The cataclysm t2-2 Page 14

  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."