inishing his words, the Warden officer sheathes his broadsword and stands awaiting an answer. A momentary silence descends and much happens in the space of a few seconds as the air of tension disappears. The Warden troopers and Nodisco's mercenaries visibly relax, sheathing weapons and shifting their armoured bodies to more comfortable poses. Doran gives a smile of welcome to the newcomers and is met with a mysterious grin from the exotic halfling. Meanwhile, Cain moves behind the winsome bard, silently checking her well-being. Satisfied, the ranger sits down against a nearby pillar to sharpen his blades while watching and listening intently. Likewise, Travana eyes everyone intently, taking note of every detail and cataloging their importance. Nearby, grasping his healer's bag, Martin's worried gaze keeps wandering to the wounded. Next to the pensive priest, Folly's face betrays puzzlement as he looks about as if searching for something and not finding it. Talen, still supporting the weakened Castus, briefly stumbles and just as quickly recovers his balance. For no readily apparent reason, he looks down and rubs at the back of his left hand. Those that look see five parallel scars, apparently inflicted by some beast and long since healed over. Talen looks at the lines with confusion on his normally hard-set face, as if seeing them for the first time, but offers no explanation.

Instead, he turns his attention to the newcomer's. "Well met, strangers," he says with a polite nod, recovering his poise. "Any aid in our quest to bring this foul place and its masters down is welcome." Talen looks to the Wardleftenant and motions to the prisoners saying, "Sir, it would be helpful for you and your men to escort these... individuals... to the surface, where they and their crimes can finally meet the light of day."

The sharp-faced officer smiles slyly and snaps off a jaunty salute to the apprentice knight. "I will see to the details of transporting the criminals and wounded to the surface ...as well as collecting any useful booty that might be had." He about-faces and motions for his men to follow. Shrugging with veterans' indifference, they amble after him, already pulling four foot sections of pole from their equipment harnesses to construct stretchers.

A healer's concern etched in his face, Martin tugs at his healer's kit and steps forward. "Tending to the injured is my primary concern and I'll leave charting of our course to your capable hands. Yet, I advocate following the phantom knight before anything else. Who knows what we are likely to encounter and a blade such as the Second Thorn may prove invaluable." Bowing slightly, the priest moves to follows the Wardens.

Standing with his arms folded across his chest and his hands hidden up his voluminous sleeves, Nodisco squints through slanted eyes at the departing priest. "I must most humbly disagree with most honorable holy man. It most assuredly discomfort our foes more to seize this book that they value so highly."

Standing casually, with her thumbs hooked into her weapon's belt and her fingers lightly tapping on the basket hilts of the weapons at her hips, Doran lets her smile turn thoughtful. "As was said earlier, gentles, the phantom has been here for some time... and will likely be here for some time to come. The dead are a patient lot." She turns a twinkling-eyed look to Sir Talen. "The living, on the other hand, have this irritating tendency to keep moving... so I think we ought to make all haste and recover the book that Master Nodisco has spoken of. Otherwise..." She pauses for a moment, tilting her head and unconsciously rubbing her jawline, deep in thought. "Otherwise, the only thing left to do is to split the party up... one group going to recover the book, whilst the other goes after the phantom... and the Second Thorn. But I dislike this option, and recommend it as a last resort only."

Her eyes still flicking from face to face, Travana steps alongside her halfling companion. Her voice tinged with restrained anger for her captors, half-elfess says, "I agree with Nodisco and the bard, our primary problem is the Robes and their book. The mysterious knight you spoke of will still be here after the quest for the book is done. I remember hearing more than one of our captors saying that the phantom has haunted these caverns for a long time."

His scarred face giving his cocky grin a sarcastic turn, Sergeant Kasserian of Nodisco's mercenaries motions with his head towards Travana. "Milady's right. The ghost has been said to walk these halls for years. He and his sword are not going to be leaving their room up the way anytime soon. The Robes are another matter though..." He shrugs noncommittally as he lets his words trail off.

Until now, the bandage wrapped Calimar has slumped weakly against a nearby column with the low humming First Thorn dangling from his hand. Seemingly lost is his fatigue and pain, the knight has remained silent and unaware of the discussion, but as it drifts from the recovery of the Second Thorn, he reanimates. Striding to the center of the two groups, he looks a frenzied sight--his hair plastered flat by sweaty grime, his skin blackened by filthy gore, and his eyes lit by some strange inner fire. He goes to each of his companions, pleading desperately, "You cannot mean this... you cannot leave the Second Thorn in the place any longer..."

Using his heavy mace as a cane, Castus hobbles from Talen's support to Calimar and puts an arm around the frantic knight. "Now calm, lad. We'll not leave your blade." The battered monk jerkily turns to face Kasserian. "You said something about the blade being in a room. How far up the hall is it and is there likely to be any unsociable sorts along the way?"

The salty mercenary's grin grows even larger. "The room is no more than fifty paces up the hall around the first bend. You shant find any surprises... except a few corpses."

For a moment, Castus' pale face blanches even further at the word of 'corpses', but it does not hinder him for long. Smiling broadly at everyone, he pats Calimar on the shoulder. "Now that solves our problem. It will take a few minutes to prepare to pursue the book. Calimar and .....say....two companions can venture up the hall, get the blade, and return before we leave. Does that satisfy everyone?" He looks for any dissent. Seeing none, "Well then, let us prepare."

As everyone moves off to various tasks, Talen approaches Castus as he stands leaning on his mace and watching the goings-on. The knight looks at the haggard man, shrouded in rent armour, and says, "There is no shame in returning to the surface, Brother. The AllFather admires courage in the face adversity, but does not care overmuch for foolish pride."

The monk turns an eye to his grim companion and chuckles softly. "I am touched by your concern, Brother, but....." Castus easily swings his heavy mace to his shoulder, an act that visibly unsettles the knight. "I'm feeling surprisingly hale." He tugs at the broken links of his mail. "In fact, after I find another coat, I think I'll join Calimar on his quest. So, if you have no further need of me, I will take my leave of you." He strides away, leaving Talen absentmindedly rubbing his scarred hand.

A few moments later, Folly wanders over to the motionless knight. The perplexed mage's eyes still roam the corners of the huge chamber. Cracking a grin, he jovially asks, "Sir Knight, have you seen your tomcat? I was preparing to study my....umm....'lessons' and I thought that petting the beast would relax me sufficiently." A disconcerted aspect runs across Talen's face and he looks to his feet without answering the mage. After an awkward pause, Folly's grin becomes an embarrassed grimace and without saying anything further, he slinks away to examine his liber.

Still wearing his troubled expression, Talen briefly goes over to Father Martin and says quietly, "Father, when our current quest is resolved, I require the wisdom of your counsel."

The priest turns from the bandaging of a prisoner's leg and gives the young knight a benevolent smile. "I understand, my son," Martin says. "You are troubled by the death you have dealt this day, yes?"

"Yes...," Talen responds, the uncertain look still darkening his face. "But there is another matter, perhaps even worse than the blood I have shed..." The knight lets his words drift off, and more than that, he will not say.

Meanwhile, everyone has been busy making preparations to move. From sections of pole and leather straps, the Warden troopers have constructed stretchers frames. After stripping off their tabards, they've threaded the garments onto the frames, completing the stretchers. At the same time, Father Martin and the Warden chaplain have been treating the wounded, binding their injuries and administering herbs to ease their pain. Finishing their tasks, they load the injured onto the stretchers, wrap them in blankets, and bind them tightly to the frames. Nodding in satisfaction, the two priests draw out their prayer books and stroll off to join the mage in scholarly preparations.

Under the watchful eyes of the Wardleftenant and Rumil, the sole able-bodied prisoner has helped Lugnut gather up the fallen arms, discarded armour, and other bits of loose equipment from the floor of the room. After several minutes of labour, the little kobold has a wide array of useful items spread neatly across the floor. As anyone passes by, he meets them with a toothy grin and offers various items for the perusal like some scaly peddler.

Castus jogs up to Lugnut's piles of loot, and hurriedly begins pawing through the captured armour. Finding a suitable coat of mail, he sheds his damaged armour with some regret and dons the new. Motioning for Calimar and taking up his mace, the monk distracts the humanoid merchant-want-to-be. "Come on, lad. Get your bow and a lantern. We've got a blade to recover." The kobold's eyes light up and he lets out a cackling laugh before scampering away to follow the burly monk's orders.

As the monk and the kobold leave, Nodisco and Travana approach the scattered gear. The sallow skinned halfling looks through the assorted blades with a critical eye. After several minutes of disgusted searching, he settles upon a light-bladed falchion. Giving the slightly-curved blade a few snaps by twisting his wrist, he grimaces at its performance. "Too heavy and too clumsy compared to my wakizashi," he concludes. "But it will suffice."

Likewise, the fair half-elfess picks through the captured items. First, she tears a strip of black cloth from a tattered tabard and ties back her long, blond hair. Sifting through the weapons, she selects a shortsword, whose edge she carefully tests against her thumb. Setting it aside, she ferrets out four suitable daggers from amongst the dross, including a heavy, triangular cinqueda, or 'five-fingers', which is nearly the size of her shortsword. Happy with the number and quality of her arms, Travana tucks the larger blades through her belt and sets about finding places to conceal the three smaller ones.

Noticing the helf-elfess' hunt for suitable arms, Doran wanders over to watch for a moment and then offers one of her own daggers. "Here, sister," she says, proffering the weapon with the hilt towards Travana. "Is this more to your liking?" A light-hearted glimmer comes to her eyes as she regards the newcomer. "It is not meant that we ladies go about the world unarmed. After all, who knows what sort we shall run into, here in the depths."

eading the way, Lugnut creeps through the archway into the shadowed mouth of the hall. Hunched over his crossbow, the kobold scuttles crab-like cautiously forward with his luminescent eyes bulged open, taking in every detail in the semi-darkness. Castus and Calimar follow a few steps behind with weapons drawn. In the young knight's hand, the First Thorn thrums loudly; its blade visibly vibrating.

The path cut through the old, heavy dust on the floor shows the return of activity to the Barrows. The powdery filth has been pushed aside to the walls and now mixes with the moisture seeping through the lichen-stained stone, forming a slurry-like muck. Just beyond the second arch, at the edge of shadow and true darkness, the muck is stained with a thicker, darker fluid. The robed bodies of the four Nefandite 'priests' and an armoured black knight lay limply like ragdolls, tossed aside by some angry child.

Chattering excitedly, Lugnut bounds over to rob the dead, hoping to find some bit of coin or other treasure. As the kobold makes his macabre search and Calimar stands waiting nervously, Castus unshutters the lantern and frees the light to travel some distance down the hall. In the beam of light, the bend described by Sergeant Kasserien becomes visible, as well as the shadowed length of the dusty hall beyond. Glancing upwards, he catches sight of something odd directly overhead. Turning the light up, it reveals a different coloured stone block set into the ceiling, as wide as the hall and running some length down it. Fearing a trap, the monk shines the light downward to the floor, but sees no sign of imminent danger.

Frowning slightly, Castus tugs at Lugnut, pulling him from the corpses. "Let the dead be, lad. There will be time enough for fortune hunting." Sticking out his tongue at the monk, the kobold lets out a growling hiss and reluctantly tucks his few found coins into his jerkin before resuming the lead position.

Perhaps a score of paces into the gloom, they reach the bend and turn up the side hall. The light from Castus' lantern shines into the darkness and is swallowed up by the distant reaches of the tunnel. Seeing the portal described by Kasserien, Lugnut lets out a delighted howl and lopes over to the old, scarred door. Jumping up to grasp its handle, he pushes with his feet against the stone wall, pulling the heavy door open. As it swings on its hinges, the kobold lets out a startled hiss and jumps away from the yawning portal. Castus and Calimar surge forward towards the jabbering humanoid and see what has frightened him so.

Standing in the doorway is a sight that nearly brings the First Thorn to shake itself from Calimar's grasp. The phantom knight hews at the air with his shimmering blade, fending off foes lost in the passage of time. He looks much the worse for wear. His exhaustion drawn face is covered with ghostly cuts and abrasions, matched by the like on his bare arms. His tattered tabard and shattered mail hang loosely on him as his burial shroud. Each successive stroke comes to take more effort, each coming slower and more laboriously, until the ghost knight staggers from exhaustion. At that instant, a powerful blow from an unseen assailant sends the phantom reeling into the empty room and sends a broad gushing wound across his torso. His eyes pain-filled and desperate, the ghostly knight regains his footing and weakly lifts his sword to fend off another attack. It is to no avail, and he is struck again. His arms and legs flailing, he falls backward, his blade flashing brightly as it pierces the stone floor. The phantom knight's face becomes a rictus of agony as he lets out a silent scream. His hands grasp frantically at an invisible spear that pierces him and pins him to the floor. As his struggles weaken, the phantom slowly fades from view, leaving only a stained gouge and a rusted sword hilt embedded in the stone as a testament to his passing.

For a moment, there is a silence, broken only by the increasing, powerful, insistent hum of the First Thorn. The companions stand transfixed by the tableau to which they have been witness. Even the overly energetic kobold, Lugnut is momentarily held slack-jawed by the room, empty except for the evidence of a long past death.

Forced to hold the agitated First Thorn with both hands, Calimar stalks forward to the resting place of the phantom knight's sword. All traces of the madness that earlier gripped him flee the young man's face to be replaced with an immeasurable calm. Reaching the ghost's final rest, he kneels down and lays the First Thorn aside. As he grasps the rusted hilt jutting from the stone, the First Thorn's hum reaches a crescendo and then suddenly stops. Grunting from exertion, Calimar pulls the rust enshrouded blade, breaking it free from its stony tomb with a raspy, metallic shriek. After momentarily holding it overhead, the knight brings it crashing down repeatedly on the hard stone. Each blow rings like a metallic exultation, and great gobbets of rust flake off, revealing shining metal and an engraved vine with two prominent thorns.

A resounding voice, deep and rumbling, as if issuing from the very stones of the earth, rolls through the chamber. "Through darkness you have searched and found me. In piety's name, see my Brother Thorn in the mailed fist of the Holy." The blade flares blindingly bright, consuming the knight it its glare. As it dims, Calimar is revealed peaceful and healed with the Second Thorn emitting a soft, barely audible hum.

Contentment on his face, Calimar stands and sheathes the newly found blade then slides its twin through his belt. Smiling, Castus runs up to the knight and pats him roughly across the back. "Good show, lad. Now that we have your steel, let us go put an end to the foulness in this place." Calimar only nods in response before turning to leave with the monk and the kobold.

n your feet, troopers, and stand ready!" The Wardleftenant's bellows break the silence that had descended as everyone tries to catch a moment's rest. He marches amongst his men as they scramble to their feet. "Form up and prepare to move out!" With discipline born from years of service, the troopers rapidly take their positions in the marching column. A Wardcorporal takes the lead with a lantern and broadsword in either hand. Next in line, the ten stretcher bearers stand ready with their live cargo. Looking extremely cross, the one healthy prisoner is next, standing reluctantly under a heavy bundle of captured arm and armour. To insure his good behavoir, and to motivate his steps with occasional prods with their swords, two wardens trail the prisoner and the column. When the formation is set to his satisfaction, the Wardleftenant salutes the lead corporal and gives the order, "Move out!"

As his men begin their long march to the surface, the Warden officer and his chaplain wheel about to walk over to the momentarily lounging party. His features set hard to what lies ahead, the officer stops to stand with his hands on his hips. "My men will return from the surface with further reinforcements from my troop. I have advised them to follow on in the direction of the heretics' escape."

Surprising everyone, Castus' booming voice echoes in reply from the mouth of the most northern of the eastern tunnels, "Well then, shall we move on?" The monk and Calimar stride from the shadows side by side, followed by Lugnut, who bounces around them to take his place near Doran. Castus motions to his noble companion, wearing the two Thorns. "We have seen the ghost to his rest and Calimar has found his questing blade." Grinning slyly, he winks conspiratorially. "That leaves only one problem remaining to deal with." He nods to the north, in the direction in which the Nefandites fled and from whence the murmurs of their rituals still echo.

Everyone begins to rise from their sitting places, pausing to brush clinging dust from their clothes, shift armour to more comfortable positions, and arrange weapons harnesses in easy reach. Hurrying to memorize one last line, Martin and Folly linger over their books before tucking the texts away. Sergeant Kasserian and his men roughhouse amongst themselves, stirring their blood for battle. Standing, Cain sheathes his newly sharpened blades and looks upward, beyond the stone ceiling, momentarily lost in reflection of the wilds above. The clearing of a very feminine throat breaks the ranger's contemplation and he turns to see the attractive bard smiling demurely and extending one hand in his direction for help up.

Scowling, Nodisco scrubs fastidiously at a patch of grey dust staining his shiny black garments before giving it up as a lost cause. Taking up his recently acquired sword, he looks to the north. "To the benefit of stealth, I and the bakemono should go ahead in case our foes plan an ambush." Seeing confusion in his new companions' eyes, he realizes it stems from his use of the eastern word. He pauses, momentarily searching for its western counterpart, and then with disgust just points at the kobold. Now, as comprehension lights in their eyes, they nod in agreement with the halfling's plan. Nodisco gives them a stiff, half-bow and barks out, "Hai!" Straightening, he motions for Lugnut to follow and makes way to the waiting tunnel. Grinning viciously, the kobold scampers afterwards, happily patting his crossbow.

As the party waits a few moments until they follow on, Calimar approaches his fellow knight. As he comes within a few paces, he draws the First Thorn. "Sir Talen, it would be a shame before the AllFather to let such a blade lie still with such a stain besmirching creation. Will you carry and wield the First Thorn for me?" He proffers the longsword hilt-first to Talen.

Rubbing his scarred hand, Talen hesitates a moment before taking the offered blade. "I will be honored to bear the First Thorn." He slides the blade through his baldric and offers his hand to Calimar. The taller knight takes it and they enthusiastically shake hands. Breaking their grasp, the two knights are the first to follow the kobold and the halfling.

Following the knights, the group comes in pairs: Castus and the Wardleftenant, Martin and the Chaplain, Cain and the unnamed ranger, Doran and Folly, Travana and Kasserien, two pairs of mercenaries, and Rumil trailing last. To combat the darkness that lies ahead, the group's four lanterns are carried by Castus, the stranger ranger, Kasserien, and one of the mercenaries; but the warm light does little to reduce the innate tenebrous nature of the place. The dark stone walls seem heavy with some malign presence.

At the edge of the darkness beyond the last ceiling lightglobe, the party comes upon Lugnut and Nodisco, stopped and quietly conversing about something. Keeping his voice low, the halfling tells of his find. "There is a mysterious stone set in the ceiling. It does not match the surrounding rock."

Castus strokes nervously at his bearded chin. "I found the same in the other hallway. See any sign of triggers?"

The longhaired halfling shakes his head, his gaze full of concentrated intensity. "I find none, but I will continue to search for one as we progress." With another bow, he again moves ahead with the kobold and quickly disappears into the darkness.

Passing beyond the unsettling patch of stone, the party enters a roughly square chamber, whose ceiling is hidden in the dark distance beyond the reach of the lanterns. In that overhead gloom, the leathery rustling of hundreds of wings hints at the great numbers of bats that make the chamber their home --- that and the slippery layer of guano through which the party must slog. Escaping the morass of rotting offal, decaying bat corpses, and other gut-wrenching rubbish, you reach the other side and find a very irritated kobold, sitting and scraping the chamber's odure from between his scaly toes with a dagger.

Flicking the last glop of filth from the end of the blade, he leaps to his feet and sheathes the knife. Hissing, he points to the ceiling. "Bad block.......bad, bad." Another of the differently coloured blocks dominates the ceiling. The kobold then points into the darkness up the hall. "Little man go on....come, come." He grabs Talen and Calimar each by one hand and begins dragging them along.

Coming from around a bend, you enter an adjoining antechamber. To the north, two ornately carved brass doors, their religious designs defaced with gouges and heretical graffiti, guard the inner recesses of the Barrows. Nodisco stands before the south wall, examining a detailed mural that covers a full fifty feet of stone face. Although the painting has been scarred by the passage of time as well as the Nefandites, much of the image's colour and beauty yet remains. From a bright spot in the billowy clouds of Heaven, a host of angels descend, their swords and wings bright with the fire of the AllFather's retribution. Before them, the hordes of Hell scatter like chaff in the wind. At the host's head, an Archangel in all his martial beauty stands with his flaming greatsword and a kite shield, emblazoned with a crucifix and the legend, 'Strike here lest the temple fall.'

As the others come close, the halfling raises a querying eyebrow. "Most interesting artwork, yes? Does it have any particular religious significance?"

A worried look darkening his features, the Ward Chaplain answers, "Only of the Apocalypse...." Saying no more, he strolls over to where his commander and the knights watch Castus struggle with the doors.

Seemingly stuck, the portals will not open. Shrugging, the monk strips off his mail coat and its underpadding. Taking up his all-metal mace, he forces the thin end between the doors and uses the heavy weapon as a prybar. His face flushing red and the muscles across his shoulders bulging, he pulls heavily on the mace, making the heavy doors groan and creak from the strain. Finally, the pressure peaks, causing the doors to explode outwards with a reverberating boom and a spray of metallic fragments.

Along with bits of shattered latch, a corpse drops from where it had been wedged against the inside of the door. It appears to have been one of the Nefandite soldiers, recently escaped from the battle with the party. With savage, draining wounds on his chest, the man is little more than a human-shaped wineskin as if his very bones are gone. His companion's corpse lies nearby in a similar state - as well as the cause of their deaths. Twitching in agonized spasms, a monstrous spider, like the one that cruelly savaged Castus, thrashes about uselessly - nearly one half of its body scorched and melted away. Queasy about the creature but yet conscious of its pain, Castus strides forward and ends its torture with a hard blow of his mace.

Fanning out in the cavernous room, the party is seemingly swallowed in its vastness. Unlike the roughness seen in the rest of the complex, the chamber is finished grandly. The surfaces of the room and columns are white marble, shot through with veins of quartz and gold. In the lantern light, it sparkles like the heavens on a cool, starry night. Even the masses of opaque spider webbing to the west can appeal to the imagination as a faux fog bank, rolling in and glistening with moisture. Yet, the beauty suffers from the signs of recent fighting. Just beyond a line of broken webs floating lightly in the air, a trail of bodies, both human and spider, begins and runs the length of the room. The spiders had come from a ragged hole torn in the southwest end of the chamber, and who knows how many more lurk beyond in its shadows?

The eastern end of the room is dominated by a fountain on a raised dais. On the floor before it, a cluster of devastated spider bodies surround the dismembered leader of the Robes. Huddled nearby on the steps leading to the fountain, another robed shape moves feebly and grasps a large, squarish object possessively against its chest.

Folly is among the first to move in that direction. As he comes close to the ragged form, he hears the rapid reels of an evocation. His face blanching, the mage yells, "Get down!" As everyone dives for the floor, he turns just in time to see a blossoming ball of flame launch from the robed figure's fingertips. Before Folly can close his eyes, the burning missile streaks directly at him. However, rather than the incinerating death he expects, the fireball turns a sapphire blue an arm's span away, then just fizzles out. He stands frozen with a look of startled puzzlement chiseled on his face.

On the steps, the dying sorcerer struggles to his feet, gasping for his breath but yet chuckling madly. In his hands, he holds the mammoth, malign book. "Take this accursed thing and may it bring you the same fortune!" he shouts. Tossing the book at the feet of the still shocked mage, his laughter becomes a rolling anthem of insanity. As the sound builds, an inky blackness snakes from between the stones and plunges into the chest of the dying man. He screams as the damned while the horror tears and claws something out of his chest. With its prize clutched tight, the malign thing retreats into the black recesses from whence it came and the empty shell it leaves behind tumbles to the floor.

he column's journey to the surface is free of violent confrontations. No Nefandite fanatics burst from the shadows with murder in their hearts. No shambling hordes of restless dead rise to assault them. Even the scrambling skull-things prefer to scavenge their own dead rather than risk another battle with the doughty Wardens.

Nevertheless, the march is no easy task. It is an arduous test of strength and endurance, this climbing of the long, dark sets of stairs. The last set to the surface raises the difficulty to a higher level. Its narrow, twisting path is barely wide enough to maneuver the heavily loaded stretchers and its switchbacks are near impassable. By the end of the climb, the bearers are left soaked with sweat and aching with fatigue.

Reaching the surface, the corporal shutters his lantern and rushes to report to the troop's sergeant. He finds the older, grizzled Warden sitting on the hearth, puffing on his pipe and slowly honing the edge of his broadsword. The corporal snaps to attention and salutes the sergeant. "We encountered a group hunting Nefandites and the Captain has joined them to continue the pursuit," he reports. "After the wounded and prisoners are dealt with, we are to follow on with reinforcements--including the halfling and the boy."

Smirking with satisfaction, the sergeant taps out his pipe, stands, and sheathes his sword. As the stretcher bearers enter the campsite, he begins giving out orders. "Very good, Corporal, join your men and take a moment's rest." Turning, he waves over the corporal of the Third squad. "Send a runner to the Fourth squad, and tell them to come here and prepare for a descent. Also, take charge of the stair guards and with the rest of your squad, tend to the wounded and the prisoners." With a salute, he sends the subordinate scurrying to fill his orders. Kneeling next to his soon-to-be former prisoners, he opens a clasp knife and cuts away their bonds. He steps back, letting the squire and Ilph stand. "Sorry for the trouble. Gather up your gear if you want to go into the depths."

The camp is again thrown into a turmoil of activity. The wounded are carefully removed from their stretchers and made comfortable. If they need any further care, the attending Warden offers what aid he can. Unhappily, the captured mercenary is put to work around the camp. Under watchful eyes, he tends the fire, carries firewood, and takes water to the wounded. Meanwhile, the expeditionary force carefully prepares themselves for the descent. They check weapons, tighten up harnesses, fill lanterns, and collect useful gear. Throughout, the sergeant silently oversees all.

Into this chaos, a slender figure, wearing brigandine and a grey-green forest hood, walks up to the edge of the camp. He stops and leans on an oddly curved longbow, quietly watching the proceedings. His curiosity piqued, the sergeant wanders over to the newcomer. "Can I help you?" he asks.

"No," he answers, not looking at the sergeant.

Moving next to the stranger, the sergeant watches with him. "We're going into the depths after some blokes. We could use another man. Would you like to join us?"

A barest hint of a smile appears in the shadows of the stranger's hood. "Why not? It's been a slow week."