reached down and took hold of the knight.
'Bind and gag him… just in case.'
The acolytes obeyed with cold efficiency.
Desperate, Rennard swung his sword at the closest, but his weapon passed through the man without harm. Rennard stared at his hand, thinking how useless it was despite the heavy gauntlet. To all living things, I am less than the wind!
A wave of agony sent him to his knees. His frustration had left him open to the curse. The plague was coursing through his body. He fought back the pain. Through blurred eyes, Rennard watched the cultists carry Dornay away.
'Paladine… great lord… you cannot want this! I do not want this and neither does Huma, your most loyal servant! Will you give another victim to the foul, faceless Master of the Bronze Tower?'
This plea, however, went ignored as far as he could tell. The cultist had spoken of a rumor of the gods leaving Krynn. Was that so? Was there no one, then, who could save the young Solamnian?
No one… except a ghost…?
'It seems I am always too weak! To save my life, I gave myself to Morgion. Later, I killed myself, as Huma watched. Now, I must let Erik die.'
Unbidden, the 'Song of Huma' came to his mind. Try as he might, Rennard could not drive the melody away.
'Huma,' the ghost whispered, 'why must you, of all people, continue to have faith in me?'
He struggled to his feet and started to follow, each movement sheer torture. Every dead muscle, every longdecayed organ, every broken joint in his body burned with pain and fever. What he hoped to accomplish, the ghost did not know. Rennard knew only that he could not yet give in.
He could hear the acolytes whisper.
'… death of another knight…'
'… Morgion reigns…'
'… another soul to add to his collection…'
Rennard doubled his pain-filled efforts to keep pace with them. Fortunately, the servants of Morgion were hampered by Erik's armored body.
Too soon, the Nightmaster signaled his acolytes to stop.
'This will do.' The leader pointed to a small, cleared patch of ground by a stream. Morgion's servants preferred privacy for their work. It would not do for some peasant to stumble on them. He might escape and warn the others.
The Nightmaster began chanting a litany that brought back to Rennard faint memories of stench-ridden ruins and dark practices for the glory of the despotic deity who was their lord. It would not be long before the sacrifice. The special death of a Knight of the Rose was a great gift to the dark god. Small wonder that the Nightmaster might think it sufficient to at last reunite the cultists with their master.
Rennard had willed himself to be visible to the young knight. Now the ghost sought to do the same with the cultists, hoping that his horrific appearance would send them fleeing. Exactly how he had accomplished the feat the first time, the ghost didn't know. Intense need, anger, bitterness…
At first, he thought he'd failed, for surely someone should have noticed him, then one of the acolytes raised his head. His eyes settled on where the ghost stood.
An indrawn hiss alerted the others. Hoods shifted as the servants of Morgion turned to see what had so startled their companion. The acolytes quickly retreated at the sight of an armed knight, but the Nightmaster held his ground.
'Have you come for your companion, Knight of Solamnia? Come and take him… or join him, perhaps. Morgion will be doubly pleased, yes.' The cloaked figure held out his hands, presumably to show he had no weapon.
Rennard stepped forward, his eyes on the Nightmaster.
A cloud of dust shot forth from the hand of the cult leader. Rennard stopped. The assassins leaned forward in expectation, awaiting the horrible death that soon would come to the knight.
He did not need to look down to see that the poison had ended up settling on the ground beneath his feet. 'I am beyond your deadly trick, mortal. The poison dust affects only those who still draw breath. I am long past that.'
He stepped closer, enabling them, even in the dim light of Solinari, to see him clearly.
Not entirely certain whether what they saw was truly what they saw, two of the acolytes drew daggers. If the blades were as Rennard recalled, each was coated with one of the cult's concoctions.
The nearest thrust his dagger into the ghost's throat. The weapon found no substance.
The acolyte dropped his dagger, turned, and fled. An other joined him.
'Who are you, phantom?' the Nightmaster demanded.
'One who knows your ways, servant of Morgion. One who once went by the name Rennard.'
His name meant nothing to the acolytes who dared to remain, but the Nightmaster reacted with glee. 'Rennard — still called Oathbreaker by the knighthood! He has sent you to me as a sign! Our work has not been in vain. Our Lord Morgion has not abandoned us after all! The lies that the gods left Krynn have been disproved! All our sacrifices, all the lives we have sent to our lord, have at last won his notice again!' He eyed Dornay's still form with pleasure. 'We must do something special for you, Sir Knight.'
Rennard had visions of more and more sacrifices made in the name of Morgion… all deaths for which he would be accountable.
More shadows to haunt him.
'I do not come to you… but for you!' Acting instinctively, his anger deluding him into believing he was flesh and blood, Rennard leapt at the unsuspecting Nightmaster, grappling for the man's throat.
The ghost's hand touched cloth and flesh.
The discovery was so shocking that he almost lost his grip on the Nightmaster. The man's hood fell back as the ghost dragged his captive forward. His pale, ravaged face was almost as horrible as the ghost's, but Rennard was well used to such sights from when he had been one of them. Slowly and carefully, he spoke, his voice as chill as death. 'There is no Morgion. The god of disease has indeed fled us.' The ghost felt his pain ease. 'There will be no more sacrifices.'
The leader of the cultists shivered and, at first, the ghost thought that the chills were from fright. Then he saw the man sweat, saw the patches of inflamed skin that gave the scarlet plague its name.
Rennard had transmitted his accursed disease to the Nightmaster… and like a flame on dry kindling, it was spreading rapidly.
'Please!' the man begged. He knew what was happening. No one understands poison better than the poisoner. 'Let me go, before it's too late!'
A grim satisfaction filled Rennard. 'You wanted Morgion. Here is his legacy. You should be happy, Nightmaster.'
He threw the infected cultist into the remaining acolytes, who were staring, frozen in fear. They fell together in a jumbled heap, the servants frantically trying to separate themselves from their stricken leader. It was too late for them, however. They were infected the moment the Night-master touched them, for such was the intensity of the malady the gods had granted to the traitorous knight after his death. For the only time he could recall, Rennard was grimly pleased at the rapid speed of the plague. He doubted any of them would live to see morning.
During the chaos, Erik Dornay woke from the blow that had laid him unconscious. He stared at the screaming acolytes, then his unholy companion.
'Rennard?' he asked, still dazed from the blow.
The Nightmaster rose and took a step toward Erik. The ghost shifted, standing in front of the assassin. The Nightmaster stumbled back. His remaining followers ran away. When the Nightmaster tried to join them, however, he found the spirit before him. Rennard drew his sword.
'I regret I cannot leave you to the fate you deserve. I can take no chances, mortal.'
The ghost knight thrust his blade into the man's chest. The sword proved very solid.
'Why did you kill him?' Erik asked, struggling to free himself from his bonds. 'His face… he looked as if he was dying already.'
Rennard glanced down at the body. 'The others will run back to their temple, beg Morgion to save them. He
