Dragonlance Tales II, Vol. 2 – The Cataclysm

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

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