On this day, the first of the planter’s moon, I bear witness to treachery and courage. I wish I had never lived to see such things, and that the bravest and most noble of men had spared me from the terrible duty of reporting such awful deeds. I, Bernham Kielson, sixth tome of House Toevass and keeper of the sanctuary at Hillcrest, bear testament with my word as truth.

When the sun rose this morning I accompanied fifty brave cavaliers of DeVris bedecked in bright mail, accompanied by the jingling of harness, to the parlay of war arranged between the circle of mages, representatives of the mages’ guild, and Lord Grayston Silverthorne, first knight of the Kingdom. When the sun had reached a span above the horizon we came to the crossing of the Serpent river, and found it destroyed in our path. The army of the Mages had fired the crossing the night before, leaving the causeway to the city of Mordin a smoldering ruin. The stones themselves had cracked and split from the heat of their unjust flames.

However, a bridge of sorts remained. The air was filled with the strange hum of unclean sorcery, and a glimmering span of red stretched over the wide and slow muddy waters of the Serpent’s mouth. At each end the span was anchored between two corpses raised on posts. To my sorrow, one of them was known to me as Thomass Loeklara, a sixth tome of house Toevass, and one of the gentlest men to ever live. He had dedicated his life to studying the slow pattern of changes which sweep river valleys with the changing seasons and had written eight fine treatises on the subject. Never again shall I read his words without seeing his agonized face limned in red light.

Lord Grayston’s face tightened, but he did not cry out as some of his men did with the horror of what they saw. Many loosened steel, but Grayston would not permit them to draw, and he fought his mount’s better instincts to guide the animal across the river. I remember that span of glittering red, like blood or rubies, ringing like steel beneath the shod hooves of our destriers. A pavilion of white silk awaited us on the far side, a mere fifty spans from the river bank. The pavilion was guarded by fifty handpicked foot of Vaunphasauk’s Order Guard, and they looked magnificent in their shining mail and burnished helms. They stood proud, as symbols of the honor their land still possessed, each staring ahead with unmoving perfection.

I entered the tent behind Lord Grayston, with only one page boy in attendance to carry our belongings. There seven men sat on pillows raised in three tiers. The first tier of four was only a knee above the ground, the second, of two robed figures, was at waist height, and the third, with a single red robed and hooded figure was nearly shoulder height, Forcing Lord Grayston to crane his neck should he take the pillow offered him upon the carpeted ground. Choosing instead to stand, and denying the refreshments offered, Lord Grayston minced no words with the robed vultures. He was perfect in decorum and form, but offered no ground to the King’s Law, and would permit no treason from the traitors. Grayston offered honorable surrender to the soldiers serving with them, and a life sentence in prison to the mages, with death only to be met out to the High Magus himself.

These terms were deemed unacceptable by the seven, who took the opportunity to drink wine and laugh at the expense of Lord Grayston. They asked him what army he planned to accomplish such a feat with, and with their words the tent, and its bindings of silence fell away to reveal a visage from nightmare.

Beyond the tent’s walls the brave cavaliers fought for their lives, outnumbered ten to one. Each was laying about with sword and lance, though arrows and bolts of light filled the air, they cried in one voice SILVERTHORNE, SILVERTHORNE! And from the far shore came an answering shout, as Ironheart led his men in a doomed attempt at rescue to the banks of the Serpent river. Under a hail of arrows they fought the current in an attempt to rescue Lord Grayston, throwing their own lives away as tinder before the fire. A cry of rage and betrayal such as I have never heard, and hope never to again ripped the air, and Lord Grayston’s face was painted with agony for each of his men needlessly slain through treachery.

The four mages to the bottom row raised their hands and attempted to conjure a binding on him, but they were too slow against the power of his rage, and their conjury fell short, along with their heads, which rolled across the floor in a single sweep of the great blade carried by Grayston. They died with mouths open in mid-incantation. Grayston swept his page boy up under his other arm, and pushing me before him, made for his horse. The noble steed stood still, waiting, lashing out at any who tried to mount his proud back, all but Grayston.

The men saw us, and the handful of cavaliers still standing raised a ragged cry, making a ring around their lord of steel and death. Two were felled by sorcery before my eyes, turning incandescent before blowing away on the wind. Grayston did not mount the stallion himself though, instead choosing to throw his page over the saddle, and following that motion, he slung my person over the saddlebow as well. The horse snorted in annoyance, but obeyed with alacrity at a slap to the rump with the flat of Grayston’s blade. The last I saw of him, Grayston led a fistful of men in a driving wedge into the heart of the enemy, intending to wreak vengeance by the sword on those who had betrayed his confidence.

The horse made for the bridge of ruby light, which it had earlier detested, only to find the crossing gone. We turned to the city of Mordin, for the gates we a bare half-league distant. Fire, light, and ice fell upon the streets of the city, and the ground was rent in twain. Over the screams of steal and the cries of the dying the fell thunder of great sorcery announced the ruin of Mordin. The city that remained would never support the hope of living men again. The horse turned again, as if of its own will, and fled into the forested marshes of the Serpent’s mouth, leaving the sounds of battle far behind. From our hidden cover, I could see the desperate battle of the men from Susspin. They had nearly breasted the far side of the river’s current when the final act of treachery caught them unaware.

From the rough dells to the north of Mordin, behind the forces of Susspin rose the cries of wolves and men. For the Ga’Vin brought betrayal again, as in the ancient histories. The gray skinned warriors, clad in the bones of their victims rode war wolves to battle attacking the flank of Susspin’s proud cavalry. Men screamed and died as the sun rose and fell, until with night silence found a bare third of Susspin’s army beating a retreat back to their walled cities, defeated not by force of arms, but by the evil bent of cunning displayed by the mages of Vaunephasauk.

These deeds I swear to be true. This record I give into the keeping of the Pageboy Garrett Halberson, loyal servant of Lord Grayston Silverthorne. He shall bear this to the keeping of the king, for I go to take my anguish to the men responsible for tragedy. Should even one die under my knife before I fall, it will be one less to betray such good men as I can never equal.