“No matter is more important than the one before us.”

The dracolich emitted a low, threatening growl. “I will have them,” he said.

“The drow and the human?”

“You know who I mean.”

“We already have lost First Grandfather Wu to the drow,” Yharaskrik reminded. “It is possible that Jarlaxle was killed in that same conflict.”

“We do not know what happened to First Grandfather Wu.”

“We know that he is lost to us, that he is … gone. There is nothing more we need know. He found Jarlaxle and was defeated, and whether the drow was also killed—”

“Is something we would know if you cared to search!” Hephaestus said, and there it was, the true source of his simmering rage.

“Do not overreach,” the illithid in the dwarf’s body retorted. “We are great and mighty, and our power will only multiply as more minions are brought through the rift, and more undead are called to our service—perhaps we will soon learn how to raise the bodies of the crawlers, then our army will be unending. But mighty, too, are our enemies, and none more so than the one we have here, within our reach, at the place they call Spirit Soaring.”

“Magic is failing.”

“But it has not failed. It is unpredictable, of course, but potent still.”

“Fetchigrol and Solmé have bottled this mighty enemy up in his hole,” Hephaestus argued with dismissive sarcasm, his voice dripping as he referred to Cadderly as “mighty.”

“They are out on the trails even now.”

“Where many have been killed!”

“A few, no more,” Yharaskrik said. “And many of our minions were consumed in the battle. They do not issue from an inexhaustible source, great Hephaestus.”

“But the walking dead do—millions and millions will answer our call. And as they kill, their ranks increase,” the dracolich proclaimed.

“The summoning is easy for those of this world who have fallen,” Yharaskrik agreed. “But it is not without cost to the power of Crenshinibon—and who more likely than the powerful Cadderly to discover a countering magic?”

“I will have them!” Hephaestus roared. “The drow and his human companion—that Calishite. I will have them and I will devour them!”

The body of Ivan Bouldershoulder settled back on its heels. The illithid within was shaking the yellow-haired head with dismay and resignation. “A creature of centuries should know more of patience,” Yharaskrik scolded quietly. “One enemy at a time. Let us destroy Cadderly and Spirit Soaring, then we can go hunting. We recall the four apparitions—”

“No!”

“We will need all of our power to—”

“No! Two in the north and two in the south. Two for the drow and two for the human. If First Grandfather Wu returns, then bring him back to our side, but the other four will hunt until they have found the drow and the human. I will have those treacherous fools. And fear not for Cadderly and his forces. We will peck at them until they are weak, then the catastrophe of Hephaestus will fall over them. I went out to Solmé this very day and the ground beneath me died at my passing, and the touch of my wings rotted the trees. I fear no mortal, not this Cadderly nor anyone else. I am Hephaestus, I am catastrophe. Look upon me and know doom!”

With a large part of his enormous consciousness still residing within the coil of the dragon, sharing that body with Hephaestus and Crenshinibon, Yharaskrik understood that it could not convince the dragon otherwise. The illithid also realized, to its dismay, that Hephaestus was gaining the upper hand in the competition for the alliance of Crenshinibon.

Perhaps the illithid had erred in abandoning that coil with so much of its consciousness. Perhaps it was time to return to the others within the lifeforce of Hephaestus, to better battle the stubborn dragon.

A smile creased the face of Ivan Bouldershoulder—an ironic one indeed, Yharaskrik thought, because he was at that moment concluding that sacrificing the dwarf to the rage of Hephaestus might placate the dragon for a while, long enough for Yharaskrik to regain some measure of dominance.

A chorus of weary cheers erupted when at last the beleaguered refugees of Carradoon saw a stream of daylight. Never had any imagined how deep and dark mountain tunnels could be—except for Pikel, of course, who had been raised in dwarven mines.

Even Rorick, who had warned against going outside, couldn’t hide his relief at learning that there was indeed an ending to those lightless corridors. With great hopes, they turned a long and curving corner leading to daylight.

And arrived with a communal, profound, and disappointed sigh.

“Uh-oh,” said Pikel, for they had not come to the end of the tunnel, but merely to a natural chimney, and a very long and narrow one at that.

“We’re deeper than I believed,” Temberle admitted, staring up the shaft, which extended upward for more than a hundred feet. Most of it could not be climbed, and was too narrow in many places for any attempt, even for nimble Hanaleisa or Rorick, who were the slimmest of the group.

“Did you know we were this far down?” Hanaleisa asked Pikel, and in reply the dwarf began drawing mountains in the air, then merely shrugged.

His reasoning was correct, Hanaleisa and the other onlookers knew, for their current depth was likely more dependent upon the contours of the mountainous land above than the relatively mild grade of the tunnels they had been traversing.

The high shaft confirmed, though, that they were indeed moving deeper into the Snowflakes.

“You have to get us out,” Temberle said to Pikel.

“To battle hordes of undead?” Rorick reminded him, and Temberle shot his brother an irritated look.

“Or at least, you have to show us … show them”—he glanced back at the many Carradden moving into sight around the corner—“that there is a way out. Even if we don’t go outside,” he added, looking pointedly at his little brother, “it remains important that we know we can go outside again. We’re not dwarves.”

A cry sounded down the line. “They’re fighting in the back!” a woman yelled. “Undead! Undead sailors again!”

“We know there’s a way out,” Hanaleisa said somberly, “because now we know there’s a way in.”

“Even if it’s the way we already came,” Temberle added, and he and Hanaleisa made their way along the line to take up arms once again, to battle bloodthirsty monsters in an unending nightmare.

By the time Hanaleisa and Temberle arrived at the scuffle, the small skirmish had ended, leaving a trio of waterlogged and rotted zombies crumpled in the corridor. But one of the Carradden, too, had fallen, caught by surprise. Her neck had been broken in the opening salvo.

“What are we to do with her?” a man asked, speaking above the wails of the woman’s husband, a fellow sailor.

“Burn her, and be quick!” another shouted, which elicited many cries of protest and many more shouts of assent. Both sides in the debate became more insistent with each passing shout, and it seemed as if the whole argument would explode into more fighting then and there.

“We cannot burn her!” Hanaleisa yelled above it all, and whether by deference to one of Cadderly’s children or simply because of the strength and surety in her voice, Hanaleisa’s yell interrupted the cacophony of the brewing storm, at least for the moment.

“Ye’d have her stand up, then, to walk like one o’ them?” an old seadog argued. “Better to burn her now and be sure.”

“We haven’t any fire, nor any tools for making fire,” Hanaleisa shot back. “And even if we did, would you have us trudging through tunnels filled with such a smell and reminder as that?”

The dead woman’s husband finally tore away from those trying to hold him back, and shoved his way through the crowd to kneel beside his wife. He took up her head, cradling it in his arms, his strong shoulders bobbing with sobs.