Bewildered, confused, he stared at his surroundings and made a bitter discovery. The muddy ground in which he knelt was soft. Despite the weight of his bulky armor, Rennard had not sunk so much as a finger's width into Krynn's blessed soil. He made not the slightest impression.
The knight rose to his feet. He cursed the gods who had brought him to this new fate. He was free of his prison, but not free of his damnation. Ansalon — if this was Ansalon — offered him nothing more than the demonic plain from which he had been cast out. Rennard raised his fist to the shrouded sky and wished that there had never been gods.
Dread, familiar sounds — the pounding of hooves, the dash of armor — jolted him. His pursuers had followed him!
The knight turned at the sound, the sight strengthening his fear.
A knight in war-scarred armor, riding a black horse, came at him. The steed — spittle flying as it strained to keep its mad pace — covered the distance between itself and Rennard in great strides. The horse's master, riding low, urged the animal on in harsh, unintelligible cries.
The horse charged straight at Rennard, but it was not a demonic phantom. It was a flesh-and-blood horse, a fleshand-blood man — a man whose armor marked him as a Knight of Solamnia.
To see a living being, even one wearing the armor of those Rennard had betrayed, was so overwhelming that the ghost could not readily accept the vision. Rennard stretched a tentative hand toward the oncoming knight. The ghost longed to touch a living, breathing person.
The horse shied, nearly throwing its rider. The other knight cursed and turned the animal back on the path, the path upon which Rennard stood. The horse stared fearfully at the wraith, then galloped forward.
It took Rennard several seconds to realize the truth. The horse, unable to swerve, had run through him. The ghost stared after the knight and his dark steed, riding madly down the broken road.
Rennard had to follow. Here was the first living being he had seen since his death, and a knight! Although he had betrayed the knighthood, Rennard felt a kinship for the warrior. Besides, here might be a chance to discover why the ghost had come to be once more on the face of Ansalon.
"I must catch him… But it's too late. I'll never be able to keep pace with the swift animal." As he started forward, the world seemed to ripple.
The ghost found himself standing in a new location, several yards ahead of the rider.
The other knight rode past. Rennard followed. Once more, the world rippled. Once again, Rennard had journeyed to a location ahead of the mortal.
Suddenly, the rider brought his horse to a halt, forcing his mount to veer off the path.
Rennard joined the mortal.
A body — that of an elderly man, a peasant by his clothes — lay in the brush, no more than a day dead.
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.