There were many things that D’Arden could have said, but few of them would have been properly diplomatic. Instead, he said carefully, “Mistakes have been made. A greater mistake may yet be made. You must immediately quarantine the Heights before any of the creatures in there are let loose in the city, and this must be accomplished before sundown today. Though they may have been lying dormant, they have now been awakened and will not wait long before seeking to feed.”

  Though he might have expected Mor to argue, the captain did no such thing. Instead, he merely nodded assent. “Very well. I’ll have my men barricade off all of the gates to the Heights immediately. No one will go in or out from here on until this entire situation is resolved.”

  “Good then,” D’Arden said with a small sigh. “If you’ll excuse me, Captain, I will now take my leave so that I may rest. It has been a long few days and I seek the comfort of your inn.”

  “Was the boy a bother?” Mor said, jerking his thumb at Mikel.

  “Not at all,” D’Arden said graciously. “In fact, I would very much like it if you could spare him to accompany me on the next part of my investigation, once I awaken from my rest.”

  “Of course, master Arbiter,” Mor said graciously. “Anything that you require shall, of course, be yours.”

  So you would provide me, then, with an army of Arbiters to purify this gods-forsaken place? D’Arden thought inwardly, but said nothing.

  “Thank you, Captain,” he chose instead to say, and gave a slight bow. With only that, he turned and left the room, leaving Mikel and the captain behind him.

  Once again on the streets of Calessa’s trade quarter, he made his way up the short dead-end street and back to the main square where his inn lay. He approached the door and went inside, giving a curt wave to the publican, who gave him only a sharp nod of acknowledgement as he passed by.

  Ascending the stairs both exhausted and energized with purpose, he crossed the long hallway to the room with the number on the door that matched the number etched into his key: thirty-seven. He turned the key in the lock and opened the door, revealing a small but serviceable room with a bed, table, two chairs, and a fireplace that lay cold but could quickly be revitalized with a few logs from the pile that sat beside it and a spark.

  This is going to be far more difficult than I thought, he said to himself as he placed two pieces of wood on the fire and lit them with a wave of his hand. They came to life almost instantly, a merry blaze springing up and beginning to warm the icy chill that had pervaded the room, despite the bright sunlight outside.

  He stripped off his gloves and rubbed his hands together before the flames to warm them. The insidious cold had even crept its way between the thick fabrics of his sword gloves, which had kept his hands warm through a driving snowstorm once, long ago, a much farther way north from here. Hunting evil in the snowbound tundra of the far northlands had been his first, and his least favorite, assignment as a fully named Arbiter. The cold here was indicative of more than just a long winter, and it would rob this place of the last sparks of life if left unchecked.

  He did not intend to let anything like that happen.

  Once the room had warmed to his liking, he sat on the sparse bed and crossed his legs before him. He did not need to sleep, only to wait for a few hours in a trance to refresh himself completely, and even less than that if he had a manna font nearby to draw from. The one that he had visited in the chapel a few blocks away was too far corrupted to draw upon, though, so he would have to rely on the earth itself to deliver his power to him.

  D’Arden drew forth from its place on his belt the tiny, perfectly round, pointed and tapered blade that thrummed with a soft blue light, looking very much like a heartbeat. The heartblade pulsed in his hand with its energy, and he sighed. With only a moment’s hesitation, he opened the front of his shirt and positioned the tiny blade just below the chest muscle on his left side. There was a tiny amount of pain as the perfectly sharpened instrument pierced his flesh and the muscle, and then just brushed the outside of his heart. He held his breath tightly, because any slight movement in the wrong direction could slice open his heart and send him to an early – and quite embarrassing – grave.

  The hyper-concentrated manna within the heartblade released in a flash, and he felt the warmth and the ecstasy wash over him. He pulled the tiny dagger free from his flesh, and the wound healed as the blade exited, sealing immediately with the fresh power contained in the heartblade. It would recharge itself in time, though it might have more difficulty without direct access to a pure manna font. The heartblade was very important, and several failsafes had of course been written into its design. As the pain faded, he settled in for his regenerative trance.

  He would have said a short prayer to the gods, but the last time he had seen someone do that, a magical gate had opened in midair, great beastly tentacles had reached through the opening and dragged the man through bodily, screaming and fighting and yelling and cursing the whole time. All those around him had simply averted their eyes, for they had known what was happening, and he had simply been left to stare, dumbfounded, watching as a man was snuffed out by those whose favor he sought.

  It was not wise to speak to the gods.

  *****

  Part III: The Low Quarter

  Images swirled around D’Arden’s mind as the room faded away around him. His hands were placed securely on his knees, and though the thin mattress on the bed was softer than he was used to, he was able to find a comfortable enough position that allowed his consciousness to sink into trance.

  As he did, he felt the corruption swell up around him, clawing at his consciousness, desperately seeking a way past his wall of purity and clarity. It wanted to get its claws into him, to drive him mad as it had done to the Arbiter who had preceded him here, to take away his sanity and drive him screaming into the catacombs beneath the city to vanish forever.

  A thought haunted him that had crossed his mind briefly before; could it be that the source of the evil energy here was actually that Arbiter who had been here five years ago, and perhaps still was? Could it be not a demon at all, not a creature from another world, but a member of his own flock gone rogue? The thought troubled him deeply, to say the least, and it was with that thought on his mind that he descended fully into his healing and regenerative trance.

  Normally he would perform his trance in the glow of a manna font, but he dared not do any such thing in this terrible place. Even the font in the graveyard had too much corruption for him to effectively draw any power from it. It was frightening and dangerous to be so cut off from the comforting source of his power, to have to reach far and away to replenish the manna that dwelled deep within him.

  Reach though he did, sending his consciousness far across the land, trying to find the green grass and warm fields beyond the desolate landscape that surrounded Calessa. He longed to return to the high stone gates among the mountains that were home to the Arbiter’s Tower, the place where he’d been raised, the place that he called home. There was a manna font seemingly on every corner there, always a place to draw their power from.

  Finally he found himself able to connect to the land, just at the very edges of his spiritual reach. The corruption from Calessa was spreading, and if it was left entirely unchecked it would soon spread to the surrounding cities. If the demon’s influence touched Aldur, a city nearly forty leagues to the north, the Arbiters might not have the forces to combat the demon at the height of its power.

  He would not let that happen. He wished there was a way that he could contact his fellows, but there was no chance that the message would reach them in time. As always, they were spread to the far corners of the globe, searching out and destroying evil wherever it could be found. There were barely more than a handful of them now, plus a few in training at the Tower. Word would never reach them in time. It was up to him to destroy this evil and stop it in its tracks before it grew large enough to shake the foundations of the world itself.

  D’Arden planted his spiritual feet upon the ground outside the range of the corruption, drinking up the sweet power of the land into himself, into his soul. It was sweet and cool and refreshing but also pleasantly warm in a way, making him feel as though he were home once again. There were only tiny traces, small inklings of the corruption in the manna that he drew inward.

  For a few hours he sat outside the twisted land, reveling in the replenishment of his energy and a chance to truly rest. He’d expended much of his power in the mausoleum, fighting that dry corpse and the legions of its minions, and then expended yet more fighting against the undead in Calessa Heights. Although his power was nearly unlimited when he was near a pure manna font, without one nearby he became weak, and useless.

  He hoped that there was still a chance to purify the manna font in the low quarter. The boy, Mikel, had said that the corruption was weaker there, that it hadn’t yet spread to much of the populace. That alone was a hope, that he might be able to establish a foothold here in the city so that he might work outward to cleanse it of the danger.

  When his strength had fully returned, he slowly drew his spirit back to his body. Carefully he returned to his flesh to ensure that he was not too quickly overwhelmed by the corruption during the transition back to the physical realm. The manna he had absorbed bolstered him though, heightened his strength both physical and mental so that when he returned to his body he no longer felt exhausted, drained and defeated; but instead energized and ready to face whatever dangers and trials lay ahead for him.

  D’Arden opened his eyes once again. The fire he had lit in the fireplace had long since burned out, and the cold was creeping into the room again. A few weak embers glowed in the hearth, but the rest was cold, black ash. The room looked the same as it had when he had closed his eyes, but the slant of the sun was significantly lower, and the shadows in the room longer from the light streaming in the window.

  It had been several hours at least, he mused. Slowly standing to ensure that nothing untoward had happened to his limbs while he’d been entranced, he made his way over to the window and looked at the sky. The position of the sun told him that it was well into afternoon, which was well enough. That would have given the captain and his men plenty of time to seal up the entrances to Calessa Heights, which would significantly reduce the danger to the rest of the population of the city.

  He crossed the room and exited, making sure to the lock the door behind him. Slowly, he descended the staircase and entered the common room.

  The patrons for the evening were beginning to trickle in, and there was a common sense of anxiety that seemed to pervade the room. As he crossed the threshold and entered the room fully, he saw a man clad in armor rise from his seat at a nearby table. It only took D’Arden a moment to realize that it was Mikel, the boy solider that had accompanied him to the Heights.

  “Have you been here all afternoon?” D’Arden asked him as the young man came to greet him.

  Mikel nodded. “The Captain said I should wait for you. He didn’t want me to go off on a patrol and not be ready to go with you when you awakened.”

  D’Arden frowned slightly. He’d hoped that the Captain would at least send the boy back to the Heights, to ensure that the soldiers were blocking off the gates as he’d instructed. No matter, though – the fact that the boy was already here would save him a time-consuming search. He needed Mikel’s expertise, since the boy had been born and raised in the low quarter.

  “We should go,” D’Arden said after a moment. “The longer we wait, the more the corruption will spread. If we are to have any hope of purifying the manna font in the low quarter, we must go there immediately.”

  “I’ll lead the way,” Mikel said. “We’ll pass by my home on the way to the font chapel.”

  That would be fortuitous, D’Arden thought. The boy could visit his family while he attempted to purify the font. He suspected that there might be something there, a smaller danger that would be drawing the power of the font into itself, like there had been in the graveyard. That would prevent the corruption from becoming too concentrated there among the people, because something would be absorbing all of the power, similar to how he absorbed the pure manna from the earth.

  It could not be the demon, he reasoned, for if the demon had taken up residence there the corruption would surely be stronger. The boy would have noticed at least some of his friends and neighbors acting strangely at least, and murderously mad at worst. If none of that had happened, perhaps there was a smaller presence, something that could be more easily dealt with. His only hope of saving Calessa lay with purifying one of the fonts in the city so that he could work outward from there, have a place to recharge, and also to have a way to locate where the demon was hiding.

  He nodded to the boy, and together they left the inn. As he exited through the front door, D’Arden looked to the counter where the publican stood. As before, the publican merely gave him a curt wave with his grizzled hand, and D’Arden returned the gesture with an acknowledging nod.

  The streets were lively in the afternoon in the trade quarter. Many people milled around, what must have been fully half of the remaining population of the city. They seemed remarkably unaffected by what lay beyond the gate into Calessa Heights; perhaps it was simply easier for them to put it out of their minds.

  He followed Mikel among the merchant carts and through the crowds of people. The shouting, the yelling, the calling out of names and wares and prices was nearly deafening compared to the grisly silence he had experienced only hours earlier, and to the pleasant repose that had taken his attention since. In fact, he was quite surprised that his room in the inn had been so well insulated against the inundation of sound that lay outside.

  They meandered their way along the streets and slowly the crowds of the trade quarter began to thin out. The streets began to look more desolate as the people began to be less and less frequent, and they passed through several neighborhoods which had obviously not been inhabited in some time.

  “People are all congregating close to the trade quarter,” Mikel said, as though he had read the Arbiter’s mind. “The captain’s got special provisions that allow folk to buy houses for people who died or had to be…” he swallowed hard, “…put down. They can buy ‘em cheap, and it brings them in closer to where the rest of the people are, so they don’t feel so lonesome. Sometimes the captain even lets them live there for free. Not like the owners care anymore, and people are so desperate to be a part of civilization that they don’t mind living in the house of dead folk.”

  “A sad state of affairs indeed,” D’Arden said.

  “It’s really only the trade folks who can afford the program, though,” Mikel said. “You’ll start to see more people again once we get close to the low quarter. There’s all sorts of people in there who can’t afford to move.”

  Mikel was right. As they wound their way through the streets and the buildings became less and less decorated, more worn and older-looking, D’Arden began to see the population pick up again. These were very different people than were found in the trade quarter. These people wore rags, many of them, and he began to feel conspicuous and out of place very rapidly. His road-worn travel clothes were like princely robes to these poor folk. It seemed that since the corruption had come to Calessa that their fortunes were growing more and more dire. They seemed happy enough, and D’Arden could not sense any large increase in corruption as they approached. Of course, the city was so thick with it that it was hard to distinguish one from the other, but this place did not have the oppressive ominous feeling that had pervaded the Heights. For all that they had little wealth, these people actually seemed to be genuinely happy.

  “The font chapel is down this way,” Mikel said, and D’Arden followed only a few steps behind him. It seemed strange to him what a sense of joy these people seemed to have in their lives, unaware that within the walls of their own city there lurked a danger which threatened to devour all of them: men, women and children alike.

  D’Arden felt buoyed by the pure energy that he’d absorbed from the earth during his trance. Despite his knowledge of just how dire the situation was in this city, he could almost feel the genuine, warm joy that these people felt. It seemed to him as though purifying the manna font here in the low quarter would be little more effort than walking up to it. He felt invincible, alive, and ready to take on anything that would come his way.

  If only that feeling could have lasted.

  They approached the font chapel with some trepidation. D’Arden feared that it would be as badly corrupted as the one in the trade quarter, and that might well render his mission pointless. Mikel, of course, was simply worried about being exposed to the radiant power that lay within.

  The font chapel was the nicest and most highly decorated building in the surrounding area. It was made of the cool white stone that all of the font chapels in this area were made from, while the rest of the buildings seemed to be made of rotting wood and thatch. It stood out like a red-tailed hart in an open green meadow.

  As they stood before the door, D’Arden looked at the boy. “You should take this time to visit your family. They will have missed you, and you cannot enter the chapel with me. Go, now, and come find me in an hour. This may take some time as I do battle with the corruption on its own ground.”

  Mikel nodded and disappeared down one of the side streets, but not before handing D’Arden the key to the chapel’s door. With a glance over each shoulder to ensure that there was no one within range of the energy’s lethal light, he unlocked the door, pulled it open quickly, and stepped inside.

  The corruption assaulted him immediately, but it was not as strong as the time before. There was some purity still left in the energy here, and it was enough, he thought, that he might be able to gain a foothold. As soon as he had closed the door behind him, he plunged his hands into the radiant light and stiffened with a cry of pain.