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.
