Amber and Ashes

by Margaret Weis

  He wore a sword that clanked at his side, but his most potent weapon was fear. He would use fear to grind her spirit into quivering pulp, as he would use his fists to grind her flesh and bones.

  The fear that roiled off him in waves struck Mina, and she quailed and cowered beneath it. When she had faced the other death knight, Lord Soth, she had been armored with the power of the One God. She had carried in her hand the weapon of the One God. Soth had no power over her. He’d been buried beneath the rubble of his fortress.

  Mina wore holy armor no longer. Chemosh had asked her to cast away her armor as a proof of her faith. She must face the formidable death knight in a rain-soaked shirt of wool that clung damply to her slender body, seeming to emphasize to her the fact that she was made of soft and quivering flesh and he was made of steel and death.

  Fear paralyzed her. She could not move, but she hunkered down in the doorway, her stomach clenching, her leg muscles twitching in painful spasms. If Krell but turned his head, he would see her trembling in the doorway, craven as a gully dwarf. He would come raging at her and she would cower helplessly before him.

  Mina shut her eyes, averted her gaze. The temptation to flee was overwhelming and she fought against it.

  “I walked alone in the accursed valley of Neraka,” she said through gritted teeth. “I endured the trials of the Dark Queen. Takhisis held me in her arms, and her glory seared my flesh, yet now I tremble before this piece of excrement. Am I brave only when the god holds my hand? Is this the way to prove myself to Chemosh?”

  Mina opened her eyes. She made herself look at Krell, stared at him hard. She stopped shivering. Her muscle spasms eased. She drew in a deep breath and another and relaxed.

  Krell had not seen her or heard her. He walked straight ahead, cursing aloud at having lost his prey and swinging his fist in impotent rage. Whatever torment he had arranged for her, he was sorely disappointed at having missed his opportunity.

  As he strode across the parade ground, his own torment beat and tore at him. The wind of the goddess’s rage buffeted him. He had difficulty walking against the furious wind, and he was strong and powerfully built. Black clouds boiled and fumed overhead. Lightning bolts struck at his feet, sending up chunks of rock and once knocking Krell to his knees. The almost constant boom of thunder shook the ground.

  Staggering to his feet, Krell shook his fist at the heavens. He did not tempt the goddess further, however, but ran for the Tower of the Lily at a clumsy, armor-encumbered jog-trot.

  Mina waited until he was halfway across the parade ground, then she followed him. She had hoped that the goddess might relent when she appeared, that the storm might abate for her. She was soon disabused of that notion. The moment she set foot on the parade ground, a gust of wind struck her, drove her to her hands and knees. Lancing rain pelted her with stinging, blinding force.

  Zeboim was apparently not backing any favorites.

  At least Krell was not inclined to stop in the midst of the cyclone to look behind to see if he was being followed. He was making for the Tower as fast as his lumbering stride could carry him.

  Pushing to her feet, Mina battled her way through the storm in pursuit.

  Krell was in a bad temper. The death knight was never in what one might call a good temper, but some days for Krell were better than others. Some days he was fortunate to have the living around to entertain him. Some days, if Zeboim was otherwise engaged, he could walk the parade ground and receive only a mild drenching. Today of all days, the Sea Witch must have planted herself directly overhead.

  Fuming and dripping, Krell stalked into the library where he had everything set up in anticipation of his visitor, whose broken, bleeding body was now providing food for the sharks.

  Krell plunked his armored self down in a chair and stared moodily at the game board and the empty chair opposite. Krell had grown sick and tired of playing khas against himself.

  Krell was an avid khas player, as were most of the Knights of Takhisis. Steel Brightblade had once jested that knowledge of the game was a requirement for becoming a member of the knighthood, and in that, he had not been far wrong. Ariakan—an excellent player—believed that the intricate game taught people to consider not only their own stratagems but also those of their opponents, enabling them to anticipate their opponents’ moves far in advance. Good khas players made good commanders—or so Ariakan believed.

  Krell and Ariakan had spent many hours in contest over the khas board. Memories of those hours had returned full force to Krell as he had plotted his commander’s assassination. Ariakan had always beaten Krell at khas.

  The round khas board with its black, red, and white six-sided tiles stood in its accustomed place on a wrought iron stand before the enormous fire pit. Hand-carved jet and green jade pieces glowered at each other over the black, red, and white checkered field of battle. Krell had been in the midst of a game against himself (contests he usually won), but he had quickly cleared his game away in order to set the pieces back in their starting positions.

  Now he would have to begin again. Scowling, he reached out his gauntleted hand, grasped a pawn, and moved it onto an adjacent square. He let go of the pawn and was about to stand up to move to the chair on the other side of the board when he changed his mind. He would use another opening. He reached for the pawn and was about to shift its position, when a voice—a living voice—spoke from over his shoulder.

  “You can’t do that,” said Mina. “It’s against the rules. You’ve taken your hand off the piece. It has to remain where you placed it.”

  In life or death, Ausric Krell had never been so astonished.

  He whipped around to see who had spoken. A slender female, clad in sodden wet clothes, with hair that was red as his rage and eyes of amber gold stood with an iron pry bar in her hands. She was in the act of swinging the iron bar at his head.

  Startled by the sight of her alive when he’d assumed she was dead, shocked at her temerity and the fact that she wasn’t prostrate in terror before him, and caught off guard by the swiftness and suddenness of her attack, Krell had time for a furious snarl before the iron bar smashed into his helm.

  Red hot flame lit up the perpetual darkness in which Krell lived, and then flickered out.

  Krell’s darkness went even darker.

  Mina’s blow, swung with all the pent-up force of her fear and her determination, knocked Krell’s helm from his body, sent it bounding and clanking across the room to bump up against some of the corpses that he’d shoved into the corner. The armor in which his undead energy had been encased remained upright, seated in the chair, half-twisted about, one hand still extended to pick up the khas piece, the other hand raised in an ineffectual move to try to halt Mina’s attack.

  Mina held the bar poised for another hit, watching warily both the helm on the floor and the armor in the chair, ready to strike if the helm wobbled or the bloody armor so much as twitched.

  The helm lay still. The armor did move. It might have been on display in some Palanthian noble’s palace. Mina was about to breathe a shivering sigh and lower the prybar when the door blew open behind her, crashing against the stone wall with a heart-stopping bang. Mina lifted the bar and turned swiftly to face this new foe.

  The gust of wind ushered in the goddess.

  Zeboim seemed clad in the storm, her flowing garments in constant motion, swirling about her like the shifting winds as she entered the room. Mina dropped the iron bar and fell to her knees.

  “Goddess of the Sea and Storm, I have done what I promised. Lord Ausric Krell, the traitor knight who most foully murdered your son, is destroyed.”

  Her head bowed, Mina glanced from beneath her lashes to see the goddess’s reaction. Zeboim swept past Mina without a glance, her sea-green eyes fixed on the bloody armor, and off in the corner, the metal helm—all that remained of Ausric Krell.

  Zeboim touched the armor with her fingertips, then she gave it a shove.

  The armor collapsed. The mailed gauntlet
s fell to the floor. The cuirass sagged sideways in the chair. The greaves toppled to the left and right. His two boots remained standing, stationary, in place. Zeboim walked over to the helm. She thrust out a delicate foot, nudging the helm disdainfully with her toe. The ram’s skull helm rocked a little, then settled. The empty eye sockets, dark as death, stared at nothing.

  Mina remained on her knees, her head lowered, her arms crossed in humble supplication across her breast. The wind that was the goddess’s escort was chill and raw, and Mina shivered uncontrollably. She kept watch on the goddess out of the corner of her eye.

  “You did this, worm?” Zeboim demanded. “Alone?”

  “Yes, Majesty,” Mina answered humbly.

  “I don’t believe it.” Zeboim looked swiftly about the room, as if certain there must be an army hidden away in the bookshelves or a mighty warrior tucked into a cupboard. Not finding anything except rats, the goddess looked back at Mina. “Still, you were Mommy’s pet. There must be something more to you than appears on the surface.”

  The goddess’s voice softened, warmed to springtime, a ripple of breath over sun-drenched water. “Have you chosen a new god to follow, child?”

  Before it had been “worm.” Now it was “child.” Mina hid her smile. She had foreseen this question, and she was prepared with her answer. Keeping her eyes lowered, Mina answered, “My loyalty and my faith are with the dead.”

  Zeboim frowned, displeased. “Bah! Takhisis can do nothing for you now. Faith such as yours should be rewarded.”

  “I ask for no reward,” Mina replied. “I seek only to serve.”

  “You are a liar, child, but such an amusing liar that I’ll let it pass.”

  Mina glanced up at the goddess with a twinge of concern. Had Zeboim seen into her heart?

  “The weak-minded among the pantheon might be deceived by your show of piety, but I am not,” Zeboim continued disdainfully. “All mortals want a reward in return for their faith. No one ever does something for nothing.”

  Mina breathed easier.

  “Come now, child,” Zeboim continued in wheedling tones, “you risked your life to destroy that maggot Krell. What is the real reason? And don’t tell me you did it because his treachery offended your fine sense of honor.”

  Mina lifted her eyes to meet the gray-green eyes of the goddess. “I would like to have something, if it’s not too much to ask, Majesty.”

  “I thought so!” Zeboim was smug. “What do you want, child? A sea chest filled with emeralds? A thousand strands of pearls? Your own fleet of sailing ships? Or perhaps the fabled treasure of the Dark Knights that lies in the vaults below? I feel generous. Tell me your wish, and I will grant it.”

  “The death knight’s helm, My Lady,” Mina replied. “That is what I want.”

  “His helm?” Zeboim repeated, amazed. She made a scornful gesture toward the helm that lay on the floor, near the mummified hand of one of his victims. “That heap of metal is worth next to nothing. A traveling circus might give you a few coins for it, though I doubt even they would be much interested.”

  “Nevertheless that is what I want,” said Mina. “That is my wish.”

  “Take it, then, by all means,” returned Zeboim, adding in a mutter, “Foolish chit. I could have made you rich beyond your dreams. I can’t think what my mother saw in you.”

  Mina rose to her feet. Conscious of the goddess’s annoyed gaze upon her, she walked past the khas board, past the toppled suit of armor, past the two chairs to the far corner. The ram’s skull helm lay on the floor. Mina cast a glance at Zeboim. The goddess’s ever-changing eyes had gone gray as the stone walls of the Keep. The restless winds stirred her hair and clothes.

  “She hoped to ensnare me,” Mina said to herself, as she turned away. “Keep me in her debt by lavishing wealth upon me. I did not lie. My loyalty and my faith are with the dead, just not the dead she was thinking about.”

  Mina picked up the helm, examined it curiously. The horns of the ram curled back from the hideous ram’s skull that formed the visor. Each knight was free to choose his own symbol to use in the design of his armor. Mina found it intriguing that Krell had chosen a ram. He must have felt the need to prove something. She lifted the heavy helm and thrust it awkwardly under her arm. The tips of the horns and the jagged steel edges pricked her flesh uncomfortably.

  “Anything else?” Zeboim asked caustically. “Perhaps you’d like one of his boots as a souvenir?”

  “I thank you, Lady,” said Mina, pretending not to notice the sarcasm. She made a bow. “I revere you and honor you.”

  Zeboim snorted. Tossing her head, she regarded Mina from slit eyes. “There is something else you want, I’ll be bound.”

  Mina sensed a trap. She cast about in her mind, wondering what Zeboim was after.

  “Safe passage off this blasted rock?” the goddess suggested.

  Mina bit her lip. Perhaps she had gone too far. The goddess of the waves could very easily drown her.

  “Yes, Majesty,” she replied in her most humble tones. “Though perhaps that is more than I deserve.”

  “Save your groveling for someone who appreciates it,” Zeboim snapped pettishly. “I begin to regret granting you my favor. I think I shall miss tormenting Krell.”

  “You granted me no favors, Lady,” Mina said to herself, not aloud. She waited tensely to hear the goddess’s verdict. Not even Chemosh could protect her once she set sail upon the sea that was Zeboim’s province.

  The goddess cast Mina and the helm one final, disdainful, sneering glance. Then she turned on her heel, leaving the library. The wind of her anger howled and tore at Mina, buffeted her with bruising force, striking at her until she dropped to her knees to avoid the blows. She crouched on the floor, her head bowed, as the wind blasted her, clutching the helm in her arms.

  And then all went calm. The wind gave a final, irritated hiss, and then fell to nothing.

  Mina sighed deeply. This was the goddess’s answer, or at least so she hoped. She stood up too fast and staggered, almost falling again. The encounters with the death knight and the goddess had drained both her body and her spirit. She was parched with thirst, and though there was rainwater aplenty standing in puddles that were almost as deep and wide as ponds, the water had an oily look to it and smelled of blood. She would not have drunk it for all the strands of pearls in the world. And she had yet to return to the Black Stairs, climb down those broken, slippery steps to where her little boat waited, then make the journey across the sea—the heaving bosom of an angry goddess.

  She started to walk wearily toward the door. At least the storm had abated. The rain now fell in a muttering drizzle. The wind was calm, though now it whipped up and then in vicious little gusts.

  “You have done well, Mina,” said Chemosh. “I am pleased.”

  Mina lifted her head, looked around, hoping that the god was here on Storm’s Keep with her. He was nowhere in sight and she realized immediately that she’d been silly to think he might have come. Zeboim would still be watching her and his presence would have given all away.

  “I am glad to have pleased you, my lord,” said Mina softly, warm with the glow of his praise.

  “Zeboim will keep her promise and calm the seas for you. She admires you. She still has hopes of winning you over.”

  “Never, my lord,” said Mina firmly.

  “I know that, but she does not; therefore, do not tempt her patience long. You have Krell’s helm?”

  “Yes, Lord. I have it with me, as you ordered.”

  “Keep it safe.”

  “Yes, Lord.”

  “God speed you to my arms, Mina,” said Chemosh.

  She felt a touch upon her cheek—his kiss brushed against her skin. Mina pressed her hand to her cheek, closed her eyes, and reveled in the warmth. When she opened her eyes, she had renewed strength, as if she had both eaten and drunk.

  Mindful of the helm, she stripped a ragged cloak from one of the many corpses that littered the room and bou
nd the cloak around the helm, holding it in place with a leather belt she took off another victim. Toting the helm in its bundle, she left the Tower of the Lily and crossed the parade ground, heading for the Black Stairs and her little sail boat.

  rom her vantage point in the heavens, Zeboim watched Mina’s boat bob across the sun-glinting water of the sea, steering toward a rock-bound and desolate strip of coastline. A restless goddess, a cruel goddess, Zeboim could have raised up a wave to capsize the small craft or summoned a sea dragon to devour it, or done any number of things to torment or kill the mortal. This would be nothing to her. She sometimes sank entire ships filled with living souls, sending passengers and sailors to terrifying death by drowning or watching them suffer for days on end, huddled in tiny life boats until they died of thirst and exposure or were devoured by sharks.

  Zeboim took delight in their desperate pleas. She loved to listen to them cry out to her. They promised her anything if she would only spare their lives. Sometimes she ignored them, let them die. Other times she heeded their prayers and saved them. Her actions were not based on mere caprice, as was often the accusation leveled against her by mortals and the other gods. Zeboim was a calculating, clever goddess, who knew how to play to an audience.

  Dead sailors did not leave gifts at her altars or fill the heavens with songs of praise for her. But sailors who escaped death by drowning never passed a shrine to the Sea Goddess without stopping to leave a token of their gratitude. Sailors who feared drowning gave her the best offerings of all, hoping to win her regard. In order to keep them all coming back to her, Zeboim had to drown a few now and then. The same held true with hurricanes and tidal waves, floods and cyclones. The man who saw his son swept away in a raging torrent cried out her name and either blessed her or cursed her, depending on whether her hand reached down to pluck the boy out or hold him under. Blessing or curses, they were both meat on her table, for the next rainy season, that man would be in her shrine, begging her to spare the lives of his other children.

  As for determining who should live and who must die, Zeboim was a bit whimisical on this score. She might well drown the ship owner who had paid for the building of her new shrine and keep alive the cabin boy, who had given a gift of a bent pfennig and then only because his mother had made him. She would drown her own priests, just to keep everyone on their toes.