Sunday November 30, Foothills of the Cloudspine

The enormous volcano overlooking Seven Gates is erupting for the first time in ten centuries. The tremors started late yesterday and since midnight there has been a constant rain of hot ash and fire. Even here, thirty miles away, it already feels like summer.

As if the mountain's fury were an ill omen, Rabican was encircled and crushed by the Watcher, who attacked by surprise from the west.

The survivors of this battle who have reached us speak of ribbons of fire tearing flesh from bone, and thick clouds of poison which rotted whole formations of men to pieces in moments. Our wizards were powerless to stop the carnage.

They also say that the pass of Seven Gates has become a raging river, fed by snow melting as the volcano heats the earth around it. The defenders who remained in the pass are surely drowned, and in a few days when the water is gone the pass will be open again, and undefended.

But none of this concerns us. What remains of the Silvermines garrison is less than ten minutes behind us now, determined to claim the arm. We are all too exhausted to continue running, and our scouts have chosen a hill up ahead where we can make a stand.

I've heard there are a number of our own men among those pursuing us, turned to the dark by The Deceiver. None of us look forward to meeting them in battle.