“By the name of the Heavens above...” the deep voice echoed through the cavernous stone corridor.

“Kaleel, perhaps we shouldn’t,” the smaller voice accompanied.

The thumping of heavy leather boots filled the silent void just then, the small chatter of the two figures moving stealthily through the ruined mortar temple. Blood stained the walls from battles fought weeks prior, but the most unsettling of things was the fresh blood coating the cobbles underfoot.

Kaleel moved into the final chamber at the back of the second level, swinging his torch in a wide arc as his friend came to his back. The young, dark skinned Vizjeri mage drew his blade and waited breathlessly in the ebony gloom.

“I sense nothing,” he said evenly, his voice coming out flatly. “Jorel, come close with that,” he added quickly.

The smaller figure came tottering up to his gaunt friend, a satchel in hand. From behind, the smaller of the two Eastern men shoved past his companion, opening the mouth of the sack as he dropped to one knee.

“A few coins, Kaleel, nothing more,” Jorel solemnly said. In the light of the torch in his companion’s hand, Jorel could make out the features on his friend’s scarred face. His dark skin was stuck solidly to his bones, the mounds of his cheeks casting shadows across his face as he grinned a half-toothless smile. Kaleel’s long, wiry black hair hadn’t been washed in nearly a ten-day; now hanging oily and limp across his broad shoulders.

“Let’s move on,” Kaleel said, still keeping spirits despite the area they found their selves in. The Durance’s second level looked similar to the first, and would no doubt continue in its pattern to the final floor down beneath Travincal

“The third, then?” Jorel asked meekly, his free hand shaking.

“Yes, maybe there we can find something of value,” Kaleel, always the leader on such expeditions, said with a sigh. They had already managed to locate over a hundred gold coins dropped along the Durance’s cold floors, a pair of heavy-duty gauntlets and a fine Bastard sword that Jorel now carried strapped to his back.

Although the finds were good, they still needed Ormus to tell them what they were and how much they were worth. There was no sense in using them until their magical properties were revealed, worn merchandise didn’t sell well in Kurast.

“We’ve seen nothing dangerous,” Jorel suddenly piped in, as though to alleviate himself of some burden.

“Correct, but we mustn’t make any assumptions,” Kaleel said grimly, still holding his glinting blade with one hand while the other led the torch through the damp darkness.

“Maybe she killed everything,” Jorel suggested. Kaleel let out a burst of laughter that echoed throughout the entire level.

“Hardly. She came into here alone wearing barely anything, I’m sure she must have ran from something,” Kaleel said.

“Right, I don’t want to meet what she ran from,” Jorel said, his voice dropping low at the end.

“Didn’t strike me as a Goddess-like woman, although her body was something to be treasured,” Kaleel trailed off, his face once again cloaked in deep shadows streaking from his warped smile. It was an evil smile; Jorel had seen it too many times before to pick it out instantly.

“Amazons are excellent fighters,” Jorel said, still looking back and forth across the huge chamber they stepped into.

“Drop it, Jorel,” Kaleel spat. Apparently, the smaller man’s voice had worked the nerve off of his companion, and he would have nothing to do with his solemn, dead sense of adventure any longer. Treasure they were hunting, and treasure they surely would find. “It’s been two nights since the demons have stopped invading the docks. We’ve camped in Travincal for a day and then some; nothing has come from this temple, not so much as a whisper.”

Jorel hung his head.

“We’ve only got one more stair to head down and I’ve been told the third level is smaller than the rest. Rest assured we’ll be back in daylight before you know it, with bags of gold to show the rest!” Kaleel added after a few moments of tense silence.

Soon enough, the duo stood atop a flight of dark stone stairs, angling straight down into the black emptiness of the floor below. From those depths, there was a light rumble.

“A waterfall perhaps?” Jorel asked.

“No. Something smaller. You’ve still got that spell memorized?” Kaleel asked, his voice growing deathly serious. A hint of fear crept across his skin, a tingling sensation that traveled up and down his arms to the handle of his long sword. His grip tightened around the leather bound handle as he stared blankly into the abyss below.

With a passing knowledge of magic, his friend Jorel was able to conjure a few powerful spells that would come in handy should they be ambushed. If, of course, his legs weren’t knocking to hard for the spell to be heard.

Jorel wasn’t the most . . . sturdy of men. From an early age, his passivism had led to a few scars planted across his back from his father. Jorel had grown up in Kurast and had never been more than a few paces from the city walls.

He learned magic from a wandering Vizjeri months before, looking for some small township in Weshmarch, or some such place. Kaleel had never been beyond the deserts of Aranoch, but dreamed of seeing the lush forests of the Western Kingdoms or even the deep frozen north before settling down in his birthplace.

Jorel scratched at the stubble that had grown common on both men’s faces. After traveling two days through the jungle and spending some time in Travincal, they had started to smell akin to the bodies they had seen slain.

Yes, the Amazon truly was a piece of work, for that he could be certain. Javelins pierced various corpses, spear slashes and thrown knives having opened most of the other demonic underlings.

But the Lord of Hatred, now he was another story altogether. His name was never mentioned aloud, the Zakarum Priesthood had forbidden it. “Hatred has no place in Kurast,” or some such nonsense the reasoning professed. Kaleel had seen hatred in the way the townsfolk had been ripped to ribbons, their parts strewn about the buildings of the lower cities like ornaments.

The stench of rotten meat had followed them to the very staircase they braved, which held far greater fears down its wide, cavernous mouth.

“Shall we?” Jorel asked, running his fingers up his slightly pudgy cheeks to his sweaty, firmly cropped haircut. His right eye sparkled in the light, the cataracted haze over it enough to scare a man who didn’t know better.

Kaleel only nodded, taking point on the stairs. So far, so good, although the fastest he was moving was barely a ten steps a minute and kept a paranoid eye out for anything slithering about below.

Fresh blood coated the ground, the sticky demon’s blood not having dried even after two days exposure. The sickening wet sound it made when he stepped down in it chilled him to the marrow of his bones. His stomach turned as he surveyed where he had landed off the stone staircase.

An old shrine lay beside the stairs, whatever it had been designed for apparently lost to time as the crumbling pillars stood inert in the cold air. He motioned for Jorel to come closer, now himself at the center of the long chamber.

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