purpose for which he had paused. Again he stretched forth
his gauntleted hand. The water might rust the metal, but the
parched knight did not care. All that existed was the hope
that this once – just this once – he might be allowed a sip.
His fingertips reached the surface of the tiny river,
passed through it without even touching.
He cursed, cursed the gods who had doomed him to this
wretched life. In frustration, he thrust his hand as deep into
the water as he could. The stream flowed on. He didn’t
create so much as a ripple.
Growing more desperate, the knight thrust his other
hand into the water. He tried to cup some of the liquid, but
each time his hands came free of the stream, they held
nothing. This land might have been a desert for all he could
drink.
His head lowered. The sound of mocking laughter came
to him, but he did not know if it was real or his imagination.
He had never known.
“How long must I pay?” the knight demanded of his
unseen tormentor. “What must I do to earn a sip of water?”
He pounded his fist against the ground, but even that
much comfort was denied him. His hand could not touch the
soil. There was always a small distance between the world
and him. The ground, like everything else, refused to accept
his touch, refused him peace.
“I am dead!” he roared at no one. “Let me rest!”
Dead. He was nothing more than a ghost now, a ghost
sentenced to pay in death for the darksome deeds he had
performed in life. Now and forever, the Abyss was his
home, his reward for living that life.
How long since his death? He had no idea. Time meant
nothing here. But he thought the Dragon War must be long
over. What was happening now in the world of his birth,
Krynn? Had centuries passed since his spirit had been
exiled to this phantom plain where no one existed but
himself and those who sought vengeance? Or had it been
only days?
The clink of armor warned him that he was no longer
alone. His pursuers had found him again. The knight
reached for his sword, but it was flight that was on his
mind. Combat was a last, desperate effort; it was
predestined that he would lose any battle.
Then the whispers began.
RENNARD. . . WE COME!
His name. After so long, he often forgot. They were
always there to remind him, however. They could never
forget the name of the one responsible.
RENNARD!
BETRAYER. . .
OATHBREAKER. . .
Rennard may not have remembered his name, but now
the other memories were too terrible to forget.
His pursuers could not be far behind. Despite his
danger, the cursed knight could not help but take one last
desperate glance at the cool, sparkling stream.
“One sip,” he prayed, reaching his hand a last time
toward the water. “Is that so much to ask?”
And then … it was as if the world, ALL worlds, shrieked
in agony, began to shake.
Rennard found himself cast out into an invisible
maelstrom, caught up in some new, inventive torment of
the gods.
The whispers died. He wondered if his pursuers, too,
had been caught up by this chaos. Rennard stood. The
desolate realm that was his home, his prison, began to fade
before his eyes. He caught a glimpse of shadowy forms,
swords, and bitter eyes, then they dwindled away to
nothing. He heard a sound – one so out of place that he
could not believe he heard it.
“The Honor of Huma survives
The Glory of Huma survives
Dragons, hear!
Solamnic breath is taken
Life; hear!
My sword is broken of Dragons”
It was a human voice singing. And he heard a name . . .
Huma? How could such a thing be? What did it mean? The
melody drew the knight. Without thinking, Rennard moved
toward it, followed it. …
He found himself standing in a fogbound, desolate land.
Something is different, Rennard thought. This is not the
Abyss!
The song faded away, but Rennard barely noticed. He