The Legend of Huma

by Richard Knaak

  He heard horses trotting past. Even in the dead of night, there was always activity. Some men slept, others worked. Vingaard Keep would never be caught off-guard.

  A returning patrol, he decided. The sounds dwindled off in the direction of the stables. Huma wondered what news, if any, they would bring. Had the lines backed up even farther? Would the knights soon be able to view the front from the Keep itself? How long before the pincer finally closed upon the cradle of the knighthood?

  Huma stood up slowly, so as not to disturb those around him in the common quarters shared by Knights of the Crown. The building was essentially one great room with row upon row of hard, flat beds and small storage areas for each occupant. As the knights slept in shifts, the room was never full. Also, many were away from the Keep for one reason or another. Only the higher-ranking knights had quarters of their own.

  A breath of fresh air, he decided, would do him good. With careful steps, he maneuvered around his fellows and eventually made his way to the door.

  The air was cool and the wind a little more brisk than he had imagined. He breathed in deeply, thankful for the moment when he could briefly relax from all the sorrows and confusion. Huma prayed that all would go well tomorrow.

  He blinked. His eyes began to play tricks on him, and he was sure for a brief moment that a dark figure had moved near Lord Oswal’s chambers, just behind the two guards. He considered alerting someone, but neither guard seemed disturbed, and when he looked again there was no sign of the supposed intruder. Huma had no desire to bring ridicule upon himself. Not now. He stared out into the night and, after a few minutes, retired. Sleep came more swiftly this time.

  The next day passed far too quickly. It had been Huma’s intention to steer clear of the other knights, at least until the question of leadership was resolved. Too much had happened to him, and he did not trust himself to remain neutral on the subject. What he said, he knew, would be a reflection on Lord Oswal, who had always stood by him. Even Rennard might be affected.

  Yet Lord Oswal summoned Huma just two hours before the Knightly Council was to meet. The Knight of the Rose who brought the message eyed Huma with great curiosity, but, loyal as he was to the High Warrior, he asked no questions.

  As Huma was crossing to Lord Oswal’s quarters, he was confronted by the very figure he had intended to avoid.

  “They told me you were alive. I had my doubts, though, until I saw you just now.”

  Bennett was clad in formal attire, including a purple cloak bearing the standard of both the knighthood and his family’s personal holdings. A black sash ran diagonally across his breastplate. Even now, with the rain still lightly falling and the true night almost upon them, he seemed to gleam. Regardless of all else, Bennett was his father’s son. The hawklike features were a copy of the elder knight.

  “My apologies, Lord Bennett.” The family holdings had been ruled equally by Oswal and Trake until the latter’s rise to Grand Master. Now, as Trake’s heir, Bennett held that title with his uncle. As Oswal had no heirs of his own, the holdings would someday be under the rule of only one man. “I had meant to offer my sympathies sooner—”

  “Do not play me for a fool, goatherder,” Bennett rejoined. “You have stayed away from me because we have ever been enemies. I still do not believe you belong among us, but my own good heart has made your ouster all but impossible now. Little did I know when I praised you—posthumously, I thought—that you would return.”

  Huma’s entire body felt taut, but he would not allow himself to be provoked by Bennett. He was sure much of the anger in the son of the late Grand Master was due to his father’s untimely death.

  “I have never been your enemy, milord. Rather, I have always admired you, despite your protest over my selection.” Bennett’s face actually evidenced mild surprise as Huma spoke. “Your bearing, your skill, your ability to command under the most adverse conditions—you are what I strive to be, what I may never be. I only ask for the opportunity to do my duty.”

  Bennett’s mouth clamped shut. He stared at Huma briefly, then muttered, “Perhaps.”

  “Perhaps?” Huma raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

  The newest Lord of Baxtrey, though, had already turned away. All Huma could do was watch him vanish into the midst of the Keep.

  Huma proceeded to meet with Lord Oswal.

  Rennard was there. Huma interrupted them as they inspected a map. Lord Oswal was pointing to a spot near the north. They looked up as Huma was admitted, and the High Warrior smiled thinly. Rennard merely nodded.

  Lord Oswal rolled up the map. “Were you away from the Crown’s general quarters?”

  “No. I had the misfortune of confronting your nephew, milord.”

  The elder knight shook his head. He was looking much more drained than he had the night before. “Yes. Pay him no mind, Huma. He is unsettled by the fact that you’ve seemingly come back from the dead.”

  “He still hates what I am.”

  “Then he is a fool,” Rennard suddenly interjected. “You have proved to be ten times the knight he is.”

  “I thank you, though I do not believe that.”

  “Then you are also a fool.”

  Lord Oswal interrupted. “The last thing we need is to fight among ourselves.” The High Warrior put a hand to his forehead, nearly knocking over a lit candle in the process. Huma reached for him, but Oswal waved him away. “I’m fine. Didn’t seem to get enough sleep last night, though. A bad night for insomnia, I should think.”

  “Will you be able to go through with the Council meeting?” asked Rennard.

  “What choice have I? Perhaps it’s only my personal opinion, but if my nephew—who I must point out thinks he is doing what is best—has any control over the next Grand Master, we will be plunged into disaster.”

  The intensity of the High Warrior’s opinion of his nephew surprised Huma. He had known they did not get along, but this … “Why so?”

  “Bennett, like many of us, is too caught up in the legends of the knighthood. He is the kind of leader who will have every able knight in Vingaard Keep attacking in one massive, heroic charge that will end in the death of all.”

  “Would he?” Huma’s tone was doubtful. Even against the darkness, Bennett appeared calculating and in full command of his senses.

  “He would. You never see Bennett in a command meeting; he is the one for lighting strikes or waves of destruction, never solid, long-term strategies. Since Trake’s death, I think he is even more determined to do something momentous—to honor his father’s memory.”

  “Huma may have trouble believing that, but I have known Bennett longer. I would concur,” added Rennard.

  Lord Oswal looked up at Huma. “Another thing. He would never believe your story of enchanted swords, imprisoned dragons, and god-created challenges that hold the key to victory. I do. Call it faith in Paladine, but I do.”

  The elder knight leaned forward suddenly, holding a hand against his head.

  “Rest. I need some rest,” muttered Oswal.

  “Help me with him, Huma.”

  Together, the two knights led the High Warrior to his bed. As they helped him lie down, Lord Oswal took hold of Rennard. “You must see to it that I am awake in time for the Council. Is that understood?”

  The pale face turned toward Huma and then back to the High Warrior. With the same lack of emotion he always displayed, Rennard said, “Of course. You know I will.”

  “Good.” Lord Oswal was asleep almost immediately after that. The two knights stepped away quietly. When they were backed up by the door, Rennard turned to Huma.

  “He wants you at the Council meeting.”

  “What about him?” Huma feared for Oswal’s health.

  “He’ll be there. I’ve promised to take care of him.” Rennard actually smiled slightly. “I have everything in hand. You’ll see.”

  Huma made sure that he was one of the first to arrive.

  Not all Knightly Councils were open to th
e population of the Keep. Most consisted only of the ruling knights and any persons involved with some portion of the agenda. There was also a set pattern to events, steps that were followed under normal circumstances. It was the feeling of the ruling body, though, that selecting a replacement for the Grand Master was something all should be involved with and, while not everyone could fit into the chamber, the knighthood as a whole would be well represented.

  The masters of the Orders of the Crown and the Sword were already seated. Arak Hawkeye tugged at his tiny goatee and stared rather arrogantly at his counterpart of the Sword. Huma did not recognize the man next to Lord Hawkeye. It was not the same knight who had commanded the Order of the Sword these past four years. The former commander had died in the war to the east, and his replacement had been chosen on the battlefield out of necessity. The knight’s angular face reminded Huma of an idealized statue more than a man. His mustache was long and trimmed narrow, his eyes nearly invisible under a thick, shaggy brow. When Bennett entered, it was clear who was the true ruling power in the Order of the Sword, for the other stiffened.

  Eventually, the chamber was filled and the waiting began. Only two people of consequence were missing, Rennard and Lord Oswal. The Knightly Council waited patiently, members constantly conferring with one another during that time. At last, Bennett stalked imperiously over to Lord Hawkeye and spoke sharply in an undertone. Hawkeye responded in kind, and the argument raged for several minutes. Regrettably, they were not speaking loud enough to be understood, and Huma could only guess at what might have passed between them.

  Just then, Rennard rushed in, out of breath. There was intense strain on his face, and the image of the normally placid knight in such a high emotional state was enough to cause more than one person to rise in expectation of bad news.

  Rennard whispered quickly to Lord Hawkeye. Bennett and the other Councilors listened in as best they could. Bennett’s face turned white, and he gripped the nearest chair tightly. Arak Hawkeye stood up to face the suddenly anxious crowd.

  “This meeting is postponed until further notice. I regret to inform those assembled that Lord Oswal of Baxtrey, High Warrior and master of the Order of the Rose, has been stricken ill—by the same disease that claimed the Grand Master.”

  “A quarantine has been imposed on the Keep. Lord Oswal is not expected to live through the night.”

  Rennard was still shaking.

  “I came to wake him as he requested and found him unconscious and shivering in his bed, despite being covered by two or three blankets. I administered what aid I knew and then fetched a cleric.”

  Huma had never seen him in such a state. It was almost as if the pale knight was reliving his own brush with the plague.

  “What did the cleric do?”

  “Little. The disease baffles him. Another gift from the Queen, I suppose, damn her existence.”

  “Is there nothing that can be done?” Huma suddenly felt weak. Lord Oswal was his mentor, his friend, the closest thing to his father. He must not die!

  “We can only wait and pray.” Was there a hint of bitter mockery in Rennard’s voice? Huma could not really blame him. He himself felt so powerless. The Dragonqueen, Crynus, and the renegade mage Galan Dracos must be laughing at their fate, he supposed.

  “Huma.” Rennard laid a hand on his shoulder. The pale face was still strained. How much Rennard had cared for Oswal! “Get some sleep.”

  They were in the outer chamber of the Keep’s Temple of Paladine, where the High Warrior had been carried in the hopes that the gods might influence Lord Oswal’s recovery. At present, the clerics treating the elder knight were in a quandary. One moment they would believe they had beaten the disease, the next moment it would come back, stronger than before. Time was running out. Lord Oswal’s body could not stand many more severe swings in health.

  Rennard smiled faintly. “I promise you, I will alert you should there be any change.”

  Despite his good intentions, Huma suddenly felt sleepy, almost as if the mere mention of it had made him recognize that fact. He nodded to Rennard and stood up.

  “You will wake me.”

  “I promised Lord Oswal that,” Rennard replied bitterly.

  As Huma departed, he could still hear Bennett’s voice coming from the side chamber where the clerics conferred. Bennett seemed to care for his uncle almost as much as he cared for his father. At news of the High Warrior’s sickness, it had been Bennett’s voice that had prevented the panic and organized the temporary quarantine and the shifting of the ailing noble to the temple. Now, the Knight of the Sword divided his time between praying for his uncle and arguing with clerics, whom he thought were reacting too slowly to the crisis.

  What of the war? It was as if forgotten by those who cloistered themselves within the walls of the Keep. The thought nagged Huma all the way to his cot.

  He woke abruptly, his mind startlingly clear. Lord Oswal was his first thought, and Huma immediately assumed the worst. Others slept on, far more used to the daily loss of precious life, it seemed to him.

  Huma slipped out into the night and peered around. In the dim torchlight, he could make out sentries keeping vigilant watch on the walls while others patrolled the courtyard. Guards still stood before the doorway leading to the High Warrior’s abode. That was a good sign.

  Unable to sleep, Huma decided to return to the temple. That Rennard had not come for him did not surprise him; the pale knight evidently meant to keep vigil through the entire crisis, if at all possible.

  The rain had still not let up, and the courtyard was turning into a bowl of muck.

  The temple of Paladine seemed oddly dark as he neared it. No one stood guard, which did not surprise him. But as he made his way up the steps and was about to knock upon the temple doors, he noticed that one was slightly ajar. Pushing it open, he discovered the main corridor also dark. That, he knew, was not as it should be. Here there should have been a sentry or at least a cleric.

  Suddenly Huma found himself before one of the Knights of the Rose whose duty it was to act as honor guard and—for this crisis—guardian for the ill High Warrior. The knight stood at the doorway, looking quite stern, and Huma almost hailed him until he realized that the man would not be standing in darkness unless there was a very good reason. Stepping cautiously, Huma made his way across the marble floor and did not stop until he was face-to-face with the guard.

  The Knight of the Rose stared back, but did not see.

  Huma held a hand before the other’s face. He could feel and hear the man’s breathing, but it was the breathing of one deep in sleep. Huma dared slap the knight lightly on the cheek. The guard did not stir.

  Leaning closer, Huma inspected the open eyes. They were glazed. He had seen men like this before, men who had been drugged for one reason or another. Huma suspected the Knight of the Rose would remember nothing about his lapse of duty. He also suspected something similar had happened to the rest of the temple’s inhabitants—including Rennard.

  With a prayer to Paladine, Huma drew his sword. He followed the darkened halls until he came to the place where Rennard had sat, only to discover that the gaunt knight was gone. The doorway to the room where Lord Oswal lay resting also was partially open, and Huma discovered two more guards in the same comatose condition.

  Huma feared the worst. Rennard and Lord Oswal had both been overwhelmed, he decided quickly.

  With measured steps, Huma slowly opened the door to Lord Oswal’s chamber. The darkness disoriented him for only a second, then his trained senses located the even darker blur—Lord Oswal standing by the makeshift bed.

  Standing? Huma blinked and allowed his eyes to adjust. No, it was not the High Warrior. Oswal was, indeed, lying on the bed. What then? A shadow?

  Huma stepped forward and the darkness seemed to shift. He blinked. The figure—or what he had thought was a figure—was no longer there. With some trepidation, Huma moved forward until he was standing next to the still form of Lord Oswal. He was re
lieved to hear the regular breathing of the High Warrior.

  Huma’s foot bumped against something. He peered down and found himself staring at the inert body of one of the clerics. The cleric slept as the guards had slept, his eyes glazed and wide. Huma shook him hard in an attempt to wake him, but the man did not even stir.

  He felt, rather than heard, the darkness stir behind him. He hesitated and that hesitation might have nearly cost him his own life, for something metallic struck his breastplate and would have cut deep into his throat if he had moved any slower.

  Cursing himself, Huma parried another vicious jab by a tiny, twisted blade. He had his first glance at his attacker, a figure in flowing darkness from which two red, glaring eyes peered. The figure threw the blade at his head, forcing Huma to duck. Even as Huma dodged the weapon, the specter brought forth a small pouch and raised it.

  The knight scuttled back quickly. There was no denying what he faced now. The actions, the appearance—he was surprised he had not recognized the intruder immediately—were those of a cultist of Morgion, Lord of Disease and Decay. One of the vermin had made his way into Vingaard Keep—and had so far succeeded in killing one, and possibly two, of the most important figures in the knighthood.

  The ragged figure hesitated before throwing the contents of the pouch.

  Huma leaped forward, his broadsword up and before him. The flat of the blade slammed into the pouch, which burst, but not before the sword’s momentum pushed much of it back at the hooded intruder. Huma stumbled back, avoiding the deadly shower that rained on the other.

  The assassin coughed and hacked as dust flew into his face. He stumbled back, but Huma dared not step forward. The cultist fell toward a pew and then, slowly, pulled himself back up again.

  “If you think—” the voice was rough and strained, but familiar “—to kill me with my own tools, know that Morgion protects his own. Besides, I only wished to put you to sleep. Now you leave me no choice.”

  It was all Huma could do to keep from dropping his sword as the hooded figure’s throat cleared itself of dust and his identity was revealed. Huma took a desperate step back, even as the cultist pulled out a broadsword hidden in his robe.