For the next several hours, as he worked in the infirmary, Doc’s thoughts turned often to ancient Rome in its twilight years.
As time went on, uncertainty for the citizens of Mirrindale seemed to become a way of life. In fact, the only certainty was that the civil war had escalated to the point where the entire Kingdom was involved. Place-names, and the names of small towns to the North and East, hitherto scarcely, if ever, coming to the ears of those in Mirrindale and Narvi, were now becoming all too familiar, but in changed form. They were now synonymous with the battles and bloody skirmishes fought there. The names of people, too, some famous, many hitherto unknown, were becoming catch-words for their actions, whether moral or ignoble, heroic or craven, self-sacrificing or utterly selfish. It soon became a common saying, spoken of those previously unknown, who had done great deeds, that they had “made a name for themselves.”
Yet, however those in opposition to the King and Prince Cir conducted themselves, such actions were bitter consolation in light of the knowledge that they were losing: every victory was but a brief respite, while every loss brought the enemy ever closer to Mirrindale.
The news from the surrounding countryside was chilling. As the Thane had predicted, roving bands of Goblins soon prowled the countryside at will, despoiling and murdering the unprotected inhabitants. Many innocents died abominably at their hands; the infirm, the elderly, women, and children. There were a few reports of the Goblins being thwarted by large bands of Dwarves and Men who “just happened to be in the area,” these having taken a few liberties with the Thane’s request to remain within their own borders. But such reports were few, and undoubtedly exaggerated by vain hope.