My last entry was inappropriate, and I am tempted to scratch it from the parchment. Regardless of my own feelings, even though they reflect the state of our mission, I must still outline the series of foolish acts that led to the death of a comrade.
I woke later than the others, and spent time studying my spells. When I found my companions, they were finishing basic preparations for war. Their plan was to space townspeople on the top of the wall as lookouts and archers, and guard each of the four gates with a compliment of mounted soldiers, and barbarians on foot. Between the gates, small groups stood watch by the walls. The mayor would stand at one of the gates with his staff.
An immediate problem occurred to me at the time. I suggested to the others that the threat might be inside the town, and we should set up patrols. I was too quick to doubt my instinct. When the Infiltrator told me there were not enough men to protect against an internal attack, I subsided. The evidence, which somehow evaded my mind at the time, was obvious. Who could have raised the undead army but one who was already here?
In foreshadowing of the tragedy ahead, the Empty Hand advised that if the battle turned against us, I should flee and find the others. I was given the magical pigeon figurine, and I wrote out a summary of this journal on a scrap of parchment to send to those not with us if the need arose. The priest handed me a message he had written to his father, perhaps expecting me to send that, but I knew that my note would be far more important.
I spent the rest of the morning training townspeople in the basic use of a staff, and the proper frame of mind for one in intense combat. A few were very eager to learn, and showed a great deal of promise. It is yet another strike against the mayor that he does not know who to train for his town guard.
Eventually, the five of us stood by the fountain, where we could see and hear the source of trouble, wherever it might appear first. From a distance, I could see the mayor clutching his staff, as if it would save him from whatever terrors were on their way. I decided he should know what I'd learned about the staff before the battle began, so I approached him. When I told him that only one trained with the staff, who is pure of heart, could wield it, he was doubtful. He asked me, if that were true, why his ancestors had not told him. I suggested that perhaps they had, in the form of the book he'd had me read. To that he had no response. I was not sure at the time, but later I became certain that my words had not affected him.
The townspeople were becoming restless by midnight, and some of them were having difficulty holding their posts. I myself doubted that there would be any attack at all. How foolish it seemed to attack tonight, the one night when the townspeople expected it most. One week earlier or later would have dispelled the drama and exchanged it for victory.
Just as I was musing over this for the hundredth time, we heard the clanking of armor in the direction of the north gate. At first we suspected an attack, but when we rushed over, one of the soldiers told us that it had only been the blacksmith, who had been holding that post with them, but had returned to his shop. Although that normally would not have triggered any suspicion, the soldier did not know why the blacksmith had left, and some of my companions had reached the point of suspecting anything even slightly unusual. Perhaps it would have been better had they not.
We entered the smithy to find the blacksmith standing inside, as if he had been waiting for us, with two drow. One was a woman in priestly robes. The other was an unarmed man in simple clothing, but I knew not to underestimate him. He was aware of everything around him, and held himself like a fighter. I presumed he had had similar training to myself and the others.
I did not hear much of what happened, in my haste to alert the town guard. I know that the blacksmith admitted he had been manipulating both the kobolds and the drow, and that he had been working with the drow priestess next to him, the “E.J” who had been in command of the orcs and ogres and who had raised the undead army. Before he could be questioned, our priest cried the call to battle, and rushed to attack the dwarf. Other drow were appearing from a back room, and the odds did not look good for us.
I ran within hearing range of the north gate, called for help, and returned in time to see the Tracker's spine split beneath the weight of the blacksmith's axe. The Empty Hand and the Infiltrator were nowhere to be seen among the crowd of drow that had appeared, so I did not know whether they were dead or alive. At the time, I forced my mind to consider only the battle. I could not mourn for any one of my companions until I had saved anyone who could yet be alive.
Soon the priest escaped from the smithy, slammed the door and held it shut. Some of the town guard and commoners arrived in time to make sure the two windows were barred and watched. The door shook with the force of at least two men, but the priest somehow held it against them. Those inside built up a rhythm, slamming their shoulders against the door and stepping back to prepare for another attempt. That gave us the beginnings of a plan. We waited for them to try again, while I began the incantations of a spell. The door nearly shook off its hinges, and, as the vibrations settled, the priest opened the door. At that moment I completed my spell, and let a jet of flame pour from my palms and sear those behind the door. Then, before they could react, the priest closed the door. We planned to perform the same dance again, but the next time the blacksmith and the drow rushed the door, the priest could not hold it.
I remember very little of the chaos that followed, though it ended only some hours ago. The drow who poured from the smithy were reduced in number my my spells and those of the priest. The dwarf, the monk and the priestess, however, tore through both the townsfolk and the barbarians that arrived to help as if they were the flimsiest of paper. I saw the mayor and his entourage approaching from the west gate. Then I was out, and left for dead. I do not even recall whether it were magic or might that took consciousness from me.
I dreamt a short but vivid dream, where I saw all three of the others dead before me, while I was without legs to run to my master or voice to call him. The magic figurine was just outside my reach, and this, my journal, had opened and was splayed out for all to see.
When I woke, the situation had changed considerably. The first thing I noticed was that, although the battle still raged, I was almost without wounds. Next I noticed that I was surrounded by the dead, both townsfolk and drow. The priest had gotten hold of the mayor's staff, and was glowing with power. He had used a pair of powerful spells that it held inside it, one to kill most of the drow and another to heal all the wounded. The only enemies remaining were the priestess, the monk, the blacksmith, and a lone drow cleric. As for allies, a number of townsfolk and barbarians were still standing, and the Infiltrator and the Empty Hand were alive and fighting. It wasn't until that moment that I realized for certain that the Tracker was dead. Still, it was not yet time to mourn.
The blacksmith tore through barbarians and townsfolk with one aim in mind: to get to the mayor and kill him. I still do not know what had put him at such odds with the mayor that he would plan the destruction of the town. Even when his battle seemed lost, he forced his way to the mayor.
I let the mayor's subjects defend him, having more important things to deal with myself. The priestess was casting spells, and I did what I could to stop her. I had just recently finished research on a new spell of my own, and I put it to good use, positioning my hands as if holding a bow, and letting loose a pair of arrows made entirely of acid. Each one prevented a spell from being cast, and each one burned the priestess, but she still stood strong. While I fired the second arrow, the mayor ran past me, the blacksmith in pursuit.
The mayor was not to die, however. Barbarians came up from the south gate, including the ogre we wrestled with several days ago. While the townsfolk and I pelted the priestess with arrows (most of which she avoided. I have never before witnessed such expertise), the ogre proved quite a match for the blacksmith. Behind me, from what I gathered later, the Infiltrator and the Empty Hand finished off the monk consort and the cleric.
Soon the battle was over. The priestess unfurled her cloak into a pair of bat-like wings, and made a hasty retreat. Although we continued to fire at her, and I ran around the smithy to get a better shot, she escaped with barely a scratch. The ogre and the priest put an end to the dwarf, who died with a maniacal grin on his face.
The mayor thanked us for winning the battle, and gave some speech about how he would become a better ruler. Although I have no doubt this experience will affect him in some way, I imagine he will ever be an incompetent. Perhaps his successors will learn from his error.
The excitement at an end, I could finally consider what had happened. The Tracker was dead, and word of our presence was spreading – faster with the number of enemies who had escaped us. We foolishly protected this insignificant village, in exchange, perhaps, for the safety of the entire world.
Now we are seven. Four thousand years ago, the greatest dragons assembled a group of eight, who were able to banish our enemy from the world. No fewer could have done it. Now he is reemerging, and eight are needed once again, but there are only seven. It will take many years to train another eight, and by then, the enemy's power may encompass all the world.
As soon as the battle was over, I tore a small piece of parchment from my supply, and scribbled a short message. It read:
The Tracker is dead.
- Arcanist
Then I sent the magical carrier pigeon off to find our master. I await our return to the monastery.