Arlo rammed his rod down the musket’s muzzle. Staring through the door of the tiny shack squeezed between two tenements, he squinted into the darkness beyond.
“Are you sure he’s-”
The stench of death struck him, a weight of dread flooded him. That was definitely the same smell as the miasma from the sawmill. Beside him, Kaesi wrinkled her nose, and Coradiel gagged. The two unsheathed their blades and approached the Pillbug’s Pantry.
“Who owns this shop?” Coradiel asked.
“Um…” Arlo wracked his brain, trying to come up with the right name. He’d seen this place in the Fatman’s ledgers — it was associated loosely with the Bunyip Club. Something about poisons? “Aliver… yeah, Aliver Podiker.”
Coradiel pushed into the shack. A bell jingled as the door opened, and the paladin froze. His eyes flashed around the room. Potions lined a wall behind the counter, and a small cauldron sat over a fireplace in a back room, bubbling merrily.
“Alchemist,” he muttered in warning.
“Duh,” Arlo grumbled, looking through the potions. “Trapdoor,” he added. His finger pointed toward a closed door in the floor behind the counter, half hidden by a stained rug.
Before he could investigate it, the trapdoor opened. A rotund man in a heavy black apron crawled out of the basement, muttering curses as he climbed. He turned, coming face to face with Arlo.
Potions lined his belt. Goggles covered his eyes. But more importantly, the wave of nauseating odours poured out from the basement, clinging to the man, but not emanating from him.
“Shop’s closed for the day,” Aliver Podiker growled.
“I was wondering if any happy pillbugs have turned up lately,” Arlo said, recalling a bit of information from the ledgers.
Aliver’s eyebrow arched, but the man shook his head.
“Not today. Shop’s closed,” he insisted, shooing them from the store.
“We-” Arlo lunged, clapping a hand over Kaesi’s mouth. He yelped as the halfling bit him, but didn’t pull his hand away.
“We’ll come back another day,” the amurrun said instead, before dragging Kaesi from the store. Behind him, Coradiel followed, confusing spreading across his face.
Once they were clear of the shop, Arlo released Kaesi, who spat at his feet.
“What are you doing?! The ghast is in there!”
“I know!” Arlo hissed. “Aliver’s not one himself. He might not know, and I’d prefer he didn’t know where my allegiances lie.”
“I’m not leaving here until I have eyes on the ghast,” Kaesi snapped.
“Fine. Stay here and watch. Coradiel and I will head to the Sanitarium and deliver the scroll to Grayst.”
“We will?” Coradiel asked. “Arlo, if there’s a ghast here-”
“It will take all three of us to fight. It will also destroy half the town if we fight it here,” Arlo pointed out. “Kaesi can find it and track it to its lair. In the meantime, we can stop Grayst from turning dozens of people into ghouls.”
“I can’t use the scroll,” Coradiel protested, pulling a roll of vellum from his pack.
“I can,” Arlo replied, taking the scroll. He opened it, scanning through… “Ah fuck. It’s in Empyrean.”
“So you can’t use it.”
“I didn’t say that.” Arlo looked at the scroll again. “I can read it. It’s just going to take some time to decipher the writer’s notes.”
It took a minute. Slowly, meaning filtered into Arlo’s mind. It wasn’t that hard once he got back into the practice of reading Empyrean. The celestial language shared much of its structure with Draconic, the language his spellbook was written in.
“Got it,” he said another minute later. Rerolling the scroll, Arlo tucked it into a strap on his belt. “Kaesi, do not engage the ghast until we return. We’ll meet at the Rusty Dragon tavern tonight. If we’re not back by morning, let your church know there’s a ghast roaming around in Sandpoint.”
“I will do that gladly,” Kaesi said, before melting into the shadows around them.
“Fuck, she is entirely too good at that….”
SPLASH!
Kulungu released the hand holding him. Sucking in a deep breath, he blurted out, “[Touch of the Sea]!”
He sank like a stone. Eyes open, the druid arrested his descent, hovering in place as he scanned his surroundings. Osgarn was flailing in the water ten feet above him. Kicking against the water as webs grew on hands and feet, the Deer sped to the surface.
He broke the water, scooping Osgarn securely into his chest. Rotating midair, Kulungu splashed back into the water and began kicking for the shore.
“I got you,” he panted, one hand raising to ensure his mask was still secure.
It took him nearly a minute to reach solid land. He let his spell fade as the coarse sand dragged against his back. Coming to a stop, Kulungu let the halfling crawl off him, sputtering and coughing.
“Familiar with our destination?” the Deer asked with a smile.
“Familiar to a point.” Osgarn hacked up a mouthful of water. “Desna likes to test our devotion to travel. We are not always accurate with our spells.”
“Longshanks!”
Kulungu’s heart sped up at the strangled screech. Goblins. He thought Sandpoint had rid itself of the goblin problem weeks ago! Rolling to his feet, the druid unsheathed his scimitar, taking up a ready stance beside Osgarn. The cleric wasn’t looking too good — waterlogged and sluggish, he’d be no match for the five goblins spreading around them.
“[Aspect of the Stag].”
Antlers grew from Kulungu’s head. His face elongated, his mask growing with it. Limbs became more slender, sinewy. He felt more powerful in this form, better equipped to handle these foes.
Starting with the one creeping toward Osgarn.
Striding through the sand, the Deer brought his sword up in an arc. A goblin died, bisected neatly. The Deer’s sword fell, and another goblin squealed as blood gushed from its neck. He brought his blade to bear on the remaining foes, catching a dogslicer neatly before sidestepping it. Another goblin fell, stumbling into the reddening water around them.
He felt a presence behind him. Spinning around, Kulungu caught a leaping goblin on his antlers. The creature’s weight carried it into the sharp bones, impaling it even as it tried to escape. Dipping his head, Kulungu dealt a killing strike as the goblin fell away from him.
The last goblin ran.
But Kulungu was faster.
His sword swept out, dealing one final death. Panting quietly, the druid wiped his scimitar off.
“May the Grey Lady send you swiftly to your afterlife,” he intoned, sheathing his blade.
Turning back to his companion, Kulungu counted out a number of platinum crowns. He tucked them into Osgarn’s hand and helped the halfling to his feet.
“Can you get back on your own?”
“Yeah… I’ll stay a day in Sandpoint, then teleport back to the temple,” the Desnan cleric said shakily. “Lady Luck… I hate killing.”
“So do I,” Kulungu muttered, not bothering to add that he’d done all the killing here. Let the Desnan be blameless, not that there was any blame; goblins were evil, a menace to be dealt with swiftly. “Let us get to the town then.”
They passed pile after pile of junk tossed haphazardly off the cliffs that protected Sandpoint from the sea. Kulungu sighed heavily at the waste — he’d have to visit Hannah Velerin to see how her crusade against the town was going. Not well, from the looks of it.
“Here,” Osgarn said suddenly, clasping Kulungu’s arm. Kulungu tensed slightly, relaxing only when the halfling uttered a spell. “[Fly].”
Scooping Osgarn into his arms, the Deer kicked off from the ground, speeding up the cliffs. He angled toward the North Gate, and a minute later, the two landed just outside the town. Osgarn brushed himself off before dispelling the spell.
“I hate having to do that, but there’s no way I could have carried you up the cliffs,” he grumbled.
“It is done though, and no harm,” Kulungu pointed out.
Adjusting the pack on his back, the druid walked toward the town gate. His eyes picked out a pair of riders heading their way through the gate. A small smile spread across his lips as calico fur swept closer to him. Arlo was on the move.
The catfolk passed them at a swift trot, his companion not far behind. There was no sign of Kaesi — that was one mystery that needed to be solved another day. For now, Kulungu passed into the town, and angled toward the Rusty Dragon.
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Five kilometres south of Sandpoint, a limestone escarpment rose above the land. Tucked in the shadow of the rocky plateau, a squat stony building sat. Habe’s Sanitorium looked the part of a cleanly establishment… but what set a pit in Arlo’s stomach were the narrow windows — barely more than arrow slits — and the sturdy door that barred their entrance. This was as much a prison as it was a place of healing. Somehow, he suspected it was one more than the other.
“Let me do the talking,” Coradiel said as he dismounted. “We need to be fast about this. Who knows how long we have until Grayst turns fully?”
“I hate this place already,” Arlo muttered, posting Jack to a pole set outside the building. Steps creaked as Arlo trudged up them. He approached the door and tugged at a hanging rope. Beyond the door, a bell rang. “So, should I charm them when they answer the door or give you a chance to blow it first?”
The door opened before Coradiel could answer. Nudging Arlo aside lightly, the paladin cleared his throat.
He froze.
A nephilim met his gaze evenly. Demonic horns rose from ashy black hair, and a reddened face stared impassively at the two.
“Can I help you?” The nephilim demanded.
“We’re here on orders from Sheriff Belor Hemlock,” Arlo said quickly, stepping between Coradiel and the nephilim. “We wish to speak with Grayst Sevilla, the man who was brought in a few days ago.”
“Master Habe is not seeing anyone,” the nephilim denied, moving to close the door.
Arlo stuck a foot through the entrance, yowling as the heavy wood sandwiched his leg.
“Wait! If you don’t let us in-”
A hand covered his mouth.
“What my friend is trying to say is, we are here with the weight of the law. It is in everyone’s best interests for us to enter this sanitarium,” Coradiel said.
The nephilim grunted. Kicking Arlo’s foot out of the doorway, he slammed the door shut.
“Well. That didn’t work,” Coradiel muttered.
“Like hell it didn’t,” Arlo growled, reaching for the door handle.
“No!” Coradiel grabbed his arm, yanking it back. “If you break in there, any chance of resolving this peacefully will be ended!”
Pulling free from the paladin, Arlo grabbed the bell again. He rang for all he was worth. A minute later, the door wrenched open, revealing a man in a plague mask. Goggled eyes bore into Arlo’s and the amurrun took a scrambling step back.
“What do you want?”
“Hello, we’d like to see Grayst Sevilla,” Coradiel said smoothly. Arlo bit back a scoff. He couldn’t talk to the nephilim, but he could talk to a plague doctor? Ridiculous. “We believe he may have contracted ghoul fever. It is in everyone’s best interests for him to be cured of this disease immediately.”
Erin Habe stared at them.
“Surely you can understand the severity of the situation,” Coradiel tried again. “Sheriff Belor himself asked that we come here. We are in the middle of a murder investigation, and Sevilla is our last lead. If he perishes before we can-”
“Of course,” Habe said suddenly, opening the door wider. “If Sheriff Belor asked you to come, I have no objections to you speaking with Sevilla. Under supervision, of course. He is in a very delicate state right now.”
“I don’t blame him,” Arlo muttered. Images of Katrine and Harker flashed behind his eyes and the amurrun shuddered.
They stepped through a reception area and into a freshly painted room. White walls were scrubbed clean, the floors fairly sparkled… yet something was missing. There was no pungent stench of antiseptic. Instead, some sort of sour incense floated through the air.
“Please, follow me,” Habe said.
He led the two through a large hall filled with tables and a fireplace, over which a pot of stew bubbled merrily. The nephilim who’d answered the door stood over the pot, stirring slowly.
“Gurnak, fetch Grayst Sevilla for me, please,” Habe requested.
Nodding, the nephilim turned toward a flight of stairs and vanished without a sound.
“I apologise for the frosty reception,” Habe added, tapping on the table as they waited. “I am in the middle of some frighteningly important work.”
“I’m sure you are,” Coradiel agreed.
Arlo pulled out the scroll, reading silently as Coradiel and the doctor made small talk. He needed to cast the spell properly, or Grayst was lost to them.
“You!”
A man in a straitjacket stumbled down the stairs. Gangrenous skin fell off in flakes, and milky white eyes stared blindly at Coradiel. Beyond looking sick, Grayst Sevilla looked like he could drop dead at any moment.
“He said you’d come! His Lordship said so! He has a place for you… so jealous… a special place!”
“Easy there….” Habe backed away from the feverish man warily, but Grayst paid him no attention.
“Arlo, now,” Coradiel said tightly.
Nodding, the amurrun lifted his scroll. Copying the motions described on it, he uttered, “[Remove Disease].”
Instantly, the pallor left Grayst. His eyes returned to a vibrant blue, his skin cleared… but he still stared with feverish intent at Coradiel.
“He has a message for you he does. Made me remember it. I hope I haven’t forgotten…” the man rasped out. “Master wouldn’t approve if I forgot. He said… said… if you come to his Misgivings… if you join his Pack… he will end the hunt in your honour.” A feral grin spread across the crazed man’s face. “But you won’t,” he snarled, lunging toward Coradiel.
Red hands grabbed Grayst, holding the man back.
“Take him back! Take him back!” Habe hollered. He grabbed Coradiel, trying to push the paladin toward the exit as Grayst did everything in his power to escape the straitjacket and his captor.
Arlo swept his loaded musket around, only for Coradiel to push the barrel down.
“No! We just saved him from his disease! We’re not killing him!”
The sound of ripping filled the air, swallowed by a shriek. The nephilim went flying, and Grayst lunged at Coradiel.
Arlo brought his musket up and squeezed off a shot. It knocked the crazed man back. Scrambling forward again, Grayst threw himself at Coradiel, who dodged easily.
Another shot caught Grayst in the back, and he slumped to the ground. Arlo lowered his gun as silence reclaimed the room.
“Dear gods have mercy…” Habe breathed, peering around another nephilim’s shoulder. “I am so sorry! I didn’t realise he’d react so poorly!”
A door opened under the stairs, and a wizened man stalked out of it. Warped copies of him wobbled around him, passed through him, danced around him, making Arlo’s eyes hurt as he tried to track the real person behind the illusions. Behind him, four beings groaned as they shuffled forward.
The mage raised a hand and snapped his fingers. And the zombies shuffled forward.
“You dare to disturb my work?!” the necromancer growled. “I’ll have two more bodies to experiment on then. Habe, see to it these two are captured alive. They can be our next experiments.”
“Gurnak, fetch Pidget,” Habe stammered. “Gortus, kill the intruders.”
“Yes Master.”
The two nephilim scattered. One lunged toward Coradiel, while the other turned toward the stairs. Arlo swung his musket around, snapping off a shot at the nephilim darting for the second floor. The demonic man slammed into the wall and crumpled, blood leaking from a hole in his back.
Backing off rapidly, Arlo reloaded and brought his musket up to bear.
“[Stinking Cloud]!”
A purplish gas erupted around him, flooding the air with the stench of month-old rotten eggs. Before he could react, a zombie was on the amurrun, teeth gnashing. Arlo scrambled back, and his gun fired. The zombie dropped like a stone, its head caved in, but the damage was done.
Arlo retched. Bile spewed across the floor, and he stumbled to his knees.
“[Breeze]!” He puked again as a relaxing breath of air washed around him. It cleared the fog in a few moments, giving the nauseated amurrun a view of the battlefield.
Coradiel was surrounded. His hit points flashed dangerously as zombies bit and struck at him.
“Coradiel!”
Another wave of nausea struck, and Arlo collapsed. His stomach heaved and heaved. Unable to help, he watched in horror as a zombie sank its teeth into Coradiel’s arm.
Footsteps approached, and a hand wrenched the musket away from Arlo.
“This is a most fascinating weapon,” the necromancer said, smirking down at Arlo. He pointed the end at the amurrun. “I’ll have to discover its workings later.” His finger brushed the trigger, and Arlo squeezed his eyes shut.
Nothing happened. Frowning, the necromancer tried again. And again.
Pushing forward, Arlo rammed his head into the necromancer’s ankle. He fell forward, and an illusionary copy vanished, leaving the necromancer unharmed.
“[Magic Missile]!”
Twin impacts slammed into Arlo’s stomach, and he groaned as skeletal fists pummelling him. Forcing himself to his feet, the amurrun stumbled forward and grabbed his musket. He wrenched it away from the necromancer, and Arlo swung. The butt of the gun swept through the last illusion, laying the necromancer bare.
“[Mage Armour]!” Arlo croaked out, swinging an arm toward Coradiel.
The paladin’s hit points hovered around ten, before increasing to twenty. His sword took on an impossible sheen, and he struck out. A zombie sizzled as the blade passed through it.
Turning his attention back to his own fight, Arlo cried out as a hand slapped his arm. Dark energy washed through him, stealing his health — he was now down to thirty hit points.
Scrambling back again, Arlo slammed into a wall. He reloaded with frantic hands.
“[Arcane Weapon: Flaming]!”
He fired. And 18 hit points vanished from the necromancer in a puff of smoke. The ancient man screamed in pain and fury. He pulled a bottle from his belt, and Arlo threw out another spell.
“[Mage Hand]!”
The bottle’s cork pushed deeper into the neck. No matter how the necromancer tried, he was unable to unstop the vial. Shoving the potion back into his belt, the man raised his hands.
“[Acid Arrow]!”
“[Counterspell]!”
A green arrow appeared, flashing through the air… then vanished in a puff of magic.
“[Scorching Ray]!”
Fire rushed from Arlo’s musket. It slammed into the necromancer, burning a hole through his robes.
The necromancer dropped to his knees.
“No, wait! Stop! Please!” he whimpered. “You win! I… I’ll call them off!”
“Too late.” Coradiel panted, surrounded by unmoving corpses. He turned his blade on the necromancer, stepping forward until the bloody tip caressed the man’s throat. “Who are you? Why are you here?”
“I-I’m Habe’s backer! His financier!”
Arlo turned on Habe, who blanched and sprinted for the exit. The musket fired, and Habe tripped, skidding across the floor. He cried out as blood gushed from his leg.
“I didn’t know! I didn’t-”
“Lies!” the necromancer yelled. “You knew damn well who I was!”
“What are we doing with them?” Arlo demanded, looking at Coradiel.
“I’m not killing someone who surrendered,” Coradiel said. “But I’m not letting either of them get away either. We’ll take them back to town with us. Sheriff Belor can send men out here to do something with the surviving victims.”
Nodding, Arlo stepped up to the necromancer. He grabbed the man’s spellbook and shoved it into his own pack.
“My spells-” The necromancer shut up as Arlo glared at him.
“You threw rotten eggs at me,” the amurrun growled. “You’re lucky I’m not shoving your nose in a pile of crap right now.”
“We’ll have Kaesi take him to Magnimar,” Coradiel added. “He can be judged for his crimes there. They both can.”
“After we deal with Foxglove, of course,” Arlo said firmly. “Misgivings is the name the locals gave to his mansion. I told you he was a creep.”
Coradiel just shook his head.