Atta dashed into the chamber. She saw her master on his knees, obviously in distress and a man bending over him. Atta didn’t like this man. There was something fell about him, something that frightened her. The man had no scent, for one thing. Every living thing, every dead thing has an odor, some pleasant, others not so much, but not this man, and that frightened her. The man was, in this, like that loud and obnoxious woman from the sea, and like the monk who had just laid gentle hands on her. None of them had a smell to them, and the dog found that uncanny and terrifying.
Atta was scared. Her simple heart trembled. Instinct urged her to turn tail and run, but this strange man was hurting her master, and that could not be allowed. Her heart swelled in fury, and she leaped to the attack. She did not go for the throat, for the man had his back to her, bending over Rhys. She sought instead to cripple her enemy. Wisdom handed down to her by her ancient ancestor, the wolf, told her how to bring down a larger foe—go for the leg. Break the bone or sever a tendon.
Atta sank her teeth into Chemosh’s ankle.
The aspect of a god is formed of the god’s essence spun into an image that appears mortal to the minds of men. The aspect is visible to the mortal eye, sensible to the mortal touch. The god’s aspect can speak to mortals, hear them and react to them. Since the aspect is made of immortal essence, the aspect feels no pain or pleasurable sensations of the flesh. The god will often pretend to do so, in order to appear more lifelike to mortals. In the case of Chemosh and his love for Mina, the god can even sometimes persuade himself into believing the lie.
Chemosh could not possibly have felt Atta’s sharp teeth freezing onto his leg, but he did. In truth, the teeth Chemosh felt were not those of the dog. They were the teeth of Majere’s wrath. Thus it was that Huma’s dragonlance, blessed by all the gods of good, struck Takhisis’s aspect a blow that she felt and forced her to withdraw, spitting and snarling defiance, from the world. The gods have the power to inflict pain upon each other, though they are loath to do so, for each god knows the dire consequences that might result from such action. The gods resort to such drastic measures only when it is clear to them the balance is about to be overthrown, for Chaos lies just beyond, waiting eagerly for war to break out in the heavens. When that happens, the gods will destroy each other and give Chaos his long-sought victory—the end of all things.
A god will rarely attack another god directly but will act only through mortals. The attack is limited in scope and not likely to cause the aspect severe harm—just enough to let the other god know that he or she has transgressed, gone too far, crossed the line.
Majere’s anger bit into Chemosh’s ankle with Atta’s teeth, and the Lord of Death roared in fury. He turned from Rhys, kicked out his leg and flung Atta off him. Lifting his foot over her body, Chemosh was going to show Majere what he thought of him by stomping this mutt to death.
Rhys still held the splinter of the staff in his bloody hand. It was his only weapon and he jabbed it with all his strength into the god’s back. Majere’s rage drove the splinter deep into the Lord of Death. Chemosh gasped. His kick went wild. Atta leaped to her feet and positioned her body in front of Rhys. Teeth bared, she defiantly faced the god.
At that moment, Nightshade came running into the grotto, his fists clenched.
“Rhys, I’m here—” The kender stopped, stared. “Who are you? Wait! I think I know you! You seem very familiar to me ... Oh, gods!” Nightshade began to shake all over. “I do know you! You’re Death!”
“I am your death, at least,” Chemosh said coldly, and he reached out his hand to throttle the kender.
The ground gave a sudden, violent lurch that knocked Chemosh off his feet. The cavern walls shuddered and cracked. Bits of rock and dirt rained down on them and then, with a small shiver, the earth settled and was quiet.
God and mortals stared at each other. Chemosh was on his hands and knees. Atta crouched on her belly, whimpering.
The Lord of Death picked himself up off the floor. Ignoring the mortals, he stared up into the darkness.
“Which of you shakes the world?” he cried, fists clenched. “You, Sargonnas? Zeboim? You, Majere?”
If there was an answer, the mortals could not hear it. Rhys was barely conscious, consumed by pain, hardly aware of what was going on. Nightshade had his eyes closed, and he was hoping the next time the ground shook it would open up and suck him down inside. Better that than have Death’s cold gaze fall upon him again.
“We will meet in the Abyss, monk,” Chemosh promised and disappeared.
“Whoo, boy,” Nightshade said, shuddering. “I’m glad he’s gone. He could have left us some light, though. It’s dark as a goblin’s innards in here. Rhys ...”
The earth shook again.
Nightshade threw himself flat on the ground, one arm clutching Atta and the other arm covering his head.
The cracks in the grotto’s walls widened. Rocks and pebbles, clods of dirt, and a few dislodged beetles rained down on top of him. Then there tU was a horrendous crashing and grinding sound, and Nightshade shut his eyes tight and waited for the end.
Once more, everything was still. The ground ceased its wild gyrations. Nightshade didn’t trust it, however, and he kept his eyes shut. Atta started to wriggle and squirm beneath his clutching grasp. He let her go, and she scooted out from underneath him. Then he felt one of the beetles crawling in his hair, and that made him open his eyes. He grabbed hold of the beetle and threw it off.
Atta began to bark sharply. Nightshade wiped the grit out of his eyelids and looked around to find that whether his eyes were open or shut didn’t make much difference. It was dark either way.
Atta kept barking.
Nightshade was afraid to stand up for fear he might bash into something, so he crawled on his hands, feeling his way, following the sounds of Atta’s frantic yelps.
“Atta?” He reached out his hand and felt her furry body. She was pawing at something and continuing to bark.
Nightshade groped about with his hands and felt lots of sharp rocks and then something warm and soft.
“Rhys!” Nightshade breathed thankfully.
He felt about and found his friend’s nose and eyes—the eyes were closed. Rhys’s forehead was warm. He was breathing, but he must be unconscious. Nightshade’s hand touched Rhys’s head, and felt something warm and sticky running down the back of Rhys’s neck.
Atta ceased pawing at Rhys and began to lick his cheek.
“I don’t think dog slobber’s going to do him much good, Atta,” said Nightshade, pushing her away. “We have to get him out of here.”
He could still smell salt-tinged air, and he hoped this meant the grotto’s entrance had not collapsed. Nightshade gripped Rhys by the shoulders, gave him an experimental tug, and was heartened to feel his friend’s body slide across the floor. He had been worried that Rhys might have been half-buried in rubble.
Nightshade pulled again, and Rhys came along with him, and the kender was just starting to think they might make it out of here alive when he heard a sound that nearly buried him in despair.
The clank of chains.
Nightshade groaned. He’d forgotten all about the fact that Rhys was chained to the wall.
“Maybe the rock slide dislodged the iron rings,” Nightshade said hopefully.
Finding the manacle around Rhys’s wrist, Nightshade groped his way along the length of chain back to where it was attached to the iron ring, which was still attached—quite firmly—to the wall.
Nightshade said a bad word and then he remembered. He was blessed by a god!
“Maybe he’s given me the strength often dragons!” Nightshade said excitedly, and gripped the chain and winced at the pain of his cut hands. Feeling that one with dragon-strength shouldn’t be put off by jabbing pain, he dug in his heels and shooed Atta out of the way, then pulled on the chain with all his might.