Amber and Iron

by Margaret Weis

  It wasn’t.

  Feverishly Krell placed all the pieces on the khas board. Two were missing, one of which was the khas piece containing the soul of Ariakan; the khas piece that Chemosh had ordered Krell to guard with his undead life.

  The death knight broke into a chill sweat, not an easy thing to do when one has no shivering flesh, palpitating heart, or clenching bowels. Krell fell to his knees. He peered under the table and groped about with his hands. The knight piece was not there; neither was the kender.

  “The monk!” Krell snarled.

  Spurred on by the vivid image of what Chemosh would do to him if he lost the khas piece containing the soul of Lord Ariakan, Krell set off in pursuit.

  He didn’t expect this to take long. The monk was broken—both in bones and in spirit. He could barely walk, much less run.

  Krell left the tower, where they’d been having such a comfortable, friendly game until the monk ruined it, and entered the keep’s central courtyard. He saw immediately that the monk had an ally—Zeboim, the Goddess of the Sea. At the sight of Krell, storm clouds gathered thick in the sky and a sizzling bolt of lightning struck the tower he’d just left.

  Krell was not one of the world’s great intellectual thinkers, but he did have occasional flashes of desperate brilliance.

  “Don’t you lay a hand on me, you Sea Bitch, you,” Krell bellowed. “Your monk stole the wrong khas piece! Your son is still in my possession. If you do anything to help the thief escape, Chemosh will melt down your pretty pewter boy and hammer his soul into oblivion!”

  Krell’s ruse worked. Lightning flickered uncertainly from cloud to cloud. The wind died. The sky grew sullen. A few hailstones clunked down on Krell’s steel helm. The goddess spat rain at him, and that was all.

  She dared do nothing to him. She dared not come to the monk’s aid.

  As to the monk, he was gamely hobbling over the rocks, vainly trying to escape Krell. The man’s shoulders sagged. He sobbed for breath. He was about finished. His goddess had abandoned him. Krell expected the monk to give up, surrender, fall to his knees and plead for his miserable life. That was what Krell himself had done when in a similar situation. It hadn’t worked for him, and it wasn’t going to work for this monk.

  Again, the monk didn’t play fair. Instead of surrendering, he hobbled with the last of his strength straight for the cliff’s edge.

  Mother of the Abyss! Krell realized, shocked. The bastard’s going to jump!

  If he jumped, he’d take with him the khas piece, and there was no way Krell could recover it. He had no intention of going for a swim in Zeboim-infested waters.

  Krell had to catch the monk and stop him from jumping. Unfortunately, that was not proving an easy task to accomplish. His hulking form encased in the plate and chain mail armor of a death knight, Krell lumbered. He could not run.

  Krell’s armor clanked and clattered. His ponderous footfalls sent tremors through the ground. He watched, in mounting terror, the monk outdistance him.

  Krell found an unexpected ally in Zeboim. She, too, feared for the khas piece the monk was carrying. She tried to stop him. She pummeled the monk with rain and knocked him off his feet with a wind gust. The wretched monk stood up and kept going.

  He reached the edge of the cliff. Krell knew what lay below—a seventy-foot fall onto sharp-edged granite boulders.

  “Stop him, Zeboim,” Krell raged. “If you don’t, you’ll be sorry!”

  The monk held a small leather bag in his hand. He thrust that bag into the bosom of his bloodstained robes.

  Krell clambered and stumbled among the rocks, swearing and waving his sword.

  The monk climbed onto a promontory that extended out into the sea. He lifted his face to the storm-shrouded heavens lit bright as day by the goddess’s fear.

  “Zeboim,” the monk cried, “we are in your hands.”

  Krell roared.

  The monk jumped.

  Krell blundered his way among the rocks, his momentum carrying him along at such a frantic pace that the edge of the cliff was upon him before he realized it, and he very nearly went over into the sea himself.

  Krell teetered back and forth for what would have been a heart-stopping moment, if he’d had a heart, before hastily regaining his balance. He stumbled back several paces, then, creeping forward an inch at a time, he peered cautiously over the edge. He expected to see the monk’s mangled body lying sprawled on the rocks, with Zeboim lapping up his blood.

  Nothing.

  “I’m screwed,” Krell muttered glumly.

  Krell glanced at the sky where the clouds were growing darker and thicker. The wind started to rise. Rain began to pour down on him, along with hailstones and lightning bolts, sleet and snow, and large chunks of a nearby tower.

  Krell might have run for protection to Chemosh, but sadly, Chemosh was the god who had given Krell the khas piece for safekeeping—the khas piece that Krell had now lost. The Lord of Death was not known to be either merciful or forgiving.

  “Somewhere on this island,” Krell reasoned, as he narrowly missed being flattened by a stone gargoyle hurtling past him, “there must be a hole deep enough and dark enough where no god can find me.”

  Krell turned on his heel and lumbered off through the raging storm.

  hys Mason was the monk who had made the desperate decision to leap off the cliffs of Storm’s Keep. He was making a gamble, staking his life and that of his friend, the kender, Nightshade, on the fact that Zeboim would not let them die. She could not let them die, for Rhys had in his possession the soul of her son.

  At least, this is what Rhys was hoping. The thought was also in his mind that if the goddess abandoned him, he could either die slowly and in torment at the cruel whim of the death knight, or he could die swiftly on the rocks below.

  As luck would have it, Rhys jumped into the water in an area around Storm’s Keep that was free of rocks. He plunged into the sea, sinking so deep that he left the light of day far above him. He floundered in the bone-chilling darkness, with no way to tell which way was up and which was down. Not that it mattered anyway. He could never reach the surface. He was drowning, his lungs bursting. When he opened his mouth, he would draw in gurgling, choking death.…

  The immortal hand of a furious goddess reached into the depths of her ocean, gripped Rhys Mason by the scruff of his neck, plucked him from the seas, and flung him on shore.

  “How dare you endanger my son?” the goddess cried.

  She raged on, but Rhy did not hear her. Her fury closed over his head like the dark waters of the sea, and he knew nothing.

  Rhys lay facedown in the warm sand. His monk’s robes were soaking wet, as were his shoes. His sodden hair trailed over his face. His lips were rimmed with salt, as was the inside of his mouth and his throat. He gagged, retched and fought to breathe.

  Suddenly strong hands began to pummel him on his back, and swung his arms over his head, working his arms up and down in a pumping action to force the water out of his lungs.

  Coughing, he spewed seawater out of his mouth.

  “About time you came around,” Zeboim said, continuing to yank him and pump him.

  Groaning, Rhys managed to croak, “Stop! Please!” He gagged up more water.

  The goddess let go, allowing his arms to drop limply to the sand.

  Rhys’s eyes burned from the salt. He could barely open them. He peered through half-shut lids to see the hem of a green gown rippling over the sand near his head. The toe of a bare, shapely foot prodded him.

  “Where is he, monk?” Zeboim demanded.

  The goddess knelt down beside him. Her blue-green eyes glowed. A restless wind stirred her sea foam hair. She grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head off the ground and glared into his eyes.

  “Where is my son?”

  Rhys tried to speak. His throat was sore and parched. He passed his tongue over his salt-coated lips and rasped, “Water!”

  “Water!” Zeboim flared. “You swallowed half
my ocean as it is! Oh, very well,” she added huffily, as Rhys’s eyes closed and he fell back limply in the sand. “Here. Don’t drink too much. You’ll throw up again. Just rinse out your mouth.”

  Her hand propped him up as she held a cup of cool water to his lips. The goddess’s touch could be gentle when she wanted. He sipped the cool liquid gratefully. The goddess brushed moist fingertips across his lips and eyelids, wiping away the salt.

  “There,” Zeboim said soothingly. “You’ve had your water.” Her voice hardened. “Now stop stalling. I want my son.”

  As Rhys started to reach into the bosom of his robes where he’d stuffed the leather scrip, pain shot through him and he gasped. He lifted his hands. His fingers were purple and swollen and bent at odd angles. He couldn’t move them.

  Zeboim regarded him with a sniff.

  “I am not the goddess of healing, if that’s what you’re thinking!” she said coldly.

  “I did not ask you to heal me, Your Majesty,” Rhys returned through clenched teeth.

  He slowly thrust his injured hand inside his robes and sighed in relief at the feel of wet leather. He had been afraid that he might have lost the scrip in his dive off the cliff. He fumbled at the bag, but his broken fingers would not work well enough for him to open it.

  The goddess seized hold of his fingers and, one by one, yanked the bones back into place. The pain was excruciating. Rhys feared for a moment he was going to pass out. When she was finished, however, his broken bones were mended. The bruising faded. The swelling started to recede. Zeboim had her own healing touch, it seemed.

  Rhys lay in the sand, bathed in sweat, waiting for the nausea to pass.

  “I warned you,” Zeboim said serenely. “I’m not Mishakal.”

  “No, Your Majesty.” Rhys murmured. “Thank you anyway.”

  His healed hands reached into his robe and drew forth the leather bag. Opening the drawstring, he upended the bag. Two khas pieces fell out onto the sand—a dark knight mounted on a blue dragon and a kender.

  Zeboim snatched up the dark knight piece. Holding it in her hand, she lovingly caressed the figure and crooned to it. “My son! My dearest son! Your soul will be freed. We’ll go to Chemosh immediately.”

  There was a pause, as though she were listening, then she said, her voice altering, “Don’t argue with me, Ariakan. Mother knows what is best!”

  Cradling the khas piece in her hands, Zeboim stood up. Storm clouds darkened the heavens. The wind lifted, blowing stinging sand into Rhys’s face.

  “Don’t leave yet, Your Majesty!” he cried desperately. “Remove the spell from the kender!”

  “What kender?” Zeboim asked carelessly. Wisps of cloud coiled around her, ready to carry her off.

  Rhys jumped to his feet. He snatched up the kender piece and held it before her.

  “The kender risked his life for you,” said Rhys, “as did I. Ask yourself this question, Majesty. Why should Chemosh free your son’s soul?”

  “Why? Because I command it, that’s why!” Zeboim returned, though not with her usual spirit. She looked uncertain.

  “Chemosh did this for a reason, Majesty,” Rhys said. “He did it because he fears you.”

  “Of course, he does,” Zeboim returned, shrugging. “Everyone fears me.”

  She hesitated, then said, “But I don’t mind hearing what you have to say on the subject. Why do you think Chemosh fears me?”

  “Because you have learned too much about the Beloved, these terrible undead that he has created. You have learned too much about the woman, Mina, who is their leader.”

  “You’re right. That chit, Mina. I had forgotten all about her.” Zeboim cast Rhys a glance of grudging acknowledgement. “You are also right in that the Lord of Death will not free my son’s soul, not without coercion. I need something to force his hand. I need Mina. You have to find her and bring her to me. A task, I recall, that I gave you in the first place.”

  Zeboim glowered at him. “So why haven’t you done it?”

  “I was saving your son, Your Majesty,” Rhys said. “I will resume my search, but to find Mina I require the services of the kender—”

  “What kender?”

  “This kender. Nightshade, Your Majesty,” Rhys said, holding up the khas piece that was frantically waving its tiny arms. “The kender nightstalker.”

  “Oh, very well!” Zeboim flicked sand over the khas piece and Nightshade, all four-and-one half-feet of him, blossomed at Rhys’s side.

  “Get me back to normal!” the kender was bellowing.

  He looked around and blinked. “Oh, you did. Whew! Thanks!”

  Nightshade patted himself all over. He lifted his hand to his head to make certain his topknot was there and it was. He looked at his shirt to make certain he still had one and he did. He had his britches, too—his favorite color, purple, or at least, they’d once been purple. They were now a peculiar color of mauve. He wrung the water out of his shirt, pants, and topknot, and felt better.

  “I’ll never complain about being short again,” he confided to Rhys in heartfelt tones.

  “If that is all I can do for the two of you,” Zeboim said bitingly, “I have urgent business …”

  “One more thing, Your Majesty,” Rhys said. “Where are we?”

  Zeboim cast a vague glance around. “You are on a beach by the sea. How should I know where? It is all the same to me. I pay no attention to these things.”

  “We need to be back in Solace, Your Majesty,” said Rhys, “in order to search for Mina. I know you are in a hurry, but if you could just take us there—”

  “And would you like me to fill your pockets with emeralds?” Zeboim asked with a sarcastic curl of her lip. “And give you a castle overlooking the shores of the Sirrion Ocean?”

  “Yes!” cried Nightshade eagerly.

  “No, Majesty,” said Rhys. “Just send us back to—”

  He quit speaking because there was no longer any goddess to hear him. There was only Nightshade, several extremely startled looking people, and a mighty vallenwood tree holding a gabled building in its stalwart branches.

  A joyful bark split the air. A black and white dog bounded off the landing where she’d been dozing in the sun. The dog came tumbling down the stairs, dodging in and out of people’s legs, nearly upending several.

  Speeding across the lawn, Atta launched herself at Rhys and jumped into his arms.

  He clasped the wriggling, furry body and hugged her close, his head buried in her fur, his eyes wet with softer water than that of the sea.

  Brightly colored stained glass windows caught the last rays of the afternoon sun. People wended their way up and down the long staircase that led from the ground to the Inn of the Last Home in the treetop.

  “Solace,” Nightshade said in satisfaction.

  ell, I’ll be the son of a blue-eyed, elf-loving ogre!” Gerard clapped Rhys on the back, and then shook his hand and then clapped him on the back again, and then stood grinning at him. “I never expected to see you again this side of the Abyss.”

  Gerard paused, then said half-joking and half-not, “I guess you’ll want your kender-herding dog back …”

  Atta dashed over to give Nightshade a wriggle and a quick lick, then ran back to Rhys. She sat at his feet, gazing up at him, her mouth wide and her tongue hanging out.

  “Yes,” said Rhys, reaching down to fondle her ears. “I want my dog back.”

  “I was afraid of that. Solace now has the most well-behaved kender in all of Ansalon. No offense, friend,” he added with a glance at Nightshade.

  “None taken,” said Nightshade cheerfully. He sniffed the air. “What’s the special on the Inn’s menu tonight?”

  “All right, you people, go about your business,” Gerard said, waving his hands at the crowd that had gathered. “The show’s over.” He glanced sidelong at Rhys and said in an undertone, “I take it the show is over, Brother? You’re not going to spontaneously combust or anything like that?”

  �
��I trust not,” answered Rhys cautiously. When Zeboim was involved, he knew better than to promise.

  A few still lingered, hoping for more excitement, but when the minutes passed and they saw nothing more interesting than a dripping wet monk and a soaked kender, even the idlers wandered off.

  Gerard turned back to stare at Rhys. “What have you been doing, Brother? Washing your robes with yourself inside them? The kender, too.” Reaching out his hand, he plucked a bit of slimy, brownish red plant life from the kender’s hair. “Seaweed! And the nearest ocean is a hundred miles from here.”

  Gerard eyed them. “But then, why am I surprised? The last I saw you two, you were both locked inside a jail cell with a crazy woman. The next thing I know, you’ve both vanished and I’m left with a lunatic female who has the power to fling me out of her cell with a flick of her finger, then she locks me out of my own jail and won’t let me back inside. And then she vanishes!”

  “I believe I owe you an explanation,” said Rhys.

  “I believe you do!” Gerard grunted. “Come into the Inn. You can dry off in the kitchen and Laura will fix you both something to eat—”

  “What’s today?” Nightshade interrupted to ask.

  “Today? Fourth-day,” said Gerard impatiently. “Why?”

  “Fourth-day … Oh, the menu special will be lamb chops!” Nightshade said excitedly. “With boiled potatoes and mint jelly.”

  “I don’t think going to the Inn would be a good idea,” said Rhys. “We need to speak privately.”

  “Oh, but Rhys,” Nightshade wailed, “it’s lamb chops!”

  “We’ll go to my house,” said Gerard. “It’s not far. I don’t have lamb chops,” he added, seeing Nightshade looking glum. “But no one stews a chicken better, if I do say so myself.”