Sorela nearly bent over to sick up as she and Gorkis Sek pushed their way—cloak sleeves over their mouths—toward the light ahead. The smell was unbearable Ragged canvas over hangings cordoned off large sections of the cavern, some stained with dark brown splotches.

She hadn’t seen a lot in her day, but Sorela knew that those brown stains were in fact old blood. Accompanied by the sweet acrid smells of rotting meat, it was unmistakable.

The rancourus odor seemed to come in waves, carried by faint drafts of cool air. Sorela wrinkled her nose under her sleeve as she pushed the tingling sensation in her throat out of her mind.

Where is it coming from? she wondered, pushing through another row of tattered canvas, ready to strike down anything in her way. Unfortunately killing was unavoidable in the Blackwood. She had no qualms about striking down a fellbeast, though.

Her eyes widened in shock

Gorkis Sek instinctively moved in front of her, ready for an attack. He looked on the verge of retching himself after laying eyes on the strung up bodies. This area of the cavern was quite obviously... quite obviously...

Oh gods!—I’m going to retch up…

“They prepare their food here?” Gorkis muttered, pushing harder against his sleeve.

Sorela’s stomach involuntarily emptied on the damp rocky ground. She coughed hoarsely. It was so very unbecoming of a mage to be stricken so.

Gods! Do not let this be. Please, do not let lord Jalen be...

She had to force herself not to continue sicking up. “I cannot think of a worse way to die,” she croaked, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“I am... sorry, lady mage,” Gorkis said, lowing his sword. “Perhaps—“

The canvas in front of the large man ripped aside.

Sorela jumped back. “Gorkis!”

With an explosion of blood, three spikes stuck out of Gorkis’ chest, his booted feet half a pace from the ground.

His spear clattered to the ground and he moaned a death rattle through a gushing of blood over his chin.

All the gods and goddesses!

“GORKIS!”

The powerful warrior’s head lolled toward her. “Hngh!”

“Gorkis?!”

“R—RUN!”

Then the fellbeast flung him aside like a bundle of rags. Sorela did not watch to see where Gorkis would land, but rather uttered an incantation of fire as she scrawled the rune. The monster burst into flames, howling and flailing. It crumbled into a charred heap of burnt flesh.

Eyes wide, both hands outstretched, Sorela breathed in and out, her fright so powerful she felt as if she had been kicked in the midsection. Each of her exhailations came out a hoarse rasp of air.

The beast was dead. She turned, ran for Gorkis. She rolled the north man to his back, muttering an incantation of healing as she did so.

And then she was flying through the air.

Flailing, she struck the rocky ground, her palms skidding and her chin bouncing off of the smooth rocks. In a heep, she cried out as pain spread through her ribs, unaware as to weather her landing or that powerful strike from her new foe had been what wounded her.

She winced, turning for a counter attack, but the second fellbeast, seven feet tall, wings folded behind it’s back like a man beast fused with some evil undead thing, was already upon her.

The creature hissed through its skinless mouth, its eyes alight with wicked hatred as it ambled forward, claws—like knives on its hands—reaching out for her.

Sorela scrambled back and screamed, in anger, in agony—but most of all in a primitive fear that bellied the truth that she wasn’t afraid of her own death.