“Wait!” Jenna cried, grabbing Nightshade by the collar as he was preparing to dash off. “What did you say? Rhys and magical bonds and a what?”
Nightshade had used up all his breath relating his tale once. He didn’t have breath enough to do it again and, just at that moment, he caught a glimpse of what looked like Mina’s dress disappearing in a swirl of smoke.
“Rhys … temple … alone … death knight!” he gasped. “Go save him, Mistress! Run!”
“At my age, I don’t run anywhere,” Jenna said severely.
“Then walk fast. Please, just hurry!” Nightshade cried, and with a twist and a wriggle, he broke free of Jenna’s grip, and went haring off down the street, with Atta racing behind.
“Did you say a death knight?” Jenna called after him.
“Former death knight!” Nightshade yelled over his shoulder, and, pleased with himself, he kept on going, now free to search for Mina.
“Former death knight. Well, that’s a relief,” Jenna muttered.
Thoroughly perplexed, she stood wondering what to make of all this. She might have dismissed Nightshade’s story as a kender tale (a god running around loose?), but she knew him, and Nightshade was not your run-of-the-mill kender. She’d met Nightshade the last time she’d been in Solace—that disastrous time when she and Gerard and Rhys and a paladin of Kiri-Jolith had tried and failed to capture one of the Beloved.
Jenna had come to respect and admire the soft-spoken, gentle monk, Rhys Mason, and she was aware that Rhys himself thought highly of the kender, which was a mark in Nightshade’s favor. And she had to admit that Nightshade had accorded himself well during that last crisis, acting sensibly and rationally, which couldn’t be said for most kender, no matter what the circumstances.
Jenna concluded, therefore, that Rhys might well be in danger as Nightshade claimed (though she did admit to having her doubts as to the existence of a death knight, former or otherwise). Conceding the need for haste, she drew her cowl over her head, spoke a word of magic, and whisked herself calmly and with dignity through time and space.
As Jenna had told the kender, at her age, she didn’t run anywhere.
ound by the magical golden bands, Rhys lay helpless on the Temple floor, unable to do anything except watch the smoke from the fire drift past the columns. The pain in his head was gone, his injury healed by Mina’s kiss. He thought of the strange and terrible irony—the kiss that had slain his brother had healed him.
Nearby, Krell was groaning, starting to regain consciousness.
The temptation to struggle against his magical bonds was strong, but the struggle would have been futile and wasted his energy. He prayed to Majere, asking the god’s blessing, asking the god to grant him courage and wisdom to fight his foe and the strength to accept death when it came, for Rhys was well aware that although he was determined to fight, he could not win.
His prayer concluded, Rhys maneuvered his prone body into position and then there was nothing more to do except wait.
Krell grunted and raised his aching head. He tried to stand up, slumped over, and groaned in pain. Muttering that his helm was too tight, he wrestled with it and managed after some difficulty to remove it. Flinging it to the floor, he groaned again and put his hand to his forehead. He had a large knot over his left eye, and his left cheek was swollen. The skin was not broken, but he must be suffering from a pounding headache. Krell gingerly touched the bruised areas and swore viciously.
Krell picked up his helm and thrust it on his head, then rose ponderously to his feet. He saw Rhys, still lying bound on the floor, and the empty golden bonds that had once held Mina.
Krell broke off another bone spike from his shoulder and stomped back to confront Rhys.
“Where is she?” Krell raged. “Tell me, damn you!”
He tried to stab the monk, but Rhys flipped his body over and, rolling across the floor, slammed into Krell, driving his shoulder into the man’s bone-covered shins. Krell toppled headlong over Rhys and landed on the stone floor with a thud that shook the columns.
Krell gargled a moment, then clamored onto his hands and knees and, from there, with the help of the stone bench, pushed himself to a standing position. He picked up the bone spear and slowly hobbled about to face Rhys, who lay on the floor, breathing hard.
“Think you’re clever, don’t you, Monk.” Krell picked up his bone spear. “See if you can dodge this!”
He was about to hurl the weapon when a woman dressed in red robes materialized out of the smoke-tinged air right in front of him. Her sudden and unexpected appearance rattled Krell. His hand jerked, throwing off his aim. The spear missed its mark and clattered to the floor.
Mistress Jenna nodded her cowled head at Rhys, who was staring at her with as much astonishment as Krell.
“For a monk, you lead the most interesting life, Brother,” Jenna said coolly. “Please, allow me to assist you.”
Speaking a word of magic, she waved her hand in a dismissive gesture and the golden bands that bound Rhys sprang off him, freeing him. A motion from Jenna sent the bands and the iron ball bounding off into the fountain. Freed from his bonds, Rhys grabbed up his emmide and turned to face Krell.
The former death knight had considered himself up to the task of fighting an unarmed monk, a kender, and a little girl. No one had said anything about a wizardess. Seeing that he was outflanked, Krell summoned help. Hearing his master’s urgent call, a Bone Warrior left off battling the clerics of Mishakal and came to Krell’s aid.
Rhys caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye and called out a warning.
Jenna turned to see a minotaur warrior come roaring in from the garden. At first startled glance, it seemed as if the minotaur had been turned inside out. He wore his skeleton over his flesh and matted fur. Blood oozed ceaselessly from hideous, gaping wounds. His entrails spewed out. His throat had been cut, and one eye dangled hideously from the eye socket of the minotaur’s skull that was now his helm. He carried a bloody sword in his hand and, shrieking in rage and torment, he came rushing straight at Jenna.
She let go of the spell she had been about to cast, for it would not work against this undead monstrosity.
“A Bone Warrior,” she remarked to herself. “Chemosh must be growing desperate.”
An interesting observation, but not much help. Jenna had never fought a Bone Warrior before and she had only seconds to figure out how to destroy it before it destroyed her.
Confident that the annoying wizardess would no longer be a concern, Krell prepared to finish the monk. He picked up his spear and was disconcerted to see Rhys pick up his staff. Krell remembered that staff, remembered it vividly. When the monk had been Krell’s “guest” on Storm’s Keep, the staff had transformed itself into a praying mantis. The bug had flown at Krell, wrapped its horrid legs around him, and sucked on his brain. Krell had been a death knight at the time, and the staff hadn’t done any real damage, but Krell loathed bugs and the experience had been terrifying. He still suffered nightmares over it.
He snarled in fury. The only way to insure the staff didn’t turn into a bug again was to kill its monk-master. Krell hurled his spear at the monk, and this time his aim was true.
Jenna could not concern herself with the living. She had to concentrate on the dead. She had read about Bone Warriors, but that had been years ago, in the course of her studies. No Bone Warrior had been seen on Krynn since the days of the Kingpriest, and damn few had been around then. She assumed the textbooks must have told how to destroy these undead but, if so, she couldn’t recall it. And she didn’t have time to give the matter a lot of consideration.
The minotaur bone warrior was in front of her now. Raising an enormous battle axe over his head, he brought the blade slashing down, intending to cleave her skull. He would have succeeded, but her skull did not happen to be there at the moment. The minotaur’s sword sliced through an illusion of Jenna.
The real Jenna had swiftly moved to position herself behind t
he minotaur, as she continued to try to figure out how to slay the fiend. She hoped the minotaur warrior would continue attacking the illusion and give her time to think. Her hope was well founded, for generally undead weren’t very smart and would hack away at an illusion without ever realizing the truth. Chemosh must have found the means to make improvements to his undead, however. When his first blow failed to slay the wizardess, the Bone Warrior whipped around and began searching for his foe.
The minotaur spotted her immediately and, swinging his sword, came roaring in her direction. Jenna stood her ground. The brief respite had given her time to prepare her spell, time to think of the words, time to recall the correct hand motions. Casting this spell was risky, not only to her—if it failed she would have neither the time nor strength to cast another—but also to Rhys, who might suffer residual effects. Hoping to Lunitari she didn’t accidentally blind the monk, Jenna thrust out her hand and began to chant words of magic.
Rhys was dimly aware of Jenna battling the fiendish creature Krell had summoned. The monk could do nothing to help the wizardess, not with his own daunting foe to fight and he guessed she would not appreciate his help anyway. Most likely, he would just get in her way.
Rhys gripped his staff firmly, faced his enemy fearlessly. Krell was armored in bones and, to Rhys’s mind, they were the bones of all those Krell had slain. His hands were stained with blood. He stank of death, his soul as foul and rotting as his body.
Majere is known to be a patient god, a god of discipline, who does not give way to emotion. Majere is saddened by the faults of man, rarely angered by them. Thus he teaches his monk to use “merciful discipline” to stop those who would harm them or others, to prevent those intent on evil from committing acts of violence without resorting to violence. Punish, deter, do not kill.
Yet, there are times when Majere knows rage. Times when the god can bear no longer bear to see the suffering of innocents. His rage is not hot and wayward. His wrath is directed, controlled, for he knows that otherwise it will consume him. Thus, he teaches his followers to use their anger as they would use a weapon.
Do not let your anger master you, his monks are taught. If you do, your aim will be off, your hands will shake, your feet will slip.
Though months had passed since that terrible time, Rhys remembered vividly how he had been consumed by his anger as he stood gazing in horror at the bodies of his murdered brethren. His rage had choked him with its bitter bile. His anger had blinded him, then cast him into hellish darkness. He knew anger now, but this anger was different. The god’s anger was cold and pure, bright and blazing as the stars.
Jenna intoned the last word of her spell. The rampaging minotaur was so close to her that she gagged at the foul odor of corruption from his putrefying body, as she waited tensely for the magic to work.
She reveled in a rush of warmth, a tingling thrill that shot through her body. The magic foamed and bubbled and surged in her blood. She seized it, directed it, cast it forth. The magic splintered. Beams of colored light shot from her fingers.
As though she had grabbed a rainbow from the sky and flung it at the minotaur, seven blazing streams of red and orange, yellow and green, blue, indigo, and violet light splashed over her foe.
The yellow beams shot jolts of energy into his body, disrupting the unholy magic that gave the corpse the hideous semblance of life. His limbs jerked. The minotaur twitched and writhed. The red beam struck his battle axe, setting it ablaze. The orange ray began to devour what was left of his hideous flesh.
The green ray, poison, would have no effect on the minotaur, and apparently the blue failed, as well, for the animated corpse did not turn to stone. Jenna prayed to Lunitari that the power of the violet ray would work, for it was supposed to carry the fiend back to his creator.
The minotaur shrieked hideously, stumbled toward her, and then vanished.
Jenna sank down limply onto the bench. The powerful spell had drained her, leaving her weak and trembling.
She hoped to heaven Rhys Mason managed to finish off the gruesome-looking object he was fighting. She could barely sit upright on the bench, much less fling any more magic.
“At your age, you really should know better,” she scolded herself wearily. Then she smiled. “But that was a beautiful spell you cast, my dear. Truly lovely …”
Krell’s spear flew toward him. Rhys leaped high into the air, and the spear whistled harmlessly beneath his feet. Still in midair, Rhys arched his back, flipped over, and landed lightly on his feet in front of the astounded Krell. Rhys shifted his hold on the emmide. Lunging forward, he struck Krell’s bone breastplate with the end of his staff. The force of the blow cracked the breastplate and the collarbone beneath, and sent Krell staggering backward.
Armored by his god in the bones of the dead, Krell had smugly thought himself invulnerable to sword and spear and arrow, and now he’d been hurt by a stick-wielding monk. He was in pain and, like all bullies, he was terrified. He wanted this encounter to end. Using his good arm, Krell broke off another sharp spike. Wielding it like a sword, roaring curses, he charged at Rhys, hoping to frighten the monk and overwhelm him by sheer brute strength.
The emmide flicked out and shattered the bone sword. Twirling the staff in his hands, Rhys began to weave a deadly dance around Krell, attacking him from the front and the sides and the back, striking him on the helm and the breastplate, hitting him on the shoulders and the arms, battering his legs and thighs. The emmide sheared off the bony spikes on the shoulders and broke one of the ram’s horns. Everywhere the emmide touched the bone armor, it cracked and split wide open.
Rhys drove the emmide through the cracks, widening them. Parts of the armor began fall off, and the emmide struck the soft, flabby flesh beneath. Bones cracked, but now they were Krell’s bones, not those of some wretched corpse. Another blow split the helm wide open, and it fell off and rolled about on the floor.
Krell’s face was purple and swollen. Blood streamed from his wounds. In agony, bruised and bloodied, he slumped to the floor on his knees and, kneeling in a sodden bloody heap at Rhys’s feet, Krell blubbered and slobbered.
“I surrender!” he cried, spitting up blood. “Spare me!”
Breathing hard, Rhys stood over the hulking brute quivering at his feet. He could be merciful. He could give Krell his life. Rhys had inflicted the lesson of merciful discipline. But Rhys knew with the clarity of the god’s cold anger that being merciful to Krell would be an indulgence on Rhys’s part, one that would make him feel just and righteous, but which would send forth this monster to murder and torture other victims.
Rhys saw Krell watching him from the corner of his swollen eye. Krell was certain of himself, certain Rhys would be merciful. After all, Rhys was a good man, and good men were weak.
Rhys lifted up the emmide. “We are told that the souls of men leave this realm and travel to the next, learning from mistakes made in this life, gaining in knowledge until we come to the fulfillment of the soul’s journey. I believe that this is true of most men, but not all. I believe there are some like you who are so bound up in evil that your soul has shrunk to almost nothing. You will spend eternity trapped in darkness, gnawing on the remnant of yourself, consuming, yet never consumed.”
Krell stared at him, his eyes wide and terrified.
Rhys struck Krell in the temple with the emmide.
Krell toppled over dead onto the blood-smeared floor. His eyes were wide and staring. A bloody froth drooled from his flaccid lips.
Rhys remained standing over the brute, his emmide poised to strike again. He knew Krell was dead, but he intended to make certain Krell stayed dead. He did, after all, serve a god who was known to bring the dead back to a hideous pretence of life.
Krell did not so much as twitch. In the end, even Chemosh abandoned him.
Rhys relaxed.
“Well done, Monk,” said Jenna weakly.
Her face was haggard, her skin pale. Her shoulders slumped. She seemed too exhaust
ed to move. Rhys hastened to her side.
“Are you hurt, Mistress? What can I do to help?” Rhys asked.
“Nothing, my friend,” she said, managing a smile. “I am not injured. The magic exacts its toll. I just need to rest a little while.”
She regarded him intently. “What about you, Brother?”
“I am not hurt, praise Majere,” he said.
“You did the right thing, Brother. Killing that brute.”
“I hope my god agrees with you, Mistress,” Rhys said.
“He will. Do you know what I was fighting, Brother? A Bone Warrior of Chemosh. Such fiends have not been seen on Krynn since the days of the Kingpriest.”
She pointed to the corpse. “That lump is … or was … a Bone Acolyte. Chemosh seized the minotaur’s wretched soul, using his rage to ensnare him. And there are probably more than one. The Acolyte would have had as many Bone Warriors serving him as he thought he could control. And these warriors are deadly, Brother.
“Perhaps your brethren are fighting them now,” she added somberly. “By slaying the Acolyte, you have made it easier for those fighting the Bone Warriors to destroy them. The Acolyte controls them and once he is dead, the warriors will go berserk and fight in a blind fury.”
The smoke had died away. The fires were being brought until control, but they could both hear the sounds of battle still raging outside. Rhys worried about Nightshade and Mina being caught in the chaos. He was anxious to go after them, but he did not like to leave Jenna, especially if there were more Bone Warriors about.
She read his thoughts and patted his hand. “You are concerned about your kender friend. He is safe, at least he was the last time I saw him. He was the one who sent me to your aid. Lady Atta was with him, and they were both pursuing Mina.”
Amber and Blood Page 18