Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [125]
The monks of Majere are trained to withstand pain without complaint, using many disciplines, including one called Frost Fire. Through the use of consistent practice and mediation, the monk is able to completely banish minor pains, so that they are no longer felt, and can reduce debilitating pain to a level where the monk can continue to function. The “fire” is rimed with ice, the monk envisioning hoar-frost settling over the pain, so that it subsides beneath the freezing cold that numbs the affected part of the body.
Rhys had counted upon using this discipline to be able overcome the pain of the shattered bones, at least for a while. Meditation and discipline were no match for thhe death knight’s touch. Rhys had once tipped over a lantern, spilling flaming oil on his bare legs. His flesh blistered and bubbled, the pain so severe he’d almost passed out. Krell’s touch was like flaming oil being poured through Rhys’s veins. He could not help himself. He cried out in agony, his body jerking spasmodically in Krell’s hold.
Grabbing hold of Rhys’s index finger on his right hand, Krell gave it an expert twist. The bone snapped at the knuckle. Rhys moaned. A wave of sickening heat and dizziness swept over him.
Krell released him and sauntered back to his chair.
Rhys sank back, fighting faintness, sucking in the deep breaths used to clear his mind and enter the Frost Fire state. He was having difficulty. The broken finger was discolored and starting to swell. The flesh where Krell had touched it was a ghastly shade of white, like that of a corpse. Rhys was weak and unsteady. The khas pieces wavered in his vision, the room swam.
“If you give way now, all is lost,” he told himself, wavering on the verge of unconsciousness. “This behavior is unforgivable. The Master would be bitterly disappointed. Were all these past years a lie?”
Rhys closed his eyes and he was back on the hills, sitting in the grass, watching the clouds drift across the sky, mirroring the white woolly sheep roaming the hillside. Slowly he began to regain mastery, his spirit triumphing over his wounded body.
Nursing his broken finger, he returned his attention to the khas board. Nightshade’s lessons came back to him and he lifted his hand—his injured hand—and made his move.
“I’m impressed, monk,” said Krell, regarding Rhys with grudging admiration. “Most humans usually pass out on me and I have to wait for them to come around.”
Rhys barely heard him. His next move would advance Nightshade, but it meant sacrificing another piece.
Krell made his move and gave a nod to Rhys.
Rhys pretended to study the board, all the while composing his spirit, bracing himself for what must come next. He placed his hand on the khas piece, glanced at Nightshade.
The kender had gone quite pale, so that he was now barely distinguishable from the rest of the shrunken kender corpses. Nightshade knew what was coming as well as Rhys, but it had to be done. He gave a small nod.
Rhys picked up the piece, moved it, set it down, and after only a slight hesitation, removed his hand from it. He heard Krell chortle with pleasure, heard him knock over one of his pieces, heard the death knight rise ponderously to his feet.
The chill shadow of the death knight fell over him.
For one horrible minute, Nightshade knew he was going to faint. He’d heard quite clearly the rending, snapping sound of that first bone breaking, and Rhys’s agonized moan, and the soft-hearted kender had gone unpleasantly hot all over. Only the terrible thought of himself—a khas piece—suddenly slumping over in a dead faint on his black hex (a move not found in any rule book) kept Nightshade on his feet. Wobbly but determined, he pressed on with his end of the mission.
Nightshade was an unusual kender in that he was not fond of adventure. His parents considered this a lamentable trait and sought to reason with him, to no avail. His father maintained sadly that this lack of true kender spirit probably came from the fact that Nightshade chummed around with