YS1:Arcoscephale

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Turn1

Pandokos of Pagasae here displays his inquiry, so that human achievements may not become forgotten in time, and great and marvelous deeds may not be without their glory.

Spring, Year 12

The butter is missing again.

The locals in these parts insist that some mythical creature steals it away in the night, but I've found perfectly human footprints in the dirt around my stores on many mornings. When I catch the thief, he will pay. It is bad enough that I am thousands of miles from home in a muddy encampment at the foot of the mountains, surrounded by barbarians with no sense of propriety or reason. It is bad enough that our weapons, after years of campaigning, are dull, and that our armor is in such dire straits that yesterday I caught myself gazing enviously at the children in the street, clad in cooking pots too elderly to be trusted with the food anymore.

It is bad enough that I am forced to make do with these lousy local recruits, as the real soldiers, fellow citizens who have suffered together on this god-forsaken campaign, are stretched thin by the petty fighting we must do in order to keep the locals mollified with our continued presence.

But the worst of it - at least, that is how it seems now, facing my breakfast - is that instead of dining on fresh grapes and succulent olives, plucked from branches tossed in a sea breeze, I am forced to subsist on a diet of strange vegetables and rotten bread. And now I do not even have butter for it.

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Turn2

I really hate this country.

I went to see the village leaders after the seventh dawn on which the butter had gone missing. In a diplomatic but (I thought) firm way, I recommended they teach their children some respect for the soldiers who defend them from occasional invaders, and muck out stables the rest of the time, and how if our foodstuffs continued to be stolen we would be forced to ask the Golanans (a hated neighboring tribe) if they desired a cheap band of soldiers. I expected them to vigorously deny everything, or plead with me to stay, or at least acknowledge my complaint.

But no: as soon as they understood what I was saying, a great cheer erupted from the onlookers, and the leaders began smiling and chattering excitedly, clapping me on my back as if I had just announced that a volcanic eruption had wiped out Golana.

"But what about my butter?" I asked Balachandra, a young man who as a boy had spent time in our camps and had recently become a local magician of sorts. He usually helped me make sense of local activities, but now he was as inscrutably enthused as the rest of his cursed countrymen. He grinned broadly, and announced to the crowd, "Pandokos wants more butter!" to which they responded with more cheering, and a bit of singing. Some maidens began to dance, and the mob descended into revelry.

Seeing that it was hopeless, and in no mood to join the festivities, I decided to go home and try again the next day. But they would not let me leave. An old lady rushed in front of Xanthos, startling him considerably, and fell to her knees, crying out loudly. The tight crowd forced me to dismount and walk around the old woman, but people kept pressing close to me and murmuring. A few milkmaids giggled about how the butter thief was welcome at their homes any time, and more than one mother pushed forward a screaming child, as if my armor were somehow blessed, and not smelling rather strongly of manure.

The next morning, I was awoken early by the sound of the murmuring. When I emerged, the crowd, several score strong, gave a great cheer. They came to catch the thief, I thought momentarily, pleased that I had gotten through after all. But no: my daily ration of butter was completely gone, and there were numerous buttery handprints all around my window.

"Did you at least see who it was?" I growled at the crowd, some of whom appeared to have been there since nightfall. Balachandra laughed, and said, "Of course, of course, didn't you?" and began leading the mob in a bizarre sort of chant.

At which point I decided that I would go back to sleep, in the hopes that when I woke up the world would make sense again.

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Turn3

Early summer, year 12 of my exile.

At Last, some good news. Three more hoplites came into town Last week, and I suspect more remnants of the broken taxis will continue to straggle in as they emerge from their winter shelters in a (futile) attempt to find civilization. This means that one-third of my foot soldiers are now non-barbarians, so I have decided that we are strong enough to take on a nearby nest of bandits that the villagers have been harping on us for weeks to attack. Reports indicate that there are almost as many bandit as I have troops under my command, but even my locals, I think, are worth more than these petty thugs, at least after the rigorous training I have put them through.

So there will be some honest fighting, a welcome change from the bizarre events of the Last few weeks, and also some money, because the citizens Skelde Henge have agreed to submit to the direction of the village leaders if we will rid them of the bandits. (Or at least so I have been told.) And there will be no one winking at me, or worse, bowing, no Balachandra or his brother Divakar to chant ridiculous rhymes about me and butter and who knows what else.

If I had known, when I left Pagasae for the Great Campaign so long ago, that one day I would be thousands of leagues from home, scratching battle plans in the mud, in breathless anticipation of a brawl with a bunch of ignorant peasants...

I should be back in a few months. I hope that Thymbre will have returned by then, and I may hear how her journey to learn of quaint local superstitions has fared.

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Turn4

I think it is still summer... it has been hard, convalescing in this dark tent, to keep track of the days... it is painful to see my previous words of optimism and I would feel cursed by the gods had I not long since stopped believing in them. Perhaps I do not like to think what terrible deeds I am being punished for. So hard to think I was once an eager file leader... how bright Alexandros's armor was, his dream, and ours, of glorious victory in a far off land.

Poor Xanthos. I do not know what strange thoughts entered his mind as we approached the brigand lair. I saw their number was not great, and given my soldiers' skill knew we would prevail. My soldiers... my soldiers were brilliant... they kept their formation, and would have slain all our foe if only... But Xanthos, my faithful steed and companion... Perhaps he wanted to run free over the open plains -- it was such a fine summer day -- or perhaps he had simply tired of all this war and wanted to die with honor and glory. He would not hear my shouts to stay behind the hoplites, much as I begged him, and he rushed past the front file into the middle of the brigand mob.

What happened next is a blur... I recall one, perhaps two brigands fell beneath Xanthos' hooves (I had no time to draw my sword)... I recall a hail of javelins as my troops tried in vain to scare the brigands away from me and my wild steed. And a sword struck Xanthos, and again, and I fell into darkness.

My men thought I was dead. I heard later that a band of locals rushed out, and three died while the rest dragged me to safety. My hoplites held firm our retreat; they are Greeks. Would that they had a worthier commander... but they will not hear such talk from me. They regard my charge as heroic, and declare that fighting beside me raises their spirits.

It is odd to hear them talk this way, because the villagers have ceased their incessant bowing and butter songs, and once again ignore me. The talk these days is of a great battle that took place near the town of Bolfar. My soldiers swear that none of them went out there to fight, and yet the town pledges allegiance to us, and sends us gold and supplies. The villagers have come up with a new dance, in which they kick one leg and flail their arms. I doubt this would make sense even if I were well.

My butter has not been stolen once since I returned, but I do not have the stomach for it. I wonder what this means.

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Turn5

I feel as if I have returned from the grave.

Today was my first day up since my injury. I wandered the camp, chatting with the local peltasts. I learnt that Amshula, Balachandra's little sister, convinced the hoplites to follow her back to Skelde Henge to avenge our earlier defeat. A bunch of local troops went too. No one has the full details, but apparently no-one died (on our side), and injuries were light.

It seems that otherwise, things have been quiet during my recuperation. There is word from Bolfar of a odd sign: milk held up to the mouth of a statue of Shiva (some local god of destruction) disappears. It is all nonsense of course, these people will believe anything, but apparently it has them rather worried, and they've cut back on their arm-flailing to catch up on sacrifices to Shiva. Balachandra and Divikar have stopped pouring through ancient texts and have taken to standing in the smoke in midst of the armory, getting in the way of the smiths, and chanting wordlessly. It's always sad to see a friend succumb to madness, but after years on the campaign you slowly get used to it. Thymbre is late returning from her trip; by Zeus, if anything has happened to her...

I'll have to cut this short. My quarter-master just arrived with the news that Amshula has abandoned the troops in Skelde Henge and gone off into the mountains searching for enlightenment. Although the villagers are relatively friendly, I must rush there as soon as possible to make sure my men are taken care of. My quarter-master feels just as protective about me apparently. I knew he collected spare pieces of fine armor after battles. but I didn't know that he had procured a complete set of Strategos armor, cleaned off the blood and grime, hammered out the dents, and polished the bronze to a gleam. I tried to refuse, but he said to me, "Pandokos, my friend, after a fool stunt like that, I'd feel a lot better if you had a bit more metal between you and the world." It's far too good for me, but my old armor is lying in the mud of Skelde Henge somewhere, and I must wear something as I set out on the road to take charge of my army again.

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Turn6

Star gazers. I confess I was, well, pleased that one of their inscrutable ilk cared enough to avenge the honor of a hired sword, even if it was only some fool girl who had barely gotten her mystical robes and just wanted to impress her siblings with her courage. When I heard that she had led the troops to victory I was even a little impressed. But all it took was a word with my hoplites to realize that there was another reason why she wanted to come, and it didn't concern me in the slightest.

She was after gems. This is, my hoplites inform me, the reason we were sent to this dreadful little province in the first place: there has long been a legend in our village that this province is the site of some mystical wonder, which, I have learned, really means that it has good gem deposits. And I would be surprised -- nay, shocked -- to learn that the practitioners of the local religious and philosophic arts are really in it for the money if I had not passed nearly a dozen years with their sort. (Apologies, Thymbre, I do not mean you.) I think I prefer my religion the way it is: far, far away. The term "godforsaken lands" has altogether too undeserved an ill reputation...

I had been in town for a few days when Amshula came down out of the mountains, wandering into the village as if she had had every right to abandon my troops in a town that had been liberated mere hours earlier. We exchanged words.

"Out for a bit of a stroll?" I said in greeting.

"There was hardly anything for me to do when I got here," she retorted. "The rabble were unworthy of my attentions. Certainly nothing to fall off my horse about."

Unfortunately she has Balachandra's way with words. I had heard that she tried to cast a few ineffectual sparks toward the enemy, with roughly zero impact on the battle, but I wasn't about to argue over who had contributed more to the campaign. "Perhaps you didn't stop to consider that the villagers were as likely to slit my hoplites' throats in the night as provide them with food and shelter."

"As it turns out, Pandokos, they have been given the finest fruits of the harvest, and I hear they do not want for young maidens," she responded, unperturbed. "And besides, would you have rather that I had my throat slit too?"

"Of course you had more important concerns than the safety of the men who fight your wars," I said. "At least you shall get some shiny stones for your trouble."

At this she frowned, and turned away. Aha, I thought. She didn't find anything. The thought cheered me.

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Turn7

All good things must come to an end.

I've enjoyed having Thymbre back. Her presence brings so much warmth, and so many memories of home. She is taciturn about her trip though, saying that she is not yet ready to talk about everything she saw.

In this quiet time we took many walks late at night. Somewhere in the space between the grass and the stars, she tried to introduce me to her world of priestesses, oracles, and signs of nature. For a moment, looking into her eyes, I could almost believe that the gods were real.

We've been training hard. Several Silver Shields have made it to our lowly village, and placed themselves under my command. Although they too have suffered great attrition since being abandoned at the Hydaspes River, those who lost their heart companion have re-partnered, and their prowess has lifted the morale of all my troops.

Thymbre has been using her healing skill on some local hero who now claims to have been the one who convinced Bolfar to join forces with us. His name in Limmy, and he's a bit of a pompous jerk, but one must forgive a man some of the things he says as he stands at death's door, and from the blue tinge of this man's skin it is clear he may not be with us long. The locals bring him gifts of butter, which is generous of them, but unlikely to speed the healing process.

But now we march north, into the mountains. Rumors (as always) tell of strange creatures in the hills, and there will probably be barbarian tribes to pacify along the way. My phalanx is at nearly full strength, and Thymbre will be accompanying us to tend to Limmy, who is coming along at the insistence of the locals, but against my better judgment.

If we are still in the mountains when winter comes, he will certainly finish his slow process of turning blue and freezing to death. I hope the rest of us may escape his fate.

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Turn8

I would feel a lot better about continuing on into the mountains if Thymbre were coming with. She can be so stubborn sometimes.

Fortunately, nothing is wrong - quite the contrary. Though we were outnumbered nearly two to one, and under substantial archer fire, not a man faltered, and we quickly routed them. Thymbre stood right in the center of the phalanx, besides me, shouting words of courage to all, and causing all who could here her to smile and redouble their efforts. The only thing to mar my satisfaction that day was Limmy, of course. For most of the battle, he sensibly stayed at the rear, muttering useless charms and incantations against harm, but then he got it in his head to charge the retreating archers. If he had not been followed by my hoplites and Silver Shields, I am certain he would've been badly hurt, or perhaps killed. (Not that I care; but Thymbre seems to think well of him...)

I told him as much afterwards, but he laughed it off. "You are worried, Pandokos, that I -- I -- could have been hurt, by mere archers?" he scoffed, when were sitting in a tavern in the town of Braegen, as Thymbre tended to his badly infected eye and other wounds left over from the last time he thought to kick around a few archers. He looked, if anything, even more sickly blue than before. "You worry too much. I could have defeated ten times the number of men we faced today, for I am Limmy, He Who is at the Center..."

It's useless to try to talk to him when he starts spouting off like that. It depresses me how many of my soldiers, even men who travelled all the way from Hellas with me, looked admiringly at him. Nobody seemed to notice (or care) that while he was talking he was also quietly taking food off the plates of everyone around him; his arms just seemed to be everywhere. I nearly lost a piece of buttered bread to his wandering hands.

We stayed in the town, a large village perched between wide open plains and towering mountains, for a fortnight. Unfortunately, the day before we were to head off into the mountains for the next province we had been ordered to liberate, Thymbre found It.

"Oh Pandokos, there's no need for me to come with," she said.

"But think of how the morale of the soldiers will suffer," I protested. "Think of my morale."

She laughed, but was not about to give in. "But Pandokos, really. It's a library." And she got that look in her eyes... I really had no chance of convincing her. She claims she will try to catch up with us.

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Turn9

The first snows of winter cover the graves of the fallen— men who have traipsed half-way across the world to die alone and be buried without honor. Still we head further into the mountains. Limmy seems, if possible, to be weaker every day. In the battle yesterday, when we were ambushed by nearly three score of bandits, he merely ran around behind the troops, bumping into them occasionally. Only after the bandits had fled did Limmy do anything, chasing after and slaying the fleeing foe with disturbing enthusiasm. Tonight, he sits by himself by the campfire, perhaps regretting the innocent blood he has spilled, or perhaps continuing to obsess about the name of mountain range we are in. The local expression roughly translates to "God's grave", and this bothers a superstitious man such as Limmy.

A scout has returned, bringing wild tales of a powerful kingdom on the other side of these mountains: a giant astride a many-legged horse, fantastical warriors with powerful magic preventing you from seeing them directly, and others who can control the winds. It's clear that this poor individual has been out in the wilds by himself for too long, but our need for information is keen, so as soon as he stopped gibbering over Limmy I sent him back out into the night.

The campfire tonight and scant (I suppose I can call it) food, is courtesy of the locals who greeted us as liberators from the bandits. A handful of young men have volunteered to come with us, and I welcome their aid. It is a long way home now, and we lose men in every battle. Those who survive are slowly accumulating wounds. We need Thymbre's gentle healing hands.

Limmy has stirred himself at last. I heard him tell the sentry that he is going to search for sites of mystical power. The man is insane, and will probably be killed by a wolf before daybreak, but I haven't the energy to stop him.

I suppose, while he is gone, no-one will notice if I help myself to his stash of butter. It'll make this burnt vermin carcass a little less dry and pungent.

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Turn10

Last night, Thymbe woke shivering in my arms. In the dull, terrible pre-dawn light, she whispered that she had dreamt of death. I held her, and reassured her that it was just a nightmare, which could never hurt her.

This afternoon she took me aside:

"Pandokos..." she began, "Do you still believe in the old gods back home, now that you've seen this one in the flesh? Are the oracles gifted to see the future? Is Elysium just a foolish hope, or do we just end?"

One thing I've learnt in this country is that it's often best to just smile and continue the conversation as best you can when people start talking crazy. I resorted to Plan B: address a portion of the conversation that makes sense.

"I don't really think the oracles can predict the future," I confided. "I know you're a priestess, and believe in that stuff, but the poems are so cryptic that people just interpret them generously afterward."

I don't think she was really listening to me anyway, and my only reply was a thoughtful hum. She reached into her saddlebag, and pulled out a small, leather-bound book, improbably smelling strongly of butter.

"I found this at the library," she said shyly. "I guess the locals have decided... Pandokos, promise me that you'll live up to their expectations, that you'll set a good example for them. All their past gods have been so cruel to them, and they're such a good-hearted people. Promise me that you'll take care of him. Promise me..."

She was really getting worked up, so I said, "I promise" although it was all non-Greek to me. Silently she handed me the book: "The Collected Sayings of Pandokos the Prophet," with the extremely odd subtitle: "In his first incarnation."

Plan C is to pretend that you're suddenly very busy and exit the conversation with crazy-person as soon as you're sure they aren't going to stab you in the back. Grabbing the proffered book, I muttered some excuse and set about readying my troops to storm Godsgrave mountain.

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Turn11

I am an image in stone.

There was a storm in the mountains, and we had wandered for several days. I think we were all hoping someone else would suggest we turn around, explain to the village elders back home that we just couldn't find the maurauders, try again next spring? Our orders had been to secure the mountain from a tiny band of masons and a knight-major, or so said the runner who had heard it from another man who had spoken with our scout in these parts, only half a year ago.

"Perhaps they have already frozen to death," I heard one man mutter to another, through chattering lips. But no one breathed a word of returning home.

A nightmare put me here

Thymbre was speaking while gazing on the mountainside with an inscrutable look, and I could barely hear her voice, though the wind had died down. "The rocks the smell of death..." Comprehension dawned on her face, a small flicker of terror rose in her eyes, and set. "You must turn everyone back now." But it was too late. There was a shout from the forward ranks. They had been spotted.

where I am forever, the symbol of eternal remembrance

After that, it is a slow blur. The scout report was wrong. Over a score of horseman ("horsewomen", Thymbre corrected me) bore down on us, and many foot soldiers, and it was clear that we had erred badly. Our new recruits fell, and my hoplites and silver shields fell, and our line broke as we raced madly back toward rough terrain where even their spectrally thin and supernaturally fast horses could not follow us. As we were nearly to safety, Thymbre turned to me. "There are so many stranger beings than these, Pandokos, it will take all your skepticism to keep them all at bay. I think you will soon see them for what they really are. But now I think it is just about time..."

I sensed it, rather than saw it - as if from nowhere it came - and the image of that moment is now etched in blood on my eyelids.

Shine, as long as you live; do not be sad.

I do not know how we carried her body back through the mountains, tired and broken as we were. I do not know where we found the stone to mark her grave, or many other things these past days. I only know that she is gone.

Cause life is surely too short

She knew. She knew, and I thought she was babbling, but she was only trying to tell me, and yet she went anyways, willingly. And of all the things in this world, I will never see her again.

and time demands its toll.

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Turn12

Perhaps now I understand.

Whispers come from the furthest corners of this strange country. Men claim that the gods have returned, and flock to their side, forging empires out of what used to be quiet hamlets and backwaters. Thym... Thymbre knew that these madmen with delusions of god-hood had to be put in their place, or the light of human reason would forever be subdued to the darkness of religious slavery. To stop this descent requires a charismatic leader (Limmy), and a base of power, an empire (which is mine to forge).

This month we march south against Golana, the last province bordering our home village which has not pledged allegiance to us. The locals describe the Golanites with all sorts of vile slurs, most commonly calling them "lizards" in the local dialect. I look forward to bringing these people together, by the sword if need be.

My new weapon is the mighty elephant. These beasts, far larger than any animal native to Greece, make fearsome weapons of war when properly trained by the locals. They have a tendency to startle easily, crushing our own men, but I am sure the valor of a full phalanx of Silver Shields will give all our troops courage.

Spring has come to these lands, and the slow trek up the mountains, and mad retreat back (in which Limmy was my constant, annoying companion) seem like a bad dream. When... I try not dwell on it, and realize what happened there... it is a bad dream from which I know I shall never awake.

If death awaits me in the swamps of Golana, I shall not cheat it again.

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Turn13

I really thought it was just a slur. Ever since we got here, the villagers have been calling Golana "a den of vipers," "a snakepit," "full of cold-blooded lizards," and so forth. It turns out, though, that the residents of Golana really are lizards. It's so hard to know what to believe... though I'm trying.

Fortunately, as it turns out, the Golanoids are (oops, were) very weak lizards, certainly no match for the havoc wrought by our elephants. Alas, in their retreat they were able to kill the two mighty creatures, which left me a little sad, because I had grown attached to the beasts. I couldn't help but notice that their handlers seemed almost relieved.

The elders back home have signed a non-aggression pact with the Vans, a race of people living beyond the western mountains who have recently been expanding their territory. Apparently we gave up claim to Godsgrave Mountain as part of the peace treaty. Just like that— what was once worth dying for is traded away for a scrap of paper.

There is something... refreshing about being on this campaign. The phalanx that I now lead arrived in Oast Hills while I was gone, and some of them are old friends, from the long journey out to this excessively god-filled land. Sometimes it almost feels like we are all ten years younger, and I have had perhaps half an hour steal by without thinking at all about... more recent events. Ah, Thymbre... I can picture the way you would have laughed at me, just so, when I insisted on inspecting the corpses myself, just to be sure they were really lizards.

There is another province nearby, weakly defended, that we march toward. Hopefully by then, the men will have stopped teasing me with their odes to lizards, which are, if anything, even more ludicrous than the previous spate of butter songs. Those who have seen them in person insist that the Vans are sometimes impossible to see even if you're looking straight at them. Good men, I have no reason to doubt their word, and there are certainly strange things in this world. But when the men insist that Limmy is a huge blue giant for four arms, I know they're just playing one of these odd mind games men often play with their commanders. I mean, really, I've met the guy.

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Turn14

Late spring in the southern marshes

The news recently has been all good.

Lussan fell easily beneath the spears of my Silver Shields. To celebrate the victory, I will raise a temple to Apollo, patron of the intellect, leader of the Muses, and source of the Oracle at Delphi which Thymbre loved so much. Over its arches I will etch her name, and there it shall remain while this world remains unbroken.

Balachandra and his siblings have finally gotten around to doing some useful research on construction techniques. It's not science exactly, but it's probably the best I can expect out of these unenlightened folks. I'm sure Balachandra is wise, and Amshula gained some valuable experience leading the attack on Skelde Henge (in fact, she is bringing some newly trained elephants to swell my ranks), but they're still all basically crazy. Balachandra has plans to "project his astral self in an attempt to locate sites of Astral power". Fine, whatever he does in his spare time is his own look-out. But apparently this nonsensical ritual takes a full month, during which he won't be pursuing his very interesting thoughts about the construction of light-weight armor.

Divikar, always the copy-cat younger brother, plans to do a similar thing, pouring oil on a sample of soil brought back from Golana to see "hidden sites of fiery powers". I must be misunderstanding the ritual somehow, because I know it does not take a full month for a small oil fire to burn.

And finally, Limmy apparently finally lost his mind completely and attempted to attack Skeldmarsh all by himself. Needless to say, he died. I guess I'll miss the blue freak, but this will certainly quell the campfire rumors that he's the "8th incarnation of the immortal Vishnu", or whatever the locals think this week.

My butter supply is undisturbed tonight for the first time in a long while. Tonight I will go sit on the high flat rock which will soon be consecrated to Apollo, spread butter on freshly fired bread, and watch the stars.

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Turn15

On the one hand, I now have five more glorious elephants. On the other hand, I had forgotten what it was like to be around Amshula.

"So this is your shrine, is it?" she said in lieu of the pleasantries exchanged by normal people on first meeting. "I thought you were going for something a little more, you know, grand." She ran a finger over a slightly uneven section of wall. "But the rustic look kind of works, too."

I breathed in and out, carefully. Think of the elephants, I thought to myself. We leave tomorrow to fight an unknown and potentially powerful force, headed by some self-styled Queen Unu'ishimma, and I do not know what to expect there. I am even open to the idea that reports of numerous horned serpents among her troops must be taken at face value. And Amshula, for some reason, commands respect among the troops as someone who would be helpful in this fight.

But why, I really couldn't say.

"Thymbre always felt that simple was better than ornate and overdone," I replied. If she proceeded to be contrary, then perhaps I would have an excuse to... but no. Mustn't give her an excuse to run off into the fens looking for mystical midges or some sort. Not before I got the elephants under my command, that is. I settled for a small jab.

"After all, what's the point of fancy and ornate month-long ceremonies if they don't, you know, find anything?"

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Turn16

Now that was an interesting fight. Huge fanged serpents -- wolves pouring in from the forests -- women soldiers turning into serpents instead of dying -- the trumpeting of many elephants as they trample same. Most intriguing was this one woman who occupied my Silver Shields for some while (truth be told, they had little need to fight while the elephants were on their merry trample). She wore an enormous pelt which made her hard to kill, and was quite mad. This woman, called Ninhadi, was apparently a devotee of the cult of Fenris, some really powerful local wolf-god, or so I gathered when talking to locals after we had taken the village.

One of them provided me with the following page torn out of a book of lore; it seems a rather grisly way to honor a god. There was a curious scrawled footnote noting that it was prophesied that the pelt would be lost "in the time of the great butter wars", but then it is all smudged. More mystical nonsense, I am sure...

As usual, Amshula was quite ineffective, though she did manage to give this one snake something of a headache, and more importantly not injure anyone on our side. Now, once again, she has disappeared in search of gods only know what. I hear that yet another mystical ritual back home has failed to turn up anything; I think she and her siblings are getting a little desperate. I, for one, am simply glad for the respite from her incessant barbs.

We are pausing here for some time to wait for Divikar to arrive before proceeding. And I've been thinking... after all this time around Amshula, I really miss Limmy. At least ol' blue was contrite when he failed to contribute meaningfully to battles.

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Turn17

It was not long ago that I marched by the side of the great Alexander, learnt battle formations and strategy from his cunning hand. Now, abandoned by the same, I am forced to listen to a local crazy woman about how to arrange my troops.

The hoplite formation was designed to fight as one unit, the spears and weight of the rear ranks lending support to the front line. Stacked sixteen rows deep, this dread formation is nearly unbreakable in battle. I was there at Cunaxa, when the entire wing of the Persian army fled merely at our approach. Imagine if you were dressed in light cloth, armed with a short sword, and, with a rabble of your companions, you looked up to see the sun glinting off a thousand Greek shields, a thousand Greek spearheads blackening the sky. Only insanity or superhuman bravery would compel you to stand your ground, much less fling yourself onto their lines to have your body broken and trampled forever into the dust.

Nowhere on earth has anyone been able to withstand the phalanx. A hundred, a thousand years from now, men will still march out in this formation; it is the ultimate, definitive, triumphant last word in warfare.

But, no, heaven forbid we go with what works. I know, let's divide the strength of the phalanx into tiny little two and three man squads, cluster each of them around a bloody mystic, and, what's more, test this formation in battle, not against a light rabble, but a strongly defended province reputed to be guarded by women who are renowned for their battle progress. But Divikar carries orders from the village elders that Amshula should try this new tactic, and so we are all going to die.

A scout from the eastern marches has sent word that a disturbing race dwells north of this warrior-women province. Their practices are rumored to be quite barbaric, and I hope they have been somewhat exaggerated. On the other hand... sacrificing female virgins. I mean, it's wrong and despicable, an affront to civilization. But I cannot help thinking that Amshula has never been married...

Divikar also brings word of another failed attack upon Skeldmarsh. Apparently a few locals decided to steal some hoplite armor and go avenge Limmy's death. They were scattered like leaves, but some people cannot get enough punishment, and so they are preparing yet another attack. Apparently all the semi-intelligent people on the council have been overruled by the Limmy fanatics, who spend all their time wandering around, wailing his name.

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Turn18

Early fall.

The other night I dreamt of home. It was early evening on the docks, and I was watching the sails turn orange. A cool breeze blew, carrying the smell of distant rain, and I turned slightly to see Thymbre standing next to me. I knew that she had actually never been to Pagasae, having left her tiny mountainous village as a small child to serve in the temple at Delphi, and then to join the great campaign, but we stood together and watched the ships glow for a while, then fade to dark. There was no moon that evening, and gradually everything disappeared except for the distant stars. She never spoke.

When I awoke, it was hot and muggy, as it has been every morning for months, and swamp-stench filled the air, along with the sounds of soldiers banging out their armor and preparing for battle. Thymbre was gone, of course, further from reach even than distant Pagasae which I doubt I shall ever see again. Perhaps while I have been away fighting wars in lands I care nothing for it too has disappeared forever, and that is why I dreamt of them both.

The battle that morning reminded me so much of that other terrible day of cold, hard death: fearless women with spears, some mounted upon strange beasts (lizards this time; I am getting so sick of swamps and their lizards and snakes and other scaly beasts), led by sorceresses who dabbled in unnatural forces, and a sickly evil feeling to the land. Our few light troops fell almost at once to the advancing lizard-warriors, or scattered, and the first volleys between the magicians on both sides traded ineffectual beams of light for useless sparks of fire, as a dozen riders bore down upon us. I felt an odd queasy sensation, as if the world were about to turn very wrong again.

But my silver shields have been through much, and were not about to fail this time; the death of some only emboldened the rest to fight harder. I had joined my men at this point (I could not stand at the rear, not this time), and I saw many strange things brought against us, like vines rising from the ground to entangle our feet. But what really made my blood boil was when I heard the cries of the small figures in white at the far end of the battle field, and saw the bloody knives being taken to them, and I realized then what great evil I had been sensing. At this point, Amshula unexpectedly did something incredibly useful, killing several enemy foot soldiers with a giant ball of flame, and I silently apologized for wishing such a bloody fate upon her.

It was a bloody battle -- over half of my silver shields lay dead on the ground -- but we prevailed, and the enemy turned and fled. I made sure that neither of the evil women in charge left that field, though sadly many of the innocent sacrificial victims were also killed in the retreat. The rest begged us to kill them, claiming that if we let them go they would only be caught again by the dread kingdom to the north, where even more unspeakably evil things would be done to them. I plan to send them back toward Thymbre's temple, where perhaps they will have a chance to heal.

When I saw Amshula afterwards, I thanked her and her brother for helping in the fight, particularly for stunning the fleeing enemy mages so that we could catch up with them, and gave her permission to go off and look for her magic sites (as if forbidding her would have stopped her, but it felt good to pretend). She replied, cryptically, "I was only following what is written." When I looked at her quizzically, she said, "Try reading your book for a change, perhaps it will keep you from being so confused all the time," and strode off.

The only book I had was the silly one Thymbre had given me, The Collected Sayings of Pandokos the Prophet... but sure enough, on page 3, it contained a conversation I had had with my quartermaster in a tavern in Oast Hills years ago. I had said -- sorry, let me just quote it here, for I am, if anything, even more confused:

"And Pandokos of the odd smell of horse spoke thusly, saying: 'And you know what would be great? If giant balls of flame poured down from the sky and killed everyone, so we didn't have to risk getting our armor dented.' And the men did laugh, but Balachandra, first of the wise, came to the elders, and said: 'Let us make it so.' And they set to work..."

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Turn19

There is war coming to this land, yet I am traveling away from it.

We were attacked last week, by a band of villains, who were trying to sneak past our camp, to what evil ends I do not know, since none are left alive. Fortunately, I had begun training the locals -- with so few of my soldiers unhurt, and reinforcements weeks away, we needed some help to defend our lands -- and one of them spied the band as it crossed an open field. The cowards quickly ran away, but their commander collapsed as they fled, and we were able to round up everyone else and kill them. Divikar claims that he caused the commander to die, though since I didn't notice any fire or beams of light I'm not sure how he expects me to believe him.

What I did notice was a slight queasy feeling again, and then I had the most bizarre impression of being able to see through four of my silver shields as they charged toward the villains. I turned to face Divikar, and I could see through him, too, and he laughed at the look on my face. "What did you do to my soldiers?" I demanded. "Pandokos, look at yourself," he said, and laughed again. And sure enough, my hands had that same ethereal shimmer to them. "What, you didn't notice you were like that all of the last battle?" said Amshula, as she mumbled words of protection under her breath.

"I was?"

"Why do you think you didn't get touched even though you were in the thick of the battle?" she continued. "For that matter, why more of you spear-throwers didn't get your fool selves killed, rushing in to the battle instead of remaining sensibly at the back, fighting with your heads."

For one thing, of course, we don't throw our spears, I was about to say, but was distracted by the odd sight of a bug crawling on the back side of my hand. Perhaps there's something to be said for this...

It was only while interrogating the captive villains that I learned that they were not just a band of brigands harassing the countryside, but rather had been hired by the bloody kingdom to the north to test our weaknesses. I suspect that more of them shall follow, though for the moment there is little sign of any troops on our borders. Divikar claims to have heard from home (though how he is in communication with them, I do not know, since no runners have entered this land in weeks) that there is a sizable force coming from home toward the last village we rescued, and that I am to proceed there to join them in "liberating" another nearby land. ("In a swamp?" I asked, expecting the answer. "A swamp," he grinned.)

I worry about leaving the two mystics alone here with only their local troops, but Amshula claims that she will build up defenses, so that by the time I have returned we shall be ready to fight. I hope that they can keep their minds on military matters, and not get distracted, as so often happens. (Gods only know what they'd do if they actually found one of these sites of mystical power they keep looking for...) I wonder if they are up to something, though; last night, just before Divikar gave me my new orders, I caught them chattering excitedly, but though they smiled broadly at me they refused to tell me why.

Perhaps it is just as well that I am leaving.

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Turn20

Military life is hostile to butter. I served under the great Alexander as he cut through the kingdoms of the world. We spent many seasons under the scorching Egyptian desert sun, where my butter turned to soup, and many more in the mountains of Medea, when my butter was rock hard in the bitter mornings. Yet somehow these swamps spoil butter faster than anywhere else in the known world. Every morning I stumble over to my saddle-bags and withdraw the precious day's ration, and every morning it is the consistency of sludge and smells of brackish water—barely worth putting on my moldy bread at all.

It is said that when Alexander saw the breadth of his domain, he wept that there were no more worlds to conquer. This morning, I wept, for spoilt as it may be, I still need my butter every morning. But today it was gone from my bags.

Around the hottest, most insect-filled part of the day, Balachandra arrived at the camp, with a small contingent of horsemen, a few more hoplites, and... My heart beat quickly for a moment when I saw the green robes of Apollo, the chestnut brown locks... but of course it was not my Thymbre. Stories spin false hopes in man. It is hard not to lie awake at night, thinking of Orpheus, the greatest singer this world will ever know, who descended into the Underworld, and would have won the release of his love, Eurydice, had he not looked back at the last moment. It is foolishness. I have seen many strange things in this land, but the river is deep and cold, and those who pass it will never return.

I later had a chance to talk with this priestess of Apollo. She was called Andromache, and her familiar appearance was no accident, for in fact she was one of the slaves I had rescued from the evil warrior-women some months ago. She had fled the site of her torment, and arrived at Thymbre's temple, there entering into the divine mysteries. We wandered along the edge of the bog, helping pull each other out of the deadly quicksand. It was strange seeing a local woman in the Greek religious garb, but she had learned only enough during her short training at the temple to make her fairly burst with ridiculous questions:

"Is it true that Apollo raced with Hermes at the first Pythian Games at Delphi?"

"No... well, it depends. The stories we tell about the gods are really stories about ourselves. No one has ever actually seen one of the gods, but by believing in their stories, we become more like the gods ourselves."

"Wow, Apollo must have raced really fast if no one saw him!"

How could I explain to this girl that I had competed for the bay-leaf crown in the hoplite race many years ago. The gods were honored at the races, it was true, but they were not there. It was just men, the hot sun, and a will to win. Luckily, the conversation was interrupted by Balachandra, who carried new orders from the village council.

It should come as no great surprise that their missive nonsensically ordered us to turn back around and trudge back to the village of the warrior-women. There, to do... who knows what? Balachandra was certainly no help; all he cared about (I swear by Zeus I am not making this up) was whether my butter ration had disappeared that morning. When I assured him that it had, he face split in a ridiculous grin.

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Turn21

We were overtaken by a messenger about a mile outside of the warrior-women's village. (It is known as the Sinking Land, though whether in reference to the ankle-deep mud everywhere or to the sinking feeling one gets in one's stomach on realizing that one will be spending time here, I do not know.) The lad, perhaps a dozen years old, had clearly run a long way through these swamps, which is no mean feat. I offered to let him ride the rest of the way into town on one of our horses, but he refused. "There's been a battle, a glorious victory, and I must tell the Lady Amshula." Lady? I thought. "But wait.. what battle?" Outside of the small island we had been ordered to conquer (before we were ordered not to conquer it), there wasn't a hostile province for many leagues, and the kid, though tired, was no Phaedippas.

"It was magnificent," he said, brightening. I have observed a strong correlation between how broadly a local smiles, and how outrageous the next words out of his mouth are, and this trait is evidently acquired quite young. "I was laying down logs for our cows, so that they would track less of the precious mud into the house, when I heard a sound, like a dozen fish flying through the autumn leaves," he began, reciting the story he had probably spent hours crafting into incoherence. "So I tied an onion to my belt, and I ran into the village, and saw the one of the color of sloe, as if on the backs of two pigeons, and he was smiting our oppressors, and my people sang out with joy, and we ran for our swords and churning sticks to join in. The important thing is that I was wearing an onion on my belt..."

Seeing as how there was no hope of getting a version without pigeons and flying fish, I told him that perhaps he should just wait until he was in town, and therefore only have to tell his whole story once, at which point he immediately ran off again. "I wonder if he saw Hermes?" said Andromache, excitedly. "He has wings on his feet."

"What makes you think he saw a god?" I asked, though the locals seem to see gods everywhere. "Because," she explained, "blue is a divine color."

I laid aside a few questions that sprang to mind, such as Why would Hermes be blue?, and decided to stop asking questions for fear that I would receive yet more nonsensical answers. There was only one blue-tinted village liberator in these parts, and he was, mercifully, dead. I'd heard there had been a large funeral pyre after they had finally conquered Skeldmarsh, which some of the soldiers I was traveling with had even been at. And even if those reports were completely false (always a strong possibility), there was still no earthly way anyone could have travelled through the vast tracts of swamp more quickly than Balachandra and the troops he led, and they had seen nothing in the way of blue pigeon-footed individuals. This is what comes of settling swamps, I thought. Hallucinations and madness...

When I got into the village, I noticed that Amshula had decided a proper fortification requires twenty spindly little towers for every arm's span of wall. Since this quickly used up all of the available stone, there were large gaps in the walls, and no one paid any heed to which were supposed to have gates on them. I was searching for something suitably caustic to say when Divikar rushed up. "I have just had word that we must leave tomorrow, to fight in the east," he said. "They say that skeletons ride there, and nobody will live in their land."

Skeletons. Thmybre. For some reason I turned to The Collected Sayings of Pandokos the Prophet:

And Lo, Pandokos, who had wandered many moons in the southern marshes, met death in the east, but was unafraid. He recalled the words of banishment uttered by Navnit at the mountain pass, and vowed to study them well, and memorize this incantation so that he should not join the dead, but rather continue to protect this valuable book, and provide witty sayings for it to print...

I don't know why I bother reading this book. It's clearly more a work of fiction than an accurate account of my "sayings", and I've never met anyone called Navnit. There are men to organize into formations for battle.

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Turn22

The sun rose this morning. I sit in my tent, long after the sun has set. My candle will soon burn out, and still I am trying to write sense. Still trying to figure it out. Still trying to find the words that might forestall the death of all my veteran men and the locals who employ us.

The sun rose this morning, and my butter was missing again. We had made camp outside of a tiny village in Vorgunmarsh (the entire region has only a few hundred inhabitants), and stayed up too late listening to their ghost stories about the dead riders who come to steal the souls of men so that they are never reborn in the eternal cycle these folks believe in. A year ago I would not have credited these tall tales, but since then I have come to understand that every tale has some grain of truth.

The sun rose this morning, and the village was gone. In its place was a silent horde of undead on skeleton horses. We rushed to battle formations: silver shields and hoplites in the center, horses on the flank. Long we stood in the chill morning air, and stared at death. Without a warning, without a sound, they charged and I saw it all again: the charge, the faltering of our men, the sudden death of my world. Something snapped. I cried to Apollo, god of the sun, god of light. I cursed Hades and the underworld for taking my love and demanded vengeance for his fallen servant.

The sun rose this morning, like it does every morning, but then it did something it had never done before. The sky grew dark, except for a single ray of sun light, which burnt one skeleton until oblivion. I had no time to wonder at this, for Andromache was shouting some words I heard Thymbre use, once, at that other battle. And suddenly... though I cannot recall them now, I knew them, and shouted them as well. And at each cry we saw some of them disappear, vanish. Only a few reached our lines. A lucky thrust skewered Divikar, and then our cavalry was at their rear, and out line held in the front. Normal sounds returned to the world, and all sign of battle was gone from the field, save for a few dead of our men.

The sun rose this morning, but as if cursing us now in this hour, it disappeared behind a thousand arrows. Knowing that death had not yet despaired of taking us that day, we turned toward the archers and charged again. It was then that my day got really strange. I saw amongst the archers a blue giant. He kicked, and archer bits flew everywhere, and bombardment of my troops stopped as they turned to focus on him. I urged our men onwards. I saw the giant fall with a thousand arrows sticking in him just before the first troops reached his side. I realized with a sickening feeling that the indomitable phalanx was plowing into lightly armored men not undead, or lizards, or even bandits, but upstanding men with fair faces and bright uniforms, who stood valiantly and unafraid, although they wore no armor for close fighting. Many of them, keeping together and helping their wounded, escaped to the safety of the nearby woods.

The sun rose this morning, and now its rays shown upon a ground littered with bodies. As we searched for the wounded to try to help those who we could, and speed the hopeless on their way with a coin for the boat-man, Andromache and I uncovered some odd objects. I picked up a short sword which weighed almost nothing, but she uncovered a dagger with a snake (a real, live snake) coiled around it's blade, and a pair of boots, which were clearly designed to be imitations of the boots of Hermes. But when she put them on, she flew above the battlefield, shouting like a giddy school girl, "Whee! Hey, everyone look at me, I'm flying! I'm flying!" Then her snake dagger got caught in her impractical priestess robes and she tumbled to the ground in a heap.

The sun rose this morning, and that is now the only thing in the world I am really sure of. The locals claim that the giant, blue-armed thing was actually Limmy, brought back from the dead (though I feel I am missing some nuances of their strange beliefs about death). There was no body, and we had all been under much stress, so a hallucination seems more likely, but then I cannot explain the odd items we found. We tried to heal a few of the archers, but all passed away before nightfall. One spoke the local language a little, and through multiple translations I realized that they were troops in the employ of the empire of Man, which distant scout reports agree is the largest power in this part of the world. I must write to their leaders as soon as possible. My villagers cannot afford to have a war started with so mighty a people because of such a silly accident.

The sun rose this morning. I hope that it will again tomorrow, and that it will look with more favor upon me, and my small band, so far from home, in a land so mad.

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Turn23

Tense negotiations with the kingdom of Man have left us in control of Vorgunmarsh. They sent a small task force to check out the place and came to the sensible conclusion that it is probably the worst province in the entire world, and if we wanted to rule over the handful of scrawny inhabitants and scores of mosquitos, more power to us. The inhabitants provide us with pretty minimal resources (belts for our hoplites), but surprisingly it makes a difference.

We have also had first contact with a bizarre power known as R'lyeh. Apparently they live under water— like Plato's story of Atlantis— but also claim to be from another star. I presume they are just crazy. They provided us with a clam; perhaps it is a token of friendship? It must be a fish thing. I guess I'll carry it around in my saddle bags just in case an ambassador shows up and it turns out that the slimy gastropod was actually the leader's one true love. It better not stink up my butter.

Amshula's castle actually came together rather well. A bit drafty though. She's recruited a few of the local warrior women to help her ("To do what?" you may ask. You may indeed). I'm not sure how I feel about that. These are, after all, the same bloodthirsty old women who felt that it was appropriate to use innocent young girls in their twisted rituals. Still, Amshula promises that they are loyal to us now and will obey our rules about appropriate things to do with virgins.

Perhaps they have just been corrupted by our neighbors to the north. Everyday we get more refugees swelling our little encampment here. Mostly they are girls who have escaped from the vile priests (all men, who would have guessed?) who live on human blood. One of the priests from the temple of Apollo has raised a new temple here in honor of Athena; that should provide the refugees with a strong role model. Hopefully, if word can spread that some of the most powerful gods are female, the slaughter will abate. In my heart though, I know that we will probably be forced to go to war in order to bring justice to that land.

Am I turning into Alexander? One battle after another, each following of necessity from the last? Will I end my days delusional, believing I am a god? Will I eventually lead my men into strange and terrible lands and abandon them there? Or, perhaps, if the world is round (as some of our philosophers back home believe), my never-ending conquests will eventually bring me back, Odysseus-like, to Pagasae, my home.

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Turn24

We held Divikar's funeral last night, as his older sister Sadhana had only just arrived from the capital. (And how many siblings does this clan have? I wondered, as she murmured words to Amshula and Balachandra from the others who could not make the journey.) As the eldest member of the family, she presided over the ceremony, which was held by the mouth of the river, some two hours' march from our fortress. I was not expecting a large crowd -- Divikar tended to keep to himself, and we were far from the lands where he grew up -- but villagers kept streaming in all day from throughout the province. I asked a village chieftess from up north why she had travelled so far to bid farewell to a gangly teenager who had helped drive her sistren from power. She said, "We have known for a while that our time as a free nation was ending. At least you have been fair and demanded no more from us than is any conqueror's right to demand from his subjects." It was only later that I realized she was not talking about our forces in general, but me. It was not a pleasant thought.

As with all local ceremonies, much of the funeral was quite inexplicable, especially the part where they rounded up all of the butter churned that week and burned it in a giant pyre. (I contributed my rations; Divikar was my friend. It is still a senseless custom.) After dark, for according to Balachandra all funerals must be held under a clear night's sky, the body was placed in a boat with two large candles and a shallow bowl of water, and pushed out into the lake, while the siblings chanted dirges. Amshula had a look in her eyes that chilled me to the bone. It put me in mind of another funeral last year, a terrible affair of ice and stone, and I silently implored whichever gods might listen to not forget about Thymbre, though she has passed forever from my reach. For a while I stood there staring at the cold, distant stars, who alone do not die. When the funeral boat finally drifted out of view, it was glowing faintly; probably one of the candles had fallen down.

This morning, I awoke to the sound of clanging and shouts coming from the mystic's tower, where no one else is allowed to enter. They have been in there for many hours now, working furiously, though toward what end I cannot guess.

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Turn25

(From The Collected Sayings of Pandokos the Prophet: In his first incarnation)

Sing, goddess, the anger of Pandokos of Pagasae
and its devastations, which put pains thousandfold upon the Mictlanians,
hurled in their multitudes to the house of Hades strong souls
of heroes, but gave their bodies to be the delicate feasting
of dogs, of all birds, and the will of Zeus was accomplished.

Everywhere I go in this land I become a little more sick. The empire of Mictlan, which festers to our north, uses the blood of the innocents to call devils up from the house of Hades. They employ massive armies of slaves, having decided that an entire clan of people are unworthy of freedom, and sacrifice them callously in their battle lines. I have this last information on direct authority of a scout, many leagues to the north, who saw Mictlan's forces in battle some months ago. Meanwhile, as I go among the people, spreading the news that we do not worship the same foul, wretched god, I have to endure looks of fear and hate. The locals associate all military men with the patrols which used to come in the night, breaking into homes and tearing families apart as they took young girls off to die on the tops of their red-stained temples.

Sometimes in our travels we cross the borders into Tolk, or Horslund Forest. In these lands, still under the shadow, it is as if the sun itself has no power to bring light and cheer. Even Andromache, who is normally very happy (if silly), becomes a cloud of grief. No doubt she remembers her own captivity and near escape from death. We never see any young women on these trips. I hope that the locals have simply learnt to keep them well-hidden. The alternative, the madness, defies belief.

In the dark of night though, I fear I understand. It is hard to keep a string of petty, hostile, provinces united. And fear is a useful tool in a tyrant's box.

The Golanarians are revolting and it makes me mad. Villans now roam the highways of this province, cutting off our route back home. And yet I am not willing to drag my army through the mud for months on end to quell this problem. I am needed here. This close to the shadow, my men need me to keep from going mad, and soon, very soon, my skill in battle will be needed. I will write to the village elders telling them that the Golana problem is in their hands. I'm sure they can find some local hero willing to do a spot of police work.

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Turn26

Another spring is passing by, though the marshes are much the same. The marshes are always the same. The other day, I found a patch of marsh that was very much not the same, and it felt almost unnatural, so accustomed have I become. I was walking toward the east of the village, down a path I'd only travelled once before, when I came across a small grove of tall hardwoods. At more than double the height of a man, these trees dwarf everything in the area, save only Amshula's spindly little turrets. You would expect there to be crowds of people here, gaping at the sight of something living reaching such an unusual height, yet I saw no one. Come to think of it, you would think that if these trees had been there when I marched with our armies to the east, I or one one of my men would surely have noticed them. For the grove looked old, and the trees were very densely packed, like soldiers in formation, and it was almost pleasant to stand in their shade.

They were, of course, covered in vines, and home to many proper swamp denizens, like snakes, whose constant crawling made it seem as if the trees were moving their vines in a most malevolent way. I also imagined I heard the sound of footsteps more than once, but there was never anything there. I finally decided the novelty of seeing an actual tree was not worth the malice in the air, and headed back. On my way, I passed one of the sorceresses, heading out that way. "You should not go out this way," she said. "It is not safe to wander the groves of the T'lyearugh without proper training." She hurried on before I could ask her what she meant.

When I returned to the fortress, another caravan had arrived from the north. This is at least the third one in recent days to arrive, bearing another dark-cowled sibling or cousin or other relation of the mystic clan. (I spent most of the evening listening to a young man, who bore a strong resemblance to Amshula, explain why the matrilineal descendants of the third wife of the cousin of someone, whose name escapes me, were more knowledgeable in the ways of the earth, as opposed to those of the fifth wife, before I was able to make my escape.) The new arrivals are all quick to join their kind, who stay in their locked towers at all hours, making strange sounds and terrible smells.

I solved one mystery, though: I was hearing footsteps. I caught Balachandra taking off a strange cloak as he greeted another third-cousin-on-his-mother's-side, or to be more precise, caught a patch of empty sky slowly put on a Balachandra shaped skin. It made me queasy to look at -- and then I realized that this was the same effect I had noticed in the battle to take this province. Somehow, they have devised a way to weave near-invisibility into cloth. Balachandra, for his part, merely winked at me when he saw me staring, a bit gape-mouthed. I felt a sudden flash of realization.

So that's who's been stealing my butter...

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Turn27

Life in the Sinking Land is mostly quiet with brief flashes of chaos.

I spend my days training. Many young men have asked to join our forces. The forge billows blow without ceasing to produce new shields and armor. It takes many years of training to master the 12-foot spears that the full hoplites use, so I've been organizing a new regiment of hypaspists, with 8-footers and lighter armor. The lack of flanking cavalry in this land severely limits my tactical options, but I hope the hypaspists can partially replace them. We spend most of the morning running through the swamps in full battle armor. I've lost a few in the sucking mud, but the survivors are incredibly fast and unafraid of snake swamps.

In the afternoons I work with my veterans. The long months fighting through the swamps left many of them with festering wounds. The priestesses of Apollo and Athena have been tending to them, though, and virtually all are now back to fighting trim. We practice the fundamentals: speed by charging in full armor, spinning the line and charging again for hours on end until the ground on the hillside has been churned into mud; precision by shredding a rope with just the points of a spear in mere seconds; strength by lining up six deep as we would in the phalanx and pushing over trees with our shoulders (somehow the old Spartan drill is less impressive when we use scrawny, half-dead tree-like bushes rather than mighty oaks).

In the evenings we have aristeia, one-on-one contests of fighting prowess. I have always been a good warrior, but lately there is no escaping the fact that I have become abnormally quick. Balachandra gave me a finely-crafted spear which I adore. Its balance and lightness would make any man formidable in combat and, when, in my dreams, I am back at Godsgrave mountain, now I have this spear and it turns into a rod of light in my hands and burns the undead before they reach Thymbre.

But it isn't just the spear, nor the long hours of training. Against the most skilled silver shield I draw the poorest weapons from the pool, and even then I must hold back or humiliate them utterly. They are so slow. When we go into aristeia it is suddenly as if time slows down to half-time. Dodging spear-points becomes, if not easy, at least possible, and I barely have to wait for openings— if I wanted to I could tap his armor with my spear in the first seconds of the fight. Of course I allow them some dignity in the battle, but of course I still win every time. I am undefeated now in the aristeia for three months, and every night it gets easier. I am grateful that my skills have developed to this point, but it is odd.

But yesterday morning my peaceful training schedule was interrupted by Ialysos, a competent old hoplite who patrols the province with the light troops who will never (for one reason or another) join the full phalanax. His force surprised someone spying on them on the road to Vorgunmarsh, and though he tried to stop them, the cardaces chased the spy down and gutted him with their spears. Only afterward, from the dead man's markings, did they learn that this was no local rebel, but a scout from the kingdom of Machaka. I have heard strange things of this land, but for certain I wish them no ill. As a practical matter it would have been nice to interrogate the scout and find out what he was doing so far north of his own kingdom. I will send their ruler a message of condolence.

And now this morning Balachandra and his second-half-brother-twice-removed-on-his-second-father's-side Nirmai are rounding up all the mystics from their various places of study, yelling something in the local dialect and gesturing wildly to the north. Ah well, I have written enough for today; I'd better go find out what the babble is all about.

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Turn28

(From The Collected Sayings of Pandokos the Prophet: In his first incarnation)

"They came for our holy girls," said the woman of Tolk. "We wept, for their sacrifice would be in vain, but we hid a few away so that our priestesses would not face Ma'era empty handed." "They enslaved the spirits of warriors who perished defending our lands, a dozen tree-lives ago, and caused them to turn on us, and chase us out of our homes, until the land was populated only by ghosts," said the old man of Vorgun. "First they took all the girls, holy or not, and killed those who were not useful, except a few of us who hid," said the young maiden from Horslund. "Then they came back and took anyone who could work, leaving the old and sick to die because there is no-one left to till the fields or chop the wood or churn the butter."

And Pandokos of the impressive range of facial colors grew very stern..."

There is a holy marsh here, where the corpses of people killed in battles do not decay, but float beneath the surface, unable to leave the swamps even in death. The people light candles here, which burn for months, whenever there are new corpses. There are a lot of lit candles, and there would be many more if there were anyone left to light them. If I were in better humor, I would find it amusing that the first time I have left the marshes for a year and a half would find me returning again and again to this one patch of swamp, in what is otherwise a fine land of tall oaks and and evergreens.

I am not amused.

When Balachandra came to me last week, with another ragged band of half-starved refugees, his eyes could have melted stone. These people, though they seemed more dead than alive to me, were from the north, where they had lived peaceably on the edge of the forest and the swamp before the raiding party wiped out their entire village of thousands. This is the third group this week, raged the inferno in the eyes of my oldest friend in these lands. This has gone too far, rumbled the avalanche. Balachandra is always such a mild, reasonable man. We must act now, roared the tempest. I wonder how Amshula would have implored me? I wondered, idly, before giving the orders to march. We left by nightfall.

There are very few people here, at least who dare to show themselves, though I suspect there are many more hidden in dark, forgotten corners of the woods. Far too many villages are entirely empty, food left half-eaten on dinner plates, here and there a pool of dried blood, a charred corpse. In more than one burnt shell of a house, there are whole families clustered together around the fireplace, with no signs of violence, sometimes holding hands. In a low voice, Andromache explained that it is better to die quickly with the ones you love. She alone walks through the villages without a look of dazed horror on her face, as if she had seen this sort of thing many times before. She probably has.

At last we came to a village where the corpses were still warm to the touch, and found what we were looking for, scuttling down the road to the north. We quickly slew the band of slavers, and rescued half a dozen villagers, most of whom were too dazed to be able to give a coherent story. But one man told me that I should go see the old woman who never left the sacred grove. Outsiders are not permitted to enter, he said, especially not military men who lack respect for life. But she would talk to me.

And indeed, though I had never seen her before, she greeted me as if picking up a conversation we had left off the last evening. "I was waiting for you, Pandokos."

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Turn29

(From The Collected Sayings of Pandokos the Prophet: In his first incarnation)

And Navnit, while wandering, met the holy woman in the woods. This was early in the days of the Days of Blood when there were still many villages, but parents were beginning to weep for missing daughters. And Navnit, on seeing that nobody stood up for the villagers, spoke of Pandokos of the men with very long pointy sticks and the pleasantly affordable rates of hire.

"I do not hold with deathbringers," said the old woman. "I know that there is no life without death," she continued, pouring a cup of warm fragrant herbal beverage for the wanderer. "But each death is still a loss."

"Yes," said Navnit, idly staring through her cup as she swirled her warm fragrant herbal leaves. "But sometimes what is lost is even the certainty of death."

The old woman nodded at me again. "I thought you would be here sooner," she said. "And now that you are here, I see that you are in a hurry to be gone. Good. I do not like deathbringers in my woods."

As greetings go, this ranked highly among the oddest. I stated such, and discretely insinuated that the old woman should cut back on her herbal beverages.

"Leave this place, oh favored-of-Hermes. Travel into the dying sun, and free the people there, for Navnit's sake."

Oddly enough, the only portion of that sentence I really understood was Navnit, which I have learnt is the local word for butter. Well, that, and "Leave this place", which seemed like good advice, since the woods were exceedingly creepy.

We journeyed to the open ground west of the wood, and by the side of the river there we encountered a large force of blood-hunters. Most of their army were shrivelled husks of men, clad in rags, and armed with little more than sticks. They were clearly unwilling conscripts, and I gave orders that any which attempted to surrender should be given quarter. None did.

The battle was short and dramatic. The mystics clustered around Balachandra and his nephew and sort of joined hands. The two men in the center seemed to draw strength from those clustered around them, and conjured up many strange sights, the strangest of all was when large flaming rocks fell from the sky and crashed into the ranks of the enemy. The blood-hunters broke and ran almost before my men reached their lines, and so we suffered no casualties, although I did notice Amshula limping afterwards, and most of that family seemed more lethargic than normal after the battle.

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Turn30

The locals call them the Steel Ovens. In the side of the mountains there are natural crevices where magna bubbles day in and day out. The hills have an abundance of iron ore nearby, and smiths there have outfitted the natural oven with all the tools necessary to make armor and weapons. Freed from the yoke of the blood-hunters, the smiths volunteered to work with us. One of Balachandra's kin wasted no time in immediately constructing a laboratory at the base of this mountain, so that the mystics and smiths could confer more easily about matters alchemical.

I have spent the past month wandering this province, and the fair city which is perched on high cliffs overlooking a fast flowing river. It is sad to think that this clear stream from the mountains is destined to become a brackish, muddy mess in the swamps to our south. The people here have been less terrorized by the blood hunters, or rather, less willing to put up with random virgins being dragged into the night to satisfy the twisted logic of some dark god. While they were nominally loyal to the blood suckers, their city gate developed an annoying tendency to become badly stuck whenever the collection agents came around. My message of freedom and hope for a better future unburdened by such foul superstitions fell on welcome ears, although they have replaced it with some bizarre ritual in which they spread butter on themselves.

As I was training a token local defense squadron in case the blood-fiends return after we have sallied forth, I came across Amshula, Sadhana, and some other mystic (whose name I do not know). They looked tired and dirty. Amshula in particular looked worse for wear. Her hair was singed and wind-blown, her limp more pronounced than ever, and her fancy purple clock was ripped in many locations. They confessed that their foray into the wild parts of this province in search of sites of magical power had been entirely unfruitful. I suppressed a smile, offered my insincere condolences, and escorted them back to the city.

There we found Balachandra in the city arena showing off his muscles to a crowd of bored hypaspists and an almost-swooning Andromache. The young lad has become supremely strong lately, and was besting all comers in wrestling. I challenged him, and after some hesitation, he agreed. Perhaps he felt that I was too much like his mentor. Perhaps he felt I was too old. In the first round, he was clearly not trying his hardest, and I had him quickly on the ground before he knew what was happening. I heard Andromache's silver laughter at the sight of Balachandra lying on the ground. And the next round was very different. The lad was super-humanly strong. I could easily avoid his grasps, or twist out of his grip, but my own attempts to get him off balance came to little. I simply could not move him against his will. After several minutes of this, I feigned tiredness. I let him grab me, and as he shifted to throw me to the ground, I slipped out of his grip, gave a little shove, and allowed his own motion to carry him to the ground.

Andromache approached, carrying Balanchandra's cloak, which she tossed him with a look of amusement in her eyes. I went off to a well-deserved meal of fresh river clams drenched in butter.

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Turn31

We turn north again, working on fragmentary reports from scouts throughout Mictlan's empire. My plan is to avoid the large enemy army encamped just south of their capitol, skirt around, and hit their city from the west. The going will be slow, since it will be necessary to pacify the locals, clear out blood-hunters, and set up some sort of local defense at each town we come to. If all goes according to plan, we should be outside their bloody walls in two, maybe three months.

Looking back over my previous entries, I see that I have neglected to mention the strange beings that now travel with us. Balachandra calls them vinoghers. I normally call them "stupid" or "mindless twit", since they have no conception of personal space or self preservation, and are happy to aimless wander into a campfire, scatter ash and plant bits into one's butter, and then plod off, completely oblivious to the flames now dancing around their legs. We've lost three of them and nearly a pound of butter that way, but more seem to arrive continually.

But the vinoghers are quite sturdy in battle. Not as effective offensively as my hoplite, they do have a remarkable ability to keep wandering forward, randomly crushing things, despite missing an arm or two. In the most recent skirmish, the slave armies of Mictlan turned and fled at their mere approach. I guess the strange southern sorceresses (Ulde, or one of her triplets) are to thank or blame for these brutes. I don't need them to win battles, but they keep my real men healthy and I am grateful for that. I shall have to send the triplets a nice fruit basket from the Mictlan capitol when it falls.

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Turn32

At times I feel a little redundant. We approached a large Mictlan army on the plains outside Oeversee. As usual, I had my slow troops in a protective square around the mystics, priests, wounded, and other useless bums. On the left flank, the now-elite hypastist phalanx; on the right, a barely distinguishable clump of vines and moss that typically breaks up into something like ten vinoghers.

The blood-herders have some men who have mastered the art of flight, and these sometimes cause problems for the mystics, who have never held an honest spear in their life. In this case, one lone fanatic soared majestically into the air, raised his spear, gave a horrible cry, and ... promptly skewered himself upon the spears of the phalanx.

The mystics were wasting their time on foolish chants, so I left Andromache to watch out for them, and marched forward with the phalanx. The slave army had nearly reached us, and though we were heavily outnumbered, I could see the fear in their eyes, for we have gained quite a fearsome reputation in these parts. There was a sound like a thousands swords being drawn, and a whistling that you felt, rather than heard. Instinctively, we all ducked behind shields, pulled our helmets down low, but the whirling blades came from behind us, flew safely over our heads, and scythed the slave army apart.

The slaves of Mictlan rarely wear any armor or shields, and are generally slow also. The blades tore limbs clean off, chunked a few of them cleanly, and generally mangled a number more. Slipping on the blood and entrails, still more afraid of their masters behind them than of the death in front, the few remaining slaves got to their feet, and struggled forward. At that moment, a lightening bolt appeared out of the sky, and with a great clap of thunder, charred the earth directly in front of the slaves. On the way down, the lightening must have caught the trees branches on fire, for the next second, a veritable shower of fire fell amongst the poor conscripts, burning many, and lighting several of them on fire.

The survivors fled as soon as we reached them and presented our spear points, and impenetrable wall of gleaming shields. The vinoghers tore a few apart as they ran, dropping their spears to escape more quickly. The few non-slave warriors melted easily under our advance, and the battlefield was ours.

That night, I spoke with Tushar (Balachandra's second cousin, once removed). He confirmed my suspicion that there was nothing supernatural going on at the battle: the mystics had simply found a way to propel a large number of sharpened blades through the air. He refused to tell me the mechanism though: "Magic," he replied with a wink. Of course he also claimed credit for the lightning strike, but it was clear he was just trying to see how gullible I am.

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Turn33

Tushar's invention (the troops nervously refer to it as The Blade Wind. As in, "Keep your head low in battle or the blade wind will send your head back home to Attica without your body", or, "If you touch my butter ration again I'll blade wind you back to the stone age") remains devastatingly effective against the forces of Mictlan. With its help, we cut a bloody swath through the patrolling army and are now camped outside the gates of Mictlan itself, gathering the materials for a siege. I do not know how long we will have to remain here. The walls around this city are strong ones, and there are many defenders inside.

I have heard some odd reports from back home. Upper Skelde, just north of Oast Hills, has always been home to a proud and warlike people. Now, perhaps, they have been defeated in battle by forces under the control of the village elders. Or perhaps not — I have heard both. It almost seems as if a rabble of locals was soundly defeated there, and yet the province spontaneously decided to join their fate to ours anyway. And I keep hearing a name I have not heard in a long time... Limmy. It seems that the faith of some people never dies.

The sorceress triplets (I think Vlde, actually, but I cannot keep them straight) have sent a messenger complaining that a large slaver force is marching south directly for them. The scum have already taken the sacred grove of the old woman, and the sorceresses fear that the fort in the sinking land will soon be under siege. I'll write them a witty response telling them to get their plant buddies to protect them. Bloody sorceresses— can't even handle a little counter-attack. The troops believe that they are not altogether dedicated to our cause, so I'm certainly not about to go rushing off to save them. I'm sure that once Mictlan's capitol falls, the god-empress (as she imagines herself) of this people, also known as Sethra, Lady of Fever, will surrender completely.

Honestly though, I hope the so-called Harvester comes in person to try and break the siege. I would love to end her reign of terror on my spear-point.

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Turn34

They attacked out of the fortress with another motley band, and we swatted them down. Many of their slaves died, though many more ran and fled. We suffered no casualties, save only for one of the priests of Apollo, who fell to a regrettably well-aimed large rock. Actually, our numbers increased, since for the first time a few Mictlanians came to their senses and begged us to accept their services in the fight against their cruel former masters. Balachandra was most pleased at this, and said that he and the rest of his clan had been working on a way to "project inner calm" at the enemy and "release their inner chi" in order to "free their minds". I'm just going to put it down to a sudden and unlooked-for case of common sense breaking out.

There was a quarrel in the mystic camp after the battle, though I don't know what it was about. For the past several months, Amshula and Tushar have been in charge of marshaling the other mystics and directing their mystical incantations that (they claim) are the reason we have lost so few troops. Tushar's Blade Wind, in fact, has earned him a reputation far and wide as a powerful magician with lightning quick reflexes (the better to step out the way of stray blades), and he tends to accumulate a following of awestruck young lads and swooning maidens. (Except for Andromache; after battles I've noticed that though she tends diligently to the wounds of all the injured soldiers, she spends more time than is strictly necessary around Balachandra's tent, admiring his ever-more-impressive muscle tone.) But as I was walking past the camp in the early evening, I heard Amshula's voice raised passionately, and caught a few words.

"... not fair, who cares about fair? ... risk our lives just so someone else can play the hero... "

Several mystics spoke at once, drowning each other out. I heard elder sister Sadhana sharply rebuke Amshula for not being properly respectful, and several of Tushar's brothers arguing heatedly about something. The argument ended abruptly when Amshula shouted out, "You can all be seeyems for all I care, if you think I'm just in it for the glory." She then stormed out, which would have been more impressive if not for her limp. It seemed to be troubling her more than usual. As she hobbled past she caught my eye and said, furiously, "Their precious protocols and traditions are going to get us all killed, but do they care? It's just a big stupid game to them..." I couldn't think of anything to say to that, so I let her walk past and went to inspect the defectors.

One of them, a bowman, claimed to be from an indigenous tribe in the province that had long been repressed, and whose members were forced to serve in the military because their skills with projectile weapons went beyond throwing rocks. He was more than willing to fight against the bloodfiends. The other defector, a common warrior, said that he had heard only the day before, from a cousin to the north, that the forces of "blue and butter" had liberated them, and that he had been confused about what to do with this information until, or so he claims, he saw me march out with the troops. As he was missing an arm and quite dazed from blood loss and hunger, I don't really know what to make of his claim, except that I have heard other rumors that the province to the north has revolted, in our favor.

At present, we are digging in and preparing for a long siege, though it is hard to say how long that could be. News from the south is not good -- the triplets continue under siege, and Vorgunmarsh was seized -- but it is far more important for us to continue here. If we can break their stronghold, then the rest of their forces will crumble and fall.

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Turn35

Yesterday's sortie from the castle walls came within a spear's thrust of defeating us. Nearly a third of my troops fell, and several bands were scattered into surrounding areas; there are only a handful of troops still camped around the city walls. If their next attack is as strong as this one, we will be in trouble. Fortunately, it seems as if many of their leaders came out and fought, and few returned to their blood-stained homes.

I think they had finally realized what a threat we pose to them, because this time they attacked with far better troops than the masses of rag-tag slaves we have encountered before. A flock of giant poisonous bats flew directly toward the mystics, who were fortunately surrounded by many brave hoplites who sprang to their defense. That left the vinoghers to meet the bulk of their forces, which included several evil looking spiny monsters. All the while five priests stood at the back with dozens of young girls; by the time we reached them, not one was left alive. There was much bloody fighting before we finally prevailed. I did note with some curiosity that Sadhana and another mystic whose name escapes me led the mystics this time; yet the troops seem to have rallied around Amshula and Tushar, because they believe them responsible for the lightning strikes that helped drive off the bats.

As the few remaining priests finally began to flee, three of their tribal kings suddenly "freed their minds" and joined our side, unfortunately without bringing their warriors also to our side. One of them said that the Prophet Huehueteotl had come himself to watch the fight, but was among the first to scurry back to the castle; it was the former king's opinion that there would be much blood-letting tonight in the wake of the devastating defeat, and he would rather be outside the castle while it was going on. Since we have so few troops assembled here, I have assigned all of the defectors guard duties. I do not suspect they will betray us, since they are unlikely to be greeted with anything other than open knives should they return to their city, but I have instructed my troops to remain cautious around them.

I leave at dawn to collect wayward troops. Had they been veterans, seasoned warriors, who had fled, I would have left them to wander. The phalanx would have been strengthened by the removal of the weakest elements. But most of them are fresh recruits from the south -- more boys than men really, and we desperately need more hands to maintain the siege. It is unlikely that Mictlan will attack again in force before I can return, which is why I will risk it. Besides, tensions among the mystics have been high ever since the battle. I suspect there is another argument brewing, though at present Amshula is so exhausted that she has slept ever since the battle ended, nearly two days ago. I would like to be gone from the camp before she awakes.

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Turn36

I have just received news that Huehueteotl was not content to wait until he had built up a stronger force, and instead he attacked out while I have been rebuilding my strength and my phalanx out in the northern forests (which are indeed completely loyal to our cause, though no one will give me a straight answer for what prompted this welcome rebellion). The attacking force was not large, mostly slaves and large poisonous snakes of the sort I have seen far too many times for one lifetime.

As I hear it from the messenger who was sent to fetch me, our forces quickly routed theirs, though we again failed to catch Huehueteotl. But even after the forces had broken and were madly scrambling back toward the city, Sadhana and Nihar kept "raining down death from the heavens", as I am told, and otherwise calling upon the other mystics to put forth great efforts to pick off a few of the retreating foes. While Nihar was chanting an incantation to give all of our forces the strength of giants, the better to run down the stragglers, Amshula collapsed from the strain, and never woke up. Nobody else was hurt.

I did not expect to take her death this hard. We fought constantly, and she was ever confounding my plans with her incessant searching and her inability to take commands (from me). But she did not deserve to die this way, ill-used by her fellow mystics. Too many have died senselessly in the last three years -- Amshula, Divikar... Thymbre. When will it end?

The messenger is relating other news about the battle, such as how the Mictlan deserter who was missing an arm has been magically healed, and how Limmy himself was spotted in battle, flying like a bird, but I do not have time for such folly now. We are still two days' march from the encampment, and we must reach it before they are attacked again, or I fear there will be yet more evil.

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Turn37

At night, the grounds around the walls of Mictlan are a depressing place, littered with a hundred broken things. Although it is late spring here, the air is as bitter cold as in the depths of winter. It is as if there is some presence to the land that sucks all of the life and warmth out of every living being. And yet, amid all this decay, I have never felt more at home, more at peace in this strange land, then standing by the side of Amshula's funeral pyre, singing songs with her family. The fire leapt and curled high into the sky, where the sky was brilliantly clear, and the stars close enough to touch. A playful breeze from the south brought sweet forest scents to cover up the battlefield stench, and little gusts fanned the flames to even more daring acrobatics as they carried that incomparable spirit across the final river.

The next day, our force was attacked again by the rapidly dwindling, and very smelly, blood-hunters. We emerged from the battle only stronger, as we lost no one, and three more poor warriors joined our side, and brought with them two great horned serpents. These truly magnificent beasts are much used by Mictlan, but in battle one never gets a chance to examine them properly up close. In the hands of their trainers they are quite docile, indeed, almost friendly once you get over their evil-looking fangs. We will soon put them to good use, for after the battle it became clear that the defending forces no longer possess the wherewithal to keep us out; we will at last storm the gates of hell.

I hope Balachandra is all right. I know he blames himself for Amshula's death. I think he sees in her death a deep failing within himself. I do not see it though. His sorrow for a fellow warrior's death is the mark of civilization, rare among these people. I am glad that he is now bedding Andromache (this gossip can no longer be denied), for she has a remarkably level head after her own troubles and will help him through his self-inflicted torment. And who does this leave in charge of the mystics? A newcomer, ... well, it seems strange to write it, but here it is... Odysseus. No, not just someone with the bad sense to take that unlucky man's name, but someone who actually claims to be that famous king of Ithaca. It is odd: apart from this fairly serious flaw in his mental state, Odysseus is an extremely intelligent man. His rhetoric has done much to bring Mictlan deserters to our cause, and he likewise gives no credit to the persistent rumor that Limmy magically appears to fight by our side on the battlefield. One thing is certain, this man is Greek, and knows Ithaca and its environs well. If he were not mad, perhaps we would become fast friends. But is madness even that much of a handicap in this place and time?

Wlde, who has joined the siege, is very much not Greek. Impatient and bitter, she daily advocates abandoning the siege and marching south to relieve her sisters in the Sinking Land. The last we have heard from them, a local mystic had attempted a magic spell to repair the crumbling walls (it is not well to speak ill of the dead, so I shall refrain from pointing out that it was at Amshula's insistence that we build the walls from the local rock, which is little more than dried mud), but the spell, like most such things, had failed utterly. I do understand Wlde's desire to rescue her sisters, but the war's victory is nigh. Their last city vanquished, we have only to march a league south, where Sethra hides in the woods with a smattering of followers, and an end will be come to Mictlan.

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Turn38

The castle's defenders must have realized that the gate would soon give way; the few starving survivors rushed out and flung themselves on our spear-points to end their misery. Huehueteotl, the prophet, managed to escape, but there's really nowhere for him to hide. We took possession of the fortress and wandered through numerous temples, freeing the slaves, and washing the blood-stained stones. After working through the first three temples I had to get to somewhere without the stench of blood, and I let Wlde lead the clean-up crew into the last, and largest one: the high temple of the sun.

The other triplets send word from the Sinking Land that Limmy appeared to defeat the defending army. Belief in his return is widespread, even among my own troops, and Odysseus and I agree that we will soon have to have a meeting with this pretender. It's not that a little blind faith is so bad for the men (and vine-things and horned serpents). It's just that I would feel better knowing a little more about this warrior's intentions.

Luckily, this mission coincides nicely with my other task: hunting down the crone, Sethra, where she hides in the vast Horslund Forest to the south of this fortress. The mystics will stay here. They plan to rededicate one of the minor temples to the memory of Amshula, and although they remain uncomfortable sitting in the ribcage chairs in the keep's library, I know it is only a matter of time before the sheer number books of magic there will overcome any lingering distaste they may feel about turning pages made of human flesh.

Andromache will come with me. Many of the men who defected to our cause are still wounded, and require her care.

Rumors grow that the rest of the world is at war. I know that the Vanheim to our west are engaged in a mighty battle against the Kingdom of Man. I have exchanged letters with both those leaders, but refuse to get drawn into their squabble. There is another brief note from the Sinking Land to say that the strange creatures of R'lyeh have settled in the lake beside the castle. As we have no use for the lake, and they seem to shun the land, I see no reason why we should not get along. But they are very odd... Still, I will send a messenger to them, offering them peace. Even more distant and fantastical rumors arrive daily. I hardly know which ones to credit. If you believe everything, the residents of the lost island of Atlantis are just about to be wiped out by magma men and these same R'lyeh creatures, and some dark empire of undead is slowly falling to bird-men who wield power over lightning. Like I said, it is hard to know what to believe is really going on.

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Turn39

Sethra's reign of terror is ended. We tracked her down to a small copse. Her once mighty army had dwindled to a score of slaves, warriors, and archers. Their slings and short bows bounced harmlessly off the phalanx, which plowed into their lines and tossed them aside. Sethra, at the front, was also hurling stones, but again with no affect, and I watched her get sliced open and her body be trampled into the ground.

I should mention that Limmy managed to show up to this battle also, although since it is easily two month's march through the forest from the Sinking Land, I can only conclude that the triplets were wrong in their belief that he was there just two weeks ago. And yes... I believe it really is Limmy. He's still oddly blue, and he sounds just the same, and he knows me very well — knows the adventures and disasters we shared so long ago in the mountains. As for the rumors that he was dead? Limmy, crazy local that he is, insists that reincarnation is the most natural thing in the world, and that he was merely fortunate to come back again in his same form, and not a pig.

I think a more likely explanation is to be found in the scars he carries all over his body. Andromache, who examined him after the battle, said he had a particularly ugly chest wound which had been festering for quite some time. The trauma of so many battles, and the infection in his chest have probably combined to make him a little more crazy than normal, to the point where he has believed the own rumors of his death. Still, crazy man with delusions of godhood or not, it's good to see him again.

The empire of Mictlan is nearly vanquished. A lone mercenary captain and his single sidekick have also been hired by Mictlan to cause trouble in the south. I trust that even the nearly incompetent triplets can deal with two bandits. Huehueteotl is apparently attempting to storm the walls north of here all by his lonesome. The mystics, cowards that they are, have demanded that I come deal with this grave threat, and so I turn north again.

Andromache insists that Limmy is in no shape to go anywhere, and will be attending to him and the rest of the wounded here. I am not worried about leaving them. Now that the shadow of Sethra is lifting, these woods are quite peaceful. The whole world feels like a much happier place: it is as if all our pains and troubles are being drawn away from us and the freed inhabitants of this land. I feel more fit and relaxed than I have in ages. Is this what victory is really like? Just last month I remember worrying that conquering these lands would just mean more work; that every day we would uncover new horrors lurking in forgotten corners, and even that we might become corrupted by the lingering evil here. Now I worry no more.

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Turn40

... and when Pandokos wrote to the most wise Elders to tell them of the joyous defeat of the evil Mictlanians, he grumbled, saying, "By Zeus, it takes longer to sign my name than it does to write 'Blood suckers dead. War over'." But Nihar, who is related to Balachandra, the First of the Wise, on his mother's side, through her second cousin ... [passage elided] ..., read what he had signed, and he noted that although it was true that he was "Pandokos, Acting Stategos of Oast Hills, the Sinking Lands, North & South Horslund Forest, and various sundry swamps, as well as all lands formerly in Sethra's thrall," there were also some tactless omissions. But Pandokos, whose bravery in battle is not matched by his consideration for the feelings of the loyal inhabitants of Aeros River, the Skeldes, and Godsgrave Pass, said some unkind words and muttered, "I've got to come up with a shorter name..."

From The Collected Sayings of Pandokos the Prophet, in his second incarnation

Today, we are at peace. No more slave raids mar the beauty of this land, no more young girls are put to the knife, no more unnatural creatures terrorize the people. It ended, appropriately, with the death of Hueheuteotl, who had spent a month encamped outside the Mictlan capital, attended by a lone archer. The mystics, as is typical, declared it was "not worth their time" to put down their books for five minutes and slay this lunatic, so only Odysseus and an old priest came out to meet me when I arrived with the army. It was clear from the first that the archer wanted to abandon this mad siege and surrender, but his so-called prophet quickly smote him dead when he tried to flee. Five of my hypaspists also fell before we ran him through. They were given burials fitting for any hero.

Since then, it has been nothing but joyous celebration in the former capitol (except for Balachandra, who follows me around asking when Andromache is expected to return). Tens of thousands of people died in just the last five years, and the survivors are jubilant (and a little shocked) that the old priests are gone. All of the old temples have been torn down, though I hear rumors that, against my orders, some of the lesser priests and officials who know the workings of the royal treasure vaults have been kept on. But though there is much dancing in the streets all through the warm summer nights, there are, as yet, few takers for the new religious faith being offered them. The least offensive of the old temples, the temple of the moon, has been properly cleansed and rededicated to Artemis, but attendance remains low. I suspect it may take a little while for them to feel able to trust the gods again, but concede to Thymbre our old argument about reason and religion: perhaps a little belief that the future will be better is not so very bad.

Certainly, the city-dwellers are aping some of the more bizarre customs of my local troops, such as smearing themselves with butter and composing ridiculous rhymes on the subject of churned dairy products. They also shout out "Argasi, Argasi" every time I walk through the streets, which I was told by Balachandra was the local word for our Greek troops. Perhaps they have been speaking with some of our brave lads from Arkadia; though by the way Balachandra smiled when he told me this I rather suspect it has a different meaning in his dialect. He refuses to elaborate.

It made me think, though, that we need something to tie our far-flung cities together. The village of Oast Hills may still be paying for our army's upkeep, but out here the name rolls off the tongue as "Waste Hells", which seems to annoy the mystics. There are also a few people who grumble about us as invaders, and more than a few who worry that they are now simple vassals to a far-off kingdom. So I have come up with a new name, that combines the "Argasi" with the local word for "people", "sifaly", or Arcoscephale, after appropriate Hellenification. It is under that name that we shall forge a nation. And let us hope that it will be a land of peace and prosperity and lots of butter.

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Turn41

It is late summer here. The small melt-water creek that runs along the west bank of the city is almost warm, and though it is still a bit colder here than I would expect for the season, the locals revel in what they claim is an uncharacteristic warm spell. Every day the riverbanks are filled with laughing children and young women, who even a few weeks earlier were too scared to leave their homes. Some of them have even taken to swimming in it, and consequently I have had a hard time enforcing rigorous training schedules among my hoplites and hypaspists, who always find some pretext to patrol near the river.

I am of course making sure my trooops maintain acceptable standards of training and readiness. But for the first time in years - decades - there is no immediate threat. It is not as if we have won this fight only to turn around to fight another foe tomorrow; we are really, actually, at peace. After all those years in Alexandros' army, then on the great campaign, then those dark years after our abandonment when we would fight for whichever side promised us bread, then the service to the Oast Hills elders that led to the overthrow of the evil blood-leeches... I feel almost at a loss about what to do next.

I think I will go swimming. I miss Thymbre now, perhaps more than I have the past few months, because now there is time to pause and reflect on her absence, and the small beaver dam I found last week that will go unremarked by her. But in other ways the pain has almost faded away, like a grave wound that has at last scarred over, and is little more than a memory permanently etched on your skin. I know that she would be happy that this land is cleansed of blood sacrifices. I know that she might even, though I still cannot, consider it to have been worth dying over.

I think mostly she would be pleased this unhappy city is slowly blossoming into a happy, civilized city. I have kept busy conferring with architects and engineers to rebuild after decades of neglect, and they seem more than happy to try out my fading memories of real archictural design (though we're having a bit of a problem reconciling column tastes). It has created a lot of work for the many former soldiers, who slave or free were wretchedly treated under the old regime. It is good to hear the sound of hammer and chisel, of people haggling in the marketplace over a variety of food unimaginably vaster than what was available during the long seige.

One thing, though. I haven't spoken much with any of the mystics in ages, not even Balachandra, who keeps constant watch on the roads. Strange sounds sometimes come from their quarters, and they often walk around with smiles on their faces, and far, distant looks in their eyes. I wonder if I should be concerned with what they are up to. Their quarters are across the river. Perhaps I should wander down that way and keep an eye on them.

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Turn42

Many ignorant people believe the gods find their amusement in thwarting the efforts of man, by multiplying our troubles when we are down, and providing good things only to lull us into a false sense of peace. Until today, I had little credited such ideas.

It really is impossible to keep a large empire happy and united, especially when the dilapidated animal tracks that pass for roads through the southern swamps have been further ruined by many armies marching to and fro upon them, waging war. A messenger on foot can take half a year to reach Horslund Forest from Oast Hills, despite the raging peace.

Although I do feel the weight of age in my bones, I am not just engaging in senile rambling, but have three salient points to relate on this topic. Firstly, I have issued a command to the mystics who are so busy at their forges that they should provide us with more pairs of winged boots, such as the ones Andromache never takes off (except, presumably, when she is with Balachandra, unless they can carry the weight of two people). With these marvelous devices it is possible to bypass the sludge and cut the travel time dramatically. I desire them not for myself, but for the mystics studying here. They have better things to do with their time than wander the swamps, and I'm sure if I sent the whole gaggle south they would arrive depleted in number, and the bog would be richer in mystical robes.

Secondly, bizarre rumors come from the south speak of a race of ancient sleepers who are awakening and stirring up in the people memories of a time they never knew; hopes for a golden age, impossibly bright; whispers of power beyond compare and above contention. So far, it appears these charlatans have confined themselves to ramblings about the lands on our western border, now owned by the Vanir. But I wonder how long it will be before they turn their poisoned tongues against me...

And thirdly, I have just had a messenger to tell me that the tribe who lives north of here (the Yldemirians) have broken their oaths to us and set up an independent state. I do not wish to become a tyrant, but such treachery, so soon after we freed them, cannot be allowed to stand. I am also given to understand that a mystic searching there uncovered a cave containing very rare yellow gems. Perhaps the locals sought to gain possession of this resource our mystics spent so much effort finding, or perhaps they simply feel that in such a large empire, in which travel is so difficult, they would be allowed to rebel. Whichever the case, I shall bow to the amusement of the gods, forsake my peaceful time here, and march north with an army to crush these insurgents.

Yet, surely the non-existent gods have been kinder to me than to the ruler of the Kingdom of Man, Ward of the Summer Vale. Scout reports paint a grim portrait: already engaged with the Vanir, the things from beneath the waves have emerged into the sunlight which surely hates their existence, and have carved a swath of destruction; from the south, the spider people have joined in the attack, leaving Man beset by enemies on all sides, and sure to crumble.

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Turn43

The Yldemirians had gone completely wild in just a few weeks. Entirely forsaking their initial claims of principled revolt, a mob took to the hills to crude weapons and set about systematically pillaging the land. We took them in a little clearing in the mountains, and it still does my heart good to remember: with wild shrieks they emerged from all sides, and before I could call a word the hypaspists, hoplites, and silver shields had shucked off their marching gear and assembled into two deadly lines of metal facing their foes. The barbarians came on strong, and bashed apart the lone vinogher who had been traveling with our army and was outside the main column trying to make friends with a moss-covered rock. Then they reached our line, flung themselves upon it... and broke, like the tide on a rock cliff. Not one of my men was injured in the initial blow, and our counter charge was swift, sure, and deadly.

There is little else for me to do here. Messengers from the west have arrived, proclaiming that all the lands between here and the Frost-Water mountains now pledge allegiance and support to Arcoscephale. Another lost group of silver shields have joined us (hearing that soldiers of Alexandros were always welcome in Oast Hills) and, led by Samir, has ventured north to pacify the unruly tribes around the headwaters of Aeros River. Meanwhile, Limmy's quest to redeem himself continues to win us support in the Farsen Forest region. I have my doubts, though, as to whether Ole Blue actually does any fighting anymore, or simply uses his supposed immortality and buttery tongue to woo the daughters of local chieftain, and in that way gain their aid.

I shall return to the city of Mictlan, I suppose, and use one of these pairs of flying boots to make a quick survey of the empire. In particular, I wish to meet these sleepers in the Sinking Land and find out what they're really up to. The latest crazy rumor is that they're giants, which probably means that they're about an inch taller than the nutrient-starved denizens of the swamp, and armed with magical weapons, which probably means that their arms are carved with scary-looking runes. Still, "ancient heroes awaiting the final cataclysmic battle that will decide the fate of the world" or not, they are gaining quite a following, and thus merit some attention.

I can't even remember how long it's been since I last saw Oast Hills. Perhaps it has shrunk in my memory after wandering the vast temples of Mictlan, or perhaps it is true that the leaders of such a crummy little hovel on the edge of a muddy brook now rule all this land. It is hard to credit. And... I cannot escape feeling like I am a puppet in all this. That my actions are scarcely my own, and my motions guided by... something like fate I suppose. I simply bend to the necessities that push around me. And the end? The ultimate destination is the same for all mortals. But I cannot see what lies between there and here. Once I thought I knew: the army makes such sight-seeing easy by bringing the final goal ever closer. Maybe it is just this odd land, and Zeus knows that my adventures hereto have been strange, but I feel that my path is about to get truly bizarre.

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Turn44

I have a newfound respect for Andromache's ability to use these flying boots. It is remarkably difficult to keep your balance when your feet can be blown in wildly different directions by even the slightest breeze. If you then add in mountains or looming tall trees... I must have set down six times already, with varying amounts of control, to regain my balance (and recover from the slightly sick feeling I get from traveling at such great heights), when I realized that the clearing I was resting in looked familiar.

"Come to crush my arrugula, deathbringer?" I heard a voice say. I would almost say its tone was friendly chiding, but I remembered well the odd, hostile way in which we had parted. Still, there was no denying that the old enchantress seemed to be almost smiling as she spoke.

"Well, there's no helping who you are, I guess," the old woman continued. "But perhaps your Navnit was not so far wrong when she spoke well of you. Have some warm fragrant herbal beverage with me."

As much as I had always felt ill at ease in her presence, I was not about to refuse the offer of anything warm. I could barely feel my nose and fingers after many hours' flight, and I gratefully gulped down the mug she placed in front of me, and the warm biscuits and generous amounts of butter. Perhaps I had been mistaken in taking a dislike to this odd woman who never left her grove of trees.

We spoke for a while of the war with Mictlan, and she broke into a real, unmistakeable smile when I described the fall of Sethra and Huehueteotl, and the rebuilding of Mictlan. But mostly she just shook her head when I spoke of all the fighting, and seemed particularly grim on hearing of Amshula's death and the growing factions among the mystics. "You are walking on the edge of a knife, Pandokos," she said. "There is some sort of turmoil hanging over your future, wherever you are. You should leave now, so that it does not perhaps overtake you here, where we have already suffered far too long." But this time, on ordering me to leave, she also prepared a basket of biscuits (and butter) for me to take with. Some people are just naturally brusque, I guess.

She eyed me a little bemusedly as I fumbled with the straps on my boots, then again as I immediately fell over when I tried to hover a few feet off the ground. I have found that my quick reflexes are sometimes a hindrance in keeping my balance while flying, causing me to overreact and tumble more than I should. But finally, I righted myself.

"Be careful," said the old woman. "The land is cleaner now than it has ever been, but there are still some pockets of evil intentions, especially where you are going. Perhaps you are one of the rare deathbringers who does not seek only death and glory at all cost; but I suspect many of the other sort will be drawn to news of your conquests and undo the peace that you have helped bring."

As I was flying off, she said, "Search carefully among the friends you think you know, the roads you've walked a hundred times. Perhaps you will find something that surprises you; and I hope not for the worst."

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Turn45

All that flying was for nothing. The Firbolgs led the hypaspists and a forest of vinoghers out of here just a few days ago. They are now somewhere in the swamp between here and Oast Hills, but the thick cover of slimy leaves which hangs like a sullen blanket over that part of the world will probably defeat any attempts to find them from the air.

Meanwhile, I have another crazy person to deal with. You gotta respect a guy who thinks he's Odysseus, especially if he is manifestly sane. But when some local mystic decides it's not good enough to worship at the temple of Athena, no, she has to be Athena, that's plain crazy and a transparent power grab amongst locals who actually do believe that gods become people and fruitbats and orangutans and large chunks of... Still, I should talk to her at some point and make sure she's happy-insane, and not dangerous-insane.

I received the most odd report from our southernmost scout this morning. The lands south of here are all aboil with this new war between Man and the squid-beings. It doesn't look like things are going well for Man. In the wastes of Ryazan, where it is common for men to eat the dead bodies of other men in times of extreme hunger, one brave waif has stood up to the cruel policies of their Manish overlords and led a revolt, demanding some degree of autonomy, freedom of religion, and lots of brains (which are a delicacy amongst these barbarians). Our scout was on hand to witness this individual lead his motly band against the local militia. And though there were equal numbers on both sides, and the rebels were armed only with their bare hands, Braaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaains (for that his the closest I can reproduce the local dialect in Greek) led his men to victory with almost no loses. A fine tactician obviously. I shall ask our scout to keep a close eye on further developments.

It is interesting to note that while I have been gone, Ulde, Wlde, and Vlde have only grown in stature among the citizens of the Sinking Lands (although they are not all here at the same time, and it is exceedingly difficult to discern which one you are talking to). Remember that these were the same women engaged in the hateful blood sacrifices of the loathed kingdom, whose defeat is even now being celebrated; yet they meet with many smiles and small gifts whenever they walk around town. Perhaps it has something to do with their successful handling of the seige during the war, though since I have learned the precise number of troops they faced my only wonder has been why it took them so long. There is a dark cynical voice that says they meant it to, so that the people would be grateful and rally around them; but that leads to other dark thoughts about what they intend to do with these loyal citizens and the troops they keep amassing. I do not want to see this province become another police-state like the one I just brought down.

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Turn46

In the Odyssey, Homer tells us how Pallas Athena, Guard of the Armies of Zeus, Hope of Soldiers, Thirdborn of the Gods, takes the form of a small girl to lead Odysseus into the palace of Nauskiaa, and greets him home in Ithaca disguised as a shepherd boy. And Odysseus did not recognize her, but she revealed herself to him:

But come, let us talk no more of this, for you and I both know sharp practice, since you are far the best of all mortal men for counsel and stories, and I among all the divinities am famous for wit and sharpness; and yet you never recognized Pallas Athene, daughter of Zeus, the one who is always standing beside you and guarding you in every endeavor.

I do not claim to be as tricky as the real Odysseus (and I left the fake one up north, so I cannot ask his advice now), but wouldn't it be the ultimate disguise for a goddess to come to earth proclaiming herself openly, but taking on so unlikely a guise that none would seriously believe it were her?

Heh. I have become a mystic myself in my old age. Still, for a moment, as Athena led me through the rough-hewn gateways of a temple more ancient than the hills themselves, and drew down the starlight into the perfect shimmering pearls, I almost believed that I saw the halls of Olympus in the this local woman's beautiful grey eyes.

From the depths of the temple, she drew forth a fine staff of ivory which entwined a huge sapphire.

"This is the Winter Bringer, O wanderer. An ill-winter is near at hand, and the end of all things gathers: storm clouds across a wine-dark sea. Use this well and bravely, and perhaps in the deepening gloom your song will slice like a ray of light."

I took the staff (which is truly beautiful, but otherwise apparently useless) and my wits, and walked back into the city to meet with the triplets and a Golakana shaman (can you believe they're letting people-of-Golana become magicians now?) and iron out a few laws for this place before heading off on those cursed boots again in the morn.

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Turn47

Usually, when you leave a muddy little village that has been your home for many sad, sorry years, and set out on the road, having many great adventures, surviving one dangerous peril after another, only to return victorious months or years later, the place seems a bit small and unimportant. The village elders seem a little less mysterious and powerful, the local priests less authoritative, your own former fears and anxieties less real after all the dangers you have faced and survived.

Usually. While I have been gone, Oast Hills has transformed itself from a village into the capital of an empire. Everywhere I look tall, new buildings have been erected, among them no less than eight gaudy shrines to a certain blue-limbed pretender god (whom I have yet to encounter). The village elders now wear dark black robes and are followed everwhere by an honor guard wearing a strange rune on their shoulders. When I asked Anemoreia, a young priestess who was once a slave alongside Andromache, what the rune was supposed to mean, she said, "That was your idea, don't you recall? We are all one people now, the people of Arcoscephale; and that is our sign." But somehow when I devised my ideas of giving a downtrodden conquered people some sense of hope, this was not what I envisioned.

There does seem to be less mud, though. The streets have recently been paved with broad stones, just as I had often proposed to a complete lack of interest. Special attention has been paid to the roads near the mystics' quarters and the soldiers' barracks, which I appreciate. There are only ten new recruits stationed here, but they have been drilling constantly, and are much too keen to hear stories of the Mictlan wars. Eh, over-eager lads are nothing new, I suppose... but their enthusiasm for battle is a bit discomforting.

One thing that has not changed: it still took weeks for me to arrange a talk with the village elders. I would have thought they would be interested in the state of their empire to the east -- we have, after all, nearly tripled the size of our holdings since I left -- but they seemed almost bored by my accounts of turning the blood-suckers capital into a prosperous city. Instead, they wanted to know everything about how the mystics had fought in battle: what incantations they had used, and to what effect. They were especially curious about the vinoghers. But my concerns about the triplets and their power over the eastern swamps held no interest for them, nor did they care much for my accounts of the battles I had heard were raging between our neighbors and my opinion that we should tread carefully lest we get drawn in. "We trust you will remember that your contract does not include informing us of how we may act in affairs of foreign diplomacy," was how one of them put it.

I grew more uneasy when I was ushered out of their presence after only a quarter of an hour, only to see Vlde enter, and be greeted warmly. Nirmai, who arrived before I, told me that she has been in constant meetings with them for the past week. About what, I can only speculate, and my thoughts are all bad.

I was pleased when my desire to take the recruits on an extended training exercise to the small village to the west was approved by the elders. This city is starting to give me the creeps, and I welcome the chance to return to the quiet little town where Thymbre found a library and built a small place for studious types to engage in quiet refelection. I could use some time for reflection myself.

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Turn48

And when Pandokos of the quick feet and the cold shivery stick at last glimpsed the city toward which he was traveling, he became much confused, thinking he had accidentally turned back toward Oast Hills. In his infinite wisdom he turned to me, "The Collected Sayings of Pandokos the Prophet, Vol 1", to look at my array of useful and informative maps; but he seemed to expect more than a blank sheet with an X and the words "you are here!!" written on it, and in his snootiness slammed me shut before he could read any of the helpful advice written on the next pages... [passage ends abruptly]"

From The Collected Sayings of Pandokos the Prophet

This is what comes, I thought, of letting people into libraries. The next thing you know someone's built a huge fortress to house all the would-be scholars pouring in from the hinterlands, and they're charging ridiculous amounts for lodging and stables. I wonder if Thymbre knew what would happen to this quiet village when she tarried here an extra month to prepare the scholar's quarters, before joining us on her last campaign... I suspect she might just find the huge crowds and the constant magical bickering (and occasional flying sparks or sharp stones) to be amusing.

At least I was able to find the firbolg. Had I been looking for a lesser man, it would have been difficult, but Todd stands out in a crowd. He has the face of a young boy, and the same sheepish manner of speech, though it is whispered that he is millennia old. Certainly he is taller than any two men. But for all his affability, I was disturbed by his news. The first thing he told me, for instance, was that we were at war. "At war?" I said, naively placing stock in my nominal position as supreme commander of the Oast Hil... sorry, Arcoscephale forces.

"Yes, Rod marched out several months ago, and has been having a jolly good time on the high plains," said Todd seriously. "Only I can't go until Orokestes gets back." His eyes brightened. "Did you hear there was a huge battle, and everyone died, except the mystics? Now Orokestes will have to come back, and I can march out with him, and we can retake our ancestral home."

I realized, with dismay, that the news that several divisions of troops -- including many Greek veterans -- had been sent into battle without my knowledge, did not surprise me. Weren't we at peace with Vanheim? I thought. Didn't they trade away Thymbre's grave so that we would not have to fight this war?. Too late for such thoughts now.

Todd was eager to march forth immediately, for death and glory, and my stupid young recruits beamed eagerly at his words. But I insisted on speaking with the runner from the battle; and from his words I realized that we needed a plan. We faced even worse things than nightmares now, and this time I would not fail my troops. I ordered everyone to stay within the castle, and for news to be sent that any soldier or mystic afield must return, so that we might better plan how to face this foe.

But I found it impossible to think within the confines of the city walls, so close to terrible memories long since buried. At night I would dream that Athena was calling to me, telling me to meet her in the mountains. After a week of this, with no sign of friend or foe on the horizon, I decided that if going up into that mountains would get me a good night's sleep, it was worth it, goddess or no goddess. So accompanied by a young mystic who refused to let me go alone (I think he was itching for a chance to search for mystical sites, but dared not disobey my orders to stay within the castle), I marched out to the near hills. I sit there now, two nights later, watching the dark mountains I marched into with my love, unable to leave. It is not yet time, I know, though I cannot say what it is I am waiting for.

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Turn49

On the eighth night, just as a thin sliver of moon began to rise, Pandokos heard a voice behind him. "You," he said. "I thought you were in a swamp down south." There was a voice like silver and thunderclaps, and she said, "But I am the goddess of battle strategery, and you are in need of a plan." And she spoke many wise words with him, which although they were not wise enough to have been in the Book in the first place, were nonetheless wise enough to be included now...

From The Collected Sayings of Pandokos the Prophet

"Do not tarry," Athena said to me. "This world is breaking beneath the fires of war. In less than a year you must have completed my work for you here - you must have forged these people together and trained an army strong enough to beat back the forces of chaos. Ride out into the mountains as soon as you can. Meet the invaders head on, and in my name you will triumph".

I'm not so used to being addressed by goddesses. I feel that my speech lacks the proper iambic beat which the gods seem to expect of their confidants in all the old poems. But military strategy I can deal with.

"That's foolish. The walls of this fort are strong. If we wander into the passes which they know so much better than I, we'll just lose again. I've lost a battle in those mountains, Orokestes has lost a battle in those mountains... no, it's better to wait here."

Athena smiled. "But this time you won't be going alone." A wizened old man appeared at her side. His hair and clothes spoke of far too long in the wild, and his smell of far too long since he had had to stand among other people. "This is my priest, Karl. He has tended the grave of Thymbre in these mountains for the past three years, spreading my name among the animals and plants here, in preparation for this day. He will guide you through the hills, and his friends will protect you from ambush. Now, give him your weapons."

Thinking that she must mean that pretty (but useless) Winter Bringer the old woman in scene twenty-four had given me, I turned it over to him.

"And the other one."

Muttering that it was typical nonsense for a god to expect a man to fight empty-handed, I reluctantly turned over my lance also (the men will be disappointed, they regard it as a token of good luck).

"Okay, now what?" But Athena was gone. Without a word, Karl wandered off into the woods, and I followed him back to the city.

At the gates I at last met the fabled Orokestes. "Balachandra sent this stuff for you, from the forge out east," he said by way of introduction. In the package was a pair of beautiful blue boots with amber buckles, an amulet with amber stones, and a belt with a single huge piece of amber (Blachandra must have gotten a good bulk deal on amber). "Oh, and a strange woman left this for you."

It was a sword such as I have never see. Massive enough to require two hands, it crackled and hissed as it flew through the air, and sparks ran down its surface. It is a thing of deadly beauty. I suppose being chosen as a pawn in the games of the gods isn't always so bad after all.

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Turn50

We met them as the day died on a high, windswept plain, between the Braegen Marches and the pass over the Godsgraves. Two small battalions of hypaspists and Vinogres stood before our mystics and priests. Another squad of hypaspists formed my personal guard, and a fourth guarded Orokestes, who now leads the mystics.

Across the way, the sharp-eyed amongst us could see the invaders. Many were human: a score of elite huskarls, nearly as many men armed in wolf-skin with great two-handed swords, a squardon of archers on the right-flanks, and a group of the evil death sorceresses who had lead the ambush that killed Thymbre.

There were trolls, massive creatures with great clubs. There were dwarf-mages, each cunning and ancient and cruel. There were nightmares on the left flank, their spears red in the setting sun, stained forever with Thmybre's blood. There were other wonders: an immortal fay boar, a gargoyle, animated into life... and then there were the Vans. More beautiful beings I have never seen, and the eye danced around such wonder, unable to comprehend what it was seeing.

And the greatest of these sat on the world's largest horse. This is the One-eyed Bully, Lord of Frost. Ancient and terrible, with a horse swift as the wind. It is easy to see why he is a worshipped as a god.

The sky turned dark, and a freezing rain fell. Behind me, the mystics began to mutter their spells. I raised Athena's sword to point out the terrible wight which lurked at the back of the foe's army, and watched in amazement as heaven opened and smote the foul thing with lightning.

I shouted a warning about the danger posed by the trolls on the flanks, gestured, and a thunderbolt fell among them. Again, I pointed, this time to the smoking ruin the blast had made, and again the sky struck the earth. One last time I raised the sword, and suddenly three men who stood near the boar vanished in a shower of light.

The nightmares charged, and the archers let fly, as my men obeyed orders and held their ground. The death-priestesses shouted foul incantations and curses to scare our forces into attacking. Praying that Athena might avenge Thymbre, I pointed my sword at them - lightning thundered down all around them - and they died with a horrible scream.

Todd now charged, heedless of my calls, far beyond the safety of the spear line. A terrible whirlwind of death descended upon him, and a frightening apparition, but he dodged the blows, struck back, as if his sword could tear the magic sinews of these charms.

The nightmares had almost reached our lines, so I called out for a charge and ran forward with my men. A hail of blades fell over us. My men caught most of them on their shields, but one struck me in the arm, and I began to bleed profusely. And it was all for naught, for just as we reached the nightmares, they vanished in a hail of magic.

Now I heard shouts of alarm from the mystics. The one-eyed bully charged the length of the battlefield in a blink of an eye, skirting our phalanx to attack Orokestes.

"Oh boy, I can lead the troops now!" Todd called, across the din. "You should go make sure he doesn't get stabbed or else I'll have to go home." So I went. A heavy mist had fallen now, and weapons seemed to be thrusting out of it even when no foe could be seen. The enemy must have somehow flanked us with a small force, who now roved among our unprotected magicians. I cut my way through.

Then the fog cleared a little, and I was face to face with a horse that towered over me, and danced like a storm at sea, or the face of the mountains. I called for Athena, and lightning struck around my foe, but hurt him not. Grabbing what courage I had left, I slipped amongst the thousand hooves.

They flashed through the air more quickly than the eye could see, yet I was always quicker, and as I thrust my sword up toward the towering giant, lightning flew from the tip and danced over him.

Suddenly he became clear, no longer a thousand images of himself. I tried again, but could not get past his spear. Orokestes called out in a loud voice, and for a moment, my foe was still. "Thymbre!" I cried, and drove towards him with my sword; Zeus' light flashed again, and the gods claimed back one of their own.

They broke soon after. None surrendered, but none escaped back to sing in the halls of Vanheim. Afterwards I came across one of the Vans. His body was crushed, but his noble face which had welcomed a thousand thousand new suns in the east remained unscathed, gazing up onto the dark, brooding sky- the last it would ever see.

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Turn51

We are marching on Godsgrave Mountain, but everything is different this time. It is early summer, and we have taken the southern route, which was closed before because of bandits. Later these lands were claimed by Vanheim and the One Eyed Bully; but Tushar and another band of mystics, along with Todd's brother Rod, passed this way some months ago on their way up north, and every village we've passed through so far now swears fealty to Arcoscephale (though this far west there are no signs of butter-dances, for which I am grateful).

As I write, we are encamped for the night near the foothills of Mount Isen, and we can see some of Man's spoils from its own war with Vanheim, including lush farmlands and the distant spires of what was once the Bully's capital city. Since his death, there has been very little resistence, and I do not expect the mountain fortress we are marching toward will house more than a few ragged huskarls. But I will not underestimate these mountains again: my troops are well trained, and there are more of them; and the mystics keep proving themselves useful in battle. If we had just had Tushar's blade wind three years ago...

It has been warm and clear the past few weeks, though dark thoughts are never far from my mind this close to where I lost my Thymbre. It is hard to think these gentle rolling hills bursting with wildlife are so close to the cold, dark, icy mountain that still plagues my nightmares. Perhaps it is a simple omen that things will go better this time; but sometimes when I watch Andromache and Balachandra laughing together, my blood runs cold and I wonder what might have been if we had not tried the mountain pass.

Balachandra may feel this too. He and Andromache and a cousin named Bindiya arrived at -- I should say flew into, for all three had pairs of those cursed boots -- our camp three nights ago, fresh from scouting out the mountains. But word has come from the capital that now there is an accute winged boot shortage, and would someone please return one of the pairs that disappeared mysteriously from the mystical labs? (I would not put it past a certain young priestess to have appropriated extra boots to show her lover, and forgotten to return them.)

The mystics conferred and decided that Andromache was least essential to the war effort, and would have to return with the boots. She protested mightily, but oddly enough Balachandra did not take her side, and instead quietly agreed that perhaps it would be best if she returned the boots, and rejoined the army after the battle. She walked off in a huff, and I have not seen her since this afternoon; perhaps she has already left.

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Turn52

There is a wall at Godsgrave Mountain. From a distance it is nearly invisible against the backdrop of the range, but up close it is clearly the work of some master craftsman, though the blocks, each as large as a house, bespeak the work of giants and not men. When we first entered the valley a heavy mist hung between the peaks, and the wall seemed to stretch on forever on either side.

"The Jervellan Wall..." breathed Todd in reverent tones, "At last."

Rumors hold that the Vans maintain a stronghold behind the wall, and one of their temples. The same whispers in the night say that the Vans sometimes sacrifice human women upon their alters. This curse of blood seems to lurk in the shadows everywhere. (There is even word from the Sinking Lands that a blood hunter has been caught there, attempting to revive those evil ways. I am uneasy leaving his justice in the hands of the triplets, but I cannot dictate policy everywhere in the empire.) Yet we have seen no sign of Van since we arrived.

Limmy has been here alone for several months, and clearly felt the solitude and whispering silence of this vale. He greeted me as his best friend in the world, and insisted on entertaining me in his quarters (a ramshackle lean-to against the cold blocks of the wall) with the finest foods in the valley (fried snake, and something I can only hope was bunny). He wanted to see my sword of course, which I've named Tempest, and hear the story of the battle with One-eyed over and over again.

It is odd to have his respect. I guess he has always admired my ability to win battles, but for would-be gods like Limmy, the ability to take and hold ground, the value of winning without fighting battles, and the subtly of maintaining an army months in the field in unfriendly and unfamiliar terrain - all these pale against the glory of one on one combat on the battlefield. And so at last I earn his respect, thanks to the aid of... Athena... or whoever really gave me this sword. Respect, and even a little bit of fear perhaps- with a little laugh Limmy showed me his special breastplate and said that it was protection against lightning. "Not that you should try here!" he was quick to reassure me.

I suppose I've gained a little respect for Limmy's own brand of crazy heroism. The Jervallan Wall is unscalable and totally indestructible. The mountains on either side are death for those who venture there, and the wind, which whips down off the frosty peaks, forestalled his attempts to fly over with one of those thrice-cursed pairs of boots. So Limmy has singlehandedly dug a tunnel underneath the wall. He must have moved several tons of earth, and is almost done. "Tomorrow!" he boasted, "we will finally break through. And then..." here his face turned reflective, "I will go somewhere without dirt."

That'll make Todd happy. We'll reclaim his ancestral home, all will be forgiven and forgotten between these two peoples, and I will stop fighting this dying race of seafarers. Stop fighting them, and then what? I am not a bloodthirsty warrior. I have no dreams of conquest. But I do not fool myself into believing that the future holds peace for me.

In the west, the world is burning. Smoke rises every day, and waves of broken and starving refugees have been staggering into our borders with tales of horror and destruction. The forces of R'lyeh have risen up from every deep place, and stained every beach in blood. For what mad purpose none can tell, but I know in my heart that I will march that way also, and fight this rising tide for as long as I can bear arms.

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Turn53

The space behind the wall was empty. We burned the blood-stained temple, and I appointed Karl to raise a new one in honor of Zeus. This high to the roof of the world, that seemed the judicious choice. I would have thought that Todd would be happy, but apparently this was only his ancestral summer villa, and Rod is getting all the glory up north taking back the real Firbolg fortress, and we must march there straight-away for he longs to walk those halls again, and climb those towers that once he climbed when the world was fresh and young and blah blah blah.

But the concerns of the Firbolgs pale in comparison to the menace of R'lyeh. Some Firbolgs themselves understand this. Although I've never met her, Maude (apparently the women Firbolgs are also naturally huge) sounds like a pragmatic warrior and a fine leader. Her weapon is known as the Sickle Whose Crop is Pain, so she clearly has no problem administering swift justice against miscreants. She writes me with disturbing news from the Sinking Lands. Ulde has been secretly trafficking in blood slaves again, hoping to discover new powers through the outpouring of innocent blood. She has even been defiling the steel ovens, using virgin blood to temper weapons which she sold to R'lyeh, for who knows what promises. Perhaps even worse, she has held the army there in check while the otherworldly spawn have ravaged the lands of our friends and neighbors- Man.

At last, Maude seized control of the army, imprisoned Ulde, and led a force out to try and relieve one of the few castles still controlled by Man. The battle before the gates of Madderein must have been epic, with hundreds on each side. Maude led the phalanx and mystics to decisive victory swiftly enough that one of the elder Starspawn (these are the main magicians of R'lyeh) even defected to our side, deciding that the tide had turned.

So I must leave the south in her large, capable hands. There is still a force of Man clinging to life on the edge of Vankara Sound. Todd and I will lead the troops there immediately and pray we are not too late. Limmy will fly ahead to confront a local count who has been aiding R'lyeh and attempt to convince him to join us, by force if necessary. The mystics have discovered wonderful things in the hidden valley, and I am inclined to allow them to browse their old books for a little while. We will need all their skill against this slippery foe, and they can join us later. Meanwhile, I send note after note to Rod up north, begging him to leave off his crazy pursuit of the last few Vans and join us against this much larger foe.

But there has been no word from him, though plenty of time for a message to get back. Either he is dead, or completely drawn into his mad quest for vengeance. Either way, for now it is just Todd and I with some 50 hypaspists against all the horrors of the deep. But I do not feel alone; Thymbre lives on in this place - in every sunrise and cool breeze I hear her voice and know that she is at peace. This time in the mountains has cleared my thoughts and left me ready to face whatever the last days of this world hold for me.

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Turn54

The news this month is all favorable, and I am worried. What storm waits behind this lull?

The storm is here already, of course, gathering force; it seems to manifest itself literally in the late summer thunderstorms that I would swear have been following me around. While patrolling by the river yesterday, we were attacked by a small band of emaciated soldiers of R'lyeh, who kept taunting us about eating our braaaaains and sucking the blood from our veeeeeins. They were not lightning-resistant, however, and I had but to raise Tempest and watch them fall, crackling. But there are more, far more, that we shall have to face.

Todd received word that Rod was victorious, and has spent so much time waxing rhapsodic about the glories of his ancestral home that I've been avoiding him. He keeps cheerfully muttering nonsense, like "Now all that is left is for the final gathering at the Isle, where shall be determined who shall rule the world, or be damned to hell for all eternity..." and I can only take so much pseudo prophetic mumbo-jumbo before feeling ill. Fortunately, there are other matters to attend to. Our brave scout Celarim, a veteran from Alexander's army still skulking with the best of them, somehow persuaded a small village of Vanheim to join our side so that they would have some protection against the coming tide. Limmy also was persuasive enough that the count (the count's daughter) came over to our (his) side without fighting. In other words, the north is almost at peace, and with little bloodshed.

Maude sent word that the Mannish castle was manned only by a few longbowmen, without even a commander; mostly they were men too old or too young to have been at the slaughter of the regular armies. The citizens of the castle were so grateful that a real army of men had come to defend them that they threw down their arms and welcomed us in. Apparently, they were afraid they would all have their brains sucked out if the forces of R'lyeh had broken through instead.

I do not know much about the strange dwellers in the deep: once, long ago, I received a clam from them, though I have since mislaid it. On occasion we have made small diplomatic exchanges of gems or trinkets, though I never thought we would sink to Ulde's level and traffic in slaves. I know that the creatures of R'lyeh are deeply feared: in the presence of the high Starspawn, it is said, you cannot hear your own thoughts, and your mind burns at the sight of them. They are led by a strange being whose names sounds something like "Thuloo" or "Cuthloo", who eats his foe on the battlefield. Their armies are legion. They say the very oceans of the deep fight for them. In dark times, I wonder what can men do against such reckless hate.

And then I remember the strength of the wind, the grandeur of the stars, and the gathering storm.

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Turn55

And it came to pass that the sleepy-ones marched forth in the aid of the butter-lover, and found a world much changed. Todd-of-the-extreme-height drew forth the blood-stained, tattered remains of "The Collected Sayings of Sokodnap (who was quick in battle but slow in his messy death)". "I inherited this scroll from my mother, Ddot, who woke with this world, and now I will see its setting," he explained to the reluctant prophet as the hypaspists rustled in their armor like a thousand leaves. "Now... which way is up on this stupid map?"

From The Collected Sayings of Pandokos the Prophet

Todd is leading us somewhere, and for some reason I keep following. I guess I'm morbidly curious about the end of the world prophecy, but I doubt that gore-encrusted scrap of parchment he carries really helps him very much. Todd seems... a bit out of touch. We marched into the Elder Hills last week, and he was so shocked to see knights that he just stood around gaping and let me do all the smiting. "Did these hills always used to be here? Where are the lush forest and average-sized lizards? We were supposed to turn right at the glacier..."

That night, Todd complained that the moon was smaller than it used to be in his day, and that the stars had "moved". I'm sure that the separation from his brother has driven the poor lad crazy, but most of the local recruits give a lot of credence to this mythology. Yesterday, when farmers arrived selling fresh produce, I overheard part of their conversation:

"I hear that them sleepers leave gold coins under young'uns' teeth"

"No, them's just crazy stories, why, C'tugul would choke on them when he ate their heads"

"D'ya reckon it's true what they say?"

"'Bout the world endin'?"

"Yep."

"Reckon so. My crops 'aint been growin' like they should. Figures this world here's about all used up and it's time for a new one."

"Huh. Maybe I'll come back as a bird. That'd be swell."

Like all locals these two were completely out of their mind, but at least they had fresh butter I could barter for. Back in Greece, if our world was ending, we wouldn't have any of this crazy talk about it coming back. It'd stay ended, the way worlds are meant to. It's times like these I'm reminded that I'm so far from home.

But enough musing. Todd has gotten us hopelessly lost in this hills and I have to search for a way out. A crazy man has wandered into camp shouting:

"Sigh and Shudder the east-fold! Lightning and death will envelope the quiet lands and the fens will be stained with the ichor of the invaders!"

He seems at least as rational as anyone else here. Perhaps he'll be able to give cogent directions to the end of the world.

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Turn56

Todd got us hopelessly lost, of course. We must have passed that particular circle of jagged rocks three times before he sat down, glummly, by the side of the river. He muttered unhappily about the opacity of prophet-blood and the disagreeable tendancy for sheepskin to decay after only a few thousand years. He had not been moping for more than an hour when our scout ran into camp, breathless at the news that a large army was approaching. I had my sword out and was mustering the troops when a second scout arrived with the happy news that the army was ours. And sure enough, there was an excessively tall man leading the way, talking amiably with Tushar

I was relieved: so Tushar had prevailed upon Rod and his army to head south. ("But there is still our ancestral time-share by the lake to free," Rod had protested feebly, before Tushar hit upon the magic word "apocalypse" to lure him here.) The brothers firbolg had a joyous reunion: the only ones who can find any happiness in the grim succession of ever-bloodier battles. I asked Tushar what news he had heard while in the north.

"It's not good, Pandokos," he said. "R'lyeh had only recently overrun the lands on the other side of the great river, and there were many refugees in miserable hovels on this side. They all wanted another mountain range or two between them and the terror they had left."

I told him what I had learned of the battles far to the east, where Maude was fighting back huge R'lyehan armies, how Man was surely going to fall soon, and then the full force would be brought to bear on us. There were reports of attacks throughout Arcoscephale -- crazed soldiers of R'lyeh rising from nowhere and attacking, though the local patrols easily killed them all. And we knew there were large armies just south of us.

"Oh, I ran into someone who knew you," said Tushar. "Name of Seleucus, sound familiar?" How could it not? He had been with Alexandros' main force, when we were left behind. By rights he should be back in Sparta now, with his wife and daughters... what was he still doing here? "Same as you, Pandokos: hiring himself out to the best-paying good cause." He had marched his hoplites the other way, toward the heart of R'lyeh land. It occurred to me that perhaps my troops and I hadn't been left behind: that not a single one of the brave lads who marched with Alexandros had left this land alive. I certainly won't...

Tushar's army camped by the river with us, and the next day we were joined by Balachandra, Andromache and the rest of the mystics we had left at the Jervellan Wall. "Well, we're all here now," said Rod cheerily. "Lead on, Todd." Todd looked around awkwardly, cleared his throat a little. "What, surely you know where we've going, after scouting it out for so long?" asked Rod. "Here, give me that scroll."

He looked at it and laughed. "South," he said. "The apocalypse has gone south for the winter."

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Turn57

We are always fighting these days, and when we are not the wind cuts at us like knives as it howls across the frozen plains. I have not seen the sun in months; and I know that the stormclouds ever at my back are more than an especially harsh winter. But strangely, I find the dark gloom almost... reassuring. It is a constant reminder that it is not just I, but the whole world, that is spiraling into hell.

We were ambushed leaving the Elder Hills, en route to the large city of Upperna, where Limmy was reputed to be securing an outpost so my brave but tired troops could get some rest. The ambush was not large - a dozen ghouls, and we slew them all - but it came on the end of five days' hard march. Scouts had a large force of R'lyehans nearby, intent on retaking Upperna, and we were flying across the plains to head them off. Perhaps a third of my soldiers nursed serious wounds when we arrived at the city.

A light snow was falling, of course, but I barely noticed it. The city of Upperna smoked slightly from many smoldering fires. It switched hands several times during the Vanheim-Man war, then fell to R'lyeh, before Limmy convinced them to join our side. The old fool had clearly remembered my culinary tastes, for the farmers had all brought great quantities of butter along with their normal offering of food. Our great feast, which would have been the first proper meal in days, was cut short by the sighting of dark shapes advancing on the horizon. We grimly reformed our lines.

The wind picked up and blew flurries through the ranks, and I struggled to watch the approach of dozens of tall sea-colored shapes. As they got close, I realized that they were far taller than normal men, taller even than Rod and Todd. And then they began to scream. Blood ran out of the ears and noses of those unfortunate to be targeted, but there was nowhere on the field -- perhaps nowhere in the city -- that you could escape the sound, like the crashing of giant waves and the scream of wounded horses confined in the tiny space inside your head. The mystics and Golanish shamans were hit particularly hard; the fiends knew exactly who to target. Not far from me Tolma, a sorceress from the distant swamps, fell screaming in terror as her brains oozed out of her skull, and stared sightless at the flakes that began to cover her body.

Had there also been R'lyehan soldiers armed with spear and sword, the battle might have been lost; but most of their troops relied on that terrible scream. I felt great pride when not a single hypaspist or vinogher faltered in the charge across the plains, though some fell, skulls bleeding, before they reached the foe. The Illithids were cowards: it took only a short while for Tempest and the nascent blizzard to convince them to flee. I ran across the field with the men, intent on striking them down before the next volley of noise could split my skull, but they melted off the field before I could engage more than one. Their magician and priest were quickly killed; the leader of their ordinary troops surrendered. I do not trust him, and have placed guards with him at all time. And... I cannot prove it, but I am sure that it is his presence which caused all our precious butter to go sour.

It has been seven days since then, and my head is still ringing. I discovered an odd mark on my chest, after the battle: a jagged blue star, directly over my chest. I had not received a scratch in the battle, so I asked Andromache about it over dinner, but she ran off with a slight scream, and grabbed Balachandra. "This is not good, my friend," he said. "You have been marked." For what, I could have asked, but preferred not to know. We finished our butterless bread and soup in silence.

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Turn58

I slept uneasily in fits and starts, sprang from my bed at the awful shrieking of an Illithid scream, paused, tried to figure out of it was a dream, heard it again, grabbed sword and helm, and raced through darkened camp to slay the treacherous prisoner. He was safely guarded still, by sleepy watchmen of the night, and I heard the wail again pierce the stillness, though none of the watchmen heard a thing. In doubt now as to my sanity, I sprinted to Balachandra's tent. He and Andromache were sleeping peacefully in each other's arms, but the guard at the door to their tent slumped against the post, his eyes rolled back and vacant. It was then I glimpsed Tushar on the edge of camp, and a crouching, evil, purple-robed thing advancing on him. Tushar stood as if of stone, a pale white light enveloping him.

The purled-robed figure shrieked again, and my heart froze within me, but I dashed forward only to be brought up short in my tracks by something I could not see. I stood there, helpless, as Tushar reeled under the deadly gaze of this foul thing. And then he snapped awake, cried out one single word, and suddenly two creatures appeared. They were twisted, angular, transparent, pure malevolence. Their unearthly eyes roved around: horrors from beyond, predators of the soul, searching for their next meal. Their eyes lingered on me for what seemed like an eternity, and then they swooped on the purple thing, causing it to cower and hiss. Tushar, almost ready to faint, with blood pouring down his face, let cry again, and his assassin turned a violent blue, froze instantly to death, and the floating horrors vanished too. It was not Tushar's close brush with death, but the feeling of dread that these things provoked in me that caused me to lie awake and worry till dawn broke feebly through the ever present storm clouds.

As dusk fell on the next day we entered the city of Stavang on the shores of Vankara sound and found no resistance. I struggled to keep my eyes open as I went about my inspections. A cry to arms went up again, and I dashed to the lines. There, in the gathering gloom, just two Illithids and a few of their slave warriors. At last an easy struggle, I thought, but something else, tall and sinister, lurked in the darkness behind them.

I am at the banks of a river. The sun is out and high overhead and there is not a cloud in the sky. A warm breeze caresses my face and soft fingers stroke my arm. I turn, and there is Thymbre, radiant and smiling and warm. She leads me by the hand down beneath a willow tree where a blanket is spread, and food for a picnic. Sitting there waiting is an odd looking man, with green skin, three legs, and a mass of tentacles where his head should be.

Thymbre urges me to try some of the squid salad, and the green man confirms that it is very good, slurping it silently into his maw. Confused, I try a bite, and have a glass of wine. "Why am I here with you Thymbre, and who is your friend?"

Thymbre smiles her knowing smile and promises to explain everything very soon. She says that the green man has wanted to meet me for a long a time, and the tentacles nod in agreement.

"What do you do, sir? And how may I address you?"

He says his name, but it is carried away on the wind. His work, he says, is lying dreaming in the sea. He calls me friend, opines that I am not what he expected, and that perhaps our upcoming mutual death will not be so unpleasant. The harsh word "death" appears to break the spell. I glance at the black waters of river, at the boatman rowing back and forth upon it. I turn back, but Thymbre is fading. She blows me a kiss, and I wake upon the frozen earth where some small battle has clearly taken place, and yet we live to fight again.

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Turn59

If I still clung to the hope that this war, though great and terrible, is just another campaign against mortal armies like my own, it is gone now. We left Stavang in the early morning mist and were set upon by a horde of riders, pale and thin as ghosts. Inded they were ghosts: the archaic swords, the ancient battle raiments, the barbaric war cries from tongues long dead... as if they rode out of a battle from before the world began. A ragged mercenary captain named Gynter was leading the way; he was trampled by eighty pairs of hooves as substantial than dew on the grass. Yet we stood against the ghosts, and we fought them down.

By midday we had been attacked again by another unholy horde, this one from hell.

Tell me this: if the devils sent to drag your soul into infernal torment instead surrender, and offer their services in exchange for your protection, is this a bad sign? Does it mean that I am on the wrong side? Or is the hell toward which this world is spiraling such an exceptionally bad variety that even demons fear its coming? We left the three of them behind; no man would stand guard over them, and no mage would dare try to control them.

Stavang is a port city; we are by a wide body of water now, too wide for a proper river, too narrow for a sea. I can see white sails on the horizon, and on a clear day, the spires of castles unlike any I have seen till now: and there is smoke rising from them. I am told that way lies Abysia, a fair sized realm that has repelled the concerted advances of both R'lyeh and a race of flighted people far to the south. I am told that Man lingers still, has erected a fortress even, and will not give in to the tide of darknesss. I am told that the spider people still have a small enclave and have been almost untouched by the conflict that roils my part of the world. I am told this means there is yet hope; but I cannot feel it myself. It has been too long since I have seen anything but stormclouds, even in my dreams. Except for the one where I was dead.

We have made our camp by the water, near a small glade of trees. The land is deserted except for our ever growing armies: people know that a terrible battle is about to burst forth. On a small hill nearby, in a clearing, there are seven tall pillars, built in a previous age, impossibly white though etched with wind and sand and several ages of man. The pillars look like once they used to reach to the clouds; but the tops are all broken now. It is painfully clear how short they fall.

Limmy had a hammock strung up between two of them. I heard giggling voices disappear into the woods as I approached and from the disarray of goods around his clearly under-used tent I guessed he had been here a long time. He greeted me warmly, like a beloved brother, and invited me to share some food with him. I was surprised to note the bread was still warm; he laughed and said, "If you think that's good, you should try some of the freshly churned butter the milkmaids left." Limmy is like the old gods in stories -- content to string up his hammock and toy with milkmaids as the world ends around them. It's a somewhat irresponsible attitude I feel, but it does have that advantage of producing some top notch churned-milk product.

There is an island just across the water; there used to be a bridge to it, but it seems to have disappeared. Nobody likes to look at the isle for very long; you travel enough with Todd and phrases like "and on that blessed isle shall there be the death of hundreds, and the world besides" tend to rattle around your mind until you learn how to let your eyes slip past the uncertain motions on the distant banks. Those tentacles you imagine you see are only overgrown vines...

I had been here three weeks before I noticed Maude. I would have thought this hard to accomplish; Maude is taller than the two younger Firbolgs. But the camp keeps swelling, as more mystics trickle in, some leading small forces of hoplites and vinoghers, most with only a few tattered scrolls in hand.

"Oh, there you are, Pandokos," Maude said. "My boys have been telling me so much about the great adventures they've had with you. I hope they haven't been filling your heads with the silly nonsense they're so fond of spouting." I was about to say something about how nice it was to meet someone who didn't buy into all that prophetic mumbo-jumbo, when she went on, "They're always making a big fuss over the little things, like reclaiming ancestral homes, and forgetting the little details on which the world turns. 'Then shall the waters rise from below and fall from above to reclaim the earth, and the imprisoned shall break their chains, on the isle of a hundred dreams...'"

I guess there is no such thing as only believing in the sensible bits of prophecy. Either this was all written down a thousand thousand years ago, and we are but acting out our parts... or some theatrical hack is making a lot of money on false old scrolls. Actually, I've seen at least three apocalyptic-scroll vendors lurking around the camps. They always have a crowd.

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Turn60

The waters are rising every minute, and every hour it gets noticeably colder, though spring is long overdue. Scouts from the north say that giants have awokken there and are rampaging through the lands unchecked. The river which separates us from the isle is choked with the tentacles of random spawn-things which have been constantly harassing our army. Their ichor turns the once clear waters black as the Styx.

The symbolism is not lost on me. Tomorrow, Maude tells me, I must cross that river before dawn and seize control of the isle, or the world will be lost to the gibbering madness that crouches there. I will not be alone. My army has been reinforced several times over by mystics who suddenly started walking out of the laboratory with phalanx after phalanx of troops. I tried to get in there to talk to Balachandra and figure out how he had managed to pack so many men into such a small building, when the doorway was shattered with a deafening roar and a long string of elephants wandered out and started munching on the grass. I decided I didn't really care to know.

Anne (a magician from the Sinking Lands who I had not previous met), ran up to me, sopping wet, with shellfish and seaweed in her hair, and clutching a pair of those blasted flying boots. "The army in the sea has arrived, Pandokos!" she exclaimed with a huge smile, as if I would be glad to find myself talking to a crazy person. I attempted to smile and back away slowly, but she grabbed me, and dragged me down to the shore (which was even closer than I remembered). She pointed out into the chilly, crystal clear waters, and it seemed as if I could see men moving under the sea in full armor, along with some huge, ghostly giant.

Maude startled me when she snuck up behind us. "For is it not written, 'and, in an hour unlooked for, those who took the paths of the deep shall arise and claim their part on the isle'?" To which I could only reply that if it was "written" no one had ever showed it to me, and it seemed mighty convenient that I was only ever told about most of these prophecies after the fact. Maude looked at me with a little sadness in her eye and told me in a soft voice that I am going to die tomorrow.

I already know that.

I feel it in my weary bones, which have marched on too many rugged, dusty paths, too far from home. I see it with the eyes of an old soldier from the great campaign (may you have found rest Alexandros, though I did not) when I look at the scuttling opposite shore and realize that everything there waits to kill us. I smell it in the chill sea air, harsher and piercing than the warm waters of Pagasae. I hear it in my dreams, as Thymbre urges me to come home to her. I taste it in the butter - does this pinnacle of food exist on the other side of the river Styx?

I will bury this book, along with the "Collected Sayings" before marching tomorrow. At least then it will survive, though for what hope I do not know, if we should fail. At least it will have the proper burial I will be denied. Yet these is some solace... Andron epifanon pasa gi tafos... For heroes, the whole world is their tomb.

But these are unbecoming thoughts. I have the finest army of friends in the world to lead tomorrow. My sword lies gleaming beside me, ready for battle. And there is still one last sunset to watch, and one more loaf of freshly-baked bread to spread with the finest butter.

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Turn61

Epilogue

It is said, about the final battle of some-or-many armed persons against the some-or-many tentacled things, that the tentacles won the day, and few persons escaped alive, with or without their arms. It is said that when they saw the battle turning against them, the persons of spear did not flee, preferring to die in battle than turn and forsake their friends. But earthworms, in addition to being slimy and having little respect for an important historical document such as myself, do not make the most reliable of sources. Even the most cunning chronicle scroll must wait patiently in such circumstances until whichever side has won realizes their sore need for the brilliant insights of a quality book of collected sayings, and then I will be dug up with much fanfare and charged with writing the history of that epic battle.

A few worms tell a different story, that some men have escaped, like the crafty Odysseus and the lizards-of-many-names-starting-in-Golan. They whisper that even though the rest have not come out of the cave, yet they were victorious (but not in the winning-the-battle kind of way that one normally thinks of as victory): the mad god was turned to stone (some say also to mist and to fire and to frost, but others say that was the other god, who spilled butter on my pages, and who could probably use some time as a statue to atone for his errors). Thus, they say, mad-tentacle-god was prevented from reaching the exact right spot in the caves before the window closed, and failed to gain ultimate power. The worms were unclear why there should be a window in the depths of the caves, but such informants are my lot for the foreseeable future.

I am a very patient book of collected sayings, although spending so many months buried next to the scroll of the sayings of the prophet Sokodnap makes me long to give someone a good paper cut. He likes to go on about how his prophet carried him into every battle, and how he was there at the very last; that he felt the spear thrust that felled his prophet. I say the blood stains and jagged holes make him a much less helpful and informative scroll. The worms say of Pandokos that he stood his ground in the center of the storm for the twelve long hours of that final day, guiding and comforting his troops and friends as they fell one by one, and slaughtering in turn a hundred foul-tentacled-things before the spirit of the river arose and dragged him down. I am sure the mystics will be grateful that my pages were not ruined by the river water when they come to dig me up.

... Hello?.... Is there anyone out there?.... Important book, down here!....

... guys?

(From the lost work The Collected Sayings of Pandokos the Prophet: In his final incarnation)

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