Tungdil nodded gratefully and signaled for his company to retreat.

The finished blade was lying on the central anvil, shimmering enigmatically in the bright light of Dragon Fire. The diamonds twinkled, the inlay glistened, and the runes shone with the fierce glow of the furnace, brought to life by the roaring flames.

"To think that Vraccas gave us the means to accomplish this." Tungdil gazed in awe at the result of their joint labor. "Balyndis," he said solemnly, "attach the blade." She picked up the grip and inserted it into the long metal shaft of the blade. Her face paled.

"Vraccas forfend, it doesn't fit," she said hoarsely. "See how loose it is? The blade will fly off as soon as Narmora swings the ax. But how could we have made the grip too narrow? I'm sure it-"

One by one the runes lit up. The shaft glowed, then the wood seemed to swell. Crackling and straining, it expanded to fill the gap, until the grip and the shaft were one.

Tungdil took it as a sign that Vraccas was happy with their work. He ran his fingers over the blade, cherishing the feel of the metal. Deep down, he wished he could wield the ax himself, and he held on to it for a moment before handing it to Narmora.

Giselbert stepped forward. "May I?" he asked tremulously.

"Of course. If it weren't for you and the others, it would never have been forged."

The ancient king grasped the ax, gazing at it reverently before trying a few swings. He entrusted it ceremoniously to the half дlf.

"So this is it," he said, his voice choked with emotion. "The agony of the undead, all those cycles of waiting, of fighting… There was a reason for it all." He shook hands with each of the company in turn, lingering when he came to Tungdil. "Don't abandon my kingdom to the creatures of Tion. Free Girdlegard and drive out the pestilence, then come back and rebuild my kingdom for the dwarves. Will you promise me that, Tungdil Goldhand?" He fixed him with a piercing stare.

Tungdil could do nothing but nod, rendered speechless by the zeal in the fifthling's eyes.

Giselbert unfastened his diamond-studded weapons belt and laid it around Tungdil's waist. "Wear this in memory of my folk and let it be known that we defended our kingdom to the last, in death as well as life."

Tungdil swallowed. "Your gift is too generous."

"From what I have come to know of you, it is no less than you deserve." They embraced as friends; then it was time for the company to leave.

"Let's get going," said Tungdil, looking up at the narrow staircase leading into the gloomy chimney. He glanced back at the doors, where the last of the fifthlings were locked in bitter combat with the orcs.

"But what will become of you?" Boпndil asked the fifthling king.

Giselbert stood tall, eyes fixed on the doors. "My warriors will hold them back while you get yourselves out of here. We'll fight until they chop off our heads and put an end to our undead existence," he said proudly. "Now go! The steps are shallower in the upper reaches of the chimney. Djerun will have to take care."

It was decided that Narmora, as the nimblest among them, should lead the way and test the stairs. The humans and dwarves lined up behind her, with the giant at the rear. Bavragor stayed by the furnace, a new war hammer in his hand.

"Aren't you coming with us?" Tungdil asked cautiously.

He shook his head. "I said from the beginning that I'd never go home. I set out to die a glorious death and so I shall. This is what I wanted." A profound calm had descended on him, allowing his mind, which had been battling against his undead state, to find peace. He turned his one eye toward Tungdil. "Thank you for bringing me here and for letting me be part of this."

"I gave you my word."

"You could have gone back on it. No one would have blamed you. They warned you about the merry minstrel, but you honored your promise." He took a step forward and looked him in the eye. "I shall die in the knowledge that my hands carved the most important bit of masonry in the history of the dwarves. No mason will trump it-not unless Girdlegard needs another Keenfire, which I sincerely hope it never will."

"Is there anything I can say to persuade you?"

The mason chuckled, and something about his laughter reminded Tungdil of the cheerful ballad singer and joker of old. "Persuade me? Tungdil, I'm a dwarf! I made my decision orbits ago." He nodded toward the door. "They need my help and I shall fight alongside them. There could be no greater honor than to die side by side with the founding dwarves of the fifthling kingdom, the most ancient and venerable of our kin." His calloused fingers gripped Tungdil's hand. "You're a good dwarf and that's what matters, not your lineage. Be sure to remember me-and old Shimmerbeard as well."

They embraced, and Tungdil let the tears course down his cheeks. Another friend was being taken from him, and he wasn't afraid to show his grief.

"As if I could ever forget you, Bavragor Hammerfist! I shall remember you always." He turned to look at Goпmgar's grave. "I'll never forget either of you."

Smiling, Bavragor hurried to join the fifthlings in the battle against the hordes. After a couple of paces he stopped and looked across at Boпndil. "Tell him that I forgive him for what he did," he said softly.

Tungdil stared at him in amazement. "I can't tell him that," he protested. "He'd think I was making it up to make him feel better about himself."

"Then tell him I knew he loved my sister as much as I did, but I couldn't stand losing her. I was filled with hatred, and I couldn't hate death for taking her, so I hated the one who swung the blade. Hatred helped to silence the pain and the sorrow, and it was easier to live that way. Deep down I knew he loved her and he never meant to kill her." He chuckled gently. "Death has made me wiser, Tungdil. May Vraccas protect Boпndil and the others, but especially you."

He turned and, belting out a rousing melody, hurled himself into the unequal battle. His hammer smashed into an orcish knee, then crushed a beast's skull, and still he kept singing.

Tungdil swallowed and hurried after his companions, who were rushing up the steps. Narmora had already reached the entrance to the flue.

As they ascended, Bavragor's voice accompanied them through the darkness until Giselbert set the machinery in motion to close the vents. There was a whirr, then a rattling of metal as chains unfurled and tumbled to the floor. The mechanism had been destroyed.

When the noise settled, Bavragor's singing could still be heard, softer and more muffled, but still audible.

There was no talking among them as they listened to his songs of dwarven heroism and glorious victories over the orcs. He was mocking the vast army, provoking his antagonists, luring them to their deaths.

Then everything was quiet.

There's no one here," Narmora called down to the others. "Just me and the mountains." Tungdil looked up at her slim black form silhouetted against the pale sky. She disappeared from view.

One by one they clambered to the surface. The flue terminated in a crater large enough to swallow a fair-sized house.

Tungdil ascended the final paces with weary, leaden legs. At three thousand steps he had stopped counting the soot-stained stairs that wound their way up the chimney's walls. There had been no moments of panic, no tripping, stumbling, or teetering on the edge, and the ascent had passed without incident, even for Djerun in his cumbersome mail.

We made it. Tungdil emerged from the shelter of the rock to find himself on a snow-capped mountain at the heart of the Gray Range. An icy wind whipped about them, whistling through his beard and making him shiver with cold.

Looking down, he was filled with wonderment at the mighty valleys and gorges below. All around them were mountains: the towering summit of the Great Blade, the great pinnacle of the legendary Dragon's Tongue, and the sheer sides of Goldscarp. Clad in snow and buffeted by wind, the peaks rose majestically toward the clouds, enduring and eternal. Few had seen the range from such a privileged vantage point, and Tungdil was loath to tear himself away.