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"And this?" Ragnar asked, nudging the goat-bearded man with the toe of his boot.
Emiel gave the body's side an angry, sudden kick. "This is none of mine. Some damned hedge-wizard." he said, then with the cat-headed staff in mind added, "Or much worse. Some foul sorcerer, maybe."
Ragnar bent to exam the broad belt which encircled the corpse. A series of pockets, pouches and flaps ran round its length. A small flat pack was strapped carefully across the back, its lower edge pierced by the sword which killed the wizard, and, much to Ragnar's surprise, the robe itself had pockets sown into the cloth. These Southern's, they did the strangest things. Ragner'd never seen pockets till he'd left his northern home.
"Be careful!" Emiel hissed over Ragnar's shoulder. "Best to leave this one in peace. Ohh! Its no good telling you." He turned away. "If you set off some glyph or ward, I will not be standing near."
* * *
While Ragnar tempted the hand of Istus, Emiel moved far across the room. He did not resume his examination of his dismembered compatriot, but went instead to search another drying husk that once held the flame of life, as Ragnar did with the wizard's corpse.
Emiel stood over another body. A dwur, or in the common tongue, a dwarf. It lay face down, but its broad back, unnaturally wide as its legs were short, told its heritage clearly.
Only one of the grim folk could have crawled away, as the thick trail of dried blood showed, from where its mortal blow was struck. Emiel had no doubt that the gaping wound, whose ragged ends curved round behind the dwur's head, had been the fatal touch.
He smiled grimly. His people were hard to kill, their hands as great a weapon as any blade, though a whispered voice echoed 'Sunne' within him at the mere thought of a sword. Emiel well knew the reasons for such savage cuts that left his followers without head or arms.
Bending back to the fallen dwur, he turned it with a shove and looked into its cold dead eyes. "What brought you here?" Emiel said aloud but to himself. "Into this forsaken land where men, and dwur, do not walk freely. Were you lead by Istus's hand or some darker god? Did you come for some forgotten treasure within these walls? My people guarded only themselves, and you and yours have brought them death. The reaper is your master now. Whatever your purpose here you have served him well."
The dwur made no reply. Its eyes were lifeless, the spark within long gone. Emiel roughly searched the body, but there was little to find.
A well crafted shirt of chain, encrusted with a dark, black coat that had flowed from the dwur's severed throat, useless to any but another of its kind.
A broad dagger, sheathed on a wide leather belt. Emiel removed it, sheath and all, then discarded the dull and rusty blade of orcish make that he'd carried from the farm. The belt was odd, a handsbreadth wide with an iron buckle bigger than a fist. He loosened it, then pulled the belt away. The leather was stiff and weighed much, much, more than it should.
The inner edge had an invisible seam, Emiel missed it at first, then with a bend, a line appeared and ran round its center like a wheel mark in untrodden snow. He peeled each edge aside and within the belt found that a double row of golden coins was hid.
Emiel weighed the hidden trove in both his hands and gave a quiet whistle. He wrapped it twice around his waist, the dwur was twice as broad as he, and buckled it secure.
Boots, pants, and padded shirt held no secret hollows. A dinted helm was the only other accouterment it possessed. Still clutched in a deadly grip, the dwur held its weapon tight, but Emiel had no need or interest in the broadheaded, spiked-back hammer, and let it lie untouched.
* * *
Small crystal rods fell to the ground, chipping and cracking on the stone floor. Ragnar managed to snatch a few out of the air as they dropped from the open pouch, but most escaped his grasp. "Hey Emiel." he called over and held one up between thumb and forefinger. It sparkled with a rainbow hue, capturing and reflecting the magical light shining from the lantern.
Emiel looked over his shoulder expecting to see that the barbarian had turned himself into a frog, changed his skin to blue, set himself afire or some other heinous consequence that came from tampering with a dead mage's pack. But Ragnar looked fine. He held the scintillating oblong out for Emiel to view, and was none the worse for indulging his curiosity.
"Yes, very nice." Emiel said in a patronizing tone. "Light make pretty sparkles."
Ragnar closed his fist, extinguishing the glittering sheen, and mumbled darkly under his breath. "Last time....little smart-a...weasly..." Emiel heard, catching snatches of muttered complaint from the grumbling barbarian.
* * *
(To Be Continued)