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 won't. He can't. When they die, the scarlet plague dies, for such is its way. This one, however, would serve his master to the end. Nightmasters are chosen from among the most fanatical of Morgion's followers. If I had let him go, he might have tried to spread the curse to those poor souls in the camp."
"You… you have my gratitude for saving me."
"Huma saved you, not I," Rennard remarked, thinking of the song. Sheathing his blade, he moved to Erik's side and tried to take one of the young knight's daggers in order to cut the ropes. His hand passed through it. Dornay managed to free himself.
Rising, Erik stared at the body of the cleric, then back in the direction of the refugee camp. "You were right. These fiends were trailing them."
"Yes, Morgion's toadies were sacrificing them one at a time in the hope of calling the Faceless One back. Come now, there is something I want to show you."
"What?"
"Your friend's murderers."
On foot, it took several minutes to reach the outskirts of the encampment. Someone evidently had heard the short, fierce struggle, for the party had gathered close around the fire. Four of the more fit were keeping watch. Women clutched whimpering children. Men held sticks of wood for weapons. All looked terrified.
"There they are," Rennard said. "What will you do?"
"They look…" Erik hesitated.
"Hopeless? Desperate? In the Dragon Wars, I saw many who looked that way."
Erik eyed him. "You're asking me to go to them, aid them? But the danger is past!"
"If the cultists do not get them, then bandits or starvation will. Look at them, Erik Dornay. They need your pity, not your hatred. Huma would have tried to help them. He would have understood that a moment of despair turned them into an inhuman mob. His duty would have been to restore their humanity."
The Knight of the Rose still hesitated. "If I go to them, they'll attack me. I'll be forced to kill them! I am not Huma! He was a — "
"Huma was a man." Rennard saw movement and glanced around. The shadows seemed to thicken, come to life.
"What's wrong?" Dornay began to move closer. Rennard kept him at bay with his sword.
"Come no closer. I have already risked you once. If I can spread my curse to those curs, then I can spread it to you."
Erik stepped back with great reluctance.
The shadows, Rennard saw, were taking shape and form. "Now it is time for you to go, Erik Dornay."
"But what about you?"
Rennard heard no whispering yet, but he was certain the eyes of the hunters burned into him. The ghost readied his blade and moved farther from the encampment. "I must attend to matters of my own."
"Matters…" Erik looked into the shadows. "Paladine save us! What are they?"
"I told you that even ghosts may be haunted by ghosts, Erik Dornay. These are mine — the shadows of every knight who died by my hand or by my actions. They cannot rest, and so I cannot."
"What will they do?" the mortal whispered in awe.
"Pursue me, fight me, and kill me. Then, when their need for vengeance is sated, I will rise, and the entire tragedy will happen all over again."
"That's monstrous!"
"It is justice. Even I know that."
"What can I do?" Dornay began to reach for his sword.
"Help those people."
"I mean for you!"
The ghost laughed. "So I now have two champions — you and Huma! Both trying to save me from what I am!" Rennard shook his head. "There is one thing you can do for me, my… my friend. Go to those you sought to kill. Let me see that I have accomplished my task."
Dornay looked at the shadows of long-dead knights, gathering to attack, then at their intended victim. At last, he straightened and brought his sword up to his face in the knight's salute. "I will pray for you, Sir Rennard."
The shadows still had not moved. They, too, were waiting. "Once you depart, do not look back," Rennard said. "I would prefer it that way."
Erik nodded and turned away. The ghost watched, his own renewed pain and the nearing shadows forgotten. The young Solamnian moved through the woods and, without pause, entered the camp. The people were frightened, staring at him uncertainly. Those who held weapons waited for the knight to attack.
The Knight of the Rose planted his sword in the earth and held up a hand in a sign of peace. He said something that Rennard could not hear, but which caused the refugees to lower their weapons.
One of them stepped forward. Erik held out his hand. The man grasped the knight's hand thankfully.