Amber and Iron - Margaret Weis [123]
At that moment, Nightshade came running into the grotto, his fists clenched.
“Rhys, I’m here—” The kender stopped, stared. “Who are you? Wait! I think I know you! You seem very familiar to me … Oh, gods!” Nightshade began to shake all over. “I do know you! You’re Death!”
“I am your death, at least,” Chemosh said coldly, and he reached out his hand to throttle the kender.
The ground gave a sudden, violent lurch that knocked Chemosh off his feet. The cavern walls shuddered and cracked. Bits of rock and dirt rained down on them and then, with a small shiver, the earth settled and was quiet.
God and mortals stared at each other. Chemosh was on his hands and knees. Atta crouched on her belly, whimpering.
The Lord of Death picked himself up off the floor. Ignoring the mortals, he stared up into the darkness.
“Which of you shakes the world?” he cried, fists clenched. “You, Sargonnas? Zeboim? You, Majere?”
If there was an answer, the mortals could not hear it. Rhys was barely conscious, consumed by pain, hardly aware of what was going on. Nightshade had his eyes closed, and he was hoping the next time the ground shook it would open up and suck him down inside. Better that than have Death’s cold gaze fall upon him again.
“We will meet in the Abyss, monk,” Chemosh promised and disappeared.
“Whoo, boy,” Nightshade said, shuddering. “I’m glad he’s gone. He could have left us some light, though. It’s dark as a goblin’s innards in here. Rhys …”
The earth shook again.
Nightshade threw himself flat on the ground, one arm clutching Atta and the other arm covering his head.
The cracks in the grotto’s walls widened. Rocks and pebbles, clods of dirt, and a few dislodged beetles rained down on top of him. Then there was a horrendous crashing and grinding sound, and Nightshade shut his eyes tight and waited for the end.
Once more, everything was still. The ground ceased its wild gyrations. Nightshade didn’t trust it, however, and he kept his eyes shut. Atta started to wriggle and squirm beneath his clutching grasp. He let her go, and she scooted out from underneath him. Then he felt one of the beetles crawling in his hair, and that made him open his eyes. He grabbed hold of the beetle and threw it off.
Atta began to bark sharply. Nightshade wiped the grit out of his eyelids and looked around to find that whether his eyes were open or shut didn’t make much difference. It was dark either way.
Atta kept barking.
Nightshade was afraid to stand up for fear he might bash into something, so he crawled on his hands, feeling his way, following the sounds of Atta’s frantic yelps.
“Atta?” He reached out his hand and felt her furry body. She was pawing at something and continuing to bark.
Nightshade groped about with his hands and felt lots of sharp rocks and then something warm and soft.
“Rhys!” Nightshade breathed thankfully.
He felt about and found his friend’s nose and eyes—the eyes were closed. Rhys’s forehead was warm. He was breathing, but he must be unconscious. Nightshade’s hand touched Rhys’s head, and felt something warm and sticky running down the back of Rhys’s neck.
Atta ceased pawing at Rhys and began to lick his cheek.
“I don’t think dog slobber’s going to do him much good, Atta,” said Nightshade, pushing her away. “We have to get him out of here.”
He could still smell salt-tinged air, and he hoped this meant the grotto’s entrance had not collapsed. Nightshade gripped Rhys by the shoulders, gave him an experimental tug, and was heartened to feel his friend’s body slide across the floor. He had been worried that Rhys might have been half-buried in rubble.
Nightshade pulled again, and Rhys came along with him, and the kender was just starting to think they might make it out of here alive when he heard a sound that nearly buried