Free Depths of Madness by Erik Scott de Bie

halfling was remarkable in her healing, seeming able to cast any of the sacred spells she desired as she needed them. The others found this curious, but none questioned. They were just pleased to be alive.
    Asson needed much healing, and his old body hadn’t done well. Nothing could cure his stump of a leg. If he had limped
    and breathed heavily before, he would be a wreck to travel with in his current condition. Taslin bore him shakily to the wall, where he could rest, then knelt at his side for a long while, patting his hand.
    Meekly, Liet crept up to sit with Twilight, his hands clenching and unclenching.
    “The way you distracted that wight just by shouting,” Twilight said without looking. “How did you manage that? Latent magical talent? Favored of a god?”
    “I know not,” Liet said with a shrug.
    Twilight listened closely. It was not a lie.
    “My thanks,” said the youth after a moment.
    “For what?”
    “Saving my life,” he said.
    Twilight bristled. Whether it was resentment at the risk that saving him had brought her, or embarrassment that the others were watching, or annoyance because it was too easy to hear his gratitude, she couldn’t say. Twilight looked at him venomously. “It’s what you asked of me, isn’t it?”
    Liet’s eyes widened and he stood up. Whether out of respect or hurt, he made no sign, After a breath, he padded away.
    “You’re hurt,” came a soft, feminine voice, startling Twilight. She looked up and Taslin stood before her, her hands folded at her waist. Of course the sun would come to see if she needed healing.
    The shadowdancer shook her arm. “A nick. Hardly worth worrying about.”
    “The wight’s draining touch… Slip’s power to heal a damaged spirit—”
    “Save it for someone who needs it,” Twilight said, interrupting her. Her eyes remained distant—staring at the object of her malice.
    Taslin saw, on the other side of the room, similarly isolated from the others, that Davoren sat glaring at Twilight. The girl returned the gaze in kind, spinning her sword with more
    conviction than before. Red-black blood still smeared her cheek. Perhaps she was not such a child after all.
    The priestess glided cautiously to Davoren’s side. The warlock sat slumped, his face still a flood of gore. He didn’t look up as she approached.
    “Davoren,” she said. No reply. “I have come to heal you. Corellon’s gifts…”
    “Are neither required nor desired,” the warlock said icily. He spat, and blood dripped from his lips. He shifted and winced in pain. “Be gone, and take your feeble tricks with you. I care nothing for the whimsy of a naive, spoiled god or his whores.”
    The blasphemy rankled, but Taslin suppressed her anger. She turned on her heel and walked two steps, then stopped.
    “I… I’ve also come to… thank you, Davoren,” Taslin said. “You saved Asson and myself, and for that you have my grat—”
    “I don’t want your sniveling gratitude.” He still stared at Twilight.
    Taslin stiffened. A hand went to her sword, but it would be dishonorable to draw on a foe in such pitiable state. “What do you desire, then?” she asked.
    “Your respect or your fear,” Davoren said. “I -don’t much care which.”
    “You shall have neither,” Taslin said. Her hand tightened on the hilt. “Ever.”
    There was a pause.
    “Well, then,” Davoren said. “Go back to your decrepit sack of bones, and leave me in peace from your whining. Have I earned that much?”
    As Taslin walked away, she decided she hated him.
    They made camp in the ruined mausoleum where they had fought the wights. They could have pushed on, but all were tired and Asson needed rest badly. He also begged for time to study his grimoire.
    Leaving Taslin in charge, Twilight and Slip—the least
    wounded and stealthiest of the bunch—searched the other rooms of the crypt, but found them cleared of any residents. They chose not to disturb any of the sarcophagi, lest they discover more