Yet, there are times when Majere knows rage. Times when the god can bear no longer bear to see the suffering of innocents. His rage is not hot and wayward. His wrath is directed, controlled, for he knows that otherwise it will consume him. Thus, he teaches his followers to use their anger as they would use a weapon.
Do not let your anger master you, his monks are taught. If you do, your aim will be off, your hands will shake, your feet will slip.
Though months had passed since that terrible time, Rhys remembered vividly how he had been consumed by his anger as he stood gazing in horror at the bodies of his murdered brethren. His rage had choked him with its bitter bile. His anger had blinded him, then cast him into hellish darkness. He knew anger now, but this anger was different. The god’s anger was cold and pure, bright and blazing as the stars.
Jenna intoned the last word of her spell. The rampaging minotaur was so close to her that she gagged at the foul odor of corruption from his putrefying body, as she waited tensely for the magic to work.
She reveled in a rush of warmth, a tingling thrill that shot through her body. The magic foamed and bubbled and surged in her blood. She seized it, directed it, cast it forth. The magic splintered. Beams of colored light shot from her fingers.
As though she had grabbed a rainbow from the sky and flung it at the minotaur, seven blazing streams of red and orange, yellow and green, blue, indigo, and violet light splashed over her foe.
The yellow beams shot jolts of energy into his body, disrupting the unholy magic that gave the corpse the hideous semblance of life. His limbs jerked. The minotaur twitched and writhed. The red beam struck his battle axe, setting it ablaze. The orange ray began to devour what was left of his hideous flesh.
The green ray, poison, would have no effect on the minotaur, and apparently the blue failed, as well, for the animated corpse did not turn to stone. Jenna prayed to Lunitari that the power of the violet ray would work, for it was supposed to carry the fiend back to his creator.
The minotaur shrieked hideously, stumbled toward her, and then vanished.
Jenna sank down limply onto the bench. The powerful spell had drained her, leaving her weak and trembling.
She hoped to heaven Rhys Mason managed to finish off the gruesome-looking object he was fighting. She could barely sit upright on the bench, much less fling any more magic.
“At your age, you really should know better,” she scolded herself wearily. Then she smiled. “But that was a beautiful spell you cast, my dear. Truly lovely…”
Krell’s spear flew toward him. Rhys leaped high into the air, and the spear whistled harmlessly beneath his feet. Still in midair, Rhys arched his back, flipped over, and landed lightly on his feet in front of the astounded Krell. Rhys shifted his hold on the emmide. Lunging forward, he struck Krell’s bone breast-plate with the end of his staff. The force of the blow cracked the breastplate and the collarbone beneath, and sent Krell staggering backward.
Armored by his god in the bones of the dead, Krell had smugly thought himself invulnerable to sword and spear and arrow, and now he’d been hurt by a stick-wielding monk. He was in pain and, like all bullies, he was terrified. He wanted this encounter to end. Using his good arm, Krell broke off another sharp spike. Wielding it like a sword, roaring curses, he charged at Rhys, hoping to frighten the monk and overwhelm him by sheer brute strength.
The emmide flicked out and shattered the bone sword. Twirling the staff in his hands, Rhys began to weave a deadly dance around Krell, attacking him from the front and the sides and the back, striking him on the helm and the breastplate, hitting him on the shoulders and the arms, battering his legs and thighs. The emmide sheared off the bony spikes on the shoulders and broke one of the ram’s horns. Everywhere the emmide touched the bone armor, it cracked and split wide open.
Rhys drove the emmide through the cracks, widening them. Parts of the armor began fall off, and the emmide struck the soft, flabby flesh beneath. Bones cracked, but now they were Krell’s bones, not those of some wretched corpse. Another blow split the helm wide open, and it fell off and rolled about on the floor.
Krell’s face was purple and swollen. Blood streamed from his wounds. In agony, bruised and bloodied, he slumped to the floor on his knees and, kneeling in a sodden bloody heap at Rhys’ feet, Krell blubbered and slobbered.
“I surrender!” he cried, spitting up blood. “Spare me!”
Breathing hard, Rhys stood over the hulking brute quivering at his feet. He could be merciful. He could give Krell his life. Rhys had inflicted the lesson of merciful discipline. But Rhys knew with the clarity of the god’s cold anger that being merciful to Krell would be an indulgence on Rhys’ part, one that would make him feel just and righteous, but which would send forth this monster to murder and torture other victims.
Rhys saw Krell watching him from the corner of his swollen eye.
Krell was certain of himself, certain Rhys would be merciful. After all, Rhys was a good man, and good men were weak.
Rhys lifted up the emmide. “We are told that the souls of men leave this realm and travel to the next, learning from mistakes made in this life, gaining in knowledge until we come to the fulfillment of the soul’s journey. I believe that this is true of most men, but not all. I believe there are some like you who are so bound up in evil that your soul has shrunk to almost nothing. You will spend eternity trapped in darkness, gnawing on the remnant of yourself, consuming, yet never consumed.”
Krell stared at him, his eyes wide and terrified.
Rhys struck Krell in the temple with the emmide.
Krell toppled over dead onto the blood-smeared floor. His eyes were wide and staring. A bloody froth drooled from his flaccid lips.
Rhys remained standing over the brute, his emmide poised to strike again. He knew Krell was dead, but he intended to make certain Krell stayed dead. He did, after all, serve a god who was known to bring the dead back to a hideous pretence of life.
Krell did not so much as twitch. In the end, even Chemosh abandoned him.
Rhys relaxed.
“Well done, Monk,” said Jenna weakly.
Her face was haggard, her skin pale. Her shoulders slumped. She seemed too exhausted to move. Rhys hastened to her side.
“Are you hurt, Mistress? What can I do to help?” Rhys asked.
“Nothing, my friend,” she said, managing a smile. “I am not injured. The magic exacts its toll. I just need to rest a little while.”
She regarded him intently. “What about you, Brother?”
“I am not hurt, praise Majere,” he said.
“You did the right thing, Brother. Killing that brute.”
“I hope my god agrees with you, Mistress,” Rhys said.
“He will. Do you know what I was fighting, Brother? A Bone Warrior of Chemosh. Such fiends have not been seen on Krynn since the days of the Kingpriest.”
She pointed to the corpse. “That lump is… or was… a Bone Acolyte. Chemosh seized the minotaur’s wretched soul, using his rage to ensnare him. And there are probably more than one. The Acolyte would have had as many Bone Warriors serving him as he thought he could control. And these warriors are deadly, Brother.
“Perhaps your brethren are fighting them now,” she added somberly. “By slaying the Acolyte, you have made it easier for those fighting the Bone Warriors to destroy them. The Acolyte controls them and once he is dead, the warriors will go berserk and fight in a blind fury.”
The smoke had died away. The fires were being brought until control, but they could both hear the sounds of battle still raging outside. Rhys worried about Nightshade and Mina being caught in the chaos. He was anxious to go after them, but he did not like to leave Jenna, especially if there were more Bone Warriors about.
She read his thoughts and patted his hand. “You are concerned about your kender friend. He is safe, at least he was the last time I saw him. He was the one who sent me to your aid. Lady Atta was with him, and they were both pursuing Mina.”