man of weak resolve, that he kept his promises to his
friends. The ghost was all too aware of what people had
done for lesser reasons.
Dornay’s flight took them into thickening woods. A
number of the trees had been uprooted, but most had more
or less survived intact. The forest should have meant
nothing to the ghost. Yet, for some reason that made no
sense to him, he was reminded of Morgion. Rennard grew
more cautious, even drawing his sword, just in case.
Ahead of him now, the Knight of the Rose suddenly
reined to a halt. The flatter land gave way again to hills.
There was a campfire in the distance.
The refugees? Those he pursued? Dornay evidently
thought so, for he moved with more stealth now.
Rennard debated with himself. He stared at the not-so-
distant flame and decided it would be wise to take a closer
look. Erik would not reach the camp for several minutes,
whereas the ghost could flit in and out in less time than it
took to draw a breath.
It proved easy to pick out a spot near, but not too near,
the encampment. As a precaution, Rennard was careful to
hide behind a gnarled oak, on the off-chance that he was
visible to all, not merely Erik.
In the dim light of Solinari, the ghost saw the terrible mob
that had murdered the knight Lucien.
These wretched people looked little more alive than
Rennard. They hardly seemed like a dangerous lot: sick old
men, desperate young men, worn down women, crying
children. With not enough to eat or wear, they were lost,
with no knowledge of surviving off the land.
They will not survive their journey. If Erik doesn’t kill
them, they will wander around in circles until they all fall
from disease and exposure and starvation.
Without raising a finger, the knight could sentence them
all to death. With Erik’s help, the group could survive.
Rennard returned to Erik, materialized next to him. The
young knight had found another corpse.
In the light of the moon, the dead man’s visage was
nearly as horrible as that of the ghost. Rennard shivered,
though not from fear. There was no doubting that the
peasant – a man younger and much more burly than the
previous corpse – had not died easily. He had struggled until
the end.
“Do not touch him!So” Rennard commanded.
Erik looked up, his surprise giving way quickly to
nervous annoyance. “What are you doing here, phantom?”
“Saving you. This man died of plague.”
Dornay quickly backed a respectable distance away.
Rennard moved closer, noted the man’s contorted features,
the red splotches on his hands and face. A dusty film that
sparkled a bit in the moonlight had already settled on the
upturned visage. It had been a cruel death.
“Did you touch him?” Rennard demanded.
“No, thank Paladine, but I was almost ready to do so.”
Rennard turned from the corpse, Morgion’s legacy.
Legacy? Rennard turned back.
He thought of all disease as originating from the dark
lord, but some had origins more human than godly. Rennard
leaned close and studied the film on the unfortunate man’s
visage. Even in the dim moonlight, the dust shimmered with
a metallic gleam.
“So some accursed things continue,” Rennard muttered.
The victim had not died of plague. To the unknowing, it
would seem so, but Rennard recognized the dust. The other
symptoms, too, made sense, now that he knew the truth.
The legacy of Morgion had indeed killed this man, but
it was human hands that had done the work – an evil
powder, a poison, whose signs mimicked the plague. The
ghost knew its uses all too well. The powder was a favorite
tool of those who served the Master of the Bronze Tower. It
was sacred to them, as if they held the very power of their
god in their hands. The poison could be created by anyone
with the knowledge. The Lord of Decay was not a trusting
god, even with his followers. Only the most devout learned
the secrets of his worship. Morgion’s powers were reserved
for those who guided the cult, the Nightmaster and his
acolytes.