It was impossible to charge up such a steep slope burdened as they were. The added Wardens that Yorvig had brought kept their crossbows trained on any ürsi who threatened to get too close. The ridge all around was crawling with them. Rothe climbed with his shuglenu hung from his shoulder. In one hand he held a ceramic pot with a wick fuse, and in the other, the hanging canister of coals. He watched all around as they ascended the hill. Sling stones peppered around them, barking trees and thumping against plate.

One of the Hammers fell backward, going stiff. He would have tumbled down the ridge except he slammed into a Warden behind and they crumpled together. Yorvig rushed over and helped the Warden struggle back to his feet. Rothe approached as well and glanced at the prone Hammer. Blood trickled from under the fallen dwarf's mask.

“Through the eye,” Rothe said, grabbing the Hammer's satchel of ceramic pot bombs and slipping it over his shoulder.. “Hurry!” he shouted, lifting the fuse from the Hammer’s keg of Black Fire. He folded the fuse in the middle and lit it at the fold with the hot coals he carried. It fizzed into life.

“Go!”

Yorvig struggled up the hill. Eager shrieks erupted behind them. “Hurry!” Rothe shouted again. Yorvig wheezed, trying to catch his breath. His legs burned, his bad foot was numb, and he held Treadfoot in both hands. Rightauger grabbed him under the arm, pulling him along. Yet again.

Yorvig glanced back. Ürsi closed in on the downed Hammer from three sides, eager to reach their kill. There was a flash and a thunder. Debris flew in all directions. Yorvig stumbled and fell, his ears popped and rang. Rightauger was lifting him up. Rothe kept shouting “Go! Go!” in a strangely muted voice.

They kept on. The light grew stronger, and Yorvig knew they neared the ridge crest.

“Push them!” Sledgefist shouted, and with a shout as much of pain as of anger, the Hammers in the front mustered vestiges of strength and rushed at a few ürsi who waited atop the crest. The trees and ferns were sparse, bare, and twisted along the thin crest, only ten yards from one slope to the other. A narrow trail ran down the middle. Tonkil had first brought Yorvig along that route many years ago. Only a few hundred yards further, he saw Tonkil’s Rock, and behind it in the trees a village of domed ürsi huts stretching back south, hidden behind the rock from anyone who might have looked from Glint.

Then he heard bells. At first, he thought it just the ringing in his ears, but there on the crest it was unmistakable.

“The bells!” someone said. “Who rings the bells?”

Yorvig looked toward the dell. He could see the Ridge Tower above the cliff. There was movement around it, too far to make out. But the bell was ringing.

“Thrushbeard has taken the tower!” he said. “He is drawing them off.”

It was true. Down in the river-valley, the ürsi were in an uproar, some streaming toward the dell, others back toward them. Still others scattered and huddled in what looked like confusion. Rothe fired his shuglenu, sending up a plume of smoke and bringing Yorvig back to the ridge. The Wardens were leaning toward the slopes on either side with their crossbow raised, alternating shots to cover for those reloading.

Sledgefist strode back and forth, looking down the slopes. “Swarming,” he said, shaking his head. "They'll have us on both sides."

Yorvig was looking elsewhere, down the ridge toward the ürsi camp. There were ürsi there, too, and he saw yellow feathers on more than one set of shoulders.

“To the camp,” Yorvig said, starting to walk. Rightauger still had him under the arm, his buckler raised and his crossbow slung behind his back.

Rothe slung his shuglenu again and fished another pot out of the satchel.

“They’ll try to rush us!” he shouted, and lit the fuse. He waited a moment, then lobbed the pot down the eastern slope. Still walking, he grabbed another, lit it, and tossed it down the west side before the first even blew. Ürsi shrieked to each side. It was hard to tell what the dwarves in the warmasks felt, but they strode on down the ridge, bent beneath the heavy loads, Wardens on either side walking sideways, taking shots down the slopes. By the sound of it, there were more than enough ürsi to overwhelm them if they rushed.

Let them not rush!

Rothe walked with another pot in hand, ready to light. The ürsi must be dumbfounded by the blasts. That might be the only reason the dwarves yet lived.

Tonkil’s Rock may protect them for a time if they could reach it, but more ürsi were summiting the ridge near the camp and behind them. Slingstones battered them again. If it weren’t for their shields and plate, they would have all fallen there.

A Hammer took a stone to the back of his knee, crying out as he went down. One of Yorvig's Wardens grabbed and lifted him, but that took two out of the fight, and they couldn’t manage the heavy keg the Hammer carried. The ürsi slingers saw their trouble and aimed for them.

“Drop it!” Rothe shouted, coming up beside and pulling the straps from the Hammer's shoulders. Glad to be rid, the dwarf obeyed. Rothe waited until the others had passed, crouching down next to the keg with his head down. A stone glanced off his helm. Then, he lit the fuse at the very end and ran to catch up.

“Hurry!” he said. Stones hailed at them from behind, bruising or breaking where they hit mail or leather instead of plate. Yorvig caught a rock on the back of his helm, and it jerked his head forward and dazed him for a moment.

The ürsi following behind hung back from the keg this time, shrieking and gibbering as the small trail of smoke rose from the fuse. The dwarves tried to trot away. The blast shook Yorvig’s innards. Ahead, the ürsi who had formed between them and the camp broke and scattered while chiefs in feathered ruffs gesticulated and shrieked and chased them.

Then Yorvig saw it—an ürsi with one ear.

“There!” Sledgefist shouted, grabbing Yorvig by the shoulder. “There he is!”

Yorvig followed Sledgefist’s pointing finger. There was another ürsi chief there—also with one ear. As they drew nearer the camp, Yorvig realized that all of the ürsi with the ruffs—he could see at least five near the huts—had one ear sliced off.

Shit.

The chiefs were trying to shriek and batter their underlings toward the dwarves. Yorvig looked from one to the other, but nothing indicated to him that it was him, One-Ear. Thirty yards away now, the dwarves pace had slowed. All were breathing hard, sides heaving and sweat dampening their beards. Five of the Hammers moved in front with their heavier rectangular shields joined in line.

“Hold this!” Rothe shouted to Sledgefist, handing him the hanging canister of coals. From his satchel, Rothe pulled a second pot and lit them both, then rushed toward the few dozen ürsi the chiefs had managed to gather in front of the huts. The ürsi released a barrage of slingstones and Rothe stumbled to his knees under the hail. The Hammers tried to reach him, but before they could he rose up again and threw first one pot and then the second. He fell back to his knees as the Hammers arrived to shield him.

Ürsi scattered even before the pots landed, but few were in time. The bombs went off one after the other. Yorvig wasn’t sure if it was the powder or the heavy shards of ceramic that felled so many. Many of those that fled looked injured. Rothe sat with his legs folded under him, staring ahead, hands on his thighs when Yorvig got to him.

"Brave but stupid, Jackal!" Sledgefist snapped, perturbed. "We could have shielded you!"

One of the Hammers grabbed Rothe and tried to raise him up, but Rothe’s legs wouldn’t hold his weight. Instead, the Hammer tucked his warbeak into his belt, grabbed him by the back of his harness, and dragged him forward with one arm. Rothe’s legs slid across the rock behind. His eyes were open, and his hands were clenched against his belly below his breastplate. Rightauger let go of Yorvig for a moment and leaned, grabbing the shuglenu that had slipped from Rothe’s shoulder.

As they closed on the huts, the other Hammers rushed forward while the Wardens kept watch on the slopes and crest behind.

“Watch out for inside the huts!” Yorvig shouted, all the while looking around for any sign of an ürsi that might truly be One-Ear. He glanced down at the body of a slain chief. It looked like a piece of fractured ceramic had taken off its jaw, but even so, Yorvig felt certain it could not be One-Ear. He didn’t know exactly how he knew, but he expected to somehow know.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“Clear the huts closest to the rock!” Sledgefist shouted as the group moved toward the base of the granite outcrop known as Tonkil’s Rock. It was a protrusion from the ridge that hung far out beyond the slope. It would be impossible for ürsi to come up that way, not without building something. With open air at their backs, and the trees and huts on the western side, they had shelter from two directions, at least. The Hammers sliced open the sides of huts and peered inside as the Wardens kneeled with their crossbows, ready to keep ürsi at bay. One of the Wardens glance down at his quiver. There were only a few bolts left. It looked the same for the others. They had been shooting rapidly to ward off the foe.

Yorvig walked up onto Tonkil’s Rock. Rightauger followed. When Yorvig reached the edge, he had a grand vista of the river-valley far below. A couple sling stones flew past him, wide and weak. The ürsi hesitated to come closer. The bells were still ringing. What he wouldn’t give to see further into the dell. All he could see was the outer ridge wall, the River Gate, and the Ridge Tower above the cliff. . . He squinted across the miles. It was too far to make out what was happening at the walls or tower beyond movement, but there was a ring of ürsi massed together enough to see, away from the walls on the near side of the east ridge. Had Thrushbeard taken the River Gate? Yorvig laughed. He hadn’t told him to retake the dell, had he? Yorvig wasn’t sure what good it would do in the end, but Thrushbeard certainly had drawn their attention; the ürsi milled about in great crowds beyond crossbow range of the walls, and the whole river-valley looked like a trodden ant-hill from all the movement.

Nearer, shrieks rose from both slopes, and ürsi lurked and flitted in the trees on the ridge-slope both north and south. At times, he heard snarling in the woods, almost like Mine Runners hissing and fighting.

“Father,” Rightauger said. “I know you’re angry. I—”

Yorvig raised his hand.

“If we survive, consider it forgiven and forgotten. Let’s focus on surviving.” He turned and laid a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Thank you for your aid.”

Their eyes met and held for a moment, and then Yorvig turned and headed back down Tonkil’s Rock. Rightauger stayed beside him.

“We have to get ready. They will come again.”

“They are afraid,” Rightauger said.

“They cannot help but hunt. It is what they are. And they hunt at night.” The sky was clear and the sun shone down warm and brazen overhead. The dwarves squinted as they watched for attack.

At the bottom of the rock, Sledgefist knelt next to Rothe Stonefoot. One of the Wardens had pulled up the short hauberk that protected below Rothe's leather-cased breastplate. His hands were bloody as he prodded a wound just to the right of Rothe’s groin.

“It’s against the bone,” the Warden said.

“Right through the mail.” Sledgefist shook his head. Yorvig looked at the other wounded. He saw five lying or leaning at the base of the rock. The wounds were mostly in exposed portions of limbs, though one maskless Warden had his cheek pierced by a stone. His whole neck and shoulder were matted in blood, and he held a piece of a shirt against his face. The wounded were passing a skin of water, but the Warden waved it away. Yorvig licked his teeth inside his mouth, thankful he had not suffered the same. He realized he was thirsty and that he had not brought so much as a flask with him in his rush out of the mountain.

Rightauger must have seen his expression, because he held up his own waterskin and Yorvig took a sparing drink, realizing that there was no water on the ridge-top. That was another reason such places were unnatural for camps. Perhaps the ürsi had some unfouled water in the huts.

“That’s enough! Leave it!” Rothe shouted.

“It’s best if it comes out soon,” Sledgefist said.

“Worry about it if we live the night,” Rothe snapped back. Sledgefist held out a silver flask to Rothe, who took a swig of the liquid, grimacing. It was not water.

Or survive until night, Yorvig thought. There was no promise the ürsi would wait, after all. Yorvig's head pounded. Many of the Hammers and Wardens limped, but those who could stand had formed a loose ring among the huts. It was clear they were nervous, and they had a noticeable dearth of spears—mostly hammers and axes, apart from the crossbows. It wasn’t ideal for a defensive fight. Then again, Sledgefist had never favored defensive fighting with his Hammers. Even the big rectangular shields served the purpose of covering their advance.

If the ürsi overcame their fear and swarmed the dwarves, then only the Black Fire might delay their deaths. It’s was new and frightening to them. He wasn’t sure how quickly they might adapt, or if One-Ear could force them despite the fear—if One-Ear still lived, and not merely those chieftains who had sliced ears. The shrieking and yipping had settled some, and though they saw the foe moving further up and down the ridge, none had yet shown themselves near. Then again, untold numbers could be lurking just down the slope.

“What is the best way to use the powder?” Yorvig asked Rothe. The Jackal looked around at the copse of tall pine. Red Ridges Pine, they called them.

“Take some of the kegs outside the circle. On the edges—” he waved at the village.

“Make a pile?” Sledgefist asked.

“No,”Rothe said, still clutching his thigh. “Not together. Put them around.” He motioned vaguely at the huts again. “Put them around the edges. If they rush.”

“If they rush, the fuses won’t burn from here in time,” Yorvig said. “Not if we put them far enough away that we don’t die with them.”

Maybe that was what Rothe intended. It would be a better end than ürsi teeth, if it came to it.

"The kulkur might trample the fuses as well," Sledgefist said.

“No! Use the pots to ignite them. Only use some. Three kegs in the huts. Maybe three huts, one to each side.”

Yorvig remembered how strong the explosion of a single keg had been. He grimaced to think of what three would be like spaced through the village, or nine at once. The dwarves had set down their burdens of Black Fire in a cluster near the granite outcrop. Many of the kegs had been pierced by stones, and they had trailed small amounts of powder. The smell was strong. They had twenty-two of the iron-bound kegs left. That meant they had over four thousand pounds of powder sitting together, not including the satchels of ceramic pots. The dwarves who had hauled it so far were strong but clearly exhausted.

“Do as he says,” Yorvig said. He motioned to the Wardens who had come with him and had not born the burdens. “Put three kegs in a hut to each side, as far away as we can be sure to throw. Make sure to mark which." Then he spoke to the rest. "And tear down some of these other huts. We need a barricade halfway up this rock. And fell these trees.”

"Should we not try to make it back to the adit?" Sledgefist asked quietly. "We made it here. And Thrushbeard gives a distraction."

"We made it here when they did not know we were coming. The bolts are nearly spent."

Sledgefist released a long breath, then nodded.

"I would have wished a song could be made," he said, and then turned and shouted: "Get the axes ringing!"

It was still barely midday. It was hard to believe that all had happened so quickly. Yorvig made sure a few of the more exhausted and wounded dwarves stood by, ready to light and throw the ceramic pots if need be, while those who were more able set about the labor. Yorvig aided as well, standing in place with a handaxe and bringing down a pine. Rightauger worked with him, chopping at the opposite side. The sporadic cackle of ürsi kept up on the ridges around them, but they seemed to have retreated further. Few even showed themselves up and down the crest, now. It did not make him feel safer; falling back could also mean gathering. Yorvig hoped they would wait for nightfall to attack. He wondered if Thrushbeard or the others back in the dell had heard the blasts. What did they think must have happened? Would they sally to attempt a rescue, or did they think the expedition already overrun and slain? Yorvig sent a Warden up to the top of Tonkil’s Rock to use a bit of burnished silver to flash sunlight toward the Ridge Tower. The ürsi typically had no polished metals, and the Wardens used patterns to communicate across ridges. The distance was too far to clearly make out details with the naked eye, but the signal might give Thrushbeard the knowledge that they yet lived.

What was Onyx thinking right now? That her husband and son were dead?

Yorvig pushed the thought from his mind. He had to focus. The axe sent chunks of pine flying.

Crack!

Yorvig stopped his swing and spun around, but Rothe still leaned against the rock, clutching his thigh. That was the sound of the shuglenu, but it had come from down the western slope. Rothe also stared, though his expression was hidden by the mask. New shrieks rose from the slope, but there was a shout as well, and it sounded distinctly dwarven. Were there more Jackals? His chest fluttered with hope.

"Crossbows to the edge!" Yorvig said, grabbing Treadfoot and stamping through the huts. The Wardens had few bolts left, but they hurried ahead of Yorvig and stared down. One of them raised and loosed a bolt.

"Hah! Shit on him."

"There are dwarves coming up!"

"Dwarves? From the west?" Sledgefist asked as he hurried to look down the slope.

"Cover them," Yorvig said, coming to the edge, and then he realized there were no ürsi left to cover from. Pushing up the slope with strong strides were three ragged, unarmored dwarves, but one of them carried a shuglenu. They looked up at Yorvig and the other dwarves waiting on the crest, their eyes wide with the fear and elation of danger.

"Who are you?" Sledgefist asked as they reached the crest, breathing hard.

"I am Darkcheek," said the one with the shuglenu, which answered the question for no one. "Where is Stonefoot?"

"This way," Yorvig said. He led them back through the huts to where Rothe lay. Rothe saw them coming and struggled to stand, using his shuglenu as a cane.

"Darkcheek!"

"You're wounded," one of the newcomers said.

Rothe waved it away.

"How did you get here?"

"We heard the blasts and knew you were coming for us. Who else could it be?" Darkcheek said.

"I take it these are your refugees, Rothe Stonefoot?" Yorvig asked.

"Three of them. Darkcheek, Aurun, and Slagbiter." Rothe motioned to each. " Where are the others?"

"Still under stone, but we would not sit by and let you fight alone."

As they spoke, Yorvig was assessing the dwarves. They were dressed as miners, though their clothes had seen better days. Beside the shuglenu, they had only knives and sharpened tree branches. Without armor, they were more likely to simply die as soon as stones started flying than to be any help. It was incredible they had made it at all, but then the ürsi were distracted and must be massing somewhere.

"How could you hear?" Rothe asked. "You should have been shut below."

"We were considering trying to reach Glint."

Rothe shook his head.

"Foolish. Foolish to come as well."

"How did you get through the ürsi?" Yorvig interjected.

"We saw none until we had nearly reached the top of the ridge," Darkcheek said. "All their attention was up here. But the blasts had stopped, and we weren't sure where you were, or if it was over."

"Then the ürsi moved south along the ridge," one of the others said. "There were only a few left, hiding and watching."

"When we heard the axes, we knew you were still here, so we rushed them from behind. When I fired the shuglenu, they fled."

"Well, you can fire it after all," Rothe said.

"I hit the kulkur, too."

Yorvig turned to the dwarves standing around "Get everyone back to work." He looked back to the newcomers. "You better help too. A breastwork is the only thing that might keep you alive when they come."