Rennard turned his eyes briefly to the murky heavens. "I will do this for you, Huma… of the Lance. I will do it for you, not the gods. Never them."
Pale eyes narrowing, the ghost answered the young knight's question. "He would have understood VERY well what you were doing, Erik Dornay. You have my oath on that. Unlike you, however, Huma would have understood the meaning and the consequences as well. And, therefore, he would never have considered your dark course." Rennard shifted so as to allow the fire to illuminate his features. "Huma would have known that such a course can lead one only to a fate… like mine. Each life I took follows me, punishes me." Rennard shivered, the flickering shadows caused by the fire too lifelike at that moment. "The number still horrifies me, when they begin to gather."
"But they killed Lucien! They don't deserve to live! I have to… to…" Backing away, Dornay stumbled over to his horse. He untied the animal and wearily mounted, ignoring the fact that his helm still lay on the ground.
"You may deny me, mortal. You may even deny Huma, whom you claim to admire. Can you, though, deny yourself?"
Erik Dornay did not respond. He turned his horse and urged the animal on with a harsh kick to the ribs.
Rennard materialized in front of him. "Huma — the squire I trained, the knight I fought beside and against, the legend that led you to the Solamnic orders — watches us. He had a way of affecting others, Erik Dornay, even me. For that reason and that reason alone, I will not let this end. I will haunt you day and night if I have to."
The Knight of the Rose kicked his protesting charger again, forcing the horse to ride through Rennard.
The ghost disappeared, made himself reappear in front of the startled animal. The horse tried to turn away, but Erik once more forced the terrified beast to keep to the chosen route. Snorting in frustration and anxiety, the mount again raced through the apparition and galloped down the path.
Rennard followed. He'd wait until the horse could go no farther, which couldn't be very long. What would Erik do when he realized it was impossible to escape the ghost? Rennard did not know. The young knight was wavering in his desire for revenge, but it was at such an emotional junction that the greatest danger lay. Erik might go through with his dark plan merely to prove to himself he was not a man of weak resolve, that he kept his promises to his friends. The ghost was all too aware of what people had done for lesser reasons.
Dornay's flight took them into thickening woods. A number of the trees had been uprooted, but most had more or less survived intact. The forest should have meant nothing to the ghost. Yet, for some reason that made no sense to him, he was reminded of Morgion. Rennard grew more cautious, even drawing his sword, just in case.
Ahead of him now, the Knight of the Rose suddenly reined to a halt. The flatter land gave way again to hills.
There was a campfire in the distance.
The refugees? Those he pursued? Dornay evidently thought so, for he moved with more stealth now.
Rennard debated with himself. He stared at the not-sodistant flame and decided it would be wise to take a closer look. Erik would not reach the camp for several minutes, whereas the ghost could flit in and out in less time than it took to draw a breath.
It proved easy to pick out a spot near, but not too near, the encampment. As a precaution, Rennard was careful to hide behind a gnarled oak, on the off-chance that he was visible to all, not merely Erik.
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."