Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [128]
“I do not want to be rescued,” said Ariakan. “If you try, I will raise holy hell. Even Krell can’t fail to notice. I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time. And your lives.”
“He definitely takes after his mother,” Nightshade muttered. “Poor Rhys,” he added, wincing as he heard his friend draw in a halting breath. “He can’t take much more. Oh, no! There he goes. About to move the wrong piece!”
Nightshade gave a violent jerk of his head and rolled his eyes and, fortunately, Rhys took the hint. His hand—he was using his left hand now—shifted from the queen to a rook. Nightshade heaved a deep sigh and cast a glance at Krell.
“That should give him something to think about,” said the kender in satisfaction.
The death knight was impressed by the move. Krell leaned over the board, started to move a piece, thought better of it. Drumming his gloved fingers on the chair’s carved wooden arm, he sat back and stared at the board.
Nightshade stole a glance at Rhys. The monk was very pale, his face covered with a sheen of sweat. He sat with his right hand cradled in his left. His robes were spattered with his own blood. He made no sound, did not groan, though the pain must have been excruciating. Every so often, Nightshade heard that soft, sharp intake of breath.
Kender are by nature easy-going folk, willing to let bygones be bygones, live and let live, turn the other cheek, never judge a book by its cover or cry over spilt milk. But sometimes they get mad. And anyone on Krynn can tell you that there is nothing in the world quite as dangerous as a kender with his dander up.
“Here we are,” Nightshade said to himself, “risking our lives to rescue this knight, only to find out the steel-plated jackass refuses to be rescued. Well,” he stated grimly, “we’ll see about that!”
No kender “borrowing” required. No artful sleight-of-hand, no sly maneuvering. Just a crude snatch-and-grab. Nightshade didn’t have any way to alert Rhys to the change of plans. He could only hope that his partner would take the hint, which—after all—was going to be an extremely broad one.
Krell reached out his gloved hand to make a move. As Nightshade had anticipated, the death knight was about to pick up the dark knight piece. He was going to move Lord Ariakan.
Nightshade lowered his head like a bull he’d seen at a fair and charged.
ome part of Rhys was cognizant of the khas board and the pieces on it and what was going on in the game. Another part of him was not. That part of him was on the hillside, bare feet cool in the dew-sparkled green grass, the sun warm on his shoulders. He was finding it increasingly hard to stay on the hillside, though.
Jagged flashes of agony disrupted his meditative state. Every time Krell laid his cold and fleshless hand upon Rhys, the horrible touch further depleted his strength and his will.
According to their plan, he had several more moves to go. He would have to lose more pieces.
Night had fallen outside. Through the window, Rhys could see the flicker of lightning on the horizon; Zeboim waiting impatiently for news.
Inside, no fire burned, no candle flared. The board was illuminated by the red glow of Krell’s eyes. Rhys tried to focus … but he was finding it impossible to make sense of a game that had never made sense. Trying to remember what piece he was supposed to move, he was alarmed to see the black hexes rise up from the board and float a good three inches off the surface. Rhys blinked his eyes and drew in a deep breath, and the black hexes returned to their normal position.
Krell’s fingers drummed on the chair. He leaned forward, his hand reaching for one of the dark knight pieces.
When Nightshade first broke into a run, Rhys feared his eyes were again deceiving him. He stared at the khas piece, willing it to return to