Sloshing through the water, the death knight waded along the short corridor that led to an opening sealed off by an iron grate, hinged so that the slaves could open it when they were sent down to clean.
Krell clomped heavily up treacherous stairs carved out of the cliff-face. Peering through the eye slits of his helm, Krell saw the black coat and white lace collar of the Lord of Death. He saw no more than that. Krell didn’t have the nerve to look the god in the eye.
Krell promptly fell to his knees.
“My lord Chemosh,” prayed the cringing death knight. “I know I let you down. I admit I lost the khas piece, but it wasn’t my fault. There was a kender and a staff that turned into a giant bug . . . and how I could know the monk was suicidal?”
The Lord of Death said nothing.
Metaphorically speaking, Krell started to sweat.
“My lord Chemosh,” he pleaded, “I’ll make it up to you. I’ll be in your debt forever. I’ll do anything you command of me. Anything! Spare me your wrath!”
Chemosh sighed. “You are fortunate that I have need of you, miserable wretch. Stand up! You’re dripping on my boots.”
Krell rose ponderously to his feet. “You’ll save me from her, too?” He jerked his thumb up at the sky to indicate the vengeful goddess. Zeboim’s fury was lighting the skies, her thunderous fist pounding the ground.
“I suppose I must,” said Chemosh, and he sounded lethargic, too worn-out to care. “As I said, I have need of you.”
Krell was uneasy. He didn’t like the god’s tone. Risking taking a closer look, the death knight was startled by what he saw.
The Lord of Death looked worse than death. One might say he looked alive—alive and suffering. His face was pallid, drawn, and haggard. His hair was ragged, his clothes unkempt. The lace at his sleeve was torn and stained. His collar was undone, his shirt half-open. His eyes were empty, his voice hollow. He moved in a listless manner, as though even lifting his hand cost him great effort. Though he spoke to Krell, he didn’t really seem to see him or take much interest in him.
“My lord, what is wrong?” asked Krell. “You don’t look well....”
“I am a god,” returned Chemosh stonily. “I am always well. More’s the pity.”
Krell could only imagine there had been some crushing defeat in the war.
“Name your enemy, lord,” said Krell, eager to please, “the one who did this to you. I will find him and rip him—”
“Nuitari is my enemy,” said Chemosh.
“Nuitari,” the death knight repeated uneasily, already regretting his rash promise. “The God of the Dark Moon. Why him, particularly?”
“Mina is dead,” said Chemosh.
“Mina dead?” Krell was about to add “Good riddance!” when he remembered just in time that Chemosh had been strangely enamored of the human female.
“I am truly sorry, my lord,” Krell amended, trying to sound sympathetic. “How did this . . . um . . . terrible tragedy happen?”
“Nuitari murdered her,” said Chemosh viciously. “He will pay! You will make him pay!”
Krell was alarmed. Nuitari, the powerful god of dark magic, was not quite the enemy he’d had in mind.
“I would, my lord, but I am certain you will want to avenge her death on Nuitari yourself. Perhaps I could seek vengeance on Chislev or Hiddukel? They were undoubtedly in on the plot—”
Chemosh flicked a finger, and Krell went flying backward to smash up against the stone wall. He slid down the wall and lay in a heap of jumbled armor at the feet of the Lord of Death.
“You sniveling, craven, squirming toad,” Chemosh said coldly. “You will do what I tell you to do, or I will turn you into the spineless jellyfish that you are and hand you over to the Sea Goddess with my compliments. What do you have to say to that?”
Krell mumbled something.
Chemosh bent down. “I couldn’t quite hear you.”
“As always, my lord,” Krell said glumly, “I am yours to command.”
“I thought you might be,” said Chemosh. “Now come along.”
“Not... not to visit Nuitari?” Krell quailed.
“To my dwelling, you oaf,” said Chemosh. “There is something I need you to do for me first.”
-^s^c^^^^^v^^V’
Having determined to take a more active interest in the world of the living with the view to one day ruling over that world, the Lord of Death had left his dark palace on the planes of the Abyss. He had searched for a suitable location for his new dwelling and found it in an abandoned castle overlooking the Blood Sea in the area called the Desolation.
When the Dragon Overlord, Malys, seized control of this part of Ansalon, she ravaged the countryside, laying waste to fields and farmlands, towns and villages and cities. The land was cursed so long as she was in power. Nothing grew. Rivers and streams dried up. Once-fertile fields became windswept desert. Starvation and disease spread. Cities such as Flotsam lost much of their population as people fled the dragon’s curse. The entire area became known as the Desolation.
With the death of Malys at the hands of Mina, the dread effects of the dragon’s evil magic on the Desolation were reversed. Almost from the moment of Malys’s demise, rivers began to flow and lakes to fill. Small shoots of green thrust up out of barren soil, as though life had been there all this time, waiting only for the enchantment that held it in thrall to be removed.
With the return of the gods, this process accelerated, so that already some areas were almost back to normal. People returned and began to rebuild. Flotsam, located about one hundred and fifty miles from Chemosh’s castle, was not quite the rollicking, bustling center of commerce—both legal and illegal—that it had once been, but it was no longer a ghost town. Pirates and legitimate sailors of all races roamed the streets of the famous port city. Markets and shops reopened. Flotsam was back and open for business.
Large areas of the Desolation still remained cursed, however. No one could figure out why or how. A druidess devoted to Chislev, goddess of nature, was exploring these areas, when she came across one of Malys’s scales. The druidess theorized that the presence of the scale might have something to do with the continuation of the curse. She burned the scale in a sacred ceremony, and it is said that Chislev herself, disturbed by this disruption of nature, blessed the ceremony. The destruction of the scale did nothing to change things, but the story spread and the theory took hold, so these cursed areas became known as “scale-fall.”
One of these scale-fall areas Chemosh claimed for his own. His castle stood on a promontory overlooking the Blood Sea on what was known as the Somber Coast.
Chemosh cared nothing about the lingering curse. He had no interest in green and growing things, so it mattered little to him that the hills and valleys around his castle were denuded, barren, empty expanses of ashy soil and charred stone.
The castle he took over was in ruins when he found it, the dragon having slain the inhabitants and razed and burned the castle. He had chosen this location because it was only about fifty miles from the Tower of the Blood Sea. He had intended to use his castle as a base of operation, planning to store here the sacred artifacts he would remove from the wreckage of the Tower. Here, he had fondly imagined, he would take his time sorting, cataloging and calculating the immense value of the sacred artifacts that dated back to the time of the Kingpriest of Istar.
The castle would not only serve as a depository for the artifacts but as a fortress to guard them. Using rock mined by lost souls in the Abyss, Chemosh rebuilt the castle, making it so strong not even the gods themselves could assail it. The Abyssal rock was blacker than black marble and far harder. Only the hand of Chemosh could shape it into blocks, and the blocks were so heavy only he could lift them into place. The castle was constructed with four watchtowers, one on each corner. Two walls—an inner wall and an outer wall—surrounded it. The most unique feature of this castle was that no gates penetrated the walls. There appeared to be no way in and no way out.