I miscalculated; the sirines' need for water is greater than I had expected. Water is scarcer inland; brackish pools and springs taper off. Yet fortune was once again on our side; the rains fell, and much was harvested. I will begin construction of a water-tower as soon as the assault is complete. The mage, though exhausted, may be able to conjure some container; spells are too dangerous. Should the Shaman detect them, our surprise is lost; far from the roads as we are, the closer we strike, the more others may sense the trace of magical lingering. No, I must find another way.

It seems the legends are true; I had thought them merely myth: the sirines' blend with their surroundings, veiled from the eye. This tribe have learned to use simple arrows of horn, their head tipped with shell. They dip the sharpened point into a deadly sea toxin, found only underwater. Their foes are paralysed, then trapped by their song. Had I known this earlier, we could have advanced sooner.

Another day and the scouts will return. I will set the brigands to preparation; the oldest, a wily salt-bitten smuggler, is a thief-catcher turned rogue. I will hold him back; it is time my sirines learned to track on land as well as sea.