head. His eyes settled on where the ghost stood.
An indrawn hiss alerted the others. Hoods shifted as the
servants of Morgion turned to see what had so startled their
companion. The acolytes quickly retreated at the sight of an
armed knight, but the Nightmaster held his ground.
“Have you come for your companion, Knight of
Solamnia? Come and take him … or join him, perhaps.
Morgion will be doubly pleased, yes.” The cloaked figure
held out his hands, presumably to show he had no weapon.
Rennard stepped forward, his eyes on the Nightmaster.
A cloud of dust shot forth from the hand of the cult
leader. Rennard stopped. The assassins leaned forward in
expectation, awaiting the horrible death that soon would
come to the knight.
He did not need to look down to see that the poison had
ended up settling on the ground beneath his feet. “I am
beyond your deadly trick, mortal. The poison dust affects
only those who still draw breath. I am long past that.”
He stepped closer, enabling them, even in the dim light
of Solinari, to see him clearly.
Not entirely certain whether what they saw was truly
what they saw, two of the acolytes drew daggers. If the
blades were as Rennard recalled, each was coated with one
of the cult’s concoctions.
The nearest thrust his dagger into the ghost’s throat.
The weapon found no substance.
The acolyte dropped his dagger, turned, and fled. An other
joined him.
“Who are you, phantom?” the Nightmaster demanded.
“One who knows your ways, servant of Morgion. One
who once went by the name Rennard.”
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