I have not updated this journal for many days. I’ve told myself that I’ve been too occupied, which is certainly true enough. There is also the fact that there is only this single leaf remaining in this book, given to me by my mother. I’ve waited, I suppose, to reach some point of finality. Some conclusion to the swirl of events that I could record here to give the use of this last page its due.

There is no conclusion that looms, no grand finale. I have spent the past week involved primarily in bloodshed and darkness. I am assigned to the Darkmoor Morwynne Brigade, which at this point controls the High Way from its connection to the Port Road southwards to the bend where it fords that unnamed tributary of the Elran to the north, before it runs west into the Twisty Wood. The Virelle Brigade is responsible for the area west of us and the Moat House Legion, as they call themselves, patrols the Port Road and the area neighboring the fens. No force loyal to the Grey House controls the great heartland of Darkmoor, and only the forces of the Cult travel south of Anthracite. We have a strong force at the cathedral I am told, but only sufficient to protect our people, if even that.

These glasseyes come in ravening swarms, indifferent to death. They are entirely undisciplined, but the Cult’s other forces, largely fey beasts of the wood in this region are nearly as well-controlled as we try to be. Our force is small, relative to the foe, and I weep for every man and woman who has fallen. I fear that my tears run dry when I consider those who I have seen slain on the side of those who oppose us. One day, once all of this is settled, should I live to see the sun rise on a peaceful Darkmoor once again, I may find it in my heart to grieve for those who have fallen prey to the Cult’s lies and promises. For they who have turned their back on their own conscience out of some sense of aggrieved misfortune and in a desperate attempt to return to a past where “they” had a higher station and nobler status — a day that never existed. One day I hope to make space in my heart for them. That lies beyond my abilities as I stare out this evening on a field of impromptu gravesites marked only with simple stakes.

The route to the South is entirely cut off. And, according to the Sorcerer, somewhere beyond this iron wall of orcs and the roaming unliving lies the Temple to which the Cultists seek access. Our Circle has gone its separate ways; Aldmaar organizes the Peoples of the Wood and serves as the Druid’s envoy to our force. Lady Sparrowhawk leads a small, mobile force that carries out the most dangerous of excursions into Cult-held territory, scouting and attacking supply lines and hunting down the Cult’s messenger squads. The Chief Investigator, I am told, has joined Lord Grey in exile in Eregore, in Gwinned, supposedly.

And what of the Sorcerer? I last saw him on the evening that we went our separate ways, upon learning of the attempted assassination of Lord Grey by, San Nicholas help me, Barnabus Rey. I asked him, as I surrendered my Aldermane to Aldmaar, likely for the last time, what he intended. “Will you travel to this Temple? Will you attempt to stop this Targeta?”

He looked at me, his angular head appearing more inhuman than ever. His expression changed, almost comically. As if this was an idea that had never occurred to him. “You ask the best questions, follower of San Nicholas.” And he said nothing further.

I will get what rest I may. And I hope, in the days to come, to find a new journal so that I may continue to compile my thoughts. It is a meaningless and minuscule’ exercise, I know. But it is the only way I can find peace, even for a handful of moments.

I close this journal here, exhausted, damp, cold but clinging to a flicker of hope.

The morning was spent in slaughter. My vestments are red with blood and my heart is heavy. When we entered once again the gates of Greensward, the Sorcerer gave no warning. The guards, previously smirking now peered cautiously over their battlements. The Sorcerer with sweeps of each hand cooked them alive.

Almost immediately, the peoples were out on the streets, running at us as if a bell had signaled the arrival of dinner. Yet they found no feast. These Cultists possess some magical prowess, even the meanest of them. They have learned in their secret, underground rites witchcraft. We were beset by spells and as the fight continued, manifest elemental beings of air and earth and — yes — even the fire with which the battle had begun.

They continued to engage our horses until Aldmaar insisted we dismount and free the beasts so that they might survive. So we joined the fray afoot. The Knight of Darkmoor, as ever, waded in, her shining armor and great axe glinting in the meager morning light. Aldmaar sent volley after volley into this black host until, his quiver empty, he unsheathed his twin swords and joined the Knight, nearly back-to-back, in a knot of the Cultists.

They fought like cornered animals, these Elementalists. They asked for no quarter. They were willing, even eager, it seemed, to die. As they rushed out of homes and shops, each with curved dagger in hand, they did not hesitate, despite the growing pile of their allies in the filthy streets of Greensward.

I did what I could manage, to keep the mob at bay, disoriented, and, when necessary, I imparted healing magics to my allies. And to myself. I gave a good accounting in the rolls of the downed, though the Knight and Aldmaar stained the registers crimson.

And the Sorcerer… I have rarely seen him smile, but he was grinning like a carved harvest pumpkin throughout, hurling spells into knots of Cultists. Moving through the fray, never staying still long enough for the foe to reach him. He toyed, it seemed, with the great stone beast the Cultists had summoned, like a kitten with a ball. I could not spare the attention to track him, nor did I take any joy in observing the glee he took in his wholesale butchery.

The Cultist throng dwindled. Aldmaar and the Knight, exhausted, unrecognizable in their gore-spattered state, cast about for any new foes. I fell to my knees, hoping for a moment’s respite.

“Where is the Sorcerer?” I heard Aldmaar call. I could only shake my head, not glancing up. I heard a final, crunching blow from the Knight on the Cultist before her, who, just as I, was on his knees, unable to rise. My pulse was a roar in my ears. I feared that my breathing would never compensate for the deficit of air in my blood. My vision had collapsed into a narrow tunnel directly in front of my nose.

There was a rumble — distant but surely loud — and I found myself on my side. For a moment or more, I suppose, I lost consciousness. Then Seralayne was there, stirring me gently. She looked ghastly, but concerned. “Pieter?”

“Was there… an explosion?” I managed after a second, able to rise on one elbow, the world oddly canted as if I were perched on its very edge.

She nodded. “The Sorcerer. The Thalass Engine.”

I just stared, uncomprehending.

“He destroyed it,” Aldmaar said, just entering the limited scope of my vision. “I suspect that’s what this was all about. For him.”