Tom was struggling to breathe by the time he reached the Temple steps. His masked rescuer had sent him on ahead. He reached the Temple doors and pulled one open.

The moment of fate, he thought nervously, and tried to cross the threshold.

He failed.

No. No, no, no. Barsel, aid me. The opposite of hate. The opposite of hate. The opposite of hate.

The voice in his head had been getting louder, saying things like, < You hate me, I know you do. But I can help. Slavers are evil. I can give you the strength to make them suffer. > The whole time in the cell, it had been trying to infuriate him. It yelled at him now, desperately trying to stop him.

Tom tried to step forward, and his gut churned. He felt dizzy, sick. He didn't want to go in.

Barely two heartbeats had passed. His benefactor in black dashed up to him and pushed. When Tom didn't move, he went around, crossed the threshold, and pulled for a moment. Then, looking past him, the man tapped his arm for attention. Tom whirled to find what he assumed was the Captain of the Guard charging towards him.

I don't want to be that.

< Then don't. >

This time, the voice in his head was not the demon's.

It was Sir Kurt's.

Tom's soul focused on the man he had barely known, yet respected highly. A good man, smart, and skilled, and strong. When he thought of Diavla, the demon pushed thoughts of her suffering into his head. There was nothing infuriating about Sir Karl, though—he'd even avenged him and taunted his killer. For just a moment, considering the man who might have become a mentor, there wasn't room in his soul for hate.

< Back foot, > the voice prodded gently.

Still facing the guard captain, Tom smiled sadly and stepped back, crossing the threshold.

Something was left behind when he did. Something slimy and evil. Tom could almost see it hanging in the air. And perhaps...something else as well. Then it dissipated, leaving empty air.

The Captain charged right up to the edge of the Temple wards and drew his sword in one smooth motion, slashing at Tom's throat. Tom tried to jerk back, and at the last moment parried with his left hand to save his neck. The blade bit deep into the edge of his hand, drawing a rush of blood, and then Tom was out of reach.

The Captain stared at him with eyes full of hate and screamed wordlessly at him, then turned on his heel and marched out of the Temple, blowing his guard whistle for reinforcements.

As Tom staggered away from the entrance, horrified at the damage to his hand, the man in black let out a piercing whistle of his own. In a few moments, Priestess Deepwell came running. At first she headed for the man in black, but he pointed at Tom, and she switched targets. "Did this just happen?" she demanded. Tom nodded, cradling his injured hand, scared to do anything with it. The Priestess began chanting.

"Barsel, reject this change, refuse this fate. Mend what has been sundered! Reweave."

Tom could feel the magic surge, and the burning pain in his hand intensified, but he swallowed the scream in his throat. This magic felt different from Sheema's, and even different from the other human healers he had seen in the past. Maybe this spell is only for moments right after an injury? Abruptly, Tom felt very tired, only the pain in his hand keeping him awake. The Priestess pointed at a bench and Tom staggered over to it and sat down.

"I'm sorry, I'm out," he heard Deepwell say wearily. "Warren! Tanya!"

Tom realized that his rescuer had also been injured, and forced himself to focus. "WARREN! TANYA!" he bellowed, ignoring the impropriety. Another Priestess came running within a few moments of his yell. He pointed at Camilla Deepwell and the man in black, and she started chanting as soon as she reached the injured fighter. Nodding, Tom leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes for a moment.

I made it. It's gone. It's gone. Tom did not weep with relief—his eyes just got a little damp.

Thank you, Sir Kurt.

∘ ⛥ ⛯ ⛥ ∘

For a long time, Tom slept dreamlessly, far more exhausted from his ordeal than the physical exertion should have caused. A few times, something seemed to pull at his soul, trying and failing to wake him. Eventually, though, Tom found himself standing in mist.

Tom turned until he could see the campfire, then walked out of the fog, wondering who would be gathered around it this time. His friends? The men he had killed? Some other group of the dead?

He saw Julio first, then Vlad, then the others, one by one. They looked somber, and grim. He walked up and sat amongst them, weary even in his dream. Then, he noticed with a chill that Sir Kurt was missing. His heart filled with dread.

"...Guys?"

Julio looked up at him with tears in his eyes. "I wanted to go, Tom." He was pleading. "I tried to go. But...he said...it had to be him." The fog seemed to flicker, almost in warning.

Oh, no. Tom slumped on the log.

Vlad cleared his throat. "He said to tell you...that it was worth it. No regrets."

Tom closed his eyes. "He saved my life. Again." He shook his head slowly. "No. He saved my soul." He opened his eyes and looked around at the glum faces.

No one spoke for a bit. Then Vlad raised his mug. "Here's to the best damn boss I ever had!"

"Hear, hear!" the others called, and clanked their mugs against his. Tom joined them.

"To the best damn boss I ever had," he echoed.

The men fell silent a while, drinking, each lost in their own thoughts. Eventually, Michael stirred.

"Tom?"

"Yeah, Michael?"

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"Could you...keep dreaming us for a little while?" Tom's heart clenched.

"As long as I can," he promised, then took a deep breath. "Why don't you tell me one of your stories again?"

"The one about Julio and the barrel," Vlad suggested from behind his mug.

"Hey!"

Michael snorted, then began the tale he had told a few hours before he was killed. "So, Julio wanted to make a bet, see—"

"I wanted the girl," Julio corrected.

"It's my story."

"It happened to me!"

"And I was there, and I saw it, and I'm telling it, so it's my story! Anyway..."

Tom listened to the echoes of his friends, and remembered...and wondered. There were things they couldn't say, and when they tried, the dream usually ended. He looked around at the mist. He didn't know why he had these dreams, he didn't know how they worked, but it seemed that Sir Kurt's echo had paid a price for helping him—perhaps the final price.

May your soul find peace...Kurt.

∘ ⛥ ⛯ ⛥ ∘

Tom woke.

It was morning. He was lying on the cold bench in the Temple with some bedding tucked around him. The memory of the night's events came back to him slowly. He had dreamed his friends for as long as his body allowed, and promised as they faded that he would come again when he could.

Blinking away sleep, he looked at his hand. The flesh was closed, but looked...frail. Cautiously, he didn't move it more than necessary, only reaching gently and tapping each finger with his right hand, to see if he could feel each one. He was relieved when he found that he could.

A Temple girl noticed him moving, and promptly ran off somewhere. Tom waited. Before long, a Priest appeared and came over to him. Without a word of greeting, he started chanting, ending with the command, "Heal." Tom felt the energy slide into his hand. It felt significantly better afterwards. "Use that hand as little as possible for a couple of days," the healer ordered.

"Thank you." His stomach rumbled very loudly. "Um, can you tell me about my situation?"

"You requested sanctuary, didn't you?"

"Yes!" He hadn't, actually—he hadn't had time to—but he wasn't going to refuse it.

"Well, they just told me to heal you. I'll go ask the High Priest what to do with you."

A familiar voice called, "That's all right, Warren, I've got him."

Camilla Deepwell walked up. "Mr. Walker, welcome back to the land of the living."

For just a moment, Tom flinched, and the Priestess looked puzzled. Just a turn of phrase, he told himself. Clearing his throat, he answered, "Thank you. What happened to the man in black? The guy who rescued me? He got hurt too?"

Her lip twitched as if she were amused, and it was Tom's turn to be puzzled. What's that about?

"Your rescuer received some healing, and then made their escape."

"Escape?"

Deepwell checked that the Priest had gone elsewhere, then sighed and lowered her voice. "We're under siege. The demons can't get inside, but they don't seem to want you going anywhere."

Tom frowned. "I'm surprised they care, now that I'm not possessed any more."

"I'm not. You're a formidable young man, you know what's going on, and you've got a grudge against Quazulin. They want you under the demon's control, working for them. Also, you're especially dangerous now, whether they know it or not."

"How so?" Tom clicked his tongue and felt a surge of hope. "My sword?"

"Indeed. We've had it here since yesterday. I only hope Grangus has finished the Rod of Warding."

"That's good for fighting back, but how do we keep the demon from escaping?"

Deepwell snorted. "Ambitious, aren't we?"

"Well...I want to help. Right now, Quazulin is weak. It will be harder and harder to stop him the longer he has to work."

"Well, I happen to agree. The night you arrived and warned me, I sent word to every mage in the town. I told them to hide and work on sealing formations for demons. Four of the five responded, saying that they would have some of the seals ready today. With luck, we'll have a full set and a backup."

"So, are we fighting back today, or waiting?"

"I'm not sure yet. I need to get word or some sort of signal from the mages and from Grangus in particular. We'll have to guard the mages as they activate the seals."

"Can they do that in hiding?"

"They could, but I'm not sure where they are, and if Quazulin's host isn't within the sealed area when it forms..."

"He'll get away," Tom finished, nodding.

"We have to hope that the demon doesn't get too spooked and still thinks he can win here. He's been recruiting men to fight. We'll try to put up all the parts of the sealing formation at the same time. If we have two sets, we can seal him within the town first, and then drive him towards the Temple."

"And if we don't?"

Priestess Deepwell looked melancholy. "Then we'll have to kill every single one of his puppets, and all the ones he makes while we're doing that."

Tom shivered. That could have been me. His thoughts were interrupted by his stomach growling fiercely. "Apologies."

"No, you need food to heal. We don't have a lot, but hopefully the siege won't last long enough for that to matter. Follow me."

Camilla Deepwell led him down hallways to parts of the Temple the public did not generally see. There was a small kitchen and a pantry. There was a lot of three-day-old bread, which Tom softened with some hot water, then ate his fill.

"Are they letting other people in or out of the Temple?" Tom asked.

"No."

"Well, people must be complaining to the local lord about that, right?"

"If you had possessed the Captain of the Guard, wouldn't you find a way to shake the lord's hand or something and make him into a copy?" The Priestess pointed out.

"I don't think it's that easy. If they don't succumb right away and manage to sense it happening, Quazulin would have to keep them hidden until the possession was complete. That's what he was doing with me, keeping me in the jail."

"Most people wouldn't be able to sense it happening, but I take your point."

"But if Quazulin wants me, all he has to do is threaten the elves," Tom fretted, lowering his voice. "Has he done that yet?"

"Not yet. But you can't go out there, Tom. You can't fight the entire guard."

"With that sword, I might just...but Quazulin is in Captain Forester, and he's extremely powerful. He's faster than me and would carve me up like a butcher if I try to cross swords with him. The rest of them, I might chance it. Is the Captain waiting outside? Or did he go somewhere else?"

"The sword needs magic from its wielder, and even then it might not work. Grangus said it was just a rough draft, after all."

"Well, let's see how good his work is. Where is it?"

"Promise me you won't go out there yet," the Priestess demanded.

Tom huffed, and thought a moment. "I promise not to go out there in the next fifteen minutes. At the very least, I have to practice."

Camilla Deepwell frowned, but nodded. "Very well. Just don't run out there like a chicken looking to get its head chopped off."

"I assure you, any plan I have will be better than that."

The Priestess led him to her office, where she handed him his sword and scabbard. Tom pulled it out and inspected the blade. The dwarf had carved the demonic runes into the metal, so smoothly that it looked as if it had been forged that way. He gave a low whistle. "Nice work." He held the sword out in front of him, but there wasn't any room to swing it in Deepwell's office.

He frowned. "I have no idea how to use the magic in this thing."

"The problem is that it doesn't have any magic in it," Deepwell reminded him.

"Can you...try to fill it? Like an amulet?"

"I can try, but it probably won't work. Pay attention." The Priestess took a deep breath, then laid one finger on the blade, next to the rune. She closed her eyes. Tom did too, trying to sense that faint, faint echo he had felt before when meditating with Diavla.

He didn't sense a thing.

He felt the blade shift when she released it, and opened his eyes. "I didn't feel it. Did it work?"

The Priestess shook her head slowly. "After a fashion, but the magic is already draining away." She paused. "It's basically gone, now."

"Could you try it one more time, please?"

"All right. But only once more. I need to save my magic for filling amulets." Camilla stepped next to him, and this time, she laid her hand on his, with one finger touching the hilt. Her hand was small, warm, and soft, almost dainty. They were hands that spent their time clasped in prayer, and not wielding anything more heavy than a quill or piece of chalk.

She took another deep breath, and Tom did his best to sense the magic. This time he felt something—an extra surge of warmth from her hand, a very slight tingle in his. He tried to imagine the magic running up the blade, and shivered. Am I fooling myself, or did I feel the rune drink up the power?

Camilla Deepwell released his hand and stepped away. "That's the best I can do for you."

"Thank you, Priestess. May I practice in the Room of Altars?"

"Of course. Just...don't go out there without at least warning me first, please?"

"I won't," Tom promised. Camilla led him to the Room of Altars and then headed back to her own work. Tom watched her go, then walked over and knelt before Barsel's altar, sword upraised.

He had some practicing to do.

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