The elf bent down and started digging frantically, tossing aside loose dirt and small debris. When the first hole she dug did not satisfy her, Idaria tried a second and a third and more. The knight had saved her life. He must be buried there somewhere, crushed by dirt and rocks. She had to find him.
But each shallow hole ended in sheets of solid rock. Whether that rock was ancient or the result of the quake was impossible to say. Stefan could lay buried yards away or right under her feet. Never had she felt so defeated.
“Sir Stefan,” the elf rasped again. “Sir Stefan … ”
Then her fingers scraped against something. Desperate, Idaria scrabbled at the object, finally uncovering it.
It was the medallion. She recognized both the medallion and the revered symbol decorating it. That drove her to prayer. “Kiri-Jolith! Lord of Just Cause! I call you in the name of one of your own! Help me find him if there is still any hope.”
What she expected in response, Idaria did not know. The medallion did not flare bright, however, and no ghostly image of the good god appeared, pointing the way to the buried knight.
But then a clatter of rock to her right made her straighten expectantly. To her astonishment, she saw the armored figure she sought, off in the distance, stumbling away from her over the ravaged landscape. Stefan kept his head turned away from the elf, as if something before him held his utmost attention.
Confused, Idaria took a step after the human. Stefan was heading toward neither Garantha nor in the direction of distant Solamnia. If anything, he was heading toward the more mountainous regions of Kern and, for that matter, Blode.
“Sir Stefan!” she shouted after him. “Sir Stefan!” Although her voice was strained, her cry was loud; yet the human did not give any sign of hearing her, nor did he turn around. He continued to stumble determinedly along on his path.
Idaria hesitated. Golgren’s face formed in her mind. She remembered all she had struggled for in her mission as an ogre slave. And she fought against feelings that had nothing to do with that mission, having only to do with herself.
Looking back, the elf saw not only Garantha, but the great waste that stretched from its walls to as far as the eye could see. Golgren lay out there somewhere, surely dead. Idaria had no more need to stay, no more need to concern herself over his machinations. As for his enemies, the Titans, she could do nothing about them. Only Golgren had been able to keep them at bay … until then. It was best that she follow after the knight and leave Kern behind.
Her eyes shifted to the Solamnic’s dwindling figure then back to the ruined landscape that had to be Golgren’s grave.
Squeezing the medallion tight, Idaria murmured, “Forgive me, Kiri-Jolith.”
She rushed toward where she had last seen the ogre.
His lungs burned, yearning for air. He tried to inhale, but dirt filled his mouth and squeezed his lungs.
He wasn’t breathing; he was hacking. The urge to breathe, to live, fought with the temptation to die. He flailed in the direction he thought was up, seeking anything that would tell him he was making the right choice. It was hard to think. His brain and his heart pounded; his chest felt as if it were about to collapse.
Golgren’s head broke the surface.
He coughed up more dirt, then madly gulped air. That brought about another hacking fit, but at least something other than the dust and soil finally was entering his lungs.
The ogre forced his eyes open. They teared painfully, creating a murky effect that reminded him of being under water.
Then through his tortured gaze, he beheld a gleaming figure of gold, a figure with no countenance, no telling detail. However, though the golden figure had no eyes to speak of, Golgren knew that it was studying him intently.
A powerful heat radiated from the shining being. Eyes stinging, the grand lord blinked, and in that blink, the golden figure vanished.
His strength spent, Golgren sagged, his head dropping down, face slamming into the ground. He did not black out, although he wished that he might if only to be momentarily free of pain.
Then a sound burrowed through the haze of his thoughts: a voice, a familiar voice.
An elf voice …
XXIV
What remained of the Black Talon stood in a circle. The center of that circle was where they had last glimpsed the prophet of their dream, their leader and founder, Dauroth.
The Titans were also spent, some dangerously so, but they dared not rest. What had happened only hours earlier still rattled them to the core. Those who were not members of the Talon could not be informed that Dauroth had perished. That unthinkable thing would spread chaos among the spellcasters. It might mean not only the end of the dream, but the end of all of them too.
“The elixir!” snapped a Titan called Yatilun. His pale, haggard face was the mirror of most others in the room. “Before anything else, we must partake of the elixir!”
“Then I should be first!” interjected another.
“Nay! I!” called a third. Arguments began to break out.
Morgada shook her head, her long, black hair flowing wildly. “We are lost! Without Dauroth, we are lost.”
“Nay.”
They looked to Safrag, who stood straighter than the rest, looking less weary than the rest.
He stood far more confidently than the rest.
Unlike the others, Safrag was resplendent, handsome, and in perfect command of himself. He glided among them, and they could not but help but be impressed and calm down slightly. “Dauroth’s passing will be known and it will be mourned, but the Titans-and the Black Talon, especially-do not live and die with him. The dream that the master sought is still attainable. Another must merely guide our efforts.”
“But who?” demanded Yatilun. “There is no other like Dauroth!”
“Perhaps at one time Hundjal might have led us,” the Titan next to him suggested. “But Dauroth found some terrible, inexplicable fault in him … just as he did with Kallel.”
Safrag nodded in agreement then, bowing with taloned hands spread, bluntly replied, “I would humbly put forth myself.”
Morgada had watched Safrag closely from the moment he had begun speaking. The hint of a smile appeared and began to spread across her face. “Yes! Safrag was Dauroth’s apprentice also! Safrag would know all the master’s secrets!”
“You are correct in your last statement, Morgada. No one knew the master better than I, perhaps not even Hundjal.”
There were those among the Talon who might have protested such a declaration, but as each one of the Titans stared at Safrag, comprehension dawned. He was not the servile toady many had thought Safrag to be. They all knew they were seeing a new side of the apprentice, a Safrag revealed as never before.
“The elixir?” Yatilun prodded almost gingerly.
Safrag smiled broadly, his teeth perfect and so perfectly sharp. “There is enough for now … for the Black Talon. A bit more can be made for others who most urgently require it. We also have the many bones. They will help us for a time.”
The gathered sorcerers murmured among themselves, reassured about their welfare, their future, and happy to be reminded that the bones would still be of use. Without casting a vote, with little more than nods and glances, they accepted Safrag as their leader.
“I will be taking over the master’s sanctum. At the midnight hour, you shall come to me one by one to receive the elixir.” Safrag’s gaze flitted among the Titans, finally settling upon one. “Morgada, you shall be first, and thereafter, you will assist me.”
“I am at your command,” she murmured, curtseying. Her eyes glowed with eagerness. Safrag had as much as declared her his chief apprentice.
“We must rebuild much and recuperate more,” he informed the others. “The dream will be fulfilled … in the name of the master, of course.”