“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 Jenna nodded her cowled head at Rhys, who was staring at her with as much astonishment as Krell.

“For a monk, you lead the most interesting life, Brother,” Jenna said coolly. “Please, allow me to assist you.”

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 Jenna sent the bands and the iron ball bounding off into the fountain. Freed from his bonds, Rhys grabbed up his emmide and turned to face Krell.

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.

Jenna turned to see a minotaur warrior come roaring in from the garden. At first startled glance, it seemed as if the minotaur had been turned inside out. He wore his skeleton over his flesh and matted fur. Blood oozed ceaselessly from hideous, gaping wounds. His entrails spewed out. His throat had been cut, and one eye dangled hideously from the eye socket of the minotaur’s skull that was now his helm. He carried a bloody sword in his hand and, shrieking in rage and torment, he came rushing straight at Jenna.

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. Jenna had never fought a Bone Warrior before and she had only seconds to figure out how to destroy it before it destroyed her.

Confident that the annoying wizardess would no longer be a concern, Krell prepared to finish the monk. He picked up his spear and was disconcerted to see Rhys pick up his staff. Krell remembered that staff, remembered it vividly. When the monk had been Krell’s “guest” on Storm’s Keep, the staff had transformed itself into a praying mantis. The bug had flown at Krell, wrapped its horrid legs around him, and sucked on his brain. Krell had been a death knight at the time, and the staff hadn’t done any real damage, but Krell loathed bugs and the experience had been terrifying. He still suffered nightmares over it.

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.

Jenna could not concern herself with the living. She had to concentrate on the dead. She had read about Bone Warriors, but that had been years ago, in the course of her studies. No Bone Warrior had been seen on Krynn since the days of the Kingpriest, and damn few had been around then. She assumed the textbooks must have told how to destroy these undead but, if so, she couldn’t recall it. And she didn’t have time to give the matter a lot of consideration.

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 Jenna.

The real Jenna had swiftly moved to position herself behind the minotaur, as she continued to try to figure out how to slay the fiend. She hoped the minotaur warrior would continue attacking the illusion and give her time to think. Her hope was well founded, for generally undead weren’t very smart and would hack away at an illusion without ever realizing the truth. Chemosh must have found the means to make improvements to his undead, however. When his first blow failed to slay the wizardess, the Bone Warrior whipped around and began searching for his foe.

The minotaur spotted her immediately and, swinging his sword, came roaring in her direction. Jenna stood her ground. The brief respite had given her time to prepare her spell, time to think of the words, time to recall the correct hand motions. Casting this spell was risky, not only to her-if it failed she would have neither the time nor strength to cast another-but also to Rhys, who might suffer residual effects. Hoping to Lunitari she didn’t accidentally blind the monk, Jenna thrust out her hand and began to chant words of magic.

Rhys was dimly aware of Jenna battling the fiendish creature Krell had summoned. The monk could do nothing to help the wizardess, not with his own daunting foe to fight and he guessed she would not appreciate his help anyway. Most likely, he would just get in her way.

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 innocents. His rage is not hot and wayward. His wrath is directed, controlled, for he knows that otherwise it will consume him. Thus, he teaches his followers to use their anger as they would use a weapon.

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.

Jenna intoned the last word of her spell. The rampaging minotaur was so close to her that she gagged at the foul odor of corruption from his putrefying body, as she waited tensely for the magic to work.

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.