They watched the embers fade until the sky in the east lightened. Yorvig struggled to his feet, and with Rightauger and a few others, they went in among the bodies, but they found no more living. If it weren’t for Rightauger dragging the wounded back during the fighting, the toll would have been worse. From Rightauger's shoulder hung Rothe's shuglenu. He must have taken it from the wounded Jackal at some point in the night.

The fires would not hold the ürsi, now. The heat was dissipating in the morning air, and the fire had not continued down the springtime slopes. Yorvig’s nose burned; all smells had fled. The blaze of the emerging sun behind the eastern ridge sent a plume of color into the sky. A dwarf nearby looked strange, and it took a moment for Yorvig to realize that it was the youngest of the refugees in mismatched hauberk and helm. The young dwarf's left arm hung useless at his side. Looking around, Yorvig didn't see the other refugees among the living.

Sledgefist was staring at something to the west. Yorvig turned to follow his gaze.

South along the crest, just beyond the burnt remains of the village, an ürsi stood alone.

It was large. Far larger than One-Ear had ever been. It did not shriek. It did not move for a time. When it had approached or how long it had stood there, Yorvig wasn’t sure. It wore no ruff of feathers. It was stripped to its grey skin, wearing only a kind of breech clout, and in one hand it held a club with a long iron spike run through it.

It had one ear.

Slowly, it raised a hand and pointed at Yorvig, lifting its club with the other.

The dwarves stared at it in silence.

After a time, the ürsi lowered its arms. It waited, then raised them again in the same way, lifting its weapon and pointing with its other hand. It was pointing at Yorvig.

“What’s it doing?” Sledgefist asked. His voice was like the rasp of a file on poor iron.

“Look behind it!” one of the Wardens croaked.

The crest was clear-cut for about a hundred yards beyond the huts, and at the edge of a cluster of pines, the growing light revealed the shine of yellow in the shadows. There were ürsi there, perhaps a score, all wearing yellow ruffs about their shoulders.

The solitary ürsi made the gesture, again, raising its weapon and pointing at Yorvig.

“Why don’t they finish us?” Sledgefist asked.

The pointing ürsi shook his hands in what looked like a gesture of frustration. Yorvig looked down at the rock, searching for Treadfoot, but if he had dropped it next to the barricade, it had burned. He reached behind his back, grasping his punch dagger.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s One-Ear. He’s challenging me,” Yorvig said. For that is what it was, Yorvig realized. That is what it had always been. The ürsi was much bigger than the last time they'd met, but there was no mistaking the face. It was One-Ear.

“Let him,” Sledgefist said. “Don’t be a fool.”

Yorvig ignored Sledgefist and stepped forward. Sledgefist grabbed his arm.

“This is what we came for,” Yorvig said. “I command you by every oath you ever swore. Unhand me.” Whether Sledgefist was weakened or whether he relented, Yorvig twisted his arm away and stepped forward, walking across the embers of the barricade and through the spiraling smoke of the burnt camp and charred trees. One-Ear watched him come, and lowered his arms.

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Yorvig stopped a few yards away.

One-Ear’s upper body was clawed and lacerated and bleeding. Once more, he pointed at Yorvig and raised his club in his other hand. So near, Yorvig heard a wet clicking in the ürsi’s throat, like half-submerged gears turning. There was an old scarred wound on One-Ear’s shoulder—and many other places on his sinewy body.

This ürsi had killed dwarves, had eaten Savvyarm, but to Yorvig’s surprise, he did not feel hatred. He stared at the Last Rat, any vestige of childhood horror gone. He felt calm. One-Ear had crafted Yorvig into who he was, and Yorvig had crafted One-Ear. They fought for the survival of their folk. They were equals. They were the same. They knew each other.

It changed nothing.

Slowly, Yorvig raised his dagger with one hand and pointed at One-Ear with the other.

One-Ear’s remaining ear perked forward and a tremor ran through his body. He crouched, his sinews taut like ropes of steel wire. Yorvig crouched as well, gripping his dagger.

Crack!

One-Ear grunted and crumpled, collapsing onto the rocky path. Yorvig twisted to look back. Rightauger stood in the ashes with the shuglenu against his shoulder, a plume of smoke billowing away in the morning breeze.

A chorus of shrieks rose from the trees where the ürsi chieftains watched, but they did not move. Why did they not come?

One-Ear struggled to look down at his chest. Blood bubbled up and ran down his side. Resting his head back on the stone, the fallen ürsi stared up at the morning sky.

A horn blasted from the north. Emerging down the crest trail a short way off were cadres of Ridge Wardens.

Thrushbeard had come.

The ürsi chiefs dispersed into the trees. Dark blood pooled on the rock at One-Ear's side, and his breath came in rasps and gasps. He spasmed, and his fanged jaw slowly opened. He was still, eyes yet gazing skyward.

“Iltan fӓr Indal,” Yorvig whispered.

The mountains are ours.

Many months later.

“The trials with the blasting powder have been successful, but they destabilize the rock far more than drills and chisels,” Shineboot said.

“It may not be worth the risk of life,” Yorvig replied.

“We can mitigate it, I think. The speed it offers us is . . .” Shineboot shook his head.

“Is this the future? That we will mine with powder and wage war with fire?” Sledgefist asked.

“And engines of coal and oil,” Hobblefoot added, clasping his hands, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

“I do not know the future,” Yorvig said. “We will use anything to defend our folk. But I am still concerned with the fracturing in the blasts.”

“What if the humans learn to wield this stuff?” Sledgefist asked.

“We must keep the knowledge from them,” Hobblefoot answered. “That is all.”

“It is easier to sluice gold than knowledge,” Yorvig said.

“I don’t like it.” Sledgefist’s arms had been folded tight during the whole discussion.

“There is much you don’t like,” Hobblefoot said. “But I will talk you to your senses over a hot cup of mead, my cousin.” He grinned.

“It may take two. . . or three.”

“So be it.”

“There is more than one cousin here,” Shineboot added.

“And in-laws.” Greal pointed at himself and Khlif.

“And Warmcoat!” Warmcoat said.

There was laughter, and the conversation drifted to friendly chatter. Yorvig looked down at the letter spread on the stone in front of him. The seal on the leather cylinder lying beside it was freshly broken. News had already reached him from Deep Cut, but this letter had only arrived that morning.

Chargrim,

My heartfelt congratulations on your victory and your liberation of East Spire. The siege of Deep Cut is also broken, and the Council is no more. I suspect you have already heard this.

All trade with the humans is cut off. I have sent my negotiators to discuss trade agreements with you—and agreements of arms. The humans want gold more than salt and coal. They will come for you one day, even if they cannot take the Waste. They know no satiety.

But we are one folk, are we not?

— Reamer, Irik-Rhûl of Deep Cut.

I was thankful for your praise of Stonefoot's role in your victory, but though your message arrived, he did not. The rinlen of the pack-train said he was simply gone one morning. Mender, your erstwhile guest, humbly requests that word be sent if you hear news of him.

“Chargrim, are you coming?”

Yorvig looked up. All the others were standing. Turning to Onyx, he struggled to his feet and held out his hand. It wasn't just that she was his wif; he needed the help. She met his eyes, took his hand, and they all departed the chamber together, leaving nine empty chairs behind.

THE END