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.
He sent the half дlf ahead as their scout. The decision caused him considerable heartache: On the one hand, he wanted to protect Narmora because of her role in the mission; on the other, he knew that she stood the best chance of leading the company to safety. Furgas was sick with worry on her behalf, but she struck out confidently through the snow, allowing the others to tread in her footsteps.
Their path took them over shimmering bridges of ice, through sheer-sided chasms, and past deep gulleys. From time to time they clambered over snow-covered scree and through stone archways that seemed liable to collapse.
They walked in silence, their tongues stayed by tiredness and all that had gone before. It was enough to focus on putting one foot in front of the other without tripping.
Tungdil's thoughts drifted back to Giselbert and Bavragor. He could imagine them defending the gates against the enemy hordes, and if he closed his eyes for a second, he could almost hear the mason singing. The merry minstrel, he thought sadly.
Later, as daylight faded and the wind picked up, they sheltered inside a cave, huddling around the torchlight. Boпndil didn't seem to mind the cold, but Andфkai brushed the snow from her cloak, pulled it close, and leaned back wearily against the bare rock. She lowered her blue eyes and cursed.
"I need to find a force field," she said, putting an end to the silence. "The sooner we're back on charmed land, the better. My powers are exhausted. I never thought this would happen and it's not an experience I'd choose to repeat."
"Quite apart from that, we're bound to need your magic before too long." The shivering Tungdil produced his map of the underground network. "I get the feeling that Nфd'onn knows about the underground network. He'll guess we're heading for Ogre's Death, and he'll probably be lying in wait." He scanned the map attentively, his eyes coming to rest at a point two hundred miles from their present location. He'll never think of looking there! "We'll go to Вlandur."
"To Вlandur?" blustered Boпndil, who was carefully plucking ice from his beard. "Whatever for?"
"There's a shaft leading down to the network," he told him, pointing to the map. "There's a good chance that this part of the kingdom won't have fallen to the дlfar. We'll ask the elves to join us and take up the fight against Nфd'onn, just as the high king proposed. Unless you've got a better suggestion, of course."
"Er, no…" the secondling conceded. "But I can't help… I mean, it takes a while to get used to the idea. Elves are our enemies, our sworn rivals."
"I can't imagine it either," admitted Balyndis, nodding in agreement. She stretched her hands to the burning torch.
"How extraordinarily easy it is for one to dislike something," said Rodario philosophically. He clutched his stomach just as it growled in protest. Like the others, he was ravenously hungry. Desperation drove him to break off an icicle and pop it in his mouth.