peering at his armor. “A Knight of the Order of the Rose!
This must be a sign, that one of the servants of the Great
Enemy should fall into our hands so easily! Our infernal
Lord Morgion MUST find this sacrifice satisfactory.”
“What of the others, Nightmaster?” The newcomers
were covered from head to toe in enveloping cloaks and
hoods. Only the Nightmaster’s features were visible. He had
a long, vulpine face, and his skin looked mottled.
“This one will die this eve. The rest are sheep and will
be sacrificed as needed. The knight is of utmost importance.
For him, we must plan a ceremonial death, a slow,
debilitating death, with one of the slower, more intricate
poisons.”
“But, Nightmaster,” pleaded another, “we’ve tried
before and failed. Some are saying the gods have all
abandoned Krynn – ”
“Blasphemy!” The leader’s shout silenced the
questioner. Under the cleric’s baleful gaze, the other cultists
reached down and took hold of the knight.
“Bind and gag him . . . just in case.”
The acolytes obeyed with cold efficiency.
Desperate, Rennard swung his sword at the closest, but
his weapon passed through the man without harm. Rennard
stared at his hand, thinking how useless it was despite the
heavy gauntlet. To all living things, I am less than the wind!
A wave of agony sent him to his knees. His frustration
had left him open to the curse. The plague was coursing
through his body. He fought back the pain. Through blurred
eyes, Rennard watched the cultists carry Dornay away.
“Paladine . . . great lord . . . you cannot want this! I do
not want this and neither does Huma, your most loyal
servant! Will you give another victim to the foul, faceless
Master of the Bronze Tower?”
This plea, however, went ignored as far as he could tell.
The cultist had spoken of a rumor of the gods leaving
Krynn. Was that so? Was there no one, then, who could
save the young Solamnian?
No one . . . except a ghost. . . ?
“It seems I am always too weak! To save my life, I
gave myself to Morgion. Later, I killed myself, as Huma
watched. Now, I must let Erik die.”
Unbidden, the “Song of Huma” came to his mind. Try
as he might, Rennard could not drive the melody away.
“Huma,” the ghost whispered, “why must you, of all
people, continue to have faith in me?”
He struggled to his feet and started to follow, each
movement sheer torture. Every dead muscle, every long-
decayed organ, every broken joint in his body burned with
pain and fever. What he hoped to accomplish, the ghost did
not know. Rennard knew only that he could not yet give in.
He could hear the acolytes whisper.
“… death of another knight . . .”
“… Morgion reigns . . .”
“… another soul to add to his collection . . .”
Rennard doubled his pain-filled efforts to keep pace
with them. Fortunately, the servants of Morgion were
hampered by Erik’s armored body.
Too soon, the Nightmaster signaled his acolytes to stop.
“This will do.” The leader pointed to a small, cleared
patch of ground by a stream. Morgion’s servants preferred
privacy for their work. It would not do for some peasant to
stumble on them. He might escape and warn the others.
The Nightmaster began chanting a litany that brought
back to Rennard faint memories of stench-ridden ruins and
dark practices for the glory of the despotic deity who was
their lord. It would not be long before the sacrifice. The
special death of a Knight of the Rose was a great gift to the
dark god. Small wonder that the Nightmaster might think it
sufficient to at last reunite the cultists with their master.
Rennard had willed himself to be visible to the young
knight. Now the ghost sought to do the same with the
cultists, hoping that his horrific appearance would send
them fleeing. Exactly how he had accomplished the feat the
first time, the ghost didn’t know. Intense need, anger,
bitterness . . .
At first, he thought he’d failed, for surely someone
should have noticed him, then one of the acolytes raised his