Several hours passed, and the western tunnel finally quieted down.
Not dead silent, mind you. The clashing of steel could still be heard, though far less frequently than before. The remaining Iron Empire soldiers trickled in one or two at a time, and every time they did, they were dispatched before they could even draw near. Two Dwarves at the front line rotated shifts to hold them off, giving the others a chance to catch their breath.
Riven stood amid the ruins of the stone bridge, his runed axe gripped tight in his right hand. The glowing red blade shone dimmer than it had this morning. The bandages on his left arm were tattered and soaked a deep, dark crimson with a mixture of dried and fresh blood. The black Wolf cloak draped over his shoulders was caked in volcanic dust. The air here was sweltering, thick with the pungent stench of sulfur rising from the lava chasm.
