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The last body, slumped against the northern door, sat with its back against the sculpted frame. A human male, armored in a shirt of chain as fine as that worn by the dwur. Emiel was no expert but it seemed to him that the smith who crafted one, crafted both.
The links, forged from a mix of metals stronger than each alone in purer form, were layered in tight rows of tiny rings. A lifetimes work, Emiel could only guess, to bend and knit one ring to five and weave such a steely cloth. It made him glance back at the dwur's own shirt. Perhaps the greater treasure was the one it had worn for all to see rather than the belt of golden coins it had kept hidden from sight.
Time enough later, Emiel considered, to strip these loathsome dead. So far he had found no clue as to who or what or why, to answer questions about these villains, or where his people were, or if they still were at all. He feared he would find only the inanimate remains of those who once were his friends and kin, such as he had found already with Patel, but a count of bodies how many times as great?
This body before him told him nothing at all, though all it possessed appeared intact, left abandoned, untouched by friend and foe alike. There was no crest or sign, no scrap of parchment or rune-etched amulet to speak a name, or declare a liege, or claim a patron, either god or man. These were a nameless bunch, or so it did appear, much like his own band, but well fed and here by choice, not desperation.
Emiel had no mercy inside of him for such as these, foul murderers, he called them silently within his heart and roughly began his search again.
Another knife, a belt, a dagger in the top of dark black boots, a pack slung around the shoulders, pillowing the corpse against the metal door. A fine long sword, the body held it in its hand. A weapon best wielded by those who had learned its use, as Emiel had not. He kicked it from the cold, dead grip and sent it clattering across the floor.
Ragnar came over at the sound and caught the spinning blade beneath his boot, then bent and scooped it from the floor. "Hey!" He called to Emiel. "This is too fine a blade to scrape it across the ground."
"It's of no use to me." Emiel replied. "You take it. Or do you have the room?" he asked, looking to see the northman's arms already full.
The mage's robe, Ragnar had made of it a huge black bag and stuffed it with pack, belt and almost every scrap of cloth at hand, the boots as well. The body now lay almost nude, he'd taken all but the linen drawers from the prostrate form.
The sword had an awkward feel, the axe was Ragnar's chosen blade, he had no liking for the uncurved edge. "Ted." he called "Take this." and tossed it underhand. Ted ducked down, flattened himself upon the stony floor and the sword sailed past, over head and down the stairs with a painful clatter that made the northman wince.
* * *
The cat-head staff had subsided, once again its features immobile silver. Ragnar struggled to take hold of it but his hands were full. "I am not leaving all this behind." Ragnar said displaying the robe-turned-bag which took both hands to hold.
"Don't be foolish Ragnar." Emiel said placatively. He held out both his own empty hands, palms forward, in a peaceful gesture.
"Foolish am I." Ragnar barked.
"Yes!" Emiel snapped back, his patience wearing thin. "Look at yourself. You have stuffed most of what three men possessed within that robe." He waved toward the well-looted dead. "We should just have passed these bodies by and come back to them on our return."
"Ha!" Ragnar laughed. "You did not hesitate a moment, before setting to search them or call me away from removing these trinkets." He gave the bag a shake to accentuate his point and a broad-toed boot fell loose and clonked against the floor. "Hand me that will you." he nodded with his head.
Emiel retrieved the boot but held it in his hand and waved it beneath the barbarian's nose. "Boots, and shirts and iron rations soaked in blood, that's what you have there." he poked the bag, a knotted sleeve came free and leaked a stream of cloth, and belts and tinder kits.
"Ohh. Now look what you've done." Ragnar moaned. He struggled for a moment, the bag turning in his arms, then as the other knots came loose as well, he flung it hard against the wall and gave an angry curse. "There!" he faced Emiel with his own hands empty. "Happy now."
"Ecstatic." Emiel replied.
"Well I'm taking this at least." Ragnar said and grabbed the staff from where it leaned against the wall.
* * *
Three metal doors, three choices with an unguessed end. Emiel had studied each but could find no sign to guide his way.
"We had explored this passage." he pointed to the right-hand eastern door. "It leads up but ends in a fallen-stone blockade. It had been left uncleared when I was last here. This way," he turned toward the western passage, "goes down and down and does not seem to have an end, none that I had ever found. I walked for half a day, I found no doors no rooms, just a spiral path that went on and on slanting down into the Oerth. This center door," he gave it a respectful nod, "we had not found a way to open. This little key." he patted where it rested against his heart. "It opens several doors, but not the great beast there."
The door before them had no handle, no keyhole or hinges upon its steely face, but it sat framed by a sculpted arch where winged centaurs shot dragons from a goldleaf sky and down below, demons fell to the spears of armored men upon a silver field.
"It's open now." Ragnar said with some surprise. Reaching out, as Emiel talked on, he touched the silver cat to the flat metal valve and felt it move smoothly back into the room beyond. The silver head came to life for one short instance and gave a plaintive "meow" then was silent once again.
* * *
(To Be Continued)