Amber and Ashes

by Margaret Weis

  Chemosh clenched his fist. “I am the only one who is in a position to challenge him. I must act now before he grows stronger still. Where is that fool, Krell?” He glanced about, as though the death knight might be hiding under a rock.

  “Committing mayhem somewhere, I suppose, my lord,” said Mina. “I have not kept track of him.”

  “Nor have I. I will summon him to meet us in the Abyss. You must leave this plane for a time, Mina. Leave your work that is so dear to you.”

  He cast a scathing glance at the rumpled blanket, the imprint of two intertwined bodies still fresh upon it.

  “You are dear to me, my lord,” said Mina softly. “My work is just that—my work.”

  Chemosh saw his reflection in her amber eyes. He saw no other. He took hold of her hands and pressed them to his lips. “Forgive me. I am not myself.”

  “Perhaps that is the problem, my lord,” said Mina.

  He paused, thinking this over. “Maybe you are right. I am not even sure what ‘myself’ is these days. It was easier when Takhisis and Paladine held sway in heaven. We knew our places then. We may not have liked it. We may have railed against them and chafed beneath the yoke, but there was order and stability in heaven and in the world. There is something to be said for peace and security, after all. I could sleep with both eyes closed instead of keeping one always open, always on the lookout for someone sneaking up behind me.”

  “So you lose a few eons of sleep, Lord,” said Mina. “It will all be worth it, when you are the ruler and the others bow to you.”

  “How did you gain such wisdom?” Chemosh took her in his arms, held her close, and pressed his lips against her neck. “I have made a decision. No longer will rough mortals fawn over you. No more clumsy mortal lips will bruise your flesh. You are loved of a god. Your body, your soul, are mine, Mina.”

  “They have always been, my lord,” she said, shivering in his embrace.

  Darkness closed over Chemosh, enfolded him and surrounded her, carried them both to a deeper, thicker, warmer darkness, lit with the single candle flame of ecstasy.

  “And will always be.”

  Chemosh returned to the Abyss to find it dark and dreary. He had no one but himself to blame. He could have lit the Abyss bright as heaven, filled it with chandeliers and candelabra, glowing lamps, and glimmering lanterns. He could have peopled it, furnished it, added song and dance. In eons past he had done so. Not now. He loathed his dwelling place too much to try to change it. He wanted, needed, to be among the living. And now was the time to start to put his plan to gain his heart’s desire into action.

  He waited impatiently for Krell and was pleased to hear at last the clank and rattle of the death knight, clumping his way through the Abyss, making heavy going of it, as though he were slogging through the thick mud of a battle field. His eyes were two pinpoints of red. Small and set close together, they reminded Chemosh of the eyes of a demonic pig.

  Longing for something better to look upon, Chemosh shifted his gaze to Mina. She was dressed in black, a silken gown that flowed over the curves of her body like the touch of his hands. Her breasts rose and fell with her breathing. He could see the faint quiver of the pulse of life beating in the hollow of her throat. He suddenly wished Krell a thousand miles away, but he could not indulge himself, not yet.

  “So, Krell, here you are at last,” said Chemosh briskly. “Sorry to call you away from slaughtering gully dwarves or whatever it was you found to amuse yourself, but I have a task for you.”

  “I was not slaughtering gully dwarves,” returned Krell sullenly. “There’s no pleasure in that, no fight in the little beasts. They simply squeal like rabbits and then fall down and piss themselves.”

  “It was a jest, Krell. Were you always this stupid or did death have a bad effect on you?”

  “I was never one for jests, my lord,” said Krell, adding stiffly, “And you should know where I was. It was you who sent me. I was following your orders, bringing new recruits to you.”

  “Indeed?” Chemosh put the tips of his fingers together, tapped them gently. “And is that going well?”

  “Very well, my lord.” Krell rocked back on his heels, pleased with himself. “I think you will find my recruits far more satisfactory than others.”

  He cast a glance at Mina. She had rescued him, freed him from the tormenting goddess and his rock-bound prison, but he hated her, for all that.

  “At least my recruits are trustworthy,” Mina returned. “They aren’t likely to betray their master.”

  Krell clenched his fists and took a step toward her.

  Mina rose from her chair to face him. Her skin was pale, her eyes glinting gold. She was fearless, beautiful in her courage, radiant in her anger. Chemosh allowed himself a moment’s pleasure, then wrenched himself back to business.

  “Mina, I think you should leave us.”

  Mina cast a distrustful glance at Krell. “My lord, I do not like—”

  “Mina,” Chemosh said. “I gave you an order. I told you to leave.”

  Mina seemed inclined to argue. One glance at the god’s dark and glowering face, however, and she subsided. She gathered up her long skirts and departed.

  “You need to keep her in line,” Krell advised. “She’s getting a bit above herself. As bad as a wife. You should just kill her. She’d be less trouble dead than alive.”

  Chemosh rounded on the knight. The light in the eyes of the god was fell, a light darker than the darkness. What little there was left of the death knight shriveled up inside his armor.

  “Do not forget that you are mine now, Krell,” said Chemosh softly, “and that, with a flick of my finger, I can reduce you to a pile of bird droppings.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Krell, subdued. “Sorry, my lord.”

  Chemosh summoned a chair, summoned another chair, summoned a table, and placed it between the two of them.

  “Sit down, Krell,” he said testily. “I understand that you are fond of the game of khas.”

  “Maybe I am, my lord,” said Krell warily, suspecting a trap.

  He glared hard at the chair, which had materialized out of the darkness of the Abyss. When he thought Chemosh wasn’t looking, Krell gave the chair a surreptitious poke with his finger.

  “Sit, Krell,” Chemosh repeated coldly. “I like eyes—even pig’s eyes—on a level with mine.”

  The death knight lowered his armor-encased nothingness ponderously into the chair.

  Chemosh waved his hand, and a single point of light shone down upon a khas board.

  “What do you think of these pieces, Krell?” Chemosh asked casually. “I had them specially made. They’re carved out of bone.”

  Krell was about to say he didn’t give a damn if they were carved out of horse manure, but then he caught Chemosh’s eye. With a gloved forefinger and thumb, Krell picked up one of the pawns, carved to resemble a goblin, and made a show of admiring it.

  “Nice workmanship, my lord. Is it elven?”

  “No,” said Chemosh. “Goblin. These pieces are elven.” He gestured to the two elf clerics.

  “I didn’t know goblins could carve as well as this,” Krell remarked, pinching the goblin by the neck as he peered at it intently.

  Chemosh sighed deeply. Even the life of a god was too short to deal with someone as thick-headed as Ausric Krell.

  “It isn’t carved at all, you dull-witted lunk head. When I said it was made of bone, I meant that it is—Oh, never mind. That’s a goblin you’re holding. A dead one, shrunken down.”

  “Ha, ha!” Krell laughed heartily. “That’s a good one. And these are dead elves?” He gave one of the clerics a poke. “And is this a dead kender—”

  “Enough, Krell!” Chemosh drew in a deep breath, then continued as patiently as he could. “I am about to launch my campaign.”

  The god placed his elbows on the table, on either side of the khas board, and leaned over it, as though contemplating a move.

  “The action I plan to take will,
of necessity, attract the attention of the other gods. Only one poses a significant threat to me. Only one could be a serious hindrance. In fact, she has already started to seriously annoy me.”

  He fixed his eye upon Krell, to make certain he was attending.

  “Yes, my lord.” Krell looked less stupid now. Campaign, battle—these were things he understood.

  “The goddess who concerns me is Zeboim,” Chemosh said.

  Krell grunted.

  “She has come across a follower—a disenfranchised monk of Majere—who has stumbled upon the secret of the Beloved of Chemosh. He has told Zeboim, and she is threatening to expose me unless I return you to Storm’s Keep.”

  “You’re not going to do that, are you, my lord?” Krell asked nervously.

  Reaching out his hand, Chemosh picked up one of the pieces from the side of darkness—the piece known as the knight. He fondled the piece, twisted it in his hand.

  “As a matter of fact, I am. Wait!” He raised a hand, as Krell squealed in irate protest. “Hear me out. What do you think of this move, Krell?”

  He slowly and deliberately placed the piece in front of the black queen.

  “You can’t make such a move, my lord,” Krell rumbled. “It’s against the rules.”

  “It is, Krell,” Chemosh conceded. “Against all the rules. Pick up that piece. Take a good look at it. What do you make of it?”

  Krell lifted up the piece and peered at it through the eye slits of his helm. “It is a knight riding a dragon.”

  “Describe it further,” Chemosh prompted.

  “The knight is a Dark Knight of Takhisis,” Krell stated, after closer perusal. “He has the symbol of the lily and the skull on his armor.”

  “Most observant, Krell,” remarked Chemosh.

  Krell was pleased, not recognizing the sarcasm. “He is wearing a cape and a helm, and he rides a blue dragon.”

  “Is there anything at all familiar about this knight, Krell?” Chemosh asked.

  Krell held the piece practically to his nose. The red eyes flared.

  “Lord Ariakan!” Krell stared at the piece, incredulous. “Down to the last detail!”

  “Indeed,” said Chemosh. “Lord Ariakan, beloved son of Zeboim. Your task is to guard that khas piece, Krell. Keep it safe and follow my orders to the letter. For this is how we will keep the Sea Queen penned up on her side of the board, completely and utterly helpless.”

  The death knight’s red eyes fixed on the piece, and flickered, dubious. “I don’t understand you, my lord. Why should the goddess care about a khas piece? Even if it does look like her son—”

  “Because it is her son, Krell,” said Chemosh. He leaned back in his chair, put his elbows on the arms, and placed the tips of his fingers together.

  Krell’s hand twitched and he nearly dropped the piece. He set it down hastily and drew back away from it.

  “You can touch him, Krell. He won’t bite you. Well, he would bite you, if he could get hold of you. But he can’t.”

  “Ariakan is dead,” Krell said. “His mother took away his body—”

  “Oh, yes, he’s quite dead,” Chemosh agreed complacently. “He died, by your treachery, and his soul came to me, as do all the souls of the dead. Most pass through my hands as fleeting as sparks rising to the heavens, on the way to the continuation of their journey. Others, such as yourself, Krell, are bound to this world in punishment.”

  Krell growled, a rumble in the coffin of his armor.

  “Still others, like my lord Ariakan, refuse to leave. Sometimes they cannot bear to part from a loved one. Sometimes they cannot bear to part from someone they hate. Those souls are mine.”

  Krell’s red eyes flickered, then understanding dawned. He threw back his helmed head and gave a great guffaw that echoed throughout the Abyss.

  “Ariakan’s thirst for vengeance against me keeps him trapped here. Now that is a fine jest, my lord. One I can appreciate.”

  “I am glad you are so easily amused, Krell. Now, if you can stop gloating for a moment, here are your orders.”

  “I am all attention, my lord.”

  Krell listened to orders carefully, then asked a few questions that actually bordered on the intelligent.

  Satisfied that this part of his plan would proceed, Chemosh dismissed the death knight.

  “I trust you will not mind returning to Storm’s Keep, Krell?”

  “Not so long as I am free to depart when I want to, my lord,” said the death knight. “I can leave once my duty’s done?”

  “Of course, Krell.”

  The death knight picked up the khas piece, stared at it a moment, sniggered, then stuffed it into his glove. “Truth to tell, I’ve kind of missed the place.”

  “Keep that khas piece safe,” Chemosh warned.

  “I will not let it out of my sight,” Krell returned with a chuckle. “On that you can count, my lord.”

  Krell stalked off, still laughing to himself.

  “Mina,” said Chemosh, displeased, “were you spying on me?”

  “Not spying, my lord,” said Mina, coming to him from the darkness. “I was concerned. I do not trust that fiend. He betrayed his lord once. He will do so again.”

  “I assure you that I am capable of dealing with him, Mina,” said Chemosh coldly.

  “I know, my lord. I am sorry.” Mina moved close to him. She slid her arms around him, nestled near him. Her head rested on his breast.

  He could feel her warmth, smell the perfume of her hair that brushed against his skin.

  She will be less trouble to you dead than alive.

  It was, after all, a consideration.

  “Why are you concerned about Zeboim, my lord?” Mina asked, unaware of his thoughts. “I know that there is this monk who has been nosing about, but all you would have to do is to give me leave to deal with him—”

  “The monk is a nuisance,” said Chemosh. “Nothing more. I threw him onto the pile just to let the goddess know that I know what she has been up to. And also to distract her from my true purpose.”

  “And what is that, my lord?”

  “We are going on a hunt for buried treasure, Mina,” said Chemosh. “The richest cache of treasure known to man or gods.”

  Mina stared, perplexed. “What need do you have of treasure? Wealth is as dust to you.”

  “The treasure I seek does not consist of such paltry things as steel coins, or gold crowns, silver necklaces, or emerald gewgaws,” Chemosh returned, scoffing. “The treasure I seek is made of material far more valuable. It is made of—myself.”

  She gazed at him, looked long into his eyes. “I think I understand, my lord. The treasure is—”

  He laid his finger on her lips. “Not a word, Mina. Not yet. We do not know who may be listening.”

  “May I ask where this treasure lies, my lord?”

  He took her in his arms, folded her in his embrace, and said softly, “The Blood Sea. That is where we will go, you and I, once certain prying eyes are closed and pricking ears shut.”

  ord Ausric Krell loathed Storm’s Keep. He had been elated to be free of the place, had sworn he would never more set foot upon it, unless it be to demolish it, yet when he found himself standing once more upon the wind and wave-swept stones of the courtyard, he felt true pleasure. He had left a prisoner, sneaking out in ignominy, and now he was lord and master.

  He laughed out loud to hear the puny plashing waves breaking on the rocks. Leaning over the edge of the cliff, he made a rude gesture at the sea, shouted out an obscenity. He laughed again and strode with brisk steps back across the courtyard, heading for the Tower of Lilies and the library. Zeboim would soon realize he had returned and he had to have everything in readiness.

  Zeboim was in the Blood Sea, assisting her father, Sargonnas, when she heard Krell’s curse. The minotaur were launching a grand expeditionary force to firmly clinch their hold on Silvanesti. A fleet of ships—battle ships, supply ships, troop transports and ships filled with immigrants�
�were leaving the minotaur isles, setting sail for Ansalon.

  This was Sargonnas’s moment of supreme triumph and he wanted nothing to mar it. He asked his daughter for calm seas and favorable winds and Zeboim, having nothing better to do, agreed to grant his request. In return, the minotaur gave her lavish gifts and fought games in her honor in their Circus.

  Blood spilt in her name. Bracelets of gold and earrings of silver decking her altars. How could a goddess refuse?

  Sails billowed. The winds capped the blue sea with white froth that bubbled and broke beneath the leaping bows of the minotaur vessels. The minotaur sailors sang songs and danced on the rolling decks. Zeboim danced with them upon the sparkling water.

  And then came Krell’s voice rolling across the world.

  He cursed her name. He cursed her wind and water. He cursed her, and then he laughed.

  Turning her far-seeing eyes his direction, Zeboim saw Krell standing on a cliff atop Storm’s Keep.

  The goddess did not stop to think. She did not ask herself how he came to be there or why he felt so bold as to be able to challenge her. Swift as raging flood waters sweeping down out of the mountains, Zeboim swept through the heavens and broke upon Storm’s Keep in a torrent of fury that lashed the seas and caused them to rise up and crash over the cliffs.

  Zeboim sensed Krell’s foul presence in the Tower of Lilies. She smote the heavy door that led to the Tower, splintered it, and with a wave of her hand, sent the wreckage flying to the four corners of the compass. She blew through the chill stone corridors, so that they were awash in sea water, to find Krell sitting at his ease in a chair in the library.

  The goddess was always too impatient to be observant of details, which were meaningless to her anyway. Zeboim saw nothing except the death knight. She was suddenly, dangerously calm, as the seas before the hurricane, when, the sailors say, the wind “eats” the waves.

  “So, Krell,” said Zeboim, soft and menacing, “Chemosh has tired of you at last and thrown you back upon the refuse heap.”

  “Really, now, Madame,” said Krell, leaning back comfortably in his chair and crossing his legs. “You should not speak of this fine fortress that you yourself built for your beloved son—the late and most lamented Lord Ariakan—as a refuse heap.”