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Tanis blinked, trying once more to re-accustom his eyes to the dark. Then he heard a deep voice.

“Kan-tokah neh sirakan.”

He heard Goldmoon cry out in joy. Tanis looked down at what should have been Riverwind’s corpse. Instead, he saw the Plainsman sit up, holding out his arms for Goldmoon. She clung to him, laughing and crying at the same time.

“And so,” Goldmoon told them, coming to the end of her story, “we must find a way down into the ruined city that lies somewhere below the temple, and we must remove the Disks from the dragon’s lair.”

They were eating a frugal dinner, sitting on the floor in the main chamber of the temple. A quick inspection of the building revealed that it was empty, although Caramon told of finding draconian tracks on the staircase, as well as the tracks of some other creature the warrior couldn’t identify.

It was not a large building. Two worship rooms were located on opposite sides of the hallway that led to the main chamber where the statue stood. Two circular rooms branched off the main chamber to the north and south. They were decorated with frescoes that were now covered with fungus and faded beyond recognition. Two sets of golden double doors led to the east. Caramon reported finding a staircase there that led down into the wrecked city below. The faint sound of surf could be heard, reminding them that they were perched on top of a great cliff, overlooking Newsea.

The companions sat, each preoccupied with his own thoughts, trying to assimilate the news Goldmoon had given them. Tasslehoff, however, continued to poke around the rooms, peering into dark corners. Finding little of interest, the kender grew bored and returned to the group, holding an old helmet in his hand. It was too big for him; kenderfolk never wore helmets anyway, considering them bothersome and restrictive. He tossed it to the dwarf.

“What’s this?” Flint asked suspiciously, holding it up to the light cast by Raistlin’s staff. It was a helm of ancient design, well crafted by a skilled metalsmith. Undoubtedly a dwarf, Flint decided, rubbing his hands over it lovingly. A long tail of animal hair decorated the top. Flint tossed the draconian helm he had been wearing to the floor. Then he put the new-found helm on his head. It fit perfectly. Smiling, he took it off, once more admiring the workmanship. Tanis watched him with amusement.

“That’s horsehair,” he said, pointing to the tassel.

“No, it’s not!” the dwarf protested, frowning. He sniffed at it, wrinkling his nose. Failing to sneeze, he glanced at Tanis in triumph. “It’s hair from the mane of a griffon.”

Caramon guffawed. “Griffon!” He snorted. “There’s about as many griffons on Krynn as there are—”

“Dragons,” interjected Raistlin smoothly.

The conversation died abruptly.

Sturm cleared his throat. “We’d better get some sleep,” he said. “I’ll take first watch.”

“No one need keep watch this night,” Goldmoon said softly. She sat close to Riverwind. The tall Plainsman had not spoken much since his brush with death. He had stared for a long time at the statue of Mishakal, recognizing the woman in blue light who had given him the staff, but he refused to answer any questions or discuss it.

“We are safe here,” Goldmoon affirmed, glancing at the statue.

Caramon raised his eyebrows. Sturm frowned and stroked his moustaches. Both men were too polite to question Goldmoon’s faith, but Tanis knew that neither warrior would feel safe if watches weren’t set. Yet there weren’t many hours left until dawn and they all needed rest. Raistlin was already asleep, wrapped in his robes in a dark corner of the chamber.

“I think Goldmoon is right,” Tasslehoff said. “Let’s trust these old gods, since it seems we have found them.”

“The elves never lost them; neither did the dwarves,” Flint protested, scowling. “I don’t understand any of this! Reorx is one of the ancient gods, presumably. We have worshiped him since before the Cataclysm.”

“Worship?” Tanis asked. “Or cry to him in despair because your people