"You see," Junce said from behind Kovrim, "we're fighting a war, as you already surmised back in Arrabar, when you started nosing around in Lavant's affairs. But this war is costly, and we need all the help we can get. That's why we're accepting volunteers to join up and fight the good fight. You and some of your men will be new recruits."

Kovrim turned back and looked at the assassin with the coldest, most baleful stare he could muster, though the other man's words sent an ominous chill down the priest's spine. He wasn't certain what Junce was suggesting, but he knew it did not bode well for him and the other Crescents.

"Go ahead," Junce said, gesturing, "take a look. I know I'm going to enjoy this."

He turned, walked to the far side of the torture chamber, and pulled open another door, disappearing through it and pulling it shut behind himself.

Kovrim shook his head in mute frustration and turned back to the window.

The portcullis began to rise, and a moment later, the two guards who had manhandled him into the torture chamber appeared again, dragging Hort along with them, still in his chains. He was being led along willingly, if sullenly, but when he saw the room, his body stiffened, as though he had gotten a sudden, uneasy feeling. The guards shoved him to the floor and turned back to the exit, where the portcullis was already dropping again. The pair sprinted through the narrowing gap and vanished.

Hort climbed to his feet with a muttered curse and looked around, examining the surroundings. Kovrim made a loud grunting noise, willing Hort to look up, and after a moment, the grizzled soldier spotted the priest looking down at him.

"Well, this is a fine mess we're in, eh, sir?" Hort called up, trying to sound cheerful.

Before Kovrim could grunt a response, there was the sound of a heavy door opening and closing. Hort looked up toward the near side of the balcony, just out of Kovrim's sight, and scowled. Then Junce strolled into view, looking down at his captive.

"Watch carefully" the assassin said, and chuckled. "This is going to be interesting."

The heavy door on the left side of the pit began to rise. Kovrim, panic welling up in him, willed Hort to find a way out, to climb up to the balcony, out of harm's way. But the old soldier turned and eyed the opening portal warily.

No! Kovrim tried to shout, but all that came out was a muffled, nasally whine. Don't do this!

As the heavy barricade reach its zenith, Hort's expression changed from concern to horror. He began to back away, turning toward the portcullis and running to it as fast as his chains would allow. "No!" he cried out, yelling down the blackened hallway. "Raise the gate! Raise the gate!"

Kovrim stood, transfixed in a state of helpless horror, as something began to emerge from the interior beyond the barricade. A man shuffled out, or what once must have been a man. Its movements were awkward and jerky, and Kovrim could see that it was undead.

The thing's skin was discolored, like one continuous bruise, all purplish yellow with tinges of blue at the joints. Pustules of yellowish ichor also covered its sagging, lifeless flesh. Muscles moved beneath the surface like burrowing grubs, and its clothing, that of the guard there inside the Palace of the Seven, hung filthy and loose, torn and deteriorating.

A zombie.

As soon as the nasty thing was fully into the room, a second and a third followed it out of the tunnel. They shuffled without pause directly toward Hort, who was bellowing and banging his manacles on the bars of the portcullis, pleading to be let out of the deathtrap in a voice that rose ever higher in panic-induced pitch.

Kovrim screamed, too, or tried to. He pounded his steel fists against the bars of the window, trying desperately to distract the zombies, all the while furiously but futilely attempting to dislodge the thick wad of leather so firmly clamped between his teeth. If he could only speak, he could help, cast a spell or drive the undead things back, away from Old Bloagy, or he could-but it was useless.

The priest watched in horror as the zombies closed in on his companion, watched as Hort turned, screaming, and began to pummel the walking dead things his fists. The soldier used the length of chain stretched between his wrists to good effect, like a garrote, wrapping it around the neck of one of the zombies as though he were trying to strangle it. Being undead, it did not need to breathe, but Hort held it firmly there anyway, shifting it back and forth, using the creature as a shield against the slow, witless attacks from the other two. For a moment, Kovrim thought that perhaps the man would survive the horrible assault, that Hort might destroy the zombies before they rent him to pieces.

But eventually, the chain sawed clear through the held zombie's neck, and its head went bouncing away while its body slumped to the floor in front of Hort, twitching uselessly. The other two ignored the downed corpse and pursued the man. Hort backed away, waiting for an opening while licking his lips in desperation, but he looked strange to Kovrim, slow and ill at ease.

What's the matter with him? the priest wondered. He looks… unwell.

Truly, Hort's complexion had paled considerably, and his breath was coming in ragged gasps. Kovrim could see no wounds, no marks upon the man, but all the same, the soldier acted as though he had been mortally wounded. As the zombies backed him into a corner, he went down to one knee, coughing, clutching at his sides.

No, Kovrim thought desperately, no! He wanted to turn away, and yet he could not.

The zombies drew closer, pummeling their prey. Hort cried out, then slid down, and the zombies continued to beat on him long after he stopped moving. The sounds of their blows turned wet, pulpy.

Kovrim's throat constricted in anguish. The brutality of the fight made his anger burn hot inside. He turned and stared malevolently at Junce, but the assassin had his elbows resting on the railing of the balcony, watching with bemused interest. He didn't even notice the gaze, or if he did, he ignored it.

The priest had felt hatred for few people during his long life, but the fury, the savage enmity that coursed through him right at that moment for the man standing on the balcony was beyond compare. His blood pounded in his ears, and his vision was tinged in red. He swore to himself, to Waukeen, that if he got the chance, he would kill Junce Roundface, would strangle him or bludgeon the man with his restraints, even at the cost of his own life. He would never hesitate.

Bathed in his anger, Kovrim did not realize that Junce had started speaking again.

"Normally, we restrain them," Junce commented casually, "because otherwise, they put up such a fight, and we lose as many new recruits as we create. And that's not productive, obviously." Junce departed from the balcony then, moving out of Kovrim's field of vision momentarily to the sound of a door opening and closing. He reappeared again within the torture chamber, strolling over toward the cage wall behind which Kovrim seethed.

"But I decided to make an exception, just this once," Junce said, picking up where he had left off. "I wanted you to get to see a little sport, think for a few minutes that your friend down there had a fighting chance. It was kind of funny, actually, watching him get the disease all over himself. That's really ironic, don't you think?"

Kovrim glared at Junce, not deigning to give the horrid man the satisfaction of any sort of reaction.

Junce shrugged. "Well, I think it is. After all, what's the point of fighting something that's already killed you the moment it gets near you? Your friend was already dead the instant he first bumped up against one of them; he just didn't know it, yet."

Realization began to dawn on Kovrim, and his eyes widened in horror. No! he thought again, banging his steel-encased fists on the bars of his cage. No, no, no! Not this! You cannot! You're a madman!