Darll looked back up the road toward Graveside, at the retreating Rhael. "Lucky for them they found us, in fact."
Graym grinned at the others. "Best thing that could have happened, really."
Suddenly he was back at the cart, tugging on one of the shafts. Darll joined him. "Right, then. Let's get back." Graym pointed at the remaining barrel of ale. "Skull-Splitter all around, when we get there, on the house."
It was a surprisingly fast trip.
INTO SHADOW, INTO LIGHT
The knight stalked across the hellish landscape, sword in hand. The fog failed to conceal the desolation around him. Gnarled trees and churned dirt were sights all too familiar after so long. His world, his cursed world, was always much the same: dry, crackling soil, no sun, no shadows, no refuge, no life, just endless devastation… and somewhere in the fog, those who ever hunted him.
The fever burned, but, as always, he forced himself to withstand the pain. Sweat poured down his face, trickling into his armor. The plague that coursed through him never rested. Oddly, it had been a part of him so long that he probably would have felt lost without it.
The rusted armor creaked as the knight stumbled up a small hill. Beneath the rust on his breastplate there could still be seen a ravaged insignia marking him as a knight of the Solamnic orders. He rarely looked down at the fading mark, for it was a mockery of his life, a reminder of why he had been condemned to this existence.
The price of being a traitor had been heavier than he had ever thought possible.
As he started down the other side of the ravaged hill, the knight caught sight of something odd, something out of place in this wasteland. It seemed to glitter, despite the lack of sunlight, and to the weary knight it was worth more than a mountain of gold. A stream of clear, cool water flowed no more than a few yards from where he stood.
He smiled — a rare smile of hope. The knight staggered forward, moving as fast as he could manage, ignoring pain, fatigue, fear. How long since his last drink of water? The memory escaped him.
Kneeling before the stream, he closed his eyes. "My Lord Paladine, I beseech you! Hear this simple prayer! Let me partake this once! A single sip of water, that is all I ask!"
The knight leaned forward, reached out toward the stream… and fell back in horror as he stared into its reflective surface.
"Paladine preserve me," he muttered. Slowly leaning forward again, he stared at his image in the stream.
Pale as a corpse, his face was gaunt, almost skull-like. Lank, wispy hair — what could be seen beneath his helm — was plastered to his head. His eyes were colorless; had they always been that way? A faint, sardonic smile briefly touched his countenance. "I look like a ghost. How appropriate now," he said to his reflection.
The water continued to flow past, and he recalled the purpose for which he had paused. Again he stretched forth his gauntleted hand. The water might rust the metal, but the parched knight did not care. All that existed was the hope that this once — just this once — he might be allowed a sip.
His fingertips reached the surface of the tiny river, passed through it without even touching.
He cursed, cursed the gods who had doomed him to this wretched life. In frustration, he thrust his hand as 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.