In the shadow of the goliath known as the Irespan, a clock tower sagged. A feat of modern engineering and magic, the limestone tower stretched sixty metres into the air, scraping the underbelly of the Irespan far above.

  Coradiel’s neck strained as he tilted his head back. He’d known about the tower for years — everyone knew about Magnimar’s failed attempt to bring some sort of civilisation to the darkness of Underbridge. But to see it with his own eyes in all its leaning, faded glory… Coradiel had to admit he was impressed.

  And somewhere within it, a lamia waited for them.

  And below, a dozen inquisitors in Pharasmin white stood with weapons unsheathed. A druid stood before them, his cervinal mask obscuring his face.

  Coradiel’s heart sank at the sight. There was no escape for Arlo. For either of them.

  Arlo stepped forward, back straight, shoulders relaxed. He looked the Deer in the eye, and pointed to the tower.

  “Inside this tower is a lamia named Xanesha,” he said, without a hint of a tremor in his voice. Coradiel found himself relaxing — Arlo had a plan. “She is responsible for Aldern Foxglove’s rise as a ghast, and thus indirectly responsible for the assault on Sandpoint over the past week. Do with that information what you will. Coradiel and I will fly to the top of the tower to cut off any escape. I suggest you approach her from below. I do not know the composition of her forces, but use caution — I would hate for there to be too few of you to capture me after.”

  Oh. So the plan was to defeat Xanesha before Arlo could be captured. It wasn’t much of a plan… but Coradiel couldn’t argue in front of the inquisitors.

  The mage turned to Coradiel.

  “[Mage Armour]. [See Invisibility]. [Mage Armour]. [Cat’s Grace]. [Spider Climb]. [Shield]. [Arcane Weapon: Flaming]. [Arcane Weapon: Seeking]. [Spider Climb]. [Resist Fire, Communal].”

  Spells cast, Arlo turned to the tower. With a running start, he leapt into the air, and began climbing for all he was worth. Coradiel followed him quickly, glancing below as the inquisitors began battering down the door to the defunct tower.

  They climbed, circling around the tower to an old scaffolding near the top. Pulling himself over the edge, Coradiel rolled onto the scaffolding and leapt to his feet, estoc in hand.

  “Arshea, grant me your holy speed.”

  Arlo clambered over the edge, panting quietly as he unslung his musket. The amurrun loaded it in seconds, and swept it around the room beyond the scaffolding.

  The tower’s roof sloped, torn away by something — gravity, a monster, Coradiel didn’t know. An angel stood atop the roof, its blessed wings brushing the bottom of the Irespan. Within the torn section of the roof, a room was adorned with cushions, silken sheets, and a line of small chests on the far side of the space.

  No one was here. Yet Arlo swept his musket around. And the bark of his weapon shattered the silence of the building. As the report echoed, a scream filled the air, and black blood appeared on the floor.

  “[See Invisibility].” Arlo’s hand slapped Coradiel’s shoulder, and the room changed.

  Suddenly, a beautiful elven woman appeared, draped in golden finery. Coradiel’s eyes widened at the sight.

  “I know you. Lady Jane. You were with the Justice when we first met.”

  “Yet Arlo shoots me. My poor, poor arm…” the elf lamented.

  All around her, illusionary copies flickered and swayed, mimicking her motions and her words perfectly. Coradiel’s eyes flickered around them, barely following which one was the real Jane… no, Xanesha. Why would a noblewoman be here? She was messing with his mind.

  “[Dispel Magic].”

  The doubles flickered as though in a strong wind. And suddenly, they vanished. Xanesha screeched, and flung herself at Coradiel. He readied his blade… but before they could meet, Arlo’s musket barked again.

  Xanesha bellowed again as a red-hot bullet veered into her side. It fell away with a plink, but the damage was done — she was bleeding heavily from the wound.

  Coradiel didn’t waste time. He lunged, his estoc slipping under Xanesha’s arm.

  “You monsters!” the elven woman cried out, swiping a spear at Coradiel.

  He ducked aside, foot sliding across the grimy floor. It took a moment to recover, and in that time, Xanesha struck.

  Arlo reloaded with cool precision. Nothing mattered anymore. He was a dead man. And somehow, that drove the fear of the moment clean out of him.

  Here was a monster of a woman, who had murdered several people, who had set undead upon them, who was responsible for weeks of nightmares that kept him from sleeping. And now she would pay for them.

  His musket levelled, then lowered. Coradiel lunged, parried, riposted, his movements a blur. It was almost like he was dancing with the woman, a lethal foxtrot that took them perilously close to the scaffolding. Arlo couldn’t get a shot off with their movements — what if he hit Coradiel?

  Circling the fight, looking for any kind of opening, Arlo studied this foe. He’d scored a critical hit, he’d done a lot of damage with the two shots he’d gotten off… and yet she was still on her feet, moving as though nothing had happened.

  It terrified him.

  What would it take to kill her? How could he kill her faster? If he was going to escape, he needed to do it before the inquisitors could reach the roof.

  He could do it now. He still had half his mana left. He could fly out of here, fly somewhere else, leave Magnimar to its fate.

  His gun cracked again. And Xanesha roared. Her body shifted, her form elongated. An insectoid snake appeared in her place, slithering toward Coradiel. From her maw, a strangled screech abounded. A pair of silvery missiles sped from her hand, only to explode inches from Arlo’s face. Another shriek of rage, and another screech. Coradiel’s estoc scored another hit, just as a ray of fire swept out.

  “[Counterspell]!”

  The flames caught, sputtered, died. And Arlo breathed easier.

  Coradiel’s health flashed dangerously. Xanesha’s barely touched half. The paladin couldn’t keep this up much longer.

  Another crack. Another chunk of health vanished. Arlo reloaded under a strange hiss… and Xanesha’s health bar filled.

  “No….” No… that wasn’t fair! That was not fair!

  Arlo fired again, dropping her health bar once more. But now, the lamia wasn’t playing around.

  She whirled on Arlo, ignoring Coradiel’s latest attempt to get through the scales running down her body. The snake lunged. Arlo jumped.

  And cold steel pierced his body.

  A victorious crow bellowed from the lamia as Arlo dropped. Wrenching the spear from his gut, she pulled a mask over her eyes. A green flash filled the room, and Arlo froze.

  Every inch of his body went stiff. His hitpoints flashed down to four… three…

  A hand slapped him, and his health increased, back to twelve… yet he still couldn’t move.

  “Arlo!”

  Coradiel’s voice came from far away. Fire flashed, ray after ray of flames driving the paladin in circles around the room. And still Arlo stood, frozen to the spot. He pushed. He strained. Nothing responded.

  Somewhere below them, a crash sounded. Screams, of pain, of rage.

  Through it all, Arlo stared helplessly as Coradiel’s health dropped little by little.

  And then… he twitched.

  And the spell broke. Falling, Arlo grabbed his musket. He levelled it, and fired.

  Xanesha’s side caved under the bullet’s force. Yet she still fought on. The strange hiss again…

  “[Counterspell]!”

  And her health hovered. And dropped.

  Xanesha leapt. Coradiel lunged.

  The paladin screamed as coils wrapped around him. Arlo’s musket levelled, aiming for the lamia’s head.

  The trapdoor to the tower pounded. It rattled.

  “Arlo!” Xanesha reared back, spear poised at Coradiel’s throat. “Arlo, go! Get out of here!” the paladin begged.

  CRACK!

  The door blew open. And Arlo’s musket fired.

  He was instantly assaulted by three inquisitors. A spell cast, his body froze.

  But Xanesha lay on the floor, her skull caved in by his final shot.

  “Let me go.”

  Kulungu sat atop the trapdoor, a scrimshaw totem in his hand. Coradiel was on his knees before him, tears streaming from his eyes. The druid stared at the scrimshaw, cutting an idle shape into it.

  They’d been through this same song and dance a dozen times already. Coradiel begged. Kulungu said no. Coradiel threatened. Kulungu cast a spell to stay his hand. Coradiel sobbed. Eventually he’d run out of spells. He’d be forced to let Coradiel go. But by then, it would be too late.

  “This is a mercy,” the druid said quietly. “Keep him alive in your mind. You do not want his remains to be how you remember him.”

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The amurrun’s bag sat between them, his musket laying on the floor. Arlo had made sure to remove every item he could, bequeathing them to Coradiel before he’d been taken to the temple. By now, the amurrun would be trapped within a circle, facing down a mage armed with a Staff of Disintegration. There would be no body to raise, nothing to reincarnate. Arlo’s soul would be judged with expediency, sent to his final rest once more. And there he would stay. A soul escaping Pharasma once was unheard of. Twice was impossible.

  “I swear to the gods, I will skewer you where you sit!”

  “Tell me. How many people must die for this amurrun?” Kulungu asked calmly. “He led twelve people to their deaths today. Another person died not three days ago, protecting Sandpoint from ghouls he stirred up. Your companion was a walking disaster. His death, while unfortunate, is for the good of all. And Pharasma is not to be denied.”

  “You deny her daily. How many resurrections do you provide? How many people do you snatch from her Boneyard, returning them after their time has passed?”

  “We return people once, per their contract with the church,” Kulungu said. “We do not rob Pharasma of any souls. She understands that some die before they are ready, and she withholds judgement on them until their task is complete. Sometimes, our prayers go unanswered. Souls remain dead. We do not demand them back from the goddess. We accept their passing, as hard as it is.”

  Rising, the Deer set his hand on Coradiel’s shoulder.

  “I will weep for Arlo. His tale is tragic through no fault of his own. But I will not deny the goddess’ will.”

  “It is done.”

  The words rose from the sending stone in Kulungu’s pocket. Then silence.

  Kulungu returned his scrimshaw to his pocket. Sheathing his dagger, the druid stood up lightly. He lifted the trapdoor.

  “Mind the stairs. They are unstable,” he warned, before vanishing into the gloom below.

  He thought there would be more tears. But there was just an unending numbness.

  Coradiel gathered the coins from Xanesha’s chests, stuffing bags into Arlo’s bag of holding. He’d been through this before. This emptiness, this listlessness. He’d been through it before and Arlo had been fine. Maybe the amurrun was still okay even now!

  But he’d seen the inquisitors take him away. The Deer ensured he couldn’t help Arlo. Couldn’t save him. Arlo was dead. No one escaped the Pharasmin church.

  Gathering the rest of Xanesha’s ill-gained goods, Coradiel paused as a crumpled parchment fell between the chests. He unfolded it, revealing a neat script. A read through made him pause, and Coradiel read through the paper again.

  “Turtleback Ferry….” Here was someone else harvesting greedy souls to make someone rise. That tidbit struck Coradiel as odd — did they intend to resurrect this Karzoug somehow? By all accounts, the Runelord had been dead for aeons, far too long for any normal resur-

  That was it! Resurrection! All he needed was a diamond of sufficient quality, and someone would be able to bring Arlo back from the dead! Not the Pharasmin church, obviously, and even the Shelynites would be loathe to go against the Gray Lady’s wishes… but if he could get the church of Abadar to sign a contract with him, say for a certain amount of gold and the promise that the deceased was no criminal, they would be bound by the law to resurrect Arlo.

  “‘Have you managed to harvest that lord-mayor yet?’ Do they mean Haldmeer Grobaras?”

  That was it. That had to be it. His ticket to saving Arlo. Surely the lord-mayor would want to reward the heroes who had saved his life. Coradiel just hoped his life was worth enough to him.

  Tucking the paper into Arlo’s bag, Coradiel made one more sweep through the room. Finding it clear enough, the paladin set Arlo’s bag over his shoulder, and began the precarious descent down the rotting stairwell.

  His feet hit solid ground nearly ten minutes later, and Coradiel almost wept in relief. He didn’t allow himself the luxury though; the paladin hoisted his bags, checked to make sure his sword was within easy reach, and began the long walk through the streets of Underbridge.

  Unfriendly eyes followed his every step. Coradiel hurried about his business, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

  Until a dromaar stepped in front of him.

  “Looky here boys. We’ve got ourselves a nobleman trying to steal away with our goods,” the half-orc sneered.

  Coradiel’s estoc was out in a flash. He dropped the bags as his eyes glanced around. Four underfed street rats surrounded him. One itched furiously, one refused to meet his gaze, but the other two seemed more than happy with their odds.

  Lowering Arlo’s musket, Coradiel dropped into a fluid stance.

  “Let’s get this over with then,” he snarled. “I will slay you where you stand and not shed a single tear. Or you can move and never bother me again. This is your only warning.”

  Behind him, one of the thugs cackled. A heavy club slammed into the dirt beside Coradiel. He didn’t move.

  “Uh… Boss… I don’t think we-”

  “Shut the fuck up and gut this fancypants or I will personally-”

  Coradiel moved.

  And the dromaar dropped, choking on his blood.

  Flicking the blood off his blade, Coradiel turned.

  “Who’s next?”

  All around him, shadows remained. The eyes that stalked him were gone.

  The paladin approached the choking half-orc. A quick scan of the thug found his soul dark with the evil he’d committed. Coradiel plunged his estoc into the half-orc’s heart, ending him instantly. A mercy kill, as far as he was concerned — even as desperate as he was, Coradiel refused to leave a foe to suffer.

  His footsteps quickened after the confrontation. No one else barred his path, and it wasn’t long before he was passing from the Underbridge.

  Bright midday sun shone cheerfully down upon him, betraying his heart. The world mocked his every step — his world had ended, yet life went on. Wagons passed to and fro, hawkers shouted over each other, bells tolled, marking the time as two past noon.

  And Arlo was dead.

  He hurried to his townhouse. Dropping his gear off, Coradiel saddled Dianne and took off, fairly racing for the mayor’s mansion.

  Eight stories tall, resembling nothing more than a castle with the massive walls around it, Defiant’s Garden was the largest mansion in the entire city of Magnimar. Its every function was devoted to the pleasure of its main occupant, the lord-mayor Grobaras. Coradiel had never visited before — his family was never wealthy enough to have personal business with the mayor. He’d get his visit today, and he’d make sure Grobaras saw things his way. Arlo’s life depended on it.

  When told of the plot to see him dead, Haldmeer Grobaras fainted outright.

  It took nearly ten minutes to bring the man back around. Coradiel waited impatiently within the mayor’s decadent office as servants slowly revived Grobaras.

  The two finally took their seats with much to do, the mayor dabbing nervous sweat from his brow as he stared at the letter before him.

  “I assume a reward is warranted for saving your life,” Coradiel prompted finally, his patience running thin. “Forgive my lack of decorum, my lord, but a close friend of mine died to see you safe. If you would provide the reagents for his resurrection, I will call our debt even.”

  “Of course… of course. Krinst!”

  “Here, my lord.” A man stepped into view where none had been before. Coradiel blinked in surprise — he considered himself perceptive, but if the man had been intent on murder, Coradiel would have never seen it coming.

  “The last shipment for Absalom, it had a diamond tiara in it-”

  Grobaras blinked as a diamond was set before him. He picked it up slowly, inspecting it. Grunting, the mayor held out his hand. Coradiel copied him.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Finally, with a pained grimace, Grobaras dropped the diamond into Coradiel’s hand. The paladin pocketed it, glancing nervously at Krinst. The rogue smiled back at him reassuringly.

  “I’m sure his Lordship would like to get back to work,” Krinst said, a clear dismissal of Coradiel if he’d ever heard one. “We thank you on behalf of Magnimar, and wish you luck in retrieving your loved one from Pharasma.”

  How… Coradiel shook his head. He’d never understand how the rogue got that information. Worrying about it would only waste valuable time.

  “It has been my pleasure to serve Magnimar,” he said, bowing stiffly.

  With a dismissive wave, the mayor shoved Xanesha’s letter at Krinst. Coradiel left the two to their work, hurrying back to Dianne.

  And he was off again, racing to the Cathedral of Abadar.

  “Requests for resurrection must go through Proctor Jyronn Imikar,” a bored clerk said, stamping a document. She set the parchment aside and grabbed another paper.

  “And how do I request a meeting with the proctor?” Coradiel demanded.

  “Proctor Imikar is booked through Oathday, 10 Gozran. The earliest meeting-”

  “That won’t work for me,” Coradiel growled. “I need a meeting now. I have the reagent necessary. I have the thousand gold sail casting fee on me right-”

  The clerk sighed. Digging through a massive pile of papers, she shoved five parchments at Coradiel.

  “Fill these out in full detail. Every copy must be exact; any variation will be cause for dismissal. Return all five copies tomorrow, and you will be seen in one to two business weeks to discuss the details of the casting. Next!”

  Coradiel grabbed the papers. Sitting against a nearby wall, the paladin fished an inkwell and a pen from Arlo’s bag.

  It took nearly an hour to fill out the first form. Name… time of death… cause of death — he just put Disintegration for that one. The rest went by faster, but the bells were still tolling six past noon by the time he’d finished. Rushing to the clerk’s desk, Coradiel was met with the clerk rising from her seat.

  “Temple’s closed for the day. No more requests,” she said.

  “But-”

  “Leave now or I’ll call the guards.”

  Defeated, Coradiel trudged for the exit. There was still more he had to do… but this part required he twist his morals. And Coradiel wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

  It was for Arlo. And that settled his mind.

  Tucking the papers away, he collected Dianne once more. The paladin patted the mare’s neck.

  “Okay girl, we’ve got a little more work to do. Back to the Underbridge.”

  He’d made up his mind. Coradiel was going to do this. But every step threw him into doubt. What if this went wrong? What would Arshea think of his actions? No one messed with Pharasma, not even the gods, yet he was about to do just that. He was desperate enough, if Abadar didn’t return Arlo to him, Coradiel would seek out a cleric of Urgathoa to resurrect the amurrun.

  Eyes peered at him as he rode through the shadows. Coradiel glanced back warily. He didn’t really know what he was looking for — he’d never done anything like this before. How did one go about finding a rogue?

  He stopped beside a ramshackle tavern — the Friendly Merchant — that backed onto the docks. Inside the building, he could already hear the sounds of a brawl. Whether that was a good sign or not was beyond him.

  Coradiel reluctantly tied Dianne to a post outside the tavern. He doubted he’d ever see her again… but there was little he could do about that. Taking a deep breath, the paladin stepped into the tavern.

  A tankard caught him in the forehead. Letting out a curse, Coradiel rubbed at the spot.

  “Hey! That was my favourite mug!” someone hollered. Coradiel stared at the metal tankard, bent out of shape from the impact. “I’m talkin’ to ya-”

  A fist flew. Coradiel dodged, bringing his knee up. It caught his assailant in the gut, knocking the wind out of him. An elbow to the back put him down, and Coradiel turned on the rest of the tavern.

  Glowers met him from all around. Coradiel shrugged them off and headed for the bar near the back of the tavern. An aiuvarin met him halfway.

  “We don’t serve your type around here, lawman.”

  “I’m looking for someone-”

  “Are you deaf? I told you to get out.”

  “I need a rogue to break into a temple for me,” Coradiel pressed.

  “Last chance,” the aiuvarin snarled, flashing a ball of light in his hand.

  Mage… Coradiel backed away slowly. His skin still burned from Xanesha’s flames. The paladin certainly did not want to deal with a mage, not without Arlo to back him up.

  He stepped from the tavern and sighed. Dianne was nowhere in sight. Surprising? No. Disappointing? Absolutely. He should have known better than to bring her here.

  Hoofprints lined the dirt. Coradiel was no ranger, but if he could see the prints this clearly… then it was a trap. A trap he was willing to spring at this point. Maybe tracking down some horse thieves would make him feel better.

  He followed the prints north, weaving through ever-narrowing alleys. A soft nicker brought him up short. It was followed by frantic shushing.

  And metal pressed against his back.

  “You’re looking for someone to rob a place,” a voice hissed in his ear. “What temple? No, don’t turn around.”

  “Pharasma,” Coradiel breathed. “There is a person I wish to resurrect-”

  “Name?”

  “Arlo Green. Struck by-”

  “Disintegration,” the man grunted. “Five thousand gold sails. Half now, half at the Gecko Piling tomorrow morning. He will be waiting.”

  Digging through his purse, Coradiel counted out two hundred platinum crowns, and tucked them into a separate bag. He set the bag in the dirt, and stepped away from the knife in his back.

  “Your horse was taken by an aiuvarin named Quina. Praise Urgathoa.”

  With a rattle of coins, the man was gone, leaving Coradiel to wrestle with the fact that he’d just paid an evil cult to rescue Arlo.

  Green light. Pain. Then nothing.

  The Hall of the Damned settled into silence. Kulungu looked up from the book he’d been reading. Smoking dust piled neatly in the corner of the room, and the druid sighed. He stood up, grabbed a broom, and began sweeping.

  A minute later, a clay urn joined the dozens of unnamed dead.

  Kulungu returned to his book.