During the afternoon, Rothe helped to take stock of the ceramic pots, but he was having difficulty walking.

"Will you be able to ply that shuglenu tonight?" Yorvig asked.

"I will," Rothe answered, but Yorvig was doubtful.

"This is my son, Rightauger. Show him the way of it, should you fall."

"I have taught these dwarves already," Rothe said, gesturing to the refugees who kept near him. Yorvig glanced at them. He had little hope they would last an hour without armor. He looked at the wounded, but he would not take their armor, for even they would rise and fight to the last as they could.

"Teach him, anyway."

Rothe inclined his head.

In a quieter voice, Yorvig spoke to the refugees.

"Keep down, and as soon as someone falls, put on their kit."

"No one will doubt your courage, now," Rothe said to the youngest of the refugees. The young dwarf looked stricken.

Only his sense, Yorvig thought, but he did not say it. After all, Yorvig was there, too, and more responsible for it than any.

By evening, the dwarves huddled behind a breastwork of fresh-cut pines, their protruding branches sharpened into stakes. They had built it part way out onto the granite protrusion, so that there was empty air to the sides. The corners turned anyway, to protect against sling stones. They had a goodly stack of firewood and a small campfire as far away from the remaining kegs as they could manage. It would ruin their night eyes, but ensure they could light fuses. As an added precaution, they had lain fresh green pine boughs atop the kegs. Yorvig knew that those kegs were their last protection against ending up as an ürsi meal, but he also didn’t want them to ignite unintentionally. The stuff was too dangerous for comfort.

The sun descended in yet another forge-like display in the west. He couldn’t help but think back to that evening with Tonkil, sitting on the end of that very outcrop and dreaming of one day having a family and a legacy. . . of stepping down as rinlen. Now, as Irik-Rhûl, he was here again with his son, preparing for an onslaught, with all of that in the balance and more. As shadow deepened in the valley, the bells of Glint rang again, three long peels. What was Thrushbeard saying? No one had returned their signals of light flashes, which meant it must not have been seen.

As dusk came to the Tonkil's Rock, the dwarves were subdued. The Wardens had shared their last bolts amongst themselves and waited with weapons drawn. Many watched the first stars appearing overhead. Yorvig looked out over the valley toward the dell, Sledgefist beside him. The earlier chaos in the river-valley had settled. The crowds of ürsi had dispersed. It was hard to tell that anything had disturbed them, except for the noise. For as night fell, the sounds of ürsi only increased, both along the ridge and down in the valley, echoing between the mountains in an unceasing cacophony—tens of thousands of ürsi voices raised in horrific din. Yorvig clenched his teeth without realizing it.

One of the Hammers began to hum an old ballad, a song sung to the cradle and the gilke about a brave and ancient king. A few others joined in with snatches of half-forgotten words.

And of that fearless company who strode into the north

Alone with greatest treasure returned Spinner to the hearth.

The melody was deep, and it was both comforting and sobering, that song. Yorvig had never been much for singing apart from as needed for work, but he was glad of it now. They were dwarves upon that mountain. They had overcome their enemies for thousands of years—for time beyond memory in the deep and high places of the world. Or at least, as a folk, they had survived.

Darkness fell. Even with the fire kept as a low bed of embers, it hindered their ability to see far. The vile shrieks only increased. Two hours passed in that din when a hush fell along the ridge around them. Down in the valley, the shrieks continued.

Without command, the injured dwarves struggled to their feet, some holding onto the breastwork for support. The few who could not stand, Yorvig had already told to watch the back edge of the rock, in case by some supreme effort or design, the ürsi managed to climb up. Rothe also rose to his feet, his shuglenu in hand. He limped unsteadily toward the fire, carrying a satchel of pots. He had already sent the refugees to kneel behind the breastwork, despite their protests.

Yorvig leaned on Treadfoot, standing beside Sledgefist at the barricade.

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“Make them earn it,” Sledgefist said so that all could hear, and then he chuckled. “It’s no Kara-Indal.”

Before the rest could reply, Yorvig answered:

“It’s better. It’s ours so long as we stand.”

"Shit on them," someone muttered, and there was a chorus of curses sent out toward the foe.

The dwarves behind the breastwork made a thin line of defense. He could have wished a second or a third line, but he hoped they made the ürsi pay a dear price.

The silence deepened. Yorvig noticed the light sough of the wind. The dwarves tensed.

“Down!” someone shouted.

Javelins fell like a hail of porcupine quills, slashing through the pine boughs, glancing off steel. He heard a cry. Crossbow strings twanged. Grey figures rushed up the slopes and across the crest, wave of ürsi swarming against the logs and sharpened boughs. Yorvig jabbed forward with Treadfoot’s spike. The chorus of shrieks and gibbers broke out all across the ridge, a din of thousands that he felt in his chest. The ürsi in the front were pressed so tight against the breastwork by those behind that they did not fall when they were stabbed. Others came crawling overtop. The right side of the fortification slid back a foot behind the weight.

There was a blast and a flash of light, showing the grey leering visages and fanged snouts of the ürsi. Another flash erupted with a crack as Rothe tossed another pot. He was merely lobbing them into the midst of the swarm.

“Rothe!” Yorvig shouted. “Blow the kegs!”

“Not yet!” Rothe shouted back.

“They might take the kegs!”

Rothe looked out at the huts, then bent to light another pot. He wound up and threw this one far, the light of the fuse spinning into the dark. It blew as it landed among the ürsi packed in the village, but the keg did not erupt. Yorvig didn’t see if it had struck the hut, he was too busy stabbing and stabbing across the breastwork. A head pushed through the boughs near his knee, but Rightauger brought his hammer down and smashed it apart. Rothe lit another pot, this time aiming for the hut to the right. The Wardens had cut away the top of the bark roofs on the huts that contained the kegs, so that they only had to land a pot inside. Rothe drew back and threw.

The whole mountain erupted with light and sound. Debris peppered the breastwork and Yorvig’s armor, but some of it was soft. The ürsi quailed, but they were too packed at the front to move. Flames leapt up and danced, and then Yorvig realized they were ürsi alive yet burning like candle-wicks. The ürsi in the fore turned and tried to push back, but the press was too severe. Only one of the huts had blown.

“Blow the others!” Yorvig yelled.

Rothe attempted to land the pot in hut on the left, and this time he succeeded. Yorvig squeezed his eyes shut for this blast. He felt it in the rock beneath his feet and heard the echoes bounce off the next ridges, so that it sounded like multiple blasts. Where once had been a lovely copse of pines there was now flame and carnage. A tree they had not cut next to the second hut cracked and fell, fire licking up its trunk. Yorvig saw some ürsi at the fore fling themselves off the edge of the rock, a drop of many yards. Others driven by desperation or fear attacked the dwarves again. Whatever pressed them from behind terrified them more, or maybe the dwarves seemed less horrible than the arcane fire that leapt behind.

The dwarves stabbed and slew. The Wardens abandoned their useless crossbows and hacked and stabbed with axe and dagger until the bodies started to form a ramp up the breastwork.

The third hut blew. Yorvig wasn’t sure whether Rothe had done it or if the fires had spread. He staggered back behind the strange force of the blast. It was strangely quiet after, or his ears were ringing too loudly. To the right, he saw ürsi coming over the breastwork and dwarves grappling for their lives. Smaller blasts popped like cracking stone as Rothe threw more pots.

Where was Sledgefist? He’d been on Yorvig’s right. Looking back even as he plunged the spike into an ürsi’s gut, he saw Sledgefist running toward the kegs with a lit brand from the fire. There was an ürsi chasing him.

Had it come to that? Was it the end?

Sledgefist slammed an elbow into the ürsi’s face as he came to the pile of kegs, threw them off the covering boughs. He lit a fuse and tossed the brand aside, then grabbed the two hundred pound keg of Black Fire and raised it over his head with both hands. A javelin glanced off his breastplate. Another ürsi fled from before him, terrified as Sledgefist roared and rushed forward. Reaching the barricade, he threw the keg over into the press of ürsi on the other side.

It landed so close.

Yorvig dove to the ground and covered his head. The shock of the blast churned his insides.

He found himself sitting, blinking. The world was quiet again. Forms crawled all around, and his vision was full of sparks.

Someone was dragging him backward. He looked. It was Rightauger, crawling, dragging him further up the rock. Yorvig tried to crawl too, and he realized he did not have Treadfoot. He was empty-handed during a battle. That was stupid.

One of Sledgefist’s Hammers ran by, a lit keg over his head. The barricade was burning. There was another blast. There were bodies all over the stone, moving like worms after a rain. The night glowed orange.

There were other dwarves too, crawling up to the end of Tonkil’s Rock. Flaming sparks fell, landing amidst the last few kegs. Rothe was there on his hands and knees, scraping them away. Where was Sledgefist?

Yorvig’s wits slowly returned to him. Rightauger was forcing a waterskin to his lips. He drank some, but more spilled down his beard. He saw Sledgefist at last, leaning on his arms a few yards behind the barricade, staring at the flames like a gilke at the forge. Then Rightauger was moving, helping others back to the end of the rock. He helped Sledgefist to his feet. A few others rolled the last kegs away from the burning breastwork.

For once, Yorvig did not do sums. He did not know how many were left. The huts in the village were burning, and the pines they had not cut roared like giant candles on the mountainside. The heat pressed against him. A few Hammers set the rectangle shields up in a wall to guard against it. Slowly, his mind settled.

Would the ürsi press in again when the fire died away? Rothe lay on his belly on the stone beside Yorvig. He was breathing. Rightauger returned and sat next to him. They shared the last of the waterskin together. Over the next two hours, the fires burned down, falling into beds of ember spread across what once was the sheltered copse where Yorvig and Tonkil’s hunters had feasted upon their kills.

Eleven. There were eleven of them huddled on the edge of the rock. Yorvig looked down at the river-valley and frowned. The ürsi were burning great bonfires. . . He stared for a time before he realized he was mistaken. The ürsi encampments were burning.