It occurred to him that it might have been partly shaped by human hands and, after that, the notion of a diamond-eyed idol seemed less implausible. At the far end of the saddle, just at the base of the green hill, he caught up with the Mouser, who was studying a flat, dark rock covered with gashes which a moment’s glance told Fafhrd must be artificial. “The runes of tropic Klesh!” the Northerner muttered. “What should such hieroglyphs be doing so far from their jungle?” “Chiseled, no doubt, by some hermit frostbitten black, whose madness taught him the Kleshic language,” the Mouser observed
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