Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [123]
“You are mistaken, sir. I am not a monk of Majere. I came to speak for Zeboim, to negotiate for the soul of her son.”
“You’re dressed like a monk,” Krell leered, sneering.
“Appearances can be deceiving,” Rhys returned. “You, sir, are dressed like a knight.”
Krell glared. He had the feeling he’d been insulted, but he wasn’t sure. “Never mind. I’ll have the last laugh, monk. Days of laughter, so long as you don’t up and die on me too soon, like so many of the bastards.”
Krell rocked back on his heels, rocked forward, his hands hooked through his belt.
“Zeboim wants to negotiate, does she? Very well. Here are my terms, monk: you will entertain me as do all my ‘guests’ by playing khas with me. If, by chance, you beat me, I will reward you by cutting your throat.” He added, just in case Rhys did not understand, “Killing you swiftly, you see.”
Rhys nodded, kept a tight grip on the staff. So far, so good. All was going as planned.
“If you do not beat me—and I warn you that I am an expert player—I will give you another chance. I am not such a bad fellow, after all. I’ll give you chance after chance to beat me. We will play one game after another after another.”
Krell made a motion with his gloved hand. “The game board is set up in the library. A rather long walk, but at least you can enjoy this unusually pleasant weather we’re experiencing. You might want to take a good last look at the sunset.”
Krell chuckled, a hideous sound, his amusement echoing hollowly in the empty armor. He stomped off, gleefully rubbing his hands in anticipation of the game. Half-way across the courtyard, he came to a halt, turned to face Rhys.
“Did I mention that for every khas piece you lose, monk, I will break one of your bones?” Krell laughed outright. “I start with the small bones—fingers and toes. Then I will break your ribs, one by one. After that maybe a collar bone, a wrist or an elbow. Then I start on the legs—a shin bone, thigh bone, pelvis. I leave your spine until the end. By that time, you’ll be begging me to slay you. I told you I find this game entertaining! I’m going off to set up the board now. Don’t keep me waiting. I do so long to hear what Zeboim has to offer me in exchange for her son.”
The death knight strode off. Rhys stood unmoving, gazing after him.
“Oh, Rhys!” Nightshade cried, appalled.
“Not so loud. How good a khas player are you?” Rhys asked quietly.
“Not that good,” Nightshade answered, his voice quavering. “We’ll be forced to give up pieces, Rhys. It’s the only way to play the game. I’m sorry. I’ll try to find Ariakan quickly.”
“Just do the best you can, my friend,” said Rhys, and gripping his staff, he started walking toward the tower.
rell rose from his seat as Rhys entered the library. Bowing with a mocking show of polite welcome, the death knight ushered Rhys to a chair placed near a small table on which the khas board was all arranged. The room was chill and oppressive and smelled of rotting flesh. Krell irritably kicked aside several bones that littered the floor.
“Excuse the mess. Former khas players,” he said to Rhys.
Leg bones, arm bones, collar bones, fingers and toes, skulls—all cracked or shattered, some in several places. Krell casually trod a few underfoot, crushing them to dust.
He settled his ponderous armored body in his chair and indicated with another wave that Rhys was to sit down. The round khas board stood in between the two players; the shrunken bodies that were the khas pieces stood on the black and white and red hexes, two opposing armies facing each other across a checkered battlefield.
Seating himself, Rhys appeared to have lost his nerve. His customary calm deserted him. He was shivering, his hands shaking so that the staff slipped from his sweaty palms and fell to the floor. He sought to remove the scrip from his belt and dropped it as well. Rhys bent to pick up the scrip.
“Leave it,” Krell growled. “Get on with the game.”
Rhys