The disembodied hand hovered silently. The wrinkled skin smoothed, and a sheen of freshness spread over the appendage. Indeed, it appeared to have been newly severed.
And as the hand changed, the signet began to glow-faintly, but it glowed.
“Not enough.” Safrag looked from Idaria to Golgren. “You will suit better. Come, mongrel.”
The Grand Khan’s feet thrust him forward despite all his resistance. His maimed arm rose up toward the towering spellcaster.
Safrag brought down the blade. Golgren remained emotionless as the Titan jabbed the half-breed’s forearm.
“There,” Safrag said mockingly. “That didn’t hurt too much, did it?”
With a curt gesture, he sent Golgren back, releasing him from the spell. Safrag took the newly blooded blade and touched it not to the signet, but rather to the severed hand.
The fingers stretched. The hand looked even more alive.
More important, the signet glowed very bright.
“Lead us,” commanded Safrag to the hand and the ring. “Show us.”
A great plume of fire erupted from the signet and whirled to gather behind the hand. As Golgren and the others watched, the fire formed a shape very familiar to the Grand Khan … the golden figure.
In an astounding change from what Golgren had witnessed before, it wore his hand as if it were its own. As the arm of the figure fused with the appendage, Golgren’s lost hand burned golden.
The gleaming figure strode forward, a blaze of flame trailing in the wake of each drifting step. It did not walk upon the ground, but rather floated a few inches above it. Indeed, it almost seemed to be gliding on the wind instead of walking.
In that manner it moved down the corridor. Golgren watched it dwindle from sight before glancing at Safrag.
“After you, oh great and glorious Grand Khan,” the gigantic spellcaster declared with a slight chuckle. “After you, of course.”
His countenance expressionless, the half-breed slowly followed after the shining figure. Idaria paced him, and Safrag, with a hungry smile, took up the rear.
Twice the gargoyles had passed the cave since that first time, and twice they had failed to notice it, or the two within.
Tyranos knew something of gargoyles, especially that some breeds could sense the use of magic. Certainly, Chasm could, and he was tied close enough to the foul creatures that they should have had the ability to note strangers in their midst too.
“The abilities granted to me by my patron differ from the magic of wizards,” the knight commented as he finished cooking a small lizard he had caught earlier. “They are more subtle, and thus beyond the senses of the creatures.”
With a growl, the wizard turned on him. “Will you stop doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“Reading my thoughts!”
The Solamnian smiled kindly. “I can’t read thoughts.”
“Yet you just happen to know what I’m thinking?” Stefan touched the medallion. “My patron’s given me insight into the actions of others, into their movements and, thus, I suppose, what those actions mean. You were gazing at the cave mouth with your fist clenched, and the gargoyles passed but a few minutes ago. I made a guess from that.”
“You should play cards. Or is that above a cleric?”
The other chuckled. “For entertainment, no. For anything else-” Stefan suddenly stiffened. He set down their meal. Staring off, he quietly asked, “Are you fit enough to move?”
“I’ve been fit enough to move for the past day at least. Why?”
The knight rose. “We need to be elsewhere and quickly.”
Tyranos snorted. “Did your patron tell you that?”
Stefan did not reply, instead reaching for his sword. Belting the sheath, he looked to the wizard. “Be wary. They have the chance to smell us the moment we depart from the cave.”
“I may have a few tricks for that.”
With the Solamnian leading the way, the duo stepped up to the mouth of the cave. Stefan paused to touch the medallion. “Thank you, lord of just cause. May you continue to guide us in what we must do-”
“Whatever that is,” Tyranos added with some sarcasm.
Lowering the pendant, Stefan stepped out.
The wind immediately struck him like a slap across the face, but the knight did not flinch. The wizard joined him, brushing aside the golden brown hair that flew into his face as he surveyed the area for signs of the gargoyles.
“Looks to be clear. No sign of them, and certainly no stench.”
“As they could not sense us, we might not necessarily be able to sense them until it’s too late.”
The spellcaster had a clever retort ready, but thought better of saying anything. It was true that when he had smelled the gathering of the winged creatures, it had turned out to be part of a trap set by their mysterious master-the “king,” as the cleric had referred to him. Perhaps, as Stefan had warned, next time there would be no hint of any danger.
“So, which way?” he asked.
Stefan looked left, where the mountains stood most imposing. “That way.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
The knight gave him a grim smile and moved on. The wizard glanced around, shrugged, and followed.
The howling wind accompanied them each step of the way, more than once making them think something was coming. Tyranos kept his staff ready, although whether to do battle or whisk himself away from the scene, he did not say. Nor did he know himself.
Tyranos gripped the staff tighter.
They were on the hunt for Golgren, which was as much as the wizard knew. Stefan swore he knew little more than that. Kiri-Jolith evidently was as tight-lipped a god as any of the others.
“Blasted deity,” Tyranos muttered. “Blast all of them.”
“You’ve little love for much in the world, don’t you? Life has made you that bitter?”
“There’s little to love, cleric, and that’s all I’ll say about it. Find the ogre, and let’s be done!”
His sword drawn, Stefan kept his eyes on the rocky path ahead. “And how do you want to be done with it? The Fire Rose in your hands, and the world at your command?”
He received a derisive snort in return. “Wouldn’t be the worse thing for Krynn, me calling the shots, cleric! I’ve lived, and I’ve suffered! I’ve been tricked! I’ve been led around by the nose and condemned for it! I am not my mentor, damn him!” Tyranos spat. “Would I make the worst master of the world? I think not!”
“Others have said the same before.”
Tyranos suddenly walked past him, the tall wizard’s strides well matched to the knight’s trained ones. “If we’re going to go somewhere, let us go there and quit babbling.”
Stefan watched his companion from the back, smiling sadly. He picked up his own pace and regained the lead. Tyranos said nothing, but fell a step back, aware he did not truly know their path.
They wended their way deeper and deeper into the mountains, never pausing. They made good time, which Stefan attributed to his patron.
To that observation, Tyranos remarked, “It’s only good time if we actually get to where we’re going. Do you know where we are headed?”
“There will be a sign.”
“Of course! There’s always a sign! Perhaps even right around that upcoming turn-”
The spellcaster swore. For right there, visible to them on the rocky base of the nearest mountain, was an ancient symbol etched into the rock. Tyranos could not read it, but he knew the writing of the High Ogres. A sign it was, indeed.
Stefan said nothing, but merely stepped up to the marking and studied it closely.
“Aren’t you going to praise your patron?” grunted Tyranos with a fierce look. “He led you straight to it, just as you thought that he would.”
“But I know nothing of that particular sign,” the knight murmured. He almost put his hand to the markings, a pair of arched lines like wings, with what looked like a line of mountains standing under them. “We’ve farther to go. I don’t know what it is.”