Chapter 4.

You see, Sheriff, I don't know where the story starts," Rhys explained. "The story seems to have found me somewhere in the middle. It began when my brother, Lleu, came to visit me in the monastery. Our parents brought him. He had been running wild, carousing, keeping bad company. I saw nothing more in this than the high spirits of youth. As it turned out, I was blind. The Master of our order and Atta both saw clearly what I could not-that there was something terribly wrong with Lleu."

Atta raised her head and looked at Rhys and wagged her tail. He stroked her soft fur. "I should have listened to Atta. She realized immediately that my brother was a threat. She even bit him, something she never does."

Gerard eyed the dog, rubbed his chin. "True enough. Though she's had provocation." He was silent, thoughtful, gazing at the dog. "Now, I wonder..."

"Wonder what, Sheriff?"

Gerard waved his hand. "Never mind for now, Brother. Go on."

"That night," Rhys continued, "my brother poisoned my brethren and our parents. He murdered twenty people in the name of Chemosh."

Gerard sat bolt upright. He regarded Rhys in astonishment.

"He tried to murder me, too. Atta saved my life." Rhys rested his hand gratefully on the dog's head. "That night, I lost my faith in my god. I was angry with Majere for allowing such evil to happen to those who were his loyal and devoted servants. I sought a new god, one who would help me find my brother and avenge the deaths of those I loved. I cried out to the heavens, and a god answered me."

Gerard looked grave. "A god answering you. That's never good."

"The goddess was Zeboim," said Rhys.

"But you didn't take her up on it..." Gerard stared. "By heaven, you did! That's why you're not a monk anymore! And that woman... That crazy female in my jail... And the dead fish... Zeboim," he finished, awed.

"She was distraught," Rhys said by way of apology. "Chemosh was holding the soul of her son in thrall."

"She turned me into a khas piece," interjected Nightshade. "Without asking!" Indignantly, he helped himself to more chicken. "Then she whooshed us off to Storm's Keep to face a death knight. A death death knight! Someone who goes around mangling people! How crazy is that? And then there's her son, Ariakan. Don't get me started on him!" knight! Someone who goes around mangling people! How crazy is that? And then there's her son, Ariakan. Don't get me started on him!"

"Lord Ariakan," Gerard said slowly. "The commander of the dark knights during the Chaos War." Ariakan," Gerard said slowly. "The commander of the dark knights during the Chaos War."

"That's the one."

"The one who's been dead fifty or so years?"

"As the tombstones say, 'Dead but not forgotten,'" quoted Nightshade. "That was his whole problem. Lord Ariakan couldn't forget. And do you think he was grateful that Rhys and I were there trying to save him? Not a bit of it. Lord Ariakan flatly refused to go with me. I had to run across the board and knock him to the floor. That part was was kind of exciting." kind of exciting."

Nightshade grinned at the memory, then was suddenly remorseful. "Or it would have been, if Rhys hadn't been bleeding with pieces of bone sticking out of his skin where the death knight broke his fingers."

Gerard glanced at Rhys's hands. His fingers seemed perfectly whole.

"I see," he said. "Broken fingers."

"What happened to us is not important, Sheriff," said Rhys. "What is important is that we must find some way to stop these Beloved of Chemosh, as they call themselves. They are monsters who go about killing young people and turning them into Chemosh's slaves. They appear to be alive but, in fact, they are dead-"

"I can vouch for that," said Nightshade.

"And, what is more, they cannot be destroyed. I know," Rhys added simply. "I tried. I killed my brother. I broke Lleu's neck with the emmide. He shook it off as you would shake off bumping into a door."

"And I tried casting one of my spells on him. I'm a mystic, you know," Nightshade added proudly. Then he sighed. "I don't think Lleu even noticed. I cast one of my more powerful spells on him, too."

"You must appreciate the dire nature of this situation, Sheriff," Rhys continued earnestly. "The Beloved are luring unsuspecting youth to their doom and they cannot be stopped-at least not by any means we have tried. What's more, we cannot warn people about them because no one will believe us. The Beloved look and act in all respects just like anyone else. I could be one of them now, Sheriff, and you would never know."

"He's not, by the way," said Nightshade. "I can tell."

"How can you tell?" Gerard asked.

"My kind can see that they're dead right off," said Nightshade. "There's no warm glow coming from their bodies, like there is from you and Rhys and Atta and anyone else who's alive."

"Your kind," said Gerard. "You mean kender?"

"Not just any old kender. Kender nightstalkers. My dad says there aren't a lot of us around, though."

"What about you, Brother? Can you tell by looking?" Gerard was plainly working hard at not sounding skeptical.

"Not at first glance. But, if I get close enough, as Nightshade says, I can see it in the eyes. There is no light there, no life. The eyes of the Beloved are the dead, blank eyes of a corpse. There are other means by which they can be identified. The Beloved of Chemosh have incredible strength. They cannot be harmed or killed. And I think it likely that they each have a mark upon the left breast, over the heart. The mark of the deadly kiss that has killed them."

Rhys sat in thought, trying to remember all he could about his brother.

"There is something else that is odd about Lleu and might apply to all the Beloved. Over time, my brother-or, rather-the thing that was my brother-appeared to lose his memory. Lleu has no remembrance of me at all now. He has no memory of slaying his parents, or any of the other crimes he has committed. He is apparently unable to remember anything for very long. I have seen him eat a full meal and in the next breath complain that he is starving."

"Yet he remembers he's supposed to kill in the name of Chemosh," said Gerard.

"Yes." Rhys agreed somberly. "That is the one thing they do remember."

"Atta knows the Beloved when she sees one," said Nightshade, with a pat for the dog, who accepted his pat with a good grace, though she was obviously hoping for another bone. "If Atta knows, maybe other dogs know."

"That might explain a little mystery I've been wondering about," said Gerard, regarding Atta with interest. He shook his head. "Though if it does, then it's sorrowful news. You see, I've been keeping her with me when I do my work. She helps with the kender problem and she's useful to me in other ways, too. She's a good companion. I'll miss her, Brother. I don't mind telling you."

"Perhaps, when I return to the monastery, I can train another dog, Sheriff--" Rhys paused, wondering at what he'd just said. When I return When I return. He'd never meant to go back there.

"Would you, Brother?" Gerard was pleased. "That would be great! Anyway, back to what I was saying. Every day Atta and I have lunch at the Inn of the Last Home. Everyone there-the usual crowd-has gotten to know Atta. My friends come pet her and talk to her. She is always a lady. Very gracious and polite."

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."

Book 2

The Hall of Sacrilege

Chapter 1.

Krell!" 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..."