Dragons of Spring Dawning - Margaret Weis [66]
Kitiara remained kneeling, but she looked up at him. Seeing the flame of hatred in her brown eyes, Ariakas felt a moment’s thankfulness that he held his sword in his hand. Once more he was compelled to admire her. Even facing imminent death, there was no fear in her eyes. Only defiance.
He raised his blade, but the blow did not fall.
Bone-cold fingers wrapped around the wrist of his swordarm.
“I believe you should hear the Highlord’s explanation,” said a hollow voice.
Lord Ariakas was a strong man. He could hurl a spear with force enough to drive it completely through the body of a horse. He could break a man’s neck with one twist of his hand. Yet he found he could not wrench himself loose from the chill grasp that was slowly crushing his wrist. Finally, in agony, Ariakas dropped the sword. It fell to the floor with a clatter.
Somewhat shaken, Kitiara rose to her feet. Making a gesture, she commanded her minion to release Ariakas. The Lord whirled around, raising a hand to call forth the magic that would reduce this creature to cinders.
Then he stopped. Sucking in his breath, Ariakas stumbled backward, the magic spell he had been prepared to cast slipping from his mind.
Before him stood a figure no taller than himself, clad in armor so old it predated the Cataclysm. The armor was that of a Knight of Solamnia. The symbol of the Order of the Rose was traced upon the front, barely visible and worn with age. The armored figure wore no helm, it carried no weapon. Yet Ariakas—staring at it—fell back another step. For the figure he stared at was not the figure of a living man.
The being’s face was transparent. Ariakas could see right through it to the wall beyond. A pale light flickered in the cavernous eyes. It stared straight ahead, as if it, too, could see right through Ariakas.
“A death knight!” he whispered in awe.
The Lord rubbed his aching wrist, numb with the cold of those who dwell in realms far removed from the warmth of living flesh. More frightened than he dared admit, Ariakas bent down to retrieve his sword, muttering a charm to ward off the aftereffects of such a deadly touch. Rising, he cast a bitter glance at Kitiara, who was regarding him with a crooked smile.
“This—this creature serves you?” he asked hoarsely.
Kitiara shrugged. “Let us say, we agree to serve each other.”
Ariakas regarded her in grudging admiration. Casting a sidelong glance at the death knight, he sheathed his sword.
“Does he always frequent your bedroom?” he sneered. His wrist ached abominably.
“He comes and goes as he chooses,” Kitiara replied. She gathered the folds of the gown casually around her body, reacting apparently more from the chill in the early spring air than out of a desire for modesty. Shivering, she ran her hand through her curly hair and shrugged. “It’s his castle, after all.”
Ariakas paused, a faraway look in his eyes, his mind running back over ancient legends.
“Lord Soth!” he said suddenly, turning to the figure. “Knight of the Black Rose.”
The knight bowed in acknowledgment.
“I had forgotten the ancient story of Dargaard Keep,” Ariakas murmured, regarding Kitiara thoughtfully. “You have more nerve than even I gave you credit for, lady, taking up residence in this accursed dwelling! According to legend, Lord Soth commands a troop of skeletal warriors—”
“An effective force in a battle,” Kitiara replied, yawning. Walking over to a small table near a fireplace, she picked up a cut-glass carafe. “Their touch alone”—she regarded Ariakas with smile—“well, you know what their touch is like to those who lack the magic skills to defend against it. Some wine?”
“Very well,” Ariakas replied, his eyes still on the transparent face of Lord Soth. “What about the dark elves, the banshee women who reputedly follow him?”
“They’re here … somewhere.” Kit shivered again, then lifted her