All that had changed. With Takhisis gone, Sargonnas had gained power for himself and his people. His minotaurs had raided the ancient elven homeland of Silvanesti, driven out the elves, and taken over that lush land. The minotaur empire was now a force to reckoned with. Minotaur ships ruled the oceans. The Solamnic Knights were said to be negotiating treaties with the minotaur emperor. Sargonnas had built a grand (if ostentatious) temple to himself in Solace, constructing the temple of stone shipped at great expense from the minotaur isles. His minotaur priests walked the streets of Solace and every other major city in Ansalon. Vengeance had become fashionable in certain circles. Chemosh watched the horned god’s rise in jealous envy.
Thus far, the balance had not yet been disturbed. Kiri-Jolith, the god of Just War, proved an excellent counterpoint to Sargonnas. Minotaur warriors who valued honor prayed to Kiri-Jolith as well as to Sargonnas and saw no conflict in this. The priests of Mishakal, working with the mystics of the Citadel of Light, were spreading the belief that love and compassion, the values of the heart, could help ease the world’s problems. The Aesthetics of Gilean were advocating and promoting education, claiming that ignorance and superstition were the tools of darkness.
Not to be outdone by his fellow gods, Chemosh ordered a temple built in Solace, constructing it of black marble. The temple was small, especially compared to that of Sargonnas, but it was far more elegant. True, not many people dared venture inside and those who did departed rapidly. The temple’s interior was shadowy and dark and smelled heavily of incense that could not quite mask the foul odor of decay. His priests were a strange lot, more comfortable around the dead than the living. Still, Chemosh’s temple in Solace was a start and as all men must eventually come to stand before the Lord of Death, many deemed it wise to pay him at least a courtesy call and leave a small offering.
Because of this new image, Chemosh could not allow Krell and his Bone Warriors to be seen rattling through the streets of Solace abducting small children. Another riot, larger than the first, would serve as a diversion and cover Krell’s attack. Krell had to move fast, for neither he nor Chemosh knew when Mina might take it into her head to depart. One of their spies reported that Mina was staying at the Inn along with the monk. The spy overheard Rhys and Nightshade talking and confirmed that Rhys was planning a visit to the Temple of Majere, and that the kender and the little girl were to join him there.
Krell had been thinking he might have to stage an attack on the Inn (in which case another riot in Temple Row would draw off Gerard and his forces), and he was pleased when he heard this news. He could snatch Mina and kill Rhys Mason at the same time. Krell had no fear of Majere’s peace-loving priests, who went out of their way to avoid a fight, even to the point of refusing to carry weapons.
Krell was pleased with his new Bone Warriors. He had not yet seen them in action, but they looked to be formidable foes. All three of them were dead, which gave them a distinct advantage over the living. They had been hand-picked by Chemosh, who chose them from the souls who came before him, and all were trained fighters. One was an elven warrior who had died in battle against the minotaurs and whose bitter hatred of minotaurs kept his soul bound to this world. One was a human assassin from Sanction whose soul was drenched in blood, and the third was a hobgoblin chieftain who had been slain by his own tribe and who now thirsted for revenge.
Chemosh animated the bodies of the three, preserving the flesh and bone, then turning them inside out, so that their skeletons, like a ghastly semblance of armor, protected the rotting flesh. Sharp bony spikes and protrusions extending from the skeletons could be used as weapons.
Having learned his lesson with the Beloved, Chemosh made certain that the Bone Warriors were bound to him and would obey his commands, or the commands of Krell, or anyone chosen to lead them. Chemosh wanted his Bone Warriors to be intimidating, but he didn’t want them to be indestructible. They could be slain, though it would take powerful magicks or blessed weapons to do it.
The Bone Warriors had one flaw Chemosh had not been able to overcome. They had such hatred for the living that if their leader lost his hold on them, the Bone Warriors would rage out of control, venting their fury on any living being that fell into their clutches, be that person friend or foe. Chemosh’s clerics might find themselves battling their god’s unholy creation. A small price to pay, however.
“The monk, Rhys Mason, has entered the Temple of Majere,” Krell reported to his group.
He and his Bone Warriors were safely ensconced in a secret underground chamber located beneath the Temple. Here Chemosh’s clerics performed the less savory rites, those meant to be witnessed by only his most loyal and dedicated followers. The chamber was dark except for the light of a single blood red candle placed on the altar. No stolen corpses were here at the moment, though a discarded winding cloth and a burial shroud had been stashed in a corner.
The priestess of Chemosh was on hand, much to Krell’s annoyance. He was convinced that Chemosh had placed her here to spy on him, and in this Krell was right. Chemosh trusted no one these days. Krell had tried a few times to get rid of the woman, but she persisted in staying and, not only that, she felt free to voice her opinion.
“We have now only to wait for Mina to arrive,” Krell continued. “When I give the order, we attack the temple of Sargonnas, though we will make it appear as though his priests have attacked us.”
Krell pointed to the three Bone Warriors. “Your task will be to keep the sheriff’s men busy, and any others who seek to intervene, such as the foul paladins of Kiri-Jolith. I will snatch Mina and kill the monk.”
The Bone Warriors shrugged their bone-armored shoulders. They had no care who or what they fought. All they sought was a chance to take out their undying rage on the living.
Having said all that was necessary, Krell was about to rise when the priestess spoke.
“You are making a mistake allowing Mina to enter the Temple of Majere. You should capture her before she sets foot on the grounds. Otherwise, Majere’s priests will defend her.”
Krell bristled. “And since when should I fear a bunch of monks? What are they going to do to me? Kick me with their bare feet? Maybe hit me with a stick?” He chortled and thumped the heavy bone armor that covered his body.
“Do not underestimate Majere, Krell,” the priestess cautioned. “His priests are more powerful than you think.”
Krell snorted.
“At least take me with you,” the priestess urged. “I can deal with the monk while you kidnap the child-”
“I go alone!” Krell stated angrily. “Those are my orders. Besides, my fight with the monk is personal.”
Rhys Mason had given Krell no end of trouble, starting from the day Zeboim had dropped the monk down on Storm’s Keep. The monk had made Krell look bad in the eyes of his master, and Krell had long dreamed of the time he would have him at his mercy. Still, Krell would have been just as happy to slay Rhys in the middle of a crowded marketplace as in a temple, but there was another consideration.
Chemosh had given Krell specific instructions to search the monk’s body and bring to him any objects the monk might be carrying. Krell had asked point blank what Chemosh was looking for. The god had been evasive. Krell guessed the monk was carrying something valuable.
Krell tried to imagine what such an object might be-treasure valuable to a god-and at last he decided it must jewels. Chemosh probably wanted to give them to Mina.
“And why should she have them and not me?” Krell asked himself. “I do all my master’s dirty work, and small thanks I get for it. Nothing but insults. He won’t even make me a death knight again. If I have to be a living man, I’ll be a rich living man. I’ll keep the jewels for myself.”
This being Krell’s decision, he couldn’t allow anyone-such as this high and mighty priestess-to witness the monk’s death. A nice, quiet place like a temple was the perfect location for the murder. Krell had already planned what he would do with his money. He would return
to Storm’s Keep. Although Krell had never thought he would say this, he had come to miss the place where he had spent so many happy undead years. He would restore Storm’s Keep to its former glory, hire some thugs to guard it, and spend his days terrorizing the northern coast of Ansalon.
“Krell? Are you listening to me?” the priestess demanded.
“No,” said Krell sullenly.
“What I was saying is important. If this Mina is a god as Chemosh claims, how do you plan to carry her off? It seems to me,” the priestess added acerbically, “that she would be more likely to carry you off-or perhaps merely suspend you from the ceiling.”
The priestess was in her forties, tall for a woman and excessively thin. She had a gaunt face, protuberant eyes, and almost no lips, and she was not the least impressed with Ausric Krell.
“If His Lordship wanted you to know his plans, he would have told you, Madame,” Krell answered with a sneer.
“His Lordship did tell me,” replied the priestess coolly. “His Lordship told me to ask you. Perhaps I should remind you that you are counting upon my priests and followers risking their lives to assist you in this endeavor. I need to be apprised of what you have planned.”
If Krell had been a death knight, he would have snapped her scrawny dried-up neck like a scrawny dried-up twig. He wasn’t a death knight anymore, however, and she had been one of Chemosh’s first converts. Her unholy powers were formidable.
“If you must know, I am to use these on Mina,” Krell stated, and he revealed two small balls made of iron crisscrossed by golden bands. “These are magic. I’m to throw one of these at her. When the ball hits her, the gold bands will detach and bind her arms to her side’s. She’ll be helpless. I’ll pick her up and carry her off.”
The priestess laughed-screeching laughter that was like skeletal fingers clawing slate.
“This girl is a god, Krell!” said the priestess, when she could speak. Her lipless mouth twitched. “Magic will have no effect on her. You might as well bind her arms with daisy chains!”
“A fat lot you know about it,” Krell returned angrily. “This Mina doesn’t know she’s a god. According to Nuitari, if Mina sees someone casting a magic spell on her, she falls victim to it.”
“You’re saying she is subject to the power of suggestion?” the priestess asked skeptically.
Krell wasn’t certain he was saying that or not, since he had no clue what she meant.
“All I know is that my lord Chemosh said this would work,” Krell replied in sullen tones. “If you want, you can take it up with him.”
The priestess glared at Krell, then she rose haughtily and stalked out of the chamber. Shortly after that, the spy sent a message to the temple to report that Mina, accompanied by a kender and a dog, was in Temple Row.
“Time to move into position,” said Krell.
5
Rhys recounted his story to the Abbot from the beginning, starting when his poor brother had come to the monastery, and continuing to the end, telling how Mina had brought them from Flotsam to Solace in a day. Rhys kept his gaze on the sunlight flickering in the distant vallenwood tree and told his tale simply, without embellishment. He freely confessed his own faults, passed lightly over his trials, and emphasized Nightshade’s friendship, help, and loyalty. He told all he knew about Mina.
The Abbot listened to the monk’s story without interruption, remaining relaxed and composed. Every so often he touched his fingers to the scar on the back of his hand and sometimes, especially when Rhys spoke of Nightshade, the Abbot smiled.
At length Rhys came, with a sigh, to the end. He bowed his head. He felt limp and wrung out, as though he had been drained.
At length, the Abbot stirred and spoke, “Yours is a wondrous tale, Brother Rhys Mason. I must confess I would find it hard to believe, if I had not been a part of it.” He passed his hand again over the scar. “Praise Majere for his wisdom.”
“Praise Majere,” Rhys repeated softly.
“And so, Brother,” said the Abbot, “you have made a promise to take this god-child to Godshome.”
“Yes, Holiness, and I am at a loss. I do not know how to find Gods-home. I do not even know where to begin to look, except that according to legend it is located somewhere in the Khalkist mountains.”
“Have you considered the possibility that perhaps Godshome does not exist at all?” the Abbot suggested. “Some think Godshome is symbolic of the end of the spiritual journey each mortal takes when he first opens his eyes to the light of the world.”
“Do you believe that, Holiness?” Rhys asked, troubled. “If that is true, what am I to do? The gods are vying for Mina, each wanting to claim her for his or her own. I have been accosted by Chemosh and Zeboim. The sheriff told me about the riot this morning in Temple Row. The strife in Heaven falls like poisonous rain onto the earth. We could become embroiled in another War of Souls.”
“Is that the reason you risk your life and travel far to take her to a place that may not even exist, Brother?”
The Abbot did not give Rhys time to answer, but followed up that question with another. “Why do you think the god-child came to you?”
The question startled Rhys. He was silent for a moment, reflecting on it. At last he said, “Perhaps because I also know what it feels like to be lost and alone and wandering in the darkness of an endless night. Although,” Rhys added ruefully, “it seems all that Mina has gained by coming to me is that the two of us are lost and wandering together.”
The Abbot smiled. “That may not seem like much, but it could be everything. And in answer to your question, Brother, I do believe Godshome is a real place, a place mortal beings can visit. I have read the account of Tanis Half-elven, one of the Heroes of the Lance. He and his companions visited Godshome, though as I recall, he states that he does not remember how they found the place, nor does he think he could ever find it again. He and his friends were led there by a wizard named Fizban who was, in truth, Paladine-”
The Abbot’s voice trailed off as a sudden thought occurred to him.
“Paladine…” he murmured.
“You are thinking of Valthonis,” said Rhys, hope rising in him. “Do you believe he might know the way, Holiness?”
“When Paladine sacrificed himself to maintain the balance, he took on the heavy burden of mortality,” the Abbot replied. “He no longer has godly powers. His mind is that of a mortal, yet he is a mortal who was once a god and that makes him wiser than most of us. If there is anyone on Krynn who might be able to guide you and Mina to Gods-home, yes, it would be the Walking God.”
“Valthonis is known as the Walking God because he is never stays in one place for long. Who knows where he is to be found?”
“As a matter of fact,” said the Abbot, “I do. Several of our priests have chosen to travel with Valthonis, as do many others. When our brothers chance to meet any of our Order, they send reports back to me. I heard from one only last week, saying Valthonis and his followers were on their way to Neraka.”
Rhys stood up, energized, renewed. “Thank you, Holiness. I am not sure I should be encouraging Mina to use her miraculous powers, but in this instance I believe I could make an exception. We could be in Neraka by nightfall-”
“You are still a very impetuous man, Brother Rhys,” the Abbot remarked with gentle reproof. “Have you forgotten your history lesson of the War of Souls, Brother?”
This was the second time Rhys had been asked about history lessons. He couldn’t think what the Abbot meant.
“I am afraid I do not understand, Holiness…”
“At the end of the War, when the gods had recovered the world and discovered Takhisis’ great crime, they judged that she should be made mortal. To maintain the balance, in order that the Gods of Light would equal the number of Gods of Darkness, Paladine sacrificed himself, became mortal as well. As he looked on, the elf Silvanoshei killed Takhisis. She died in Mina’s arms, and Mina blamed Paladine for the downfall of her Queen. Holding the body
of her queen, Mina vowed to kill Valthonis.”
Rhys sank back down into the chair, his hopes dashed. “You are right, Holiness. I had forgotten.”
“The Walking God has elven warriors to protect him,” the Abbot suggested.
“Mina could kill an army with a stamp of her foot,” said Rhys. “This is bitter irony! The one person who can give Mina what she most wants in this world is the one person in this world she has sworn to kill.”
“You say that in the form of a child she does not seem to remember her past. She did not recognize the Lord of Death. Perhaps she would not recognize Valthonis.”
“Perhaps,” said Rhys. He was thinking of the tower, of the Beloved, and how Mina, forced to confront them, had been forced to confront herself. “The question is: do we risk the life of Valthonis on the chance that she might not remember him?
“From all I have heard, Valthonis is honored and loved wherever he goes. He has done much good in the world. He has negotiated peace between nations who were at war. He has given hope to those in despair. Though his countenance is no longer the radiant brilliance of the god’s, he yet brings light to mankind’s darkness. Do we risk destroying a person of such value?”
“Mina is the child of the Gods of Light,” said the Abbot, “born in joy at the moment of creation. Now she is lost and frightened. Would not any parent be glad to find his lost child and bring her home, even though her recovery came at the cost of his own life? There is a risk, Brother, but I believe it is one that Valthonis would be willing to take.”
Rhys shook his head. He was not certain. There was a chance he could find Godshome on his own. Others had done so. True, Tanis Half-elven had been traveling in the company of a god, but, then, so was Rhys.
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