The wind carried familiar smell. Smoke, blood, bodily waste all mixed together. The stench of a battlefield. Orin was on guard as he emerged from the forest. The stone face was in the distance over his right shoulder, and before him, a set of stairs that descended deeper into the dungeon. Bodies had been gathered in a pile in the middle of the path that led towards the stairs that led up. A dozen armoured greenskins squatted nearby, chatting amongst themselves. Meanwhile, two more greenskins hammered on the cavern’s stone walls.

The greenskins lolling by the bodies got to their feet when they noticed Orin’s approach. The warrior was disappointed to see that these weren’t from the Black Dog Guards. One of them stepped forward and drew its blade.

“Another delver, lads,” it snarled. “Leave this one to me.”

“How come you get this one, eh?” another one demanded as it stepped forward, brandishing a scimitar. “My blade didn’t get to taste a drop of blood in the last battle. He’s mine.”

“Blame yourself for being the weakest,” the first one spat.

“Hold on,” another warned. This was the biggest and was armed with a halberd that stood taller than it did. “There is a familiar smell about this one.”

“Familiar or not, I am here as your enemy,” Orin said as he drew his blade. “Come one at a time or all at once, it makes no difference to me.”

The large one let out a warning that sounded like a mix between a lion’s snarl and a dog’s growl. The two hammering on the wall stopped what they were doing to join the others while Orin continued his slow and menacing approach.

Unable to contain themselves for any longer, the first two broke ranks and charged. They were both bisected by a single swing of Orin’s enormous sword. The warrior clicked his tongue irritably. The swing wasn’t how he had envisioned it. It had to be quicker with less hesitation, and his control could stand to be a lot better. He shook his blade to dislodge the remains of the second one’s torso and saw that the greenskins were rooted in place.

He advanced slowly. His swings left much to be desired, and he needed the practice if he was to face off against the demon again. There were probably more creatures of that level deeper in the dungeon as well. He would get to the heart of the dungeon and confront this place’s master, and then… And then what?

The warrior paused, and the orcs seized his moment of distraction. Four charged from the front while the remainder circled around him. The warrior swung as the first of them entered his range. The creature dodged backwards but fell over as the massive sword severed its foot. The others lunged forward, but Orin recovered his sword quickly and unleashed a torrent of steel that shredded them to pieces.

His eyebrow twitched as he looked around for any further signs of danger. These greenskins had scarcely posed a challenge. His strokes had been clumsy, but they had been unable to even scratch his armour.

“Hello?” a male voice called from behind the wall the greenskins were pounding on. “Is someone out there?”

Orin sighed and approached the wall. He paused to look down the stairs, wondering if he should make himself known. Over the past day, he’d found that he preferred to travel alone. Then, his stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since parting ways with Rus and the others and that he had no inkling of how to feed himself. It was pathetic, and he cursed not at least learning the basics from the hunter.

“The greenskins are dead,” he called out. “It is safe to come out.”

He heard the voice on the other side mutter an incantation, and a hole appeared in the wall large enough for a single blue eye to peer out. The eye widened when it saw the dismembered orcs.

“You did that?” he asked. “Alone?”

“Yes, what of it?” Orin demanded.

The owner of the eye backed away in alarm, and Orin took a deep breath to calm himself. “All I want is some food. Do you have any you could spare?”

The hole widened slightly, and a packet of dried meat flew through it moments later, landing at Orin’s feet. The warrior picked it up and devoured it greedily. It was salty, but he was famished and beyond caring. Another incantation began, and Orin placed a hand on his sword.

“Peace, I am just coming out,” the voice said. “So we can talk face to face.”

The stone wall collapsed into a heap of loose rocks, and a man stepped out from what the remains of what appeared to be a tavern’s main room. Orin found his proportions curious. He was short, scarcely coming up to Orin’s waist, but his shoulders were wide, almost as broad as the warrior at the shoulder. He wore scaled armour and was armed with a pair of hammers.

“The name’s Gronthil,” he said, bowing so low that his thick brown beard swept the floor. “And who might you be, sir?”

“Orin,” the warrior replied.

The dwarf gave him a sideways look and arched an eyebrow. “I appreciate that delvers shouldn’t exchange names so easily, a silly belief if you ask me, but you are speaking to a dwarf who is well aware that Orin is the name of your armour smith.”

The warrior shrugged. “I do not know my true name. Orin has sufficed so far.”

Gronthil gave Orin a quizzical look. “You don’t know your name?”

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“I’ve lost my memories.”

The dwarf studied him for a moment longer before shrugging. “I suppose that’s not the strangest thing I’ve heard this week.”

Orin then gave him a curious look. “You said you’re a dwarf…”

Gronthil’s bushy eyebrows rose in surprise. “Have you not seen a dwarf before?”

Orin shook his head. “I don’t think so, no...”

“There’s a surprise,” Gronthil muttered, then his eyes brightened. “Ah, you must be from the Northern Provinces. Cold doesn’t agree with my kind, so we tend not to venture up there.”

Orin’s stomach growled and the dwarf burst into laughter. “Don’t worry, there’s more salt meat in there. Enough to last the two of us from now until doomsday. I’m positively sick of the stuff myself, but if you can stomach it, eat your fill.”

“I’ll take you up on your offer,” Orin said as he stepped past the dwarf and into the tavern.

“So, where are you off to, Orin?” Gronthil asked. “Gods it’s good to talk to another person.”

“To the castle,” Orin replied as he entered the kitchen. His eyes lit up when he saw a large slab of salt meat soaking in a pot of water.

“There’s a surprise,” Gronthil remarked, standing at the doorway. “I’d expect most people were aiming to leave. We were on our way out when these fellows ambushed us. I was able to seal myself in in the nick of time.”

The dwarf’s voice fell. “My companions weren’t so lucky.”

Orin stuffed his face and nodded along. He soon grew thirsty and drained a nearby tankard. Its contents were bitter, but the taste was nostalgic. Then, he felt light headed and swayed on his feet. He whirled around and glared at the dwarf.

“You’ve poisoned me!” he exclaimed. Orin reached for his sword but missed on his first attempt.

“I’m surprised you’re still standing after downing a pint of old Forden’s paint stripper,” Gronthil chuckled. The dwarf held up a hand and took a sip from the same tankard before shaking his head. “But sometimes, a strong brew is just the thing to forget the horrors of this place, eh?”

Orin took a step back and braced himself against a wall. His head was spinning, but the sensation was not unfamiliar.

“So, what business have you in the castle?” Gronthil ventured. “I suppose you’re aiming to get to the bottom of this latest bout of goings on.”

“Something like that,” Orin managed.

The dwarf nodded slowly and looked out at the mangled greenskin bodies on the path. “I think you just might do it as well…”

Orin didn’t like where the conversation was heading. “If you’re worried about the Gatekeeper, I’ve dealt with him. Some companions of mine have already headed to the surface.”

Gronthil arched an eyebrow. “Gatekeeper? Can’t say I’ve heard of that.”

“All I’m trying to say is that the path to the surface is clear.”

Gronthil chuckled. “Ah, a lone wolf. Say no more.”

Relieved that the dwarf seemed to understand, Orin nodded and returned to his meal. He looked forward to eating his fill for the first time in his current life. The dwarf watched him with curiosity that quickly turned to concern.

“Hold on, you’re fresh from the forest, and you’re just going to gorge yourself on salted meat?” he asked.

“Is that a problem?” Orin demanded with his mouth full.

“Salted meat keeps well enough, but it’s not very nutritious,” Gronthil pointed out. “Give me a moment and I’ll see what I can forage in the woods.”

“Wait,” Orin called.

The dwarf paused and his eyes widened in surprise. “You weren’t thinking of setting off straight away, were you?”

“What if I was?” Orin ventured.

“Is this your first time down here?” Gronthil asked.

Orin shrugged. “That’s fair to say.”

“Then you should at least spend the night,” Gronthil warned. “It gets tougher in the deeper levels, and rest will be hard to come by, especially if you’re travelling alone.”

Orin frowned, and the dwarf placed a hand on his shoulder. “Listen, I owe you my life, so the last thing I want is for you to run off and get yourself killed because you were unprepared. Rest the night, get a good meal or two in your belly. You won’t regret it. Whatever you seek in the castle can wait another half a day.”

Orin thought it over for a moment before nodding reluctantly. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.”

“Good man,” the dwarf grinned. “Now, wait here and after we’ve eaten, I’ll break out the good stuff.”

Dinner was the finest meal Orin had eaten. It was a simple dish of salted meat fried with a head of cabbage Gronthil had pilfered from the greenskin’s supplies, together with dwarven bread, which was thick, black, and hearty. All of this was topped off with a vintage wine the dwarf said was the pride and joy of the tavern owner, who was now sadly deceased.

“Ah, that was a fine meal,” Gronthil declared. The dwarf pushed his chair away from the table and rubbed his heaving belly. “A fine meal indeed. Didn’t think I’d ever share another for a while there.”

“You look tired,” Orin observed. “Perhaps you should sleep. I can take first watch.”

“Awful generous of you, my friend,” the dwarf said as he struggled to his feet. “But I have work to do.”

“Work?” Orin asked.

“Aye,” Gronthil said. His tone turned melancholy as he waddled towards the entryway. “A lot of my friends died in the ambush, plenty of acquaintances as well. Seems only right to bury them.”

Orin grunted. Burial rites. He recalled nothing about them but perhaps seeing them done would jog his memory. He still recalled almost nothing about who he was, but he was sure about one thing. He had killed his fair share of people, and he was sure it wasn’t just monsters in this dungeon either.

“I’ll help,” he offered.

Gronthil paused. “That’s mighty generous of you, but its unnecessary, I assure you. You’ve done plenty just by avenging them.”

“I don’t think I will be able to sleep, anyway,” Orin said as he got to his feet.

“Alright,” the dwarf conceded. “But you won’t be needing that.”

The warrior strapped his greatsword across his back and shook his head. “This goes where I go. We don’t know what’s out there.”

“I suppose you’re probably right,” Gronthil sighed.

Orin followed the dwarf to a clearing behind the inn and watched as he began an incantation. When he was finished, he brought his foot down, and the ground began to shake underfoot. Orin took a step back as a large ditch appeared in the ground.

“Is that magic?” the warrior asked.

“Aye, I’m a stoneshaper,” Gronthil replied. “Mastery over stone. It’s how I barricaded myself in the tavern. Shame I couldn’t save anyone else.”

“You did well to survive,” was all Orin could think to say.

Gronthil smiled wanly. “That’s kind of you to say.”

Together, they brought the bodies from the pile and laid them as gently as they could in the ditch. The lights overhead had dimmed completely by the time their work was done, and Orin listened politely while Gronthil said a quick prayer before using his power to fill in the ditch.

“Are you going to do anything about the greenskins?” Orin ventured.

The dwarf made a face. “Pile them up and set fire to them, I suppose.”

As they turned back towards the path, Orin saw a pair of shadowy figures emerge from the trees and gripped the hilt of his sword.

“Who goes there?” he called.

“Orin, is that you?” the voice belonged to Rus.

“Thank goodness we found you in time,” the woman cried as the two came running over.

“Friends of yours?” Gronthil asked.

Orin nodded and the dwarf’s eyes went wide in astonishment. “Don’t take this the wrong way but I didn’t think you were the type to have any.”

“What’s going on?” Orin asked as they approached. Their faces were pale, and both looked exhausted. “I thought you were leaving.”

“The way to the upper levels,” Rus panted. “It is shut.”