Ahead, she tried to detect the undead lurker within the stones, but there was such an all-pervasive Dark aura to the whole place that her divine senses were useless. Thankfully Penthos’s Power Elemental cared nothing for Light and Dark. He put a hand to her shoulder and nodded, his finger jabbing at something invisible.

He flexed his shoulders and brought his hands up, ready to unleash his magic, and she took that one step farther.

The thing shot out of the wall considerably faster than Lief had described, no doubt keyed up by the Light that she brought with her. Even as its mouth hung open for screaming and the air crackled with ice crystals, Penthos lunged with both hands, encapsulating the apparition in a bubble of spinning threads and streamers of flame. Any ghostly wail of warning was caught by the magician’s power and held within the vibrating shell.

Dion brought the disc of Armes up and concentrated on the creature, finding the knot of evil that comprised it, distinct from the background emanations of everything around her. With brutal efficiency she focused her faith and power into a scalpel sharpness and severed all the bonds that held the spirit to the mortal world. It was easy work: those unnatural cords had been bowstring-tense, straining against the natural tendency of dead souls to be drawn to other less corporeal places. In an instant, the monstrous revenant was sucked away, off to its much-deserved sinner’s reward.

Through it all, nobody had made a sound. From ahead the murmur of idle conversation, the slap of cards, went on uninterrupted. Then another female scream shook the air and Dion turned to her companions and signaled the all clear.

Lief and Cyrene were up next. The thief slid past Dion to the top of the steps, paused briefly as he waited his moment, and then snuck soundlessly into the room above, sloping about the walls until he could get himself into position. Cyrene counted carefully, putting an arrow to the nock and slowly drawing her bowstring back, the weapon pointed almost at her feet.

What number she and Lief had agreed on, Dion did not know, but abruptly Cyrene skipped up three steps and into sight of the room, swinging the bow round. Dion heard the musical thrum as the arrow leapt from the string, and at the same time there were a couple of knocks and a gasp from above.

“Done,” Cyrene murmured, and they all crowded into the room.

One of the Doomsayers had an arrow in the back of the neck, just about where it met his skull. He was sitting up very straight, his head tilted at a quizzical angle, quite dead. His companion, no less dead, was slumped face down on the table, the cards awash with blood. Behind his chair stood Lief, like an overenthusiastic barber, cleaning his dagger blade with a grimace.