After running for miles and miles, Gale came to a halt, exhausted. Darlac dismounted and gingerly stretched her aching limbs. The landscape reminded her of the neighbourhood of an ancient structure known as the Sepulchre of Forgotten Heroes, which meant she'd been thrown way off her direction.

  Leading her horse, she halted at the entrance of the dungeon. The soil was visibly disturbed by multiple pairs of feet, the warning signage shattered and thrown aside, the rope symbolically sealing off the entrance cut through, dismally dangling at both sides. Darlac shuddered. She remembered the centaurs' warning and the Horned Hunter's words, or whatever she'd understood of them in the shock following her hollow victory. Had it been a mistake to pander to the centaurs and leave these burial sites alone? Were those the footprints of living people striving to get in, or undead eager to get out?

  If only Gekkor were there and helped her make sense of the tracks.

  As she was standing there, pondering her next step, Gale let out a frightened whinny and bolted again, ripping the halter out of Darlac's hand. She immediately found out why, when two burly barbarians grabbed her arms from both sides, shouting something in their language to their companions. Darlac tried to tear herself out of their grasp, but all she could achieve was more pain. She was tossed to the ground, held down by a pair of knees weighing on her back, robbed of her sword and armour, her hands were tied back tightly, then she was half led, half dragged to a nearby campsite, hidden in a little copse. Her captors either didn't understand Common or pretended not to.

  Soon Darlac found herself kneeling on the ground, in front of a strangely dressed woman wearing a shroud over her face and body – probably the priestess Gekkor had mentioned. Darlac wondered what the shroud could be hiding, but ultimately decided to shove her bloodcurdling guesses down under the thin crust of sanity she still had.

  The woman spoke Common, albeit with a strange accent.

  "Looking for something, child?"

  Angered at the utter lack of respect, Darlac struggled to her feet and drew herself up to her full height to face the woman.

  "I..." For some reason, it felt wrong to disclose the baron's name or her own. It was probably mere superstition, but Darlac had learnt to heed her gut long ago. She bit back an animated reproach about intruding into the baron's lands and disturbing forbidden graves of people long dead. Instead, she lowered her head and voice. "I'm looking for my family."

  Strictly speaking, it wasn't even a lie. Maegar and the Varnlings was all the family she had, and now they were gone.

  "Poor thing," said the woman. It was hard to tell if she bought Darlac's story, though. "Your loved ones are in trouble, kept hostage by an evil power."

  She was bluffing. She had to be bluffing. Yet, it could as well be true. By the Inheritor, how Darlac hated these games.

  "Are you here to fight that evil?" she asked.

  "I am," said the woman. "But in order to get through to it, I need something. Three censers."

  Darlac's brain was working frantically. The woman was obviously lying. She was not some mysterious saviour, but probably a servant or ally of the evil power, now trying to use Darlac for her own purposes. Three censers... for the three hooks on the gate? Did she want to release the evil from the valley?

  Still, if this was a quest, Darlac had to accept it in order to be set free, reunite with Gale and finally strike out to Restov. She'd wasted too much time already.

  "Censers?" she asked. "As in incense burners from temples?"

  "Not temples. Ancient tombs."

  "You mean, robbing the dead?"

  The woman narrowed her eyes.

  "Don't take me for a fool, child. You're not some gooseherder looking for her little siblings. Not with that armour and longsword you had on your person. You must be more than comfortable robbing the dead. Surely you can direct me to the merchant who bought the stuff you acquired from local dungeons, can't you?"

  What merchant? Didn't she know that everyone had disappeared? Then how did she know about them being the evil power's captives? Lies upon lies.

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  "My people," answered Darlac sharply, abandoning her roleplay, "does not disturb the graves of the deceased, be those fresh or ancient, and we strongly encourage visitors to act the same way. You must have seen the signage before you ripped it off."

  The woman paused, thinking.

  "Are you saying that all the dungeons in this area are intact? That's unexpected. But maybe it's all for the best."

  Darlac bit her tongue. Had she said too much? Anyway, what to do now? If this woman really wanted to combat the Ancient Evil, Darlac's best bet was to offer her sword to this purpose. But how could she be certain?

  She looked over the shrouded woman, attempting to identify her alignment. She didn't detect genuine evil, but that did little to dispel her misgivings, since what she found was eerily reminiscent of her Lostlarn Keep adventure.

  Suddenly, a picture began to outline itself in her head, and it seemed frighteningly probable. This woman was fey. She must have smuggled the barbarians behind Varnhold's lines of defence via one of the wormholes the likes of which Maegar and Faeli had found between the Crooked Teeth and the Rotten Cave (as known from Tehara's report, Inheritor bless her). Perhaps there were multiple such groups transported into the country. Now that Varnhold was weakened to the point of nonexistence, even unsuspecting Nightvale or Restov could be attacked by a fresh barbarian army.

  Worse, at the moment, Darlac was the only person that stood between Lady Bloom and her grains. Which meant she had to survive. If she joined the invaders, perhaps a few smartly executed assassinations could decapitate their forces and compel them to abandon their plans, or at least slow them down until Nightvale and Restov mustered their defences. It wouldn't be easy without the amulet (and most of all, without Maegar), but it was worth a shot.

  Alas, this time she couldn't avoid bargaining with a fey.

  "I have an offer for you," she said. "Indeed, I'm an adventurer, blessed by the Lady of Valour Herself. If you help me find out what happened to my people, I will help you acquire those censers. My sword is yours."

  One of her captors released a roaring laughter, which proved contagious and rippled through the spectators.

  "As is your armour and even your boots, wench! What else can you offer, huh?"

  So they did speak Common, after all.

  The woman silenced them with a wave of her hand.

  "Sorry, child. You don't seem like a good fit."

  "At least let me prove my worth! Untie me, give me a weapon, and I'm ready to be tested in single combat against a champion of your choice."

  The woman jerked her head, and the two barbarians appeared again on Darlac's both sides. One of them grabbed a handful of her curls and yanked her head back, tilting her off balance and exposing her neck.

  "Don't take this personally," said the woman, a dagger flashing in her hand. "My work here is crucial for the survival of this world. I cannot allow anyone to interfere."

  Up until this moment, Darlac had been convinced that she had no fear of death, but now she felt horror creep all over her face. It took all her willpower to discipline herself and look into the weird yellow-green eyes of her foe, to save some semblance of dignity. Deep inside she was as frightened as never before. She couldn't die now, just so, in the middle of nowhere, without a chance to fight back, leaving an incomplete mission behind. She had to reach Restov to get help. She had to find Maegar and the others. She had to do something, bargain, plead, beg for her life, anything... but her resourcefulness failed her, and her stubborn lips wouldn't form the words.

  Then her despair turned into spite.

  Damn it all to hell. Apparently I'm not smart enough to talk myself out of this. But I will not die cowering. Maegar, please forgive my failure, and know that I loved you till the end.

  "The survival of this world?" she spat. "Kind of rich, coming from a fey. Ever heard of the Guardian of the Bloom and her murderous flower?"

  The woman froze for a moment, her eyes widened in surprise. Darlac pushed her advantage.

  "You're one of her ilk, aren't you? Working and scheming to destroy another kingdom, or barony, or tribe? Perhaps the very one that you pretend to serve?"

  The barbarian's grip on Darlac relented ever so slightly, and muffled grumbles came from the others watching the scene. This was Darlac's chance. If she could turn them against the shrouded lady...

  "Who are you?" hissed the woman. Her gaze bored into Darlac's glowing eyes, down into her soul, as if she wanted to rip it out. Resisting it took most of her will and focus, and if the barbarians' soft cursing was anything to go by, they weren't faring much better, either. As a result, now Darlac was held more tightly and struggled to maintain eye contact with her foe, tapping into her spite and righteous wrath, the only weapons left for her to wield. She had to turn this around before everyone broke under that baleful gaze.

  "Someone who does not keep her face hidden," she said, loud and clear. "I wonder how long it will take for your warriors to realise that you're leading them into a death trap. This land is cursed to Abaddon. It will devour them all, and it will be your f –"

  The shrouded woman moved as fast as an attacking snake. A glint of sunlight on steel was the last thing Darlac saw before the dagger was plunged into her throat.