Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [130]
The death knight’s heavy boots pounded closer.
The mantis’s horrific attack had scared Krell witless. No mortal could inflict pain on a death knight, but a god could and Krell knew agony and terror as the insect’s mandibles chomped down on his soul, as the hideous, bulbous eyes reflected back the nothingness of the death knight’s cursed existence.
Krell had always detested bugs.
He managed to land a few panic-stricken punches against the mantis and those were enough to dislodge it. Krell yanked his sword from its sheathe and thrust the blade into the insect’s body. Green blood oozed. The mantis’s jaws clicked horribly. Its spiny claws lashed out at him.
Krell slashed wildly at the mantis, hitting it again and again. He struck blindly, flailing away at it, not aware of what he was hitting, only wanting the horrible bug dead, dead, dead. It took him a few moments to realize he was stabbing thin air.
Krell halted, looked fearfully around.
The mantis was gone. The monk’s staff was there, lying on the floor. Krell lifted his foot, prepared to stomp on the staff and grind it to splinters. He held his foot poised in the air. Suppose he touched it and the bug came back? Slowly, Krell lowered his foot to the floor and edged away. Keeping as far from the staff as possible, he circled warily around it.
Krell peered under the table. The knight piece was not there, nor was the kender.
Krell looked at the board. The other knight piece remained, standing on its hex. He snatched it up, stared at it hopefully, then flung it from him with a bitter curse.
The death’s knight’s view of the theft having been blocked by a giant mantis trying to eat his head, Krell had not actually seen Rhys run off with the khas piece. But the death knight had no problem figuring out what had happened. He set off in pursuit of the monk, spurred on by the dreadful knowledge of what Chemosh would do to him if he lost Ariakan.
Krell dashed into the courtyard. He could see Rhys some distance away, running for his life. He could also see storm clouds, gray and menacing, gathering overhead. A bolt of lightning struck one of the towers. The next bolt, he had the feeling, would be aimed at him.
“Don’t you lay a hand on me, Zeboim!” Krell bellowed, desperately dissembling. “Your monk stole the wrong khas piece. Your son is still in my possession. If you do anything to help this thief escape, Chemosh will melt down your pretty pewter boy and hammer his soul into oblivion!”
Lightning flickered from cloud to cloud; thunder gave a low, ominous growl. The wind rose, the skies grew darker and still darker. A few spatters of rain fell, along with a couple of hail stones.
And that was all.
Krell chuckled and, rubbing his hands, he went after the monk.
Rhys heard Krell’s bellow and his heart sank.
“Zeboim!” Rhys called urgently. “He’s lying. I have your son! Take us away from here!”
Lightning flickered. The rumble of thunder was muted. The clouds swirling about overhead were confused, unsure. The death knight raced across the parade ground. His fists clenched, his red eyes flaring, Krell advanced, incensed. When he caught Rhys, he would do more than break a few fingers.
“Majesty,” Rhys prayed, “We risked our lives for you. Now is time for you to risk something for us.”
Rain drizzled down in desultory ploppings all around him. The wind sighed and gave up. The clouds began to retreat.
“Very well, Majesty,” said Rhys. He yanked the scrip from his belt. “Forgive me for what I’m about to do, but you’ve left me no choice.”
Grasping the pouch in his one good hand, Rhys looked around, getting his bearings, judging distance. This would be his last move, use up all his remaining strength. He broke into his final sprint.
The heavens opened. The rain fell heavily, pounding at him. Rhys ignored the goddess’s warning. She could bluster and blow and threaten all she wanted. She dared not do anything drastic to him, for he might, in truth, have her son in his possession.
Zeboim tried