Edric, Bardic, Alleto and Vorel slipped through the donjon portal as quietly as they could – which is to say, with a certain amount of clatter and scraping. Morath winced and hissed:
“By Iacchus, demon of screaming chaos, could you be any louder!?”
“Your pardon, Morath, we are not all masters of the dark,” Edric replied.
“Shut the door – quietly! – and we’ll light up a lantern, then you can see what you are doing. In the meantime, don’t move. Or breathe.”
Vorel eased the door shut. Far at the back of the vaulted chamber, a taper glowed, then a lantern. Celo raised and brought it forward, away from the two bodies lying in a pool of dark blood amid the shelves, through racks of weapons and sheaves of arrows, to the counter-top near the stairwell.
“That’ll be far enough,” he breathed. “You can get yourselves organized here – there’s nothing to bump into.”
Bardic’s instinct was to stop and plunder the armory, but common-sense prompted him to murmur:
“Aye, get ready all – carry only what is most needed and quiet. And remember – we may not be back this way and we may be leaving at the run.”