Amber and Blood - Margaret Weis [70]
“We’ll leave in a moment,” Krell said to Mina. “First I have a monk to kill.”
Krell broke off another bone spear and stood over Rhys. “Wake up,” he ordered, jabbing Rhys in the ribs with the spear. “It’s no fun killing someone who’s unconscious. I want you to see this coming. Wake up!” He jabbed Rhys again. Blood stained the orange robes.
Nightshade wiped away a trickle of sweat that was rolling down his neck and then, stretching forth his sweat-damp fingers in Krell’s direction, the kender began to softly sing.
“You’re growing tired. You cannot smile.
You feel as though you’ve walked a mile.
Your muscles ache.
You start to shake.
And very soon you’ll start to quake.
And as you ease down to your knees
now’s the time
I end my rhyme,
you great big sleaze.”
The “sleaze” term wasn’t really part of the mystical spell, but Nightshade added the word because it rhymed and was expressive of his feelings. His chant had been interrupted a couple of times when smoke went down his windpipe and he had to cough, and he worried this might ruin the spell. He waited a tense moment as nothing happened, and then he felt the magic. The magic came from the water and seeped through his shoes. The magic came from the smoke and he breathed it in. The magic came from the stone, and it was cold and made him shiver. The magic came from the fire, and it was warm and exciting.
When all the parts of the magic had mixed together, Nightshade cast his spell.
A ray of dark light shot from his fingers.
This was Nightshade’s favorite part—the ray of dark light. He liked it because there could be no such thing as “dark” light. But that was how the spell was named, or so his mother had told him when she taught it to him. And, in point of fact, the light wasn’t really dark. It was a purplish light with a white heart. Still Nightshade could see how one might describe it as being a “dark” light. If he hadn’t been so worried about Rhys and Atta, he would have really enjoyed himself.
The dark light struck Krell in the back, enveloping him in purplish white, and then the light evaporated.
Krell gave a spasmodic jerk and nearly dropped the spear. He shook his helmed head, as though wondering what had come over him, then glared suspiciously at Mina.
She lay where he’d left her, bound in the magical coils. She had quit crying and was staring in wide-eyed amazement at Nightshade.
“Don’t say anything!” Nightshade mouthed. “Please for once, keep your mouth shut!” He crawled back even farther under the bench.
Krell apparently decided he’d been imagining things. He hefted his spear, getting a better grip, preparing to drive it into Rhys’s chest. Nightshade knew then that his spell had failed, and he gnashed his teeth in frustration. He was about to hurl his own small body at Krell in what would probably be a fatal attempt to knock him down, when Krell suddenly swayed on his feet. He took a few staggering steps. The bone spear slipped from his hand.
“That’s it!” Nightshade cried gleefully. “You’re feeling tired. Really, really tired. And that armor is really, really heavy …”
Krell sagged to his knees. He tried to stand up again, but the bone armor weighed him down, and he toppled to the floor. Encased in the bone armor, he lay helpless on his back, feebly flapping his arms and legs like an overturned turtle.
Nightshade crawled out from his hiding place. He didn’t have much time. The spell would not last long.
“Help!” he shouted, coughing in the smoke. “Help me! I need help! Rhys is hurt! Abbot! Someone! Anyone!”
No one came. The priests and the Abbot were out in the street, fighting a battle that was, by the sounds of it, still raging and growing worse. The fire, too, appeared to be spreading, for the chamber was now obscured in smoke, and he could see flames shooting up over the tops of the trees.
Nightshade grabbed hold of the bone spear. Krell was glaring at him from out of the eye sockets of his helm and cursing