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.
