Amber and Iron - Margaret Weis [5]
“Zeboim,” the monk cried, “we are in your hands.”
Krell roared.
The monk jumped.
Krell blundered his way among the rocks, his momentum carrying him along at such a frantic pace that the edge of the cliff was upon him before he realized it, and he very nearly went over into the sea himself.
Krell teetered back and forth for what would have been a heart-stopping moment, if he’d had a heart, before hastily regaining his balance. He stumbled back several paces, then, creeping forward an inch at a time, he peered cautiously over the edge. He expected to see the monk’s mangled body lying sprawled on the rocks, with Zeboim lapping up his blood.
Nothing.
“I’m screwed,” Krell muttered glumly.
Krell glanced at the sky where the clouds were growing darker and thicker. The wind started to rise. Rain began to pour down on him, along with hailstones and lightning bolts, sleet and snow, and large chunks of a nearby tower.
Krell might have run for protection to Chemosh, but sadly, Chemosh was the god who had given Krell the khas piece for safekeeping—the khas piece that Krell had now lost. The Lord of Death was not known to be either merciful or forgiving.
“Somewhere on this island,” Krell reasoned, as he narrowly missed being flattened by a stone gargoyle hurtling past him, “there must be a hole deep enough and dark enough where no god can find me.”
Krell turned on his heel and lumbered off through the raging storm.
hys Mason was the monk who had made the desperate decision to leap off the cliffs of Storm’s Keep. He was making a gamble, staking his life and that of his friend, the kender, Nightshade, on the fact that Zeboim would not let them die. She could not let them die, for Rhys had in his possession the soul of her son.
At least, this is what Rhys was hoping. The thought was also in his mind that if the goddess abandoned him, he could either die slowly and in torment at the cruel whim of the death knight, or he could die swiftly on the rocks below.
As luck would have it, Rhys jumped into the water in an area around Storm’s Keep that was free of rocks. He plunged into the sea, sinking so deep that he left the light of day far above him. He floundered in the bone-chilling darkness, with no way to tell which way was up and which was down. Not that it mattered anyway. He could never reach the surface. He was drowning, his lungs bursting. When he opened his mouth, he would draw in gurgling, choking death.…
The immortal hand of a furious goddess reached into the depths of her ocean, gripped Rhys Mason by the scruff of his neck, plucked him from the seas, and flung him on shore.
“How dare you endanger my son?” the goddess cried.
She raged on, but Rhy did not hear her. Her fury closed over his head like the dark waters of the sea, and he knew nothing.
Rhys lay facedown in the warm sand. His monk’s robes were soaking wet, as were his shoes. His sodden hair trailed over his face. His lips were rimmed with salt, as was the inside of his mouth and his throat. He gagged, retched and fought to breathe.
Suddenly strong hands began to pummel him on his back, and swung his arms over his head, working his arms up and down in a pumping action to force the water out of his lungs.
Coughing, he spewed seawater out of his mouth.
“About time you came around,” Zeboim said, continuing to yank him and pump him.
Groaning, Rhys managed to croak, “Stop! Please!” He gagged up more water.
The goddess let go, allowing his arms to drop limply to the sand.
Rhys’s eyes burned from the salt. He could barely open them. He peered through half-shut lids to see the hem of a green gown rippling over the sand near his head. The toe of a bare, shapely foot prodded him.
“Where is he, monk?” Zeboim demanded.
The goddess knelt down beside him. Her blue-green eyes glowed. A restless wind stirred her sea foam hair. She grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head off the ground and glared into his eyes.
“Where is my son?”
Rhys