Jeff Grubb: Lord Toede

"What is it that gives creatures like that such power?" asked the short observer, almost in admiration.

"The power of Good," snarled his tall companion. "Four minutes. Ah, she's finally here. It's over now."

The short abishai followed his cohort's sharper eyes to the blossom of crimson on the horizon. "Keep counting," he said grimly.

By the count of ten the blossom had congealed into a great flying creature, the form of a hell-maiden in full regalia. Her flesh was shining silver, polished with the blood of her enemies, and seemed to merge with her flame-mirrored armor. She held in one clawlike hand an ebony blade of a shade so dark it hurt the eyes to behold it. Her crimson hair swept backward away from he/ face as she dove upon the battling paladin, a banshee scream on her lips. She was the most beautiful and frightening creature of the Abyss.

"Judith," said the Castellan, suppressing a shudder. Judith was among the Keepers of the Peace, the strong arms of Takhisis in the Abyssal Planes. She was also nominally the watching abishai's immediate superior. Both creatures shrunk back into the rocks, even though Judith's attention was fixed on the interloper.

The paladin looked up, cued to his peril only by the dark hordes themselves pulling back with Judith's arrival. A timely duck kept his head on his shoulders as the black blade, trailing ebony flames, passed through the air where his neck had been only seconds before.

Judith circled again, and the paladin began to glow more strongly, more intensely.

The Hell-maiden swung her great black blade over her head with both hands as she dived. The paladin raised his sword of glowing crystal to catch the blow and turn it aside. The blades met…

… and the paladin's sword shattered into a million fragments. Judith swooped low over the land in a banking dive and turned to make another pass. The paladin staggered, his own blood now mixing with the darker hues on his punctured armor. He looked up with dull, fearful eyes as Judith returned a third time, sweeping her sword in a broad stroke aimed at the top his helmet. The Castellan saw the paladin reach for his throat and…

… the blade passed through his body just as the paladin became misty as a fog bank fading in the dawn. Judith stood where the paladin moments before had withstood the armies of the Abyss and howled in rage. The ground thundered at her shout. There was another blossom of crimson, then she, too, was gone.

"Rather fled than dead, it seems," said the Castellan. 'Time?"

"Two tics short I'm afraid," said the Abbot, holding up eight of ten fingers.

"You counted slow," pouted the short one. "If I did, you failed to notice," said the tall one with a smile. "So it matters not. Come on, Judith's going to be haring after that paladin for a little while more. We might as well clear the scene."

The two descended from their low hillock, toward the Castellan's crypts and away from the ruins of the battlefield. Already the scavengers of the Abyss were crawling from their burrows, unconcerned about the allegiance and alignment of their meals. The Abbot had no love of such feeding frenzies and lengthened his strides. The more portly abishai had to puff and scurry to keep up.

"Why do they do it?" asked the Castellan, panting. "Why storm the Abyss?"

His taller companion sighed and slowed only for a moment. "Because they see themselves as Good and us as Evil. We're opposites, so we gravitate toward each other." "Then what is Good?" continued the Castellan. "Our opposite," said the other, then stopped, as if turning his attention fully to the question. "But I think I see your point. You don't see us storming Paladine's castle on a regular basis. Shouldn't the question rather be 'What is it about Good that causes those possessing it to act in such \ a foolish fashion?' There is probably something in the very nature of goodness that inflicts such blind stupidity." "Stupidity and more," said the shorter creature. "There is a tangy taste to their souls. You can feel it when they die: an electrification of the air, an exhilaration of the soul, a nobility of the spirit…" His voice died off as he realized his companion was now staring at him.

"A nobility of the spirit," said the Abbot of Misrule, a small smile flickering across his face. "Then isn't our question not 'What is good?' but 'What is nobility?' "

"Perhaps it is," said the Castellan, and set off again, passing the first crypts of the area under his care.

"Or perhaps not," the Abbot said. His shorter companion could hear the shrug in his voice. "There is goodness in nobility and nobility in goodness. You cannot separate the two."

"I disagree," said the Castellan. "You should be able to have one without the other. I'm almost sure of that."

"Hmmm," said the Abbot as they reached the heated brass doors of the shorter abishai's domain. "Do I hear another wager being made?"

"It's just an idea, an experiment, if you will," said the Castellan, thinking (briefly) of how Judith would react to all this spurious betting by her subordinates. "But since you bring it up, we could make it… interesting with a bet of some sort."

"Not just a cup of sainf s blood for an… experiment… of such magnitude," the Abbot cautioned.

"Well, I have long lusted after your freedom in the living world, advising the great and near-great. Badly, it is true, but still, such freedom." The Castellan sighed despite himself.

"And I have always envied your vaunted position as guardian of the most damned among the damned, the creme de la creme in a manner of speaking," the taller abishai replied, grinning. "But that is the fate of eternal damnation: You don't get what you want. What would the nature of this 'experiment' be?"

The Castellan swung his crypt door open to reveal steps made of burning anthracite. Without a second thought, he started down them, while his companion gingerly picked his way down among the cooler spots. "We discover if one can be noble without being Good," said the portly abishai, rubbing his leathery palms together. "I have entrusted to me the worst of the worst, hated creatures condemned for five or six eternities. We take one, restore him to life, and send him to Krynn with the command 'live nobly.' And we see if he pulls it off."

By this time the pair had reached the bottom level of the crypt, where the worst of the worst were kept. The shelves

were made of brass and glowed from the heat of the burning floor. Stacked upon each shelf, almost filling the room, were jars made of iron, white gold, and heavily leaded glass. There was the low moaning of the tormented within the room, and the smoky glass would often clear enough to reveal a mortal face, screaming in pain.

The Abbot's foot crunched on a broken shard. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. On it, in burning gold script, was the single word: RAISTLIN.

"Have you tried this before?" asked the Abbot, turning the glass over.

The Castellan shook his head. "There are always a few who slip through the net, for one reason or another. I have a bottle for Lord Soth, but it was never filled." He gave a heavy shrug, then motioned to the remainder. "But we have such a variety to choose from: murderers, maniacs, deluded priests, petty officials. Pick one, and we'll see what happens."

The Abbot of Misrule raised a taloned hand to his lips, his eyes locked on one shelf of bottles. "Let me understand this clearly. I say that nobility cannot exist without goodness. You say that you can be one without being the other."

"That is the supposition of the experiment."

'The winner gets the loser's position, power, and portfolio for… say… a year of Krynn's time?" "That is a fair wager."

The Abbot nodded. "I get to choose the sinner we try to redeem?"

The Castellan held out both palms in agreement. "Done," he said.