Rennard gripped the hilt of his sword and vanished after the diminishing figure of Erik Dornay.
Shortly after nightfall, Dornay ended his ride and made camp in a small copse of tangled trees. The halt was not by choice, if Rennard was any reader of expressions, but made out of necessity. The horse s breathing was ragged; it was doubtful that the unfortunate animal would have lasted much longer without rest. Dornay himself nearly collapsed as he dismounted, but the young knight took care of his horse, fed and tethered the animal. He built a small campfire, over which he set a piece of meat to cooking.
The aroma of the cooking meat drifted over to Rennard. The smell brought a terrible hunger for food. Without thinking, he stepped toward the fire. The horse, sensing him, neighed loudly and pulled on its reins.
Erik, just removing his helm, looked swiftly around. Rennard paid no attention to the knight. The ghost bent down by the fire and stared at the meat. He nearly forgot the agony of the plague that eternally tormented him.
"Paladine, Kiri-Jolith, Morgion, Takhisis… Gilean…" Rennard chanted in rapid succession. "If there be one who still watches over me, let me eat! Let me taste it…"
The meat sizzled. The ghostly knight reached out.
His fingers went through it, just as they had passed through the water earlier.
"Not again!" Frustrated, Rennard swung his hand at the makeshift spit.
Dornay's meal, spit and all, collapsed into the fire.
Rennard stared at his hand. Erik leapt forward and tried to rescue his meal. Cursing, the young knight dusted off his food and reset it to cooking.
"Did I do that?" wondered the ghost. He reached out again, but, to his dismay, his fingers could not touch it. He could only watch as Dornay removed the hot flesh a minute or two later and began to eat. Rennard envied every bite.
"This is madness!" Rennard cursed. "Better the ravages of plague or the thrust of a thousand swords than to suffer this hunger!" He stepped back, intent on departing but strangely reluctant to leave.
Dornay lifted a flask of cool water to his mouth.
Rennard rushed from the encampment. He had traded the endless running for this? Which was worse, he wondered, the fear or the desire?
Searing pain made him stumble — the ever-present torture of the plague. Rennard gritted his teeth and struggled to remain standing. Fever consumed his already dead flesh. Chills shook a body that did not exist.
Then a melody drifted to him, a melody that seemed to ease the plague's torment. Rennard slowly recovered, and as he did, his attention focused on the song.
"Dragon-Huma temper me now
Dragon-Huma
Grant me grace and love
When the heart of the Knighthood wavers in doubt
Grant me this, Warrior Lord"
"Huma…" he whispered. It was the same song that had carried him through the chaos and into the plane of the living. The singer was Erik Dornay.
Walking toward the camp, the ghost listened to the words.
Heroes existed only in tales, not reality. They were the products of the ignorant, who had no other hope. The knighthood itself was proof, as far as Rennard was concerned. No heroes there. More darkness than light.
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!"