Guelder pulled her spear free from the body of the last zombie cyclops standing, and moved to the side as it fell prone to the ground, black ichor gushing from its belly and tainting the water of the small brook. Not that it mattered much. The bed of the watercourse was already littered with corpses, cyclopes and Tiger Lords alike. It would be one hell of an effort to clean it, and Guelder had more urgent business to take care of.

  A heavily built woman jogged over to her, her hair a metallic colour of silver, her one eye glowing in the same hue, the other's remains hidden under an eyepatch.

  "Whoever you are, thanks for helping out," she said with a friendly grin. "I'm the leader of this expedition. The name is Hilla the Toothgrinder."

  Amiri tossed her head back and roared with laughter.

  "Do you Tiger Lords get named after sleeping habits? Hilla the Toothgrinder, Dugath the Loud Snorer, Bolga the Saliva-Bubble-Blower?"

  Guelder shot a murderous glance at her friend. If there was anything she hated with passion (that is, almost as much as draining swamps or clearcutting forests), it was her unsophisticated companions casually thwarting her efforts of diplomacy by, well, being their lovely selves.

  "Nice to meet you, Hilla. Please forgive my rude companion."

  "Never mind. It was a funny joke. And if it wasn't, she seems more than ready to sort it out with me in a friendly skull-bashing session. And you are?"

  Guelder saw it better not to reveal herself as the ruler of the neighbouring country as yet. Not when she had half her usual team around.

  "My friends call me Spots. I am here on behalf of the Baroness of Nightvale, on a quest to investigate the mysterious vanishing of Varnhold's entire population."

  The aasimar's eye widened in surprise.

  "Varnhold? As in Maegar Varn and the Varnling Host? Does he have an estate here?"

  "In fact, we are in his barony right now. Do you know him?"

  Now it was Hilla's turn to laugh heartily.

  "Of course! A weakling, if you ask me. I climbed him at some revelry about a decade ago, and, well, he passed out after the third round. All in all, he is a far cry from a full-blooded Tiger Lord in all respects, as is his brigade. And yet, the weasel stole a good number of customers from us with that sly smile he has across his mug. Until once I put my foot down and told the customer to make a decision based on a duel. Varn was chicken to take on the challenge, and sent his girlfriend instead. Gave her a sound beating, I did, haha! So if your baroness ever finds herself in need of mercenaries, she'd best choose the Tiger Lords."

  "I will make sure to let her know," said Guelder, an amused smile playing around her lips. "She has already availed of the Varnlings' service and was happy with that. But if the Tiger Lords are even better, that is some food for thought indeed. Anyway, is there a chance you would be interested in helping out Varn?"

  "Help out the competition? Are you kidding me? The less rival brigades, the more gold for us. The most I'm willing to do for him is let him buy me a pint for the old times' sake. And maybe check out if his stamina has improved over the years, hahaha! You, on the other hand, could help me out. Part of my group went to explore the tombs with a... hm... priestess that travels with us. They should have returned by now, and I should have checked on them long ago, but as you see, I was kind of busy keeping these rotting towers of flesh entertained. Could you track them down for me and see how they're doing? I'll make it worth your time, I promise."

  "I can do that. But instead of gold, I would prefer another kind of payment. Pull the corpses out of the brook and burn them before they taint the water."

  Hilla measured up Guelder, taken aback by her request.

  "Why do you care? It's not even your land, or is it?"

  "I care about the health and balance of nature wherever I go. Also, I like to be on good terms with local nature spirits, and I am sure your people does, too."

  Once Hilla and her men were convinced, Guelder and her companions made their way into the necropolis. The baroness was getting used to the sight of monumental buildings in reverence to the dead, but she still couldn't relate to the philosophy behind them. Those dead cyclopes had been resting in their sarcophagi for millennia, and they still had plenty of decaying flesh on their bones. The ancient burial methods slowed down decomposition enough to let her fight zombies instead of skeletons. How could a highly intelligent race, able to create so magnificent buildings and culture, detach itself from nature so lamentably, encasing their dead in stone instead of letting them break down in the soil and nourish new life? Why keep them intact in their graves for hundreds of years? Had they believed in an eventual resurrection – all the while worshipping the soul-devouring powers of Abaddon? Or had they preserved their dead for later use by their necromancer-rulers, the type this Vordakai seemed to be? Anyway, Guelder felt thankful that she lived today and had not been born a cyclops. One day, when Pharasma claimed her soul, her body would return into the endless cycle of nutrients, the stray plant seeds hidden in the nooks of her pockets would sprout and feed on her remains...

  Absorbed in her thoughts, she almost tripped over the first corpse.

  Apparently, the Defaced Sister's activity had disturbed several tombs in the necropolis, unleashing multiple waves of zombie cyclopes on the neighbourhood. The Sister's own entourage had taken the first hit. All Guelder had to do was follow the trail of bodies, barbarians and cyclopes alike, to the central tomb. The stone slab serving as its door was in place, but the baron's seal and signage had been ripped off, just like at the Sepulchre.

  The raven was perching on top of a broken column, observing her with tilted head.

  Guelder grabbed her spear, its shaft smooth against her gloved hands. It was a new weapon, an introductory gift from Kimiel, the Tatzlford bowyer, one of the barony's promising artisans. In addition to its emotional value as a masterpiece of elven craftsmanship, it was imbued with Sarenrae's blessing manifested in a destructive sunbeam. It was a mystery why Kimiel thought Guelder was a follower of the sun goddess, but the blessing was effective regardless of the wielder's religious views, and it came in handy against undead. She could tap into it one more time before it went dormant and recharged for the next day.

  No, she wouldn't waste the spell on that pesky bird.

  "I am going in," she announced. "Crusher, you return to Hilla and tell her what we saw. Also, make sure to mention what happened to her brethren at the Sepulchre of Forgotten Heroes. Beard, you stay here and keep watch. If I do not return in half an hour, use the password and get me out."

  Amiri frowned.

  "Chief, I really don't want to go full Haz... erm, Falcon on you, but are you sure you'll be fine alone in there?"

  "Entirely. My working theory is that the Sister accidentally locked herself up inside. If so, she must be desperate to get out, and she might be willing to pay for my help in information."

  Guelder focused on the stone slab and uttered the password.

  "Kheb."

  The tomb opened, and after Guelder and Pangur slipped through the entrance, immediately closed back.

  Wrapped in darkness, Guelder turned back and said the password again. Nothing happened. The ancient magic worked just fine to keep its captives in – until someone came and let them out, be that a Defaced Sister, a curious archaeologist, a gang of grave-robbers, or the elusive Horned Hunter himself.

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  Now she had half an hour to spend in this mouldy crypt, and as she immediately realised, it would be full of challenges.

  Someone screamed.

  Guelder shapeshifted into leopard form and dashed towards the sound, with Pangur in tow. The scream was followed by a clink of metal hitting stone and a gurgling rattle. As she got closer, the stench of death and decay hit her square in the muzzle. Another scream of horror pierced her ears, accompanied by the sickly sweet smell of fey blood.

  Finally, she reached the end of the corridor. As her keen eyes cut through the darkness, she saw a sarcophagus, its lid tossed off and broken in two, and its inhabitant looming above a short and frail woman, with a greataxe in hand. The woman's left side was drenched in blood, her arm missing.

  In their previous dungeon run, Pangur had figured out that, in one respect, zombie cyclopes were no different from trees. They could be climbed. Now Guelder tried the same strategy herself. Not breaking stride, she ran up the undead's leg and torso, ending up on its shoulder, and sank her claws into its single, bloodshot eye.

  Letting out an annoyed roar, the cyclops reached up with one hand and grabbed Guelder by the skin of her neck, as though she were some mischievous housecat, and ripped her off itself, leaving its face in shreds and its eye turned into blackened goo. Next thing she knew, she was flying through the air. At the last moment, she twisted her body so that she slammed into the wall paws first, the impact sending a jolt through her joints. Still, she managed to kick herself away and land safely on the ground, ready for her next attack.

  By the time she regained her footing, Pangur was upon the undead in a similar manner, buying time for her and the Sister. Guelder was happy to leave leoparding to him (he was better at it, anyway), and dropped her shapeshift. If she wanted answers, she had to keep the Sister alive, and that required spells.

  While the cyclops was busy trying to shake off Pangur, who carefully avoided committing the same mistake as Guelder had, the baroness made her way to the Sister and grabbed her still attached arm, yanking her to her feet and pushing some healing energy into her.

  "Get up and fight!" she growled in Sylvan. "You are supposed to be a fearsome sorceress or whatnot. Do something!"

  There was no time for more talk. The zombie tried to get rid of its passenger by running headfirst into the wall and squishing him against the stone. Pangur was quick to jump off before the impact, and Guelder utilised the gap, launching a spear attack from the side.

  The spearhead got stuck in the undead's leather armour. How was that millennia-old gear still so durable and efficient? Keeping one hand on the shaft, Guelder unleashed the spear's magic. The scorching sunshine coming from the palm of her hand claimed the zombie's attention, even though its eye didn't function anymore, and enveloped it in a destructive, holy light, spoiling it of a good chunk of its remaining health.

  The sunray and the collision with the wall left the undead reeling, but even so, Guelder had to be quick about reclaiming her weapon and throwing herself to the side to dodge the incoming axe blow. Sparks flew up as the heavy blade hit the flagstones. Rolling to a halt, Guelder got to her feet and aimed a two-handed thrust at the undead's neck before it could heave the axe again. As soon as she pulled back, Pangur's fangs found their way between its vertebrae, severing its spine. The twice-dead body hit the ground with a clink that didn't come from the axe.

  Relieved, Guelder hugged her friend's neck, then let him sneeze to his heart's content and get the zombie juice out of his mouth. Her gloved fingers felt around the corpse's neck, and found a chain. Giving it a good tug, she retrieved another censer from under the body.

  She caught her breath, leaning on the shaft of her spear, before her attention turned back to the Sister cowering at the bottom of the wall. The healing spell had made the bleeding stop, but otherwise her state had not improved much. Guelder took a vial from her backpack.

  "Look," she said. "The best healing potion in the River Kingdoms. You can have it if you answer a few questions truthfully, to the best of your knowledge."

  The woman's eyes stuck to the vial, mesmerised.

  "Where is Baron Varn?"

  The answer came in inarticulated whimpers.

  "If I were you," said Guelder coldly, "I would not waste my saviour's time and my own. Where is the baron?"

  "That wasn't us!" burst out the woman. "We are servants of benevolent spirits..."

  "Benevolent? Forgive me if I have my doubts. You serve Nyrissa, do you not?"

  "I... cannot talk about that..."

  Guelder paused, pondering the Sister's words. Was she merely afraid to speak, or was she physically unable to do so? Anyway, they had to find a way around that block.

  "I take that as a yes. Now give me something I can take as a no."

  "We are servants... of benevolent spirits..."

  "Fine. Let us continue this conversation in a little more dignified way, shall we?"

  After some spirited altercation in growls and meows, Guelder retrieved the severed arm from between Pangur's jaws and more or less fitted it back, asking the Sister to hold it in place with her other hand, then dripped the contents of the vial into the fey woman's mouth.

  "There you go. I cannot have you escape into the First World from me and my questions, now can I?"

  "Who... who are you?" whispered the Sister.

  Guelder looked around but didn't see the raven anywhere. Still, her gut told her to stay on her guard.

  "It is I who ask the questions, Sister. Your place is to answer."

  "I am not allowed to help you."

  "Well, the other option is that I kill you and send you back to the First World in shame. Your mistress will punish you either way. And if you raise but a finger against me, you will never make it out of here alive. So you came to Varnhold to find these censers, right?"

  "I... cannot talk."

  "How many? Two?"

  "We are servants of benevolent spirits."

  "Three?"

  "I cannot talk!"

  "And you need them for Armag II to save the world. From what?"

  "We are servants..."

  "Oh. So you and your Sisters lied to the Tiger Lords. You have been using them for Nyrissa's own purposes. Something tells me the Toothgrinder would find this interesting... Now tell me why you did not use your famous magic to fight the cyclops and defend yourself. Is your magic ineffective against undead, by any chance?"

  "I... cannot..."

  "So you use the Tiger Lords as living swords and shields. You know humans do not respawn after they die, right? Anyway. I suppose you know about Vordakai. If I help you get out of here, can you lead me to him?"

  "No!" exploded the woman. "You ask too much! If she finds out I helped you, even but a little, she will –"

  The Sister struggled, trying to force her tongue into obedience. Her ragged breathing turned into a wheeze, a desperate fight for air, and in a few seconds, she was dead. As Guelder ripped the shroud off her head to help her breathe, she recoiled in horror at the sight of the Sister's not-face. Regardless, she scooped up the body into her arms (it was so light that she could easily carry it), and walked back to the entrance, waiting for the time limit to pass.

  Unless her mind was playing tricks on her, the wait felt longer than reasonable. The corpse was still in her arms, without the slightest sign of being about to despawn. It had no eyes Guelder could have closed; the semblance of humanity showed to the outer world had been just an illusion. Sorrow weighed on Guelder's heart. Perhaps she could have freed the Sister, offering her a helping hand, a gesture of friendship, to let her break out of Nyrissa's shackles. They were probably just as much victims as perpetrators, just like herself and other pawns in this cruel game.

  Finally, sunlight washed over her face as the slab rolled away again. Guelder shambled out of the tomb, dishevelled, soaked in fey blood and zombie ichor – straight into Hilla waiting outside with sword in hand.

  "I am sorry," she said. "My best efforts were not enough to keep her alive. Which is a shame, because she was inches away from apologising to the Tiger Lords for deceiving and exploiting them. Come, Toothgrinder. We need to talk."

  The raven observed in silence from its column. It opened its beak for a moment, but then it thought better of it and took off, heading south.