The Legend of Huma

by Richard Knaak

  “You must think of a place you wish to go and then ask—No! Release me first!”

  The very mountain trembled as Wyrmfather went into another berserk rage.

  The hammering began anew—louder, if at all possible.

  Wyrmfather raised its massive head and shrieked, “I will not be cheated again!”

  Huma ran for the sword. The maddened dragon lashed out in anger. The massive jaws opened wide, and the long, draping, forked tongue whipped out. Wyrmfather meant to make a morsel out of the tiny human.

  Huma’s hand closed around the hilt of the sword. It burned in his grip, even through his gauntlets. Despite the pain, he pulled the sword free and held it high, moving through sheer reflex and skill.

  Wyrmfather’s jaws closed down on Huma, swallowing countless treasures in the process. For a moment, Huma vanished into the maw of the titan.

  With a rock-shattering cry of pain, the ancient leviathan spasmed. Gold, silver, statuary, jewels, and a badly battered Huma fell from his jaws. The knight hit one of the piles below, sending Shockwaves through his right arm.

  Above, Wyrmfather shook its head back and forth, trying to dislodge the sword it had forced into its own head. It was a futile effort; the body was already reacting by reflex. The brain of the dragon was dead, the green blade having cut through all barriers protecting it. The dragon’s actions only served to drive the blade deeper.

  Huma rose to his feet just as the massive head began its final descent. Even in death, Wyrmfather could spell the end of Huma. The knight scrambled.

  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 shortsword. 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 f
ull 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.”

  No! Huma nearly shouted. The Grand Master dead! Trake had never cared for Huma—in fact, despised him as did his son, Bennett—but Huma could not help feeling the grief, as would all his fellows at the death of the head of the knighthood.

  “I did not know. The people in the village seemed uneasy, but they did not—”

  “They do not know!” the other knight hissed. “Lord Oswal has decreed that no word shall pass from the Keep until a new Grand Master has been chosen! If word should leak out that we are in such disarray, our last defenses will crumble!”

  Last defenses? “Tell me—”

  “Garvin.”

  “Tell me, Garvin, what happened when the darkness overcame our lines? Where do we stand now?” Huma clutched at the arms of the other knight.

  “Didn’t you come through it?” Garvin eyed Huma curiously. “The front is no more than two days’ ride either east or west. The warlord’s Black Guard moves untouched through the south. Most of our outposts are cut off. We are cut off.”

  “Is there no hope?”

  Garvin stiffened. “We are Knights of Solamnia, Huma.”

  Huma nodded, knowing they would fight to the end, regardless. His mind turned to the cavern, the challenges, and, mostly, to the sword. He yearned for it now. In his hand, it would cleave through the Queen’s evil forces. Solamnia would be victorious. Huma might even carve for himself some tiny kingdom—

  He shook his head violently, and Garvin frowned in puzzlement. Huma forced the ungodly thoughts from his mind. The sword was not Paladine’s legacy to the knighthood. For all its majesty and power, something about it sickened Huma even as he yearned for it. Not that it mattered; he had lost everything when he had fallen through the mirror. It was hopeless.

  No! He straightened and gave Garvin an apologetic smile for his odd actions. There was still time if he could make someone listen.

  “Garvin, where might I find Lord Oswal?”

  “Now?” The other knight stared at the darkened sky from the shelter. “It is past supper, I know that. He would be in his quarters. He is preparing for the Knightly Council tomorrow night.”

  “They are going to wait until tomorrow night before choosing a new Grand Master? The Queen’s servants could be at our gates tonight! The dragons at the very least!”

  Garvin nodded. “So Lord Oswal said, but the Council will be the Council.”

  “I must speak with him now, then.”

  Huma hurried out into the rain.

  It had never really rained like this since the war’s beginning, Lord Oswal decided. In the past, it had always been nothing more than a mist. Now, it was almost as if the rain could wash it all away.

  The High Warrior started from his daydreaming. He was becoming senile, he decided, to be thinking of rain when the fate of the knighthood and of the world might rest on getting the dunderheads of the Council to speed up their decision on who would be Grand Master. He had ruined his own chances by admitting to his indecision at the rout. It had been only a momentary lapse, shock at the sudden turn in events and the realization that they could not fight this attack. The losses had been costly.

  Oswal’s nephew Bennett was maneuvering his own faction. He always remained within the bounds of the Oath and the Measure, but he was ambitious and would try to manipulate the decision. Logically, one of the three heads of the Orders should be the late Grand Master’s successor. But Bennett believed he should follow his father. Trake had always desired that. Only Oswal stood in his way, now.

  “Lord Oswal?”

  He looked up to see Rennard watching him intently. The pale knight stood next to the only other chair in Oswal’s room.

  Rennard. Despite his cold exterior, the High Warrior had almost as much regard for Rennard as he did for Huma. Only—Huma had been lost in the debacle. Huma apparently had stood fast in the end.

  “What is it, Rennard?”

  “You’ve still not formulated your plans. I think it might be wise—”

  There was a commotion outside as the two guards stationed at his chamber doors argued with someone. The newcomer was insistent, and there was something familiar about his voice.

  “Rennard, what—?”

  The pale knight had opened the door and—the elder knight could scarcely believe it—now gaped open-mouthed at a bedraggled knight struggling with the two guards. It took only seconds for Lord Oswal to recognize the newcomer, and then he, too, was staring in surprise and delight.

  “Huma!”

  The sentries immediately stopped struggling as they noted the tone of their superior. Rennard recovered also and, typically, simply said, “Let him by.”

  Released, Huma burst into the room. “My Lord Oswal, Rennard—”

  “At attention, Huma,” the gaunt knight interrupted.

  Huma immediately stiffened. Rennard turned to the High Warrior, who nodded. To the guards, Rennard said, “Resume your posts; that is the High Warrior’s orders.”

  Once the door was closed, Lord Oswal stared at the trembling knight. Huma had something to say and wanted to say it before it burst from his head, it seemed.

  “At ease, Huma. Come and sit down. Tell us about the miracle that allows you to return from the dead.”

  Huma knelt before the elder knight. Relieved at last, the story spilled from him in a torrent.

  Lord Oswal and Rennard listened intently as each part of Huma’s tale unfolded. The quest of Magius—the chase of the Black Guard—the ever-present dreadwolves—the mountains, the cavern, the dragon, the sword … Had it not been Huma who spoke, neither of the knights would have believed a word. As it was, they truly believed.

  The great clang of metal upon metal, so much like the sounds of the Keep’s own forge, interested Lord Oswal most. He asked Huma his opinion of the noise.

  “A workplace of the gods. There is no other way to describe it. If it is not Reorx who shapes the metal somewhere within that mountain … I can add nothing more, save that I feel I must go back,” Huma said, adding, “If Paladine wills it.”

  “Well.” It was all the High Warrior could say at first. Rennard simply nodded.

  Lord Oswal thought for a moment. “This sword sounds fascinating. Could it—?”

  Huma interjected immediately. “I fear it is lost to us. Wyrmfather acts as its tomb.”

  His tone was cautious. He wanted them to forget the sword, not only because of his wariness of it, but because of the temptation Huma felt to grip the blade and wield it
.

  The High Warrior took his words at face value. “I’ll trust to your judgment.” He looked from Huma to Rennard and then back again. “It seems to me that we cannot let this matter sit for very long. Time is running out for all of us.”

  Nervous enthusiasm in control, Huma quickly spoke. “I need only transportation. A horse—are the dragons about? One of them, maybe?”

  The High Warrior frowned. “There is nothing I can do for you anyway, Huma. Not at present. If I send you off on some wild quest, I lose the chance of keeping the knighthood from the hands of those more interested in power and esteem than the Oath and the Measure. You will have to wait until a new Grand Master is chosen.”

  Huma looked perplexed. “But, surely you—”

  “I have been found wanting. It may be another.”

  “But—” Huma could not believe his mission was to be delayed—possibly denied—for such a petty reason.

  “I believe I can win my case, Huma. I’m sorry, but you will have to wait. Rennard, he is one of yours. See to it that he is cleaned up, fed, and allowed to sleep. I’ll want to see a clearer head on his shoulders come the morrow.”

  “Yes, milord.” Rennard put a friendly but firm hand on Huma’s shoulders. The younger knight stood up reluctantly.

  They parted silently. Huma’s depression deepened. Not only was his quest threatened, but so was the life of a man who had been the closest thing to a father he had ever had. No one but Lord Oswal could lead the knights in this time. Bennett, for all his prowess, lacked experience. Even Huma knew that. The Knights of Solamnia needed strong leadership, leadership that only Lord Oswal could provide, Huma believed. Without Oswal, the knighthood would splinter.

  Without the High Warrior in command, Huma suddenly realized, he could never return to the mountain.

  CHAPTER 18

  The rain did not let up that night. Exhausted as he was, Huma could not sleep. Like Lord Oswal, he saw some significance in the sudden change from perpetual cloud cover to the incessant rain that so affected nerves as time passed.