Rhys sprang sideways, twisting his body. The sword sliced the air where he had been standing.
Lieu’s wild lunge carried him halfway across the clearing. Rhys smacked Lucy in the face with the emmide. The blow smashed her nose, spread it all over her face. A thin trail of blood trickled from the wound, but not the gushing torrent that should have flowed from such an injury. She cried out, more in anger than in pain, and staggered backward.
Rhys shifted about to face Lieu in time to see his brother run at him again, sword in one hand, knife in the other.
Rhys struck the sword with his staff, broke it in two. Twirling the staff rapidly so that it looked like a windmill in a high gale, he brought it down hard on Lieu’s wrist, heard the snap of bone. Lleu dropped the knife. Rhys remembered clearly the last time he’d struck Lleu, he’d also cried out in pain. Lleu did not cry out now, did not even appear to notice the fact that his hand no longer functioned.
Weaponless, Lleu flung himself at his brother, grappling for his throat with one good hand, flailing at him with his broken hand, using it as a club.
His soul sick with horror, Rhys side-stepped. Lleu lurched past him, and as he went, Rhys kicked his feet out from underneath him. Lleu fell onto his stomach.
Standing over his fallen brother, Rhys drove the butt end of the staff with all his strength into Lieu’s spinal column, separating the vertebrae, smashing through to the spinal cord, severing it.
Rhys fell back, on the defensive, watching his brother.
“My mystic spell didn’t work!” Nightshade panted, running toward him. “I’ve cast that spell a hundred zillion times and it always stops undead. Usually bowls ‘em over like nine pins. It didn’t even faze your brother.”
Lieu grimaced, as if he’d stubbed his toe, then, slowly, as though putting himself back together, he started to regain his feet. He rubbed his back, arching it.
“If you want my opinion, Rhys,” the kender added, gasping for breath, “you can’t do anything to kill them. Now would be a good time to run away!”
Rhys didn’t answer. He was watching Lleu.
“Right now!” Nightshade urged, tugging on Rhys’s sleeve.
“I told you before, Rhys,” said Lleu. He reached down to his maimed hand, grabbed the wrist and snapped it back in place. “I am one of the Beloved of Chemosh. I have his gift. Life unending . .”
“I am also Beloved of Chemosh,” said Lucy. She appeared oblivious to the fact that her nose was mangled and bloodied. “I have his gift. Life unending. You can have it, too, Rhys. Give yourself to Chemosh.”
The two corpses advanced on him, their eyes alight, not with life, but with the desperate need to take life.
Bile filled Rhys’s mouth. His stomach clenched. He turned and fled, running through the forest, crashing into tree limbs, plunging headlong into weed patches. He stopped to be sick, and then he ran again, ran from the mocking laughter that danced among the trees, ran from the body of the girl in his arms, ran from the bodies in the mass grave at the monastery. He ran blindly, heedlessly, ran until he had no more strength and he fell to the ground, gasping and sobbing. He was sick again and again, even when there was nothing left to purge, and then he heaved up blood. At last, exhausted, he rolled over on his back and lay there, his body clenched and shaking.
Here Nightshade found him.
Although the kender had recommended running away, he hadn’t been prepared for Rhys to act on his advice in quite such a sudden manner. Caught off guard, Nightshade made a slow start. The hungry eyes of the two Beloved of Chemosh turning in his direction put an extra spring in the kender’s step. He couldn’t see Rhys, but he could hear him tearing and slashing his way through the forest. Kender have excellent night vision, much better than humans, and Nightshade soon came across Rhys, lying on the forest floor, eyes closed, breathing labored.
“Now don’t you go dying on me,” the kender ordered, squatting down beside his friend.
He laid his hand on Rhys’s forehead and felt it warm. His breathing was harsh and rasping from his raw throat, but strong. Nightshade recited a little singsong chant he’d learned from his parents and stroked the monk’s hair soothingly, much the way the kender petted Atta.
Rhys sighed deeply. His body relaxed. He opened his eyes and, seeing Nightshade bending over him, gave a wan smile.
“How are you feeling?” Nightshade asked anxiously.
“Much better,” Rhys said. His stomach had ceased to churn, his raw throat felt warm and soothed, as if he’d drunk a honey posset. “You have hidden talents, seemingly.”
“Just a little healing spell I picked up from my parents,” Nightshade replied modestly. “It comes in handy sometimes—mending broken bones and stopping bleeding and making fevers go away. I can’t do anything major, not like bringing back the dead—” He gulped, bit his lip. “Oops. Sorry. Didn’t mean to mention that.”
Rhys rose swiftly to his feet. “How long was I unconscious?”
“Not long. You might have waited for me, you know?”
“I wasn’t thinking,” Rhys said softly. “I couldn’t think of anything except how horrible—” He shook his head. “Are they coming after us?”
Nightshade glanced back over his shoulder. “I don’t know. I guess not. I don’t hear them, do you?”
Rhys shook his head. “I wish I could.”
“You want them to chase after us? They want to kill us! Give us to Chemosh!”
“Yes, I know. But if they were coming after us, it would mean that they fear us. As it is–” He shrugged. “They don’t care what happens to us. That’s disturbing.”
“I see,” said Nightshade solemnly. “They know there’s nothing we can do to stop them. And they’re right. My magic had no effect on them. And that’s never happened to me before. Well, not since I was a little kender and just starting out. Maybe if we had a holy weapon—”
“The emmide is a holy weapon blessed by the god. Majere gave it to me, a parting gift.” Rhys tightened his grip on the staff. He could see Atta prancing with it in her mouth and he felt a momentary warmth in the midst of the chill darkness. “Even though the wielder of the staff may not be blessed by Majere, the weapon is. And you as you saw, it could not slay my brother or even slow him down much. As Lleu said, he’s not afraid that we might tell someone that he is a murderer. Who would believe us?”
“I guess you’re right,” said Nightshade. “I never thought about it that way. So what do we do?”
“I don’t know. I can’t think rationally anymore.” Rhys looked around. “I have no idea where we are or how to get back to the Inn. Do you?”
“Not much,” said Nightshade cheerfully. “But I see lights over in that direction. Don’t you?”
“No, but then I do not have a kender’s eyes.” Rhys put his hand on Nightshade’s shoulder. “You lead the way. Thank you for your help, my friend.”
“You’re welcome,” said Nightshade. He sounded dispirited, though, not his usual cheerful self. He started walking, but he wasn’t watching where he was going and he almost immediately stepped into a hole.
“Ouch,” he said and rubbed his ankle.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“What’s the matter?”
“There’s something I need to tell you, Rhys.”
“Yes, what is it?”
“You’re not going to like it,” Nightshade warned.
Rhys sighed. “Can it wait until morning?
“I suppose it could. Except … well, it might be important.” “Go ahead then.”
“I saw more people like your brother and Lucy. I mean, like those things that used to be your brother and Lucy. I saw them today, in Solace.”