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distributed the goods amongst themselves. For the time being, Ghleanna carried the vials, planning to examine them later to see if she could identify their contents. Durwyn added several dozen arrows to his supply. Corran offered Kestrel an ordinary-looking dagger Loren had been carrying. “You seem to know how to use these.”
    “Thanks.” She gestured toward the ring. “I’ll take that too, if no one minds. It won’t fit either of you.”
    “And it can be sold for a fair price when we return, right?” Corran said dryly. He glanced at the others, then tossed it to her. “It’s yours.”
    She slid the dagger into a sheath on her belt and slipped the ring on her right middle finger where it wouldn’t impede the dexterity of her dominant left hand.
    They had just moved the last body into the makeshift crypt when a shout drifted out of another nearby building.
    “Leave that alone! Hey—leave me alone! Scat! Scat, I tell ye! Git yer stinkin’ carcasses outta here! Hey— help!”
    They hurried off in the direction of the cries, following them to a well-fortified building that looked as if it might once have been an armory. A foul stench issued forth, one that reminded Kestrel of the undead bandit she’d seen last night beside Phlan’s pool.
    Within, they found a half dozen rotting, animated orc corpses in tattered clothing circling what appeared to be a peddler’s wagon. Atop it, fending off the creatures with anything he could lay his hands on, perched a very irritated halfling. His leather armor seemed to deflect most of the zombies’ claws, but a few scratch marks marred his arms and round, ruddy cheeks.
    “Git back, I said!” He brained the nearest creature with a cast-iron frying pan, then tossed a basket over the head of another. “Whew! Ye need some perfume!” He unstopped a vial and flung its contents in the eyes of a third.
    Durwyn moved to engage the undead beings, but Corran stayed him. The paladin stepped forward. “Foul creatures of darkness!” he called out in a commanding tone.
    The zombies turned in the direction of his voice and staggered toward their new target, arms outstretched.
    “Great,” Kestrel muttered. Now the creatures were coming to attack them. At least these things moved slowly. Just as she was about to draw the twin daggers from her boots, Corran held a silver symbol of Tyr aloft.
    “Begone!” he cried. “Trouble this man no more!”
    The creatures moaned and tried to shield their eyes as they backed away. They shuffled jerkily toward a rear exit and out into the night. Within minutes the armory was free of their presence, though their odor lingered.
    The halfling scrambled down from his perch and over to Corran. “Thank ye, sir,” he said, removing his red knit cap and sweeping into a bow that revealed the start of a bald spot in the center of his thin brown curls. “Nottle’s the name. Purveyor of the finest equipment and goods in all Myth Drannor.” He straightened. “An’ who might ye be?”
    “Corran D’Arcey, Defender of Tyr. These are my companions, Durwyn, Kestrel, and Ghleanna Stormlake.”
    “Well met!” Nottle bowed again in greeting, then stooped to retrieve his merchandise. He hung the frying pan back on the wagon and picked up a quarterstaff from the floor. “Usually I can fend off the beasts m’self, but t’night they got m’staff away from me.”
    “This happens all the time?” Kestrel asked. “Why do you stay?”
    “Business is good here, m’dear,” he said. “Adventurers comin’ and goin’, all thinkin’ they’re gonna strike it rich, then discoverin’ they ain’t as prepared as they thought they were. That’s where I come in. Actually, the place has gotten a little less dangerous lately—them dreadful alhoon and phaerimm creatures have left this part of the city. The baatezu, too. ‘Course, now we have the drow and undead to put up with, so it’s not exac’ly paradise. Say, are ye needin’ anythin? I’ll cut ye a deal, seeing as Corran here saved my wagon just now.”
    “Drow?” Ghleanna