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
