Iarion and Lysandir stopped at the lip of the caldera. They gripped the edge and peered over. Silvaranwyn and Barlo joined them. Several feet below, figures huddled against the stone wall. A tall shadow loomed over them, wielding a staff. Barlo wished he had elven eyesight so he could make out more details. A waft of brimstone drifted upward, making his eyes water. He tried not to gag.
A pile of debris lay just inside the mouth of the volcano, creating a precarious pathway down. Iarion swung himself over the edge and landed on silent feet with his knife drawn. Lysandir and Silvaranwyn followed his example. Barlo eyed the pile. How was he going to get down there? The drop was longer for him. He was also heavier, so he would make more noise when he landed. The last thing he wanted to do was
