‘My Thane,’ he gave the formal salute.
The Thane nodded. ‘You may speak.’
The youngish Elf man took a deep breath and spoke. He was travel weary, very nearly prostrate, yet somehow managed to carry himself with dignity.
The Thane learned from the scout that the nearest Goblin army had exhausted its supplies and was in full retreat. This was the same undisciplined mob that had pursued the retreating Elven army all the way from the King’s city of Valerian far to the northeast, to the gates of Mirrindale. Overextended, out of food and weakening, harassed by roving bands of Elves whose numbers were greatly augmented by Men and Dwarves, unable to feed themselves because they’d thoughtlessly burned and destroyed, rather than despoiled, and spread out thinly into roving bands whose purported task was to override and take the southern lands as their own, they had at last grasped that their hold on these lands was tenuous at best. Seeing their peril, word was sent out, the brutally inefficient task of gathering their disorganised numbers together was done as well as may be, and now they had begun the long journey north.
Hearing this, the Thane’s spirits rose. Standing in his stirrups, with drawn sword upraised, he cried, ‘Here you? The Enemy is on the run, and He is weak! The time for Retribution is at hand! Let the Enemy know no rest save that found in the arms of Death!’