Dragonlance Tales II, Vol. 2 – The Cataclysm

doubted any of them would live to see morning.

During the chaos, Erik Dornay woke from the blow that

had laid him unconscious. He stared at the screaming

acolytes, then his unholy companion.

“Rennard?” he asked, still dazed from the blow.

The Nightmaster rose and took a step toward Erik. The

ghost shifted, standing in front of the assassin. The Night-

master stumbled back. His remaining followers ran away.

When the Nightmaster tried to join them, however, he found

the spirit before him. Rennard drew his sword.

“I regret I cannot leave you to the fate you deserve. I

can take no chances, mortal.”

The ghost knight thrust his blade into the man’s chest.

The sword proved very solid.

“Why did you kill him?” Erik asked, struggling to free

himself from his bonds. “His face … he looked as if he was

dying already.”

Rennard glanced down at the body. “The others will

run back to their temple, beg Morgion to save them. He

won’t. He can’t. When they die, the scarlet plague dies, for

such is its way. This one, however, would serve his master

to the end. Nightmasters are chosen from among the most

fanatical of Morgion’s followers. If I had let him go, he

might have tried to spread the curse to those poor souls in

the camp.”

“You . . . you have my gratitude for saving me.”

“Huma saved you, not I,” Rennard remarked, thinking of

the song. Sheathing his blade, he moved to Erik’s side and

tried to take one of the young knight’s daggers in order to

cut the ropes. His hand passed through it. Dornay managed

to free himself.

Rising, Erik stared at the body of the cleric, then back

in the direction of the refugee camp. “You were right. These

fiends were trailing them.”

“Yes, Morgion’s toadies were sacrificing them one at a

time in the hope of calling the Faceless One back. Come

now, there is something I want to show you.”

“What?”

“Your friend’s murderers.”

On foot, it took several minutes to reach the outskirts

of the encampment. Someone evidently had heard the short,

fierce struggle, for the party had gathered close around the

fire. Four of the more fit were keeping watch. Women

clutched whimpering children. Men held sticks of wood for

weapons. All looked terrified.

“There they are,” Rennard said. “What will you do?”

“They look . . .” Erik hesitated.

“Hopeless? Desperate? In the Dragon Wars, I saw

many who looked that way.”

Erik eyed him. “You’re asking me to go to them, aid

them? But the danger is past!”

“If the cultists do not get them, then bandits or

starvation will. Look at them, Erik Dornay. They need your

pity, not your hatred. Huma would have tried to help them.

He would have understood that a moment of despair turned

them into an inhuman mob. His duty would have been to

restore their humanity.”

The Knight of the Rose still hesitated. “If I go to them,

they’ll attack me. I’ll be forced to kill them! I am not Huma!

He was a – ”

“Huma was a man.” Rennard saw movement and

glanced around. The shadows seemed to thicken, come to

life.

“What’s wrong?” Dornay began to move closer.

Rennard kept him at bay with his sword.

“Come no closer. I have already risked you once. If I

can spread my curse to those curs, then I can spread it to

you.”

Erik stepped back with great reluctance.

The shadows, Rennard saw, were taking shape and form.

“Now it is time for you to go, Erik Dornay.”

“But what about you?”

Rennard heard no whispering yet, but he was certain

the eyes of the hunters burned into him. The ghost readied

his blade and moved farther from the encampment. “I must

attend to matters of my own.”

“Matters . . .” Erik looked into the shadows. “Paladine

save us! What are they?”

“I told you that even ghosts may be haunted by ghosts,

Erik Dornay. These are mine – the shadows of every knight

who died by my hand or by my actions. They cannot rest,

and so I cannot.”

“What will they do?” the mortal whispered in awe.