In the cave lit by flickering furnace fires, thirty or forty dwarven corpses lay sprawled in every direction. Their clothing differed slightly, and a small number had clearly spent a long time in a cave environment like this.
Not only had the dust on their clothes never been cleaned off, but their hair had been matted into greasy strands.
Most of the other dwarves looked slightly different. It was not that they were any cleaner, but they lacked that coating of dust. Otherwise, there was little difference; none of them paid much attention to hygiene.
The only exception might have been the dwarven leader slumped in the center of the cave. His once-lavish clothes were soaked in blood, and several arrows shimmering with blue-white light protruded from his chest. His right hand, which had once held a golden battle axe, had been severed from his arm and lay alone to one side.
The cut was remarkably clean, clearly made by a sharp weapon.
The place he had defended to the last was a stone table. A heap of pitch-black powder lay upon it, glinting with an eerie light in the glow of the furnace fires.
Hollimion stood dazed beside the stone table, gripping a jet-black warhammer in both hands.
Before all this happened, mesmerizing flames had suddenly wreathed the black crystal orb. Someone was clearly controlling it from behind the scenes. Hollimion had already decided that the orb possessed sinister powers, so after killing the dwarf blocking his way, he had attacked it immediately.
Struck by the hammer, the crystal orb had released a soul-shattering aura. As it crumbled into powder, a plume of black smoke tinged with red rose straight up and flew swiftly down the passage Hollimion had come through.
Still, it had distinctly looked as though it