Endstory: The Death of Bjorn, House Tokill, Dun Balnolmor

I was there the day he died. I managed to be set free later by his servants and sought shelter among the halflings who live near the foot of those mountains. Mya and the Valkauna bear witness, I tell you what I saw with my own eyes, and heard with my own ears. I hold the hammer that bears his symbol for I secreted it when he was slain.

Bjorn the Stoneborn warrior, must have been taken on the skyroad. For he was dropped at the gate before the Frost Giant Jarl. This was the Jarl who had plucked our beards and placed his brand upon our backs and called us his cattle. We were weak and our spirits were broken. There is no pride in this telling, for we were ashamed of ourselves and we were like worms. Most of us had been sold from our youth and only remembered our cries of being Stoneborn, but none of us remembered from whom we came, until Bjorn came to remind us.

The Jarl was pacing at the report of his slain minions, the Stone Giants, and his wrath was greatly stoked for the mindless Frost Giants which attended him but could not comprehend. His skin, normally frosty white had risen to almost a tinge of pink on each cheek as he raised himself in ire.

We heard the keening then and most of us did not look up. We knew that sound well, the sound of his pet dragon returning. We heard the giant bellow and still did not look up, for bellowing giants was our day's meat and drink. We did not look up until we heard him speak in that accent from the North, for to look up needlessly was to feel Urdlen's laugh.

The Frost Giant strode forward when the keening stopped, we felt the ground move at his passage.

"By the Undying Worm, what is this???" the Jarl demanded furiously. No doubt he was puzzled by the look of a dwarf in armor. No doubt confused as to what estate a lowly dwarf had risen, and how. The dragon had settled and hopped away when the Frost Giant stepped forward still bellowing.

"And what have you to cast into this beard of mine?" The Frost Giant Jarl demanded.

"My hammer," came the terse reply. The voice was unmistakably Stoneborn and there was no fear in it. We looked up then. We looked up sharply and we did not care about Urdlen's laughter or the Ogres which cracked them so. We looked up and we saw him, Bjorn with hammer in two hands striking for the hoary beard bent low.

The hammer blow caught him and the Frost Giant reeled, but was not slain. The evil one struck back with a mailed fist that might have slain a bull, but Bjorn struggled back to his feet. The giant was puzzled and stepped forward to pick him up, I swear he meant to look him in the eye, as if seeing that a dwarf might have eyes for the first time.

This time, Bjorn put the hammer into his foe's chest and I heard the crack clearly. The giant gasped and dropped him, then took the horned helm and tried to bat him with it. Bjorn stepped aside and once more struck him, this time at the knee. The Frost Giant cried out and struck wildly catching Bjorn square in the chest, crumpling his breast plate into so much useless metal, and severing the leather binds which held it to him.

Now muttering and blinded by rage, the Frost Giant limped forward to kick the Stoneborn hero before us. He drew back and did so, but not before taking a final hit from the hammer on the opposite knee. From the force of the giant's blow, Bjorn was cast among us and we knew him to be dead before anyone else. The giant had dropped meanwhile and with both hands upon his thighs, laid on his side weeping for the pain.

The other Frost Giants looked on in amazement and none of them moved, except for the Shaman they call Icedome who began barking orders to the Jarl's minions. A litter was produced and runners were sent to see if there were more invaders coming. We scarced chance to believe it, and then the word came that there was. I heard the fear in the stupid giant's voice and some of us laughed. The Ogres did not whip us for laughing for they too were afraid.

"Another dwarf," the giant cried, "another dwarf is coming."

The shaman wheeled, "One?" All of us heard his incredulity.

The Frost Giant runner nodded and wiped the drool from his bottom lip. "There is only one. He climbs."

The shaman stared at the runner and we felt our pride rising within us. We knew what he was thinking. Who sends one dwarf at a time to fight giants. What manner of dwarves are these?

I remembered the anthem of my youth, Oh how I thought I could hear the Valkauna singing. I wanted to cry out, "Stoneborn!" but I lacked the courage of Bjorn to face such foes, unaided. Instead I bent and picked the smaller of two hammers from the ground, a craven's act, before Ogres came to push us aside and gather up the remains of our hero. I placed that hammer beneath my robes and felt its cold iron against my skin -- it felt hot.

Three days later I had one day's stubble upon my cheeks and I had the hammer which bears his name. Bjorn, House Tokill, Dun Balnolmor, and though to my shame I could not bear his body to Arvanaith, I feel his courage in this hammer and it has become the last daily act of our band of people, to pour a beer out at the mention of his name. May this libation comfort his spirit, wherever it roams.