The cataclysm

INTO SHADOW, INTO LIGHT

The knight stalked across the hellish landscape, sword in hand. The fog failed to conceal the desolation around him. Gnarled trees and churned dirt were sights all too familiar after so long. His world, his cursed world, was always much the same: dry, crackling soil, no sun, no shadows, no refuge, no life, just endless devastation… and somewhere in the fog, those who ever hunted him.

The fever burned, but, as always, he forced himself to withstand the pain. Sweat poured down his face, trickling into his armor. The plague that coursed through him never rested. Oddly, it had been a part of him so long that he probably would have felt lost without it.

The rusted armor creaked as the knight stumbled up a small hill. Beneath the rust on his breastplate there could still be seen a ravaged insignia marking him as a knight of the Solamnic orders. He rarely looked down at the fading mark, for it was a mockery of his life, a reminder of why he had been condemned to this existence.

The price of being a traitor had been heavier than he had ever thought possible.

As he started down the other side of the ravaged hill, the knight caught sight of something odd, something out of place in this wasteland. It seemed to glitter, despite the lack of sunlight, and to the weary knight it was worth more than a mountain of gold. A stream of clear, cool water flowed no more than a few yards from where he stood.

He smiled — a rare smile of hope. The knight staggered forward, moving as fast as he could manage, ignoring pain, fatigue, fear. How long since his last drink of water? The memory escaped him.

Kneeling before the stream, he closed his eyes. "My Lord Paladine, I beseech you! Hear this simple prayer! Let me partake this once! A single sip of water, that is all I ask!"

The knight leaned forward, reached out toward the stream… and fell back in horror as he stared into its reflective surface.

"Paladine preserve me," he muttered. Slowly leaning forward again, he stared at his image in the stream.

Pale as a corpse, his face was gaunt, almost skull-like. Lank, wispy hair — what could be seen beneath his helm — was plastered to his head. His eyes were colorless; had they always been that way? A faint, sardonic smile briefly touched his countenance. "I look like a ghost. How appropriate now," he said to his reflection.

The water continued to flow past, and he recalled the purpose for which he had paused. Again he stretched forth his gauntleted hand. The water might rust the metal, but the parched knight did not care. All that existed was the hope that this once — just this once — he might be allowed a sip.

His fingertips reached the surface of the tiny river, passed through it without even touching.

He cursed, cursed the gods who had doomed him to this wretched life. In frustration, he thrust his hand as deep into the water as he could. The stream flowed on. He didn't create so much as a ripple.

Growing more desperate, the knight thrust his other hand into the water. He tried to cup some of the liquid, but each time his hands came free of the stream, they held nothing. This land might have been a desert for all he could drink.

His head lowered. The sound of mocking laughter came to him, but he did not know if it was real or his imagination. He had never known.

"How long must I pay?" the knight demanded of his unseen tormentor. "What must I do to earn a sip of water?"

He pounded his fist against the ground, but even that much comfort was denied him. His hand could not touch the soil. There was always a small distance between the world and him. The ground, like everything else, refused to accept his touch, refused him peace.

"I am dead!" he roared at no one. "Let me rest!"

Dead. He was nothing more than a ghost now, a ghost sentenced to pay in death for the darksome deeds he had performed in life. Now and forever, the Abyss was his home, his reward for living that life.

How long since his death? He had no idea. Time meant nothing here. But he thought the Dragon War must be long over. What was happening now in the world of his birth, Krynn? Had centuries passed since his spirit had been exiled to this phantom plain where no one existed but himself and those who sought vengeance? Or had it been only days?

The clink of armor warned him that he was no longer alone. His pursuers had found him again. The knight reached for his sword, but it was flight that was on his mind. Combat was a last, desperate effort; it was predestined that he would lose any battle.

Then the whispers began.

Rennard… We come!

His name. After so long, he often forgot. They were always there to remind him, however. They could never forget the name of the one responsible.

Rennard!

Betrayer…

Oathbreaker…

Rennard may not have remembered his name, but now the other memories were too terrible to forget.

His pursuers could not be far behind. Despite his danger, the cursed knight could not help but take one last desperate glance at the cool, sparkling stream.

"One sip," he prayed, reaching his hand a last time toward the water. "Is that so much to ask?"

And then… it was as if the world, ALL worlds, shrieked in agony, began to shake.

Rennard found himself cast out into an invisible maelstrom, caught up in some new, inventive torment of the gods.

The whispers died. He wondered if his pursuers, too, had been caught up by this chaos. Rennard stood. The desolate realm that was his home, his prison, began to fade before his eyes. He caught a glimpse of shadowy forms, swords, and bitter eyes, then they dwindled away to nothing. He heard a sound — one so out of place that he could not believe he heard it.

"The Honor of Huma survives

The Glory of Huma survives

Dragons, hear!

Solamnic breath is taken

Life; hear!

My sword is broken of Dragons"

It was a human voice singing. And he heard a name… Huma? How could such a thing be? What did it mean? The melody drew the knight. Without thinking, Rennard moved toward it, followed it…

He found himself standing in a fogbound, desolate land.

Something is different, Rennard thought. This is not the Abyss!

The song faded away, but Rennard barely noticed. He stared at his surroundings. Some sort of terrible upheaval had wrecked this land. Trees — leviathans — lay broken on the ground. What once had been a well-traveled road was cracked and half buried under rubble. Thick clouds filled the heavens. A mortal might have thought this some variation of the infernal Abyss, but Rennard knew better. The living forest, struggling to survive, a bird fluttering overhead, the sounds that assailed him — all spoke of life.

He fell to his knees.

"Krynn!" Rennard whispered. "How have I come here? Is this truly the real world?"

A part of him was afraid it was a dream, that any second he would find himself once more fleeing his everpresent enemies. "Is this Krynn? Or have I merely entered some new phase of my punishment?" he asked bitterly.

A low laugh — or was it the wind? — teased him. The spec tral knight twisted around, searching for the source. "Morgion, dark Lord of Decay and Disease, master of my grief, do I still entertain you?" he cried out.

No answer came.

Was that a tall, bronze tower he saw in the distance, a tower perched upon the edge of a precipice? A tower dedicated to Morgion, used by those who served him? The knight stared, but all he saw was a lone tree leaning precariously over the edge of a newly formed cliff. It was not the sanctum of the malevolent deity.

Bewildered, confused, he stared at his surroundings and made a bitter discovery. The muddy ground in which he knelt was soft. Despite the weight of his bulky armor, Rennard had not sunk so much as a finger's width into Krynn's blessed soil. He made not the slightest impression.

The knight rose to his feet. He cursed the gods who had brought him to this new fate. He was free of his prison, but not free of his damnation. Ansalon — if this was Ansalon — offered him nothing more than the demonic plain from which he had been cast out. Rennard raised his fist to the shrouded sky and wished that there had never been gods.

Dread, familiar sounds — the pounding of hooves, the dash of armor — jolted him. His pursuers had followed him!

The knight turned at the sound, the sight strengthening his fear.

A knight in war-scarred armor, riding a black horse, came at him. The steed — spittle flying as it strained to keep its mad pace — covered the distance between itself and Rennard in great strides. The horse's master, riding low, urged the animal on in harsh, unintelligible cries.

The horse charged straight at Rennard, but it was not a demonic phantom. It was a flesh-and-blood horse, a fleshand-blood man — a man whose armor marked him as a Knight of Solamnia.

To see a living being, even one wearing the armor of those Rennard had betrayed, was so overwhelming that the ghost could not readily accept the vision. Rennard stretched a tentative hand toward the oncoming knight. The ghost longed to touch a living, breathing person.

The horse shied, nearly throwing its rider. The other knight cursed and turned the animal back on the path, the path upon which Rennard stood. The horse stared fearfully at the wraith, then galloped forward.

It took Rennard several seconds to realize the truth. The horse, unable to swerve, had run through him. The ghost stared after the knight and his dark steed, riding madly down the broken road.

Rennard had to follow. Here was the first living being he had seen since his death, and a knight! Although he had betrayed the knighthood, Rennard felt a kinship for the warrior. Besides, here might be a chance to discover why the ghost had come to be once more on the face of Ansalon.

"I must catch him… But it's too late. I'll never be able to keep pace with the swift animal." As he started forward, the world seemed to ripple.

The ghost found himself standing in a new location, several yards ahead of the rider.

The other knight rode past. Rennard followed. Once more, the world rippled. Once again, Rennard had journeyed to a location ahead of the mortal.

Suddenly, the rider brought his horse to a halt, forcing his mount to veer off the path.

Rennard joined the mortal.

A body — that of an elderly man, a peasant by his clothes — lay in the brush, no more than a day dead.

The knight couldn't force his steed nearer. Rennard gradually realized that he was at fault. The animal could sense the ghost, though its master could not. Rennard stepped back a few paces, out of sight. The skittish horse grew calm.

The rider dismounted and approached the body. Rennard was amused to note that the knight drew a sword, just in case the wretched figure rose from the dead. A moment later, Rennard realized that perhaps the knight was not so foolish. Rennard was proof that anything was possible.

The knight pushed back his helm, bent down to study the remains, and carefully noted the direction the old man had been traveling. Rennard took time to study the knight. He was young, though still old enough to bear the symbol of the Order of the Rose on his breastplate.

Rennard sneered. Arrogant and self-serving, that was the Order of the Rose. Most of the high lords of the Solamnic brotherhood came from the ranks of the Rose.

Rennard had murdered one of them, and here was the epitome of the handsome and heroic warrior that peopled the stories of bards and the dreams of maidens: perfect, honed features; dark, brooding eyes and firm jaw; black hair that curled from under his helm; a well-groomed moustache in the style still traditional among the Knights of Solamnia.

The ghost touched his own marred features. Here was everything that Rennard had never been. He'd rather look at the corpse, and the young knight was studying the corpse, too, with more than casual interest.

Although the hapless peasant evidently had suffered from many things, disease had killed him. Rennard, who knew of such things, could see the signs.

"Aaah, good folk of Ansalon," Rennard muttered as he looked at the corpse, "the gods treat you so well!"

The young knight had lost interest in the corpse and was now gazing down the road.

The peasant had not been alone. The tracks of more than a dozen people and one or two animals spoke of a long, arduous journey by a group of people in great haste. Rennard saw an endless trek, much like a journey he once had made. One by one, the members of the party had collapsed and been left behind, like this, left behind by those too terrified to stop to bury their dead.

The young knight began to talk, and at first Rennard wondered if another ghost haunted this region, for there was no one to respond.

"A day, Lucien, not much more. They're on foot. I'll surely catch up tomorrow. Then I will avenge you!" The young knight kicked the body with the heel of his boot, kicked it again and again until he wearied of the sport. Then, face twisted in bitterness and rage, the knight turned away.

Vengeance? Not — if Rennard recalled correctly — an act approved of by the knighthood.

Virtuous on the outside, foul within. Rennard had been a traitor and murderer — that was true — but others in the knighthood carried their share of dark secrets as well. Eyeing the mortal with growing distaste, he muttered, "And what are YOUR secrets, great Knight of the Thorny Rose?"

His living counterpart stiffened, then looked in the ghost's direction, a trace of puzzlement on the young knight's features. His exhaustion was evident. Rennard saw rings under the eyes; the eyes themselves had the sunken look of a man who had driven himself for days. After a few moments — moments in which Rennard would have held his breath (provided he still breathed) — the young fighter rubbed his eyes, turned away, and resumed his inspection of the corpse and the trail.

The young knight took a few steps, following the direction of the dead man's footprints. Each step was less certain than the last. He was almost too tired to go on. Perhaps realizing this himself, the young knight returned to his mount and used the tired beast as support.

"Tomorrow, Lucien. I'll find them tomorrow." He clenched his fist. "cThey'll pay, the murderous carrion! They'll pay a hundredfold for your life. As my name is Erik Dornay, so I swear over and over it shall be!"

With some effort, Dornay mounted. He didn't give the corpse a second look, but for a brief instant his eyes returned to the general area where the ghost stood, watching. Frowning, Erik finally urged his horse along the trail. The animal needed no encouragement; it set off at a brisk pace, fueled by its obvious desire to get as far from Rennard as possible.

The horse's desperate efforts were useless. This young knight interested Rennard too much to let him go. The mortal might know where Rennard was, why he was here. And the ghost was anxious to know the reasons behind the vengeance that drove the young Solamnian to turn against the Oath and Measure.

Rennard had one other reason, one that he did not like to admit to himself. Night was fast approaching and night — in his mind — brought the hunters. But would they close the circle with a living person nearby?

Perhaps not.

Better the company of a Knight of the Rose than yet an other confrontation with the bitter souls who owed their damnation to Rennard.

Rennard gripped the hilt of his sword and vanished after the diminishing figure of Erik Dornay.

Shortly after nightfall, Dornay ended his ride and made camp in a small copse of tangled trees. The halt was not by choice, if Rennard was any reader of expressions, but made out of necessity. The horse s breathing was ragged; it was doubtful that the unfortunate animal would have lasted much longer without rest. Dornay himself nearly collapsed as he dismounted, but the young knight took care of his horse, fed and tethered the animal. He built a small campfire, over which he set a piece of meat to cooking.

The aroma of the cooking meat drifted over to Rennard. The smell brought a terrible hunger for food. Without thinking, he stepped toward the fire. The horse, sensing him, neighed loudly and pulled on its reins.

Erik, just removing his helm, looked swiftly around. Rennard paid no attention to the knight. The ghost bent down by the fire and stared at the meat. He nearly forgot the agony of the plague that eternally tormented him.

"Paladine, Kiri-Jolith, Morgion, Takhisis… Gilean…" Rennard chanted in rapid succession. "If there be one who still watches over me, let me eat! Let me taste it…"

The meat sizzled. The ghostly knight reached out.

His fingers went through it, just as they had passed through the water earlier.

"Not again!" Frustrated, Rennard swung his hand at the makeshift spit.

Dornay's meal, spit and all, collapsed into the fire.

Rennard stared at his hand. Erik leapt forward and tried to rescue his meal. Cursing, the young knight dusted off his food and reset it to cooking.

"Did I do that?" wondered the ghost. He reached out again, but, to his dismay, his fingers could not touch it. He could only watch as Dornay removed the hot flesh a minute or two later and began to eat. Rennard envied every bite.

"This is madness!" Rennard cursed. "Better the ravages of plague or the thrust of a thousand swords than to suffer this hunger!" He stepped back, intent on departing but strangely reluctant to leave.

Dornay lifted a flask of cool water to his mouth.

Rennard rushed from the encampment. He had traded the endless running for this? Which was worse, he wondered, the fear or the desire?

Searing pain made him stumble — the ever-present torture of the plague. Rennard gritted his teeth and struggled to remain standing. Fever consumed his already dead flesh. Chills shook a body that did not exist.

Then a melody drifted to him, a melody that seemed to ease the plague's torment. Rennard slowly recovered, and as he did, his attention focused on the song.

"Dragon-Huma temper me now

Dragon-Huma

Grant me grace and love

When the heart of the Knighthood wavers in doubt

Grant me this, Warrior Lord"

"Huma…" he whispered. It was the same song that had carried him through the chaos and into the plane of the living. The singer was Erik Dornay.

Walking toward the camp, the ghost listened to the words.

Heroes existed only in tales, not reality. They were the products of the ignorant, who had no other hope. The knighthood itself was proof, as far as Rennard was concerned. No heroes there. More darkness than light.

Yet even Rennard could not deny Huma's courage, his honor, his compassion… for one who had betrayed him.

Step by step, Rennard moved closer to the fire. Erik Dornay sang quietly, with a tenderness and awe that seemed out of place after his callous treatment of the corpse, his sworn oath of vengeance.

Rennard stared at the young knight. Dornay had thrust his sword into the ground. He knelt before it, still singing. Rennard realized that it was the young knight's way of easing his mind, preparing for the evening rituals that were an integral part of a knight's training.

"Honor is Huma

Glory is Huma

Solamnic Knight Huma survives

Glorified Huma survives

Life: hear!"

Huma. Erik began to pray, spoke of him as Huma of the Lance, spoke about a lance that had won the Dragon War and swept the Dark Queen from the heavens.

Seeing Erik in the dim light of the campfire, Rennard could almost imagine his former comrade kneeling there. Huma and Erik Dornay were similar in appearance, even without the hypnotic influence of the song.

"So, Huma, young squire — my kinsman — you have become a hero. A hero." The irony was not lost on the ghost. He had betrayed the knighthood, betrayed Huma — one of the few Rennard had ever thought worthy of the ideals of the Oath and the Measure. "And it was I who helped train you, not knowing you would cause my downfall."

Was this the reason he was here? the cursed knight wondered. A reason involving the mortal before him? Or was it mere coincidence?

The singing and prayers had ceased. Dornay was on his feet now, and the sword, which had stood like a monument, was in his hands — a deadly weapon in the grip of one wellversed in its use.

"Who's there? Who spoke? Enough of this! I've heard you before! Show yourself!"

Rennard, alarmed, looked to see if his pursuers had come while he had been lost in reverie. For a moment, the shadows of night became the hunters, but the ghost soon saw that there was no one, living or dead, other than Dornay and himself.

"You hear me, then, Knight of the Prickly Rose?" Rennard asked, not expecting an answer.

"I hear you too well, cur! Come out of hiding! Reveal yourself to me or I will let my blade find you!"

Dornay shifted to face the location where the ghost stood.

Rennard stared, amazed.

"You would not like me, mortal," the ghost replied, testing. "And your blade would be sorely disappointed."

"Where are you?" Exhausted as he was, Dornay was calm, alert. "I hear where you must be, but I see nothing there!"

Rennard walked slowly toward his young counterpart. "There is something here, Knight of the Rose, but nothing you can touch, not even the smallest bone remains. The physical shell I once wore was burned shortly after I killed myself, so very long ago."

"Killed yourself?" Erik's eyes rounded. "So you claim to be a ghost? You lie! More likely a spellcaster in hiding! Yes, that's who you must be!"

Rennard shook his head. "I am no mage, Erik Dornay. Do you recall the body you found not too far from here? The old man? I was watching you then. You thought you heard something… even saw something, didn't you?"

Dornay's countenance was nearly as pale as that of his unholy companion. The young knight backed slowly away, the sword stretched out before him. Rennard could guess some of what the knight must be thinking. Exhaustion could do things to the mind, especially one filled with grief and a burning desire for vengeance. Dornay probably debated which was more terrible — the thought that he had gone insane or the prospect that he faced a spirit from beyond.

"A trick," he muttered.

"I am real, Erik Dornay, as real as the armor you wear, but as insubstantial as your faith in the oaths you took when you donned the mantle of a knight." Rennard laughed.

Erik put a hand to his breastplate and touched the rose symbol. "Why do you haunt me, specter? Why reveal yourself to me now? Leave me! Go back to your rest!"

"Rest?" The word struck Rennard as sharply as a wellhoned sword. "I cannot rest! I am not allowed to rest!" He stalked forward until he was almost face-to-face with the other knight, who continued to stare wildly around. "Gladly would I call an end to this accursed existence of mine! Gladly would I earn my REST!"

Erik stepped back again, aware that whatever haunted him lurked just ahead, but not at all certain what could be done about the situation.

Rennard found relief in venting his centuries-old anger on someone. "Would that I could reveal myself to you, Knight of the Rotting Rose, so that you could see the fate I've been condemned to!"

And there and then, Erik Dornay, staring in mute horror, nearly dropped his sword and fled, for the ghost, without knowing it, had done just that.

"A knight!.. You are a knight…" Dornay stared at the ghost's ruined face — the pale, drawn skin, the boils, and the scarlet patches.

"Plague!" Erik's sword arm extended as straight as possible. "Keep back!"

Rennard moved closer.

"Where is your brotherly concern?" he mocked. "I am in need. The plague still thrives within me, gnaws at me even after death. Surely, it is for you to aid a comrade!" He opened his arms, as if to embrace Dornay.

"May the gods forgive me!" Erik leapt forward and thrust his sword between Rennard's helm and breastplate.

The young knight's aim was true, so much so that the ghost expected to feel the death blow. Then, to Rennard's bitter amusement and Erik's disbelief, the blade passed through without obstruction.

The young Solamnian dropped his sword and stared at his hand, as if IT were somehow to blame for the impossible sight he had just witnessed.

"Had it been my choice," Rennard said, "the blade would have sheared my head from my body, once and for all ending this accursed existence!"

"Paladine save me!" Erik cried.

"Paladine cannot save you. He did not save ME," the ghost knight hissed. "That was for another, darker lord to do. Morgion it was, who finally heard my plea, but he demanded a heavy price."

"Who — " The young knight pulled himself together. "Who are you, wraith? Why does your tragic existence haunt me now, in my grief?"

"You should know. It was YOU who called me. You — with your song."

"The… song?" Erik eyed the phantom, more perplexed than he was anxious. He frowned. "I am no foul necromancer, like the followers of Chemosh!"

"Nonetheless, it was your song." Rennard circled Dornay, his eyes never leaving the mortal. "The one you sang about… Huma."

"Huma? Huma of the Lance?"

"Just Huma to me, a knight who believed and, because he believed, fought as few others could. I knew him well, you see, even aided in his training. That was before…"

Erik's eyes were wary and thoughtful. One did not rise to the Order of the Rose without being able to adapt to the unknown, even if that included the undead.

Rennard guessed what he was thinking. "If you have a way, Mortal, to rid yourself of me, by all means try. I would welcome rest after so long. I am tired of running, of fighting in futility." Here, at last, Rennard could not hide his own despair. "Tired of the pain."

"Your name, Ethereal One. You still have not said."

The flickering flames of the tiny campfire caught the ghost's attention. He reached down and passed his hand through the fire. "You see? Nothing, not even now." He straightened. "My name? You probably would not know it. I daresay that it was stricken from the rolls when the truth of my betrayal was known. I had, after all, murdered one grand master and attempted to kill his successor. Although many servants of the Dark Queen fell by my sword, I betrayed the plans of the knighthood whenever possible and caused the deaths of many men by my actions, all in the name of Morgion, dread Lord of Disease and Decay."

Dornay gasped. "I know you! I know the tales that they whisper, even now!" His handsome face twisted. "Rennard the Oathbreaker!"

Bowing, mocking, the ghost replied, "I thought myself forgotten. Yes, I have the dishonor of being him."

Erik snatched his sword from the ground, held it before him. His eyes were narrow slits, his breathing rapid. He began muttering under his breath.

Rennard recognized the litany and was amused. "Exorcising demons? You are not so well-versed for one of your rank. I doubt I will be so easily dismissed, even if you should happen upon the proper chant."

"Why does the ghost of a traitor and murderer visit me? Do the gods think you will stop me in my chosen course? Lucien's death demands justice! He was murdered needlessly, and I will see that his killers pay! Now begone!"

Rennard turned his horrific face toward the mortal. "I would very much like to be gone, Erik Dornay, but not to where I have been since my death. Peace is what I ask… peace and a sip of water." He stared into the flame, recalling the past. "I want nothing to do with you, but something has drawn me here. This is not the first time I have heard the song you sang tonight, a song about him. Huma never would have believed it. He would have shaken his head — "

"Do not speak his name!" Erik pointed the useless sword at the ghost as if he still intended somehow to run Rennard through. "He was everything that you were not, traitor! He was everything that I wanted to be!"

Wanted to be? thought the ghost. "And so you no longer desire to be like him?"

The young knight stiffened, then lowered his sword. "I cannot, not now, not after I kill them." His gaze strayed to the woods beyond. "So much has changed since the Cataclysm. At first they begged for our help. Then, with a swiftness unmatched even by the wind, the rumors began! Some of the rumors were not without foundation, but to blame the knighthood as a whole is unthinkable! If we were spared the brunt of the disaster, surely it meant that we were Paladine's chosen! We should have been their guides on the path of recovery. Instead, the scum we tried to protect turned on us. 'Look!' they cried. 'Ansalon shakes and quivers, people die, and the knights are untouched!' "

The young Solamnian laughed harshly. "Some even claimed we had conspired with the gods, for it was Ergoth, our ancient tyrant, and Istar, our magnificent rival, who suffered most. Lucien tried to reason with them — the ignorant offal. And they dragged him down from his horse and murdered him!"

None of this made much sense to Rennard. "And was the knighthood responsible for this… this Cataclysm?"

Erik glowered. "How can you ask that? You were a knight!"

"Yes," said Rennard dryly, "I was a knight."

"I swear that we were not!" Dornay's voice shook. "It could never be!"

"I see"

After a pause, Erik asked, "Did you really know him?"

"Very well." Rennard stood silently, his mind a whirlpool of memories. He stared at the mortal before him and saw Huma. The similarities were more than skin deep.

Am I supposed to turn him along the proper path? Rennard asked whoever had sent him. I was a puppet in life. Am I to be one in death? Better he make his own destiny, whatever the consequences! At least the choice will be his!

Rennard saw, to his surprise, that the young Knight of the Rose was staring at him, not in fear and loathing, but in desperate need. "Huma… What would he have done? Would he have understood? Lucien was my friend, more than friend… he was dearer than any brother. Please, specter, tell me, what would Huma — ?"

"Huma would have done what Huma would have done," Rennard interjected quickly. Thinking of Huma stirred memories and emotions that the ghost refused to acknowledge. "Just as you will do what you will do."

"That is no answer!" Dornay said angrily. "Would he have understood my need for vengeance? Tell me!"

I will not do this! Rennard told those who'd sent him. Dornay's path must be his own! What course his life takes will be his choice, not that of some interfering deity!

The ghost thought he heard whispers then, but perhaps they were only his own thoughts, speaking back to him:

Would you condemn anyone, even your worst enemy, to a fate such as yours?

A fate such as mine? Erik's thirst for vengeance could hardly be as great a crime as those I committed. But, Rennard could not help wondering, once he's done murder, he might sink lower still. One day, he might find himself trapped in a futile flight from those he killed and who, because of him, would never be able to rest either.

The "Song of Huma" ran through his mind.

"Huma," Rennard whispered. The man who was now legend never abandoned me, he even looked up to me. Huma — the man, not the legend — had been there in the end, trying to save me from myself. Rather than face him, I took the coward's way out. I slit my own throat.

Rennard turned his eyes briefly to the murky heavens. "I will do this for you, Huma… of the Lance. I will do it for you, not the gods. Never them."

Pale eyes narrowing, the ghost answered the young knight's question. "He would have understood VERY well what you were doing, Erik Dornay. You have my oath on that. Unlike you, however, Huma would have understood the meaning and the consequences as well. And, therefore, he would never have considered your dark course." Rennard shifted so as to allow the fire to illuminate his features. "Huma would have known that such a course can lead one only to a fate… like mine. Each life I took follows me, punishes me." Rennard shivered, the flickering shadows caused by the fire too lifelike at that moment. "The number still horrifies me, when they begin to gather."

"But they killed Lucien! They don't deserve to live! I have to… to…" Backing away, Dornay stumbled over to his horse. He untied the animal and wearily mounted, ignoring the fact that his helm still lay on the ground.

"You may deny me, mortal. You may even deny Huma, whom you claim to admire. Can you, though, deny yourself?"

Erik Dornay did not respond. He turned his horse and urged the animal on with a harsh kick to the ribs.

Rennard materialized in front of him. "Huma — the squire I trained, the knight I fought beside and against, the legend that led you to the Solamnic orders — watches us. He had a way of affecting others, Erik Dornay, even me. For that reason and that reason alone, I will not let this end. I will haunt you day and night if I have to."

The Knight of the Rose kicked his protesting charger again, forcing the horse to ride through Rennard.

The ghost disappeared, made himself reappear in front of the startled animal. The horse tried to turn away, but Erik once more forced the terrified beast to keep to the chosen route. Snorting in frustration and anxiety, the mount again raced through the apparition and galloped down the path.

Rennard followed. He'd wait until the horse could go no farther, which couldn't be very long. What would Erik do when he realized it was impossible to escape the ghost? Rennard did not know. The young knight was wavering in his desire for revenge, but it was at such an emotional junction that the greatest danger lay. Erik might go through with his dark plan merely to prove to himself he was not a man of weak resolve, that he kept his promises to his friends. The ghost was all too aware of what people had done for lesser reasons.

Dornay's flight took them into thickening woods. A number of the trees had been uprooted, but most had more or less survived intact. The forest should have meant nothing to the ghost. Yet, for some reason that made no sense to him, he was reminded of Morgion. Rennard grew more cautious, even drawing his sword, just in case.

Ahead of him now, the Knight of the Rose suddenly reined to a halt. The flatter land gave way again to hills.

There was a campfire in the distance.

The refugees? Those he pursued? Dornay evidently thought so, for he moved with more stealth now.

Rennard debated with himself. He stared at the not-sodistant flame and decided it would be wise to take a closer look. Erik would not reach the camp for several minutes, whereas the ghost could flit in and out in less time than it took to draw a breath.

It proved easy to pick out a spot near, but not too near, the encampment. As a precaution, Rennard was careful to hide behind a gnarled oak, on the off-chance that he was visible to all, not merely Erik.

In the dim light of Solinari, the ghost saw the terrible mob that had murdered the knight Lucien.

These wretched people looked little more alive than Rennard. They hardly seemed like a dangerous lot: sick old men, desperate young men, worn down women, crying children. With not enough to eat or wear, they were lost, with no knowledge of surviving off the land.

They will not survive their journey. If Erik doesn't kill them, they will wander around in circles until they all fall from disease and exposure and starvation.

Without raising a finger, the knight could sentence them all to death. With Erik's help, the group could survive.

Rennard returned to Erik, materialized next to him. The young knight had found another corpse.

In the light of the moon, the dead man's visage was nearly as horrible as that of the ghost. Rennard shivered, though not from fear. There was no doubting that the peasant — a man younger and much more burly than the previous corpse — had not died easily. He had struggled until the end.

"Do not touch him!So" Rennard commanded.

Erik looked up, his surprise giving way quickly to nervous annoyance. "What are you doing here, phantom?"

"Saving you. This man died of plague."

Dornay quickly backed a respectable distance away. Rennard moved closer, noted the man's contorted features, the red splotches on his hands and face. A dusty film that sparkled a bit in the moonlight had already settled on the upturned visage. It had been a cruel death.

"Did you touch him?" Rennard demanded.

"No, thank Paladine, but I was almost ready to do so."

Rennard turned from the corpse, Morgion's legacy.

Legacy? Rennard turned back.

He thought of all disease as originating from the dark lord, but some had origins more human than godly. Rennard leaned close and studied the film on the unfortunate man's visage. Even in the dim moonlight, the dust shimmered with a metallic gleam.

"So some accursed things continue," Rennard muttered.

The victim had not died of plague. To the unknowing, it would seem so, but Rennard recognized the dust. The other symptoms, too, made sense, now that he knew the truth.

The legacy of Morgion had indeed killed this man, but it was human hands that had done the work — an evil powder, a poison, whose signs mimicked the plague. The ghost knew its uses all too well. The powder was a favorite tool of those who served the Master of the Bronze Tower. It was sacred to them, as if they held the very power of their god in their hands. The poison could be created by anyone with the knowledge. The Lord of Decay was not a trusting god, even with his followers. Only the most devout learned the secrets of his worship. Morgion's powers were reserved for those who guided the cult, the Nightmaster and his acolytes.

Any loyalty Rennard had ever owed to his dread master had* died with his body. Morgion rewarded failure with death. Rennard had failed to kill the Solamnic warrior who had discovered that there was a traitor in their midst. Rennard had failed to kill Huma.

Rennard knew then the fate of the doomed peasants. They would die, a few at a time, in the name of the faceless god he once had called master.

"What do you see, specter?" Erik demanded.

"I see that your sword would be a kind fate to these folk, Erik Dornay. They are being culled and sacrificed in the name of Morgion."

The Knight of the Rose gripped the hilt of his sword tightly. "You are certain?"

"I think I know well enough. The poor wretches are easy prey for the cultists. Look at what lies here. They do not have the strength to bury their dead anymore."

The young knight was grim, pale. He sheathed his sword. Slowly, Erik returned to his horse.

"What will you do?" Rennard asked.

Dornay would not look at him. "I am leaving. I have no need to stay. You should be pleased. I won't kill them"

As the Knight of the Rose mounted, the wraith appeared before him. "You haven't spared the people. You merely have given their deaths into the hands of others."

"They are no more concern of mine." The young Solamnian Rmounted his steed, trying to depart. "I'm finished with the knighthood, Oathbreaker. I have sung the 'Song of Huma' for the last time."

He sounded resolved, but he was shaking. Rennard knew that a battle was going on inside the young knight, one that in some ways was as painful as the one Rennard himself constantly fought.

"Very well," the ghost knight told him. There was only one thing he could think of to do, and he prayed that both his memory and the spirit of Huma — who seemed to have a hand in this — would guide him. "I will stand aside."

Erik began slowly riding away. As he passed the wraith, however, Rennard began to sing.

"Huma's death calls me!

His death!

Temper me with such death!

Paladine, lord god of knights!

Huma's life is all our lives!

Dragon-Huma survives!"

Dornay halted. The cursed knight continued to sing, finding that the words — or words enough — were given to him. The melody would forever play in his mind.

Erik pulled tightly on the reins, turned the horse around, and gazed at the phantom. Rennard continued to sing softly, his own memories of Huma adding a vibrancy to the saga that made it come alive, for his memories were tinged with truth, not stretched by time and legend.

"You — " Dornay began.

A stone whistled through the darkness and struck the young knight soundly on the side of the head.

He grunted and fell from his mount. His charger hesitated, but when Rennard ceased singing and started toward the fallen knight, the terrified animal shied away.

Rennard stood over Erik, wondering what had happened, what a ghost could do to help. Even if he were able to touch the mortal, he might do more harm than good. He might infect Dornay with the plague he carried. Morgion would laugh at that.

When the shadows began to move, the ghost drew his sword, prepared to face his own enemies. Then he saw that these were not the ones who hunted him, but mortal men, well-versed in hiding from their victims.

"The armored one is down," said one.

Someone else spoke, but his words were too quiet for the ghost to hear. Then there came an answer.

"Crazy or not, he is a Knight of Solamnia! No, I have something different in mind for him. Perhaps HE will please our lord."

Seven figures, more like ghosts than the ghost himself, gathered around the fallen knight. They did not see Rennard, who stood among them.

"Take him," said one whose voice was a harsh rasp. He turned to another, who was trying to catch the reins of the horse. "Forget the beast! If he causes trouble, a little dust will settle him!" The hooded figure rolled Dornay over, peering at his armor. "A Knight of the Order of the Rose! This must be a sign, that one of the servants of the Great Enemy should fall into our hands so easily! Our infernal Lord Morgion MUST find this sacrifice satisfactory."

"What of the others, Nightmaster?" The newcomers were covered from head to toe in enveloping cloaks and hoods. Only the Nightmaster's features were visible. He had a long, vulpine face, and his skin looked mottled.

"This one will die this eve. The rest are sheep and will be sacrificed as needed. The knight is of utmost importance. For him, we must plan a ceremonial death, a slow, debilitating death, with one of the slower, more intricate poisons."

"But, Nightmaster," pleaded another, "we've tried before and failed. Some are saying the gods have all abandoned Krynn — "

"Blasphemy!" The leader's shout silenced the questioner. Under the cleric's baleful gaze, the other cultists reached down and took hold of the knight.

"Bind and gag him… just in case."

The acolytes obeyed with cold efficiency.

Desperate, Rennard swung his sword at the closest, but his weapon passed through the man without harm. Rennard stared at his hand, thinking how useless it was despite the heavy gauntlet. To all living things, I am less than the wind!

A wave of agony sent him to his knees. His frustration had left him open to the curse. The plague was coursing through his body. He fought back the pain. Through blurred eyes, Rennard watched the cultists carry Dornay away.

"Paladine… great lord… you cannot want this! I do not want this and neither does Huma, your most loyal servant! Will you give another victim to the foul, faceless Master of the Bronze Tower?"

This plea, however, went ignored as far as he could tell. The cultist had spoken of a rumor of the gods leaving Krynn. Was that so? Was there no one, then, who could save the young Solamnian?

No one… except a ghost…?

"It seems I am always too weak! To save my life, I gave myself to Morgion. Later, I killed myself, as Huma watched. Now, I must let Erik die."

Unbidden, the "Song of Huma" came to his mind. Try as he might, Rennard could not drive the melody away.

"Huma," the ghost whispered, "why must you, of all people, continue to have faith in me?"

He struggled to his feet and started to follow, each movement sheer torture. Every dead muscle, every longdecayed organ, every broken joint in his body burned with pain and fever. What he hoped to accomplish, the ghost did not know. Rennard knew only that he could not yet give in.

He could hear the acolytes whisper.

"… death of another knight…"

"… Morgion reigns…"

"… another soul to add to his collection…"

Rennard doubled his pain-filled efforts to keep pace with them. Fortunately, the servants of Morgion were hampered by Erik's armored body.

Too soon, the Nightmaster signaled his acolytes to stop.

"This will do." The leader pointed to a small, cleared patch of ground by a stream. Morgion's servants preferred privacy for their work. It would not do for some peasant to stumble on them. He might escape and warn the others.

The Nightmaster began chanting a litany that brought back to Rennard faint memories of stench-ridden ruins and dark practices for the glory of the despotic deity who was their lord. It would not be long before the sacrifice. The special death of a Knight of the Rose was a great gift to the dark god. Small wonder that the Nightmaster might think it sufficient to at last reunite the cultists with their master.

Rennard had willed himself to be visible to the young knight. Now the ghost sought to do the same with the cultists, hoping that his horrific appearance would send them fleeing. Exactly how he had accomplished the feat the first time, the ghost didn't know. Intense need, anger, bitterness…

At first, he thought he'd failed, for surely someone should have noticed him, then one of the acolytes raised his head. His eyes settled on where the ghost stood.

An indrawn hiss alerted the others. Hoods shifted as the servants of Morgion turned to see what had so startled their companion. The acolytes quickly retreated at the sight of an armed knight, but the Nightmaster held his ground.

"Have you come for your companion, Knight of Solamnia? Come and take him… or join him, perhaps. Morgion will be doubly pleased, yes." The cloaked figure held out his hands, presumably to show he had no weapon.

Rennard stepped forward, his eyes on the Nightmaster.

A cloud of dust shot forth from the hand of the cult leader. Rennard stopped. The assassins leaned forward in expectation, awaiting the horrible death that soon would come to the knight.

He did not need to look down to see that the poison had ended up settling on the ground beneath his feet. "I am beyond your deadly trick, mortal. The poison dust affects only those who still draw breath. I am long past that."

He stepped closer, enabling them, even in the dim light of Solinari, to see him clearly.

Not entirely certain whether what they saw was truly what they saw, two of the acolytes drew daggers. If the blades were as Rennard recalled, each was coated with one of the cult's concoctions.

The nearest thrust his dagger into the ghost's throat. The weapon found no substance.

The acolyte dropped his dagger, turned, and fled. An other joined him.

"Who are you, phantom?" the Nightmaster demanded.

"One who knows your ways, servant of Morgion. One who once went by the name Rennard."

His name meant nothing to the acolytes who dared to remain, but the Nightmaster reacted with glee. "Rennard — still called Oathbreaker by the knighthood! He has sent you to me as a sign! Our work has not been in vain. Our Lord Morgion has not abandoned us after all! The lies that the gods left Krynn have been disproved! All our sacrifices, all the lives we have sent to our lord, have at last won his notice again!" He eyed Dornay's still form with pleasure. "We must do something special for you, Sir Knight."

Rennard had visions of more and more sacrifices made in the name of Morgion… all deaths for which he would be accountable.

More shadows to haunt him.

"I do not come to you… but for you!" Acting instinctively, his anger deluding him into believing he was flesh and blood, Rennard leapt at the unsuspecting Nightmaster, grappling for the man's throat.

The ghost's hand touched cloth and flesh.

The discovery was so shocking that he almost lost his grip on the Nightmaster. The man's hood fell back as the ghost dragged his captive forward. His pale, ravaged face was almost as horrible as the ghost's, but Rennard was well used to such sights from when he had been one of them. Slowly and carefully, he spoke, his voice as chill as death. "There is no Morgion. The god of disease has indeed fled us." The ghost felt his pain ease. "There will be no more sacrifices."

The leader of the cultists shivered and, at first, the ghost thought that the chills were from fright. Then he saw the man sweat, saw the patches of inflamed skin that gave the scarlet plague its name.

Rennard had transmitted his accursed disease to the Nightmaster… and like a flame on dry kindling, it was spreading rapidly.

"Please!" the man begged. He knew what was happening. No one understands poison better than the poisoner. "Let me go, before it's too late!"

A grim satisfaction filled Rennard. "You wanted Morgion. Here is his legacy. You should be happy, Nightmaster."

He threw the infected cultist into the remaining acolytes, who were staring, frozen in fear. They fell together in a jumbled heap, the servants frantically trying to separate themselves from their stricken leader. It was too late for them, however. They were infected the moment the Night-master touched them, for such was the intensity of the malady the gods had granted to the traitorous knight after his death. For the only time he could recall, Rennard was grimly pleased at the rapid speed of the plague. He doubted any of them would live to see morning.

During the chaos, Erik Dornay woke from the blow that had laid him unconscious. He stared at the screaming acolytes, then his unholy companion.

"Rennard?" he asked, still dazed from the blow.

The Nightmaster rose and took a step toward Erik. The ghost shifted, standing in front of the assassin. The Nightmaster stumbled back. His remaining followers ran away. When the Nightmaster tried to join them, however, he found the spirit before him. Rennard drew his sword.

"I regret I cannot leave you to the fate you deserve. I can take no chances, mortal."

The ghost knight thrust his blade into the man's chest. The sword proved very solid.

"Why did you kill him?" Erik asked, struggling to free himself from his bonds. "His face… he looked as if he was dying already."

Rennard glanced down at the body. "The others will run back to their temple, beg Morgion to save them. He won't. He can't. When they die, the scarlet plague dies, for such is its way. This one, however, would serve his master to the end. Nightmasters are chosen from among the most fanatical of Morgion's followers. If I had let him go, he might have tried to spread the curse to those poor souls in the camp."

"You… you have my gratitude for saving me."

"Huma saved you, not I," Rennard remarked, thinking of the song. Sheathing his blade, he moved to Erik's side and tried to take one of the young knight's daggers in order to cut the ropes. His hand passed through it. Dornay managed to free himself.

Rising, Erik stared at the body of the cleric, then back in the direction of the refugee camp. "You were right. These fiends were trailing them."

"Yes, Morgion's toadies were sacrificing them one at a time in the hope of calling the Faceless One back. Come now, there is something I want to show you."

"What?"

"Your friend's murderers."

On foot, it took several minutes to reach the outskirts of the encampment. Someone evidently had heard the short, fierce struggle, for the party had gathered close around the fire. Four of the more fit were keeping watch. Women clutched whimpering children. Men held sticks of wood for weapons. All looked terrified.

"There they are," Rennard said. "What will you do?"

"They look…" Erik hesitated.

"Hopeless? Desperate? In the Dragon Wars, I saw many who looked that way."

Erik eyed him. "You're asking me to go to them, aid them? But the danger is past!"

"If the cultists do not get them, then bandits or starvation will. Look at them, Erik Dornay. They need your pity, not your hatred. Huma would have tried to help them. He would have understood that a moment of despair turned them into an inhuman mob. His duty would have been to restore their humanity."

The Knight of the Rose still hesitated. "If I go to them, they'll attack me. I'll be forced to kill them! I am not Huma! He was a — "

"Huma was a man." Rennard saw movement and glanced around. The shadows seemed to thicken, come to life.

"What's wrong?" Dornay began to move closer. Rennard kept him at bay with his sword.

"Come no closer. I have already risked you once. If I can spread my curse to those curs, then I can spread it to you."

Erik stepped back with great reluctance.

The shadows, Rennard saw, were taking shape and form. "Now it is time for you to go, Erik Dornay."

"But what about you?"

Rennard heard no whispering yet, but he was certain the eyes of the hunters burned into him. The ghost readied his blade and moved farther from the encampment. "I must attend to matters of my own."

"Matters…" Erik looked into the shadows. "Paladine save us! What are they?"

"I told you that even ghosts may be haunted by ghosts, Erik Dornay. These are mine — the shadows of every knight who died by my hand or by my actions. They cannot rest, and so I cannot."

"What will they do?" the mortal whispered in awe.

"Pursue me, fight me, and kill me. Then, when their need for vengeance is sated, I will rise, and the entire tragedy will happen all over again."

"That's monstrous!"

"It is justice. Even I know that."

"What can I do?" Dornay began to reach for his sword.

"Help those people."

"I mean for you!"

The ghost laughed. "So I now have two champions — you and Huma! Both trying to save me from what I am!" Rennard shook his head. "There is one thing you can do for me, my… my friend. Go to those you sought to kill. Let me see that I have accomplished my task."

Dornay looked at the shadows of long-dead knights, gathering to attack, then at their intended victim. At last, he straightened and brought his sword up to his face in the knight's salute. "I will pray for you, Sir Rennard."

The shadows still had not moved. They, too, were waiting. "Once you depart, do not look back," Rennard said. "I would prefer it that way."

Erik nodded and turned away. The ghost watched, his own renewed pain and the nearing shadows forgotten. The young Solamnian moved through the woods and, without pause, entered the camp. The people were frightened, staring at him uncertainly. Those who held weapons waited for the knight to attack.

The Knight of the Rose planted his sword in the earth and held up a hand in a sign of peace. He said something that Rennard could not hear, but which caused the refugees to lower their weapons.

One of them stepped forward. Erik held out his hand. The man grasped the knight's hand thankfully.

Rennard nodded, satisfied. He turned away from the mortals to face the shadows who waited for him, across a stream. Fog began to envelop him, and he knew that his brief journey to Krynn soon would be only a memory.

Had it all been coincidence? Or did the gods, who had left Krynn, still have ways of watching over those who interested them?

The hunters waited, even when the sounds of mortal beings faded away in the fog. Rennard tensed. Around him, the fog gathered thicker.

"Why do you wait?" he shouted. "Why now?" They made no answer. Even their whispers were preferable to the silence, he realized.

The sound of sword striking shield came from behind him. Rennard turned and stepped into the stream. Water splashed. His boot struck the surface and sank in. Rennard stared at the water. He dropped his sword and fell to his knees. Fearfully, the ghostly knight reached down.

Small ripples spread out from his fingers. The tips of his fingers touched the stream. Rennard thrust his hands into the water. He cupped his hands together.

His own words came back to him.What must I do to earn even a sip of water?

Rennard brought the liquid to his parched lips and drank. For the first time since his death, the eternal fever that burned within him cooled.

Rennard lowered his hands into the stream again. Another sip. He needed another sip.

This time, however, all was as it had been. The stream flowed through his fingers as if they were not there… which they were not.

The shadows moved. He had been granted his drink of water. Now, it was time to return to the Abyss.

Krynn faded completely then. The stream disappeared before his eyes. In its place lay the familiar plain of death.

Rennard grabbed his sword and began to back away from the oncoming knights. Oddly, he did not feel as afraid as before, even knowing that this flight, like so many others, would end with his downfall.

Another question came to his mind, one that he often had asked before without hope.

"I earned the sip of water. Will I earn my rest as well?"

The shadows closed in. Rennard thought he heard the distant strains of a song.