When Oak woke up, the stab wound on his left forearm had been tied with a piece of cloth, and Ur-Namma was sitting right next to him with a bottle of water.

“I hate fighting dwarves.” Oak croaked. “Please give me a drink of that.”

Ur-Namma passed the bottle to Oak, eye fixed on the campfire. There was a sad air about him, and yet Oak could sense the elf was also proud. He sat straighter, almost like an unseen weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

“Geezer!” He hollered.

The hellhound trotted into view and sat next to Oak, tongue lolling out of his mouth. There was no sign a dwarf had stabbed him a short while ago. The dog looked right as rain.

“You gave me quite a scare,” Oak murmured, and stroked Geezer’s coarse fur. It seemed like the hellhound had forgiven him, at least for the moment. They all sat there for a while in companionable silence, until Oak’s eyes landed on Yura’s severed head, which had rolled a few feet away from her corpse.

“She had Alasie’s eyes,” Oak whispered.

“Ah. That is the tragedy of the dwarves. A horror that cannot help but renew itself. A mother passes the madness to her daughter. A father passes it to his son. Azidahaka has heaped sorrow upon generation after generation,” Ur-Namma said. “Believe me, Yura’s soul is better off in dreamless sleep inside your infernal engine. A soul without a body cannot experience pain inside creation.”

“I guess so. She will go to her afterlife when I die. Even though it might have been the right thing to do, it does not feel pure,” Oak muttered.

“Pure?” Ur-Namma asked.

“I gained from her death. Can an act be selfless in nature, if you benefit from it?” Oak asked‌. “I think something is lost.”

Ur-Namma had a strange look on his face. “Of all the savages in the world, Ashmadei sent a philosopher to rescue me,” the elf said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Though I admit your words ring true. There is an idea there worth exploring, but maybe it could wait until we have escaped beyond the boundaries of Ma’aseh Merkavah?”

“Hmm. You might be right. It could be difficult to write a treatise while on the move like this,” Oak said.

“Well, now I know you aren’t seriously injured, since the bad jokes have already started,” Ur-Namma said and stood up. “Help me with the corpses. We need to get the rest of the fat one down from that cross.”

“Hey, I have a great sense of humor,” Oak said and struggled up to a standing position. The world spun a bit, but he did not fall over. He considered this a success.

“I doubt people with a great sense of humor need to explain what a great sense of humor they have,” Ur-Namma replied.

This left Oak stumped, so he ignored it and soldier on. Hesitation is death, after all. He followed Ur-Namma to the cross that Toklo had been crucified to. The dwarf’s left leg from the knee down had ended up in Geezer’s belly, but the rest of Toklo was still drooping from the cross.

“I feel bad about all this,” Ur-Namma said and gestured towards the missing leg. “Needs must and all that, but I wish there had been another way to save Geezer.”

“No use crying over spilled milk,” Oak said. “Should we burn the corpses? A pyre seems fitting.”

“That was my idea. I will let you do the honors, since my back would probably snap in two if I tried to lift a dwarf,” Ur-Namma said.

And that is how Oak ended up dumping the corpses of Toklo, Yura and Kallik in the campfire. It was an arduous process, since he could not use his wounded left hand, but he made do. He threw the pieces of Toklo’s cross on top of the smoldering corpse pile and brought over some broken bookshelves to make sure the fire had enough fuel.

A proper pyre needed to burn hot, and it needed to do so for a long time. Oak was not in the business of half measures.

When the pyre was hot and large enough for his taste, the three of them gathered in front of it.

Ur-Namma cleared his throat and recited a lament for the fallen dwarves:

“You have known affliction under the rod of petty wrath.

Madness has worn away your flesh,

Lunacy has broken your bones.

You have been left to dwell in the dark places,

Besieged with hardship.

You have been sated with bitterness,

Filled with wormwood.

Too long was your sorrow and toil,

Too high was the price paid with your flesh.

Now you are freed from this mortal coil.”

Ur-Namma placed a fist over his own heart. His eyes were wet with tears.

“Take heart. Acts of mercy are not yet exhausted. Compassion is not spent.

Because of the Mother, we do not perish in the dark. Her miracles never fail.

Your souls shall soar to the halls of your ancestors and find their rest.

May king Taliriktug himself welcome you home.”

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While Ur-Namma had spoken, a lump had formed inside Oak’s throat that refused to go away. When he had picked up Yura’s corpse, he had gotten a good look at the child’s arms. They had been absolutely covered in scars. Her arms had looked like someone had dug into them with a dull knife, or maybe a fork.

There is a metaphor for existence. A collection of useless pain. By the Chariot, I’m such a whiner.

Geezer was sitting next to Oak, ears flat against his head. The hellhound leaned against his leg and let out a sad little howl. Somehow, that helped a bit. Oak took a deep breath and swallowed the lump down.

What was done was done.

After Ur-Namma had finished his lament, Oak too had words for the dead and though his delivery was less flowery than Ur-Namma’s, it had no less heart in it.

“Fuck dragons,” Oak said.

“There, my friend, is a message I can get behind,” Ur-Namma said. “Fuck dragons.”

***

“Ur-Namma, I require the aid of your vast experience,” Oak whispered.

The three of them were climbing up the long staircase to the third floor of the Imperial Library. Oak figured this was as good a place as any to pick Ur-Namma’s brain.

“I would be happy to be of assistance,” Ur-Namma whispered back.

Oak turned his head back and looked at the elf. “Sometime soon, I’m going to need to pick another power. Maybe even two of them. I want to know what you would do in my shoes.”

“Ah. A matter of grave import,” Ur-Namma said. The elf tapped his chin while he contemplated the question.

While it was obvious the elf was moving better than the day before, there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead as he climbed with halting steps.

“I will respond with a question of my own,” Ur-Namma finally said. “Who decides when a fight begins and when it ends?”

“Is this some kind of trick question?” Oak asked. This was not a direction he had expected the conversation to go towards, but that was the reason it made sense to ask for advice in the first place. The elf did not think like he did.

“No. Just think about a fight between two average humans,” Ur-Namma replied.

Oak reached the third floor landing and poked his head out. This floor seemed identical to the first one. Just a library filled with books that could walk. And bite your face off if you were not careful. It was a fine spot for a break, so he sat down on the last step and gave Ur-Namma’s question some thought.

“Well, if one is faster than the other, he could always just run away,” Oak said after a bit of thinking.

“Exactly. There is much power in being able to decide when and where an engagement happens.” Ur-Namma smiled. The elf spoke with his teacher's voice now, all intelligible and assertive. “If you run faster than your opponent, they can’t escape, nor can they chase you. What about if the difference in speed is very large?”

“I guess the faster one just cuts the other to pieces? You can’t block a strike if you don’t even see it coming,” Oak said.

“Therein lies the trap that many a Warlock and Chosen have walked into. It does not matter if you wield unimaginable magical power or shake the Heavens with your strength, if your adversary strikes first,” Ur-Namma said. “I have killed more spellcasters of all kinds than I can count in battle, and one thing has always remained the same. There is not much a mage can do if you cut their head off before they can cast a spell.”

The elf sat down on the floor of the third floor landing and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Geezer went to help him, and licked off everything Ur-Namma had missed, while the elf sputtered and tried to push the hellhound away.

“Correct me if I am wrong, but you don’t seem to have a high opinion of mages,” Oak said. “Surprising, since your sister was one.”

Geezer was still busy terrorizing Ur-Namma, so Oak had to wait until the elf cajoled the hound to lie down and leave his face alone, before he got an answer.

“Archmages and masters of the art are, of course, a different matter, but most mages are not very effective at war,” Ur-Namma scoffed. “Battles can last for days. The average elementalist throws some fireballs or a couple of lightning bolts and runs out of juice. It is flashy, but one should never mistake spectacle for effectiveness.

“Believe me when I say that I have often achieved more with a group of peasants wielding bows than I ever have with a single middling wizard.”

“Huh,” Oak said. “I never thought of it that way.”

“Now, there are two general exceptions. Elementalists who focus on earth, stone and soil,” Ur-Namma said. “And diabolists.” The elf scratched Geezer behind the ears with his long fingers, eliciting a groan from the dog. “Earth mages are fiendishly difficult to kill since they can, bar none, travel through soil and construct a golem around themselves from materials that are always found under their own feet. Even more importantly, they can create earthworks with a snap of their fingers. Makes wielding cavalry against them a fool's errand.”

“What about diabolists?” Oak asked. “Why are they such a pain in the ass?”

“To be a diabolist is to be prepared. It's pretty much impossible to kill one quickly,” Ur-Namma replied. “They always have a dozen pacts with different demons, and a bag full of nasty tricks in reserve. Not to mention the fact that they can summon devils, infernal spirits, and even weak demons if the diabolist is powerful enough.”

The elf stared through the walls of the library into the distance, clearly in the grips of memory. “I once had to batter a warding circle down for two entire days while the diabolist summoned hellspawn to attack me, before I could kill the bastard. Had to pierce his heart five times because the first four wounds vanished from his body.”

“Not fond of diabolists, I see.” Oak snickered.

“Not particularly,” Ur-Namma said. “To get back to your question, I suggest you think of your journey to power as the construction of a great tower with a wide base. You cannot be a jack of all trades and a master of none if you want to kill a dragon. Versatility is no doubt necessary, but it should not come at the cost of holding you back from powers that require a significant investment of souls.

“Additionally, you should not underestimate the importance of being fast, strong, and durable. You have already opted for the Branch of Buer and received a boon along that branch. Speed and strength will give you many options when it comes to movement, and thanks to your chosen path, it is not likely you will tire before the battle is over.”

He had chosen the Branch of Buer for good reason. There was nothing scarier than being in a fight and realizing you were tiring faster than the other guy. That was the realm of cold sweat and shaking limbs.

“Being able to, for example, teleport is fine, but it will be very resource intensive, both in the amount of soul investment necessary to make the power useful, and in the sense of actually wielding the power in the world,” Ur-Namma said. “You can only cast so much before the strain on your soul forces you to stop. Every teleport you cast would spend the same resource you need to summon your flames.”

“You know what, Ur-Namma?” Oak asked. “You have given me a lot to think about. Thank you.”

The elf looked pleased with himself. “Don’t mention it, my friend.”

It was nice to just sit still for a while. Oak stared at the ceiling. He tried to imagine all the floors and towers above. It was maddening that mortal hands had built something of this magnitude. It did not seem real to him. Surely there was some trick to all this?

When he could tell that Ur-Namma was no longer about to keel over from exhaustion, Oak stood up and placed the rucksack on his back.

“I think we should try to get to the fifth floor before we stop for the night,” Oak said. “It should not take too long. What do you say?”

“Stairs, my worst enemy. We meet again.” Ur-Namma groaned and clambered back to his feet. He gestured for Oak to take point and Oak did so without complaint.

“Come on, old timer,” Oak said and stepped on the stairs leading towards the floor’s above. “We still need to empty that vault.”