Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [99]
“Sit down, Krell,” he said testily. “I understand that you are fond of the game of khas.”
“Maybe I am, my lord,” said Krell warily, suspecting a trap.
He glared hard at the chair, which had materialized out of the darkness of the Abyss. When he thought Chemosh wasn’t looking, Krell gave the chair a surreptitious poke with his finger.
“Sit, Krell,” Chemosh repeated coldly. “I like eyes—even pig’s eyes—on a level with mine.”
The death knight lowered his armor-encased nothingness ponderously into the chair.
Chemosh waved his hand, and a single point of light shone down upon a khas board.
“What do you think of these pieces, Krell?” Chemosh asked casually. “I had them specially made. They’re carved out of bone.”
Krell was about to say he didn’t give a damn if they were carved out of horse manure, but then he caught Chemosh’s eye. With a gloved forefinger and thumb, Krell picked up one of the pawns, carved to resemble a goblin, and made a show of admiring it.
“Nice workmanship, my lord. Is it elven?”
“No,” said Chemosh. “Goblin. These pieces are elven.” He gestured to the two elf clerics.
“I didn’t know goblins could carve as well as this,” Krell remarked, pinching the goblin by the neck as he peered at it intently.
Chemosh sighed deeply. Even the life of a god was too short to deal with someone as thick-headed as Ausric Krell.
“It isn’t carved at all, you dull-witted lunk head. When I said it was made of bone, I meant that it is—Oh, never mind. That’s a goblin you’re holding. A dead one, shrunken down.”
“Ha, ha!” Krell laughed heartily. “That’s a good one. And these are dead elves?” He gave one of the clerics a poke. “And is this a dead kender—”
“Enough, Krell!” Chemosh drew in a deep breath, then continued as patiently as he could. “I am about to launch my campaign.”
The god placed his elbows on the table, on either side of the khas board, and leaned over it, as though contemplating a move.
“The action I plan to take will, of necessity, attract the attention of the other gods. Only one poses a significant threat to me. Only one could be a serious hindrance. In fact, she has already started to seriously annoy me.”
He fixed his eye upon Krell, to make certain he was attending.
“Yes, my lord.” Krell looked less stupid now. Campaign, battle—these were things he understood.
“The goddess who concerns me is Zeboim,” Chemosh said.
Krell grunted.
“She has come across a follower—a disenfranchised monk of Majere—who has stumbled upon the secret of the Beloved of Chemosh. He has told Zeboim, and she is threatening to expose me unless I return you to Storm’s Keep.”
“You’re not going to do that, are you, my lord?” Krell asked nervously.
Reaching out his hand, Chemosh picked up one of the pieces from the side of darkness—the piece known as the knight. He fondled the piece, twisted it in his hand.
“As a matter of fact, I am. Wait!” He raised a hand, as Krell squealed in irate protest. “Hear me out. What do you think of this move, Krell?”
He slowly and deliberately placed the piece in front of the black queen.
“You can’t make such a move, my lord,” Krell rumbled. “It’s against the rules.”
“It is, Krell,” Chemosh conceded. “Against all the rules. Pick up that piece. Take a good look at it. What do you make of it?”
Krell lifted up the piece and peered at it through the eye slits of his helm. “It is a knight riding a dragon.”
“Describe it further,” Chemosh prompted.
“The knight is a Dark Knight of Takhisis,” Krell stated, after closer perusal. “He has the symbol of the lily and the skull on his armor.”
“Most observant, Krell,” remarked Chemosh.
Krell was pleased, not recognizing the sarcasm. “He is wearing a cape and a helm, and he rides a blue dragon.”
“Is there anything at all familiar about this knight, Krell?” Chemosh asked.
Krell held the piece practically to his nose. The red eyes flared.
“Lord Ariakan!” Krell stared at the piece, incredulous. “Down to the last detail!”
“Indeed,” said Chemosh. “Lord Ariakan, beloved son of Zeboim. Your task is to guard that khas piece, Krell. Keep