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 Night-
master 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.