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
