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 ever-
present 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.
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 flesh-
and-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.