Amber and Iron Page 4

  Rhys stroked the dog’s silky ears.

  “Well, one day—yesterday it was—one of the regulars, a farmer come to sell his wares at the market—took his lunch at the Inn as usual. He bent down to pet Atta like he always does. Only this time she growled at him and snapped. He laughed and backed off, saying he must have got on her bad side. Then he started to sit down next to me. Atta was on her feet in a flash. She moved her body between me and him. Her fur bristled. She bared her teeth, her lip curling back. I couldn’t imagine what had gotten into her!”

  Gerard looked uncomfortable. “I spoke to her pretty sharply, I’m afraid, Brother. And I marched her off to the stables to tie her up until she learned to behave herself. Now I’m thinking I owe her an apology.” Taking a strip of chicken, he handed it to the dog. “I’m sorry, Atta. It seems you knew what you were doing all along.”

  “What happened to the farmer?”

  Gerard shook his head. “I haven’t seen him since.” He sat back in his chair, frowning.

  “What are you thinking, Sheriff?” Rhys asked.

  “I’m thinking that if these two can recognize one of these Beloved by sight, that we could set a trap. Catch one in the act.”

  “I did that,” said Rhys grimly. “I stood by helplessly as my brother killed an innocent young girl. I won’t be party to the same mistake again.”

  “That won’t happen this time, Brother,” Gerard argued. “I have a plan. We’ll take guards with us. My best men. We’ll ask the Beloved to surrender. If that doesn’t work, we’ll use more drastic measures. No one will get hurt. I’ll see to that.”

  Rhys remained unconvinced.

  “One other question,” Gerard said. “What does Zeboim have to do with all this?”

  “It seems that there is a war among the gods—”

  “Just what we need,” Gerard burst out angrily. “We mortals finally achieve peace on Ansalon—relatively speaking—and now the gods start slugging it out again. Some sort of power struggle now that the Queen of Darkness is dead and gone, I’ll bet. And we poor mortals are caught in the middle. Why can’t the gods just leave us alone, Brother? Let us work out our own problems!”

  “We’ve done so well so far,” Rhys said dryly.

  “All the trouble that has ever plagued this world has been caused by the gods,” Gerard stated heatedly.

  “Not by gods,” Rhys countered gently. “By mortals in the name of the gods.”

  Gerard snorted. “I don’t say that things were great when the gods were gone, but at least we didn’t have dead people walking around committing murder—” He saw that Rhys was looking uncomfortable and stopped his harangue.

  “I’m sorry, Brother. Don’t mind me. I get riled up over this. Go on with your story. I need to know all I can if I’m going to fight these things.”

  Rhys hesitated, then said quietly, “When I lost my own faith, I called upon a god—any god—to side with me. Zeboim answered my prayer. One of the few times she has ever answered any of my prayers. The goddess told me that the person behind all of this was someone called Mina—”

  “Mina!”

  Gerard stood up so fast he upset the bowl of stew, spilling it to the floor, much to Atta’s delight. She was too well trained to beg, but, by the Immortal Law of Dogs, if food falls on the floor, it’s up for grabs.

  Nightshade gave a dismayed cry and dove to save lunch, but Atta was too quick for him. The dog gulped down the rest of the chicken, not even bothering to chew it first.

  “What do you know of this Mina?” asked Rhys, startled by Gerard’s intense reaction.

  “Know of her. Brother, I’ve met her,” said Gerard. He ran his hand through his yellow hair, causing it to stand straight up. “And I tell you, Rhys Mason, it’s not something I ever want to do again. She’s fey, that one. If she’s behind this …” He fell silent, brooding.

  “Yes,” Rhys prompted. “If she’s behind this, what?”

  “Then I’m thinking I’d better rethink my plan,” said Gerard grimly. He headed for the door. “You and the kender sit tight. I have work to do. I’ll need you to in Solace a few days, Brother.”

  Rhys shook his head. “I’m sorry, Sheriff, but I must continue my search for my brother. I’ve lost precious time as it is—”

  Gerard halted in the open doorway, turned around.

  “And if you find him, Brother, what then? Will you just keep trailing after him, watching him kill people? Or do you want to stop him for good?”

  Rhys made no reply. He gazed at Gerard in silence.

  “I could use your help, Brother. Yours and Atta’s and, yes, even the kender’s,” Gerard added grudgingly. “Will all three of you stay, just for a few days?”

  “A sheriff asking a kender for help!” Nightshade said, awed. “I’ll bet that’s never happened in the whole history of the world. Let’s stay, Rhys.”

  Rhys’s eyes were drawn to the emmide, standing in the corner. “Very well, Sheriff. We will stay.”

  rell!” The voice echoed through the cavernous corridors of Storm’s Keep and went on booming even after the echoes had faded, bouncing around the inside of the death knight’s empty helm. “Show yourself.”

  The death knight recognized the voice, and he burrowed deeper into his hole. Even here, far underground, water from the constant storms that lashed his island found its way through cracks and crevices. The rain ran in rivulets down the stone wall. Water seeped into his empty boots and flowed through his shin guards.

  “Krell,” said the voice grimly, “I know you’re down there. Don’t make me come after you.”

  “Yes, m’lord,” Krell mumbled. “I’ll come out.”

  Sloshing through the water, the death knight waded along the short corridor that led to an opening sealed off by an iron grate, hinged so that the slaves could open it when they were sent down to clean.

  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 ruling over that world, the Lord of Death had left his dark palace on the planes of the Abyss. He had searched for a suitable location for his new dwelling and found it in an abandoned castle overlooking the Blood Sea in the area called the Desolation.

  When the Dragon Overlord, Malys, seized control of this part of Ansalon, she ravaged the countryside, laying waste to fields and farmlands, towns and villages and cities. The land was cursed so long as she was in power. Nothing grew. Rivers and streams dried up. Once-fertile fields became windswept desert. Starvation and disease spread. Cities such as Flotsam lost much of their population as people fled the dragon’s curse. The entire area became known as the Desolation.

  With the death of Malys at the hands of Mina, the dread effects of the dragon’s evil magic on the Desolation were reversed. Almost from the moment of Malys’s demise, rivers began to flow and lakes to fill. Small shoots of green thrust up out of barren soil, as though life had been there all this time, waiting only for the enchantment that held it in thrall to be removed.

  With the return of the gods, this process accelerated, so that already some areas were almost back to normal. People returned and began to rebuild. Flotsam, located about one hundred and fifty miles from Chemosh’s castle, was not quite the rollicking, bustling center of commerce—both legal and illegal—that it had once been, but it was no longer a ghost town. Pirates and legitimate sailors of all races roamed the streets of the famous port city. Markets and shops reopened. Flotsam was back and open for business.

  Large areas of the Desolation still remained cursed, however. No one could figure out why or how. A druidess devoted to Chislev, goddess of nature, was exploring these areas, when she came across one of Malys’s scales. The druidess theorized that the presence of the scale might have something to do with the continuation of the curse. She burned the scale in a sacred ceremony, and it is said that Chislev herself, disturbed by this disruption of nature, blessed the ceremony. The destruction of the scale did nothing to change things, but the story spread and the theory took hold, so these cursed areas became known as “scale-fall.”

  One of these scale-fall areas Chemosh claimed for his own. His castle stood on a promontory overlooking the Blood Sea on what was known as the Somber Coast.

  Chemosh cared nothing about the lingering curse. He had no interest in green and growing things, so it mattered little to him that the hills and valleys around his castle were denuded, barren, empty expanses of ashy soil and charred stone.

  The castle he took over was in ruins when he found it, the dragon having slain the inhabitants and razed and burned the castle. He had chosen this location because it was only about fifty miles from the Tower of the Blood Sea. He had intended to use his castle as a base of operation, planning to store here the sacred artifacts he would remove from the wreckage of the Tower. Here, he had fondly imagined, he would take his time sorting, cataloging and calculating the immense value of the sacred artifacts that dated back to the time of the Kingpriest of Istar.

  The castle would not only serve as a depository for the artifacts but as a fortress to guard them. Using rock mined by lost souls in the Abyss, Chemosh rebuilt the castle, making it so strong not even the gods themselves could assail it. The Abyssal rock was blacker than black marble and far harder. Only the hand of Chemosh could shape it into blocks, and the blocks were so heavy only he could lift them into place. The castle was constructed with four watchtowers, one on each corner. Two walls—an inner wall and an outer wall—surrounded it. The most unique feature of this castle was that no gates penetrated the walls. There appeared to be no way in and no way out.

  The dead who guarded the castle needed no gates. The wraiths, ghosts and restless spirits Chemosh brought to defend his dwelling could pass through the Abyssal rock as easily as a mortal slips through a leafy green bower. Chemosh needed an entrance for his new disciples, however. The Beloved were dead, but they still retained their corporeal forms. They entered through a magical portal located at a single point in the north wall. The portal could be controlled by Chemosh, the castle’s master, and by one other, the person who was to have been the castle’s mistress.

  Mina.

  Chemosh had meant the castle to be a gift to her. He had named it both in her honor and as a tribute to his new disciples. He called it Castle Beloved.

  But only Mina’s ghost had come to take up residence.

  Mina was dead, slain by Nuitari, the God of the Black Moon, the same god who had put an end to Chemosh’s ambitious designs. Nuitari had secretly raised up the ruins of the Tower of High Sorcery of Istar. He had seized the treasure trove of holy artifacts that was to have put Chemosh on the throne as ruler of the heavenly pantheon. Nuitari had captured Mina, taken her prisoner, and in order to flaunt his power over the Lord of Death, Nuitari had slain her.

  Chemosh now dwelt alone in Castle Beloved. The place had become loathsome to him, for it was a constant reminder of the ruin of his schemes and plots. Much as he detested the castle, he found he could not leave. For Mina was there. Her spirit came to him there. She hovered near his bed—their bed. Her amber eyes gazed at him but could not see him. Her hand reached out to him but could not find him. Her voice spoke, but she could not talk to him. She listened for his voice, but she could not hear him when he called to her.

  The sight of her ghostly form tormented him, and he tried countless times to leave her. He returned to his abandoned dwelling in the Abyss. Her spirit could not follow him there, but the memory of her was there, and her memory left him feeling such bitter pain, he was forced to return to Castle Beloved to find solace in the sight of her wandering ghost.

  Chemosh would have his revenge against Nuitari, that much was assured. His plans were vague, however, still in formation. The death knight alone could not dislodge the powerful god from his Tower, though Chemosh did not say that to Krell. He planned to let Krell shake in his boots for a while. Krell owed Chemosh a few uncomfortable hours for losing Ariakan.

  Nor did Chemosh t
ell the death knight that his bungling had worked out for the best. Zeboim was Nuitari’s sister, but there was no love lost between the siblings. Chemosh now had a way to acquire Zeboim as a powerful ally.

  The Lord of Death, accompanied by a most reluctant Ausric Krell, passed through the inner and outer walls of the castle and entered the main hall, empty, save for a throne that stood upon a dais in the center. There was room on the dais for two thrones, and when he had first built the castle, there had been two thrones. The larger and more magnificent of these thrones belonged to the god. A smaller and more delicate throne was intended for Mina. Chemosh had smashed that throne to pieces.

  The wreckage of the throne lay strewn about the hall. Krell, clumping in after him, trod on some of the rubble. Hoping to regain favor in the eyes of the god, Krell began gushing over the castle’s architectural design.

  Chemosh paid no attention to the death knight’s fawnings. He seated himself on his throne and waited, tensely, for Mina’s ghost to come to him. The waiting was always agony. Part of him secretly hoped she would not materialize, that he would never see her again. Perhaps, then, he could forget. But if for some reason more time passed than was usual and her ghost did not appear, he felt he would go mad.

  Then she was here, and Chemosh gave a sigh that was mingled despair and relief. Her form, wavering and delicate and pale as though she were spun of cobweb, drifted through the hall toward him. She wore some sort of loose-fitting gown made of black silk that seemed stirred by the undercurrents of the deep, for it undulated gently around her ghostly form. She lifted a ghostly hand as she drew near him, and her mouth opened, as though she was saying something. Her words were smothered by death.

  “Krell,” Chemosh said tersely. “You reside on the plane of death, as does she. Speak to Mina’s spirit for me. Ask her what it is she so desperately wants to tell me! It is always the same,” he muttered feverishly, plucking the lace on his sleeve. “She comes to me and seems to want to say something to me, and I cannot hear her! Perhaps you will be able to communicate with her.”