a blade concealed near the furnace, swearing an oath
to bring death to honourable Lothoh, and to make Hallifax burn.
Fierce was the duel that raged by the furnace that day,
the honourless king fought with a desperate man's skill,
but virtuous Lothoh had all of the power of youth,
tempered by discipline and Collectivist faith.
He claimed the first blood, but still the king resisted
found new potency in pain, resisted all the stronger,
charged back at Lothoh, pushing him back towards the furnace.
The king pressed the attack, striking blow after blow
yet claiming no blood by such deeds, for the sheltering shield
held firm in the grasp of the Hallifaxian's hands,
yet his feet faltered under the furious charge,
he took another step back, then the king saw his chance,
and threw himself at the shield, shoving it back
into the furnace, into the all-burning fire.
The king paid for this action, he returned to the wheel
as Lothoh bore the pain properly, and struck his own blow.
Then king-slaying Lothoh pulled his hand from the flame,
and knew himself to be crippled, his arm ending in ash.
Alas for honourable Lothoh to have lived in those days,
there was no cure for such things, only more pain
for bad flesh had to be removed, lest contagion spread.
He set to his task, placed his hand on the anvil
and set the sword upon it, steadied his mind
then struck off his own arm, and pressed cloth upon it
as he set off to carry victorious news to his comrades.
He returned to the city showered in well deserved glory
with the foremost place in the host, and the heaviest heart.
When he walked once more through the spires, he gave his report
then asked with a glimmer of hope for a new task.
The magistrate smiled a sad smile on hearing such words,
then sighed a sad sigh as he spoke to his comrade.
"One-handed Lothoh, I can give you such things
as you desire, if that is the truth of your mind,
yet do not ask for them quickly, consider the choice.
You can no longer bear the sheltering shield in the line,
cannot save yourself nor your comrades from cruel blows
so there can be no place for you in the ranks nor the line.
You might at least bear the javelin in the first array
if that is your will, but earning the place will be hard.
None may have such a position, save the eldest and youngest,
save for the officers who bear the skirmishing command.
Such a place must be earned through glorious service
across many years, not only one campaign. This I can give,
if you truly desire it, I will set you the tasks
that you might march alone to win glory and earn such a charge.
But one-handed Lothoh, another choice is before you,
you have earned high honours already, and none would begrudge you
honourable rest, well earned on the field, early retirement
earned by right of your maiming in the Collective's defense."
Lothoh took no time to ponder these words but rejected them wholly,
"What use is an honour?" he cried, "What does it build?
Or if it builds nothing, what does it teach?
Perhaps it gives some service that is hidden to me?
If what I suspect is the truth it does none of these things.
Give me no honours, and offer me no such rest,
for no man should look at sloth and see a reward.
No, I have no use for such things. I swear this now,
by these glorious spires, by my love of the city,
I shall ever reject all honours save for one only,
the bloody corpse of my vanquished foe.
Give the command, if you've any love for me,
that I might bear arms for my city, win glory that way,
and carry war on the wicked for all of my days."
"One-handed Lothoh, if that is your will,
far be it from me to keep you from service.
Go out from the city, fly far to the south,
stray not into the desert, but keep to its edge,
and stand as a sentinel there, bearing fierce arms.
For in that place monstrosities dwell, released into the world
by our eternal enemies, who twist beasts into creatures
unknown in all other places, cruel all-slaughtering beasts.
Slay these monstrous creatures, make war upon them,
win glory through their slaughter, make the paths safe
that our scientists may travel safely that place,
so that they may study that piece of the world."
With joy in his heart Lothoh accepted the charge
and set forth at once from the city, spear in his hand
and sword at his belt, javelins strapped to his back,
shunning the shield's shelter he set out to his task.
With his spear in his hand he took up his post,
the sentinel at the border of smoke-stained sands,
to keep a careful vigil against the fire forged monsters
shaped from flesh by the city's foulest foes.
On the first day of his vigil he met the first beast,
not unlike a lizard swollen to an unlikely size.
It stood as tall as three men, as long as a river,
it had scales harder than iron, as black as the night,
it crawled on the sands on twelve legs thick as tree trunks,
each ending in feet with claws longer than swords
and its face was so grim I can hardly speak of it,
five jaws filled with teeth surrounded it like some terrible mane,
it had one gigantic eye, always dripping tears made of acid
and white flame burned out from its mouths at every breath.
Such a horrible beast had no place, an offence against nature,
born from the minds of some smoke spewing flesh shaper.
Such a horrible beast could be met with only one fate
and one-handed Lothoh meant to give it that end.
He chose a sharp javelin, hurled it up high in the air
and watched it dig deep into the brute's foul flesh.
The beast showed no signs of slowing, no signs of pain
but roared and spewed flame and charged forth all the same.
He threw two more javelins, and each found its mark,
each bit deep into the monster, but still it charged on.
Lothoh took flight, used empty space for his shield,
thereby sparing himself from the monster's cruel fire.
He looked down on the beast, clutched his spear in his hand
and dove down from above at the greatest of speeds,
struck home with his spear, down through the beast's eye
and shattered his spear with the force of his blow.
The beast screamed a death-scream, filled with great pain,
spewed blood and sprayed fire as it fell to the ground.
Such was the start of one-handed Lothoh's long vigil,
for a year he kept watch, and fought with such foes,
he slaughtered a beast with a giant boar's body,
with venom-dripping tusks as long as his arm.
The nine headed serpent met its end at his hand,
though each head had a venom that killed with one drop.
All these and more fell under his blade, none lived for long,
yet no victory pleased him, and he still kept his watch.
Until at long last his brave deeds drew the enemy's attention,
and a smoke spewing man faced him, a maker of monsters
who marched at the head of a horde of his own making.
One-handed Lothoh leaped at the chance to slay such a foe,
end the fiends at their source, ending the threat.
He charged into battle with great joy in his heart,
hurling his javelins, each killing a monster,
then drawing his sword to slaughter their maker.
Foolish dweller in the desert, you made a mistake!
You who always sent others to fight in your place!
Lothoh struck against him, shed his black blood,
struck off his head in an instant, staining the ground
with the unnatural fluids that filled the foe's body.
Having won the great victory he flew back to the city,
went forth to the magistrates, proclaiming his triumph.
He kept true to his oath, refusing all offered honours
as he accepted a new charge, to command the skirmish line.
He held that command for slightly more than a century.
Thousands of foes died at his javelin's tip,
and thousands of spear-comrades learned at his feet.
Long years having passed he took once more to the field,
to carry just war against the foes from the desert
who seduced a village to their side, away from his city,
he set out to punish them for their foul crime.
In this war as before he held the skirmish command
though command of the army fell to one younger,
his true comrade Jekkex, distinguished in war,
who showed great promise in battle, he held the command.
Each man took to his place as the battle commenced,
Lothoh in the loose line, javelins at hand
and his comrades around him, many unblooded.
One-handed Lothoh gave the command to advance
and draw the first blood with the javelin's point.
He himself was the first to let the javelin fly,
it took his foe in the eye, and passed through his skull,
pinning the one behind him to the bloody field.
The sky was darkened by the death-bringing rain,
and as the foe perished, Lothoh's men left the field
not from any cowardice, but according to custom
that the ordered line of spears might go to its work.
One of the foemen yelled out from his foul horde,
"Is this the Collective, called mighty in war?
Do their men flee from the fight at the first drop of blood?
Can they not stomach the bloodshed done face to face,
nor bear to hold the blade in their hand as they kill?
I call them all cowards, I shame all their names!
Let none be called a warrior who flees from the field!
And if a Collective they are, as they themselves claim
then all share the shame, all are forever disgraced.
If any one of them has hot courage in his soul
or cold hate for his enemies, let him come forth.
Let him face my flames and my arms, let me face his blade.
Let us see if there is courage in the flying city
or if Collectivist thought is the killer of valour."
Such were the words of the giant Mesancha,
well known in those days for the strength of his club
and the heat of his flames that killed many good men.
Lothoh was stung by his words and turned to the fight,
he called out a challenge with words of his own.
"I stand against you, I, Lothoh of Hallifax!
A one handed man who will prove greater than you.
They shall call me the braver, for I marched to war
with but one hand bearing my weapon, and no fear in my heart,
with no sheltering shield save hate of the foe.
I swear I shall quickly kill you, mindless Mesancha,
your head shall pay the price for your boasting."
Walking out to the field they met in the centre,
Lothoh bowed to his foe as honour demanded,
but Mesancha the savage, Mesancha the cruel
made no courteous gesture but swung his club at his foe,
as Lothoh fell to his knees, ducking under the blow
before striking out, shedding the savage's blood.
Mesancha the foolish who had never before been wounded
screamed in his agony, breathed forth his flame.
For Collectivist honour Lothoh once more paid a price
that he had paid as he marched in his first war.
His hand was ablaze, his skin burned away,
but making no sound of pain he struck again at his foe.
Boasting Mesancha paid blood-price for his lies
as Lothoh fell to the ground, the fire soon spreading,
his wings turned to fire, he was seared to the bone.
The battle commenced in full force as he lay there,
as the Fates sharpened their shears, he breathed his last.
As he returned to the wheel, the last thing he saw
was the charge of his comrades who would soon shatter their foe.