The cataclysm t2-2

by Margaret Weis

  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 head. His eyes settled on where the ghost stood.

  An indrawn hiss alerted the others. Hoods shifted as the servants of Morgion turned to see what had so startled their companion. The acolytes quickly retreated at the sight of an armed knight, but the Nightmaster held his ground.

  "Have you come for your companion, Knight of Solamnia? Come and take him… or join him, perhaps. Morgion will be doubly pleased, yes." The cloaked figure held out his hands, presumably to show he had no weapon.

  Rennard stepped forward, his eyes on the Nightmaster.

  A cloud of dust shot forth from the hand of the cult leader. Rennard stopped. The assassins leaned forward in expectation, awaiting the horrible death that soon would come to the knight.

  He did not need to look down to see that the poison had ended up settling on the ground beneath his feet. "I am beyond your deadly trick, mortal. The poison dust affects only those who still draw breath. I am long past that."

  He stepped closer, enabling them, even in the dim light of Solinari, to see him clearly.

  Not entirely certain whether what they saw was truly what they saw, two of the acolytes drew daggers. If the blades were as Rennard recalled, each was coated with one of the cult's concoctions.

  The nearest thrust his dagger into the ghost's throat. The weapon found no substance.

  The acolyte dropped his dagger, turned, and fled. An other joined him.

  "Who are you, phantom?" the Nightmaster demanded.

  "One who knows your ways, servant of Morgion. One who once went by the name Rennard."

  His name meant nothing to the acolytes who dared to remain, but the Nightmaster reacted with glee. "Rennard — still called Oathbreaker by the knighthood! He has sent you to me as a sign! Our work has not been in vain. Our Lord Morgion has not abandoned us after all! The lies that the gods left Krynn have been disproved! All our sacrifices, all the lives we have sent to our lord, have at last won his notice again!" He eyed Dornay's still form with pleasure. "We must do something special for you, Sir Knight."

  Rennard had visions of more and more sacrifices made in the name of Morgion… all deaths for which he would be accountable.

  More shadows to haunt him.

  "I do not come to you… but for you!" Acting instinctively, his anger deluding him into believing he was flesh and blood, Rennard leapt at the unsuspecting Nightmaster, grappling for the man's throat.

  The ghost's hand touched cloth and flesh.

  The discovery was so shocking that he almost lost his grip on the Nightmaster. The man's hood fell back as the ghost dragged his captive forward. His pale, ravaged face was almost as horrible as the ghost's, but Rennard was well used to such sights from when he had been one of them. Slowly and carefully, he spoke, his voice as chill as death. "There is no Morgion. The god of disease has indeed fled us." The ghost felt his pain ease. "There will be no more sacrifices."

  The leader of the cultists shivered and, at first, the ghost thought that the chills were from fright. Then he saw the man sweat, saw the patches of inflamed skin that gave the scarlet plague its name.

  Rennard had transmitted his accursed disease to the Nightmaster… and like a flame on dry kindling, it was spreading rapidly.

  "Please!" the man begged. He knew what was happening. No one understands poison better than the poisoner. "Let me go, before it's too late!"

  A grim satisfaction filled Rennard. "You wanted Morgion. Here is his legacy. You should be happy, Nightmaster."

  He threw the infected cultist into the remaining acolytes, who were staring, frozen in fear. They fell together in a jumbled heap, the servants frantically trying to separate themselves from their stricken leader. It was too late for them, however. They were infected the moment the Night-master touched them, for such was the intensity of the malady the gods had granted to the traitorous knight after his death. For the only time he could recall, Rennard was grimly pleased at the rapid speed of the plague. He 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 Nightmaster 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.

  "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

  Draco-Human Dragon-Huma oparu sac temper me now

  Draco-Humah Dragon-Huma coni parl ai fam Grant me grace and love

  Saat mas Solamnis When the heart of the Knighthood vegri nough wavers in doubt

  Coni est Lor Tarikan Grant me this, Warrior Lord

  Sularus Humah Honor is Huma

  Karram Humah Glory is Huma

  Solamnis Humah durvey Solamnic Knight Huma survives

  Karamnes Humah durvey Glorified Huma survives

  Mithas! Life; hear!

  Humah dix karai! Huma's death calls me!

  Ex dix! His death!

  Oparu est dix! Temper me with such death!

  Solamnis Lor Alan Paladine! Paladine, lord god of knights!

  Humah mithas est mithasah! Huma's life is all our lives!

  Draco-Humah durvey! Dragon-Huma survives!

  OGRE UNAWARE

  Dan Parkinson

  Through most of a day — from when the sun was high overhead until now, when the sun was gone behind the dagger-spire peaks of the Khalkist Mountains and night birds heralded the first stars glimpsed above — through those hours and those miles he had trailed the puny ones, thinking they might lead him to others of their kind. Now they had stopped. Now they were settling in on the slope below him, stopping for the night, and his patience was at an end.

  Crouching low, blending his huge silhouette with the brush of the darkening hillside, he heard their voices drifting up to him — thin, human voices as frail as the bodies from which they issued, as fragile as the bones within those bodies, which he could crush with a squeeze of his hand. He heard the strike of flint, smelled the wispy smoke of their tinder, and saw the first flickers of the fire they were building — a fire to guard them against the night.

  His chuckle was a rumble of contempt, deep within his huge chest. It was a campfire to heat their meager foods and to protect them from whatever might be out there, watching. Humans! His chuckle became a deep, rumbling growl. Like all of the lesser races, the small, frail races, they put their trust in a handful of fire and thought they were safe.

  Safe from me? His wide mouth spread in a sneering grin, exposing teeth like sharpened chisels. Contempt burned deep within his eyes. Safe? No human was safe from Krog. Krog knew how to deal with humans — and with anyone else who ventured into his territory. He found them, tracked them down, and killed them. Sometimes they carried something he could use, sometimes not, but it was always a pleasure to see their torment as he crushed and mangled them, a joy to hear their screams.

  There were a dozen or more in the party below him. Four were armed males, the rest a motley, ragged group bound together by lengths of rope tied around their necks. Slaves, Krog knew. The remnants of some human village ransacked by slavers. There were many such groups roaming the countryside in these days — slavers and their prey. Small groups like this, usually, though sometimes the groups came together in large camps, to trade and to export their prizes to distant markets. Those, the big groups, he enjoyed most, but now he was tired of waiting.

  He studied them; his cunning eyes counted their shadows in the dusk below. The slaves were grouped just beyond the little fire, but it was their captors he watched most closely, marking exactly where each of the armed ones settled around their fire. Experience
had taught him to deal first with the armed ones. He carried the scars of sword and axe cuts, from times when armed humans had managed a slash or two before he finished them. The cuts had been annoying. Better, he had learned, to deal with the weaponbearers quickly. Then he could finish off the others in any way that amused him.

  For a long time now, ever since the beginning of the strangenesses that some called omens, humans and other small races had been wandering into the territory that Krog considered his — the eastern slopes of the Khalkist Mountains. Chaotic times had fallen upon the plains beyond, and the people of those plains were in turmoil. Krog knew little of that, cared less. Every day, humans and others were drifting westward toward the Khalkists, some fleeing, some in pursuit… and they all were sport for Krog.

  Below him on the slope, the humans' campfire blazed brightly, and the humans gathered around it. He watched, and repressed the urge to rush down at them, to hear their first screams of terror. Let them have a minute or two to stare into their precious fire. Let them night-blind themselves so they would not see him until he was among them. It would make his attack easier, with less likelihood of any of them fleeing into the darkness.

  Stare into the light, he thought, licking wide, scarred lips with keen anticipation of the pleasures to come. Stare into the fire, and…

  He raised his head; his grin faded. He stared into another fire, a fire that sprang from a glowing coal in the overhead sky and grew until it seemed to fill half the sky. Searing light far brighter than firelight, brighter than the light of day, billowed out and out until the entire eastern sky was ablaze with it. Sudden winds howled high above, shrieks and bellows of anguish as though the very world were screaming. The radiance aloft grew and intensified, instant by instant, a blinding blaze of sky in which something huge, something enormous and hideous, coalesced, spinning and shrieking, and plunged downward to meet the eastern horizon in a blinding blast of fury.

  Stunned and half blinded, he stood on the slope, barely aware of the sounds all around him — birds taking terrified flight, small creatures scurrying past, the screams and shouts of the terrified humans just down the slope. Panic and fear, everywhere… then silence. A silence as complete as the recesses of a cavern seemed to grow from the world itself as the brilliant, distant light dimmed beyond the horizon. A slow, agonizing dimming, like the reluctant ebbing of a hundred sunsets, all at once descended.