galleries, undoubtedly streets that led to the other Quarters of Khald Azalar.
That was good news, but for the moment the streets did not hold his attention.
The corpses lying amongst the blocky dwarven houses did.
Dozens of dead deep orcs lay scattered among the tiers, slain by sword and mace and axe. The faint odor of rotting flesh colored the air, and in a few days the stench would be terrible. To judge from the state of the corpses, Ridmark did not think they had been dead for very long. Two days, maybe.
Which meant that the deep orcs had been killed while Ridmark and the others had passed the Gate of the West.
“This happened recently,” said Morigna, her black eyes sweeping over the corpses. “Maybe even yesterday.”
“Did they kill each other?” said Calliande, peering around the cavern.
“It would seem that way,” said Kharlacht, his greatsword in hand. “Those are wounds from sword and axe, not claws.”
“Plus no one ate them,” said Jager.
Ridmark looked at the nearest deep orc. The lack of eyes made it difficult to judge the dead orcish man’s expression, but his tusked mouth was twisted with fury. A deep axe wound had ended his life, splitting his ribs and turning his heart to pulp.
“Ridmark,” said Morigna, pointing with her staff. “Look.”
A dark shape lay sprawled in the doorway of a nearby house, so dark that it somehow seemed to drink the light from the glowstones.
Ridmark muttered a quiet curse and stepped over the dead deep orcs, stopping before the house.
A gray-skinned figure lay sprawled in the doorway. It looked like a dead dwarf, but no dwarf had bottomless black eyes like pits into a freezing void. The dead figure wore armor fashioned of a peculiar black metal that seemed oily, yet it did not reflect any light. The armor would be superb for stealth, yet the dead warrior would have hardly needed it. He would have had the power to draw the shadows around him, to make himself invisible.
Morigna stepped to Ridmark’s side, her black eyes narrowing in sudden anger. “A dvargir.”
“Aye,” said Ridmark. The dvargir were the sundered cousins of the dwarves. Caius might have turned from the gods of stone and silence to pray to the Dominus Christus, but the dvargir had forsaken the gods of stone and silence to worship the great darkness of Incariel.
“There are four other dvargir corpses on the other bank of the stream,” called Kharlacht.
“Two more in that house,” said Arandar, Heartwarden in his hand. A little stab of pain went through Ridmark’s head from his broken link with the soulblade.
“Then the deep orcs were slaves of the dvargir,” said Calliande, “and they were fighting someone else. The Mhorites, maybe? Perhaps Mournacht sent scouts into Khald Azalar before we arrived.”
“The tracks are wrong for that,” said Morigna, her voice harsh, but for once the harshness was not aimed at Calliande. The dvargir had killed her parents at the Old Man’s command. “I think the deep orcs were fighting the dvargir.”
“Antenora, Mara,” said Ridmark. “The dvargir can use the shadows to make themselves invisible. That shouldn’t foil the Sight, though…”
“There is nothing, Gray Knight,” said Antenora. “I see nothing. No one is using dark power to conceal themselves in this cavern.”
“I agree,” said Mara. “No dvargir.”
Ridmark nodded, but his alarm did not ebb. There might not have been any dvargir in the cavern, but that did not mean it was empty.
“Morigna,” he said.
She gestured, purple fire dancing around her fingers as she cast the spell to sense the presence of weight against the ground, and her eyes widened. She looked around, her face tightening, and Ridmark gripped his staff.
“Deep orcs,” murmured Morigna. “At least twenty of them. They’re spread out around us. Some on this side of the stream, some on the other.”
Ridmark nodded and headed back to the others, beckoning them to
That was good news, but for the moment the streets did not hold his attention.
The corpses lying amongst the blocky dwarven houses did.
Dozens of dead deep orcs lay scattered among the tiers, slain by sword and mace and axe. The faint odor of rotting flesh colored the air, and in a few days the stench would be terrible. To judge from the state of the corpses, Ridmark did not think they had been dead for very long. Two days, maybe.
Which meant that the deep orcs had been killed while Ridmark and the others had passed the Gate of the West.
“This happened recently,” said Morigna, her black eyes sweeping over the corpses. “Maybe even yesterday.”
“Did they kill each other?” said Calliande, peering around the cavern.
“It would seem that way,” said Kharlacht, his greatsword in hand. “Those are wounds from sword and axe, not claws.”
“Plus no one ate them,” said Jager.
Ridmark looked at the nearest deep orc. The lack of eyes made it difficult to judge the dead orcish man’s expression, but his tusked mouth was twisted with fury. A deep axe wound had ended his life, splitting his ribs and turning his heart to pulp.
“Ridmark,” said Morigna, pointing with her staff. “Look.”
A dark shape lay sprawled in the doorway of a nearby house, so dark that it somehow seemed to drink the light from the glowstones.
Ridmark muttered a quiet curse and stepped over the dead deep orcs, stopping before the house.
A gray-skinned figure lay sprawled in the doorway. It looked like a dead dwarf, but no dwarf had bottomless black eyes like pits into a freezing void. The dead figure wore armor fashioned of a peculiar black metal that seemed oily, yet it did not reflect any light. The armor would be superb for stealth, yet the dead warrior would have hardly needed it. He would have had the power to draw the shadows around him, to make himself invisible.
Morigna stepped to Ridmark’s side, her black eyes narrowing in sudden anger. “A dvargir.”
“Aye,” said Ridmark. The dvargir were the sundered cousins of the dwarves. Caius might have turned from the gods of stone and silence to pray to the Dominus Christus, but the dvargir had forsaken the gods of stone and silence to worship the great darkness of Incariel.
“There are four other dvargir corpses on the other bank of the stream,” called Kharlacht.
“Two more in that house,” said Arandar, Heartwarden in his hand. A little stab of pain went through Ridmark’s head from his broken link with the soulblade.
“Then the deep orcs were slaves of the dvargir,” said Calliande, “and they were fighting someone else. The Mhorites, maybe? Perhaps Mournacht sent scouts into Khald Azalar before we arrived.”
“The tracks are wrong for that,” said Morigna, her voice harsh, but for once the harshness was not aimed at Calliande. The dvargir had killed her parents at the Old Man’s command. “I think the deep orcs were fighting the dvargir.”
“Antenora, Mara,” said Ridmark. “The dvargir can use the shadows to make themselves invisible. That shouldn’t foil the Sight, though…”
“There is nothing, Gray Knight,” said Antenora. “I see nothing. No one is using dark power to conceal themselves in this cavern.”
“I agree,” said Mara. “No dvargir.”
Ridmark nodded, but his alarm did not ebb. There might not have been any dvargir in the cavern, but that did not mean it was empty.
“Morigna,” he said.
She gestured, purple fire dancing around her fingers as she cast the spell to sense the presence of weight against the ground, and her eyes widened. She looked around, her face tightening, and Ridmark gripped his staff.
“Deep orcs,” murmured Morigna. “At least twenty of them. They’re spread out around us. Some on this side of the stream, some on the other.”
Ridmark nodded and headed back to the others, beckoning them to
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