Atta stayed close at his heels, as she’d been commanded. Her heart must have bothered her as well, for she kept stopping, drawing severe scoldings from the kender.
“Atta! Here, girl! You’ve got to keep up with me!” Nightshade admonished. “We don’t have time for lollygagging about.”
Atta would trot after him because that was what she’d been told to do, but she was not happy, and neither was Nightshade.
The walking itself was another problem. Solinari and Lunitari were both in the sky this night. Solinari was half-full and Lunitari completely full, so that it seemed the moons were winking at Nightshade like mismatched eyes. He could see the ridgeline up above where he walked and he calculated—logically—that on top of this ridge he would find a road, and that road would lead to Flotsam. The ridge didn’t look to be that far away—just a hop, skip, and a jump over some sand dunes, followed by a scramble among some boulders.
The sand dunes proved difficult to navigate, however. Hop, skip, and jump failed utterly. The sand was loose and squishy and slid out from underneath his boots that were already slick from the salt pork. He envied Atta, who pattered along on top of the sand, and wished he had four feet. Nightshade floundered through the sand for what seemed forever, spending more time on his hands and knees than he did on his feet. He grew hot and worn out, and whenever he looked he found the ridge appeared to be moving farther away.
All things do come to an end, however, even sand dunes. This left the boulders. Nightshade figured boulders had to be better than dunes, and he started climbing the ridge with relief.
Relief that soon evaporated.
He didn’t know boulders came in such immense sizes or that they would be this sharp, or that climbing them would be this difficult, or that the rats living among the boulders would be this big and nasty. Fortunately, he had Atta with him, or the rats might have carried him off, for they weren’t in the least afraid of a kender. They did not like the dog, however. Atta barked at the rats. They glared at her with red eyes, chittered at her, then slunk away.
After only a short sojourn among the boulders, Nightshade’s hands were cut and bleeding. His ankle hurt from where he’d slipped and wedged it in a crack. He had to stop once to throw up, but that at least took care of the salt pork problem.
Then, just when it seemed like these boulders must go on forever, he reached the top of the ridge.
Nightshade stepped out on the road that would take him to Flotsam and the monks, and he looked up the road and he looked down the road. His first thought was that the word “road” was paying this strip of rocky wagon ruts a compliment it did not deserve. His second though was more somber. The so-called road stretched on and on, as far as he could see in both directions.
There was no city at the end of either direction.
Flotsam was immense. He’d heard stories about Flotsam all his life. Flotsam was a city that never slept. It was a city of torchlight, tavern lights, bonfires on the beaches, and home fires shining in the windows of the houses. Nightshade had assumed that when he reached the road, he’d be able to see Flotsam’s lights.
The only lights he could see were the cold, pale stars and the maddening winking eyes of the two moons.
“So where is it?” Nightshade turned one way, and then the other. “Which way do I go?”
Truth sank home. Truth sank his heart. Truth sank logic.
“It doesn’t matter which way Flotsam is,” said Nightshade in sudden, awful realization. “Because no matter which way Flotsam is, it’s too far. Rhys knew it! He knew we’d never make it to Flotsam and back in time. He sent us away because he knew he was going to die!”
The kender sat down in the dirt and, wrapping his arms around the dog’s neck, he hugged her close. “What are we going to do, Atta?”
In answer, she pulled away from him and ran back to the boulders. Halting, she looked at him eagerly and wagged her tail.
“It won’t do any good to go back, Atta,” said Nightshade miserably. “Even if I could climb down those stupid rocks again without breaking my neck, which I don’t think I can, it wouldn’t matter.”
He wiped the sweat from his face.
“We can’t save Rhys, not by ourselves. I’m a kender and you’re a dog. We need help.”
He sat in the road, mired in despair, his head in his hands. Atta licked his cheek and nudged him with her nose under his armpit, trying to prod him into action.
Nightshade lifted his head. A thought had occurred to him, a thought that made him burning mad.
“Here we are, Atta, half-killing ourselves to help Rhys, and what is his god doing all this time? Nothing, that’s what! Gods can do anything! Majere could have put Flotsam where we could find it. Majere could have made that squishy sand hard and those sharp boulders soft. Majere could make Rhys’s chains fall off! Majere could send me six monks right now, walking along the road to save Rhys. Do you hear that, Majere?” Nightshade hollered up to heaven.
He waited a few moments, giving the god a chance, but six monks did not appear.
“Now you’ve done it,” said the kender ominously, and he stood up on his two feet, and he gazed up into the heavens, put his hands on his hips and gave the god a talking-to.
“I don’t know if you’re listening to me or not, Majere,” Nightshade said in stern tones. “Probably not, since I’m a kender and no one listens to us, and also I’m a mystic, which means I don’t worship you. Still, you know, that shouldn’t make any difference. You’re a god of good, according to what Rhys says, and that means you should listen to people—all people, including kender and mystics—whether we worship you or not.
“Now I can understand where you might not consider it quite fair of me to be asking you for help, since I’ve never done anything for you, but you’re a lot bigger than me and a lot more powerful, so I think you could afford to be magenta or magnesium, or whatever that word is which means being kind and generous to people even if they don’t deserve it.
“And maybe I don’t deserve your help, but Rhys does. Yes, he did leave off worshipping you to worship Zeboim, but you must know he did that only because you let him down. Oh, I’ve heard all that talk about how we’re not supposed to understand the minds of the gods, but you gods are supposed to understand the hearts of men, so you should understand that Rhys left because he was angry and hurt. Now you’ve taken him back and that’s really good of you, but after all, it’s no more than what you should have done in the first place, because you’re a god of good, so you’re not getting much credit from me for that.”
Nightshade paused to draw a breath and to try to sort out his thoughts, which had gotten rather muddled. This done, he continued his argument, growing more heated as he went. “Rhys proved his loyalty to you by turning down Zeboim when she would have rescued him and us, too, and he’s proving his loyalty by sitting in that cave waiting to die when Mina comes back to torture him. What are you doing in return? You’re leaving him chained up in that grotto!”
Nightshade raised his arms and his voice and shouted. “Does this make any kind of sense to you, Majere?”
He fell silent, giving the god time to respond.
Nightshade heard sea gulls squabbling over a dead fish, waves crashing on the shore, and the wind making the dead grass crackle. None of this sounded to him like the voice of a god.
Nightshade heaved a sigh. “I guess I could offer you something to make this worth your while. I could offer to become one of your faithful, but—to be honest—that would be a lie. I like being a nightstalker. I like helping dead souls find their way off this world if that’s what they want, and I like keeping them company if they’d rather stay. I like the feeling I get when I cast one of my mystical spells and the spirit of the earth creeps into me and wells up inside my heart and spills out into my fingertips, and my hands go all tingly and I—me, a kender—can make big, huge minotaur keel over.
“So I guess I can’t bargain with you, and you know what, Majere, I don’t think peopl
e should have to bargain with gods. Why? Because you are a god and because you’re great, wonderful and powerful, and because I’m just a kender, and Atta’s just a dog, and Rhys is just a man, and we need you. So send me those six monks and be snappy about it.”
Nightshade lowered his arms, heaved a tremulous sigh and waited expectantly.
The gulls’ quarrel ended when one of them flew off with the fish. The waves continued to crash, but they’d been doing that forever. The wind had died away, so the grass was silent. So was the god.
“Maybe not six monks,” Nightshade temporized. “How about two monks and a knight? Or one monk and a wizard?”
Atta whined and pawed at his leg. Nightshade reached down to pet her head, but she slid her head out from under his hand. She looked at him and her eyes narrowed. She was not urging him. She was telling him.
Enough of this nonsense. We’re going back.
Her intense gaze made him go all squirmy inside.
“Now I know what it feels like to be a sheep,” he muttered, trying to avoid her piercing gaze. “Let’s wait just one more minute, Atta. Give the god a chance. It’s those boulders, you see. I don’t have any skin left on my palms—What’s that?”
Nightshade caught sight of movement. He whipped around and stared down the road and saw, in the winking moonlight, two people walking his direction.
“Thank you, Majere!” Nightshade cried and he began running down the road, waving his arms and calling, “Help!
Help!”
Atta dashed after him, barking madly. The kender was so excited and relieved he paid no attention to the tone of her bark. He kept running, and he kept yelling, “Boy, am I glad to see you!” and it was only when he was much closer to the two people and took a good look at them that he realized he wasn’t.
Glad to see them.
They were the Beloved.
ina stared out the window at the Blood Sea that was calm in the moonlit darkness. The red light of Lunitari glimmered on the rolling waves, forming a moon glade, a red path across the red water that was stained purple from the night. Mina’s longing carried her out of her prison to the endless eternal sea. The waves lapped at her feet and she strode into the water …
Behind her, the door creaked open.
“Chemosh!” Mina said with heartfelt joy. “He has come to me!”
She was back in the room, back in the prison in an instant. Arms outstretched, she turned to welcome her lover, ready to fling herself at his feet and beg his forgiveness.
“My lord—” she cried.
The words died on her lips. Joy died in her heart.
“Krell,” she said, and she made no effort to hide her loathing. “What do you want?”
The death knight clanked ponderously into the room. The helmed head, adorned with the curling rams horns, leered at her. Piggy fire-eyes flared.
“To kill you.”
Krell kicked the door shut. He drew his sword from its scabbard and walked toward her.
Mina drew herself up, faced him with scorn. “My lord will not let you touch me!”
“Your lord doesn’t give a rat’s ass about you,” Krell sneered. “Go ahead. Call out to him. See if he answers.”
Mina remembered the look of hatred Chemosh had given her, remembered he had banished her from his sight, refused to even listen to her. She imagined herself calling to him for help, and she heard in her heart the echoing silence of his refusal.
She could not bear that.
Krell had threatened her before now, but his threats had been all bluster and bravado. He had not dared harm her while Chemosh protected her. This was Krell’s chance. She was alone and helpless. She had no weapons. Not even prayer, for Chemosh had turned his back on her.
Mina searched the room for something, anything, she could use in her defense. Not that it would make a difference. The sharpest sword ever crafted could not so much as dent the death knight’s armor.
She did not mean to die without a fight, however. Her soul would go proudly to the Hall of Souls Passing. Chemosh would not be ashamed of her.
Krell was looking about the room as well, though not for the same reason.
“Where is that strange light coming from?” he demanded. “Have you set something on fire?”
A candlestick stood on a table. The candlestick was made of twisted iron, with a clawed foot and three claw-like hands that held the candles. It was big and it was heavy. The trouble was, it was several paces from her.
“Yes,” said Mina. “I summoned a fire wight.”
She pointed to a part of the room opposite the candlestick.
“A fire wight!” Only Krell would have fallen for that one. His head pivoted.
Mina sprang at the table and lunged for the candlestick. She clasped her hands around the base and grabbed it up and, swinging as she turned, she struck with all her strength at Krell’s helm.
The last time she had fought Krell in Storm’s Keep, she had swept his head from his shoulders. That time, Chemosh had been with her.
No god sided with her this time. No god fought for her.
The iron candlestick crashed against Krell’s helm, but the blow did nothing to him. He might not have even felt it. The shock of the blow and the fell touch of the death knight jarred Mina’s arms from wrist to shoulder, momentarily paralyzing her. The candlestick slipped from her hands that had gone suddenly numb.
Krell turned back to her. He seized her arm, twisted it, and flung her against the wall. She gasped with the pain but did not cry out. He penned her in with his arms, so she could not escape. He shoved his helmed head close to her. She could see the emptiness within and smell the foul stench of corruption and death.
“I wish I were a living man,” he said, gloating over her. “I would have some fun with you before I killed you, just like the old days. I liked seeing the fear in their eyes. They knew what I was going to do to them, and they’d squeal and beg and plead for their miserable lives, and I’d tell them if they were good little girls and let me have my fun with them I’d let them live. I lied, of course. When I was done, I’d wrap my hands around their necks—soft, slender necks, like yours—and choke the life out of them.”
He began to fondle her neck with bruising force.
“I guess I’ll just have to settle for choking you.”
His fingers clasped around her neck and started to squeeze.
Rage—hot and molten and bitter tasting—boiled deep within Mina. Amber light blazed in her eyes. Amber light shot from her fingertips. She grasped Krell’s wrists, yanked his hands from her neck, and flung him off her.
“Living man!” she cried, and her fury shook the castle walls. “You want to be a living man! I grant your wish!”
She pointed at Krell, and amber light suffused him. He screamed and began to writhe inside his armor, and suddenly the armor burst asunder and vanished.
Ausric Krell stood before her, his naked flesh quivering, his naked body shivering. His small piggy eyes were blood-shot, white-rimmed, and staring at her in horrified astonishment.
“Kneel to me!” Mina commanded.
Krell collapsed in a groveling, flabby heap at her feet.
“From now on, you serve me!” Mina told him.
Krell blubbered something unintelligible.
Mina kicked him and he cried out in pain.
“Yes, yes! I serve you!” he whimpered.
Mina walked past the cringing Krell and strode to the door. She touched it, and it burst into amber flame. She walked through the rain of cinders and into the dark hallway. She looked at a stone wall and it melted; stone stairs appeared. She walked the stairs that spiraled round and round, leading upward to the ramparts.
“Tell my lord Chemosh, when he returns”—Mina’s voice rang in Krell’s ears—“that I have gone to obtain his heart’s desire.”
Krell remained in a sodden mass on the floor. He was terrified to open his eyes for fear he might see Mina. At length, however, the stone floor began to hurt hi
s bony knees. The cold raised goosebumps on the flesh of his naked arms and shriveled his private parts. Krell pinched his arm and gave a yelp, then he groaned and cursed.
There was no doubting it. Middle-aged, gray-haired, balding, with sallow skin and sagging gut, he had his wish.
Krell was, once more, a living man.
hile Ausric Krell was having a very bad time inside Castle Beloved, Nightshade was having a worse time outside it.
He should have recognized Chemosh’s undead disciples at once. If he’d been paying attention, he would have noted that the two men—those he had hoped had been set by the god to save Rhys—coming down the road weren’t men at all. There was no comforting glow about them, no life light burning inside them. They were nothing but lumps in the night. Atta knew. Her bark had been a warning, not a welcome. Now she stood quivering by his side, growling, her teeth barred.
The two Beloved halted. They stared at Nightshade with their empty eyes, and he began to feel uneasy. He didn’t know quite why, though he did sort of remember hearing something from Gerard about someone’s husband being hacked to bits. But he’d been thinking of what was for dinner at the time and hadn’t been paying attention.
The Beloved he’d met previously had all been pretty docile, so long as they weren’t trying to seduce a person, and thus far no human—Beloved or not—had ever tried to seduce Nightshade (not counting that floozy in an alley in Palanthas, and she’d been extremely drunk at the time).
Still, Nightshade didn’t like the way these two were looking at him. Most of the Beloved didn’t bother to stare at him. Most simply ignored him, and he’d come to prefer it that way.
“Sorry, fellows,” said Nightshade, giving them a wave. “My mistake. I thought you were someone else. Someone alive,” he muttered beneath his breath.
Amber and Iron Page 27
