“Very good!” hissed Rennard. “I trained you well!”
“Well enough.” Huma said no more. He knew he needed to save every ounce of strength, for Rennard was living off his madness and fighting with daunting power and ferocity.
Huma slipped in the mud just as Rennard’s blade flashed past his throat. The traitor fell forward, and Huma caught him sharply in the leg. Rennard did not scream, though his leg was awash in blood almost immediately. He hobbled away from Huma.
They turned to face one another again. Huma was on the verge of exhaustion, while Rennard was becoming faint from the terrible wound across the front of his right leg. Huma’s blade had just missed the muscles and tendons that would have cost Rennard the limb.
“Surrender, Rennard. You will be treated fairly; I swear it.”
The pale knight looked more drawn than normal. “I think not. A traitor such as myself, who has killed one Grand Master and almost another, could hardly expect fair treatment from the knighthood.”
Huma knew that his strength would return the longer they talked, while Rennard’s would only continue to seep away. Even now, it was difficult for the other to stand.
“Come, nephew. Let us finish this.” With amazing stamina, Rennard charged Huma, attacking with a variety of moves. Huma stood his ground and slowly began to move on the offensive. Rennard’s face became blurred as all was reflex, and the lessons—ironically, Rennard’s lessons—allowed Huma to counter each and every move.
A thrust broke through Rennard’s defenses. It caught him in his sword arm and the traitor almost dropped his weapon as the injured limb jerked uncontrollably for a moment. He was left wide open, and Huma’s blade came within an inch of his face.
They were both caked with mud now. Rennard had lost the madness that had possessed him, and he now seemed to realize that he had all but lost. Huma was better than he; his eyes knew it even if his face revealed no emotion. Now, it was all Rennard could do to prevent the killing blow.
Huma broke through his uncle’s guard again, and Rennard suddenly wavered on two badly bleeding legs.
He collapsed to his knees.
That broke the spell. Huma blinked, looking down at Rennard, whose life fluids were mixing with the muck. A look of disgust spread across Huma’s face.
“It’s over, Rennard. I won’t kill you. It would serve no purpose.”
Rennard tried to stand. On one knee, he waited, his sword at shoulder level, ready to defend.
“I will not go back, Huma. I will not suffer the mockery of a trial.”
Huma lowered his sword. “Let me help you. You were a good knight. One of the best.”
The laugh that Rennard responded with became a hacking cough. The cultist barely kept from toppling over. “Do you not understand? I’ve never been a knight! Since that day, my life has been in the hands of another god, and I have failed even him. Look at me!” Rennard smiled feebly and Huma was shocked to see that his former companion’s pallid skin was slowly turning scarlet. “My reward for failure. I never truly have been cured, I’ve merely lived day by day.”
“Rennard. A patrol will be by. They can locate a cleric.”
“No cleric will touch me.”
Whatever spell or nightmare the former knight had cast upon the village was gone, for now the people were screaming and crying at the sight of this, one of the worst plagues. Within seconds, the two armored figures stood alone.
“Rennard—”
It had become a strain for the other knight even to speak. The plague was coursing through his body.
“Don’t come near me, Huma. It spreads through touch.” Rennard was smiling. “There’ll be nothing left when it finishes. They’ll be lucky if they find more than a shell.”
Where was a patrol? Huma scanned the horizon in frustration.
“...or whatever it is worth, nephew,” sputtered the dying figure, “I hope you find what you are looking for. Perhaps there still is a chance.”
There! Huma spotted distant figures on horseback. They were moving too slowly, though. Much too slowly.
“Huma . . .”
The young knight looked down. Rennard’s face twisted with pain. “Pray to Paladine, Rennard! The patrol is nearing this village. When I explain—”
“There is nothing to explain, save that they must burn my body where I lie.” Rennard straightened and gripped the hilt of his broadsword with both hands, to steady it.
With a speed that belied his sickness, Rennard ran the edge of his blade across his throat.
“No!” Only the realization that he would carry the plague prevented Huma from wrenching the sword from the ragged figure. It was too late already. No cleric could bind such a wound in time.
Rennard’s limp hand released the sword, which fell and buried itself in the mud only a moment before Rennard’s lifeless form did the same. Huma dropped his own weapon and fell to his knees.
“No.” His voice was less than a whisper. Huma put his face in his hands and let his battered emotions run their course. Faintly, he heard the clattering sound of many horses, and then all was silent.
Chapter 20
Silence.
The intermingled cries of the oncoming horses and the terrified villagers who believed that the worst of plagues had been released in their midst, the tumult of hoofbeats—even the wind—all turned to silence.
The silence was interrupted by the distant beating of metal against metal.
Slowly, unbelievingly, Huma raised his head from his hands and stared wide-eyed at the world around him. The weary lands outside of Vingaard Keep, the entire outdoors, for that matter, were gone.
What stood before him now was the mirror—the same mirror that he had fallen through days ago. Now, all it revealed was the disheveled form of a worn knight who looked scarcely alive.
He was back in Wyrmfather’s cavern.
Had it truly happened? It seemed unlikely at first. More conceivable that it had been an illusion. But Huma still felt the pains that had been inflicted on him in that so-called dream. A nightmare, then. One very real nightmare. For Rennard was indeed dead.
Huma leaned back and removed his gauntlets. He rubbed his eyes and stared at the cursed mirror.
He was both angered and relieved—angry at feeling like a puppet, relieved that he was going to be permitted to continue on his quest and perhaps reunite with Kaz and Magius.
Where had they been all this time?
Huma continued to stare at the mirror. The shock of Rennard’s betrayal and death was still with him. Rennard was dead and Huma would pray for him, but the knighthood—no, all of Ansalon—still had a chance, if what Huma had been told was truthful—that somewhere in these mountains was the key to victory.
His reflection stared back at him from the mirror, and Huma’s mind finally registered what he was seeing.
He stumbled forward quickly. Huma had momentarily forgotten what had taken place in this chamber, what had happened to him. He had, as difficult it was to conceive, almost forgotten Wyrmfather.
If time passed here as it had at Vingaard Keep, the huge form should be ripe. Carrion-eaters of all shapes and sizes should have established their territories. But neither was true.
The gigantic head and neck lay exactly where they had fallen, true, but Wyrmfather’s gigantic bulk had turned to metal, metal of the purest nature, more brilliant than silver. At the same time, it resembled that other metal more than any other. He ran his hands over it, feeling the smoothness and marveling at how great a quantity there must be. For lack of a better name, he called it dragonsilver. He stumbled awkwardly around the great mass, his interest suddenly magnetized by the object that had destroyed Wyrmfather. Somewhere within its massive jaws, the huge corpse concealed the sword that had spoken to Huma. He was sure it had called to him, just as he was sure that he had to have it. If Huma gained nothing else from this experience, he wanted the sword.