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“Think you’re clever, don’t you, Monk.” Krell picked up his bone spear. “See if you can dodge this!”
He was about to hurl the weapon when a woman dressed in red robes materialized out of the smoke-tinged air right in front of him. Her sudden and unexpected appearance rattled Krell. His hand jerked, throwing off his aim. The spear missed its mark and clattered to the floor.
Mistress Je
“For a monk, you lead the most interesting life, Brother,” Je
Speaking a word of magic, she waved her hand in a dismissive gesture and the golden bands that bound Rhys sprang off him, freeing him. A motion from Je
The former death knight had considered himself up to the task of fighting an unarmed monk, a kender, and a little girl. No one had said anything about a wizardess. Seeing that he was outflanked, Krell summoned help. Hearing his master’s urgent call, a Bone Warrior left off battling the clerics of Mishakal and came to Krell’s aid.
Rhys caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye and called out a warning.
Je
She let go of the spell she had been about to cast, for it would not work against this undead monstrosity.
“A Bone Warrior,” she remarked to herself. “Chemosh must be growing desperate.”
An interesting observation, but not much help. Je
Confident that the a
He snarled in fury. The only way to insure the staff didn’t turn into a bug again was to kill its monk-master. Krell hurled his spear at the monk, and this time his aim was true.
Je
The minotaur bone warrior was in front of her now. Raising an enormous battle axe over his head, he brought the blade slashing down, intending to cleave her skull. He would have succeeded, but her skull did not happen to be there at the moment. The minotaur’s sword sliced through an illusion of Je
The real Je
The minotaur spotted her immediately and, swinging his sword, came roaring in her direction. Je
Rhys was dimly aware of Je
Rhys gripped his staff firmly, faced his enemy fearlessly. Krell was armored in bones and, to Rhys’ mind, they were the bones of all those Krell had slain. His hands were stained with blood. He stank of death, his soul as foul and rotting as his body.
Majere is known to be a patient god, a god of discipline, who does not give way to emotion. Majere is saddened by the faults of man, rarely angered by them. Thus he teaches his monk to use “merciful discipline” to stop those who would harm them or others, to prevent those intent on evil from committing acts of violence without resorting to violence. Punish, deter, do not kill.
Yet, there are times when Majere knows rage. Times when the god can bear no longer bear to see the suffering of i
Do not let your anger master you, his monks are taught. If you do, your aim will be off, your hands will shake, your feet will slip.
Though months had passed since that terrible time, Rhys remembered vividly how he had been consumed by his anger as he stood gazing in horror at the bodies of his murdered brethren. His rage had choked him with its bitter bile. His anger had blinded him, then cast him into hellish darkness. He knew anger now, but this anger was different. The god’s anger was cold and pure, bright and blazing as the stars.
Je
She reveled in a rush of warmth, a tingling thrill that shot through her body. The magic foamed and bubbled and surged in her blood. She seized it, directed it, cast it forth. The magic splintered. Beams of colored light shot from her fingers.
As though she had grabbed a rainbow from the sky and flung it at the minotaur, seven blazing streams of red and orange, yellow and green, blue, indigo, and violet light splashed over her foe.
The yellow beams shot jolts of energy into his body, disrupting the unholy magic that gave the corpse the hideous semblance of life. His limbs jerked. The minotaur twitched and writhed. The red beam struck his battle axe, setting it ablaze. The orange ray began to devour what was left of his hideous flesh.