He thought back to the conversation that had taken place in the prison cell just moments before he’d so unexpectedly set off on this journey.
Majesty, Nightshade and I require your help if we are to survive this encounter with this death knight. You promised me you would grant me your holy power.
I changed my mind, monk. I have thought it over. What you ask is too dangerous for my son. If you fail, Ariakan will still be in Chemosh’s possession. If he even suspected that I helped you, he would retaliate against my poor son.
Mistress, without your aid, we cannot proceed.
Bah! Your plan is a good one, as good as any plan could he, given the circumstances. You might succeed. If you do, you have nothing to worry about. If not, death won’t matter to you. Because of your sacrifice, you will be assured of a peaceful afterlife. Majere could hardly deny you that, whereas my poor son—
Majesty—
It was then that Zeboim had ended the argument.
Now he stood on Storm’s Keep, forced to face a death knight with only his staff for a weapon and a miniature kender for a companion, with no god to give him aid. Gazing out at the sullen waves and the empty, darkening sky, Rhys gripped his staff, which had been a sorrowful last gift from Majere, and said a prayer. He did not know to whom he was praying, if anyone—perhaps to the sea, perhaps to the endless sky. He asked for no spells, no holy magic, no godly powers. Useless to ask. No one would answer.
“Give me strength,” he prayed, and with that, he started to walk toward the fortress to find the death knight.
He had taken only a few steps when a shadow fell over him from behind. The shadow was cold as despair, dark as fear. He could hear, behind him, the creak of leather and the rattle of armor and the sound of breathing, which was not the sound of the living breathing, but the hissing, rasping sound of the undead trying to remember what it was to breathe. The stench of decay, of death, filled his nose and mouth. Between the stench and the horror, he was so sickened that for a moment he feared he might pass out.
Rhys gripped his staff hard. His spiritual self went forth to do battle. Fear was the death knight’s most potent weapon. He had to defeat fear or fall where he stood. His spirit fought with the fear, soul seeking to overcome the weakness inherent to flesh. The struggle was brief, sharp. Rhys had trained for this all his days in the monastery. He could not call upon Majere to aid him, but he could call upon the lessons of Majere. Spirit won. His soul triumphed. The sick feeling passed. The hot prickling sensation in his limbs eased, though his hand clutching the staff had gone numb.
Master of himself, he maintained that mastery and turned with unhurried calm to look fear in the face.
At the sight of the death knight, Rhys’s resolve came close to crumbling. Krell stood near Rhys, looming over him. Looking into the eye slits of the helm, Rhys saw the accursed light of undeath, light that was as fierce and fiery as the sun, yet could not illuminate the darkness of the being trapped inside the bloodstained armor. Rhys steeled himself to look past the flaring light at that being.
It was not daunting. It was mean and shriveled.
Krell’s small red eyes peered at Rhys. “Before I kill you, Mantis Monk, I will give you a chance to tell me what you’re doing on my island. Your explanation should be amusing.”
“You are mistaken, sir. I am not a monk of Majere. I came to speak for Zeboim, to negotiate for the soul of her son.”
“You’re dressed like a monk,” Krell leered, sneering.
“Appearances can be deceiving,” Rhys returned. “You, sir, are dressed like a knight.”
Krell glared. He had the feeling he’d been insulted, but he wasn’t sure. “Never mind. I’ll have the last laugh, monk. Days of laughter, so long as you don’t up and die on me too soon, like so many of the bastards.”
Krell rocked back on his heels, rocked forward, his hands hooked through his belt.
“Zeboim wants to negotiate, does she? Very well. Here are my terms, monk: you will entertain me as do all my `guests’ by playing khas with me. If, by chance, you beat me, I will reward you by cutting your throat.” He added, just in case Rhys did not understand, “Killing you swiftly, you see.”
Rhys nodded, kept a tight grip on the staff. So far, so good. All was going as planned.
“If you do not beat me—and I warn you that I am an expert player—I will give you another chance. I am not such a bad fellow, after all. I’ll give you chance after chance to beat me. We will play one game after another after another.”
Krell made a motion with his gloved hand. “The game board is set up in the library. A rather long walk, but at least you can enjoy this unusually pleasant weather we’re experiencing. You might want to take a good last look at the sunset.”
Krell chuckled, a hideous sound, his amusement echoing hollowly in the empty armor. He stomped off, gleefully rubbing his hands in anticipation of the game. Half-way across the courtyard, he came to a halt, turned to face Rhys.
“Did I mention that for every khas piece you lose, monk, I will break one of your bones?” Krell laughed outright. “I start with the small bones—fingers and toes. Then I will break your ribs, one by one. After that maybe a collar bone, a wrist or an elbow. Then I start on the legs—a shin bone, thigh bone, pelvis. I leave your spine until the end. By that time, you’ll be begging me to slay you. I told you I find this game entertaining! I’m going off to set up the board now. Don’t keep me waiting. I do so long to hear what Zeboim has to offer me in exchange for her son.”
The death knight strode off. Rhys stood unmoving, gazing after him.
“Oh, Rhys!” Nightshade cried, appalled.
“Not so loud. How good a khas player are you?” Rhys asked quietly.
“Not that good,” Nightshade answered, his voice quavering. “We’ll be forced to give up pieces, Rhys. It’s the only way to play the game. I’m sorry. I’ll try to find Ariakan quickly.”
“Just do the best you can, my friend,” said Rhys, and gripping his staff, he started walking toward the tower.
9
Krell rose from his seat as Rhys entered the library. Bowing with a mocking show of polite welcome, the death knight ushered Rhys to a chair placed near a small table on which the khas board was all arranged. The room was chill and oppressive and smelled of rotting flesh. Krell irritably kicked aside several bones that littered the floor.
“Excuse the mess. Former khas players,” he said to Rhys.
Leg bones, arm bones, collar bones, fingers and toes, skulls—all cracked or shattered, some in several places. Krell casually trod a few underfoot, crushing them to dust.
He settled his ponderous armored body in his chair and indicated with another wave that Rhys was to sit down. The round khas board stood in between the two players; the shrunken bodies that were the khas pieces stood on the black and white and red hexes, two opposing armies facing each other across a checkered battlefield.
Seating himself, Rhys appeared to have lost his nerve. His customary calm deserted him. He was shivering, his hands shaking so that the staff slipped from his sweaty palms and fell to the floor. He sought to remove the scrip from his belt and dropped it as well. Rhys bent to pick up the scrip.
“Leave it,” Krell growled. “Get on with the game.”
Rhys mopped sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his robe. As he sank, trembling, into his seat, his knee jerked, striking the khas board and upending it. The board fell off its stand. The pieces slid to the floor and scattered in all directions.
“You clumsy oaf!” Krell snarled. The death knight leaned down to pick up the khas pieces, going after one in particular that he snatched up hurriedly.