A likely place

Many weeks later, a small exhausted band of Dwarves trudged their way slowly up a spur ridge on the side of another nameless mountain.  Of the 35 Dwarves who had started out from Fall Stanford, only seven now remained. The rest lay in shallow graves, victims of the many horrors that plagued wandering travelers in the wildlands of Licevaanenu. “Follow the river,” the strange red glowing presence had told her in her dream, “ do not stray, you have been chosen, wait for the sign.”  Just as they crested the ridge, the axle of the wagon they towed gave a loud crack and split in two.  Thobiseth,  the nervous young farmer who had so often urged them all to turn back and give up as the going had turned progressively harder over the days, burst into a frantic wailing and could not be consoled.  Even the implacable Adil, their stoutest minerdwarf, and expedition leader by virtue of experience, looked shaken as he stared disbelieving at the now useless wagon.
Just then, the pale cold sun that had hung unblinking above the eastern horizon went dim and passed behind a black cloud.  Urdim’s eyes were drawn to the horizon,  and as the light faded, a pillar of fire erupted, many miles away, but it seemed to Urdim as though it must surely be taller than any mountain. As  Zuglar the carpenter,  bent to examine the axle Urdim spoke;
“Leave it, we won’t be needing it anymore, Armok has spoken,  break out the picks, we have work to do”