debated which was more terrible – the thought that he had
gone insane or the prospect that he faced a spirit from
beyond.
“A trick,” he muttered.
“I am real, Erik Dornay, as real as the armor you wear,
but as insubstantial as your faith in the oaths you took when
you donned the mantle of a knight.” Rennard laughed.
Erik put a hand to his breastplate and touched the rose
symbol. “Why do you haunt me, specter? Why reveal
yourself to me now? Leave me! Go back to your rest!”
“Rest?” The word struck Rennard as sharply as a
wellhoned sword. “I cannot rest! I am not allowed to rest!”
He stalked forward until he was almost face-to-face with the
other knight, who continued to stare wildly around. “Gladly
would I call an end to this accursed existence of mine!
Gladly would I earn my REST!”
Erik stepped back again, aware that whatever haunted
him lurked just ahead, but not at all certain what could be
done about the situation.
Rennard found relief in venting his centuries-old anger
on someone. “Would that I could reveal myself to you,
Knight of the Rotting Rose, so that you could see the fate
I’ve been condemned to!”
And there and then, Erik Dornay, staring in mute
horror, nearly dropped his sword and fled, for the ghost,
without knowing it, had done just that.
“A knight!.. . You are a knight… .” Dornay stared at the
ghost’s ruined face – the pale, drawn skin, the boils, and the
scarlet patches.
“Plague!” Erik’s sword arm extended as straight as
possible. “Keep back!”
Rennard moved closer.
“Where is your brotherly concern?” he mocked. “I am
in need. The plague still thrives within me, gnaws at me
even after death. Surely, it is for you to aid a comrade!” He
opened his arms, as if to embrace Dornay.
“May the gods forgive me!” Erik leapt forward and
thrust his sword between Rennard’s helm and breastplate.
The young knight’s aim was true, so much so that the
ghost expected to feel the death blow. Then, to Rennard’s
bitter amusement and Erik’s disbelief, the blade passed
through without obstruction.
The young Solamnian dropped his sword and stared at
his hand, as if IT were somehow to blame for the impossible
sight he had just witnessed.
“Had it been my choice,” Rennard said, “the blade
would have sheared my head from my body, once and for
all ending this accursed existence!”
“Paladine save me!” Erik cried.
“Paladine cannot save you. He did not save ME,” the
ghost knight hissed. “That was for another, darker lord to
do. Morgion it was, who finally heard my plea, but he
demanded a heavy price.”
“Who – ” The young knight pulled himself together.
“Who are you, wraith? Why does your tragic existence
haunt me now, in my grief?”
“You should know. It was YOU who called me. You –
with your song.”
“The . . . song?” Erik eyed the phantom, more
perplexed than he was anxious. He frowned. “I am no foul
necromancer, like the followers of Chemosh!”
“Nonetheless, it was your song.” Rennard circled
Dornay, his eyes never leaving the mortal. “The one you
sang about … Huma.”
“Huma? Huma of the Lance?”
“Just Huma to me, a knight who believed and, because
he believed, fought as few others could. I knew him well,
you see, even aided in his training. That was before . . .”
Erik’s eyes were wary and thoughtful. One did not rise
to the Order of the Rose without being able to adapt to the
unknown, even if that included the undead.
Rennard guessed what he was thinking. “If you have a
way, Mortal, to rid yourself of me, by all means try. I
would welcome rest after so long. I am tired of running, of
fighting in futility.” Here, at last, Rennard could not hide
his own despair. “Tired of the pain.”
“Your name, Ethereal One. You still have not said.”
The flickering flames of the tiny campfire caught the
ghost’s attention. He reached down and passed his hand
through the fire. “You see? Nothing, not even now.” He
straightened. “My name? You probably would not know it.