Temple Hill - Drew Karpyshyn [78]
"Why me?"
"The Cult of the Dragon has many powerful allies, but we are always looking for more to aid in our cause," Azlar explained. "You have proven your worth on the battlefield, and in dispatching my… guardian… in the warehouse."
Despite the blades pressed to his ribs, Corin was in no mood to be tactful.
His instincts told him that the mage's visit to the Weeping Griffin was a bad sign for Lhasha, and the thought of the half-elf suffering because of his own quest for revenge against Fhazail filled him with a reckless, frustrated rage.
"I don't see myself worshiping dead lizards," he spat out. "Find some other convert to brainwash into your twisted faith."
Azlar reacted to the warrior's vehemence with a rational calm. "Not all who serve us do so out of religious duty. There are… other considerations."
Corin snorted in contempt. "Money, power, slaves. Do you think I would sell my soul so cheap?"
The mage lifted his arm and rested it on the table, then pulled his sleeve back. His hand was pale and discolored, one finger had been horribly mutilated. A jagged scar encircled his wrist.
"Torture?" the warrior sneered. "I will not be broken so easily."
"Not torture," the wizard replied, "but healing. Earlier this evening, my hand, the one you see before you, was severed by the foul orog's dark blade. As yours was, long ago."
Corin looked again, more closely this time. "You're lying," he whispered, unable to take his eyes off the spell-caster's hand. "Even the priests of Lathander couldn't heal me."
"The Cult of the Dragon has magic more powerful and ancient than the Dawnbringer's pathetic little houses of worship. Join us and such a miracle could be yours. You know I speak the truth."
Corin did know it. More than his instincts, more than just wanting to believe. He knew it was true. In Azlar's scars he could see the pain, suffering, and loss of his own severed limb. Both men had been marked by Graal's sword, they shared a kinship, but Azlar's hand had been restored.
"See," Azlar said as the fingers flexed and curled. "It works as well as ever. We could do the same for you, Corin One-Hand. Though in your case a magically created limb would have to be a suitable replacement, since the original is long since lost."
Unaware he was even doing it, Corin began to rub his stump.
"Of course the procedure is immensely painful. Pure agony in your case, I suspect. But I'm sure you would agree that fleeting pain is a trifling price to pay."
Fendel had offered him a prosthetic arm, a hand made of metal. Largely on that promise, Corin had formed his initial partnership with Lhasha. Now Azlar was offering a limb of real, living flesh.
"How…" was all he could say, cautiously reaching out with trembling fingers toward the mage's restored hand. The gray palm was cold to Corin's touch.
"In our studies, we have learned much about necromancy and the restoration of animation to bodies and flesh-human as well as dragon."
Azlar's words, meant to reassure and tempt the warrior, had the completely opposite effect. Corin recoiled in revulsion from the undead flesh, shivering at the unnatural feel of it beneath his caress.
"Keep your zombie hand, wizard. I would rather stay crippled than become such a thing." In the back of his mind Corin half expected to feel the cold steel slide between his ribs as punishment for his insult.
Instead, Azlar quickly withdrew his hand, hiding it from view beneath the long, draping sleeve of his robe.
"Do not dismiss my offer yet," the wizard cautioned, showing no sign that he was angered by Corin's reaction. There is more on the table."
The warrior said nothing. He had no desire to play Azlar's game anymore.
Sensing his potential recruit's reluctance, Azlar continued the conversation without waiting for the one-armed man's reply.
There is an old saying: The enemy of my enemy is my friend. We share a common hatred, Corin of the White Shields. We have both been betrayed by the steward Fhazail."