Rhys could not get a good look at it, for Krell closed his gloved hand over it.
“You pick up the rest, monk,” Krell grunted. “And if any of those pieces are damaged, I’m going to break two of your bones for every piece you lose. Be quick about it.”
Rhys crawled on the floor, on his hands and knees, scrabbling to pick up the pieces, some of which had rolled to far parts of the room.
“There are twenty-seven bones in the human hand,” stated Krell, returning the pieces he’d picked up to the khas board. “I start with the forefinger of the right hand and work my way along. You missed a pawn, one of the kender. It’s over by the fire pit.”
Rhys picked up the last piece—a kender pawn—and placed it on the board.
“What are you doing, monk?” Krell demanded.
Rhys’s hand on the kender froze. He could feel Nightshade quivering beneath his fingers.
“Pawns don’t go there.” Krell said in disgust. “That hex is where you put the rook. The pawn goes here.”
“I am sorry,” Rhys said, and he moved Nightshade to the indicated hex. “I know very little about the game.”
Krell shook his head. “And here I was hoping you would live to entertain me for a week at least. Still,” the death knight added cheerfully, “there are twenty-six bones in the human foot. You’ll last at least a day or two. You have first move.”
Rhys resumed his seat. Placing his foot firmly on the kender pawn he’d switched out for Nightshade, he shoved the pawn beneath his chair.
Rhys took hold of Nightshade, who stood stiff and straight as the rest of the pawns, and advanced the kender one square. Then Rhys hesitated. He could not recall if he was supposed to move one square or two on his opening gambit. Nightshade apparently sensed his dilemma, for he gave a little wriggle. Rhys advanced him another square then sank back in his chair. The trembling and shaking had been an act, but the sweat on his brow was real. He mopped it again with the sleeve of his robe.
Krell advanced a goblin pawn two squares on the opposite side of the board.
“Your move, monk.”
Rhys looked at the board and tried hard to remember his lessons in khas, given to him by Nightshade the night before. They had a game plan in mind, the object being to move Nightshade close enough to the dark knight pieces so that he could find out which was Ariakan. Nightshade explained all the contingencies—what to move if Krell moved this, what to move if Krell moved that. Unfortunately, Rhys had proved a poor pupil.
“You have to think like a warrior, Rhys,” Nightshade had said to him at one point in exasperation, “not like a shepherd!” “I am a shepherd,” Rhys had returned, smiling.
“Well, stop thinking like one. You can’t protect all your pieces. You have to sacrifice some of them to win.”
“I don’t have to win,” Rhys had pointed out. “I just have to stay in the game long enough for you to accomplish your mission.”
What neither of them had counted on were broken bones.
Rhys put his hand on a pawn and glanced at Nightshade. The kender stiffened in his place, very slightly shook his head. Rhys lifted his hand off the piece.
“Hah, monk!” Krell rumbled, leaning forward with a rattle of armor. “You touched the piece. You have to move it.” Nightshade’s shoulders slumped. Rhys moved the pawn. He’d barely taken his hand off it before Krell swooped down. Seizing one of his pieces, he slid it across the board and knocked over Rhys’s pawn. Krell triumphantly moved the pawn to his side of the table.
“My turn again,” said Krell.
Rising up out of his chair, his small red eyes flaring with anticipation, the death knight seized hold of Rhys’s hand.
Rhys gasped and shuddered beneath the death knight’s touch, which seared his flesh with the white-hot hatred the accursed dead bear the living.
The monks of Majere are trained to withstand pain without complaint, using many disciplines, including one called Frost Fire. Through the use of consistent practice and mediation, the monk is able to completely banish minor pains, so that they are no longer felt, and can reduce debilitating pain to a level where the monk can continue to function. The “fire” is rimed with ice, the monk envisioning hoar-frost settling over the pain, so that it subsides beneath the freezing cold that numbs the affected part of the body.
Rhys had counted upon using this discipline to be able overcome the pain of the shattered bones, at least for a while. Meditation and discipline were no match for the death knight’s touch. Rhys had once tipped over a lantern, spilling flaming oil on his bare legs. His flesh blistered and bubbled, the pain so severe he’d almost passed out. Krell’s touch was like flaming oil being poured through Rhys’s veins. He could not help himself. He cried out in agony, his body jerking spasmodically in Krell’s hold.
Grabbing hold of Rhys’s index finger on his right hand, Krell gave it an expert twist. The bone snapped at the knuckle. Rhys moaned. A wave of sickening heat and dizziness swept over him.
Krell released him and sauntered back to his chair.
Rhys sank back, fighting faintness, sucking in the deep breaths used to clear his mind and enter the Frost Fire state. He was having difficulty. The broken finger was discolored and starting to swell. The flesh where Krell had touched it was a ghastly shade of white, like that of a corpse. Rhys was weak and unsteady. The khas pieces wavered in his vision, the room swam.
“If you give way now, all is lost,” he told himself, wavering on the verge of unconsciousness. “This behavior is unforgivable. The Master would be bitterly disappointed. Were all these past years a lie?”
Rhys closed his eyes and he was back on the hills, sitting in the grass, watching the clouds drift across the sky, mirroring the white woolly sheep roaming the hillside. Slowly he began to regain mastery, his spirit triumphing over his wounded body.
Nursing his broken finger, he returned his attention to the khas board. Nightshade’s lessons came back to him and he lifted his hand—his injured hand—and made his move.
“I’m impressed, monk,” said Krell, regarding Rhys with grudging admiration. “Most humans usually pass out on me and I have to wait for them to come around.”
Rhys barely heard him. His next move would advance Nightshade, but it meant sacrificing another piece.
Krell made his move and gave a nod to Rhys.
Rhys pretended to study the board, all the while composing his spirit, bracing himself for what must come next. He placed his hand on the khas piece, glanced at Nightshade.
The kender had gone quite pale, so that he was now barely distinguishable from the rest of the shrunken kender corpses. Nightshade knew what was coming as well as Rhys, but it had to be done. He gave a small nod.
Rhys picked up the piece, moved it, set it down, and after only a slight hesitation, removed his hand from it. He heard Krell chortle with pleasure, heard him knock over one of his pieces, heard the death knight rise ponderously to his feet.
The chill shadow of the death knight fell over him.
For one horrible minute, Nightshade knew he was going to faint. He’d heard quite clearly the rending, snapping sound of that first bone breaking, and Rhys’s agonized moan, and the soft-hearted kender had gone unpleasantly hot all over. Only the terrible thought of himself—a khas piece—suddenly slumping over in a dead faint on his black hex (a move not found in any rule book) kept Nightshade on his feet. Wobbly but determined, he pressed on with his end of the mission.
Nightshade was an unusual kender in that he was not fond of adventure. His parents considered this a lamentable trait and sought to reason with him, to no avail. His father maintained sadly that this lack of true kender spirit probably came from the fact that Nightshade chummed around with dead people all the time. Some dead have such a negative view of life.