The creepy clumps of undead in the center of the room frighten Heledd, but fortunately there are far more mundane targets with which she can distract herself. All eyes are on the glowing elves, leaving her free to slip through stalagmites and shadows to a good vantage point. While she did not come out unscathed from her last scuffle with Rats, that was mostly because of Sleidr’s poison knives. He is dead now, though, and these ruffians are not his equal. Plus, they are currently preoccupied with the yodeling magpie Tric brought along. Heledd’s small, sharp knives hit their mark, one after another, and one of the thugs collapses, groaning.
Another, nicked, mutters, “Where are those coming from?” and starts scanning the edge of the room. “There’s someone there!” he says, pointing. Then his eyes make out that it is Heledd, and his stomach drops. He knows who she is and where she works. Who else is along with her? he worries, glancing around nervously. Crossing Alric would be bad; a lot of important business passes through the Parting Glass. Even if the proprietor is not around, doing something against one of his employees could have repercussions. Of course, Heledd could be here on her own time, acting independently. These thoughts all give him pause, but his comrade pulls out her cudgel and charges blithely at the shadowy figure. She takes a knife to her gut for her troubles, and Heledd dances away, light on her feet.
At the sound of the magpie’s call, three merfolk enter the chamber, swimming up the underground tributary to the River Weldyn. Before they can quite get their bearings, they clash with the ghouls picking their way across the rivulet. Claws and clubs collide, and one of the netcasters falls to the ghouls’ blows. The remaining merfolk reposition themselves, looking for openings for more effective strikes. Suddenly, a lightbeam lances across the room from the silver rose atop a white mage’s staff. The magic sears the ghouls before they can strike down any more merfolk victims. When the brilliant white light fades back to a subtle blue pulse, only one ghoul remains standing, wisps of smoke drifting off it. The merfolk move in from both sides, clubbing it down before it can do any more harm.
A whistling cry pierces the chamber, ringing from the western side. A falcon flies out of the opening to the well and swoops at the walking corpses menacing Heppa. While they are thus distracted, she hastily draws her sword. With a few well-placed slashes, she takes down another one of the creatures.
“Can we move this along?” Godol calls to Efa. “Once we clean up this elvish menace, we can proceed with our plans.”
Wrenching at the fungus wrapped around her legs, Efa grunts at a sudden sharp pain. A small knife whips past her, scratching a thin line along her cheek. The wound is minor, but she can feel a familiar sluggishness setting in. Efa narrows her eyes, trying to see beyond the bright light surrounding the elves and walking corpses. Just inside the well is a figure clad in black, a bandolier of knives across the chest. With a growl, she wrenches herself free and charges that way, shouting back at Godol, “We can do both at the same time!”
Godol opens the Book of Rhys and begins reading. Energy crackles around the tome. Mists rise around Tric and Heppa, and the elves each feel a shiver go down their spine. Godol has forced his magic through Rhaessa’s counterspell, and it is sapping them of vitality in some disturbing way. The book still pulses with the greenish glow of Godol’s own counterspell.
Still on the ground, Tric suffers a kick to the ribs as Heppa and the last walking corpse exchange blows. He rolls away, commenting, “Sometimes, when you’re down and beaten, you don’t have to get back up. Sometimes, you can bring your enemies down with you. ‘Cause you’ve got your friends slinging spells, slinging knives, slinging swords—wait, don’t throw the sword. Feathered friends, too!” Tric’s jocular observations encourage his companions, invigorating them despite the late hour and the tiring day they have already had. Inspired, Mate goes after the biggest target he can find.
As Efa barrels toward the well, a black and white bird swoops down at her. “Get out of my face!” she yells at it. When the feathers clear out, knives come in. One hits Efa’s hand, and her fingers jerk open. The morningstar falls to the ground, but she does not break her stride. Shoulder dropped, she slams into the uppity bartender, but he redirects her momentum over the edge into the well. She tries to drag him down with her, but he slips out of her grasp. It is not as far as the fall that broke Sleidr’s neck, and Efa manages a controlled roll in the mud at the bottom. She comes back up onto her feet and reaches up to strike at Alric, but it is not long before she succumbs to his soporific throwing knives.