“Well that was easy!” Harruq shouted to the others.

“Too easy,” Qurrah said. “If this was a trap, it was a poor one.”

The two casters floated down, Tarlak eyeing the corpse of Thren in particular.

“He fell to a single lightning bolt,” Tarlak said, stroking his beard. “Something smells fishy, and it’s not Brug. Aurry, do you know any dispel magic?”

Harruq felt a pang of jealousy.

“Yes,” she said. “And don’t call me Aurry.”

The jealousy quickly faded.

Aurelia swung her hands about and cast her spell. A wave of white magic washed over the entire building. Harruq felt his armor and weapons sizzle in protest.

“Your equipment should be fine,” the elf told him when she noticed Harruq’s puzzled expression. “If I focused the spell entirely on your weapons, I might manage to destroy their magic, but I doubt it.”

“It wasn’t Thren,” Haern said, pointing to the body. “Illusions. A trap, for sure.” The guildmaster’s body had changed, now no different from any other common thief who lay dead around them.

“You three leave any alive?” Tarlak asked Brug and the half-orcs.

“Not thinking so,” Harruq said. “Did you?”

Tarlak shook his head.

“I like fire and lightning. It appears they didn’t. Haern?”

“One still breathes, yes,” Haern whispered. “Shall we have a talk?”

“Oh yes,” Tarlak beamed, cracking his knuckles. “Most definitely, yes.”

T he rogue was a young man, with not even a scrap of hair on his chin. He lay on his back, wheezing with each breath. His hands clutched a bleeding wound in his side.

“Will he be alive for much longer?” Tarlak asked, peering down at him.

“No,” Haern said. “Call in Delysia.”

“Will do.”

Tarlak reached into his shirt and pulled out a gold medallion shaped like a tower.