wavers in doubt
Grant me this, Warrior Lord”
“Huma . . .” he whispered. It was the same song that
had carried him through the chaos and into the plane of the
living. The singer was Erik Dornay.
Walking toward the camp, the ghost listened to the
words.
Heroes existed only in tales, not reality. They were the
products of the ignorant, who had no other hope. The
knighthood itself was proof, as far as Rennard was
concerned. No heroes there. More darkness than light.
Yet even Rennard could not deny Huma’s courage, his
honor, his compassion … for one who had betrayed him.
Step by step, Rennard moved closer to the fire. Erik
Dornay sang quietly, with a tenderness and awe that
seemed out of place after his callous treatment of the
corpse, his sworn oath of vengeance.
Rennard stared at the young knight. Dornay had thrust his
sword into the ground. He knelt before it, still singing.
Rennard realized that it was the young knight’s way of
easing his mind, preparing for the evening rituals that were
an integral part of a knight’s training.
“Honor is Huma
Glory is Huma
Solamnic Knight Huma survives
Glorified Huma survives
Life: hear!”
Huma. Erik began to pray, spoke of him as Huma of
the Lance, spoke about a lance that had won the Dragon
War and swept the Dark Queen from the heavens.
Seeing Erik in the dim light of the campfire, Rennard
could almost imagine his former comrade kneeling there.
Huma and Erik Dornay were similar in appearance, even
without the hypnotic influence of the song.
“So, Huma, young squire – my kinsman – you have
become a hero. A hero.” The irony was not lost on the
ghost. He had betrayed the knighthood, betrayed Huma –
one of the few Rennard had ever thought worthy of the
ideals of the Oath and the Measure. “And it was I who
helped train you, not knowing you would cause my
downfall.”
Was this the reason he was here? the cursed knight
wondered. A reason involving the mortal before him? Or
was it mere coincidence?
The singing and prayers had ceased. Dornay was on his
feet now, and the sword, which had stood like a monument,
was in his hands – a deadly weapon in the grip of one well-
versed in its use.
“Who’s there? Who spoke? Enough of this! I’ve heard
you before! Show yourself!”
Rennard, alarmed, looked to see if his pursuers had
come while he had been lost in reverie. For a moment, the
shadows of night became the hunters, but the ghost soon
saw that there was no one, living or dead, other than Dor-
nay and himself.
“You hear me, then, Knight of the Prickly Rose?”
Rennard asked, not expecting an answer.
“I hear you too well, cur! Come out of hiding! Reveal
yourself to me or I will let my blade find you!”
Dornay shifted to face the location where the ghost
stood.
Rennard stared, amazed.
“You would not like me, mortal,” the ghost replied,
testing. “And your blade would be sorely disappointed.”
“Where are you?” Exhausted as he was, Dornay was
calm, alert. “I hear where you must be, but I see nothing
there!”
Rennard walked slowly toward his young counterpart.
“There is something here, Knight of the Rose, but nothing
you can touch, not even the smallest bone remains. The
physical shell I once wore was burned shortly after I killed
myself, so very long ago.”
“Killed yourself?” Erik’s eyes rounded. “So you claim
to be a ghost? You lie! More likely a spellcaster in hiding!
Yes, that’s who you must be!”
Rennard shook his head. “I am no mage, Erik Dornay.
Do you recall the body you found not too far from here?
The old man? I was watching you then. You thought you
heard something . . . even saw something, didn’t you?”
Dornay’s countenance was nearly as pale as that of his
unholy companion. The young knight backed slowly away,
the sword stretched out before him. Rennard could guess
some of what the knight must be thinking. Exhaustion
could do things to the mind, especially one filled with grief
and a burning desire for vengeance. Dornay probably