[The Philosopher]

The present journal seems to be a very detailed account of Sergeant Daxos Zoavaro of the Priador Legion, and his exploits as strategic liaison for the Tuigan Horde after Szass Tam's selection. The following are some of the most relevant excerpts.

Uktar 30th, 1359

I'm still unsure whether to celebrate this as one of the best Feasts of the Moon I have had, or the worst.

The Tuigan force made mincemeat of the berserkers. Citadel Rashemar, as I told Yamun Khahan, proved to be just as irrelevant for a force of this magnitude as I expected - leaving behind a contingent of five thousand was more than enough to leave them neutralized. I don't usually favour throwing men into a problem, but I have to admit - the sheer numbers of Yamun Khahan's force make wasting even that many men a trivial matter.

We are making camp, now, over fifteen miles west of the Citadel, coming down the main road and the High Country in preparation for an onslaught. We were sent word that over fourty thousand Thayans are leading a simultaneous assault of Rashemen from the Gorge of Gauros, a prodigious army by any means, though I am fairly sure the Rashemi will be able to contain it. If all goes as planned, the Rashemi forces will be diverted to the Gorge, making way for the Horde to overwhelm the entire country.

Credit be given to them, they at least know to listen to counsel. Yamun revealed himself fearful for the first time when I explained to him the nature of Rashemen and its spirits, the telthor. Facing the berserkers in their own land is difficult, without a doubt, but one of the main reasons Thay has never succeeded in invading the nation is connected to the mysterious forces that pervade its very soil, something that Tharchion after Tharchion keep on ignoring in their efforts. The land rises up to defend itself - any conventional tactic is out the window when the mountains, the rivers and the trees themselves wake up to strike out.

Yamun heeds, however, due to fear, it seems clear to me; the Tuigan are deeply afraid of magic, and their shamans are few and far between. It no longer seems so amazing that the diplomatic force, along with Szass Tam, succeeded in convincing them to turn from Thay. The prospect of facing the unbridled might of the Masters must have frightened some inner core of their being much more than the simple common sense in avoiding a long, drawn-out war. His other generals are made of even softer stuff in this regard. They respect, and fear, Thay - it makes them excellent pawns in the Zulkirs' plans.

Yamun and his generals still look upon me as some manner of servant, even though any of their success would have been limited at best without my knowledge of Rashemen's geography and its people's combat capabilities. Up in the High Country, a massive cavalry force is absolutely useless - the rugged terrain, the wintry conditions, the telthor earth spirits, the fangs of berserkers wandering the hills and the crags make it almost hilarious to try and mount a proper cavalry, especially one of this size. As a result, advance is slow and ponderous, the forward force being the only one in any position to strike forward. The rest of the Tuigan are still flooding in by the thousands, braving the snows.

At this rate, I won't be back to Thay in months.

The others seem to be of like mind. I barely see Kallien and Daeris, busy in their own matters, and my role as what amounts to surrogate general keeps me in the tents or in the company of Yamun and his brutes. I won't even mention Barry - were it up to him, he would be running to the Wychlaran, spilling all our plans to the Witches. He probably will do it, the disloyal fool, if only to avoid a berserker's sword down that skull of his. Luck of Tymora indeed - without it he'd have been dead ten times over. Would that I could watch over the foreign prick.

I wonder what my mother would say if she would see me, now. I honoured her in my personal Feast of dried horse meat and water, wondering how everyone else celebrated their own holiday. Here I am, camping in the arse-end of Rashemen, waiting for a massive horde to finish spilling into the country while enemy forces rally to delay us for as long as they can, while at home there's wine and song and some other man in the company of my lovers. Worst Feast of my life, and yet, the chance of a life-time.

I might return home a hero if I pull this off.

I obey, for the honour and glory of Thay, but gods damn if I don't feel miserable right now.

[The Philosopher]

A hastily written entry follows a few more pages of dull days and bleaker nights of army camp life, with several spots of skirmishes with fangs of berserkers.

Nightal 8th, 1359

Our jagun is in disarray. I warned Yamun - I warned him, yet still he presses on, determined to stomp the Rashemi under the hoofs of his mounted horde. The Witches of Rashemen should never be underestimated; look now upon the result.

The spirits attacked in the late afternoon, after long hours of horse-riding. With them came the clouds of magical smoke and fire. Absolute chaos. The first charge was broken on a line of earth elementals far stronger than any wall of pikemen. The telthor stroke after, leaping from the earth itself, shimmering in swirling colours as they cried in outrage at the invaders. There wasn't a single fang of berserkers among them. We stroke at phantoms well into the wolf hours of the night.

I saw men screaming with their horses as the clouds of fire caught them. I saw men crying for their mothers as they were torn apart by telthor bears. I saw blood-brother turning on blood-brother as they lost their minds to the witches' magic, entire companies attacking one another in a confused frenzy.

I had to subdue Batu Min Ho before he stroke down Yamun's blood-brother.

The Khahan is determined to press on, though now it's clear we will be facing opposition throughout. Heralds from the other jagun in the Horde tell us the same story; terrible spells and demon spirits striking at them from all sides, their own men turning against them.

And yet, it's barely keeping us from rushing right over all territories of Rashemen.

The sacking has already begun, but where Yamun can only see victory and setback, I see only the raw terror of my mother's bedtime stories. It's the Witches of Rashemen we're fighting, here. Maybe we are a thousand times their number, but every man, woman and child in this Horde rides into Rashemen with terror in their hearts.

And I am one of them.

[The Philosopher]

Nightal 10th, 1359

Small village sacked. Our jagun eliminated every berserker that tried to stop us, and set fire to the local lodge. The Tuigan are learning to hate the spirits even more than they hate the witches - they make a special point of defiling the small offering shrines.

It's not the only thing they defile. They take what they want. Food, water, wealth, women. Batu Min Ho dropped a lovely, beaten Rashemi woman on my lap. "Have your share", he said.

I let her go in the night. She wasn't grateful. Spat on my face and cursed me all the same.

I haven't touched a woman in months, but I will not stoop to raping.

It won't help her come the morning. It won't help any of them, when the Tuigan wake up tomorrow morning.

The face of war. Master Shiunsai had warned me. The face of war.

How could I ever think it comely.

Nightal 21rst, 1359

Third major engagement with combined forces of fangs and Witches. Sudden attack of our encampments in the night. Chaos of spell-fire and rune-branded berserkers, making bodies of grown men, piling them up around them before being slain by mounted barbarians. Telthor tearing men apart like they were nothing.

I tried to think I was doing this for Thay, for glory, for fame. I'll be going home a war hero, I thought. I read back on my first entries, and I feel like going sick.

In battle, all flags disappear. Doesn't matter who you were when you step into it, or why you're there. You're an enemy. You must be killed. You either fight back, or cower and flee, but you can't even make the decision. A man screaming at the top of his lungs charges at you, you meet him or run away.

Stance perfected by years of sword-mastery. One stroke. Clean as a pricy whore. Spilled his guts on the grass.

The first of many.

There are some who'd call that bravery. Plenty of young ones are reduced to snarling or cowering beasts in war, when they see their first corpse or charge into their first melee. I remember my first real fights well, damn near close to shitting myself. I still feel damn near close to shitting myself, although one thing's changed.

One stroke. Clean as a pricy whore. One less soul in the world, and I couldn't care less.

I've grown used to blood in my hands.

Makes me wonder who the real animal is.

[The Philosopher]

Hammer 28th, 1360

We did it. Rashemen is overwhelmed. The Rashemi resistance, whether by the Witches or by the berserkers, is nothing before us. Thanks to us, Yamun Khahan was prevented a disastrous defeat, and we have burned the nation from East to West.

For some reason, I can't feel elated. I should. By all rights, I should. It's a resounding success. We won every major engagement, with laughably small losses when considering our massive numbers. Neither the Witches or the berserkers could stop us, far too focused on our armies at the Gorge of Gauros.

Notions in the wind for me, right now. It realize it, now, as I sit by the edge of Lake Ashane, looking out across the shore.

I was a fool to have ever called war a glorious thing.

How could I ever think it? Riding for hours upon hours, saddle-sores so raw they chafe even as one walks; under snow and damp, constantly cold, surviving on nothing more than dried horse-meat and whatever is foraged from the many villages we have ravaged. The horde is like a cloud of locusts - gobbling up everything as it goes, and yet it is never enough. I am cold, I am miserable, I am still recovering from wounds inflicted during the last skirmish. And this waiting - this terrible waiting.

I can't sit still. Can't let my mind freeze in this cold.

Tonight, I'll leave the first jagun. We've received word from the Red Wizards - ships shall be constructed, so the hordes can cross the lake. It's frozen, impassable. We must set down roots while Winter rages, resume the campaign in Spring. I'll take the opportunity to do some riding of my own, on my own.

I must see Rashemen with my own eyes. Walk among its people. Listen to the language. I let my hair grow for this purpose, and my beard - with any luck, it'll be enough disguise.