Legion of Light IV: The Annals of War

[Flames of Hyperion]

The following excerpts are taken from Ingwe Helyanwe's Book of Travels, his personal memoirs of the events that occurred during the Siege of Anebrilith in the Times of Darkness. It is my hope that they provide you, the reader, with an intimate view of one young man's perspective of those troubled times...

War is taking its toll on our little band of Legionnaires. Xem'zund's hordes completely surround the city of Anebrilith, an overwhelming tide of evil threatening the last bastion of freedom in the east of Raiaera. Not only do they outnumber us immeasurable-to-one, they are also the undead. They can recoup whatever losses they suffer far more readily than we, they can reinforce their ranks far more often, and they do not suffer from such mortal needs as food and rest. Even the Necromancer's human auxiliaries seem immune to fatigue as they fight for the Lord of the Night.

Day after day they hurl themselves at the Harbour Walls, their intent to cut us off from the sea and choke us slowly into submission. Day after day the combined banners of Anebrilith and Tor Elythis cast them back with unparalleled skill and determination, unyielding and unwavering before their foes. But every elf fallen is a loss dearly felt, while the mounds of undead burned away from the walls every night are of no loss to their evil masters.

Our place, however, is not on the bloodstained battlements, nor within the safety of the pristine citadel. For we are the Legionnaires, the outcast and the few, and ours is the thankless task of patrolling the ruined outer city and repelling the enemy from the castle walls proper.

We are but a handful, pebbles in the path of the tidal wave. I have no illusion that should the undead leaders wish it, they could sweep us from the rubble in which we shelter in a matter of moments. We survive by striking where they are weak, hitting hard and fast before melting away like the very shadows we face.

I fear. In front of the men I cannot show this terror, but in the depths of the night I stare at the shadows and wonder if, even now, the foe prepares for our destruction. My nerves are stretched taut, the stress and tension unceasing and nigh unbearable. I have not slept well in at least a fortnight, tossing and turning and awake at even the slightest of unnatural sounds. And I know for a certainty that I am not the only one to feel this way, for many of the men wear the same haunted look that stares back at me from the puddles every morn.

War has indeed taken its toll.

But there is yet optimism in our predicament. Every hour of every day we hold out is a boon to those refugees still trapped within the city; although I suspect that Xem'zund only allows them to flee across the seas to spread their tales of horror and despair, it is the saving of innocent lives that most concerns me. Every white sail that makes the open ocean is a victory for our cause, for I hope for the fact that the stories they have to tell may yet rally distant nations to our aid. Lord Arminas is also acutely aware of the situation, and although our mandate from the Council only extends to defending this rubbled wasteland, I suspect that he is planning something special for the war meeting tonight. Our swordarm remains strong, our morale steady. We will not yet fall.

Lastly... as for myself, there is little else to tell. By night I battle the forces of darkness; by day, I practice swordplay with Glorfindel and Selinde and learn the arts of magic from Telchar and the aged elven archmage who joined our cause in Anebrilith - he calls himself Nogeres, though I have reason to suspect that he does not speak the truth, for he is secretive and mysterious and extremely powerful. I peruse my books to glean whatever knowledge I can for the dangerous path ahead, and catch whatever fitful sleep possible. For some reason, the men still look up to me as a leader; I cannot fathom why, but if it is within my power to inspire them, then I must do what I can.

At times, though, I find myself staring into the distant gloom, my senses relaxed and my fingers resting upon the pendant around my neck. I have not felt your presence for a long time now, but it does not stop me from hoping for the day when I shall see you again. I can only wish that you are well, and in a slightly kinder environ than here.

For now, I must sleep. My body aches where the flat of Glorfindel's blade struck home, my mind hurts from advanced runic theory, and dusk is but a few hours away. The night, I fear, will be long and testing.

~ Entry in Ingwe's Book of Travels

[Flames of Hyperion]

Our meeting last night was an eventful one. It began as usual with confirmation of strategic and logistical situations, along with reports from Glorfindel about the disposition of Anebrilithian and Elythisian forces, and from Derthark regarding our attempts to clear the central plaza of an advance party of orcish mercenaries in Xem'zund's employ. Without meaning to sound disparaging, elves are notoriously fond of sticking to protocol, and dwarves can often be just as set in stone. The first half of the meeting was, to say the least, fairly routine.

But Lord Arminas had no intention of allowing things to end that way. Out of the blue, he suddenly asked what we thought of abandoning the outer city.

I am certain that my eyes gave away my shock, although the knowledge that Lord Arminas would not say such words lightly kept my voice in check. Glorfindel seemed to be of the same mind, as did Telchar; the Rangers must have heard of the plan beforehand, for not a single sound was raised between them. Castor and Derthark, however, were vociferous in their protestations; the latter with a string of powerful dwarven expletives that even now ring angrily in my ears.

At length, they both calmed to the extent where Lord Arminas could explain further. He seemed faintly bemused by our reactions, though whether it was due to Derthark's outburst or Glorfindel's silence, or perhaps even Telchar's stoicism, I could not tell.

His explanation was similar to my thoughts of yestereve; that if we remained where we were and continued to pointlessly harass the enemy, sooner or later we would inevitably be swept from the field. On the other hand, we had enough experience to fight as a cohesive unit now, instead of as the ragtag band of volunteers we had once been. And although our orders from the High Council of Anebrilith were only to patrol and protect the area that we were based at now, could we not better serve their cause by probing further into the ranks of the foe?

Predictably, Derthark was now in favour of this increased activity; Taggar, Castor, and Telchar also voiced agreement, although markedly more reservedly. Glorfindel was cautious, his eyes betraying for a moment his reluctance to abandon his home city, no matter the reason; out loud, he merely mentioned that it would be difficult to maintain communication and supply lines the further we strayed from the city. To this I added that acting without solid information about our foes ran a larger risk of annihilation, for the more distance between us and Anebrilith, the more likely that, whether by intent or by sheer poor luck, we would walk into a trap.

Lord Arminas replied by thanking us for our opinions, and then attempted to allay the fears of Glorfindel and myself by pointing out that the Rangers of the Eclipse had much experience in such forms of warfare, and that he himself was considered as one of the finest in Raiaera at living and fighting off the land. He reiterated that by aggressively seeking out threats to the city and destroying them before they could us, we would be hurting Xem'zund and protecting the city far more than we could ever hope to do now. It pained me to see Glorfindel's slow nod wrung from grudging acceptance; it was obviously so very difficult for him to agree.

It was then that Nogeres, who alone of us all had remained silent so far throughout the meeting, finally spoke up. In a soothing voice laden with hints of the arcane he reassured us of the righteousness of our cause and urged us to be brave in the service of good. It seemed almost as if he was talking to me when he also spoke of ways to probe the enemy's disposition without revealing ourselves to our foes.

We dispersed to our respective duties not long afterwards, but it is with some apprehension still that I think of Lord Arminas' proposals. Although I agree in principle with what he says, I can only hope that between us all, we can make this work for the good of the city.

Yuka, I cannot help but feel that our actions in the next few weeks may just prove pivotal to the fate of this fair land.

~ Entry in Ingwe's Book of Travels

[Flames of Hyperion]

They have come.

The first warning we had was when, as we returned to camp last night, Lord Elrohir and Surion landed in our midst. The elflord paused but long enough to tell us the news before he left. I remember the words sending frigid chills running down my spine, as if a thousand nightmares had come true at once with reality-warping force.

The Harbour Walls had been breached. The protective wards placed upon the stones had been broken by some powerful dark magic. All available soldiers were being mustered to defend the hole in our defences until Anebrilith's senior magi could conjure a counterspell.

Needless to say, we set off at once, heedless of our own aches and wounds.

I write this now from beneath the shelter of a makeshift tent; in reality, little more than a length of canvas pegged from wall to ground. Slick, oily rain is pouring down from the grim clouds gathered overhead, and I wonder if I only imagine the filthy taint as it occasionally splashes onto my fingers. Hayate is curled in the crook of my arm, close to whatever warmth the feeble light I write by can provide. I envy him, for my cloak barely keeps the cold drafts from chilling my limbs, and I swear that the ink in my inkpot – not to mention the fingers that grip this pen – have been frozen solid.

The past day's battling has been horrendous, both sides fighting a gruelling war of attrition over control of a metre-wide breach in the defences. The Spire Guard of Tor Elythis have borne the brunt of the fighting, and though the elite foot-elves have dealt far more than they have taken, every Guardian wounded or fallen is a massive blow to our cause. Even now the skirmishing continues, the undead hordes threatening to overwhelm us through sheer force of numbers alone.

We the Legion, however, have been ordered to the rear to act as a last-ditch reserve. The walls ring with desperate battlecries as Anebrilithian bladesingers and Elythisian Sentinels vie against opportunistic warbands seeking to gain a foothold. The Spire Guard are pressed to breaking point as they struggle to hold back the tide of undeath. And yet Lord Turgon still refuses to believe in our dedication to the Anebrilithian cause.

It pains me to think that good people are fighting and dying whilst we stand still and twiddle our thumbs. My mind counsels patience, knowing that Lord Turgon's elnaith, Lord Elrohir's Skyknights, and ourselves are the only mobile tactical reserves left to defend against whatever move the enemy may make next. But this knowledge does not sit well in my stomach.

If the breach in the wall is taken, then the port is lost and we will be forced to retreat to the citadel proper. From then, it will only be a matter of time before we are overrun and massacred. We must hold it until we can repair it, no matter the cost.

I must go now, for Lord Arminas is calling us all to a council of war. I can only hope that we may find a way to resolve this crisis.

The hours ahead promise to be war-torn and bloody.

~ Entry in Ingwe's Book of Travels

[Flames of Hyperion]

Dawn seems so far away. It feels like eternities that I have waited in this lantern-lit void, the clamour of war rising above the ghastly silence of the witching hour. I know that I should get some sleep, but every little unexpected whisper sets my pulse racing and the adrenaline flowing, for the nightmares that stalk my mind are but a stone's throw distant in reality. Hayate has tired of my watchful vigilance and is fast asleep once more in the crook of my arm; how I envy him his composure.

Earlier this evening, Lord Arminas spoke to us of the Coven of Six, a select group of necromancers infamous for their cruelty and their inhumanity in pursuing their goals. He explained that it was most likely their work that the wards on the walls had been breached in the first place, and that their mere presence was greatly hampering the efforts of the greatest Anebrilithian magi in restoring them. Once or twice as he talked, Lord Arminas looked towards Nogeres as if for confirmation, which leaves me in little doubt of whom his source is.

Our skirmishes in the outer city have occasionally brought us into conflict with a lowly necromancer or dark wizard, but none of any great standing. I have yet to engage in a duel of magics in any form of anger; use of my powers has always been in conjunction with my blades as I fight. And although my spellcraft has improved greatly under the guidance of both runelord Telchar and archmage Nogeres, I still fear for my chances if I were forced to rely upon it alone.

As for Nogeres...

The mage is nothing short of an enigma. He wears always a heavy gray overcloak that wraps around his frame at least twice, with only the heavens know what hidden within. His staff is simple wood, no ornate decoration or intricate carving as favoured by the vast majority of his peers. His face is always concealed in shadows, occasionally exposing a pale cheek or gaunt jawline, and though his beard flows long and wise, he has a subtle elven quality about him that only adds to the mystery.

The power he wields, however, is unquestionable. I have not seen the forces of magic marshalled with such skill and intent since Seimei-sensei, back at the Academy. Even Telchar, who Derthark boasts of as one of the greatest runelords of this age, readily admits that his craft would not stand strong for long in the face of such consummate mastery of the arcane. Nogeres' mere presence humbles me, a single word of power makes my own skills seem so puny in comparison. And yet, in this time of strife and war, I have had the opportunity to study under such a master... for this alone, I cannot help but feel both fortunate and honoured.

There is a voice within my mind that is saddened by this turn of events, for at heart I believe that I am a scholar and not a warrior. There must be so many other ways in which I could be of use, so many other ways that I could help the needy and protect the innocent... That it would be my lot to spend this lonely hour in a benighted city under siege by forces even darker than the shadows themselves seems an almost cruel twist of life. But if fate has decreed that this is my path, then I shall do what I can, while I can still do so. And I will kick and fight this so-called fate all the way.

Ah, Yuka... it is nights like these that I miss you most. The lonesome keening of the wind, the seeping chill filtering through my cloak, the empty memories in my heart where I once dreamed of you. I wish...

The sentries to the port-side grow agitated. I wonder if...

~ Entry in Ingwe's Book of Travels

[Flames of Hyperion]

At last I have a moment of rest. Lord Arminas has practically ordered me to retire for the night, for I have not had respite for forty hours at the least. Before I do so, though, I feel that I must set down in words the great deeds that were done within these walls in the past few hours, for fear that the depths of slumber will erase them from my mind. Blissful as the notion may seem, the lessons we have learnt must never be forgotten.

It all began the night before last. One of the sentries – Lord Arminas is notably strict about discipline, even within the city walls – had spotted unnatural movement in the docks and reported it to Castor, who had been in charge of the night's duties. The Scarabrian huntsman had the presence of mind to call Nerdanel and Selinde instead of outright dismissing the report or leading men down there himself to investigate. Within moments the alarm had been raised and the entire camp was in an uproar, for Nerdanel's keen night vision had easily identified those responsible.

Wights.

I believe that they must have walked along the seabed, surviving tide and current due to the calm of the night and the powerful magic binding them to the plane. Nerdanel had by chance spotted only their advance guard; soon, there was a veritable army of the undead warriors swarming the sandy beaches and clambering over the elegant wooden piers. As one, they swept towards the refugee camp within the port proper, a tide of bladed darkness swamping all before it.

We were there to greet them. Lord Arminas had acted quickly and decisively as always, sending messengers to the Elythisian lords and the High Council, and ordering Glorfindel and myself to rally whoever was awake to make haste to intercept the foe. We arrived at the refugee camp mere minutes before the wights were upon us; aided by whatever able-bodied men and women had yet to flee, we prepared a makeshift perimeter and braced ourselves for the worst.

Thrice we held that flimsy wall of wood and canvas before Lord Arminas arrived with the rest of the Legion; thrice in the space of a quarter-hour that we beat them back with grit, blood, and steel alone. We managed to stem the tide for an hour more before we were beaten from our lines, and though there were many who fell or were wounded in that makeshift encampment, we were able to buy enough time for the majority of the refugees to flee towards the citadel.

In the end, however, we were forced to give ground, when both Lord Turgon and the High Steward made it known to Lord Arminas that we could not expect reinforcement. The undead hordes had renewed their assault upon wall and breach, and there were no soldiers to be spared.

And so began the second phase of the battle, the longest, most agonisingly stressful engagement that I have participated in to date.

Street by street, house by house, room by room, inch by bloody inch we retreated before the wight horde, through the port buildings and along the Harbour Walls towards the city proper. The world became a blur of sword and sorcery, of running for the nearest cover, dealing with the next opponent in any way possible, holding out as long as we could before being forced to fall back once again. To our credit, I believe we fought well; a long month in the outskirts of the city had prepared us well for this form of warfare. But time and again we were forced back by superior numbers and skill, only our adrenaline keeping us alive and one step ahead of harm. At the time it seemed like little more than an eternity, so dark were the skies above, so unchanging were our circumstances. Later, I was to learn that we had survived over thirty hours in that way.

At length, we drew close to where the Spire Guard of Tor Elythis were valiantly clinging to the breach in the walls, and we knew that we could retreat no further. Not one of us was untouched by the rigours of our exertions, wounds hastily tended to by basic battlefield care, food and sleep only what we could safely grab during the intermittent lulls in the advance of the wights. What a sight we must have looked, as we rallied ourselves at Lord Arminas' stentorian call, determined to sell our lives dearly in the face of the foe.

But fate had not forsaken us yet. Or rather, Lord Turgon had yet to play all of his cards.

The clarion trumpet of the elnaith charge, the shimmer of many thousands of ithilmar scale as the knights of the Silverwind threw themselves at the overextended lines of their undead foe. Lord Turgon had held his most powerful troops in reserve until the opportune moment, when the rise of the second dawn and the fewer buildings further from the port proper lent themselves to victory. The Legion was but a mote of dust in their wake as they swept decisively to the sea, regaining in thirty minutes what it had taken us thirty hours to lose. Oh, how the Spire Guard cheered and the bladesingers sang, and the undead were forced to abandon their assault under a renewed chorus of spell and blade.

Our day was not yet done, for the elnaith dared not risk themselves in door-to-door combat, and many wights held out still in isolated pockets of resistance. By mid-noon however, as the sun hung low in the western hills, we found ourselves once more at the smouldering ruins of the hastily fortified refugee encampment, the long path to Anebrilith behind us free of undead infestation. The Anebrilithian magi managed to repair the breach during this time, and for the first moment in what felt like eternities, there was silence.

Even now it hangs over us like a pall, a sad silence, a solemn silence. Many were the good men and elves to have given their lives in defence of the city on this day, and many more were wounded. There is no disguising the fact that we have been grievously mauled. Our victory is a bittersweet one, for there is an inevitable knowledge that we will not survive another such attack... and our foes are the implacable undead legions of Xem'zund.

But a pyrrhic victory is a victory nonetheless, and the thin strand of hope that sustains us still lives on. The port remains ours, the refugees remain alive, and there are still those upon the walls of the city that yet draw breath.

For now, however, I must sleep, for I am wearied beyond belief. Suppressed nightmares haunt my mind, stalking me from the shadows as I watch the byre flames dance. I do not know if I wish to wake up to this scene again.

But the stars are bright tonight.

~ Entry in Ingwe's Book of Travels

[Flames of Hyperion]

Morning has come, and I am still here. The tired toil of the living fills my ears as those still able to move help to clear away the debris of the previous days. I too would be out there aiding them were it not for three factors; the first that my shoulder is still tightly bandaged from a wound I received yestermorn, the second that I have just returned from council with Lord Arminas, and the third that I have been asked to record, in some shape or form, the events that have transpired over the past two hours.

Our numbers have been sorely depleted. In the last two nights alone, we have lost over a hundred fallen or badly wounded, and our fighting strength is a mere third of what it was when we left Scara Brae. It pains me to write this; hot tears run down my cheek as I think of how I helped to lead a handful of brave young men and women from the comfort of hearth and home to die in the muddy rainsoaked ruins of a foreign land. I mourn from the depths of my heart the loss of those who will never stand again, dead in the service of a cause not their own, but one that I helped convince them to support. And I berate myself mercilessly, for it was my failure as a leader that brought them to this fate, my weakness as a warrior that meant I was unable to avenge their deaths.

There is only one thing left for it now, and that is to ensure that their loss was not in vain. Never did I believe that we would be able to return as one to Scara Brae, but neither did I expect the situation to become quite so desperate. It was brought home like a sledgehammer to my face, just how small and powerless we are in the face of such great evil... and yet, just perhaps, there is something that we can do.

Such is the hope that Lord Arminas has given me this morn.

His plan is simple, daring and direct. We are doomed if we are to be stationed upon the walls in a war of attrition; neither would we survive long if we were thrown back out into the outer city. In which case, we must pursue the course of action that promises the greatest reprieve for both the city and for ourselves.

His plan is to break out from behind the walls and eliminate the Coven of Six.

This will be no easy task; they are not ranked amongst the greatest of Xem'zund's minions for no reason. The tales of even the least of their deeds is enough to send icy chills running down my spine. But Nogeres assures us that, as powerful as they are, they are still mortal and hence not invincible. What is more, their loss would greatly weaken the arcane strength of the enemy, and hopefully... just maybe... bring this battle back to level terms.

It is no surprise that neither Lord Turgon nor the High Steward is likely to approve this plan, for they would be loathe to relinquish even such a minor part of what strength they have remaining. But even Glorfindel has agreed that desperate times call for desperate deeds, and that in this matter, our allegiance is to Lord Arminas and to Raiaera.

We leave tonight, under cover of darkness and mist, by the same way that we were just invaded - the sea. There are a few unseaworthy fishing boats still in harbour that would not have made it to safety even if they were in top condition; Nogeres and Telchar have promised that they will be suitable for our purpose, if no more. The look upon Prince Derthark's face at the prospect of another water journey was priceless, but even he has not spoken out against it.

I must go now, for there is only so long that I can be seen to be scribing whilst there is work to be done. I can only hope that there is enough strength left in me to make up for those we have lost.

My pendant has been cold to the touch for all of the past three days.

~ Entry in Ingwe's Book of Travels

[Flames of Hyperion]

I am seated now under the shadow of a great oak tree, at the edge of the very forest that many of us first ventured through upon our arrival at Anebrilith. It is as gloomy and death-laden as ever, the ground cracked and parched, gnarled leaf-bereft branches moaning and swaying in the harsh breeze. If anything, it has worsened since we came here before, but I am not surprised. The Necromancer's influence is insidious and pernicious.

Nerdanel, Selinde, and the tracker Tauron have been sent to scout the road ahead; Nogeres has told us of a secret lair built into one of the many mounds to the southwest of the city that would be an ideal base of operations... if, of course, the enemy has not already destroyed it. I have sent Hayate with them as well, to bring us swift word of danger should the need arise. But the chances of that seem slim... the heavy defeat of two nights before has sown chaos and havoc in Xem'zund's ranks, and it will be a while yet before his lieutenants can restore order in such a large army. Nogeres himself is at the moment trying to guide the last of the three fishing vessels - little more than derelict hulks, in fact - to safety. Prince Derthark is huddled against the cabin in the centremost part of the ship, his face distinctly green even from where I sit.

The general feeling is one of optimism and determination; it seems to me as if we are all glad to be free of the city. I suppose in some sense that it has acquired the reputation of a death trap, and that the majority of us would prefer to fall with the wind upon our faces and grass beneath our head rather than amidst soulless masonry. I do state majority, of course, for Telchar is glowering at me angrily as I write this.

As for myself...

I guess that I am of two minds at the moment. On one hand, I feel guilt at walking away so brazenly from the battleground upon which so many of my comrades fell, and from the healing halls in which so many more lie. I have heard it described as the burden of a survivor, shackles upon my mind that I might have, perhaps even should have, found more strength within myself at the time. Maybe then, many of those who fell would still be alive.

On the other, a little voice keeps reminding me that the only way onwards is indeed onwards, and that no matter how I grieve or berate myself, the dead cannot return to life. I realise that I must overcome this veil of negativity and strive to protect what we still have. It is just that... it gets so difficult, so lonely sometimes.

I wonder if one day in the distant future I shall read these words and laugh at myself. I wonder if they will sound weak, or foolish, or pitiful to me then. I wonder if in that day I will be able to better articulate this empty void within my heart, or in some other way than by inane rambling in my own private journal.

I wonder if I would have found you again by that time, and apologised for a similar weakness of mine when I was unable to save you from being spirited away.

I wonder if I will ever set eyes upon you or this journal again.

Enough of this. It is no use clutching hopelessly at the pendant upon my chest when it is in fact myself that must be strong. I must bury my emotions beneath a mountain of calm and smile a strong smile, if not for my own sake then for the sake of those around me.

The men are ready now, and the way ahead has been reported clear. Lord Arminas is looking my way, asking with his eyes if I am prepared.

I am.

~ Entry in Ingwe's Book of Travels

[Flames of Hyperion]

We are in luck, or so Lord Arminas says. What Nogeres described to us as a potentially undiscovered hideout from which to base our operations has in fact turned out to be the lair of the Coven of Six themselves. The low hill crackles and splutters with coruscating dark energies, and the choking taint of necromancy taints the air, heavy enough to make me want to gag. Dark shadows stalk the land around us, more threatening and more evil than anything else that I have previously experienced. Nogeres assures me that the enemy have yet to spot us, and that his magic will keep us safe until the time is right, but that does not stop me from jumping at every unexpected movement in the night.

It is now just past midnight, and the full moon casts erratic pools of silky light down upon this barren landscape. We shelter underneath a rocky outcropping not far from one of the two camouflaged escape routes from the mound, myself and approximately thirty other souls including Nogeres himself. At daybreak we will infiltrate the Coven's lair via our appointed entrance; Glorfindel and thirty more Legionnaires will do the same from the other side, whilst Lord Arminas and his Rangers, together with Prince Derthark and his dwarves, have the unenviable task of storming the place from the front.

We will need to move quickly and decisively if there is to be any chance of success. There must be no warning for the Coven of Six, only swift death and cold steel, for if they are given the opportunity to muster their magics, then our odds shorten drastically. Of course, if they already know that we are here, we will be walking into a trap... but Nogeres is reassuring me again - and with great confidence, I may add - that their attention is elsewhere.

I have no idea why Nogeres insisted upon coming with me rather than with Lord Arminas, where no doubt his skills would be put to a far sterner test. I cannot complain, though... in truth, he reassures me with his mere presence. His skill with the arcane, as I have said before, is such that I have never seen previously.

He is also very wise and knowledgeable, or at least he seems to be. Earlier this evening he took great interest in my pendant, murmuring and clucking to himself as only wizards in deep thought can. At length he seemed satisfied, although no matter how I pressed him, he refused to tell me anything about the matter, stating firmly that it was not his place to do so.

His interest, though, has rekindled my own. The most likely explanation for what I experienced upon my arrival at Anebrilith is that some deep magic has engrained itself into both my pendant and yours, and that this is forming a tenuous connection between us that is most evident under duress. Why I can seem to appear before you in my dreams, or how you were able to aid me in my time of need, I do not know. Such reasoning would also require that you recovered your pendant somehow after that incident, and though part of me is desperate to believe, there is no logical reason why you should have. And still, the evidence suggests...

Perhaps there is another explanation, perhaps altogether more mundane. But is it wrong of me to hope...?

Perhaps it is. Belief has always been a luxury that I can ill afford, now more than ever. And yet...

Only the dead silence of the night hears my questions. As always, it gives me no answer. But maybe, just maybe, somebody out there is listening. And maybe one day, I will know the truth.

Long have been the hours I have spent in thought; even now the eastern horizon begins to pale with the onset of dawn. About me the men are beginning to stir, roused by the expectation that perhaps today is the day that they will be able to make a difference in this war. For their sake, for our sake, for the sake of every innocent life upon this continent, I hope that this will be so.

To war, the long grasses urge, sighing resignation waving us inland. For peace, the wind responds, soothing the agitation and trepidation.

I must check the bandages on my left shoulder one last time, for it will not do for them to fail me in the heat of battle. After that, it will be time to leave.

If this should be the last entry in this journal, my only regret is that even after travelling so far, I was unable to meet you again. I do not fear the path I tread, only that my death will be dishonourable or, even worse, meaningless in the grand scheme of things. May fortune favour the worthy... may fortune favour you.

~ Entry in Ingwe's Book of Travels

[Flames of Hyperion]

I am alive. Four hours have passed since the fighting ended, the sun now long past its zenith as it peers tentatively out from behind enshrouding clouds. And still this is the only thought that my mind can muster.

I am alive.

The events of this morning are little more than a disorganised blur within my mind. Now that I finally have the time to sit down and sift through it all, perhaps I can attempt to piece together exactly what happened.

I think that the surprise we achieved was almost total. For a long time after we burst through the wooden hatch that separated the dark tunnels of the Coven's hideout from the outside world, there was very little resistance. I remember my surprise and caution as claustrophobic passageways quickly opened up into well-worn corridors. Although not quite majestic, the complex was certainly far larger than any of us had expected, and even Nogeres seemed to be surprised.

We passed door after door of thick reinforced oak, the contents of which were mountains of food and drink that had been appropriated from the surrounding farms. Our advance grew slower as we were forced to check every room thoroughly for the presence of one of the Six. What foes we met were alone and off-guard; mis-shapenly mutated experiments, necromantic apprentices and disciples, and the occasional wight or zombie. Nogeres urged no mercy, in all heart I could not disagree, and the men were only too happy to oblige.

At length, we came upon tunnels that had been newly excavated and reinforced. Unlike the smooth, almost elegant corridors of before, they were rough and poorly lit. The steady drip of seeping water accompanied our stealthy footsteps as we ventured ever deeper into the mound. Rooms were now fewer and further between, and more often than not were an exhibition of necromantic horrors rather than a benign storeroom. Resistance grew steadily stronger and more numerous, and we had to be careful to eliminate it with the least sound possible, trusting to our luck that the alarm was not raised. The stale, rank air was stifling with the stench of death and decay, causing not a few gag reflexes to kick in. The earth itself moaned with suppressed agony, pained at the evil and suffering it had witnessed within.

Almost an hour had passed since we had entered the lair, and already notions such as daylight and fresh breeze seemed so far away. With the walls starting to weep thick oily blood, however, and with crude etchings of symbols that made my eyes hurt just by gazing upon them dogging our every step, we all knew that it was only a matter of time before either ourselves, Arminas, or Glorfindel stumbled upon our quarry.

Whatever it was that Nogeres had done to lull the Coven into a false sense of security, not to mention negate any magical wards that the necromancers might have cast upon the area, the effort had been well spent. When at last the desperation began to show and the tension grew so thick it was suffocating, we stumbled upon the most opulent doorway we had come across in the complex yet. Ebony, gilded with gold and etched in silver, bearing a single red rune that I could only partially decipher as the personal insignia of one of the necromancers.

My heartbeat was practically thundering in my ears as we forced the lock and gained entry, after Nogeres had swiftly disabled the protective wards placed upon the entrance. The decorum was no less grandiose than the door had led me to believe, lush crimson carpet, overstated gothic furniture, and ornately arcanic apparel. In the middle of an impressively large four-poster bed swathed in curtain, snored an obese, pallid-complexioned man clad in flowing black robes, the gnarled staff not far from his bedside marking him out unmistakably as one of the Coven.

Sensing the opportunity, we crept forth with naked steel raised high.

But before we could strike, all of hell seemed to break loose.

~ Entry in Ingwe's Book of Travels

[Flames of Hyperion]

Later I would learn that the explosion had been caused when Glorfindel had beheaded one of the Coven, a small rat-esque man bedecked in gaudy bone circlets and other such grisly trophies. Dormant power within the necromancer's mind, built up behind a mental dam in preparation for some devastating spell, had lost focus due to the caster's untimely death and erupted instead in a violent backlash that had completely blown away half of the mound overhead. Glorfindel told me of how he had only survived by virtue of the fact that he had been directly behind the necromancer when it had happened; two other men had been less lucky, and four more had been injured.

At the time, although I sensed the sudden outburst of arcane power, I did not know what had caused the earthquake. The necromancer we faced, however, was awake and alerted to our presence almost before his eyes were open; the disturbance in reality was enough to make even the poorest of magical talents wince in agony, and judging by the expression he wore, the man was evidently in much pain. I recognised him from the taint of his aura as he gathered his powers to him instinctively; the same greasy evil that had permeated the fog in the forest upon our arrival at Anebrilith. I am sure that he recognised us as well, for the expression upon his face was one of pure shock, and he managed all of a single stuttered "You...!" as he sat bolt upright amongst his bedding.

Everything seemed to happen at once. Barely had I formed words of warning upon my lips before the air crackled with the distinctive displacement of an apparation spell, and abruptly there were not one but two of the Six facing us. The newcomer was tall and skinny, his oil-slick face coated with puissant pockmarks. He gave the first necromancer a quick acknowledging glance, then as one they turned to glare at us. Nogeres and I were the only ones to stand our ground; everybody else knew better than to do anything but dive for cover.

A breath later, and the room was alive with the sound of thunder. A chaotic succession of spells of every description turned the opulent chamber into a many-coloured, multi-faceted battleground that defied all logical comprehension whatsoever. Lightning bolts and fireballs, protective wards and counterspells, traps and cantrips, feints and master-spells. I remain to this very moment astonished that the room itself did not implode in the first few seconds of the barrage from the sheer destructive force that was being thrown about within.

I will admit that I was not a little daunted by the prospect of facing two of the Coven at once and head on, although I had little time to spare to be thinking such thoughts. I will also readily admit that, of all the spellcasters present, I was by far the most junior. After the opening salvo, I was forced back to desperately countering anything headed my way, unable to conjure any offensive spells whatsoever. On the other hand, I was also able to experience first-hand Nogeres' true mastery of the arcane arts; the simple flowing ease with which he dealt with the two skilled necromancers was almost terrifying to watch. Slowly but surely the archmage turned up the pressure until the air grew thick and heavy with the multiple spells in existence, and the duel became less of a matter of if, and more of when. Sensing that his opponents had reached the limits of their abilities, Nogeres effortlessly raised the bar even higher... and suddenly the skinny necromancer slumped lifeless to the floor, a gaping charred hole where his chest had once been. Brutally efficient and mercilessly quick, it was almost anticlimactically shocking; it was also enough to cause the obese necromancer to take one look at his companion's unresponsive form before apparating away with a resounding crack.

By the time I had picked myself up from the floor and dusted off the charred remnant of spell from my tunic, Nogeres had already begun preparations for the purification and cremation of the necromancer's body, a process necessary to ensure that it would not reanimate itself once we had turned our backs. The chamber had suffered heavily during the battle and barely anything remained intact and/or salvageable from its original occupant's artefacts and documents. But before I could commence a more thorough search through the acrid stench, the sound of Glorfindel's cultured elven tones calling for aid echoed through the corridors from the level below.

Amidst perked ears and hushed, worried murmurs, I barely had the time to meet Nogeres' eyes before belting from the necromancer's chambers at a run.

~ Entry in Ingwe's Book of Travels