Amber and Iron - Margaret Weis [14]
Krell clomped heavily up treacherous stairs carved out of the cliff face. Peering through the eye slits of his helm, Krell saw the black coat and white lace collar of the Lord of Death. He saw no more than that. Krell didn’t have the nerve to look the god in the eye.
Krell promptly fell to his knees.
“My lord Chemosh,” prayed the cringing death knight. “I know I let you down. I admit I lost the khas piece, but it wasn’t my fault. There was a kender and a staff that turned into a giant bug … and how I could know the monk was suicidal?”
The Lord of Death said nothing.
Metaphorically speaking, Krell started to sweat.
“My lord Chemosh,” he pleaded, “I’ll make it up to you. I’ll be in your debt forever. I’ll do anything you command of me. Anything! Spare me your wrath!”
Chemosh sighed. “You are fortunate that I have need of you, miserable wretch. Stand up! You’re dripping on my boots.”
Krell rose ponderously to his feet. “You’ll save me from her, too?” He jerked his thumb up at the sky to indicate the vengeful goddess. Zeboim’s fury was lighting the skies, her thunderous fist pounding the ground.
“I suppose I must,” said Chemosh, and he sounded lethargic, too worn-out to care. “As I said, I have need of you.”
Krell was uneasy. He didn’t like the god’s tone. Risking taking a closer look, the death knight was startled by what he saw.
The Lord of Death looked worse than death. One might say he looked alive—alive and suffering. His face was pallid, drawn, and haggard. His hair was ragged, his clothes unkempt. The lace at his sleeve was torn and stained. His collar was undone, his shirt half-open. His eyes were empty, his voice hollow. He moved in a listless manner, as though even lifting his hand cost him great effort. Though he spoke to Krell, he didn’t really seem to see him or take much interest in him.
“My lord, what is wrong?” asked Krell. “You don’t look well.…”
“I am a god,” returned Chemosh stonily. “I am always well. More’s the pity.”
Krell could only imagine there had been some crushing defeat in the war.
“Name your enemy, lord,” said Krell, eager to please, “the one who did this to you. I will find him and rip him—”
“Nuitari is my enemy,” said Chemosh.
“Nuitari,” the death knight repeated uneasily, already regretting his rash promise. “The God of the Dark Moon. Why him, particularly?”
“Mina is dead,” said Chemosh.
“Mina dead?” Krell was about to add “Good riddance!” when he remembered just in time that Chemosh had been strangely enamored of the human female.
“I am truly sorry, my lord,” Krell amended, trying to sound sympathetic. “How did this … um … terrible tragedy happen?”
“Nuitari murdered her,” said Chemosh viciously. “He will pay! You will make him pay!”
Krell was alarmed. Nuitari, the powerful god of dark magic, was not quite the enemy he’d had in mind.
“I would, my lord, but I am certain you will want to avenge her death on Nuitari yourself. Perhaps I could seek vengeance on Chislev or Hiddukel? They were undoubtedly in on the plot—”
Chemosh flicked a finger, and Krell went flying backward to smash up against the stone wall. He slid down the wall and lay in a heap of jumbled armor at the feet of the Lord of Death.
“You sniveling, craven, squirming toad,” Chemosh said coldly. “You will do what I tell you to do, or I will turn you into the spineless jellyfish that you are and hand you over to the Sea Goddess with my compliments. What do you have to say to that?”
Krell mumbled something.
Chemosh bent down. “I couldn’t quite hear you.”
“As always, my lord,” Krell said glumly, “I am yours to command.”
“I thought you might be,” said Chemosh. “Now come along.”
“Not … not to visit Nuitari?” Krell quailed.
“To my dwelling, you oaf,” said Chemosh. “There is something I need you to do for me first.”
Having determined to take a more active interest in the world of the living with the view to one day