Lying on his side in a cramped-up position, his bonds chafing his skin raw, Enneo found himself wondering if there was any truth to the teachings of the Pharasmin Penitence.

  If there was, his soul was undergoing a massive weight gain programme right now. If all the suffering he'd endured over the last days or weeks added up and increased the weight of his soul, by now it probably looked like a morbidly obese ogre. The extra weight would gain him boons for the afterlife, as he would see soon enough. This philosophy gave him consolation here at the rock bottom. And consolation was something he desperately needed, what with being left and forgotten in the darkest nook of the cave temple, beaten and tied up, without food or drink or hygiene.

  The basic cleric training he'd received under the hands of a friend in Ustalav had given him a prime opportunity to hide in plain sight just across the border of Nightvale. Old Stump Village was a brand-new Pharasmin community recently converted from a dark religion, gaining importance due to its location along the Varnlings' usual route into the Tors of Levenies. All he'd had to do was use an elven gateway from Kyonin to the Boarwood in Galt, then travel north and apply for the position under the pseudonym he'd used when he'd first entered the Stolen Lands – but this time presenting himself as a cleric instead of a merchant.

  His mission was of fundamental importance. Steering an old Charonite group away from the powers of Abaddon and into a healthier direction was a noble purpose in and of itself. Also, for all the deadly dangers life in the Stolen Lands was fraught with, the worship of Pharasma was deplorably underrepresented in the area. Erastil was, of course, ubiquitous, which was to be expected in an underdeveloped, wooded region. There was a smattering of believers in Sarenrae, Gozreh, Torag, Calistria – and unsurprisingly, Lamashtu, probably due to Baroness Guelder's twisted inclinations. Of course, blood was thicker than water. It was hardly a coincidence that the baroness was rumoured to be flirting with the dark deity of her parents, and at the same time, harboured a disciple, accomplice and lover of her despicable Urgathoan grandfather. She was true to her roots, in the worst sense of the word. And that, in turn, explained why there was practically no Pharasmin presence in her lands. Building up a Pharasmin bridgehead near her eastern border would be important in the long run for the purpose of spreading the faith into Nightvale to counterbalance and, with time, overshadow the vile cults flourishing there under the beast woman's rule. There were quite enough duties for Enneo for a lifetime, even if he chose to abandon his calling as an inquisitor and start a new page as a cleric. Which he didn't. Here, along a moderately busy route and relatively close to the Nightvale border, he could organise a network of informants and start to observe his primary quarry, Jaethal Frozen Lake, from a safe distance.

  Hardly had Enneo settled in with the villagers and made friends with Elder Cvetislava, when the problems started. A visit from the General of Varnhold and her adventuring party had made Enneo realise that the undead problem was not a thing of the past, inherited from the village's Charonite period, but an ongoing issue. The General had intended to strike at the root of the problem and flush out the mysterious necromancer she'd thought to be hiding somewhere in the buttcrack of the Tors, and she'd tried to enlist him, as a former adventurer, into her squad. With an aching heart, he'd refused, unwilling to blow his cover. He was just a simple priest, a copper a dozen, great at performing last rites, decent at helping with childbirth, terrible at baking kolash, and completely unequipped to deal with zombie cyclopes, let alone with necromancers. Still, her visit had been a warning. As a simple priest, who was definitely not a seasoned inquisitor lying low and biding his time, he'd had to plan for the eventuality that the General's moves would provoke a backlash from the enemy, putting the lives of his flock at risk.

  He'd been among the first to sense that something was wrong. By that time, the cave temple had been furnished with a sturdy, lockable wooden door, supplies had been hauled in, and the villagers had practised evacuation in regular drills. As soon as Enneo's instinctive sense of undead threat had set off, he'd herded his flock into the shelter and locked the door from the inside. Alas, his wards had not been effective enough to protect them from madness. Three villagers had been trampled to death in their effort to break out and "heed the call," and Enneo could only keep them all in by swallowing the key before he'd succumbed to the dreadful coercion himself. He refused to dwell too long on the fact that it was still there somewhere in his system.

  Once the wave of madness had passed, a short period of calm had followed. However, cabin fever had soon started chipping away at everyone's nerves, made worse by the fact that Enneo remained tight-lipped about the key and unwilling to let them out. Their grumbling had gradually devolved into a relapse. They'd blamed Pharasma for their misery and cried out to Charon for deliverance. Finally, they'd even laid hands on their elder and their priest. Pharasma had done nothing to save her servant, and Enneo had done just as little to save himself. They were in this together, like it or not. As long as the villagers didn't know about the fate of the key, they wouldn't rip Enneo's belly open with their teeth and nails to retrieve it. Being quiet, pretending he didn't even exist, was his best bet anyway. In this way, nobody gave him a gulp of water or a kick in the ribs, which felt like a nice trade-off for a while. The darkness, the stale air, the dehydration all made him spend most of his time sleeping. When he was asleep, nothing hurt, and there was an increasing chance that he would never wake up. He didn't really mind. He'd failed his goddess in his mission to hunt down Jaethal (and possibly also the baroness), but he'd saved a bunch of ungrateful louts from becoming a necromancer's toys. Perhaps that was worth a crown of victory for his obese soul.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Something was banging at the door. A loud, clear rhythm, not the scratching of undead claws they all expected with dread, nor the frantic thuds of people bashing themselves against the door to break out. Villagers were panicking, milling about, wailing, guessing whether it was the zombie cyclopes returning for their brains or another messenger of Charon about to punish them for their fling with Pharasma.

  Enneo tried to open his eyes and peek out through the dried blood and swollen bruises covering his face. If only he could touch his face to heal those. At the moment, the best he could do was heal his wrists and ankles chafed by the ropes that held his limbs together behind his back, after an uphill battle to make his numbed hands do their job. That didn't help him see better.

  The knocking stopped, and the person outside waited for the villagers to quiet down. Enneo couldn't pick up the words muffled by the thick door, but some of his flock did.

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  "It's the baron's men! We're saved!"

  "Let us out! Please!"

  Apparently, Pharasma hadn't booked him in for a personal meeting as yet.

  At the voice's instruction, the villagers backed away from the door.

  Crack.

  An axe slammed into the wood repeatedly, splintering the thick timber. Light began to trickle in, then it flooded the cave – the long awaited, searing light of the sun, instead of the pale orbs conjured by Enneo before they'd tied him up. And, finally, fresh air, alleviating the hundredfold reek of unwashed bodies, decaying corpses and buckets full to the brim. Surrounded by the blinding rays, a female figure stood at the entrance, radiant and beautiful, like an angel of salvation. Did Pharasma send her herald to save him, after all?

  What a silly idea. Pharasma's herald would show up in more impressive gear than a breastplate worn over a battered blue-orange uniform. It had to be General Darlac, masterfully orchestrating her entry for maximum amazement. Saved, at last, thought Enneo, and immediately sank back into a shallow, fitful slumber.

  "Father Dalton?"

  Who the hell was Father Dalton again?

  Oh, it was him. He had so many aliases, and now he was losing track of them.

  Something yanked at his bonds, and his nerves screamed in pain and relief as his limbs regained their freedom. A warm hand touched his forehead, flooding him with healing energy, silencing his agony. Water was dripping into his mouth. It was warm and tasted like horse piss, but it filled him with much-needed life force, and his brain fog began to clear up.

  "Whatever is wrong with you people? Who had the genius idea of beating and tying up your leaders? Own up before I decimate the entire godsdamned village!"

  Sipping water from a canteen through a straw, Enneo listened in a daze to the sounds of the culprits getting their due punishment with the flat of the General's sword. They would sleep lying on their bellies for quite a few days, unless they would come to him for healing.

  He still wasn't in full possession of his mental abilities when he was sat down with Elder Cvetislava (healed up by the General's ranger-cleric) at a table under the lightning-struck tree in the main square and told how the necromancer had fallen, the danger was over, and some barbarian intruders were about to be cleared out of the country. The General expressed her thanks for their heroic efforts to protect their community, blah-blah-blah.

  Then it suddenly began to get interesting. The General was explaining something to Cvetislava about restarting life in the village, and said something unexpected.

  "Make sure to take it up with Baroness Guelder."

  "Guelder?" muttered Enneo, trying to force his brain to work. "Did she conquer Varnhold while I was not looking?"

  Now that he could actually use his eyes, he could observe the emotions washing over General Darlac's face at his weak attempt of a joke. Bitterness, embarrassment, defeat, humiliation, despair. So many feelings not exactly befitting a victor.

  "As of today," she explained without much enthusiasm, "Varnhold is a vassal state of Nightvale. It was Baroness Guelder who defeated the necromancer and saved our land and people from a horrible fate. You will be officially informed of everything in due time."

  While the people settled back to their homes and Cvetislava busied herself around Darlac (how could she have recovered so fast?), Enneo prepared for the task of burying the three trampled villagers, all the while savouring the new situation. The ways of the Lady of Graves were, indeed, unfathomable. She'd allowed a dangerous necromancer to rise to power, so that the beast woman could take possession of this land, and Enneo could pick up the trail of his quarry again. Also, now he knew how Darlac felt about all this. It would be easy to play her against Guelder and, by extension, Jaethal.

  And finally, he would be able to use the outhouse without ever needing to think about the key again.