Thus far, this adventure had gone a long way to confirming Nightshade’s bad opinion.
From the beginning, he had not been keen on Rhys’s plan to reduce him to the size of khas piece. In a world of tall people, Nightshade considered that he was short enough already. He further did not like the idea of being dependent on Zeboim to shrink him in the first place and in the second place to bring him back from being shrunken. Rhys had assured Nightshade that he would have Zeboim swear on whatever it was goddesses swore upon that she would perform as required. Unfortunately, the goddess had whipped the spell on the kender before they’d had a chance to conclude this important term in the negotiations. Nightshade had been standing beside Rhys in the goddess’s prison cell, and the next thing he knew he was inside a smelly leather pouch, sweating and recalling with a pang that he’d skipped breakfast.
He’d wanted out of that pouch until the death knight showed up, and then he’d wanted only to crawl inside the pouch’s seams. He supposed he was as brave as any kender living, but even his famous Uncle Tas had, according to legend, been afraid of a death knight.
After that, there had been no time for fear. After Rhys dropped the scrip, Nightshade had only seconds to crawl out of the pouch and roll away before the death knight could spot him. Then there was the business of trying to hold stiff and unmoving as Rhys picked him up—gently as he could—and stood him on the khas board. In the worry and anxiety over all that, he hadn’t had time to be intimidated by the death knight.
When that flurry of activity was over, however, Nightshade had quite a good view of Krell, for he was forced to stand facing the death knight, who was every bit as loathsome as the kender had pictured.
Nightshade wondered if anyone would notice if he shut his eyes. A covert glance showed him that all the other kender on the board had his or her eyes wide open.
“Of course, they’re corpses—lucky bastards,” Nightshade muttered in his throat.
Krell did not appear too observant, but he might notice. Nightshade was forced to stare straight at the death knight. Nightshade might not have been able to withstand the awful sight but that he suddenly caught a glimpse of Krell’s spirit. Krell was big and ugly and terrifying. His spirit, by contrast, was small and ugly and craven. In the spirit department, Nightshade could have taken on Krell, thrown him to the ground, and sat on his head. This knowledge made Nightshade feel immensely better and he was starting to think that they just might get out of this alive—something he hadn’t really expected—when Krell broke Rhys’s first finger, and Nightshade had nearly collapsed.
“The sooner you finish your part of the job,” Nightshade told himself to keep himself from passing out, “the sooner you and Rhys can get out of here.”
Nightshade gulped, blinked away his tears, and proceeded to do what he’d been sent here to do—find out which of the khas pieces contained the spirit of Lord Ariakan.
When he’d heard that all the khas pieces were shrunken corpses, Nightshade had been concerned that he’d be over-whelmed with the spirits of the dead. Fortunately, the spirits of the dead had long since departed, leaving their tormented bodies behind. Nightshade felt the presence of only one spirit, but that spirit was angry enough for twenty.
Ordinarily Nightshade could have used such strong emotions as he felt resonate from the spirit to determine which khas piece was which. Unfortunately, the rage cascading over the khas board was so very strong that it made distinguishing between the pieces impossible. Anger and the fierce desire for vengeance was everywhere and could have come from any one of the pieces.
Zeboim had insisted that her son was trapped in one of the two dark knights, each riding a blue dragon—for that was what Krell had told her. Nightshade thought this likely, though he could not discount the possibility that Krell had lied. He looked over the heads of the goblin pieces standing opposite him and peered around the corpse of a black-robed wizard to get a good look at both knight pieces to see if he could note anything about them that might help him decide.
He rather hoped one might quiver in indignation, or give a vicious snort, or poke another piece with his spear…
Nothing. The knight pieces stood as rigid and unmoving as—well—corpses.
There was only one way to find out. He would make himself known to the spirit and ask it to please reveal itself.
Nightshade generally talked to spirits in a normal tone of voice; they tended to like that, it made them feel at home. Speaking aloud was not an option here. While Krell didn’t look any too bright, even he was bound to be suspicious of a talking khas piece. Nightshade could, if he had to, speak to spirits on their own plane in a voice akin to theirs, something he sometimes had to do with very shy spirits.
Unfortunately, being undead himself, Krell existed on both planes—the mortal and the spiritual—and he might overhear the kender. Nightshade decided he had to take the risk. He couldn’t let Rhys endure any more torture.
Nightshade looked intently at Krell and his spirit. The death knight appeared to be entirely engrossed in both the game and in torturing Rhys. Krell seemed pretty well entrenched in the mortal plane, as was his small, ugly little spirit.
“Excuse me,” Nightshade called out in a polite whisper, trying to watch both knight pieces and Krell, “I’m looking for Lord Ariakan. Could you make yourself known, please?”
He waited expectantly, but no one answered his summons. The rushing tide of fury did not abate, however. Ariakan was here, the kender was sure of it.
Nightshade was being ignored.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Nightshade saw Rhys’s wounded hand hovering over the khas board. Nightshade looked up fearfully to see what Rhys was going to do. They had worked out several strategies with the goal of advancing Nightshade across the board toward the knight pieces. He tensed to see the fingers come down and gave a small, relieved sigh when Rhys made the correct move. Nightshade sighed again, more deeply and sorrowfully. Rhys would sacrifice a piece in this move. Krell would break another bone. Nightshade decided to get firm.
“Lord Ariakan—” he began more loudly, taking a no-nonsense tone.
“Shut up,” said a voice, cold and sepulchral.
“Oh, there you are!” Nightshade focused on the dark knight piece standing on his side of the board. “I’m glad I found you. We’ve come to rescue you. My friend and I.” He could not turn around, but he swiveled his eyes and gave a very small jerk of his head toward Rhys.
The fury lessened a modicum. Nightshade now had the spirit’s full attention.
“A kender and a monk of Majere here to rescue me from Chemosh?” Ariakan gave a bitter laugh. “Not likely.”
“I am a kender. I admit that. But Rhys is no longer a monk of Majere. Well, he is, but he isn’t, if you take my meaning, my lord, which you probably don’t, because I don’t understand it very well myself. And it wasn’t our idea to come. Your mother sent us.”
“My mother!” Ariakan snorted. “Now it all makes sense.” “I think she’s trying to help,” Nightshade offered.
Ariakan snorted again.
Behind him, Nightshade heard the snap of another bone. Rhys moaned and then fell silent, so silent that for a moment Nightshade feared his friend had lost consciousness. Then he heard harsh breathing and saw Rhys’s hand move over the board.
Jagged-edged bone protruded from the flesh. Blood splattered down on the khas board. The kender gulped, his heart wrung for his friend’s suffering.
“Now that you know we’re here to save you, my lord,” said Nightshade, desperately hurrying things along, “here’s our plan—”
“You’re wasting your time. I’m not leaving,” returned Ariakan fiercely, “not until I’ve torn out the liver of this traitor with my bare hands and fed it to him in small bites.”