For a moment, Huma's spirits soared. "Can you accompany me?"

The commander laughed. "I'm afraid the emperor would have my head for that. Besides, it is unfit terrain for troops on horseback. Patrols have gone to those mountains and vanished. Mages refuse to go there, and clerics warn everyone away. Does that give you any idea of what you are asking?"

"Yes, milord." Huma slumped down on the stool and held his head. The tent was suddenly very warm. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. A moment, please." Huma wiped sweat form his forehead. The fever subsided.

Lord Avondale looked worried. "Perhaps we had better continue our talk tomorrow."

"That would be better, milord."

"So I see." The noble rubbed his chin. "Come with me to Caergoth, and I will see to it that you are able to go on to the mountains on your own, if you still desire to."

"Caergoth?" The heat had left Huma blurry-eyed. He found it difficult to focus on the commander.

"Yes, Caergoth. The clerics will steer us from the plague areas. What do you say?"

"Thank you." Huma rose swiftly, and his head began to swim. He desired nothing more than to lie down. He still had not regained much of his vigor. "If you would excuse me?"

"By all means." Guy Avondale watched the Solamnic knight hurry off. His brow wrinkled in worry. He took a sip of wine and then stared into the glass.

Before being pressed into the service of their emperor, most of Lord Avondale's soldiers had been simple tradesmen and farmers. Thus it was that they knew of the Knights of Solamnia as little more than legend. Now, they had one such legend traveling in their midst, and the tales of his adventures, real and imagined, were already making the rounds through the camp. Huma was almost as awestruck as the Ergothians, for he did not consider himself a legend, and the open stares he received embarrassed him greatly.

Most of the stories revolved loosely about the chase and his berserker's stand against the ebony-armored servants of the warlord. He had slain a legion of them, it appeared, including a massive pack of the demonic dreadwolves, much feared by men who knew their families lived virtually unprotected while they were away at war. Huma found it puzzling that men of Ergoth, the land from which his own knighthood had forcibly sprung, could look up to him as a champion.

Avondale seemed amused. When Huma protested that the stories were getting out of hand, he only smiled and replied that such was the true trial of every great legend, living up to his own reputation. 'They need their heroes. It gives them hope-hope that somehow the darkness that is Takhisis will be defeated and they will be able to return to their loved ones."

Occasionally, dragons would sweep in with some word of the war. Northern Ergoth and Hylo had been overrun. Huma grew anxious. He wondered if Kaz had continued north or if he had turned south to seek Huma. Even if the latter were the case, a minotaur would not be welcome in any town in this land. It was not just Kaz that Huma worried about; the battle-scarred easterner would do his utmost to assure he did not die alone.

Huma asked for news of Solamnia, but the dragons who arrived knew nothing of what had occurred there. There were rumors that the knights had been pushed back nearly half the distance to Vingaard Keep. Of the east, nothing could be ascertained.

They made camp near the ruins of a once-prosperous town, two days from Caergoth. The town had perished from plague in the early days of the war, and some people believed the newest wave had originated in its ruins. Avondale was of another mind.

"You will recall," he said to Huma that same evening, "that I mentioned how particular I believed the plague was."

"I remember."

The noble tapped his fingers on the table in his tent. "I believe it is so particular because it is purposefully being directed by human agents."

Huma did not want to believe that anyone would deliberately spread disease, but he knew something of the cult of Morgion. They were rumored to have agents in all societies, all organization, all countries, waiting for the command to unleash the deadly gifts of their god.

"Could you not be mistaken?" Huma would have preferred it that way.

"Perhaps."

Huma was no longer confined to the camp itself. Avondale had applied that restriction on the first day, but had relaxed it once he was assured that Huma would not do something foolish, such as ride off without assistance. Thus it was that Huma wandered from the campsite, eventually picking his way toward the nearest ruins. The ruins disturbed him, as did anything associated with plague, but Huma knew that there would be no traces of disease after all this time.

Huma had had no intention of entering the remains of the ill-fated town-until he caught a glimpse of the four-legged shadow that quickly melted into the maze of decrepit buildings. It might have been merely a wolf, or perhaps a wild dog.

Drawing his sword, he stalked after the shadow-thing. He did not notice how deep into the ruins he had gone until he heard the scurrying of something among the desolate buildings. It was not the sound he would have expected of a four-legged creature. Training and experience told him that this new intruder walked on two legs.

Huma tried to make out shapes in the darkness. He saw the faint glow of two crimson eyes before they vanished into one of the buildings. The knight took a step toward the site.

He heard something skitter within the house to his left. Turning in that direction, Huma could make out nothing but more darkness.

A tall, formless mass bumped him as it moved swiftly past his backside. He whirled and was rewarded with a yelp of pain from the figure before it literally melted into the night. Huma rushed after it, sword before him.

There was no place the figure could have gone but through the battered doorway before the knight. Huma kicked away the remainder of the door and dove in.

The room was empty. He checked the other rooms of the small house. They, too, were inhabited only by the usual vermin. His quarry had vanished. He took a few angry steps toward the back of the building, kicking up dust as he moved. Behind the back of the building, he saw nothing but more rubble. Unless something were lying flat on the ground beneath those particular ruins, he suspected it must be elsewhere. There just was nowhere to hide out there.

The floating dust caused Huma to cough badly. He suddenly felt weak and nauseated, and it was a strain just to walk, much less hold his sword. In irritation, he threw the blade to the floor, raising even more aggravating dust. His armor was caked with the stuff, but he did not care. He was staggering now. The dust seemed everywhere, filling his eyes, nose, ears, and throat. He made it to the doorway and, with a sigh, slumped down and sat staring at the lifeless street. This, too, became much too tiring, and he decided that a nap would do much, much more good. The knight closed his eyes, and snores quickly followed.

Dark figures clad in long, enveloping cloaks and hoods seemed to form shadows around him. Their faces could not be seen beneath the deep hoods, and only one of them revealed hands. That one removed a small vial from his belt and uncorked it. With gentle care, he poured the contents on the floor. The contents, a reddish powder, reacted immediately with that which Huma had believed to be the dust of ages. The two hissed and steamed, canceling one another until nothing remained save the natural layer of gray powder that had accumulated through the years. The hooded figure resealed the bottle and turned toward the fallen knight He snapped his fingers, and four of his companions scurried over to take hold of Huma.

Within a minute, the room was empty. Had anyone looked inside, they would have seen no indication of recent entry. There was no sign of the knight and no sign of his shadowy captors.

A mocking howl cut through the bleak air of the ghost town.

Chapter 12.

Voices hissed incomprehensibly. seemingly in some sort of debate. It took the groggy knight several seconds before he came to realize that it was he the voices were arguing over. He wished his eyes would work so that he could see who was so concerned with his welfare.

Another voice, somehow familiar, cut in, full of anger. "Why do you delay?"

"He is marked."

"Of what concern is that, Skularis?"

The one called Skularis hissed at some offense in the question. "There is something amiss when a Knight of Solamnia bears such a mark."

A second voice, more like the croak of some great bullfrog, snapped, "He would not understand, Nightmaster! This one on the ground is more one of us than him."

The first speaker, the Nightmaster, tried again to explain. "We have agents among them. Powerful ones, indeed." The other speaker croaked his agreement. Huma stirred a little. They seemed to think he bore some kind of important mark. All he had right now was a burning forehead.

"I am aware of what the mark means," the familiar voice-where had he heard it?-said. "I am also aware that it is not going to kill him as I had originally thought. Excellent. He bears information I need. His very existence is important to me."

"What would you have us do, then? We cannot do him harm, not if one of ours has marked him for protection."

The evident outsider snarled, and Huma's senses came alive as he recognized the sound. Only the dreadwolves made a sound like that.

Someone must have noticed the shifting of his body, for a gloved hand reached down and turned Huma's head from left to right. The glove was quite rotten; it stank so badly that Huma instinctively pulled away from it. The one identified as Nightmaster chuckled obscenely.

"He is not one of us, but one of us has sought to protect him. This grows more and more interesting."

"What shall we do?" the croaker asked.

"You must hide him, you wretched cadavers!" the outsider snarled. "Hide him until my servants can contact you! Has the plague taken your minds as well as your bodies?"

Huma's eyes seemed willing to open at that point, just a crack.

Two figures resembling high mounds of moldy, stinking cloth stood conversing with-a dreadwolf. No one else. It took Huma's fog-enshrouded mind several moments to realize that Galan Dracos-from his citadel far away somewhere-was using his unliving servant as his eyes, ears, and mouth in Ergoth.

That they were still somewhere in the ruins was only a guess. What little he could make out lent credence to that guess, for the room was filled with rubble and part of the ceiling was gone. Huma did not know how long he had been unconscious or how far they had dragged him.

Then the more menacing of the two ragged assailants lifted an arm, revealing a bony, scarred hand with the index finger pointed at the renegade's messenger. "Have a care, mage. You have her blessing for now, but she is a fickle queen to those who fail her. You would do well to speak more civilly with those you need."

The pale form of the dreadwolf bristled with barely contained fury as Dracos allowed his emotions to be transmitted through his servant. The smaller of the two hooded figures shuffled back, two blotchy hands held up in obvious fear.

The other, the Nightmaster, must have smiled, for his tone was full of mockery. "Your powers are fearsome to the fear-filled, but not to one who enjoys the protection of Morgion."

Morgion! Huma was barely able to stifle the shock that leaped through his taut body. He was a prisoner of the cultists of Morgion, god of disease and decay!

"This is a foolish waste of time," Dracos finally muttered.

"Agreed. Very well, mage. My brethren will keep this one for your lackeys, but only because it serves the Master's goals to do so. Not because I fear your power."

"Of course not."

"But the mark-" said the croaker.

"There are times, brother, when we all must make sacrifices for the greater glory of Morgion."

"And the Queen, of course," added Dracos purposefully.

"And the Queen. Pity. I am still curious as to the reason for the mark." Skularis put a hand to Huma's forehead.

Huma reeled from the shock, feeling as if his very soul were being invaded. He cringed, but he had no room to maneuver away from the clawlike hand.

Quite suddenly, he was no longer in the ruins. A kaleidoscope of sights and sounds enveloped him. Huma felt no fright. A part of him knew this state was only in his mind, though he could not explain how this should calm him. Huma thought he could hear the sounds of horses riding into battle, the clank of armor, the cries of battle, and steel against steel. He saw a vision of three knights. Each wore a symbol of the knighthood: the crown, the sword, and the rose. They all wore visors, but Huma knew somehow the two in back could only be the twin gods Habbakuk and Kiri-Jolith. Two of the Solamnic Triumvirate-which meant that he who stood before them . . .

With a horrible abruptness, Huma was wrenched from that vision and returned to the real world once more. Had he not been gagged, he would have screamed, for the bony, disease-ridden hand pulled sharply away from him, seeming to take strips of his flesh as it did. Through blurred eyes, Huma could see the two cloth-enveloped figures staring down at him.

"I could not penetrate his mind. He is shielded through sheer willpower alone. Fascinating."

"And the mark?" croaked the second.

"No longer there. It was too weak. He is too much a pawn of the prolonger of pain, that which fools call Life. He is not one of us-could never be one of us."

From behind them, the voice of Dracos issued forth once more from the maw of the dreadwolf. 'Then there can be no more hesitation."

"None. He is yours when your servants come." The cleric snapped his fingers. Huma's eyes chose that moment to clear. Hooded figures emerged from the darkness, disease-wracked ghouls like the dead of a battlefield come back to some semblance of life.

'Take him to the catacombs. Bind him to the altar."

"No sacrifices!"

Even Huma could not miss the curling of the cleric's lip. "Have no fear, cur. He will be alive and well. It shall be interesting to see if you have better luck than I did."

Dracos had no reply for that, or at least the dreadwolf repeated no message. Huma struggled, but his bonds, held together. Four of the cloaked figures grabbed him roughly and lifted. Their combined odor was nearly overwhelming.

He had hoped to get some idea where they were and where they were going, but his view was obscured by the moth-eaten sleeve of one of his bearers. He suspected that they still were quite close to the building where he had foolishly fallen victim to one of the cult's traps. Huma knew something of the followers of Morgion. They were expert at keeping their plots and membership secret. That they were taking him to the catacombs meant that they lived beneath Caergoth itself, a frightening revelation. Small wonder no trace of the origins of the plague could be found. It was not from something within or near the city, but beneath it.

A breeze wafted some of the stench from his nostrils. Huma assumed that they must have stepped from one of the ruined buildings back into the night. He sought desperately for some plan of escape, suspecting that the catacombs would be virtually impossible to traverse. But he was tightly bound and gagged, and his situation seemed hopeless now.

The group had traveled a short distance from the building when Huma heard what appeared to be the hoot of a night bird. The ragged figures came to an abrupt halt as they belatedly realized what Huma had recognized instantly.

There was a hiss as something hurtled through the air and then one of Huma's bearers went down, an arrow in his chest. The knight had time to brace himself as the others lost their grip on him and he fell to the ground face up.

Then it was pandemonium as brilliant light left the hooded figures with nowhere to hide. Well-placed arrows took down two more before the cultists could get their bearings. The one called Skularis ran past Huma's field of vision. He was foregoing the honors of command for the safety of fleeing. It was a short-lived flight, however; not one, but three arrows caught him in the back. The Nightmaster wobbled like a mad puppet and collapsed in a heap.

Armored figures were now rushing out even as the light dimmed. Of the cloaked villains-there had been more than a dozen, Huma was shocked to realize-only four were still standing. They lacked any substantial weapons, and the first soldiers to wade into the combat made the mistake of believing themselves safe from harm. That mistake was made evident when one of the dark clerics pulled forth a small pouch and threw it at the nearest armored figure. Huma could hear the man's scream and the shocked cries of other soldiers as all the ravages of the plague seemed to occur within the space of seconds.

A familiar figure stepped before him and leaned down to test the bonds. "What a fool I was! I should have known ..."

The archers were taking over. By the time Avondale had finished cutting Huma's bonds, the last of the cloaked menaces lay dead.

"The dreadwolf? Did you get it?"

"Dreadwolf?" Avondale scanned the area worriedly. "I have not seen it!"

"My sword!" Huma's weapon lay half-buried under one of the cultists. He tugged at it mindlessly, his only concern that the four-legged horror must be stopped. Somehow, impossibly, the creature had evaded the fighting and was escaping. Huma did not want the dreadwolf tracking him down again and transmitting to its master the knight's location and activities.

He heard Lord Avondale call after him, but he ignored him. He had to see the thing destroyed.

A scrabbling of running feet alerted him. He followed the sound at full speed, only barely missing numerous holes and mounds that threatened to send him flying if he made a misstep. He did not think of the dangers.

Huma leaped over the remains of a stone wall. The plague had not directly caused all the damage around him; the crazed riots and torching of plagued homes had done that.

He landed on rubble. Suddenly, his foot slipped from beneath him and he was falling backward. By the strongest of efforts, he succeeded in keeping his grip on the sword. The errant foot twisted beneath him, and he gritted his teeth in pain.

As he lay there, stunned, the fearsome visage thrust itself into his face. The long, yellowed fangs hovered near his throat, and the blood-red tongue flickered in and out of the massive jaws. The sightless eyes revealed only death to the trapped knight. The dreadwolf's front claws pressed sharply into Huma's chest.

"Rather would I deprive the mage of his puppet friend!" The jaws closed in on the knight's throat.

Huma swung the blade hard against the dreadwolf. It was an awkward angle, and the cut he inflicted was negligible. But it did throw the beast off his chest.

The dreadwolf rolled over once and landed on its feet. The crimson eyes glowed fiercely, and the thing's lips curled back in hatred. Huma raised his sword high.

Suddenly, the creature burst into flames. One second it had stood there, preparing to strike, the next it was a fireball. Huma looked on in amazement, and then noticed a new figure stepping out from behind the ruins of what had once been a fairly large inn.

"Magius!"