Gath stepped through the red doorway into the tavern.
It was empty. Everything was silent except for the distant thunder of the Lord of Death raging within the earth. Furniture had been thrown down and shattered by falling rocks. Ceiling beams were splintered and broken. Dirt trickled down from cracks in the roof to make neat conical piles on the floor.
Gath moved through, passed the cluttered empty barracks room, and reached the golden doors. He kicked them open, and strode out into the sunlight.
There was no one in sight. The caves and the mountainsides appeared deserted. The volcano was spewing smoke at the sky, turning it black. A strange unquiet emptiness permeated everything. Sensing threats everywhere but seeing none, he descended the stairs and trotted down the trail heading for the swamp.
By nightfall he made the waterfalls and found an overhanging shelf of rock. He made a camp under it and built a fire. Falling to the ground more than sitting, he leaned tiredly against the rock and unbuckled the strap under his chin to remove the helmet. The helmet would not come off. Its chain mail cowl had somehow become tangled with his body armor. He sat up and worked at it for awhile, but, without any sort of mirror and in the dim light, he could not free it. He sagged back, sighed, then closed his eyes. But he could not sleep.