Amber and Iron

by Margaret Weis

  Krell had hated Mina in life. She had faced him unafraid the first time they’d met, and for that, he’d never forgiven her. He was glad she was dead, and the last thing he wanted to do was act as a go-between for her and her lover.

  “My lord,” Krell ventured to point out, “you rule the plane of Death and Undeath. If you can’t communicate—”

  Chemosh turned a baleful eye upon the death knight, who bowed and muttered something about being happy to speak to Mina whenever she should decide to put in an appearance.

  “She is here now, Krell. Talk to her! What are you waiting for? Ask her what she wants!”

  Krell looked about. He saw nothing, but he didn’t like to disappoint his lord and so he began talking to a crack in the wall.

  “Mina,” said Krell in sonorous and mournful tones, “Lord Chemosh would like to know—”

  “Not there!” Chemosh said in exasperation. He gestured. “She is here! Next to me!”

  Krell stared about the hall, then said as diplomatically as possible, “My lord, the journey from Storm’s Keep was a strenuous one. Perhaps you should lie down—”

  Chemosh bounded off the throne and strode angrily toward the death knight. “There’s not much of you left, Krell, but what there is I’ll shred into infinitesimal pieces and scatter to the four corners of the Abyss—”

  “I swear to you, my lord!” Krell cried, backing up precipitously, “that I do not know what you’re talking about! You say, ‘Speak to Mina,’ and I would be glad to do your bidding, but there is no Mina for me to speak to!”

  Chemosh halted. “You cannot see her?” He pointed to where she was standing. “If I extend my arm, I could touch her.” He suited his action to his words and held out his hand to her.

  Krell turned his helmed head in the direction indicated and stared with all his might. “Oh, of course. Now that you point her out—”

  “Don’t lie to me, Krell!” Chemosh cried savagely, clenching his fist.

  The death knight recoiled. “My lord. I am truly sorry. I want to see her, but I do not—”

  Chemosh shifted his gaze from Krell to the apparition. His eyes narrowed. “You don’t see her. Strange. I wonder …”

  He raised his voice, shouting, so that it echoed through the shadowy realm of death. “To me! Servants, slaves! To me! Now!”

  The hall filled with a ghostly throng, constrained to come at their master’s bidding. Wraiths and specters gathered around Chemosh and waited in their customary silence for him to command them.

  “You see these minions of mine, do you not, Krell?” Chemosh made a sweeping wave of his arm.

  Left behind by the river of souls as it flowed through eternity, the undead who had fallen prey to the blandishments of the Lord of Death floated in a stagnant swamp of their own evil.

  “Yes, my lord,” said Krell. “I see them.” They were low creatures, and he cast them a disdainful glance.

  “And you don’t see Mina standing among them?”

  Krell stood dithering in an agony of indecision. “My lord, since my death, my eyesight is not what it used to be—”

  “Krell!” Chemosh shouted.

  The death knight’s shoulders slumped. “No, my lord. I know you don’t want to hear this, but she is not among these—”

  The Lord of Death flung his arms around Krell, embraced him tightly, crumpling his armor, and staving in his breastplate.

  “Krell,” cried Chemosh, “you have saved my sanity!”

  The death knight’s eyes flared in astonishment.

  “My lord?”

  “What a fool I have been!” Chemosh declared. “But no more. He will pay for this! I swear by the High God who cast me out of heaven and by Chaos who saved me that Nuitari will pay!”

  Releasing Krell and dismissing the other undead with an impatient gesture, Chemosh stared at the image of Mina, still floating before him.

  “Give me your sword, Krell,” Chemosh ordered, holding out his hand.

  The death knight drew his sword from its scabbard and handed it to the god.

  Gripping the sword, Chemosh stared for another long moment at the ghost of Mina. Then, sword in hand, he raised it and leapt at the illusion.

  The image of Mina vanished.

  Chemosh stepped back, thinking out loud. “A remarkable illusion. It fooled even me. But it could not fool you, my dear brother, my excellent friend, Lord Krell!”

  “I am glad to have pleased you, my lord.” Krell was confused—thankful, but confused. “I don’t quite follow you, though—”

  “An illusion, Krell! Mina’s ghost was an illusion! That is why you could not see her. Mina is not in your realm—the realm of death. Mina is alive, Krell. Alive—and a prisoner.”

  Chemosh grew grim. “Nuitari lied to me. He did not slay her, as he pretended. He has imprisoned her in his Tower beneath the Blood Sea. Why, though? What is his motive? Does he want her for himself? Did he assume I would forget her, once I thought she was dead? Ah, I see his game. He has probably told her I abandoned her. She would not believe him, though. Mina loves me. She will be true to me. I must go to her.…”

  He paused.

  “What if he has succeeded in seducing her? She is mortal, after all,” the god continued, his voice hardening, “This Mina once swore to love and follow Queen Takhisis, only to turn from her to me. Perhaps Mina has turned from me to Nuitari. Perhaps they both plot against me. I might be walking into a trap.…”

  He whipped around. “Krell!”

  “My lord!” The death knight was trying desperately to keep up with the peregrinations of the god’s thoughts.

  “You say that Zeboim recovered the khas piece containing the soul of her son?” Chemosh asked.

  “It wasn’t my fault!” Krell said hurriedly. “There was a kender and a giant bug—”

  “Quit whining! You actually did something right for a change. I am going to send you on an errand.”

  Krell didn’t like the god’s sly smile.

  “What errand would that be, my lord?” the death knight asked warily. “Where am I going?”

  “To Zeboim—”

  Krell clunked down onto his knees. “You might as well finish me now, Lord Chemosh, and get it over with.”

  “Now, now, Krell,” said Chemosh soothingly. He was suddenly in an excellent humor. “The Sea Goddess will be glad to see you. You are going to bring her welcome news—provided she allows you to live long enough to tell it.…”

  he dwarf and half-elf had been gazing into the dragonmetal basin, both of them sniggering at the sight of Chemosh’s lamentations over his “dead” mistress and mocking the Lord of Death, making sport of him as they’d done for many days now, when things began to go terribly wrong.

  “He’s onto us!” said the dwarf, alarmed.

  “No, he’s not,” said the half-elf, sneering.

  “I tell you he’s figured it out!” cried the dwarf. “Look there! He’s got a sword! End the spell, Caele! Quickly!”

  “We’re in no danger, Basalt, you coward,” said Caele, his lip curling. “What do you think? He’s going to leap through time and space and cut off our ears?”

  “How do you know he can’t?” Basalt roared. “He’s a god! Just end it!”

  Caele took one look at the god’s face—livid with rage, his eyes blazing like the eternal fires of the Abyss—and decided his fellow archmage might be right. The half-elf placed both hands on the heavy dragonmetal basin, dug in his feet, and pushed the basin off the pedestal, dumping the contents onto the floor. Blood sloshed over Caele’s bare feet and splattered the black robes of the dwarf.

  The god and his sword vanished.

  Basalt mopped his face with a black sleeve. “That was close!”

  “I still don’t think he could have done anything to us,” Caele muttered.

  “We didn’t dare risk it.”

  Caele thought back on the enormous sword the god had been wielding and was forced to agree. He and Basalt stood in silence staring g
loomily at the empty dragonmetal basin and the pool of blood. Both of them were thinking of another god who was going to be angry, a god much closer to home.

  “It wasn’t our fault,” Caele muttered, biting his nails. “We have to make that clear.”

  “It was only a matter of time before Chemosh discovered the deception,” Basalt agreed.

  “I’m surprised it lasted this long,” Caele added. “He’s a god, after all. Be certain to remind the Master of that when you tell him what happened—”

  “When I tell him!” Basalt glowered.

  “Yes, of course, you should tell him,” stated the half-elf coolly. “You are the Caretaker, after all. You are the one in charge. I am but your underling. You tell the Master.”

  “I am the Caretaker of the Tower. You were the one tasked with casting the illusion spell. For all I know, it was your fault that Chemosh found out! Perhaps you made a mistake—”

  Caele quit biting his nails. His long, thin fingers curled to claws. “Perhaps if you hadn’t panicked and ordered me to end the spell prematurely—”

  “End the spell! What are you talking about?”

  The stern voice came from behind them. The two Black Robes exchanged alarmed glances and then, cringing, both turned to face their master, Nuitari, God of the Black Moon.

  Both wizards bowed low. They both wore the Black Robes, symbol of their dedication to Nuitari. Beyond that, the likeness between them ended. Caele was tall and gaunt, with straggling, greasy hair that he rarely bothered to wash. He was half-human, half-elven, and united in his hatred of both races. Basalt, the dwarf, was short and stocky. His black robes were neat and clean, his beard combed. He didn’t much like anyone of any race.

  Straightening, the two tried to appear at ease, as if they were completely unconscious of the fact they were standing on a stone floor awash in dragon’s blood, with the overturned basin of dragonmetal wobbling about at their feet.

  The tall Caele looked down his long nose at Basalt, who glared up from beneath his heavy black brows at Caele.

  “Tell him,” Caele mouthed.

  “You tell him,” Basalt growled.

  “Someone had better tell me, and tell me soon,” hissed Nuitari.

  “Chemosh discovered the illusion,” Basalt said, trying to meet the god’s dark and unforgiving eye, and finding it difficult.

  “He was coming straight at us,” Caele whined, “waving a huge sword. I told Basalt the god couldn’t harm us, but the dwarf panicked and insisted on ending the spell—”

  “I didn’t insist that you upend the basin,” snapped Basalt.

  “You were the one howling like a wounded wyvern—”

  “You were just as scared as I was!”

  Nuitari made an abrupt gesture with his hands.

  Basalt, quailing, asked in a low voice, “Master, will Chemosh come to free her?”

  No need to name which “her” he was talking about.

  “Perhaps,” said Nuitari. “Unless the Lord of Death is more wise than he is obsessed.”

  Caele looked sidelong at Basalt, who shrugged.

  The god’s round moon face with its lidless eyes and full-lipped mouth held no expression. The mages could not tell if he was pleased or displeased, surprised, or alarmed, or simply bored with the whole procedure.

  “Clean up the mess,” was all Nuitari said before he turned on his heel and walked out.

  It took both Caele and Basalt to lift the heavy basin, which was in the shape of a serpentine dragon with the coiled tail forming the bowl, back onto the pedestal. Once the basin was in place, they stared down at the pool spreading across the stone tile floor.

  “Should we try to salvage some of the blood?” Basalt asked. Dragon’s blood, especially that given by a willing dragon, was an extremely rare and valuable commodity.

  Caele shook his head. “It’s been tainted now. Besides, the blood loses its potency for spellcasting after forty-eight hours. I doubt the Master will be attempting this spell again any time soon.”

  “Well, then fetch rags and a bucket and we’ll—”

  “I may be your underling, Basalt, but I am not your lapdog!” Caele returned angrily. “I do not fetch! Get your own rags and bucket. I must inspect the basin to see if it was damaged.”

  Basalt grunted. The basin was made of dragonmetal. He could have dropped it off the top of the Lords of Doom, and it would land at the bottom without suffering a dent. He knew from experience, however, that he could either spend the next half hour in a bitter argument with Caele that the dwarf would never win, or he could go fetch the rags and bucket himself. The pantry where they kept such mundane objects was located some three levels from where they were standing, a long trek up and down the stairs for the dwarf’s short legs. Basalt considered magicking away the spilled blood or conjuring up rags. He rejected both, however, for fear Nuitari would find out.

  Nuitari had forbidden his mages from using magic for trivial or frivolous tasks. He maintained that for a mage to use magic to wash his supper dishes was an insult to the gods. Basalt and Caele were expected to do their laundry, catch their food (one reason they had devised the contraption in which they had caught Mina), cook and clean—all without the benefit of spellcasting. Other mages who would eventually come to live in the Tower would have to live under the same restriction. They would be required to perform all such menial tasks with labor that was physical, not magical. Basalt stalked off on his errand, returning with aching calf muscles and in a bad mood.

  He came back to find Caele amusing himself by drawing stick figures with his toe in the dragon’s blood.

  “Here,” said Basalt, tossing Caele a rag. “Now that you’ve inspected the basin, you can clean it.”

  Caele regretted not having taking advantage of the dwarf’s departure to leave. The half-elf had continued to hang about the spellcasting chamber in hopes that Nuitari would return and be impressed to find Caele taking such excellent care of the basin that was one of the god’s favorite magical artifacts. Since there was still a chance Nuitari might come back, Caele began to wipe away the remnants of dragon’s blood.

  “So what did the master mean by Chemosh being wiser than he is obsessed?” asked Basalt. The dwarf was down on his hands and knees, scrubbing vigorously at the stained stone with a bristle brush.

  “He’s obsessed with this Mina, that much is clear. That’s how we were able to perpetrate this fraud on him.”

  “Something that I never understood anyway,” Basalt grumbled.

  Caele, mindful that the Master might be in earshot, was effusive in his praise.

  “Actually, I consider Nuitari’s ploy quite brilliant,” said the half-elf. “When we first captured Mina, the Master intended to use the threat of her death as a way to keep Chemosh’s mouth shut. Chemosh, you see, had threatened to tell Nuitari’s two cousins that he had secretly built this Tower and was trying to establish his own power base independent of them. He threatened to tell all the gods that the Master has in his possession a cache of holy artifacts belonging to each and every one of them.”

  “But the threat of death didn’t work,” Basalt pointed out. “Chemosh abandoned Mina to her fate.”

  “This is where the Master’s true brilliance shone,” said Caele. “Nuitari killed her as Chemosh watched, or rather, the Master pretended to kill her.”

  Caele waited a moment, hoping Nuitari would enter and thank his faithful follower for the compliments. Nuitari did not come, however, and there was no sign he’d overheard the half-elf’s flattering remarks. Caele was growing bored with cleaning. He threw down the rag.

  “There, I’m finished.”

  Basalt stood up to inspect the job. “Finished! When did you start? Look at that. There’s blood in the scales around the tail, and in the eyes and teeth, and it’s seeped in all these little crevices between the scales—”

  “That’s just the way the way the light hits it,” said Caele carelessly. “But if you don’t like it, do it yourself. I have to g
o study my spells.”

  “This is precisely the reason why I was made Caretaker!” Basalt told Caele’s back as the half-elf was walking out the door. “You are a pig! All elves are pigs.”

  Caele turned, enmity flickering in his slanted eyes. His fists clenched.

  “I’ve killed men for such insults, dwarf.”

  “You killed a woman for it, at least,” Basalt said. “Strangled her and pushed her off a cliff.”

  “She got what she deserved and so will you, if you keep talking like that!”

  “Like what? You have no love for elves yourself. You say worse than that about them all the time.” Basalt polished the basin, working the rag deep into the crevices.

  “Since the bitch who gave birth to me was an elf, I can say what I like about them,” Caele retorted.

  “Fine way to talk about your mother.”

  “She did her part. She brought me into this world, and she had a good time doing it. At least I had a mother. I didn’t sprout up in a dark cave like some sort of fungus—”

  “You go too far!” Basalt howled.

  “Just not far enough!” Caele hissed in fury, his long fingers twitching.

  The dwarf threw the rag to the floor. The half-elf forgot about studying his spells. The two glared at each other. The air crackled with magic.

  Nuitari, watching from the shadows, smiled. He liked his mages to be combative. It kept the sharp edges honed.

  Basalt was half mad. Caele was wholly mad. Nuitari knew that long before he’d brought them to his Tower beneath the Blood Sea. He didn’t care, not so long as they were good at their jobs, and both were extremely good, for they’d had years to perfect their gifts.

  Due to their long life spans, the half-elf and the dwarf were among the few spellcasters remaining on Krynn who had served the God of the Dark Moon prior to his mother’s theft of the world. Both had excellent memories and had retained their knowledge of their spellcraft over the intervening years.

  These two were among the first to look into the heavens and see the black moon, and they were among the first to fall down on their knees and offer their services to their god. Nuitari transported them to this Tower on one condition—that they not kill each other. Both the dwarf and the half-elf were exceptionally powerful wizards. A battle between would not only end in the loss to him of two valuable servants, it would probably do serious damage to his newly reconstructed Tower.