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