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This letter I send with a trader whom I have persuaded to remain until it is finished. He is abandoning his interests here and will not stay another night before fleeing to Riverdam. I shall certainly follow him when my work is complete, but I fear it will take another night at this place as there is an ancient resident of these parts I have yet to meet. It is said he knows the folklore and spirits of the region as well as any witch might, but his home is apart from the village and must wait for morning.

No compulsion or reward could induce me to return to Three Stones. Once my questioning here is complete and documented I shall return to the city, on foot if necessary. Currently I can only be sure of the fear-stricken innocence of these villagers, whose lives are tied to this land and can scarcely comprehend escape from their serfdom. Their terror is genuine; born of a rural superstition I begin to share, and the root of their obstruction to my investigation rather than malice or complicity. None could account for the sudden presence of corpses in Three Stones and thus far I can gain no evidence that anyone has, or would, venture in that direction.

My memory of that awful visit grows ever more vague and hurtful with each passing hour, but there remains that one feature I remember with clarity. The symbol carved into the door of the inn, the most central of the buildings of Three Stones. I did not recognise it, nor could decide whether tool, weapon or claw had been employed to fashion it, but it now haunts my dreams.

Such is the strength of disquiet I feel whenever I recall that scratched image, I have found myself unable to recreate it for the locals, but they claim not to recognise the description. My fearful guides refused to admit its existence at all when questioned though they had seen it as plainly as I. As yet I find no worthy explanation (nor even fanciful account) that seeks to explain these events, but there is a greater force here at work than one man can manage.

— This was the only report to originate from that officer. Perhaps others were lost, but I found a statement signed by the trader that confirmed the madness of that village. In response the prefect secured an entire regiment of Vartin Guards, brothers of whom distinguished themselves on the field against us, to investigate further. This I conclude to be a sign that he considered this a serious threat; the Vartin Guard held to the last man when we attacked and bloodied the Reavers well.

The symbol of the cross within a circle is one I do not understand, but the device was echoed to a degree on the streets of Daraban. There, the central crossroad was aflame, with a multitude of precise grooves cut into the packed earth. Even when that unholy fire was extinguished it afeared all and our lesser beasts refused to traverse it. The devotee of Larat who accompanied our force denied all knowledge of it, though his reaction was one of great anxiety. Subsequently he made furtive gestures that put me in mind of warding against a daemon’s presence, but rarely do Larat’s followers fear any daemon so the meaning remains a mystery to me.

Letter to Governor Corren, an urgent request from Prefect Iliole concerning the disappearance of the 4th Regiment of Vartin Horse Guards

Most honoured Governor Corren,

I understand how inopportune the timing of this call is, but my district of Riverdam is on the brink of utter chaos and no level of threats will induce the population to denounce the call for surrender to the Menin. I appreciate your likely response, but events in the hill region of Velere’s Fell have become a banner of hysterical discord with refugees actually fleeing towards the Menin armies.

The 4th Regiment of Vartin Guards had been preparing to march to Daraban and join the defence, but I managed to persuade its captain to first impose his sense and honour to the Fell region; a task he willingly undertook having observed the broken spirits of those he hoped to bring to war.

Entire villages have been stripped of life; sightings of daemons and monsters widely reported while madmen are driven to murder by the whispers they hear as night falls. One of my most trusted officers sent to the area has reported similar madness before also disappearing. I suspected slavers, but the 4th Guardmen have not returned or sent word either and I fear that accursed place has taken them.

I am at a loss. Every day brings rumours more outlandish than the last. There is a darkness stalking this place and those mages as once did live here have fled. The ancient myths of Aryn Bwr cursing the ground where his son was felled appear to have come true, though how any foul magics done by that long-dead king could still be in effect I do not understand.

All living creatures have abandoned the area of Velere’s Fell; I myself have seen wolves and antelope flee north, side by side and disregarding the presence of the other. A wild dread envelops the population as the shadows grow ever stronger and the clamours of night dig their claws into our minds. Your attention is most urgent, the next riot will require military force but my militia joins the people in terror.

— I must assume the Governor sent word by some means to Numarik. Whether the situation grew worse I cannot tell but a response came from one Primarch Getalt:

Governor Corren,

Your request is refused with ridicule and wonder. Were these simpler times I would petition the forum for your removal. Need I remind you that Numarik will be under assault within the week? I only write this to you because your messenger hinders my every step for a response. I shall not even waste the Protector’s time with such nonsense. Without Verliq our city will certainly fall and your situation resolved in the harshest of ways. The greatest army in the Land marches on our people. This unique and beautiful creation of our civilisation stands in greater danger from the War God’s chosen emissary than your ‘plague that walks’. If the Gods preserve us, remain in no doubt there will be consequences for your womanish fears. In the meantime I suggest you attend the defence of your own city.

— The personal diary of the Governor was damaged by fire and I only have scraps relating to his last days. Our intelligence led me to believe him a stoical soldier, but he hung himself before the assault and set fire to his chambers while his family slept. We were fortunate that anything remained. Such as I do have I record here:

The fires of night grow stronger, can it be true? … Iliole sends no word, what has become of him … the enemy lies to our south, only … the Menin come, deliverance is at hand, the Gods forgive us for daring …

Dark forms fill the sky, each night I fear … so shall I submit to judgement of my soul … I have seen the face of death … but a creature of the Land. Hateful and warped beasts baying for the blood of the living … what have we done to …

… gone forever, they go and return, but who disturbed …

… ancient folly … Velere is dead … cursed forever, we follow the path set by his kind and the Fell shall be that of our children …

The shadow speaks to me. I can hear its voice like a knife in the wind.

— As is obvious, the man was lost to madness, but the sickness of this place goes beyond the insanity of its natives. I fear for us all and believe some have gone missing this past night. Daraz Tergev you know and knighted for his bravery, but his eagerness to depart cuts my letter short and it is not your shining presence he covets.

Your Krann ignores all guidance and amuses himself with the population. All order has disintegrated and the men fight amongst themselves in earnest. I shall make one final effort to persuade Krann Visel to withdraw; whether or not I succeed I shall abandon this place with my personal troops and the army standard you entrusted me with. I shall embrace whatever consequences you consider appropriate for this desertion.

I know little of Velere Nostil, who the region is named after, other than his assassination and his father’s legendary grief. It appears this grief became manifest, or some terrible bargain was struck and endures to this day. Whatever the truth of millennia past, it drove refugees onto our spears and a thousand battles to be fought before our assault.

It is true about the absence of living creatures, your soldiers are the only living entities here. No bird or beast remains and it is lack of feasting that may yet cause Visel to save his men. If I fail to return, I pray to Gods I rejected long ago that I can prevent a similar fate for you, my master. The years have been blessed by your intervention and favour, I endeavour to be worthy and shall remain your servant beyond death.

General Gaur, Third Army of the Menin.

My friend,

It is believed in these parts that the Menin lord had intended to secure his own place in history by marching on Darbodus, stronghold of the cursed Elves. After his celebrated duel with the ‘heretic’ Verliq, the Menin lord pushed on to join the third army at Daraban. They were met on the road by Sir Daraz who was received in private by the Menin lord. Immediately after the meeting the Menin lord ordered the return home and all plunder save for Verliq’s library to be abandoned.

A remarkable decision for the greatest warrior of the age, I feel, but less remarkable than the fact that while running for home they were caught on the road by General Gaur and a legion of his personal troops. Krann Visel’s army numbered fifteen thousand when they marched from the Ring of Fire. Though they fought no real battles their fate remains a mystery, as does the engine of the long-dead Aryn Bwr’s curse.

That the denizens of Ghenna walked the night in Velere’s Fell cannot be doubted, no other force bar the Gods has that power. What evil facilitated it I shall not speculate, but I hear whispers that fatal accidents have befallen many suspected of necromancy.

I remain etc,

From the hollows and slopes of the valley, tendrils of mist reached out over the Land before the sun rose to banish them for another day. Kastan could already see the blushes of dawn on the horizon. He’d waited half an hour already, watching the darkness of night recede and become the morning gloom; the colours of the day painted on a shadowy canvas as the sky steadily lightened.

Perched downslope, nestled about the meeting rivers, was the village he called home. They would be up and about soon, tramping out into the fields and seeing to the livestock. Wisps of smoke already rose from a few houses, up and away with a vitality the morning mist lacked. A faint breath of breeze brought the scent of the flowers up to his nostrils. That was another thing he intended to fix in his memory before the proud eye of Tsatach appeared in the sky; the clean flavours of the air inextricably bound to the glorious sight of dawn in his mind.

The morning chill didn’t bother him. Kastan had settled into a natural dent in the steep earth, wrapped in a bearskin and cradled by the mountain where he’d spent his whole life. The valley below spread out to the south where the lower ground became lush woodlands fed by the mountain rivers; receding into the distance as dark smears on the horizon. Always open to attack these parts were, but this village was rarely bothered. In Kastan’s life there had been only three raids on the village, the last being just a band of beastmen too pitiful to be captured for the fighting-pits.

That day the men of the village had looked to him for leadership when the alarm was sounded, even the veterans. Only fifteen summers old, Kastan had already possessed an air of authority that made battle-scarred ex-sergeants follow his commands. The immediate obedience had felt both natural and intoxicating.

That day he’d seen the sadness in his father’s eyes as the man saw it was time for Kastan to leave. They both knew it had been coming; he’d bested every man in the village before the end of puberty, but the widower had been able to ignore the day not yet upon them until then. Seeing Kastan lead the counter-charge and cut down the largest of the attackers with ease, it had been clear to all that it was time.

As the sky brightened, Kastan wondered why he felt no regret at leaving. Perhaps because he’d always expected it; that from his youngest memories the old soldiers had told him he would leave to fight – perhaps because this village was always going to be too small for a Menin white-eye, the largest of all men in the entire Land.

Or is it because I’m a white-eye and have no use for regrets?

White-eyes didn’t become farmers, or even blacksmiths or hunters. It had been more than a year since he could safely wrestle or spar with anyone from the village. Since then he’d only laid hands on another when a drunken fight had broken out, his prodigious energy channelled into hard labour and the study of any books he could trade or borrow.

The dawn chorus had ebbed and flowed over the undulating ground even as he’d left the house and walked up here in the predawn dark. The sweet liquid voice of a thrush rang out between indignant outbursts from a blackbird. A choir of starlings chittered merrily from the village surrounds, but the call he had been hoping for came strong and clear over their gossip.

The red merlin wasn’t one to participate in the greeting of the sun but, as most birds, they had chicks in the nest and were out hunting early. Native only to these parts, it was a rare sight to those who didn’t know where to look and a beloved talisman to locals. The merlin’s shrill ‘kek, kek’ sprang out from the stony slopes and brought a smile to Kastan’s face. It would be years before he heard that sound again.

He didn’t bother looking for the bird. It would be well hidden in the rusty-green undergrowth; three or four bronze tarnished eggs nestled peacefully on the ground. No one knew why the small hunter nested on the ground, often where the slope was little challenge to predators. The snakes that would happily feast of their eggs rarely did so, preferring to keep clear when they themselves could be the meal.

Kastan loved them for that. To make a home where they wished was to invite danger, but the swift birds would fight like demons rather than abandon their eggs. Perhaps that was why they were so fondly regarded by villagers who lived outside the Ring of Fire, vulnerable to the predations of the warped tribes of the Elven Waste.