“Pursue me, fight me, and kill me. Then, when their
need for vengeance is sated, I will rise, and the entire
tragedy will happen all over again.”
“That’s monstrous!”
“It is justice. Even I know that.”
“What can I do?” Dornay began to reach for his sword.
“Help those people.”
“I mean for you!”
The ghost laughed. “So I now have two champions –
you and Huma! Both trying to save me from what I am!”
Rennard shook his head. “There is one thing you can do for
me, my … my friend. Go to those you sought to kill. Let me
see that I have accomplished my task.”
Dornay looked at the shadows of long-dead knights,
gathering to attack, then at their intended victim. At last, he
straightened and brought his sword up to his face in the
knight’s salute. “I will pray for you, Sir Rennard.”
The shadows still had not moved. They, too, were
waiting. “Once you depart, do not look back,” Rennard said.
“I would prefer it that way.”
Erik nodded and turned away. The ghost watched, his
own renewed pain and the nearing shadows forgotten. The
young Solamnian moved through the woods and, without
pause, entered the camp. The people were frightened,
staring at him uncertainly. Those who held weapons waited
for the knight to attack.
The Knight of the Rose planted his sword in the earth and
held up a hand in a sign of peace. He said something that
Rennard could not hear, but which caused the refugees to
lower their weapons.
One of them stepped forward. Erik held out his hand.
The man grasped the knight’s hand thankfully.
Rennard nodded, satisfied. He turned away from the
mortals to face the shadows who waited for him, across a
stream. Fog began to envelop him, and he knew that his
brief journey to Krynn soon would be only a memory.
Had it all been coincidence? Or did the gods, who had
left Krynn, still have ways of watching over those who
interested them?
The hunters waited, even when the sounds of mortal
beings faded away in the fog. Rennard tensed. Around him,
the fog gathered thicker.
“Why do you wait?” he shouted. “Why now?” They made
no answer. Even their whispers were preferable to the
silence, he realized.
The sound of sword striking shield came from behind
him. Rennard turned and stepped into the stream. Water
splashed. His boot struck the surface and sank in. Rennard
stared at the water. He dropped his sword and fell to his
knees. Fearfully, the ghostly knight reached down.
Small ripples spread out from his fingers. The tips of
his fingers TOUCHED the stream. Rennard thrust his hands
into the water. He cupped his hands together.
His own words came back to him. WHAT MUST I DO
TO EARN EVEN A SIP OF WATER?
Rennard brought the liquid to his parched lips and
drank. For the first time since his death, the eternal fever
that burned within him cooled.
Rennard lowered his hands into the stream again.
Another sip. He needed another sip.
This time, however, all was as it had been. The stream
flowed through his fingers as if they were not there . . .
which they were not.
The shadows moved. He had been granted his drink of
water. Now, it was time to return to the Abyss.
Krynn faded completely then. The stream disappeared
before his eyes. In its place lay the familiar plain of death.
Rennard grabbed his sword and began to back away
from the oncoming knights. Oddly, he did not feel as afraid
as before, even knowing that this flight, like so many others,
would end with his downfall.
Another question came to his mind, one that he often
had asked before without hope.
“I earned the sip of water. Will I earn my rest as well?”
The shadows closed in. Rennard thought he heard the
distant strains of a song.
SONG OF HUMA
TRACY HICKMAN
Sularus Humah durvey The Honor of Huma survives
Karamnes Humah durvey The Glory of Huma survives
Draco! Dragons, hear!
Solamnis na fai tarus Solamnic breath is taken
Mithas! Life; hear!
Est paxum kudak draco My sword is broken of Dragons