Saturday August 9, Madrigal
We are in something of a tight spot.
Shiver has been attacking Madrigal without stop since she arrived seven days ago. Even now, I can hear the crash of stone against the walls – the walls which I myself stood upon but three hours past; the only reason I’m not there now is because I took a soulless’s spear in my good arm. I suppose, though, that I’m lucky – compared to those who received such spears in their chests.
There are more thrall surrounding this city than could possibly be imagined, and more soulless have gathered than I’ve seen in my life – despite having served in this Legion for more than ten years, now. The worst, though, are the wights. The damned things continue to try to walk to the wall, and blow themselves up when they do. Fortunately, the wall is holding.
Unfortunately, the fever gases that they release have already killed too many men.
We must hold, though. Soon, I’m told, a combined army of the North will strike Shiver’s flank – and at that same time, we will throw open the Gate of Storms, and charge her front. I am to be in that force, so long as I can hold my sword by that time.
We must not fail. If Madrigal falls, we are doomed.
The present members of the Nine have been cloistered in a study for the past few days. It is rumored that they are conferring with a severed, talking head; but that, of course, is ridiculous.
Gaheris has just told me that the Legion is about to strike, and that we must begin preparations. I hope I can keep my sword in hand. It will be a long day.