Tarlov Chronicles I

Unto His Excellency Viscount Gregor Endarr,

As requested, I have here pages scribed from copies made available by the Aran Elenaro of the Quentari people. A representative of Count Roderick Daleron brought it to the Aran in ER 597 in the town of Padash after the document was apparently found in Tyrangel. I have verified the dates within to the best of my ability. The document contained within appears to have been written in the Quentari year of 4416, otherwise known as the 191^st year of the reign (“Loa” in the Quentari language) of Aran Thloestel. In Evendarr Reckoning that is 754 years before the founding of our Kingdom. This document appears to be a diary made notable by its inclusion of Tarlov Ghosthand before he descended to madness. I am further told, that this document was used to help in Tarlov’s eventual destruction.

Your humble servant,

Kiertan Greentoggins of the Hobling Greentoggins

October, 601 ER

JOURNAL OF MORATHAK CALENOR

My dearest Shaellorin,

As per your request, I shall be keeping this journal in the little book you gave me upon our parting. I am going to write as though it were a missive to you. It makes it easier to pretend that I am only away for a little while, writing you love notes as I while away the hours til our reunion. If nothing else, it shall be an amusing record of my participation in "the little human war" as Ryfellyn calls it.

I know you do not agree with my going to war with the others, but I am determined to be a part of this, even if his Majesty had not asked me. My Lord Thloestel might have allowed me to stay had I refused, of course, but - and I hope you will forgive me for this - I wanted to go. My opinion on humans and their politics, no matter what Ryfellyn may say, is no more forgiving than the next elf, but the way Sir Lathaeon spoke; I felt the pain of his people. The attacks of the goblinfolke, as well as their elemental allies, are more than simply human politics. This is a fight to preserve the sanctity of our world, and I must be a part of it. I must see it through.

Even if Sir Lathaeon hadn't convinced me with his words, My Lord Thloestel intends me to go. He has been my liege, my patron, my mentor, and my friend for over two hundred years, and if he wishes me to go, I will go. I know that Ryfellyn will try to convince you I obey him because he replaces you in my heart, but you must believe me when I say that I love you with everything that is in my heart, mind, body, and soul. No space between us can lessen that, no matter how many the miles. I can only hope that you will remain faithful to me, for I will be faithful to you until my Final Death.

So be it, then. Let this page remind me of what I will return to, and fates grant I shall live to deliver this journal to your hands.

In strongest love,

Morathak

Loa Thloestel 191, 25th day of May

Day One

It seems important to note here that I am Morathak Calenor, Paurdor of the Quentari armies. With me goes my good friend Lord Jhiakyn Thalasylior, a master of the art of blade-dancing. Along with us ride Lady Shavyllaine Calaharia, Lord Graesonarion Mafisyr, and the most esteemed Lady Namariaeo Vassyrallia, Wizard of Light and Darkness. We have brought an army of some one thousand elves, soldiers and concerned citizenry alike, to the aid of the humans to the southeast. Sir Lathaeon d'Venwyn, former Knight to the late King Dasavion VI of Zhaffiria, has been leading us to Danrayin, kingdom of King Danwyn, who has already pledged aid to Lathaeon's cause.

We have been passing through some very pretty country, green fields and amber meadows, dotted by a few well-tended copses of fruit-bearing trees. With the smell of the fruit blossoms strong on the spring breeze and the golden sun bright in an endless blue sky, it is difficult to believe a war could be threatening this peaceful place. These lands, as I said, are called Danrayin, a city-state ruled by King Danwyn VI (our host), who is called "the Bull" by his lieutenants and soldiers. I believe the nickname is affectionate. If it is not, he gives no sign of taking offense.

The nickname is very apt. I sat with Lord Jhiakyn upon one of the so-called "alliance councils" between our folk and the humans, and King Danwyn sat nearly opposite us. He is a tremendously large human! If he is less than seven foot, then it cannot be by much, and his broad shoulders and neck suggest that he would be more comfortable wearing a yoke than a crown. At the council, we discussed the possibility of bringing Dwarvenkind into the folds of our slowly growing union. Apparently some dwarves live in the mountains near here, and the prospect of allying with them had been broached before. Crisis indeed to have to ally with those stiff-necked folk, but the humans seem quite keen on the idea, and Jhiakyn allowed that such skilled metalworkers would be invaluable during this time of war. I saw no recourse but to agree, despite my own personal feelings about the burrowers. Afterwards, we saw some of the humans engaging in their training exercise. La, but King Danwyn looked quite the Bull indeed. Stripped to the waist, he looked more like some farm animal than any kind of man. His soldiers clearly dote on him, for he can beat them all in a wrestling match. He teases Jhiakyn and I for our smaller stature and slight build, referring to us as the "little birds." Jhiakyn almost challenged him to honor combat on the spot, but, thankfully, Jhiakyn relies on my patience to guide him, and I called him back before he could so much as call insult upon the big braggart. Jhiakyn returned, though I am almost certain I heard him muttering, "If I ever catch him alone...”

We have eaten well this night, though the table manners of humans are enough to offend a buzzard. A succulent kind of bird lives in the brush of this land (some kind of game-hen, I think, and quite fleet of foot) and we were served several, spitted and roasted with herbs. A wild dog watched us eat with something resembling jealousy and thwarted pride. Perhaps he himself had been trying to catch the birds. In sympathy, I tossed the poor fellow some bones, and he seemed content to drag them off and gnaw on them. Quite human, in a way. La, but no. I must recall that they are our allies and, indeed, hosts at this time. At least they make good wine.

King Danwyn was just looking over my shoulder, examining my entry. Thankfully, I have been writing in our tongue, and not his, and he simply asked me what it said. I told him it praised his hospitality and the beauty of the local terrain and he seemed quite pleased with that. I must be careful what I write. Someday, a human who reads our script will look over my shoulder, and then where will I be? From here on out, I shall not make any ungracious comments about our allies, if I can avoid it

Day Two

I am constantly being reminded of the differences between our peoples. This morning, we woke bright and early to the sound of martial trumpets and fell out to inspect King Danwyn's troops with him. What a glorious sight! Full one thousand men in matching red tabards, their helmet-plumes bright and fresh, their swords newly polished. And yet, despite the glory of it, I found it slightly disturbing. The humans have such a different approach to war and soldiering than we do. Where our people so value our uniqueness, even when in units of soldiery, the humans seem to revel in their conformity. But for their faces, they might all have been the same men and women, rank after rank. They were virtually indistinguishable in their uniforms, and it's plain that this must either be to baffle the enemy into thinking it kept fighting the same soldiers over and over again, or to make the enemy's spies so bored with counting the same uniform over and over that they finally lose count or give up.

Still, there is something inspiring in the sight of so many, dressed so alike, and with such unity of purpose. It is almost like watching a single entity undulating across the parade field, its tendrils suddenly bristling with pikes or bows. Utterly repellent, yet also singularly fascinating to behold. My days training my own soldiers in no wise prepared me for the sight. Some of them are so young, especially by our standards, as to be barely more than children. But, as King Danwyn reminds me, this is a time of war, and no one who wishes to join the army will be turned away.

There is one young soldier, a barefaced lad, who could barely be more than a score of years, who keeps watching me. I wonder if he has ever seen an elf before? There is something voyeuristic in being here before him. His eyes stare at me as though I had ten heads that breathed fire. I must remember to ask Sir Lathaeon what the average human believes of us. I should not want to smile at the boy and have him think I'm about to go for his throat.

Lord Jhiakyn and I, along with the soldiers we have brought, were invited to join in the human soldiers' exercises, which mostly consist of beating one another senseless with ill-padded wooden weapons, weighted with lead cores. I was facing Sir Lathaeon, and I believe he gave a good acquittal of himself, for all I have been a soldier since his grandparents were in diapers. Lord Jhiakyn was matched against The Bull himself, and I feared the great hulking brute would damage my poor friend. I had nothing to worry about, of course. I forget, sometimes, what a proficient blade-dancer Lord Jhiakyn is. He simply stepped out of the way of each of the thick-necked giant's blows, stepping in to deliver a gentle tap of his own, now and again. Finally, the Bull, frustrated, threw down his sword and stalked off. Sir Lathaeon offered us his apologies for the King's behavior, and then went to comfort the angry monarch. Meanwhile, Lord Jhiakyn asked Tairaninan, one of our captains, to help him demonstrate the blade-dance. When the humans saw that my friend intended to duel his captain with live steel, the silence was thicker than the smell of their ill-washed bodies.

I have spoken to you often, beloved, of my awe for Lord Jhiakyn's mastery of the two hundred and seventy forms of the blade-dance. If I have ever told you of his grace, his control and his skill, my words could not have conveyed the amazement we all felt to watch Jhiakyn now. I had grown used to watching the slower, clumsy movements of our hosts, and to see an elf of such unparalleled excellence dance our ancient martial art was like watching the finest dancer at the stage, or to hear an aria sung by the finest contra-tenor of The Homeland. It was art in the purest sense of the word, and I was struck as silent as the humans, watching him dance the deadly dance once again. Captain Tairaninan fought well, but it was like watching a duel between an ogre and a toddler. There was never any doubt as to who would eat whom, as it were. When Lord Jhiakyn reached inside the captain's guard and nicked his cheek, we all exhaled a collectively held breath. The Captain bowed and left the field, and the soldiers cheered my old friend's victory. Even the Bull, who had returned at word of the "marvelous game", forgot his anger. He felt no shame in being unable to hit Lord Jhiakyn when he saw how truly skilled he is. I think he had forgotten that, despite our youthful appearance, we are many, many times his senior. I think he has learned not to underestimate us. Now, if he would only stop calling us "little birds."

It is several hours later. The young human I mentioned earlier came to let us know that His Majesty wished us to join him in the southern Council Room. No sooner had he blurted this, he practically bolted from the room in tears. Humans are such strange creatures, and I hardly know what to think of them sometimes. I wonder if he thought we were going to kill him for daring to speak to us. Jhiakyn thinks I have overestimated his age, and puts him at barely more than fifteen. I fear I must bow to my companion’s judgment. I cannot place the ages of humans.

The council was nothing more important than the King alerting us to the coming presence of dwarves the next day. I cannot say I am overly thrilled, but, from what I have heard of the war, we shall need every hand when we march in a se'night. Ah, well. At least our armor and swords will remain in good repair.

Day Three

No sign of the dwarves. Perhaps the spring rains have delayed them. More practice with human soldiers. I long to test my skill against a decent opponent, but every time I use one of the forms of the blade-dance, the humans become so alarmed that I am inevitably able to beat them. If I am able to win every battle by bluffing the goblins, we may win this war without bloodshed. I just pray our enemy has no such art, or our allies might gawk their ways into death. My young human keeps avoiding me. I think he's afraid.

Day Four

The remnants of a squadron of dwarves appeared today. They said that the goblinfolke had caught them in a mountain pass, bottled them up at both ends and held them there until elemental reinforcements had appeared. These dwarves were part of a group sent for help. We prepared to ride immediately, of course.

Day Five

If I had not seen the horror of this war with my own eyes this day, I would never have believed what we were up against. The bodies of dwarves lie strewn about the mountain pass, piled up so many that they block the pass in parts. This was an honor guard led by the dwarven king's own son, to come parlay for terms of alliance in this war. Not one remained alive that we were able to find. A number of dwarves were missing. I hope by all that's merciful that this means they broke out of the trap and headed back towards their own homes, or that they chose not to use their hastily erected resurrection circle. I pray it does not mean that the starving goblinfolke are no longer going hungry. The bodies. Ai, ai! The bodies are half intact, as if they had been frozen by elementals of ice, then charred, horribly, torturously, by elementals of flame. I would hope to never see the like again, but, if this war is all that is hinted at, this can only be the beginning. I am used to war, but this? This is not war this is...horror itself.

Day Six

We are setting out tomorrow for Kaasa-Dwaerin, a dwarven kingdom located in and under the mountains King Danwyn calls the Giant's Spine. If all goes well, we shall press on thereafter, to the city-states of the self-proclaimed "Sorcerer Kings". For all their arrogance, they are supposed to be the most formidable human and non-human wizards that have yet to live. I am very hopeful for their aid. As we, along with fifty soldiers from King Danwyn (including my young human, I was amused to note) and Sir Lathaeon's little group of men, ride to Kaasa-Dwaerin, the King himself will be exhorting his human neighbors to join us in going to the aid of the embattled lands. It will be quite an army, this alliance, if all goes well.

Day Ten

Forgive me, beloved, for not writing every day, but the riding has been hard, and there has been little enough to report.

The terrain is rocky and mountainous, as inimical to our kind as desert is to a fish. Few trees, except for several hardy pines, grow here. We follow trails barely able to allow us to ride two abreast, and I am certain we shall lose soldiers into the deep ravines below us. Anyone who fell from these great heights would be so broken on the rocks below that I am uncertain enough pieces could be collected for a decent burial.

My young soldier has finally come forth and introduced himself. Apparently his name is Fenik d'Gwaithe, and his odd moods come from his nervousness about the war, coupled with his awe over our being close. We seem to be almost legendary in his eyes, and the sheer adoration in them as we spoke, more than anything I have ever encountered, convinces me that we must stop being so separatist. If our allies spend too much time gawking at the pretty elves, they'll be easy pickings for goblinkind. Fenik is, in fact, sixteen summers old. When he told me this, I experienced a moment of utter doubt before I recalled how quickly humans grow up. He has been watching me brush the strokes of our letters, and he seems truly interested. Perhaps I will teach him a few words of our tongue. He seems affable enough for a human, and better cleaned than most of them. He cannot pronounce my true name, but, instead, calls me Lord Brightfire, as many of the humans do. I take no insult. One does not push children into speaking well, but rather guides them slowly.

Day Twelve

It has been a hard five days of riding, but it has been worth every step of the way as far as I am concerned. The terrain, as we climbed higher into the mountains, grew no less difficult, but we started to see dwarves camped in cunningly concealed lookouts, revealed only when they hailed us. Their crossbowmen could have rained bolts down on us before we ever knew they were there. I was reminded of the treetop forts of The Homeland, where our best archers are said to have slain whole armies before they were even seen, back in the Burning Times.

Our procession into Kaasa-Dwaerin was somber, but awe-inspiring. Have we believed that dwarves were nothing more than xenophobic, simple craft makers who hide in grubby caves? Earth and sky, how we've wronged them! Xenophobic they may be but simple they are not, and to call their city a cave would be to call the Taursiloriel a forest: essentially true but hardly the whole truth.

If not for my guide's assurances, I would've assumed we'd ridden down into a blind canyon. Two guards emerged, seemingly from the stone itself, showed only the tiniest flicker of emotion for their fellows' return, and told us, much to all our relief, that the prince and some of the soldiers had returned. Indeed, they'd been preparing to try and come through again if necessary, to rejoin their fellows. Then the gatekeepers opened the gates, and my jaw fell to my chest. The gate was fairly fifty feet high and one hundred feet wide. It was incredibly well concealed, having appeared to be part of the rock face. Now, however, it opened with a great rumble, and we saw the lamp-lined entry-hall into Kaasa-Dwaerin. It was easily large enough for those of us on horses to ride directly in, while the infantry marched in behind us. Our horses were stabled, and we were told we would be led to the audience chamber of King Balanor Stonehammer, son of Barak Goblinbane, firstborn descendant of the great dwarven hero Kiron Ironaxe (whoever that is.)

If I expected to feel claustrophobic, I was disappointed. The great arching tunnels with their ribbed and vaulted roofs were so high above us as to be often out of sight. If I expected it to be dark, I was disappointed again. Lamps hung everywhere, sometimes simple and workmanlike, but more often beautiful and decorative as well. In one hall, lamps suspended from the ceiling showed the exact pattern of the stars, even up to and including constellations that can be seen above Quentari. Here a crystal dolphin spat a glowing fluid into a fountain of the stuff, lighting what could only be described as a town square of sorts. If I expected there to be no view, again I was so completely wrong. Bridges led over clear streams filled with jewel-like fish. Grottos of natural flowstone gleamed with gems that had been set into them in decorative patterns. The dwarven kingdom was magnificent, not at all the miserable dirt hole I'd expected.

The audience hall was no less breathtaking. It is a natural cavern that the dwarves called "Earth's Heart" and indeed, we climbed so many steps going down that I can well believe it was! The walls, ceiling, and floor are of a substance so black as to almost seem as if it were fashioned from darkness itself. Set in mosaics on the walls and floor are some of the finest cut gemstones I have ever seen. A dragon made from chips of emerald gazed at me with a ruby eye the size of my fist. Did we consider the dwarves poor and dreamless? Na, na, beloved. They are true artists, and rich enough to buy us a thousand times over, if one measures them by their precious metals and gems. King Balanor sat on a throne that was made of gold and decorated with a thousand bright diamonds, and he wore a crown of Platinum, set with a single sapphire that caught the light from the lamps and clothed us all in dazzling robes of blue light. Ai, me, but I long to go back there someday with you. Is it strange for an elf to admit that the beauty of the dwarven kingdom has touched him? So be it.

We were given kingly gifts indeed, as if we were the masters of this hall. Robes that seemed to have been spun from gold were thrown round our shoulders, and circlets of silver were placed upon our brows. In addition, drinking bowls, fashioned, it seems, from single gems of incredible size, were placed in our hands and filled with something the dwarves called "Angharad" which, I believe, means Ironsmite. An apt name. No sooner had Sir Lathaeon quaffed his than he fell to the floor as if hit on the head with a hammer, and if not for our tolerance for the potent drink called Morning Dew, I think Jhiakyn and I would've followed. Instead, we simply got marvelously drunk and immediately all tension between King Balanor and ourselves vanished. We chatted like old friends, and by the time we sobered up, why, so we were! It was not a poison (I was not so foolish as to not have a healer nearby who could check, afterwards, when politeness allowed) but simply a marvelous, smooth, intoxicating drink, like gulping down bellyfuls of molten fire.

After we sobered a little, we all examined the maps King Balanor produced. The goblinfolke along with their foul, otherworldly allies, had invaded the southern areas of this underground kingdom, and liberating it would be our first real fight. Thereafter, we would push out into an area the dwarves called Darakhim, or "the Doorstep", which, I suppose, it was. Darakhim has a large indigenous human population, including one of those Sorcerer Kings I mentioned earlier, a fellow by the name Tarlov y'Koharitan. Tarlov has been one of the strongest proponents of alliance between the factions, and his little city-state Kingdom has been holding off the various powers arrayed against them. For all his youth (I am told he is only 30 years old), this Tarlov is apparently a powerful mage indeed! Tomorrow, we shall travel to the embattled area of Kaasa-Dwaerin, liberate it, and then continue on. I am told that the ride will be some two days long.

Several hours have passed since my last entry. This underground realm is very disorienting. It is deucedly difficult to tell whether it is day or night, as we have lost track. An ingenious little device called a water clock keeps me aware of the passing hours, but I must learn what hour of the day it was that we came into the kingdom.

Young Fenik came for his first lesson in "elftongue" as he puts it. He is a pleasant fellow, very polite. In between his writing lessons, we spoke at length about his hopes and fears for the times to come. He is terrified to be in battle, for, as the expression goes, he has never held a spear before, let alone killed. He shows great bravery though, and, like all of "The Bull's" men, he loves his king very much. He also loves a young girl named Coria, and he showed me her picture in a locket he carried. She is a comely enough human, I believe, and her picture even reminded me of you, a little. Nothing specific. I do not mean that she resembled you, just that his devotion to her made me think of you, beloved. I showed him the little portrait of you and I you had made for me, and he allowed that he thought you were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, but that his lady matched his heart more closely. He has a poet's gift this boy, I think, to praise another's lady and yet stay true to his own. I gave him a little wine to drink, and we talked at length. Jhiakyn finds him amusing (like a trained squirrel, he confided in me, after the boy had gone, which, I think, was a touch unkind of him) and we spoke until late, when he retired to his barracks.

Day Thirteen

We ride today, beloved, and, I have been told, it will be two days until we arrive where the goblinfolke are. Until then, I think of you, always. Be well, beloved.

Day Sixteen

Forgive me, beloved, for my silence. I have been most bitterly embattled until now. But, tonight, I sit under the stars and feel the wind on my face, and I have time and sanity to write once more.

When I was told the ride would be two days, I did not pause to think that it would mean two days of traveling through tunnels. Though the dwarven king and his people offered splendid hospitality as we travel, my spirit began to ache for fresh air and growing things.

And when we met the goblins, half a day before we expected, ah, the fighting. To fight with no sun or moon above you is abominable, and it was a swirling chaos of death and steel. The dwarves are excellent fighters, and I was very glad for their presence. They would suddenly seem to melt into the stone, to appear flanking the goblinfolke. The bestial goblins didn't seem to know what had hit them. Their line was broken and they fled, with our armies in pursuit.

It was a trap, of course. The dwarven homes now held orcs, ogres, trolls, goblins, and other, less namable beasts that poured out and attacked, hitting us from all sides. We would have lost many men if not for the surprising valor of the humans. In perfect unity, they formed a bristling wall of spears to our rear, forcing the humanoids back, cutting them down, or trampling them under foot as they led our retreat to a point of defense. Our casualties were surprisingly low and we rallied, now slaying the goblins and their allies in droves. The hall we fought in became slick with their black blood, and we had to toss the bodies out of the way to be able to properly fight. As it was, we sent them running but chose not to pursue.

The next day we followed, checking every house as we went. It was a slow, arduous process, but we successfully avoided any further ambushes. Instead, we picked their army apart and slew them piecemeal. The remainder fled before us, right out the far gates and into Darakhim. We made our camp outside that night, while the dwarves remained within their halls. In a way, I pity them. As we have been out of our element, so they now will be out of theirs. Still, they bear this burden with stoic calm, and I can only hope we acted as at ease while within their halls.

I was pleased to see that my little human had not only survived his first battle, but also done very well, earning a personal commendation from Sir Lathaeon for his bravery in saving two wounded fellows from an orc, single-handedly! They now call him Fenik the Ferret for his ferocity and speed. He seems to have a natural charisma, and I find myself no more resistant to it than his fellows are. I have to admit I like this young human! He is so full of life, and so young. I worry for him when the battles truly are joined. Goblins are foul, indeed, but it is their elemental allies I most fear. I hope he will be safe. We have no resurrection circles under our control, except in the dwarven kingdom. I can only hope there will be one in Koharzhin, Tarlov's city-state, for that will be one of our bases of attack. I am told he is only a day journey away.

Day Eighteen

We have arrived in Koharzhin, having been slowed in our travel by occasional harrying attacks by a few of the orcs we failed to slay in Kaasa-Dwaerin. Tarlov is the picture of an eager young human ruler, determined to protect the people he loves from the ravages of the goblin horde. And with good reason, he has a lovely young wife, Jaianna, and their first child, a golden boy named Partran, is only two years old. He has been a gracious host. His halls are not full of the martial splendor of Danrayin nor the ostentatious glory of Kaasa-Dwaerin, but instead have a homely charm that belie the fact that Tarlov is by all accounts an occasionally ruthless Sorcerer-King.

It is said that he was taken prisoner by a Sorceress when he was just a baby, the evil woman having cast his parents, the rulers of Koharzhin, down and taken the throne for herself. She kept Tarlov around as a pet and apprentice, and when he had learned enough, he destroyed her in a magickal duel that blew the top off of the tower. Truly, I find it difficult to reconcile the image of that fierce, young, rebelling slave with the affable man that hosts us. With all his good manners and pleasantries, Tarlov y'Koharitan could easily have been a simple scion of the court. He is a remarkable human, and I like him, a great deal. We are to wait here for King Danwyn's men to come southwest from Danrayin's neighbors, Boradia, Fessaryn, and Narthoclese. If all has gone according to plan, King Danwyn will have armies and the kings of these lands to support us. This done, we shall venture forth to collect two other sorcerer-kings who have pledged us aid, and then ride to the aid of embattled Harkendale, the Kingdom that most needs our help.

Day Twenty-Three

After too long a wait, more soldiers have arrived, but not from the sources we expected. Two clans of the cat-folk have arrived. These sarr have pledged their aid to the alliance, and at our behest they have dispatched scouts north along with two elven riders, to try and see what has become of King Danwyn and the promised soldiers. Their matriarchs, a pair of formidable females named Shazza and Embora, have told us that they came according to their prophecies, at a time when they would be needed, and asked pledges from our peoples to aid them if trouble threatened their own lands as a result of what they did for us. We, of course, agreed, and our alliance suddenly became comprised of four races. There are mercenaries of various sorts, of course but, mostly, elves, humans, dwarves, and sarr prepare for battle. I hope we will be enough.

Day Twenty-Five

The scouts returned today, thankfully, reporting that King Danwyn and the expected help was coming. An army of ogres that had tried to besiege the castle of King Alfdon of Bordia had delayed them. We enjoyed a reunion with "The Bull" who seemed pleased to see that we had all made it. The lands around Koharzhin are full of tents now, and we will ride in two days, after the armies of our allies are rested.

Young Fenik is progressing nicely with his calligraphy lessons, and I am surprised by his knack for the skill of writing. He has revealed that he does read and write a little of the "Common" human tongue, and that this makes it easier for him. He seemed a little dismayed to learn that, unlike the twenty-six characters of "Common", the tengwar has thirty-six characters. Poor lad. Ah, but he's quick. He's learning.

Day Twenty-Six

I had my official introductions to the masters of Boradia, Fessaryn, and Narthoclese today. They are as unlike as could be, and it is hard to believe that they rule three countries within spitting distance of each other.

King Alfdon of Boradia is most like Danwyn. He is a huge man with a bushy red beard and eyebrows that rise like fire upon his brow. He is much like Danwyn in temperament, too, being jovial and pleasant of company, if a little too companionable and familiar at times. He has a tremendously large maul, which he carries, and apparently fights with it two-handed, sweeping it in a deadly arc to crush his foes. I'm sure he and "The Bull" will be wrestling before the day is out.

Queen Nimrost of Fessaryn is as strong a warrior as any of her male counterparts, and I wonder if the humans, with their occasional forays into old courtesy, don't drive her mad by treating her with less respect. She is apparently a decent caster of Celestial magicks as well (though nowhere near the ability of the Sorcerer-Kings we go to meet). She makes me think of a strong Quentari telcontarion, with her black hair cut short and plaited with a net of silver to keep it still under helmet when she goes into battle.

King Sithian of Narthoclese is the most enigmatic of them. He seems to be a warrior as well, but he prefers to keep to himself. My impression of him, at the dinner we all met at, was one of a weasel. He stayed as long as politeness required, then made his apologies and retired to his room. I am told he is not so much a warrior as a caster of Earth magicks, but that he is a brilliant tactician. I hope so for all our sakes. Ah, well, if nothing else, he has brought with him some several hundred much-needed soldiers.

Day Twenty-Seven

We took our leave from Koharzhin today, accompanied by Tarlov y'Koharitan (which, I've discovered, is not so much a surname as a title, meaning "son of the house of Kohar" and implying his rulership over Koharzhin) and his men. The parting between Tarlov and his lady was very painful and full of tears, but he vowed to return. Both Tarlov and Jaianna kept brave faces, but Tarlov wept when she was out of sight, and I do not doubt she did the same. This is the first time they have been apart, truly, since his marriage, and he worries for her. Their kingdom is very tiny, and there is a surfeit of precious things in it, but it is strategically important. It would be an obvious target if the goblins and their ilk were better organized. Fortunately, they are not, and the rest of us offer our reassurances for the safety of his wife and son. He is obviously a very devoted husband and father, and I hope we shall be able to deliver him back to them safely, for truly he rides into much greater danger than he leaves them in.

I shall not likely be writing for a few days, beloved, as there are dull days of long, difficult riding ahead of us as we head for Arrak, the capital of Harkendale. Its ruler, King Baessor, will be glad of the relief, I'm sure, and we shall not rest, but enter directly into battle with the hordes. Know that, as I ride into battle, I keep you in my heart.

Day Thirty-One

Ah, beloved, but I miss you. I miss our Homeland, and I miss peace, always. We have met the enemy, and it is so much worse than we ever feared. The seemingly endless hordes of goblins, orcs and their kind are bad enough, but when the elementals take the field, it is enough to make one wish to flee. We fought them today, my beloved Shaellorin, and I was gladdened beyond measure that you were not here to see how horrible it was. Rank upon rank of goblins rode against us, and we fought them, using tactics that have slain them for centuries. But then when the elementals came into play it was like trying to fight the wind, or to slay a lake. How can one hope to defeat these creatures? Thank every merciful power there is that we had magicians on our side, for, without the powers of Tarlov and Lady Namariaeo, we would surely have been lost.

I faced a creature of pure elemental fire in single combat, and it was only through my magickal protections and the enchantments upon my sword, Thiselaine, that I survived the experience. It was like looking into the heart of a volcano and challenging it to single combat. I was exhausted, and I felt the pain of my burns keenly thereafter.

We took many casualties. I was heartsickened to find that our army had been broken in two; the units of different peoples not used to fighting alongside each other had allowed a squadron of trolls to get into their middle. Jhiakyn, Sir Lathaeon, and myself managed to slay the creatures, but we'd lost many men. Ah, my little human was slain. His spirit, even now, travels back to Koharzhin to be raised. We camp here, awaiting the return of those soldiers we have lost in battle. Tarlov has contacted two more Sorcerer-Kings, and these mysterious entities apparently did agree to aid us, but no one appeared. Tarlov told us to wait, and that they would appear when they were needed. We try to keep up our faith and spirits, but the nights are long and we worry about our soldiers being slain before they can rejoin us. We have sent riders with their equipment so that they will march from Koharzhin armed for battle, at least.

Day Thirty-Three

Our soldiers have returned, including, to my relief, young Fenik. I was certain his spirit would have the strength to return, but I worried for him nonetheless. We march this very day for Arrak, once more.

Day Thirty-Five

We arrived in Arrak today. I cannot say the country is pretty, though it might once have been. Most of Harkendale has been at war and under siege since the thaws began, and the land shows the terrible toll this has taken upon it. We have been engaged in a running fight almost from the borders of Harkendale to its beleaguered capital. Ah, beloved, there has never been a war like this before, and I sincerely hope there never is again. I have fought my way through streets grown slick with frozen blood, and stood atop the bodies of dead children to make my stand against the powers we face.

At first, we fought only ogres and trolls, with goblin archers peppering our ranks here and there, but ultimately these monsters fell back, allowing a veritable army of elementals forward to do battle with us. Full three score elementals of flame strode forth, flanked by two score of elementals of earth. Once more, I felt a keen note of thanks that Tarlov was with us, for his powers against elementals are quite formidable. As elementals of flame came forth, he pulled the powers of ice from the stars and hurled it in vast storms against them. I personally slew three earth elementals and, beloved, I can tell you that I ache all over. Their blows felt like the force of the mountains were behind them. Once again, if not for the strength from my good Thiselaine, I would surely have been slain. If you ever wish to experience what it is like to fight an elemental of earth, pick a good-sized mountain and fling yourself at it repeatedly. If it crumbles, you've won. If you crumble...

Saddest news of all from this foray is that we arrived too late to aid the King of Harkendale. Baessor's widow, a sad, matronly woman named Queen Loranna d'Wynter, came to the gates to meet us, and informed us that her husband had passed away due to wounds inflicted upon him by elementals of water who had forced themselves down into his lungs and half-drowned him before they had been slain. Her coronation as Queen and Monarch will be held tomorrow, and then she intends to ride in Baessor's place. She is most welcome. I have lost thirty-seven elves all told, and the rest of the armies have taken worse casualties than we. Any reinforcements will be welcome at this time.

Day Thirty-Six

We stood witness today at Queen Loranna's full coronation as Queen in her own right. She leaves her infant son Prince Anwyn behind, in the care of the nurses and knight protectors. No shrinking violet she, no sooner had the crown been placed on her head than she traded it for a helm, chose a spear, buckled on her armor and rode off with us.

It seems that the goblinkind hold a critical pass in a small ridge of mountains called the Three Points. If we can break their hold there, aid might come to us from two kingdoms in the south, Naphyl and Onarion. Then we can ride in unity and alliance to the aid of Zhaffiria, Sir Lathaeon's kingdom, where this whole mess began. According to what we have heard no humans remain there, but only ruined buildings now held by the goblin armies. Apparently a great orc chieftain named Thurgor and a troll shaman called Maggalak the Red have set this up as their base, and if the reports are true, sent most of the living armies out to fight others while they slowly amassed an army of undead under Maggalak's command. If we can overthrow them we will have won, and we may go home. We ride tonight for Three Points Pass but we know we have days of riding, and Harkendale Plains, where we ride, is said to be held by a powerful force of elementals. Our spirits are low but we must press on, if we are to end this war.

My little soldier is doing quite well for himself. He has proven very charismatic, and he has been made a sergeant over a small squad of men. They call him a hero, for he saved his commander in the fight on the way here, and I fear for him. Heroes rarely die of old age.

Day Thirty-Nine

A brief respite, my beloved, in this nightmare, and so I write to you. The reports of elementals on the plains could not begin to describe the situation. As we rode out, we came suddenly upon the drowned bodies of several of our scouts who had been missing. Before we realized what this meant, the placid brook we rode beside erupted into horror. Men, elves, and dwarves were dragged to their watery deaths and as we leapt to their aid, living whirlwinds appeared, seizing our men, hurling them into the sky and allowing them to fall to their shattering deaths. The bodies were falling half a mile away. I have never seen the like, except at the claws of the gryphon-riders. We retreated, regrouping further northwesterly along the plains.

Our plans recomposed, we marched in, allowing Prince Tarlov, Lady Namariaeo, and Queen Nimrost to take the fore. Their magicks struck heavy losses among the elementals, and as the monstrosities of air and water sought to attack them, those of us with magickal weapons fell among them, hewing and slaying all that we could. The battle raged off and on for the last three days, but we have finally taken the plains, making them fall before us. We expect to be at Three Points in three days, if all goes well.

Day Forty

Why did I say what I said? "If all goes well" must be one of the foulest and most accursed sentences in any language. No one should ever say it, for to do so inevitably invites the touch of chaos on any undertaking you may engage in.

No sooner had I closed my journal than a full legion of ogres appeared with ten score trolls to back them. They fall easily enough to such as Tarlov, Jhiakyn, and myself, but they wreak havoc amongst our ranks and we must divert precious resources to their destruction, leaving us vulnerable to the more dangerous elementals. We fought for hours until our arms felt like lead, but then, like a receding storm, they retreated for their aforementioned allies came upon us. And worse than this was to come!

You will recall the rat-like King Sithian I mentioned? Well, I knew there was something I disliked about him. Apparently his joining our alliance was a ruse to further the ends of the powers of Chaos and Destruction. No sooner did elementals of ice and air come upon us, but his men began to hew at us from behind, slaying by poison and treachery. And worse still! Elementals of Chaos and Destruction now appeared to aid them. Only a few, but, by all that's good and green when your troops are as weak and weary as ours, a few is all that is needed. We slew them of course, but not without cost. Nearly all of our life spells are depleted, and the little traitor managed to scuttle away before I could show him what it means to betray the scions of Quentari. I will slay him, beloved. I vow it!

Our troops are camped yet again, awaiting the resurrection of the troops we lost to this murderous rogue. I saw his face, beloved. There was an inhuman glee behind his eyes as he betrayed us. He not only violated us, he did it for pleasure. May Fate grant his scrawny neck come within the reach of my gauntlets.

Day Forty-One

Troubles upon troubles. This is surely our Darkest Day. Reports have come to us from our returning troops that the kingdoms to the north have fallen under attack, and Prince Tarlov is beside himself with fear that Koharzhin may be besieged. He has promised to stay with us until he can summon the other Sorcerer-Kings, but thereafter he intends to leave with his soldiers at once for his home, to see what can be seen. He has sworn to rejoin us as quickly as circumstances allow, but we all feel that he is betraying us, deserting us as surely as Sithian did. No doubt he feels the same, for we have refused to march the entire alliance back to aid his little city. Our troops are too demoralized and hurt to make the forced trek he wishes us to make, and truly I pity for him, for his brow is creased deeply with worry and pain. I swear, were he not oathed to us to stay until the other Sorcerers come, I believe he would ride alone if necessary to his lady's aid. I pray that she and the little prince are unharmed.

Day Forty-ThreeÊ

The first bit of good news in a long time. The aid that Tarlov promised has arrived. The Sorcerer-Kings are impressive creatures, and one is a Quentari! A lady named Quel'thalass came among us this day, her long dark hair braided back into a warrior's knot. I tried to quiz her on how she had come to leave the Homeland, but she kept finding excuses to be elsewhere. The other is a mysterious fellow in a deeply hooded robe. He does not speak, and Quel'thalass refers to him as Lord Silence. I cannot tell if she means it as a joke.

Tarlov has gone as quickly as we'd all guessed he would. No sooner had he met with the other two than he sped off, his soldiers following as best they can. Ultimately, I find I cannot blame him. Were our situation reversed, were it you and Quentari being menaced, I fear my vaunted ideals of alliance might quickly fall by the wayside. I wish him luck on his journey.

Day Forty-Four

We are within sight of Three Points Ridge. One can see the armies of the enemy stretched before the pass like black ants in the sand. I am so tired. So tired of this war which, in a few spans of days, hardly more than an elf's blink as the humans say, has wearied me more than other, more civilized and comprehensible wars that took years to accomplish. Nothing is simple about this war, and I long for good, green grass under my feet and good, golden leaves over my head. I have a dark feeling tonight, as if death is standing over my right shoulder, and I fear there may not be another journal entry. If not, farewell, my beloved, and know that whatever Ryfellyn says, I love you more than life itself. Farewell. Namarie.

Day Forty-Five

I live, but only with great sickness in my heart, and we have won the pass, but only at terrible cost. Jhiakyn is dead. I mourn one who might have been my brother; I will not write more this eve.

Day Forty-Eight

This journal has sat deeply tucked into my pouch, and I might not have touched it at all, ever again, but for that I must leave a memorial for my dearest and oldest friend. There is an ache in my spirit, and the loss of one I have loved as my own blood fills me with anguish. I tended his bier as I tended his cradle as a child, and I grieve that a splendid fire so brightly burning has been extinguished. Brightfire, do they call me? Ah, then Shining Star was Jhiakyn, my brother in all but blood. Now his star is fallen and I cannot help but weep.

More painful still, the knowledge that the blow was meant for me. Ten elementals of ice ringed us around, and we fought them back with blade and magick. And then when my magicks no longer protected me, a fearsome ice beast threw a chunk of pure elemental ice at my blind side, which would most surely have crushed open my skull like a walnut. But poor, brave Jhiakyn saw it, and though no magicks protected him, he leapt in front of the deadly missile, letting it take him instead. I called for a healer, even as I smote the beast, but my voice was hoarse from crying out orders, and none heard us. Chunks of ice fell, becoming red and melting into his flowing blood. I tried to aid him, to administer a potion to save his life, but he just slipped away, his blood staining the parched earth. We waited in vain at the crudely erected Resurrection Circle Lord Silence had fashioned, but the fragments of valiant Jhiakyn's spirit were so frail that they blew like milkweed at the healer's touch. Never before has death touched me so closely, and I am ready to slay a thousand elementals to see this war over and done. I wish to be home, and free of this onus.

And, yet, I cannot desert my friends, for so I have come to think of the brave kings, queens, wizards, and knights I now fight beside. I have come to value Balanor and Lathaeon, Danwyn and Tarlov. And little Fenik. I cannot allow them to fight alone, and so this eve we, the generals of our armies, the kings and queens, have taken a blood-bound oath to see this war through or to die trying. We shall have the peace of victory or the peace of death, and there will be no surrender on either side. We have a price in blood to exact, and we seek payment tenfold that which has been taken from us.

With the pass held by our forces, we can go on to Naphyl and Onarion, then at last to Zhaffiria. And when that last, ruined kingdom is cleansed of the blight of goblinfolke and elemental we shall go home, content in our hard-won peace.

Day Forty-Nine

As the days pass, I find the memories of Three Point Ridge easier to bear, and I must set down two things of that battle.

Firstly, I have never been so fond of dwarves in my entire life. Balanor's people are a thousand times the craftsmen of war than I have given them credit for. The goblins had erected walls within the pass to hold us back, but within an hour the dwarves had crafted, virtually out of nothing but weapons and scraps, a siege engine capable of smashing it down. Even as we took the foe from the rear, Balanor led the dwarves through some carefully concealed tunnels, came up in their very midst, and hacked them apart from within even as Sithian had tried to do to us. An hour more and they had rebuilt the goblin's walls, but a thousand times stronger, and had fashioned clever traps and defenses to prevent the enemy from coming through the pass behind us. We may have to deal with those hordes on the way back, but we shall not have to fear a stab from the back while our dwarven brethren are with us.

Secondly, I have never been so proud of my own troops. The archers backed our infantry perfectly, and when the goblins charged they found our walls of shields and spears an apt barrier for their wave to crash upon. No sooner had they fallen to rout than our battle mages cast spells upon them with such ferocity that the enemy fled...right into the hands of the dwarves! Our two peoples have never fought so well, side by side, and it is good for us to drink wine as brothers rather than to glare at each other across the fire as reluctant allies. The sarr do not join our revelry, but the humans seem glad enough of our celebrations. The cat folk are aloof, and the two Sorcerer-Kings (or Queens, as in Quel'thalass' case) are more apart still. Ah well, they are here, and their matriarchs, for all they do not seem fond of us, are reliable and good tacticians to work with. I am proud of our alliance, and I have a great deal of respect for Sir Lathaeon for bringing us all together. Mark my words, that young human will have a dragon watching him if he keeps this up.

Day Fifty

As we crossed the borders into Naphyl, we were met by the combined armies of the two, and introduced to the brother Kings Mantarus and Merus. The two brothers had grown up as rivals, but now as adults they had become fast friends and their two kingdoms had been riding out to aid us at the pass. They were joyful to find us hale and hearty, and we began to ride east towards our final battle in Zhaffiria. The two brothers are likable sorts, if not quite as earthy as Danwyn or Alfdon. They are scholar-soldiers, and have never truly been at war before. I fear if all goes as it has been, they shall learn quickly enough.

Day Fifty-Two

We have been reunited with Prince Tarlov, but I fear the meeting was not merry. We found the Sorcerer-King, missing his army, waiting for us at a crossroads. He looked haggard and pale, as if he had not slept since last we'd seen him, and his news was dark indeed. He'd returned to Koharzhin to find the castle breached and all within slain. The bodies of his beloved Jaianna and Partran had been recovered from the smoking ruin, marks of death upon them showing obvious that she had been burned to death, while his babe had been frozen solid in his crib. The nightmare of this find is etched clearly upon his face and he seems only half a man, thirsting for the vengeance he so desperately needs to absolve himself for arriving too late. We all tried to offer him some comfort but he will have none of it, and I do not find blame in him. Had he gone home when first he'd had the news, he might've arrived in time to save them. Although he never says this I see him looking around the encampment of the alliance, and I can almost hear him think it aloud. I pray that he, along with his fellow Sorcerer-Kings, will be able to aid us when we get to Zhaffiria. He seems grief-mad now, as I was when Jhiakyn was slain, but I feel something dangerous moving below the surface of the man. He is a walking tempest, waiting to unleash his fury on whatever provokes him first. All of our men, recalling the power he has brought to bear in our previous battles, have given him a wide berth and he, for his part, seeks no mortal company to ease his lonely heart. Mostly he haunts the edges of our encampment like a ghost, and there is death in his eyes. I think he seeks to simply end, but I hope he can be brought back from the edge of death and saved. I truly do.

Day Fifty-Five

We are much closer to Zhaffiria, I was told today, needing only to cross over a rolling hilly area called the Highpoint Plains. Another few days should put us within the kingdom's borders, and then we shall be within sight of the end of this painful war.

We fought a skirmish today. I hesitate to call it a battle, for it was so horribly short. A group of war orcs flanked by elementals rose up to attack us, and suddenly for the first time since he returned to us, we saw Tarlov come out of his stupor. Along with the other Sorcerer-Kings he annihilated the enemy, laying utterly to waste every creature that fell within his path. I swear, if any of our soldiers had strayed before him, they would have been slain as well. Orcs, elementals, trolls and goblins alike fell prey to his murderous outpouring of sheer power. In that moment, I can tell you, I feared him. Anyone who hates that much is capable of any evil that can be conceived of in the dark depths of a black heart. I fear we will lose Tarlov, and somehow this prospect strikes me ice cold in my veins, for there is an infection in his spirit far worse and more dangerous than any ailment of the flesh. I worry that before my lifetime is done, I shall face Tarlov y'Koharitan across a battlefield, and with what I have seen of him this day I do not know if I could defeat him, for there is surely not enough rage and hatred in the whole of Quentari to match that contained within this wounded man's heart.

Still, at least we won fairly bloodlessly on our side. We lost not a single soldier, despite the numbers that we fought.

Day Sixty

We have crossed the borders of Zhaffiria, and the battle for the end of this war is truly joined at last. We have been met by legions of undead, squadrons of trolls and the mystic might of elemental forces. Somewhere behind them all are Thurgor and Maggalak the Red, and when these darknesses are laid bare to the pure light, we shall have won and I shall return to you, beloved.

Day Sixty-Seven

And, far faster than I ever could have hoped, it is over. Thurgor is dead and Maggalak has fled into the mountains. It may be that he and his kind will threaten these lands again, but for now they are quelled.

I have no doubt that, in the annals of history, if it is remembered at all, it will be called the Battle of the Red Marshes. We were crossing an area called the Salt Marshes of Kameryn, when undead rose up from the water to attack. We quickly dispatched the beasts but more came seeking our blood, and now living foes joined the dead. Our enemies, however, had no idea of the monstrous power of destruction that now lies deep in the heart of Prince Tarlov, and they could never have guessed that in a short span of weeks a group of disparate forces had become a single army, capable of great attacks of unity and cooperation. The Salt Marshes are now saltier for the vast amount of blood spilt within them. Goblin blood has mingled with human, and elf blood floats beside the ichor that fills the bodies of elementals. I will leave it to the historians to tell the tale, and I will leave it to my official report to the Aran to describe the tactics, but I will say this. For a short span of time humans fought alongside elves, and dwarves and sarr called each other cousin. Sorcerer-Kings stood shoulder to shoulder with peasant born spearmen, and a great elven general fought side by side with a little human soldier. And we won.

Our victory was not without casualties. I will be returning to Quentari without the esteemed Lady Namariaeo Vassyrallia, and with only some half of the brave scions of Quentari as I marched out with. And the others have fared no better than we. Boradia and Onarion mourn their Kings tonight, and the Sorcerer-Kings are now without Lord Silence. Matriarch Shazza must now learn how to fight without her right eye, and we fear Sir Lathaeon will never walk again. Prince Tarlov has not only lost his family but his left hand as well, and the pain of this injury seems to have shocked him out of his stupor, if not lessened his rage. He blames the healers amongst us for failing to save the hand, and at dawn he intends to leave us to the cleaning up and return to Koharzhin. It is my hope that upon the long ride he will have time to think and realize that he has no more right to blame us for the loss of his hand as he has to blame himself for the loss of his wife and son. If not, I fear the infection I see in his heart will spread and consume him.

Saddest of all our losses to me was a simple young soldier of King Danwyn's. I had truly come to value the company of Fenik d'Gwaithe, and I attended his funerary rites in which King Danwyn posthumously awarded him the rank of lieutenant. He died saving the men under his command, sacrificing himself so that they would live. They stood about at the pyre looking sheepish and awkward. What a waste, that he died for them. He was worth ten of them.

La, no, beloved. That is wrong of me. Each of them had parents. Each of them might have a locket showing the face of the girl he loves. I haven't the right to pass judgment on them.

Fenik's locket I have saved from the fire, and I shall place it into the hands of the pretty young Coria and tell her that he loved her to the end. As I do with you. I am not going to set anything more down in writing. Some things are too painful to record with words, for words fail to say what needs to be said, and when reading them the author feels more keenly the failure. Jhiakyn's death, Prince Tarlov's loss, my child-soldier's valiant end: each of these puts a hole into my heart, and I find, in rereading those sections of this journal, that I have failed to do each of them justice. I will not wrong them further, but I choose instead to end.

I will return to Quentari as swift as I can, beloved, once this errand I have set myself is done. Until then, I remain, as always, ever faithful to you.

Morathak

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