Step by cautious step, Darlac crept along the corridor, blades in hands, towards her quarry. A wiry, vaguely humanoid shape with a fish-like head, short tentacles snaking out of its back, oversized, clawed limbs, and a long, twisting tail.

  Somewhere below her consciousness, just out of reach, an unacknowledged shadow of a memory was hiding: the aura of a hateful predator lurking in the transition zone between life and death, hunting for souls to devour. Why was this thing here? Had it been feeding on her people's souls? Or was it biding its time until one of the trespassers from Guelder's squad would fall?

  Seldom did Darlac want to kill anything this badly. Almost as if she'd seen its ilk in action during her time in the afterlife she was forbidden to recall.

  "Darlac," said Tristian softly, following in her footsteps, sticking close to the wall. "I can see your Mendevian blood singing in your veins and all, but you know that thing is not a demon, right?"

  Darlac rolled her eyes. Tristian was stating the obvious. She knew The Nerosyan Companion to Demonology inside out, and this thing was not in it.

  "I know my spelling," she hissed. "What I'm having right now is a daemon problem, and I intend to resolve it in a quick and bloody manner."

  "Then you must also know that astradaemons are different from undead-type creatures in a few crucial aspects. Which means my shrouding spell won't keep us hidden from it."

  "All the better. I want it to see my face when it dies."

  Tristian heaved a despondent sigh.

  "At least wait until I put a warding spell on you!"

  However eager she was for the fight, Darlac stopped for a moment and let Tristian do his thing. A protection from death effects would likely come in handy. She waited until he finished the spell and cast it on himself, too, then she resumed her slow progress towards the target.

  As she got closer, the stench hit her square in the face. If the dead fish had smelled horrible, this was a hundred times worse. Breathing through the mouth didn't help, either. It was a good thing the zombie cyclops patrol had made them skip breakfast.

  Who goes there? hissed the daemon in Darlac's mind, without actually uttering a sound.

  "The cleaners," she snapped, aloud, out of spite. "Cleaning the filth of Abaddon out of this land!"

  She raised one of her swords towards the sky, so far away beyond layers of rock and stone, and let the power of her goddess flow through her weapons and body. The thrill of the upcoming battle filled her entire being. Through the blood drumming in her ears, she faintly heard Tristian murmuring his prayers behind her, at a safe distance.

  Instead of pouncing at her, the conceited fiend only flicked its tail.

  Darlac parried the incoming whiplash with one of her swords, slicing into the slimy, leathery flesh. Black smoke puffed out of the wounded appendage. Still, the tip of the tail connected, with sufficient momentum to leave a stinging, burning welt on her neck.

  Furious, Darlac charged forward and stabbed at the fiend's chest with her left, while aiming a slash at its neck with her right. Both her swords went through empty air, and her momentum almost made her trip. She was quick to regain her footing and learn her lesson: she couldn't trust her eyes in this fight. Then what could she trust?

  The pesky tail slammed across her back like a club. Her stable stance saved her from falling forward, and her armour took the brunt of the blow, but it was still unpleasant enough. She spinned back towards the source of the attack, slashing through the air with both blades. This time she hit flesh. Two writhing pieces of the tail fell to the ground, twitching around her feet, oozing black smoke. Darlac leapt away before she'd trip over one of them, and in doing so, she avoided the worst of the retaliation. Even so, one of the daemon's claws tore a long, shallow gash into her thigh.

  The noise of hurried, departing footsteps came from behind her.

  "Tristian?!"

  "I'll go get the baroness!" sounded the cleric's voice, out of breath as he was running away. "You can't defeat it alone!"

  "How about you stay and heal me?"

  No answer came. Darlac had to realise that she was on her own.

  That was what she got for not setting up a clear hierarchy of roles in advance.

  She ducked beneath the next claw swipe and as she came up, she delivered a backhanded slash at the daemon's arm. By the feel of it, her blade cut through one of whatever the fiend had for muscles. She turned and followed up with a stab where its upper body was supposed to be. Another scratch, another puff of black smoke. The fiend didn't seem to mind too much. Even its mutilated tail remained strong enough to dish out another whiplash, knocking the last of breathable air out of Darlac's lungs, making her gasp in vain for a lungful of concentrated stench.

  Scrambling away, Darlac let holy power course through her body to close up the wound and restore her ability to breathe. She had to put some distance between herself and her foe, and come up with a different tactic. At this rate, she would only wear herself down and offer her soul to the fiend on a silver plate, with nothing to show for it but two severed bits of tail and a little smoke.

  "HELP!"

  It was Tristian's voice.

  Darlac growled a juicy mercenary curse under her breath. As if she weren't deep enough in trouble, now she had to deal with that moron's predicament as well. Served him right for leaving her in the pickle.

  She evaded the incoming claws at the very last moment, rolling backwards to gain some space. She had to immobilise the daemon somehow until she'd sort out Tristian, otherwise she would just kite it there and add to the cleric's troubles.

  "Those who incur Heaven's wrath," she recited, "shall squander their strength. They shall soar on wings and plummet. They shall run and be weary. They shall walk and faint!"

  Her voice grew stronger and stronger, ending in a shout. And indeed, her foe was slowed down a little. Its fishlike jaw dropped as it saw chains of golden light encompass its long limbs. Feeding all her willpower into the chains, Darlac broke into a sprint along the corridor, in the direction of Tristian's voice.

  "Follow the light! Help! Please!"

  After just a couple of steps, Darlac had to realise that the holy text didn't account for those who teleported. The daemon materialised in front of her, blocking her way. It was too late to avoid the collision. She slammed right into the sinewy body, bounced off it, got to her feet and took off again. A tail slam sent her falling forward. By pure luck, she managed to transform the fall into a roll, instead of smashing her knees into the flagstones. Thankful for the extra momentum, she was on her feet again and ran, stumbling, towards the cleric.

  Then she finally saw him, kneeling beside a short column or pedestal and clinging to it with both hands. Negative energy filled the air all around, warping the light of the orb floating above his head into a sickly green.

  Oh no. He activated a trap and is now slowly being killed. She had to get him out of there, whatever the cost.

  Wading through the energy field did not go as fast as it should have. Exhaustion was seeping into Darlac's limbs with every single step she took. Clenching her teeth, she fought her way forward, at half her usual speed. Would she be late again? Would she have to watch Tristian die, too?

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  The task ahead made Darlac oblivious of her pursuer – until the daemon's talon-like hands snapped closed around her body. Its claws scraped her breastplate, sank into her upper arms and shoulders, lifted her up from the ground, bringing her face at a level with the maw full of sharp teeth. She gasped, breathless with pain and nausea, and her swords clattered to the ground from her useless hands.

  Did you think you could get away from me, delicious little soul?

  "I defied Vordakai himself! Do you think you're better than him?" The words of spite, laced with agony, didn't come out as brave as they sounded in Darlac's head. Still, she'd been through worse. The breastplate still held, and however those claws tormented her flesh, they weren't even close to hurting her soul.

  A wave of warmth washed over her. Tristian was not dead yet. Quite on the contrary. He was keeping her alive, as he was supposed to.

  "Hold on, Darlac! Just a little longer!"

  That sounded as though he had a plan. Teeth gritted to the point of cracking, Darlac clung to her defiance, and hoped against hope that Tristian knew what he was doing. The snarling maw, breathing the smell of disturbed crypts into her face, looked increasingly frustrated, unable to get to the juicy treat that was her soul, and it was visibly leaking black smoke. The claws were still in, but the grip on Darlac's body was weakening.

  What happens when death dies? Does it make space for life?

  What a bad moment to philosophise.

  The claws sliced through Darlac's flesh once more as they drew back. She fell to the ground, her uniform and body roughed up, but her soul intact. By the time she raised her head, the daemon followed suit. It twitched once or twice, then it grew still.

  Tristian stepped beside her, holding both her swords awkwardly in one hand, and gently helped her up.

  "Come. Let's get out of here. I can heal you better once we are not standing in this filth up to our chests."

  He let Darlac lean on him and stain his white-blue-gold garb with blood, and half led, half carried her out of the negative energy zone. Once they got out, he unleashed all his holy power on her. She drank it up like a sponge, revelling in her renewed health.

  Then curiosity got the better of her.

  "So what exactly did you need help with?"

  Tristian flashed a shy smile. "Well, once the trap was activated, I needed the daemon inside its area of effect, preferably occupied with prey, until the negative energy would work its magic. And the best way to get both hunter and prey here was to cry for help. I trusted you would never abandon an ally in trouble, and I was right."

  "Oh." Darlac narrowed her eyes. "You planned it all out, didn't you?"

  "Actually, no. I blundered into that trap by chance, but thanks to the Death Ward I had on, it didn't harm me. I figured you'd be safe from it as well, and it would only hurt the daemon."

  "So," said Darlac slowly, "you lured me into a trap and used me as bait."

  The cleric avoided her gaze, his hand fumbling for his rosary.

  "I... I'm sorry," he muttered. "It seemed like a good idea back then."

  Darlac watched him stew for a little longer, then she burst into a chuckle and patted Tristian on the back.

  "It was a good idea, Tristian. A genius idea. I'm impressed and proud, and also grateful. Once again, you made this planet a better place."

  Tristian blushed and looked away... like always. Darlac wondered if he would ever grow out his strange shyness. He had so much potential and so little confidence in himself. She found herself wishing she could borrow him from Guelder for a year or two. A little time in the Host under Darlac's hand would improve his skills with weapons, make him push his limits, turn him into a man.

  As if the Host still existed... Would she be able to rebuild it from the troops sent abroad by Maegar? Did she even want to rebuild it without him?

  Chasing the thought away, Darlac returned to the present and to the daemon's corpse to search it for loot. Cephal would have butchered that carcass and claimed an assortment of its body parts as spell components. Alas, Darlac knew nothing about what parts could be of use. The only remarkable thing she found was a small key.

  What could it open?

  They followed the corridor to the point where they had met the daemon, and beyond, to a small chamber, almost like a pantry, emitting another version of stench: one of a badly tended human prison.

  Darlac stood in the doorway, measuring up the small cell by the light of her halo. Tristian stayed behind, with the blob of light still above his head, enveloping her silhouette in a white shimmer. It must have been an astounding sight for those inside. Three half-naked, starved men were chained to the wall with iron collars around their necks, two of them together, the third one separately. They squinted at the sudden appearance of light, their jaws dropped, regarding Darlac as some sort of heavenly vision. Finally, one of them worked up the courage to break the magic and address her.

  "Hilla?"

  Another one reproached him in a language Darlac didn't understand.

  She buried her face in her palms as the implications sank in with her.

  "Is this some kind of fey prank? You're not saying I ruined my uniform just to rescue a bunch of fucking Tiger Lords!"

  The worst part was that her decision was already made. She couldn't even think of not rescuing them. Not after she saw that little spark of hope in their eyes. But that didn't mean she had to like it.

  "Stop yelling!" rattled the third one in Common, forming the words with difficulty, as if he hadn't tasted water in a week. "You'll bring the fiend upon us!"

  Darlac gingerly approached him, doing her best not to step into anything foul, and set to work on his collar with the key.

  "The good news is the fiend is dead," she said. "The bad news is you're trespassing in Baron Varn's territory, and I'm his acting representative. Which means you're in my power now."

  The collar dropped from the man's neck. Angered by Darlac's words, he struggled to his feet, trying his utmost to stay upright and stare her down.

  "We are Tiger Lords! We are in no one's power!"

  He took a wobbly step towards Darlac and immediately collapsed where he was. She shrugged and went on to the second captive, the one who'd mistaken her for someone else.

  "Wigurd is right," he muttered. "You're not Hilla. Wrong hair colour. Too many eyes."

  Fiddling with the lock, Darlac browsed through her memories to find where she knew this name from. Then it clicked into place. Hilla was the silver-haired mercenary she'd once fought a duel with in order to convince a future customer of the value their respective mercenary brigades could provide. That had been a good, challenging fight. They could even have become friends, had Hilla not been ogling Maegar so obtrusively all the time.

  "More good news for you," she said, starting her work on the third collar. "My paladin code says I must take responsibility for my captives. Now the last thing I need is three decrepit barbarians on my squad to babysit, so I'll have to set you free."

  "We are not decrepit!" stated the one named Wigurd proudly. "We can fight by your side! We can earn our freedom!"

  Darlac gave the three captives a once-over and sighed. The waves of healing energy Tristian was pumping out of himself were barely enough to stabilise their states. Allowing them to fight would be disastrous.

  "I'm sure you can, once you've spent a week or two recovering your strength, at the very least. Sadly, I can't afford to wait for that. So here is what we'll do." She rummaged in her backpack for useful items she and Tristian could do without if they scaled back their need for comfort. "You three find a relatively clean and accommodating corner in this hellhole, huddle together under this blanket, munch on these rations, drink the content of this waterskin, slowly, in tiny little gulps, and wait until you stop feeling this profound evil vibe in your bones. Then, and only then, you can leave your corner and go find the exit. But first of all, you get one mouthful of water each, and tell me what the hell you've been doing in my homeland."