Chapter 92: Return to the Palace of Hartla (Part 2)
It was never easy to look at a dead person. People who died natural, nonviolent deaths usually weren't too bad; they sometimes even looked dignified or peaceful, as if in the middle of a pleasant dream, forever. But people killed in the midst of physical struggle did not always leave peaceful-looking bodies. Battle sometimes left its casualties in unseemly or demeaning positions.
It was hard to look at a dead man. Harder still, when the dead man was your own brother, partially crushed by a cave-in. With both arms ripped off.
"Yordar," Gunnar whispered.
His skin was pale. The eyes were open as wide as they could go. His legs were crushed. His shoulder sockets were empty. Where the arms should have been were instead only rust-colored stains splayed out across the stone like a grisly snow angel.