Chapter 19

Depth Diggers

He was sore all over. His arms stung where the brute had gripped him too hard, shaken too roughly. His fingers ached, having tried and failed to pry himself free. Even his legs hurt - he'd stumbled into an inelegant landing upon being released.

Even now, seated, Lochi was sore.

It's all your fault. He nudged the vixen. You had to go tangle in that fellow's legs.

The vixen was curled up on his lap. He could feel and hear her licking at her paw. All's well and done, anyway. You're no worse for wear. Apologetic, but too proud to admit it. For all the wisdom the druidic gods had granted Kyri as a companion to a druid, he thought she often behaved like a child regardless. Anyway, you haven't thanked her yet.

He cleared his throat. "Thank you, miss. That probably would have hurt a lot more if you hadn't come along." It occurred to him then that he did not even know her name. "I'm Lochi."

Her hand - solid and hard, despite its small size - clapped against his own. "Chryse." She let out a sharp puff of air, her voice low and grudging. "I'd have made him hurt a lot more if you hadn't insisted otherwise." She growled. "What a bully."

He couldn't help the long sigh that escaped him as he lifted both hands to rub at his eyes. His palms were warm against his cheeks - he wished he could disappear into them, if only for the moment. "It was an accident. We didn't mean to shove into him, and I'm certain he was just agitated. No point making an even bigger problem from that."

"He started it." Something thumped against the table. "You accidentally walked into him; big deal. He was making a mountain out of a molehill. What was he trying to do, wring your arm off for making him spill a bit of his drink?"

How is she angrier than you are?

Kyri's little paws made soft scratching sounds where she placed them upon the table. He could feel her hind legs digging into his thighs; they ached, too. He lifted her, and placed her onto the table. She's probably made of fire and spice. Just like you.

You're not exactly a lake of tranquility neither. Don't say it like that.

He pursed his lips, then tried again for a smile - this time, he succeeded, though he suspected it came off a bit forced; it felt that way. "If I got mad at every person who lashed out at me for accidentally bumping into them, I'd be long dead by now. Anyway, that's over. Can I thank you with a drink?"

"Dark ale, if they have any." Chryse still sounded a touch disgruntled, then she paused, and spoke up again, this time with an audible smile in her voice. "Or I can buy you one, and you can sit here and recover from that experience. What would you like?"

"We'll buy for one another." He felt his own smile take on a trace of genuine warmth. "I wouldn't say no to a pair of drinks, at any rate."

The server came to take their order - a small girl, if he could guess by the sound of her footsteps, and the light, lilting melody of her voice. They were silent until the mugs were set before them, then Lochi lifted his own, carefully gripping its ear.

"Here's to your brother, then. And to you finding him."

Chryse clinked her mug against his with more force than he had anticipated. "Cheers." What followed was a series of loud gulps, until she sighed gruffly and slammed the mug back down. He took a delicate sip and savoured the cool, frothy liquid.

I like her. Kyri sounded amused. She's got bigger stones than you do.

He shoved her tail aside as it flicked at his nose, and hoped his voice did not come out as irritable as he felt. "When will you leave, then?"

"I haven't stopped ever since I left Aranoch. Now that I know my idiot brother's still alive and kicking and heading in a known direction, I think I can afford to stop here for a few days." Another few hearty gulps, another satisfied sigh. "Besides, I still need to narrow my search. 'North' isn't exactly what I'd call precise directions."

Lochi took another sip. "I'm sorry." He meant it, too. "All I know is that they're headed towards the Barbarian tribe strongholds up north - and we know Harrogath, Sescheron and such were destroyed some years ago. That should help, as you say, narrow it down a bit, I think."

Chryse burped softly, excused herself, and held her silence for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice was solemn. "Tell me more about my brother." Rustling arose as she shifted, and she sounded closer when she continued. "I haven't seen him in years; I want to know how he's doing."

Corrupting my cousin. Lochi bit his lip and forced the words back - a gulp of ale helped. He corrected himself mentally. Someone who might be my cousin.

"He's doing alright, as far as I know." He heard himself say. "I found them outside some caves nearer to my home, I think, after a tousle of sorts with a demoness who makes her nest inside. It's known to locals - we don't go near those tunnels."

Her chair creaked. "So he was fighting and made it out alive?" Her tone darkened; she sounded even closer yet. "Be honest with me, Lochi...I have no way of knowing what kind of man my brother is, anymore." She swallowed; she was so close now, that he could smell the soap in her hair. "Tell me what you think of him, so I can be prepared."

He backed away a bit, suddenly uncomfortable. Eager as Chryse was, Lochi doubted she would at all welcome his opinions of her brother. "I think he's been through a lot, and could do with some familiar company." He hoped that would get her off his back, but somehow, he wasn't convinced it would.

It didn't. "I'm hardly familiar with him as he is now, by the sounds of it. That's why I'm asking you all this in the first place, isn't it?" Suddenly, without warning, a hand fell upon his wrist. "Help me out here, Lochi."

He rubbed at the back of his head with his free hand, feeling the ends of his hair bristle against the nape of his neck. After, he reached forward, patting her hand gingerly, then withdrew. "I'm trying," he said, slowly. "But I'm not sure what I can tell you. He and his companion recuperated in my home very briefly, and then they were on their way. I didn't learn much."

Chryse's hand withdrew; he heard her chair creak again, and then her voice came from further away once more.

"What is it that you do around here, Lochi?"

Why is she asking all the difficult questions?

He pursed his lips, and decided to fold his hands together. "What I can. Mostly, I grow and collect herbs. Occasionally I might snare some game, and then I sell what I can't eat. I'm sure it must seem terribly boring to you."

"Oh, no, no." There was an edge of deviousness to her words, now. She shuffled, and he felt the table shift as she put her weight upon it. "On the contrary, it sounds pretty amazing... and extremely handy." She seemed humoured, genuinely interested, curious as she pushed on. "You're a man who makes do with what he can get, then?"

He couldn't quite pin it down, but Lochi knew the conversation was fast heading somewhere he wouldn't enjoy. "You could say so. Mostly I'm just a man who can't do anything else." He cleared his throat. "I have... limitations."

"Evidently." She gulped at her drink again, and set down what sounded like an empty mug. "You're pretty tiny for a man around here; no match for that brute who shoved you."

She doesn't waste time mincing words, does she?

Kyri flicked her tail in response. Could be good for you.

Lochi couldn't decide whether he was offended or not. He shrugged, and drained the remains of his own mug. "I am - both pretty tiny, and blind." The words tasted bland in his mouth; he'd repeated them enough times. "Works well enough with the life I've chosen."

Chryse snorted softly. "Not exactly a life filled with fun and excitement, huh? 'Scuse me, miss -" She had excused herself to someone else, but before Lochi could seize the chance to interject, she was back to addressing him, her tone pointed. "Ever wanted something a bit... more?"

"I don't like fun and excitement. Not the sort you and your brother seem to enjoy, anyway." Lochi managed a smile as the footsteps returned - presumably the serving girl from before. He heard the sounds of sloshing liquid, followed by a low, barely-perceptible fizzing and frothing. Part of him cautioned against being too defensive - but he had a feeling Chryse wanted something from him, something that corresponded to the way she phrased her questions. "I don't really want for anything but peace."

"Surely peace is more than just a lack of conflict." She responded quickly and offhandedly. "What do you think about the state of the world out there? Especially for a small woman, young and naive, who's travelling alone?"

He saw it then - her intent, and he didn't like it one bit. Still, he feigned ignorance, and reached forward to wrap his fingers about his mug. It was cold to the touch. "You can't mean yourself." He quirked a slight smile, lowering his head. "You're hardly defenseless, Miss Chryse. You collapsed an entire hanging platform by yourself."

"I can't defend myself against something I don't know." Something heavy was set upon the table, and by the sounds of Chryse's chewing, it was filled with crunchy treats. "You're a local; more than that, you're a man who knows his environment - a druid, right? I need your help."

He took a long drink. Kyri had gotten to her feet; he heard the soft thumping of her paws as she padded away from him, and towards Chryse - if he was suffering discomfort, the vixen was nothing but excited. "I'll help however I can, of course."

He hoped he'd made himself clear enough. However I can.

"Oh, look at you, you gorgeous little fox!" Chryse exclaimed in a sing-song manner. "This pretty thing got a name?"

"Kyri," Lochi muttered. "Her name is Kyri."

"Nice to meet you, Kyri! What a beautiful little lady you are, huh?"

Lochi, I demand we keep her. Kyri's voice in his head was heavy with amusement. She's sweet.

As the sound of giggling arose once more, Lochi found himself wishing for time to reverse itself. Wishing that he could reach into the arcane - bend time, as wizards did - back to the day he'd foolishly thought to visit town for soap.

That, he knew, was futile - and so he drank his ale in silence, and seethed.

It had been raining when they'd surfaced from the depths of Leoric's torture chambers to find themselves in a crumbling stone crossing somewhere within the manor grounds. A maze, Strahan had thought, built in damp earth to conceal the foul habits of the old, dead king. He'd thought they'd seen the worst, ploughing through the levels of dimly-lit halls tucked beneath the manor facade. So many dead - they lined the floors, filled the hung cages, some bled dry to sacks of skin holding bone and dust.

These, he thought, had been prisoners for decades, since the days of the Black King himself.

The fresh corpses were no more difficult to look at. He'd seen it all before - he'd seen the blood, the gore, the terror within lifeless eyes. He'd smelt the decay and rot, the iron-heavy stench of broken swords and blood spilt too quickly. Such was expected of a healer, particularly in the cold, unforgiving north of Virkove, where demons still roamed - now, more than ever. They said the war had never truly ended up north.

He was glad for it, then - if for no other reason but the fact that he felt nothing beyond a slight, prickling disgust for humanity. He'd learned to curb the sadness and anger years and years ago. Welcomed the emptiness associated with the practicality he had been taught to adopt.

You'll have to get used to it, boy. His master had said. The battlegrounds are no place for a squeamish healer. Your sister will learn that in time.

Strahan glanced over at his companions. He wondered if Anarei had learnt that lesson just yet. Would she wear the expression of stoic bravado displayed by Kormac, or would she sidestep the corpses as gingerly as Lyndon had?

Neither. Knowing her, she'd be upset. He pinched at the bridge of his nose, then massaged his eyelids with the point of his thumb and the tip of his finger. For all the training and lessons she's received, Rei would likely respond to this the way Heulan has, all day.

The monk's face grew tighter with every corpse they passed - gloomier.

It was only when they'd descended yet another flight of steps into yet another lair of torment, that Strahan decided the worst was still to come. A large door barred their advance, made of heavy wood worn with time. Hard black scum was set into the deeply-carved grains, and scratch marks marred its surface.

He sighed, then slicked back his rain-sodden hair before turning to address the group - covered in the muck and grime of some hours of skirmishes and petty battles, they did not inspire anything in him.

Still, he tried for more than irritation in his voice. "Any of you know how far down this place goes?"

It was Lyndon who spoke up. "Some say sixteen. If that's the case and they're all full of cultists, I think we're sorely outnumbered." Throughout the day, the scoundrel had filled his pack with pouches of coins and nuggets of gold from the bodies of the deceased cultists, though Strahan thought his lust for wealth, too, had begun to falter.

"Well, we'd already taken two levels down." Heulan took his turn and muttered barely-audibly. "We managed to take them down, without too many issues. We can just keep working our way through, eh?"

The fruity case of embroidered brocade was still strapped to his back, unopened. As far as Strahan could recall, the monk had hardly fought at all, save for a few defensive blocks and backhanded strikes. He seemed otherwise quite happy to let the others - the templar, for the most part - take the lead in confrontations.

"It can't be too far down." Lyndon sounded hopeful. "Right?"

The healer managed a wry, ironic smile. "More coin for you to pocket, Lyndon."

As the scoundrel let out a grunt of discontent, Strahan turned to study the door before them. There was a little peephole just below his eye-level. He peered through warily.

It was dim inside, as the levels before had been, but he thought he could just make out a narrow web of intersecting pathways. Everywhere else was darkness - he wondered if they were pits.

And the smell - the same smell of death and decay.

"This place looks to be in use," Kormac grumbled and sidled over, his heavy shoulder plate pressing into Strahan's arm and pushing him aside. "The door handle's free of grime." He tugged on the heavy metal ring, and an odd scraping sound issued forth. "I bet we can just knock it down."

Strahan slanted his eyes towards the templar. They hadn't spoken much on the way down - for his part, he had been preoccupied in his quest to find clues as to Karalir's whereabouts. Meanwhile, Kormac had placed all his focus upon the battles.

He didn't quite mind. Kormac was better suited to the messy work of murder, anyway.

"I'm sure we can. You want to give it a go?" Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Lyndon's smirk. "Let us know if you need any help."

Kormac seemed a touch surprised at the turn of events, at being thrown into the limelight; after a mere moment of surprise, however, he merely grinned lazily. "Sure, I'll have a try."

He pushed on the wood beside the door handle - perhaps to gauge where the lock was. Then he shoved it, a little harder, before throwing his shoulder into it.

The wood creaked and splinters flew upon the impact, yet the door hardly even budged. Strahan wet his lips and swallowed, though he doubted he hid the smile upon his lips any better than Lyndon hid his snort.

Kormac grunted and tugged hard on the handle again. Strahan was becoming more and more convinced that there was some form of iron inset within the frail-looking wooden door. If that's case, this show could go on all day.

The templar was grunting and grumbling more and more gruffly with every attempt at making some progress. As Lyndon's snickers rose to a badly-feigned cough, Strahan made his way to Kormac's side - impatience had won out over amusement.

But before he could ask the templar to step aside, Heulan walked up, his footsteps slow and even. He spoke up, his voice now clearer, though no less mild than usual. "Pardon me, Kormac."

The templar turned with frustration written across his face, but before he managed to voice any sentiment, the young monk brought up his hands, and, taking a wide, solid step forward, planted both his palms onto the door.

With a loud crash, the door flew inward, ripped clean off its hinges; it crashed heavily onto the floor, its iron skeleton revealed, the splintered wood raining down about it.

Kormac gnashed his teeth, then opened his mouth, but Heulan intercepted him. "You must be tired from all the fighting." He smiled warmly, brushing his hands off gently and letting them fall back to his sides, and offered the templar a nod. "Thanks for loosening it."

"Loosening it - ha!" Lyndon began to laugh in earnest, then clapped the back of Heulan's shoulder. Heulan merely responded with an awkward quirk of the lips.

Fancy that. He's got some muscle in there.

Past the initial surprise, Strahan could not help but to snicker aloud, though he thought it best to not test the templar too much. He slipped through the doorway, then gestured for the others to follow. Kormac - now recovered from his embarrassment somewhat, and perhaps trying to get away from the other two while Lyndon was still praising the monk liberally - was hot on his heels.

There were benches, lined by rows and rows of cells. Rusted metal formed cages, bolted against the dusty stone walls. Some were doorless, others were locked.

It was only then that Strahan fully appreciated the magnitude of the coven's work - the extent of their destruction. It hadn't occurred to him before then that they might find this - what could only be all the slaves and sacrifices the coven had gathered together in the past months... or what remained of them. He could just make out the outline of a frail old man, slumped against the bars of his cell - alive or dead? Strahan couldn't tell.

He looked away.

There were bones near the door where they had entered. Strahan studied them briefly, and decided they were those of a woman's. She'd lost her head, and a skull lay just several feet away. Hers or not?

"They say when the sun goes down, you can hear the ghosts of the queen's servants below the manor, screaming and crying." Lyndon's voice was lowered to a faint murmur. "Begging for her life to be spared. And just before the sun rises, near the time they say her head was taken, they beg for death."

Strahan tore his gaze from the bones they'd passed. He narrowed his eyes. "I don't believe in folktales." He flexed his hands, felt them fist after. "And those aren't ghosts."

"There are people here, still." Strahan turned to the monk, saw the light in his eyes. "Living people."

He gnashed his teeth together. "Perhaps." Inwardly, he wondered how many the cultists had spared for the present. He didn't think there would be too many left alive, if at all - after all, if fresh sacrifices were needed, they needed only to raid another town.

Heulan fiddled with the leather strap across his chest; Strahan had noted his doing such a few times, usually just before Kormac decided to cripple a demon with a rough tackle, or before Lyndon planted a bolt in one's chest. "I can hear them." The young monk's voice was wearied, almost sad, as his dark brows drew lower and closer together. "I can hear the demons, too - they're waiting for us, eh? Guards? Executioners? Torturers?"

"We'll just have to find out." Strahan clasped the handle of his dagger. "Since the way on is through this place, I imagine."

He could hear the sharp hissing of steel upon stone; an incessant grating rather like the sound blacksmiths' grindstones made. He recalled hearing a similar sound outside Lear's room back at the inn - it made his skin crawl.

Then, when the continuous hum had faded, he heard the roar.

"I think we might have knocked a bit too hard, Heulan," Strahan muttered, dryly. "Our host is probably angry."

The monk graced him with a look of surprise, then sheepishness. "Sorry."

Kormac heard him, too; the templar muscled his way through between Strahan and Heulan, addressing the former while turning his back to the latter. "I only hear one. We should proceed with caution."

Heulan seemed to have taken the hint; he trailed back a little, letting Kormac reassume the lead.

Somehow, Strahan didn't think the monk was scared - only obliging. So we have a young monk who's too noble to pass up an opportunity to help, but too weak to stand up to bullies. At least when it comes to his own rights.

There was no time to deliberate over Heulan's mannerisms. Strahan watched as Kormac advanced, heard the soft click as Lyndon nocked his crossbow. Then, quick as lightning, even before the templar could retreat or cry out, he saw the barrel of bodies, lumpy grey and dirty brown that scuttled on all fours.

Kormac swore; the blade of his fauchard flashed silver as he swung the weapon, cutting slits in the bodies of the ghouls within range. He drew his shield-arm back, slamming another one, dropping it straight to the ground where it lay, unmoving. But there were those closer to him, clawing at his armoured body and biting at his arms, and Strahan could see he was struggling to get them off.

I shouldn't get into close proximity. The reasoning was sound enough in his head. And throwing potions would poison him, too.

Beside him, Lyndon let loose a bolt. Half a second later, Kormac threw the ghoul off his back, the bolt lodged in its shoulder. He glared at the scoundrel as he impaled the demon on his fauchard, then, with a shout, flung it off into the darkness below.

Yet more came. The demons - ghouls as well as skeletons that crept from the cells and the depths of the drop-offs between the stone paths - seemed to have locked onto the templar as their target as they attempted to overpower him, latch onto his limbs, slow his movements.

Strahan gritted his teeth, felt the swirl of dust about his fingertips as the spear formed within his hand. Bone fragments, made whole once again - made to kill. Question is, can I aim faster than Kormac moves? Surely not.

Lyndon could only shoot so many bolts so fast. Still, Strahan was hesitant to act. Just as he made to turn and check on his last companion, he caught the distinctive shade of gold out of the corner of his eye.

He'd barely had a split second to register what had happened when a horrible cacophony resounded - broken bones, crushed windpipes, bruised blood from pulverised organs splattering onto the stone floor. Heulan had joined the fray, but it wasn't until Kormac was finally demon-free that Strahan saw the weapon he wielded - thick and made of a near-black metal, with blades and weights mounted around each end, now covered in blood and viscera.

Heulan jabbed one end of his staff into the stone floor, the impact causing a low echo, and held his free hand out to Kormac. Kormac merely glared at him, before straightening himself with a hoarse grunt.

"And I thought I was useless." Lyndon smirked. "Keep it up, Strahan, and you'll be our damsel in distress."

Strahan slanted his eyes aside to meet Lyndon's. He saw that the bones near the door had all but crumbled away, summoned for a greater cause. "I didn't want to try aiming with two of our number in the fray." He gave the spear in his hand a twirl.

Lyndon had shifted his gaze, and was now looking towards Heulan, eyeing the staff in the monk's hand. He looked almost disappointed, though he retained a teasing smirk as he addressed the healer once more. "Then what good are you?"

"Ask yourself that question when you're hurt or dying. I promise it'll come to you then." He left the scoundrel's side, and made his way over to the others.

Lyndon caught up only moments after, his crossbow held upon his shoulder. "Hey, monk-boy. How much is that staff worth?"

Heulan blinked at him, confused for a moment, then he understood, and giggled. "Heh-eh! If I die a heroic death against an infamous enemy, it'll fetch a lot in the black market." Grinning, he swung the staff up over his shoulder, some of the attached gore sent flying off with the motion. "Otherwise, probably less than the metal it's made of."

Strahan could hear the grating again. This time, the hiss was accompanied by the heavy thumping of what sounded like very large feet. He looked towards his companions. "We're not done," he muttered.

"What is this, another ambush?" Kormac growled, lifting his sword-arm to wipe at a cut on his forehead, which was trickling blood into his eye. "Filthy demons."

"Are you okay, Kormac?" Heulan had picked up his staff once more, and fastened a grip around it with both his hands. He was looking at the templar with concern. "You look like you can use a bre-"

"I'm fine." Kormac shot back with a withering glare; Heulan seemed shocked by such display of hostility, but merely nodded thereafter, and refocused upon the approaching thunderous thumps.

Strahan sighed, then opened his mouth to speak, but fell silent as the abomination came into view - the warden of the cells stood about twice Kormac's height, wrought of bone and covered in leathers peeling near the edges. A bunch of stained keys rattled at his hip. Old as Leoric's time, Strahan thought. And just as deadly. The spiked club dragged along in his wake sparked against the floor, the small bursts of light dissipating just as quickly as they came.

The warden turned. Slitted amber eyes took in the sight of the intruders.

Then, as if on cue, warden and templar charged at one another.

Strahan barely heard Heulan's cry of alarm, the whizz of Lyndon's crossbow as its bolt was fired, before he took aim and launched his spear. He registered the piercing cry that shook the halls as Lyndon's bolt smashed into the demon's chest, breaking a rib. His own spear, however, wedged itself between the bars of steel that formed the demon's cumbersome headdress. Laden down with the extra weight and reeling from the pressure of his shattered rib, the warden roared once more, and attempted to swing with his club.

Kormac ducked, then grasped at the spear with what fingers he could spare from both hands. It crumbled in his hold, but not before he'd wrenched the warden forward and pulled off his headdress. The warden lost his balance, and the club fell heavily upon the ground.

The templar struck again, heaving his fauchard in an attempt to sever skull from spine. The warden gave a great shout, and, without bothering with his weapon, intercepted Kormac's strike with one gauntleted wrist, then launched his other fist at the templar. Kormac managed to block the direct impact with his shield, but the force threw him off his feet, and he almost fell off the path and into the chasm below.

Turning fearsome, infernal orbs at Strahan and Lyndon, the enraged demon attempted to straighten and change his target. Before he could stand, however, Heulan, who had somehow snuck to the warden's side while the latter was focused on Kormac, swung the end of his staff into the demon's ribs, directly over where Lyndon's bolt had hit home moments ago.

The warden bellowed in pain as his ribs shattered and his chest crumpled.

"Give me one of your bolts."

Lyndon released his next bolt - it missed its target, whizzing past the Warden's head. "What?" He sounded confused.

Strahan snarled, then reached to snatch a bolt from the scoundrel's quiver. The vial he'd filled for this purpose was cold to the very touch, even through the tips of his fingers. It was a slim, but substantial thing, the vial - he knew its feel well, and when he drew it from his pack and flicked away the cork, he held his breath.

The tip of Lyndon's bolt fizzled as he dipped it into the pale lilac liquid. "Shoot, and if you hit Heulan, you can lug his corpse back up."

The scoundrel scowled at him as he fitted the bolt in place. "If I hit Heulan, I'll give you all the gold I picked up."

Kormac had found his footing by now. He and the monk wove around the warden, who had snatched his weapon back up to take a swing at Heulan. The younger man held up his staff to parry the blow, throwing the club off to the side with a deft, but solid flick of his arms. The weapon hit the ground once more, and Heulan pinned it there while Kormac closed in to slash at the warden's leg, his shield protecting him from the warden's free fist. Between them, they kept the demon well occupied. Strahan watched as Lyndon took aim, and once again, held his breath.

The bolt found its way to the demon's skull, embedding itself into the bone. It didn't take long before the purple started to spread.

"Another." Without seeking permission, Strahan reached for a second of Lyndon's bolts. "Would it be too much to ask that you sink this one into the palm, so he drops that club?"

Lyndon's arched eyebrow answered for him. As Strahan handed him the poisoned bolt, he muttered darkly under his breath. "If I could aim that well, I'd become a mercenary demon hunter."

The bolt hit the warden's shoulder this time, nicking the joint where the arm met the body. From the way Lyndon swore, Strahan figured he'd been aiming for the neck. Enraged, but clearly exhausted, the demon released a terrible roar, and flailed his terrible arms, ripping his club from the ground and throwing Heulan off-balance.

"Yeah. You'd make a great living."

By then, the purple had spread to the warden's spine. Even from where he stood, Strahan could see where the bone had begun to melt away, the poison eating at the skull. It was none too soon when the loud crack resounded in the air. The club proved too heavy for the corroding bones - it fell to the ground with a great, heavy clang, narrowly missing the monk's head.

"Kormac, the neck!" Strahan heard himself yell.

Kormac reacted without skipping a beat; he leapt high, raising his fauchard above his head.

"For the light!" He shouted as he brought the blade down, lopping the head clean off.

The warden's head tumbled off the path into the darkness of the pits below. His body remained erect for a few seconds, before it crumpled and fell to the ground with a mighty crash, sending a faint wave of tremour through the cells, causing the metal bars and bolts of the cages to rattle.

In the relative silence of the dungeon, Strahan felt that his footsteps was excessively loud. He advanced cautiously, then glanced down at Heulan, who was huddled on the ground. The club lay close beside the monk's head. "You okay?"

"Eh... yeah." Heulan touched the side of his head; his hand came away bloody, and there were trails of crimson running down the side of his neck, staining the hood of his overshirt. Still, he seemed to dismiss this altogether as he looked up, meeting Strahan's eyes. "Are you all okay?"

"Perfect." Lyndon had come up to the group. He peered about in the darkness - likely seeking out gold, Strahan thought - but then he refocused upon the monk, reaching one hand out to him. "You're bleeding."

Strahan frowned as he dug into his pack, felt the vials clinking. "Let's get out of here, and I'll fix you. Who knows what we'll find down there? Best be prepared."

"But there are still people in here." Heulan stared at Strahan as he took Lyndon's hand, wide-eyed and incredulous, and pulled himself to his feet. "They need you more than I do."

Just as I was beginning to like him, too.

"I'll take a round with you, but I don't think any of them are going to make it through the night." He hoped his voice was level enough. "And if that's the case, we're delaying for no reason."

"People dying alone isn't 'no reason'." Heulan was starting to sound a bit cross, but he shook his head soon after. "Well, have a look at Kormac, first, then. He was the one who got piled on by ghouls."

So much for getting out of this place. We're at the centre of attention right now.

Strahan pinched at the bridge of his nose and reminded himself to breathe. When he looked over at Kormac, the templar was idly poking around the warden's corpse; he had his back to Strahan, but by the way his shoulders were hunched, and how he had been silent despite looking reasonably unharmed, Strahan suspected he was sulking. "Are you hurt?"

"Not badly enough to be of your concern." He left bloody handprints where he touched the warden's corpse in the process of searching through the demon's armour and clothing.

"Alright, then. Let's get going." Strahan turned towards Heulan. Wordlessly, he waited.

Heulan stared at him intently with those dark, deep eyes; several tense seconds later, he turned away and walked up to the demon's corpse. "You all go on ahead." He reached out with his free hand, and unhooked the bunch of keys from the warden's belt. "I'll catch up soon."

Strahan pursed his lips. Beside him, Lyndon let out a low, long whistle. He couldn't decide whether the scoundrel was impressed or resigned. Somewhere in the back of his mind, his consciousness jeered. Told you he was an idealist. How troublesome.

"It won't be the work of minutes." He cautioned. "It could take a while."

Heulan shook his head again as he wiped at the blood on his neck with his sleeve. "I'll make it quick; I won't take more than an hour."

I'll have to fix that cut of his later, too. That is, if he doesn't fall over from bloodloss right here. But it doesn't look that deep - only superficial at worst.

Strahan sighed. In his pack, his fingers caught the vial he'd hoped he wouldn't have to use. He withdrew it, and handed it to the monk. "You'll need this."

He embraced the man - or was it a woman? The body was too decimated, the voice was too hoarse from screaming, that Heulan could not tell. He merely held the person, and he did not let go until the last breath was breathed, and the person became a mere corpse.

His priestly garments - gold for divine joy, deep green for peace - were dyed a little redder. He had lost counts of how many he'd soothed, accompanied in their last moments. Some were so close to death that he didn't even have to use the potion that Strahan had given him. To ease the passing, he'd said.

So many lives about to return to the gods, yet they taste not the sweetness that awaits them.

He rose to his feet and moved onto the next cell. These were likely women - they were slighter in figure, and kept long hair, which was matted by grease, sweat and blood.

Heulan unlocked the gate; he reached out his hands, curled his fingers around the iron bars. He closed his eyes, felt the the pain of the tormented souls, the pain in his own soul. But above all, he felt the assurance of the gods.

Give your servant strength to do your will, my gods.

The rusted gate opened as he pushed. He apologised for startling the women - their lack of response notwithstanding - and knelt before them.

"I'm sorry..." He looked over the prisoners. The stench was stifling; it was the smell of fear and chaos - the smell of death.

Heulan knew it well enough; he no longer gagged at it.

He checked each individual in the cell - there were four women, two were already dead and starting to decay. One breathed her last just as he laid his hand on her, and he bowed his head, said a quick prayer, before turning to the only other living occupant of the cell.

"Don't worry, now." He touched her cheek - her cold, sunken, bloodless cheek - and she trembled. "Don't be scared. I'm here to help you."

Meeting the dying woman's eyes, Heulan felt a warmth in his heart, and it compelled him to smile. Then he lowered his forehead, until it touched hers.

So weak. Like a candle almost burnt out, like a fly with a missing wing, like a fish suffocating on dry land.

He breathed in, tasting ashes and dust, and began to chant. The archaic words flowed easily from his lips, just as he could feel the warmth surging easily from his core, out of himself, and into the woman. That's because she's so empty. Drained of life.

She was a lost cause, too.

He allowed his voice to fade out, and pulled out the vial he'd tucked away in the back of his sash. "Don't be scared," he repeated as he gently nudged her mouth open, trying his best to acknowledge but not be startled by the fact that her tongue was missing. When she did not resist, he dribbled a few drops of the thick, dark liquid into her mouth.

Heulan waited a few seconds for the pain-numbing effect of the potion to set in, and then gently lifted her. She was so light - he hardly felt the muscles in his arms tighten, even when he pulled her into a hug.

"It dulls the pain, then numbs the other senses, and finally, causes unconsciousness - in this concentrated form, it can put all functions of the major organs to a complete stop,"Strahan had said.

I'm not killing her; I'm easing her passing. There was a fine line, he knew, but Heulan was sure this was the last little act of kindness he could offer this poor soul.

Receive your daughter into eternal happiness, my gods.

When she had died in his arms, Heulan laid her down carefully, said another prayer for the others who had passed away in that cell, and got to his feet.

Only a few more to go, and then I'll catch up with the others.

His companions were great men, with great goals, doing great things - they were after the root of the evil. It seemed only right, then, that a lesser, littler man such as himself took care of these little things.

He straightened, looked back at the rows of cells he'd already passed. Devoid of demons, and most of the dying now dead, the hold was a lot quieter. Heulan was reminded of the mass graves, the huge pyres, the crowded burial grounds.

If there's hope in those places, surely there's hope here, too. Things will be okay.

He turned aside and walked down towards the next cell.

Authors' Notes:

Oph: Whew! There's the long-awaited chapter! Sorry for the relatively long pause between this one and the last time we posted. Life has been pretty busy for both of us, and we just don't have enough mutual free time!

Em: Buuuut we managed to scrounge up some free time, or enough of it, to get this out! We hope you've enjoyed the Testosterone Brigade's manly-men descent into Leoric's house of horrors!

Oph: We'd like to thank Nightbreed6 and General Peaches for their words of encouragement in the form of reviews. Boring-but-important disclaimer is in place, also: the Diablo franchise belongs to Blizzard Entertainment. Original bits are by us, and Raindrop Pendants is a totally not-for-profit production. In more exciting news, Em and I are going to meet in real life for the first time in two weeks! Yay!

Em: We're heading off to Bali with the beaches, so if we end up writing beach scenes into our next chapter for no good reason, we apologise in advance! We also hope you've enjoyed Conniving Chryse and Loser Lochi in this chapter - and hopefully we'll head back to our happy (or rather unhappy) twosome of Lear and Rei again next chappie!

Oph: Until then, thanks for reading. If you'd be so kind as to leave a review with some words of suggestions, advice, compliment, or even criticism, we'd really appreciate it! Also let us know if you have any doodle requests, burning questions, wild mass guesses, or speculations! Toodles!