Amber and Blood - Margaret Weis [20]
“Monk! I know you’re in there.”
That voice was muffled, yet Nightshade had no trouble recognizing it.
“Krell!” he yelped. “Rhys, it’s Krell!”
Nightshade was as immune to fear as the next kender, but he was also blessed with a good deal more common sense than most kender; a fact which he attributed to spending a lot of his time conversing with the dead. And so, instead of rushing out to greet the death knight, as any other kender would have done, Nightshade scuttled backward on all fours and yelled again for Rhys.
“I am awake,” said Rhys calmly.
He was on his feet, the emmide in his hands.
“Atta, silence. Here.”
The dog trotted over to stand beside him. She no longer barked, though she continued to growl.
Krell swaggered into the grotto. He was no longer wearing the accursed armor of a death knight. His armor was that of death. His helm was a ram’s skull. The horns curled back from his head, and his eyes were visible inside the skull’s eye sockets. His breastplate was made of bone—the top part of the skull of some gigantic beast. His arms and legs were encased in bone, as if he wore his skeleton on the outside of his body. Bony spines protruded from his hands and elbows and shoulders, and he carried a sword with a bone hilt.
He was a formidable sight, yet the eyes that glared out from behind the ram’s skull did not burn with the terrifying fire of undeath. His eyes were dull and flat. He did not stink of death. He just stank; he was sweating under the weight of his armor. His breath rasped, for the armor was heavy, and he’d been forced to walk all the way from the castle.
Nightshade quit crawling and sat back on his heels.
“Krell, you’re alive!” said Nightshade, though he was not sure this was an improvement. “You’re not a death knight anymore.”
“Shut up!” Krell snarled. He looked searchingly around the grotto, glanced without interest at the sleeping child, glared at the kender, then turned back to Rhys. “I’ve come for Mina. In the name of my lord Chemosh, I demand to know where she is.”
“Not here,” said Nightshade promptly. “We don’t know where she is. We haven’t seen her, have we, Rhys?”
Rhys was silent.
Krell’s eyes narrowed. Though dimly lit, the grotto wasn’t very big and there were no nooks or crannies where someone could hide.
“Where’s Mina?” Krell asked again.
“You can see for yourself,” said Nightshade loudly. “She’s not here.”
“Then where is she?” Krell demanded. He kept his gaze on Rhys. “Remember the last time we met, Monk? Remember what I did to you? I broke almost every bone in your hand. Now I won’t waste time breaking bones. I’ll just cut your hand off the wrist—”
Krell drew his sword and took a step toward Rhys.
“Atta, stop—” Rhys began, but he was too late.
Atta lunged at Krell and sank her teeth into his calf muscle, a part of his leg left unprotected by the bone shin-guards.
Krell howled in pain and, twisting around, he peered down at his leg. Blood oozed from two rows of tooth marks. He snarled in rage and tried to slash at the dog with his sword. As Atta leaped deftly out of the way, Rhys blocked Krell’s blow with his staff.
Krell snorted in derision and hacked at the staff with his blade, thinking to snap it. Rhys swiftly raised the staff and slammed it into Krell’s hand, knocking the sword from his grasp. Krell wrung his fingers and glared at Rhys, who had taken a step backward.
Krell bent down to retrieve his blade.
“Atta, guard,” said Rhys.
Atta crouched over the sword. Her lip curled back from her teeth, and she snapped viciously at Krell’s hand. He snatched it back, his fingers bloody.
“I think you should leave now,” Rhys said. “Tell your master that the Mina he seeks is not with me.”
“You’re a rotten liar, Monk!” Krell said. His breath from the skull helm was foul. “You know where she is and you’ll tell me. You’ll be begging to tell me! I don’t need a sword to kill you in any number of nasty ways.”
Rhys did not feel fear, as he had felt before in the presence of the death knight. He felt disgust, revulsion.
Krell was