Harathes went for him without ceremony, brawn to brawn. The Doomsayer had a sword leaning beside him, and just enough time to snatch it up. Then the warrior’s shield struck him in the face and knocked him sideways. The black-metal rune-sword swiped wildly over Harathes’s head and, with a furious shoulder-barge, the warrior knocked the Doomsayer into the cauldron and the fire.

In the interim the others had poured in, Penthos’s hands spitting with fire and Dion with the disc of Armes bravely upraised. The Ghants fled across the room to cower in a pack against the wall. Harathes got his sword through the big Doomsayer even as the man was clawing his way out of the boiling mess of the cauldron, and chopped his head off with the next swing.

“What about them?” Cyrene had her bowstring drawn back, the arrow at one of the Ghants. The kitchen staff were cowering back, a few of them with knives upraised in threat, baring their teeth and hissing defiance.

Dion opened her mouth, and then the stooped old Doomsayer in the robe appeared in a doorway, mouth open and eyes wide in shock. Instantly his hands lit up with blue fire, even as Penthos was turning to meet him.

“Aa—!” the old man began, a challenge or a spell or just an exclamation. At that point Enth tackled him about the waist, slamming him to the floor, ribbons of arcane flame scattering everywhere. He had his hands about the Dark wizard’s throat instantly, finding their place with desperate need, and everyone heard the sharp snap as he clenched them into fists.

“Kill the Ghants,” Harathes snapped.

Cyrene hesitated, though her fingers shook on the bowstring.

“They’re things of Darkness and we can’t just tie them all up. They’ll bring down the rest of the tower on us, probably while we’re facing off Darvezian,” the warrior went on. “This is no time for philosophical niceties.”

“They’re serving staff,” Lief pointed out.

“Everything in here is evil,” Harathes stated flatly.

“Even the waiters?”

“What, you think only murderers and monsters can be evil? Darkness is Darkness.”

“Fuck your theology,” Lief stated flatly.

“Enough!” Dion hissed. “What happened to ‘swift and silent,’ for the Light’s sake? They’re Ghants. They’re things of the Dark. We can’t leave them to raise the alarm behind us.”

“No, listen.” Lief glanced from her to Cyrene, seeking support that was plainly not forthcoming.

The archer shook her head. “Lief, this is not the time—”

Then the yelling started because, while Lief looked away, Harathes had started laying into the servants. He had strolled over to them, and abruptly his sword was in motion, cleaving them down with brutal economy. One got under his swing to run for the door, and Cyrene tracked and shot him convulsively, a predator that cannot help following its instincts.