The smoke had cleared a long time ago. The fires had stopped even earlier. All that remained of the town was ruined buildings, ash and bloodied soldiers searching through the rubble for more survivors. The scene that met the three adventurers upon their return to Coldwick Camp the following morning was grim, but it could have been much worse. They were able to find Captain Denas without any hassle. He was busy coordinating the search.

“Orcs?” Damian asked simply, staring blankly at the devastation around him.

“Undead.”

“We saw orcs in the pass. They must have been here too.”

“Aye, they were,” Denas agreed tiredly. “Came to help us, would you believe it? We were about to break when they showed up. Carried the day they did.”

“These certainly are strange times we live in.”

“I’d wager the orcs just wanted to be the ones to do the job,” Gerome cut into the conversation. “They couldn’t let the undead do in a day what they couldn’t do in two hundred years.”

“Two hundred and fifty,” Maquille corrected, before Denas responded, “Whatever their motives, they are the only reason most of the commoners got away. They should be in Mallowford by now, thank the gods for that.”

A soldier approached. “We have finished searching through the rubble, sir,” the soldier saluted. “There are no more survivors.”

“Very well, Dorek. Tell the soldiers to wrap up. If we leave now, we can reach Mallowford well before nightfall.”

Damian gave Denas an enquiring glance. “My new second-in-command,” Denas informed him, a look of sorrow in his eyes. “Huskim didn’t make it. Come, you can tell me of your misadventure on the march to Mallowford.”