The massive skull struck the ground precipitously close to Huma. The knight—along with nearly a king’s ransom in valuables—was flung forward, his last thoughts of Solamnia. His body struck the mirror—
—and landed in the muck and mire of a rain-soaked wasteland.
His first frantic thoughts were for the sword. It had remained jammed in the dying dragon’s jaws. Huma had to retrieve it.
How? He surveyed his surroundings—and reeled in shock. This was Solamnia! Very near Vingaard Keep. Huma sat up and put his face in his hands. He had discovered the secret of the mirror. Now he was transported far from the mountains—and his companions!
His right arm was numb and nearly useless, but he felt no broken bones. The temporary paralysis would go away after a few hours. Both he and his armor were mud-covered. He felt quickly at his waist, then gave a small sigh of relief; he still had his own sword, puny as it seemed compared to the wonderful surge of power he had felt when holding the green blade. If only . . .
A thought came to him.
It was difficult to tell direction, but by the few still-recognizable landmarks, he was certain he was south of Vingaard Keep. Had it been a brightly lit day, he knew he could have glimpsed the mighty citadel.
Ineffectually wiping the mud from his face, Huma started north.
The habitations he passed would have provided little protection for a wild animal, much less a human. The wood frames were crumbling with rot. The thatched roofs could only barely be called that; there were too many holes and too little material to patch them with. The mud used to pack the stonework together had become so damp that in many places the walls had fallen completely away.
The haunted looks he saw in the faces of the emaciated survivors who peopled this poor excuse for a village sent chills through his body. What, he wondered, was the Keep doing about this situation? These people barely existed. Their homes were little more than lean-tos, and some people did not even have that. Instead, they sat in the mire and ravaged earth, and stared at the devastation around them.
He knew that the knighthood could not care for them all, but it still agonized him. Huma prayed that somehow he would gain new transportation so that he could return to the mountain and, if it was allowed, face the challenges once again. He also worried about his two companions. Were they looking for him?
Staring at the ruined land, Huma thought that the knighthood might have helped the people rebuild their villages, patrol their forests, and possibly gather or grow their own food. Instead, nothing.
Huma stopped walking for a moment, thinking about his nearly blasphemous ideas. What would Rennard have said if he had heard him? Huma smiled slightly. Probably very little, he decided.
Several villagers stepped out to gaze at Huma with a variety of expressions—fear, respect, anger, and disgust. Five men blocked his path. Huma blinked and waited. The five did not step aside.
Their apparent leader was a tall, wide man with a foul black beard, a receding hairline, a squashed nose, and more than two hundred pounds of what had once been pure muscle. He wore the typical mud-stained pants and much-repaired tunic of a farmer. The clothing was quite insufficient for the harsh weather. The man’s beefy hand gripped a smith’s hammer.
“Throw down your sword, little man, and we’ll not hurt you. It’s your stuff we want, not you.”
A thin, pasty-faced lad giggled nervously, next to the big man. The boy was nearly bald, and he had all the signs of a plague survivor, including the touch of madness. The remaining three were rather nondescript remnants of men, faces and bodies that had wasted away long ago. None of the five were true bandits. Huma prayed silently that he would not be forced to raise a hand against them.
“Are you deaf?”
“I cannot surrender you my valuables or food, if that is what you desire. I have very little.”
“You have no choice.” The big man swung his hammer experimentally in Huma’s direction with great precision. “I thinks you’re missin’ the point. We take what we get.”
The hammer snapped up and into a striking position. Huma’s blade was out, yet he was loath to use it, even on them. The choice was taken from him, though, for the brigand leader’s hammer came screaming past Huma’s face, narrowly missing.
Five forms converged on the single knight—or tried to. Suddenly, Huma’s right foot caught an attacker in the stomach. His free hand stunned the giggling lad, who thought to slip under his guard with a rusty old short sword. With the flat of his blade, Huma brought the lad to the ground, unconscious. With ease, he disarmed the watery-eyed old man. Weaponless, that one retreated quickly from the fight, leaving Huma free to take care of the two still standing, one of them the apparent leader.
Despair suffused Huma as he realized these last two were not about to yield. The one remaining swordsman fought from desperation, which added dangerous strength to his otherwise unremarkable form. The brigand leader smiled viciously as he advanced again and again.
With great sadness, Huma made his choice. Before the startled eyes of the other villagers, the Knight of the Crown broke through the swordsman’s guard and thrust deep into the chest. The man gurgled something and collapsed. Even as his one opponent fell, Huma was beating back the leader with one stinging blow after another. The burly thug began swinging wildly at the knight, and Huma waited. When the opening came, as he knew it would, a single chop put an end to the last of the desperate band.
Huma, his breath ragged, looked up at the spectators. They showed no emotion. He could not guess whether they were pleased or angered.
He looked around for the three survivors. Two were unconscious, and the third had run off. They would be no more trouble.
Disgusted, Huma wiped off his sword, sheathed it, and stalked north once more. He was not even out of the village before arguments flared as human vultures fought over the meager belongings of the dead thieves.
When he had first stood before Vingaard Keep, home of the knighthood since Vinas Solamnus had ordered its construction all those centuries ago, Huma had felt like a mote before the palace of the gods.
The feeling lessened only ever so slightly.
Vingaard Keep’s walls rose to a great height. Only a few adversaries dared scale such walls. The walls surrounded the citadel and were punctuated by slits for archers. The only gap in the walls was where the massive iron gates stood guard. They were as thick as Huma’s arm was long, and they could stand the full force of a dragon charge. Each of the gates was decorated with the three-part symbol of the knighthood—the majestic kingfisher, with wings half-extended, which grasped in its sharp claws a sword on which a rose was centered. Above its head was a crown.
After a long, wet wait, a sentry came in response to Huma’s hoarse shouts. He peered down at the bedraggled figure clad in a mixture of Solamnic and Ergothian armor, and shouted, “Who goes there? State your name and mission!”
Huma removed his helmet. “I am Huma, Knight of the Order of the Crown, returned from lands far beyond. I must speak to Lord Oswal, or even the Grand Master himself! It is urgent!”
“The Grand Master?” Huma could not see the man’s face well, but the surprise in his tone was obvious. “Wait!”
Huma wondered at the strange reaction.
At last, the gates began to swing slowly open.
The same sentry who had questioned him stood by the gate. At the guard’s signal, Huma followed him into the Keep. Those knights who had opened the gate wore expressions matching that of Huma’s guide. The mystery deepened.
The sentry, a young Knight of the Crown, pulled Huma over to a dark corner and out of the drizzle that had developed. “I know who you are, for Master Rennard speaks highly of you in training, so I have taken this chance to warn you before you make a slip.”
“Warn me? About what?”
“Only this morning—” The other knight looked around. “—the Grand Master, Lord Trake, passed away, victim of some foul, wasting disease.”