The Lord of Death flung his arms around Krell, embraced him tightly, crumpling his armor, and staving in his breastplate.
“Krell,” cried Chemosh, “you have saved my sanity!”
The death knight’s eyes flared in astonishment.
“My lord?”
“What a fool I have been!” Chemosh declared. “But no more. He will pay for this! I swear by the High God who cast me out of heaven and by Chaos who saved me that Nuitari will pay!”
Releasing Krell and dismissing the other undead with an impatient gesture, Chemosh stared at the image of Mina, still floating before him.
“Give me your sword, Krell,” Chemosh ordered, holding out his hand.
The death knight drew his sword from its scabbard and handed it to the god.
Gripping the sword, Chemosh stared for another long moment at the ghost of Mina. Then, sword in hand, he raised it and leapt at the illusion.
The image of Mina vanished.
Chemosh stepped back, thinking out loud. “A remarkable illusion. It fooled even me. But it could not fool you, my dear brother, my excellent friend, Lord Krell!”
“I am glad to have pleased you, my lord.” Krell was confused—thankful, but confused. “I don’t quite follow you, though—”
“An illusion, Krell! Mina’s ghost was an illusion! That is why you could not see her. Mina is not in your realm—the realm of death. Mina is alive, Krell. Alive—and a prisoner.”
Chemosh grew grim. “Nuitari lied to me. He did not slay her, as he pretended. He has imprisoned her in his Tower beneath the Blood Sea. Why, though? What is his motive? Does he want her for himself? Did he assume I would forget her, once I thought she was dead? Ah, I see his game. He has probably told her I abandoned her. She would not believe him, though. Mina loves me. She will be true to me. I must go to her....”
He paused.
“What if he has succeeded in seducing her? She is mortal, after all,” the god continued, his voice hardening, “This Mina once swore to love and follow Queen Takhisis, only to turn from her to me. Perhaps Mina has turned from me to Nuitari. Perhaps they both plot against me. I might be walking into a trap....”
He whipped around. “Krell!”
“My lord!” The death knight was trying desperately to keep up with the peregrinations of the god’s thoughts.
“You say that Zeboim recovered the khas piece containing the soul of her son?” Chemosh asked.
“It wasn’t my fault!” Krell said hurriedly. “There was a kender and a giant bug—”
“Quit whining! You actually did something right for a change. I am going to send you on an errand.”
Krell didn’t like the god’s sly smile.
“What errand would that be, my lord?” the death knight asked warily. “Where am I going?”
“To Zeboim—”
Krell clunked down onto his knees. “You might as well finish me now, Lord Chemosh, and get it over with.”
“Now, now, Krell,” said Chemosh soothingly. He was suddenly in an excellent humor. “The Sea Goddess will be glad to see you. You are going to bring her welcome news—provided she allows you to live long enough to tell it—”
2
The dwarf and half-elf had been gazing into the dragonmetal basin, both of them sniggering at the sight of Chemosh’s lamentations over his “dead” mistress and mocking the Lord of Death, making sport of him as they’d done for many days now, when things began to go terribly wrong.
“He’s onto us!” said the dwarf, alarmed.
“No, he’s not,” said the half-elf sneering.
“I tell you he’s figured it out!” cried the dwarf. “Look there! He’s got a sword! End the spell, Caele! Quickly!”
“We’re in no danger, Basalt, you coward,” said Caele, his lip curling. “What do you think? He’s going to leap through time and space and cut off our ears?”
“How do you know he can’t?” Basalt roared. “He’s a god! Just end it!”
Caele took one look at the god’s face—livid with rage, his eyes blazing like the eternal fires of the Abyss—and decided his fellow archmage might be right. The half-elf placed both hands on the heavy dragonmetal basin, dug in his feet, and pushed the basin off the pedestal, dumping the contents onto the floor. Blood sloshed over Caele’s bare feet and splattered the black robes of the dwarf.
The god and his sword vanished.
Basalt mopped his face with a black sleeve. “That was close!”
“I still don’t think he could have done anything to us,” Caele muttered.
“We didn’t dare risk it.”
Caele thought back on the enormous sword the god had been wielding and was forced to agree. He and Basalt stood in silence staring gloomily at the empty dragonmetal basin and the pool of blood. Both of them were thinking of another god who was going to be angry, a god much closer to home.
“It wasn’t our fault,” Caele muttered, biting his nails. “We have to make that clear.”
“It was only a matter of time before Chemosh discovered the deception,” Basalt agreed.
“I’m surprised it lasted this long,” Caele added. “He’s a god, after all. Be certain to remind the Master of that when you tell him what happened—”
“When I tell him!” Basalt glowered.
“Yes, of course, you should tell him,” stated the half-elf coolly. “You are the Caretaker, after all. You are the one in charge. I am but your underling. You tell the Master.”
“I am the Caretaker of the Tower. You were the one tasked with casting the illusion spell. For all I know, it was your fault that Chemosh found out! Perhaps you made a mistake—”
Caele quit biting his nails. His long, thin fingers curled to claws. “Perhaps if you hadn’t panicked and ordered me to end the spell prematurely—”
“End the spell! What are you talking about?”
The stern voice came from behind them. The two Black Robes exchanged alarmed glances and then, cringing, both turned to face their master, Nuitari, God of the Black Moon.
Both wizards bowed low. They both wore the Black Robes, symbol of their dedication to Nuitari. Beyond that, the likeness between them ended. Caele was tall and gaunt, with straggling, greasy hair that he rarely bothered to wash. He was half-human, half-elven, and united in his hatred of both races. Basalt, the dwarf, was short and stocky. His black robes were neat and clean, his beard combed. He didn’t much like anyone of any race.
Straightening, the two tried to appear at ease, as if they were completely unconscious of the fact they were standing on a stone floor awash in dragon’s blood, with the overturned basin of dragonmetal wobbling about at their feet.
The tall Caele looked down his long nose at Basalt, who glared up from beneath his heavy black brows at Caele.
“Tell him,” Caele mouthed.
“You tell him,” Basalt growled.
“Someone had better tell me, and tell me soon,” hissed Nuitari.
“Chemosh discovered the illusion,” Basalt said, trying to meet the god’s dark and unforgiving eye, and finding it difficult.
“He was coming straight at us,” Caele whined, “waving a huge sword. I told Basalt the god couldn’t harm us, but the dwarf panicked and insisted on ending the spell—”
“I didn’t insist that you upend the basin,” snapped Basalt.
“You were the one howling like a wounded wyvern—”
“You were just as scared as I was!”
Nuitari made an abrupt gesture with his hands.
Basalt, quailing, asked in a low voice, “Master, will Chemosh come to free her?”
No need to name which “her” he was talking about.
“Perhaps,” said Nuitari. “Unless the Lord of Death is more wise than he is obsessed.”
Caele looked sidelong at Basalt, who shrugged.
The god’s round moon face with its lidless eyes and full-lipped mouth held no expression. The mages could not tell if he was pleased or displeased, surprised, or alarmed, or simply bored with the whole procedure.