Margaret Weis - Amber and Blood

What did he see when he looked at her? What made her different in his sight from other mortals? What made her different from the dead he could see and talk to? What made her different from the undead? Nightshade looked intently at the child, and tears again flooded his eyes. He saw beauty, unimaginable beauty. Beauty that shamed the most radiant, glorious sunrise and made the glittering stars seem pale and plain in comparison. Her beauty made his very soul stand still in awe, for fear the slightest whisper might cause the wondrous sight to slip away from him. But it wasn’t her beauty that wrenched his heart and caused the tears to roll down his cheeks.

Her beauty was clothed in ugliness. She was smeared with blood, cloaked in the shroud of death and destruction. Evil, dread and horrible, was a pall over her.

“She is a god,” he said under his breath. “A god of light who’s done really horrible things. I’ve known it all along. I just didn’t know I knew it. That’s what made me feel all weepy inside.”

Nightshade didn’t think he could explain this to Rhys, because he wasn’t sure he could explain it to himself. He decided to talk it all over with Atta. He’d found that telling things to a dog was a lot easier than telling things to humans, mainly because Atta never asked questions.

But when he turned around to discuss Mina with Atta, he saw that the dog had rolled onto her side and was deep in slumber.

Nightshade slumped against the wall beside Rhys. The kender was sitting there, thinking mind-boggling thoughts, and listening to Rhys’ soft breathing, and the girl’s soft breathing, and Atta’s soft breathing, and the wind’s soft breathing, sighing over the sand dunes, and the waves coming to shore and leaving the shore and coming back to the shore and leaving the shore…

Nightshade woke suddenly, jolted awake by Atta’s bark.

Atta was on her feet. Her legs were stiff, her hackles raised, and she was staring intently at the opening of the grotto. Nightshade could hear the sounds of crunching, as of heavy footfalls walking in their direction.

They were close and getting closer.

Atta gave another sharp, warning bark. Mina stirred at the sound and drew the cloth over her head and went back to sleep. The heavy crunching noise stopped. A shadow fell over the entrance, blotting out the sun.

“Monk! I know you’re in there.”

That voice was muffled, yet Nightshade had no trouble recognizing it.

“Krell!” he yelped. “Rhys, it’s Krell!”

Nightshade was as immune to fear as the next kender, but he was also blessed with a good deal more common sense than most kender; a fact which he attributed to spending a lot of his time conversing with the dead. And so, instead of rushing out to greet the death knight, as any other kender would have done, Nightshade scuttled backward on all fours and yelled again for Rhys.

“I am awake,” said Rhys calmly.

He was on his feet, the emmide in his hands.

“Atta, silence. Here.”

The dog trotted over to stand beside him. She no longer barked, though she continued to growl.

Krell swaggered into the grotto. He was no longer wearing the accursed armor of a death knight. His armor was that of death. His helm was a ram’s skull. The horns curled back from his head, and his eyes were visible inside the skull’s eye sockets. His breastplate was made of bone—the top part of the skull of some gigantic beast. His arms and legs were encased in bone, as if he wore his skeleton on the outside of his body. Bony spines protruded from his hands and elbows and shoulders, and he carried a sword with a bone hilt.

He was a formidable sight, yet the eyes that glared out from behind the ram’s skull did not burn with the terrifying fire of undeath. His eyes were dull and flat. He did not stink of death. He just stank; he was sweating under the weight of his armor. His breath rasped, for the armor was heavy, and he’d been forced to walk all the way from the castle.

Nightshade quit crawling and sat back on his heels.

“Krell, you’re alive!” said Nightshade, though he was not sure this was an improvement. “You’re not a death knight anymore.”

“Shut up!” Krell snarled. He looked searchingly around the grotto, glanced without interest at the sleeping child, glared at the kender, then turned back to Rhys. “I’ve come for Mina. In the name of my lord Chemosh, I demand to know where she is.”

“Not here,” said Nightshade promptly. “We don’t know where she is. We haven’t seen her, have we, Rhys?”

Rhys was silent.

Krell’s eyes narrowed. Though dimly lit, the grotto wasn’t very big and there were no nooks or crannies where someone could hide.

“Where’s Mina?” Krell asked again.

“You can see for yourself” said Nightshade loudly. “She’s not here.”

“Then where is she?” Krell demanded. He kept his gaze on Rhys. “Remember the last time we met, Monk? Remember what I did to you? I broke almost every bone in your hand. Now I won’t waste time breaking bones. I’ll just cut your hand off the wrist—”

Krell drew his sword and took a step toward Rhys.

“Atta, stop—” Rhys began, but he was too late.

Atta lunged at Krell and sank her teeth into his calf muscle, a part of his leg left unprotected by the bone shin-guards.

Krell howled in pain and, twisting around, he peered down at his leg. Blood oozed from two rows of tooth marks. He snarled in rage and tried to slash at the dog with his sword. As Atta leaped deftly out of the way, Rhys blocked Krell’s blow with his staff.

Krell snorted in derision and hacked at the staff with his blade, thinking to snap it. Rhys swiftly raised the staff and slammed it into Krell’s hand, knocking the sword from his grasp. Krell wrung his fingers and glared at Rhys, who had taken a step backward.

Krell bent down to retrieve his blade.

“Atta, guard,” said Rhys.

Atta crouched over the sword. Her lip curled back from her teeth, and she snapped viciously at Krell’s hand. He snatched it back, his fingers bloody.

“I think you should leave now,” Rhys said. “Tell your master that the Mina he seeks is not with me.”

“You’re a rotten liar, Monk!” Krell said. His breath from the skull helm was foul. “You know where she is and you’ll tell me. You’ll be begging to tell me! I don’t need a sword to kill you in any number of nasty ways.”

Rhys did not feel fear, as he had felt before in the presence of the death knight. He felt disgust, revulsion.

Krell was not driven to kill by a holy curse. Krell killed now for small, mean reasons. He killed because he reveled in the pain and fear of his victim, and because he liked holding the power of life and death in his grubby hands.

“Atta,” Rhys said calmly, “go to Nightshade.”

The kender grabbed hold of the growling dog and clamped his hand over her muzzle.

“Let Rhys handle this,” he whispered.

“I just have to say a word to Chemosh, Monk,” said Krell. “And he’ll flay the flesh from your bones, for starters—”

Rhys gripped his staff firmly, holding it upright before him, his hands clasped over it. He had no idea if this staff was blessed as had been his other staff. Perhaps it was. Perhaps not. He knew Majere stood with him. He could feel the god as a core of peace and calm and tranquility.

The gleam in Krell’s eyes turned ugly.

“You’ll tell me.”

He walked over to the girl, who had slept through the commotion, and reaching down, grabbed hold of the child by the hair and yanked her from her slumber.

Mina gasped and cried out. Wriggling in Krell’s grasp, she tried to free herself.

Krell gripped her tightly and put his huge hand to her throat.