Unholy

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Khouryn Skulldark patrolled the study. He picked up chairs and returned them to their proper places. Straightened sheaves of papers and arrangements of knickknacks. Shelved books. Checked surfaces for dust and brushed away a spiderweb in a corner of the ceiling. Since he was a dwarf tidying a room sized for humans, many of the tasks required him to climb up on the stool he'd brought along.

As he peered around seeking the spider that had spun the web-he'd catch it and carry it outside if he could-someone chuckled. Khouryn pivoted atop the stool without any fear of falling. Decades of martial training and warfare made him sure of his balance.

But he didn't turn quickly enough to catch the person who'd laughed at him. The doorway was empty.

He scowled. He was a thick-built warrior with a bristling black beard, who never went anywhere without his urgrosh-a weapon combining the deadlier features of a war axe and a spear-strapped across his shoulders. Some folk found it comical to see such a grim-looking fellow fuss over the minutia of housekeeping. But that was because they didn't understand that on campaign, order was everything.

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