Outpost Dra'kul smelled like slow death.
Far different from the sharp, copper tang of fresh carnage that had filled Krazax's courtyard. The stench of infected wounds and gangrene, of bodies rotting in places too dangerous to retrieve, of demons dying by inches instead of all at once.
Ten soldiers a day, Gorath had said.
Looking at the outpost now, Liam believed it.
The fortifications were intact but deteriorating. Walls showed scorch marks from holy fire that no one had bothered, or had the energy to clean. The gate hung slightly crooked on its hinges.
Sentries stood watch, but their postures spoke of exhaustion so profound it had become a permanent state of being.
This wasn't a garrison preparing to fight.
This was a garrison waiting to die.
"Cheerful place," Varg muttered.
"Quiet," Koth snapped, but his molten eyes were scanning the walls with professional assessment. "They're watching us. Trying to figure out if we're worth the effort of hope."
