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With a trembling hand, James wiped the blood from his eyes. He was terribly thirsty, but even more, he needed to rest. His legs gave way, and the knight collapsed right into the mud, where he lay for a while. Finally, with great effort, he got up and looked around. The girls were nowhere to be seen; they had probably already returned to Vaoon's lair. He checked his former allies – they were dead.
"Too bad. Very sad."
The young man found a medal with his name on it; the orcish woman had nothing special except for a ring.
"If I return home, I will consecrate these relics at the altar," James promised. "May the Almighty rest your souls."
At that moment, it didn't matter to him that one of them was a twisted and rotten non-human soul. At least, in the last moments of her life, she showed the courage befitting a true, full-fledged human.
There was one more thing to do before returning. Knee-deep in corpses, ignoring his dislocated arm, James built a small funeral pyre from twigs, pieces of wood, and debris, which he set ablaze with a flint. He couldn't remember most of the prayers they had been taught, so he said a few words of his own, sending Larte and Shsurkh on their final journey. "If that snake returns, at least she won't get them," he decided.
A nasty little worm gnawed at his soul, urging him to go after Vaoon, because he might still be alive, but logic tried its best to argue against it. In the end, the exhausted paladin dismissed all thoughts and trudged heavily towards the caravan with the latest intelligence.
And of course, I'll take the supplies: some coins, a healing potion (or two), and some paper.