Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [94]
Standing over his fallen brother, Rhys drove the butt end of the staff with all his strength into Lleu’s spinal column, separating the vertebrae, smashing through to the spinal cord, severing it.
Rhys fell back, on the defensive, watching his brother.
“My mystic spell didn’t work!” Nightshade panted, running toward him. “I’ve cast that spell a hundred zillion times and it always stops undead. Usually bowls ’em over like nine pins. It didn’t even faze your brother.”
Lleu grimaced, as if he’d stubbed his toe, then, slowly, as though putting himself back together, he started to regain his feet. He rubbed his back, arching it.
“If you want my opinion, Rhys,” the kender added, gasping for breath, “you can’t do anything to kill them. Now would be a good time to run away!”
Rhys didn’t answer. He was watching Lleu.
“Right now!” Nightshade urged, tugging on Rhys’s sleeve.
“I told you before, Rhys,” said Lleu. He reached down to his maimed hand, grabbed the wrist and snapped it back in place. “I am one of the Beloved of Chemosh. I have his gift. Life unending …”
“I am also Beloved of Chemosh,” said Lucy. She appeared oblivious to the fact that her nose was mangled and bloodied. “I have his gift. Life unending. You can have it, too, Rhys. Give yourself to Chemosh.”
The two corpses advanced on him, their eyes alight, not with life, but with the desperate need to take life.
Bile filled Rhys’s mouth. His stomach clenched. He turned and fled, running through the forest, crashing into tree limbs, plunging headlong into weed patches. He stopped to be sick, and then he ran again, ran from the mocking laughter that danced among the trees, ran from the body of the girl in his arms, ran from the bodies in the mass grave at the monastery. He ran blindly, heedlessly, ran until he had no more strength and he fell to the ground, gasping and sobbing. He was sick again and again, even when there was nothing left to purge, and then he heaved up blood. At last, exhausted, he rolled over on his back and lay there, his body clenched and shaking.
Here Nightshade found him.
Although the kender had recommended running away, he hadn’t been prepared for Rhys to act on his advice in quite such a sudden manner. Caught off guard, Nightshade made a slow start. The hungry eyes of the two Beloved of Chemosh turning in his direction put an extra spring in the kender’s step. He couldn’t see Rhys, but he could hear him tearing and slashing his way through the forest. Kender have excellent night vision, much better than humans, and Nightshade soon came across Rhys, lying on the forest floor, eyes closed, breathing labored.
“Now don’t you go dying on me,” the kender ordered, squatting down beside his friend.
He laid his hand on Rhys’s forehead and felt it warm. His breathing was harsh and rasping from his raw throat, but strong. Nightshade recited a little singsong chant he’d learned from his parents and stroked the monk’s hair soothingly, much the way the kender petted Atta.
Rhys sighed deeply. His body relaxed. He opened his eyes and, seeing Nightshade bending over him, gave a wan smile.
“How are you feeling?” Nightshade asked anxiously.
“Much better,” Rhys said. His stomach had ceased to churn, his raw throat felt warm and soothed, as if he’d drunk a honey posset. “You have hidden talents, seemingly.”
“Just a little healing spell I picked up from my parents,” Nightshade replied modestly. “It comes in handy sometimes—mending broken bones and stopping bleeding and making fevers go away. I can’t do anything major, not like bringing back the dead—” He gulped, bit his lip. “Oops. Sorry. Didn’t mean to mention that.”
Rhys rose swiftly to his feet. “How long was I unconscious?”
“Not long. You might have waited for me, you know?”
“I wasn’t thinking,” Rhys said softly. “I couldn’t think of anything except how horrible—” He shook his head. “Are they coming after us?”
Nightshade glanced back over his shoulder. “I don’t know. I guess not. I don’t hear them, do you?”
Rhys shook his head. “I wish I could.”
“You want them to chase after