Camilla gave Cydric a second passionate kiss, ignoring the taste of ash and scrape of stubble. It seemed more likely than usual that this might be the end and she wanted as many of her last memories to be positive. When they finally pulled away she turned to the party, all of whom were making a point of not looking at the two lovers. She cleared her throat and they turned their attention her.

“Alright gentlemen, I need all the weapons we can spare.”

In retrospect, it might have been the wrong way to phrase the question to a group of mercenaries. Within a minute she had a pile of iron sufficient to arm a small regiment. Cydric contributed his heavy hunting knife and Konrad a dagger and a shorsword he reserved for close in work. Ivan had a pair of small hatchets secreted somewhere on his body as well as a curved knife that pushed the boundary between dagger and sword. Skaldi had a throwing axe, a heavy knife and a strange contraption that seemed to be brass knuckles with a protruding blade. Yant’s produced so any knives that even Camilla was impressed, plucking blade after blade from all sorts of strange places. He even had a pair of Estallian throwing knives that made Camilla briefly jealous.

“Ivan,” she said apologetically, “I’m going to need your coat.” The big Kislivite grumbled and stripped off his bear fur cloak and lay it on the ground. Together they piled the weapons onto the garment and Camilla carefully tied the corners together in an improvised knapsack. The fur was the best choice because it muffled the clink of metal against metal. Carefully she slung the improvised pack over her shoulder. 

“You look like Kringel,” Cydric snickered, referring to the Hexensnact legend of a kindly old priest who left presents for children. Camilla couldn’t stifle a giggle.

“Bringing presents to all the good little greenskins,” she agreed. Cydric’s face grew serious.

“Be safe,” he told her. Camilla’s smile broadened.

“Since when?”

The chanting and sacrifices were intensifying when Camilla crept back onto the balcony. The bone chilling monster roared in pain or anger as more runes were drawn on its already soaked pelt. If it had ever been another color it was now a scabrous red black of orc blood. The crowd was intent on the spectacle, chanting or praying in low voices that sounded like rock splitting during an earthquake. She made her way to a large structural pillar carved into the shape of a tusked dwarf and leaped up, seizing one of the beard ornaments, and climbed onto its shoulder. For the first time she was glad that she was filthy, the black coating of volcanic ash was good camouflage against the obsidian structure. Balancing her awkward bundle she leaped to the next pillar, and then the next making her way to the slave pens that Yants had spotted.

It seemed to take her an age, and with every moment she worried that her friends might be discovered, and that it would be to late. Periodically she cast her eyes back to their entry point and caught sight of Cydric watching her. THe slave pens were nearly a hundred and eighty degrees around from where they had entered. The seats ended and a large wedgelike cleft was cut into the cylinder, Below orcs and goblins in their hundreds huddled together. The sheer smooth walls left them nowhere to go but to the narrow exit chute where armored dwarves were waiting to lead them to their deaths. There must have been a hundred of them, tightly packed and stinking of fear. The final pillar allowed her to look directly down on the mass of enslaved greenskins. A vicious looking goblin was graphically relieving himself against the obsidian wall of his pen beneath her. Camilla spat, the fleck of spittle falling thirty feet to hit the diminutive green seen on the top of its bald head. Its glowing red eyes snapped up to spot her. Thankfully it was cunning enough not to roar or snarl. She reached into the pack of weapons and drew out one of the throwing knives. The goblin cocked its head sideways and then glanced around. Neither the jailors nor the things companions seemed to notice. She let the knife fall. It plunged point down into the sand at the goblins feet. The creature sat down with its back to the wall. A moment later Camilla saw the hempen bonds around its wrists fall away. It snarled at another nearby goblin that slunk over to it. A quick stroke of the knife and two of them were free. Camilla withdrew an axe and dropped it to her unlikely ally, sending the weapons down one at a time. The hit the sand with soft crunching sounds not at all obvious.

The Chaos Dwarves on guard tore their eyes from the glorious ritual to drag forth another group of slaves for the offering. A trio of lesser goblins and a scrawny orc lumbered forward. The dwarf approved of their compliance, half the time the beasts had to be dragged physically to the gate. It was only when the creatures were a few feet away  that the dwarf realised there was something wrong with their bonds. He opened his mouth to shout a warning but the lead goblin was already leaping, plunging a long knife into the joint between helmet and throat. The second guard swung his shield in bar but a blur of steel streaked from above into the eyesocket of his helmet and he staggered backwards, dark blood pouring from beneath his black steel helmet. The scrawny orc leaped forward and grabbed the axe from the hands of the dying chaos dwarf.

“WAAAAAAAAARGH!” the beast shrieked spraying spittle as its massive hinged jaw distended. The greenskin’s poured forth in a tide climbing over each other to leap to the sand of the amphitheatre floor. The seized any weapon available, grabbing torches and stones. The whole chamber descended into screaming confusions, the great beast rearing back and roaring as it struggled against whatever mystical bonds the dwarves were employing. Camilla watched the swirling melee with satisfaction for a moment and then, belatedly, realised that there was a full scale war between her and the altar she needed to reach.
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