The slaughter echoed through the tunnels like a never-ending thunder. Screams bounced off stone walls, cut short by the wet thud of axes and the gurgle of spilling blood. Bodies piled in the galleries—green limbs tangled, eyes staring blank at the ceiling. The orcs pushed deeper, laughing as they swung, goblins falling like wheat before a scythe. At this rate, Drekk thought, his back pressed to a cold wall, the mine would be empty in an hour. Every last goblin dead or taken. The fall was coming, inevitable as night.
Vrognut crouched beside him, nose twitching in the dark. His sharp eyes gleamed with something wild, not fear. "Feel that?" Vrognut whispered, voice a low rasp.
Drekk nodded. The air carried it: a heavy orc scent, thick with bloodlust and sweat. Kraghul. The chieftain's son had slipped into the mines. But he wasn't alone. Another smell mixed in—female orc, pregnant, soaked in blood.
It was Naz. How could he forget the scent of the orc who interfered with his fun time.
