After a brief respite, Bearskin moved to his feet with great effort. Trish looked pale but was able to keep up after Daulf's healing.

Daulf didn't wait for us to scout ahead. He ascended the tiny dwarven stairs three at a time and we kept pace behind him. As we neared the top, the musty stench of the ocean was replaced with the stink of rotting dead and the light from below grew faint. I conjured a Light in my cupped hand, illuminating only the stairs before us. The room atop the stairs was pitch black.

Roland whispered from behind, "It's a large empty room with a large gate on the right. The far side has a raised dais with a door atop it. There are bodies all over the floor and something large in the center of the room. Whatever was in this room has been removed. I think the far room has the controls. It matches Deshiv's description."

How can he see anything?

“Ghost Light,” came Daulf’s cold voice from the darkness, taking no care to whisper.

Letting my Light fade, I created the Ghost Light anchored on Daulf, and it appeared two feet above him. Bright white light flooded the room for thirty feet in all directions. The bodies of dead dwarves lay in neat rows covering the floor, in almost a respectful manner. They wore simple tunics, and bore no visible wounds, likely the victims of the fortress’ defenses.

We made our way across the room, through the field of the dead. Our circle of light revealed the large object to be the corpse of a giant scaled beast; the scales shone a brilliant bronze in my magical light.

The sight broke Daulf from his cold trance. "Dead dragon," he said, voice tinged with awe.

What could kill a dragon? More importantly, are we supposed to face whatever did?

The dragon was small—for a dragon. Its unmoving form rose to near Bearskin's height. As my light revealed more of the beast, I saw a gash ran along its flank, from where its neck met its body to its hind leg.

Daulf approached the slain creature, unconcerned that the killer might still be present, and gingerly laid his hand upon the wound. "The forces of men lost a mighty—" the dragon rose to its feet and let out a roar as he touched it.

The roar sounded wrong, like a dragon’s attempt to reproduce the howl of a hound. Not the great roar of legends.

Daulf jumped back and reflexively drew his sword and raised his shield to guard, but the dragon only turned to him. I could see that one of the dragon’s eyes had been replaced with a brown stone, while the other stared lifelessly ahead. The dragon stood to its full height, reaching almost twenty feet up. Its wings hung limply at its side, robbing it of some of the majesty it had in life.

Oh no.

Around us, the slain dwarves rose to their feet, silent save for the shuffling of uncoordinated limbs. We closed into a circle, and I picked up a discarded shield at my feet. The undead creatures made no move to attack. They simply watched us, each of them with a sphere of pitted and cracked marble in place of an eye.

Oh flood! I shouldn't have come. I should not be here.

I had read about undead. The Late Midlothian Empire used them extensively, turning their defeated enemies into fodder, but with the fall of the Empire and the flood, the methods of their creation were lost—at least to those on the surface.

A shrill laugh echoed manically, seemingly from everywhere, "I'm not sure what you foolish adventurers came here to accomplish, but I assure you, everyone you might be trying to save is quite dead. But worry not, it was not for nothing. I'll enjoy adding one of the Mistresses thugs to my collection."

While the voice spoke, Daulf's eyes took on the blue glow as he scanned the room behind my Ghost Light’s reach. “There is a redcap upon the dais at the end of this floor.” he said in a low whisper.

The undead dwarves closed in. They bore no weapons and moved in an awkward and jerky manner—as if they were puppets on strings in the hands of children—but they still outnumbered us greatly.

“Retreat to the hallway!” Bearskin commanded us, his tattoos once more taking on their blue glow.

He charged the undead between us and the stairs, clearing a path with one swipe of his mighty weapon. The undead were flung across the room, and we took the opportunity to run through the gap in order to make a stand at the hall’s narrow entrance.

The undead that had been thrown by the attack rose silently and continued their advance, undeterred by their broken bodies. They shambled and crawled towards us, rejoining the others in their mindless procession. The faint silhouette of the dragon in the back stood awkwardly on its hind legs, and once more let out its strange howl.

Bearskin looked from us to the dragon and said, “Hold here,” and—weapon held before him— plowed through the advancing undead. They bit and clawed at him as he passed, but it had no effect on the giant man’s tough hide. The dragon reached for Bearskin with its talons, but Bearskin leaped over the claw and onto the great unliving beast. In the darkness, only the faint glow of Bearskin’s tattoos were visible, now high up on the dragon's back. I could hear his grunts and the beats of his weapon as he attacked the monster.

With any capacity to plan, the undead would have quickly defeated us, but they only reached and clawed mindlessly at their prey. I held the line against the monsters, gripping my shield in both hands. Daulf fared better, and was able to block with his shield arm and still make the occasional slash at a grasping hand. Trish and Roland stood behind us, stabbing and cutting at any that made it into their deadly reach. The dwarves ignored our attacks. They kept coming—missing fingers, arms, and legs—clawing and biting silently in the dark.

When it seemed like we had reached an equilibrium, the voice filled the room once more, “Stop damaging my dragon! Do you know how hard that was to create!?”

Green mist began to coalesce, and Roland drew his bow from his back and shot an arrow in a single motion. The arrow flew into the dark.

“Flood!” came the same voice once more, and the mist dissipated—but only for a moment. Soon the mist returned, and with it came a wretched odor.

“Hold your breath!” came Daulf’s command.

Thinking quickly, I began to reach for the Font of Air, but in the process, I lost focus. A shove from the undead knocked me to the ground, interrupting my spell and forcing out my held breath. The mist was all around us, and I could just make out Roland taking up my shield and filling the gap.

I took a breath, only to cough it back up—along with what little air I still had. I pulled my shirt to my face as I gasped for breath through the fabric. Filtered slightly, I was able to keep the breath in, but then the retching began. The vomiting came next. Distantly, I was aware of the surrounding battle, I needed to do something. In between gasps and heaves, I could not focus on the Font. Desperately, I tried to cast my mind to that other place fully, and focused on the Font of Air. I reached closer and closer, but each time my body shuddered, I fell further away.

Through my pain and effort, I heard Roland let out a curse, and he too began to cough and heave.

They need me.

I blocked out my perception of the world and threw the full force of my Will into reaching the Arcane Realm. My awareness of my body—and time—disappeared, and I was standing outside the Font of Air. My hand entered the Font, and I burned my Will as I shaped it to fit my needs. After a moment—or an eternity, time is strange there—I succeeded, and awareness of my body returned along with a Gale.

The mist began to dissipate, and another curse rang out through the room. “Flood!””

Trish stood over Roland, bleeding from a dozen different bites. Motionless dwarves lay at her feet. She gasped for a breath when the air was clear. “Cut off their heads or damage those stones!”

Daulf was faring better in his chain mail, with only a few visible wounds. He was succeeding in keeping the undead at bay, but a pile of writhing, limbless dwarves were biting at his feet.

Trish covered Roland and me while we rose. She drove a dagger into the eyes of the dwarves as they closed in, dropping them.

Shards of ice flew over the remaining undead. One struck me in the shoulder and I let out a cry of pain. The wound was cold, and I could feel my flesh freezing before I was able to knock the shard free. The pain caused me to lose focus on my spell, and the wind ceased.

Despite the hail of ice, we were now on the offensive, Roland and Trish pushed forward. Daulf began to behead those attacking him and I joined in as well after recovering my short sword. Together we thinned the horde as we advanced.

The sound of Bearskin's struggle with the dragon continued as Daulf beheaded the last of the undead. By then I was exhausted, gasping for breath and clutching my injured shoulder, which was turning black from frostbite. My companions weren't doing much better. Roland drew his bow and his aim wavered as he shot past the dragon at some unseen target. His shot disrupted chanting I had not been aware of until it had stopped, and with another curse a wall of fire filled the room between the dais and the dragon.

Backlit by the flames, we watched as Bearskin battled the undead dragon. The pair had done a number on each other. Swaths of scales were missing from the dragon’s hide, its fore claw was absent, and the side of its head with the real eye was gone, but still it fought. Bearskin leaped off the dragon’s back in response to the flames, and the dragon sat bathing in them unharmed. His tattoos still glowed, but he was covered in wounds he seemed oblivious to.

The dragon let out a wheezing howl and charged at us; Bearskin and Daulf ran to meet it while Roland fired arrow after arrow at the stone set in its eye. Right before the two warriors met the undead beast, an arrow landed true, hitting the stone eye. The dragon faltered and fell to its knee, sliding on the stone. Its tail whipped around and intercepted Bearskin, throwing him across the room, where he slammed into the wall with a bone shattering crack. The blue light of his tattoos went out.

Daulf reached the dragon as it recovered. The dragon reached for him with its claw. Dropping his shield, Daulf raised his sword in a two handed swing and made an overhand cut at the incoming claw. Before impact, his sword began to glow with golden light, and when steel met scale, the scale dissolved to black ash which floated away. Daulf ran through the dragon's claw as if it were not there. Robbed of its remaining limb, the wyrm fell to the ground, where Daulf was ready to meet it. He severed its head from its serpentine neck with another glowing swing of his sword. The body turned to ash, and that ash too dissolved into nothingness, but Daulf did not stop.

His hands moved in a familiar gesture, and he continued his mad dash into the wall of fire. Where he met the flames, it parted, and he ran through it unharmed, leaving an opening through which we could see a redcap frantically gesturing the workings of a spell. While Daulf was only feet away, the redcap completed his magical gestures with a rude one, and vanished in a flash of light, the wall of fire disappearing with him.

"Trish! The ruby! Come on!" Daulf ordered.

Trish broke from her trance and ran through the darkness towards the light above Daulf. Together they entered the door atop the dais.

I used the last of my Will to summon a Ghost Light above me and ran to check on Bearskin. With the rush of battle past, I became aware of my Will drain induced headache. Bearskin lay motionless and breathing shallowly in the same state from our first meeting.

That's probably a good sign. He seemed to recover quickly enough.

Walking towards him, my body made me aware of more injuries I had no recollection of receiving; multiple bites on my legs and knife slashes in my arms all competed with my frostbitten arm to force me to collapse.

I heard the grinding of stone on stone reverberate through the fortress. The ground shook and rushing water roared distantly.

Lying on the ground, hurting and exhausted, my last thought was We did it before sleep took me.

Some time later I woke, still in pain from my wounds, but with the pain in my arm gone. In a panic, I reached for my shoulder, grasping to see if my arm was still there. It was, and after a moment, I thought to try to move it and relaxed in relief when it worked.

Misreading my intent, Daulf said, "I'm sorry, but that's all I had left in me after the battle."

“Thank you, no it’s not that. I thought I had lost the arm, but I can’t even feel the twinge of a wound.”

I was still where I had passed out, but now covered with a blanket. There was a fire going nearby, providing some small bit of light. I summoned a Ghost Light over myself, revealing Trish, Roland and Bearskin still asleep nearby. From my Will, I judged I had slept at least eight hours.

Daulf came close and proceeded to heal the rest of my wounds. The healing felt itchy, but in a good way. Like when you have a bug bite and scratching it feels so good that you can’t stop until it's a bleeding sore. Except the healing left me with perfect, unmarred skin, instead of a nasty scab and a scolding from my mother. Imagine that, but over your whole leg.

“Wow.”

“A common response,” he said with a chuckle. “The others told me to wake them when you were ready. We need to go through the room. As soon as Bearskin wakes we must be prepared to leave. The water rose to the top step of this floor, but it started to drain a few hours ago.”

Roland and Trish were both awake when we went to wake them, light sleepers it seemed. In my brief experience, it was futile trying to wake Bearskin, but still we tried. Slaps and cold water to the face did nothing, so we went to inspect the room without him, throwing some more furniture into the fire to keep it going in our absence.

The door was still open, and Daulf stopped us before the threshold. “There were no traps before when we activated the defense, but Deshiv’s gems are now empty of whatever protection they may have given. If I say run, run. If I say duck, duck.”

His eyes began to glow, and he stepped into the room.

Nothing happened.

“Come in, it looks clear, for now.”

The room was simple, yet impressive all the same. The walls were unadorned, but the marble swirls were in brilliant colors I did not know could exist in stone. The patterns evoked the same awe one experienced when witnessing a beautiful sunset, or the majesty of standing atop a cliff overlooking a great valley.

Set into the far wall was a bookshelf stripped of its contents. The wall to the right had a dwarven sized bed that the redcap had turned into some filthy facsimile of a nest. The stench of the room was only marginally better than the warren below. A table lay next to the bed, atop it the only books remaining in the room. One lay open on the table next to a bowl of the same brown stones I’d seen in the undead dragon’s head. Everything else in the room was taken, destroyed, or defaced. A broken statue of Torc and a half melted shield symbolizing Bild once dominated the room opposite the bed, but now lay destroyed and vandalized on the floor.

I looked through the journal on the table. It described the methods the redcap used to raise the dead, but not in enough detail for anyone to recreate. It listed ghastly, inhumane experiments on the living and the dead. The last entry was from the eleventh. He had raised the dwarves by using soul stones he'd brought with him from duergar "volunteers." He was unable to create stones from the dead dwarves, but it seemed like he expected that.

According to the notes, the stones he brought appeared brittle and weak from both their method of creation and the willingness of the originators. He used them, in some unspecified way, to raise their bodies as undead monsters slaved to his Will.

The poor quality of stone resulted in the undead's lack of coordination and inability to use weapons against us.

There were pages on the dragon. No matter what he tried, he could not summon a soul stone from its corpse. At first he thought dragons required a different method, but eventually concluded that it was "gone." He was quite angry about that, and most of the pages laid out his unhappiness in creative and colorful ways. In the end, he resorted to using a “perfect” soul stone from a “loyal and willing” subject. Despite his disappointment, he seemed proud of the achievement.

When I was done reading the journal, I looked at Daulf, “Can I burn this?”

He gave me a nod, and handed me a book. “I found this on the table, it did not belong to the redcap. I think you might find it useful.”

The book in my hand was a large, simple tome. It was a plain book, the only ornamentation being a scaled pattern stamped into the leather and a sigil or crest represented by a circular disc surrounded by three interlocking rings.