Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [127]
He rather hoped one might quiver in indignation, or give a vicious snort, or poke another piece with his spear …
Nothing. The knight pieces stood as rigid and unmoving as—well—corpses.
There was only one way to find out. He would make himself known to the spirit and ask it to please reveal itself.
Nightshade generally talked to spirits in a normal tone of voice; they tended to like that, it made them feel at home. Speaking aloud was not an option here. While Krell didn’t look any too bright, even he was bound to be suspicious of a talking khas piece. Nightshade could, if he had to, speak to spirits on their own plane in a voice akin to theirs, something he sometimes had to do with very shy spirits.
Unfortunately, being undead himself, Krell existed on both planes—the mortal and the spiritual—and he might overhear the kender. Nightshade decided he had to take the risk. He couldn’t let Rhys endure any more torture.
Nightshade looked intently at Krell and his spirit. The death knight appeared to be entirely engrossed in both the game and in torturing Rhys. Krell seemed pretty well entrenched in the mortal plane, as was his small, ugly little spirit.
“Excuse me,” Nightshade called out in a polite whisper, trying to watch both knight pieces and Krell, “I’m looking for Lord Ariakan. Could you make yourself known, please?”
He waited expectantly, but no one answered his summons. The rushing tide of fury did not abate, however. Ariakan was here, the kender was sure of it.
Nightshade was being ignored.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Nightshade saw Rhys’s wounded hand hovering over the khas board. Nightshade looked up fearfully to see what Rhys was going to do. They had worked out several strategies with the goal of advancing Nightshade across the board toward the knight pieces. He tensed to see the fingers come down and gave a small, relieved sigh when Rhys made the correct move. Nightshade sighed again, more deeply and sorrowfully. Rhys would sacrifice a piece in this move. Krell would break another bone. Nightshade decided to get firm.
“Lord Ariakan—” he began more loudly, taking a no-nonsense tone.
“Shut up,” said a voice, cold and sepulchral.
“Oh, there you are!” Nightshade focused on the dark knight piece standing on his side of the board. “I’m glad I found you. We’ve come to rescue you. My friend and I.” He could not turn around, but he swiveled his eyes and gave a very small jerk of his head toward Rhys.
The fury lessened a modicum. Nightshade now had the spirit’s full attention.
“A kender and a monk of Majere here to rescue me from Chemosh?” Ariakan gave a bitter laugh. “Not likely.”
“I am a kender. I admit that. But Rhys is no longer a monk of Majere. Well, he is, but he isn’t, if you take my meaning, my lord, which you probably don’t, because I don’t understand it very well myself. And it wasn’t our idea to come. Your mother sent us.”
“My mother!” Ariakan snorted. “Now it all makes sense.”
“I think she’s trying to help,” Nightshade offered.
Ariakan snorted again.
Behind him, Nightshade heard the snap of another bone. Rhys moaned and then fell silent, so silent that for a moment Nightshade feared his friend had lost consciousness. Then he heard harsh breathing and saw Rhys’s hand move over the board.
Jagged-edged bone protruded from the flesh. Blood splattered down on the khas board. The kender gulped, his heart wrung for his friend’s suffering.
“Now that you know we’re here to save you, my lord,” said Nightshade, desperately hurrying things along, “here’s our plan—”
“You’re wasting your time. I’m not leaving,” returned Ariakan fiercely, “not until I’ve torn out the liver of this traitor with my bare hands and fed it to him in small bites.”
“He doesn’t have a liver,” Nightshade said crossly. “Not anymore. And I’d just like to say that it is this sort of bad attitude that’s kept you in prison all these