The Legend of Huma

by Richard Knaak

  Huma directed the horse through the crowd, forcing people back with his sword and thanking Paladine that no one had yet dared him to strike. He reined the steed to a stop less than six feet from the figure.

  “Bennett still thinks you might be in the Keep.”

  Rennard smiled briefly. “I was until Lord Oswal’s appointment became official. Then I came here to give them the news.”

  Huma leaped off his mount, never taking his eyes from his uncle nor sheathing the sword. “To put fear in their hearts, you mean. To break down trust, make us fight among ourselves.”

  “It is—my calling. But not just these. Villages all over this area. I’ve not slept since yesterday.”

  “They finally found your secret passages.”

  “I know. I left the maps on purpose. I had no more need of them.”

  “This is insane, uncle.”

  “Uncle. A word I never thought you would use. Yes, it is insane. The whole world is insane. I strive to make it less so.” Rennard pointed at the villagers, speaking quietly enough that they would not hear him. “The fear will spread. They will march on the Keep in their desperation, and the knighthood will be forced to drive them away, with at least some loss of life, I believe. The great Knights of Solamnia will suffer both the notoriety of their actions and a terrible blow to morale. I need not go on.”

  “This has all been planned.”

  “Of course. I could have killed the entire Council, but that only would have strengthened the knighthood’s resolve. That is why I have traveled the near lands, in disguise, stirring the pot.” Rennard straightened and the sword swung slowly back and forth. “My only remaining duty is you, Huma. I knew you would choose this route. I cannot allow you to return to this—cavern. It may be a madness on your part, but I think not. I cannot risk being wrong about something like that.”

  His sword came up swinging. Huma immediately blocked the thrust. The villagers stepped away as the two knights fought, but the people’s horribly expectant looks showed Huma that they were waiting to see one of the knights die, so completely had they become Rennard’s pawns.

  The gaunt knight swung and gave Huma an opening. Rennard’s skill allowed him to parry much of the blow, but Huma’s blade still slipped under and struck a glancing blow on the other’s right side. The blade clanged off a solid surface beneath Rennard’s tunic, however, and a cunning smile flashed briefly across the pale knight’s features. Beneath the cloth, he still wore his armor.

  Their blades clashed time and time again as they struggled through the rain-soaked village. The human wall that surrounded them bent and twisted, but never revealed a gap. Huma wondered what would happen to him even if he defeated Rennard. The villagers might very well fall on him.

  “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.

  “For 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.

  The head of the dead titan was twisted upside down, and Huma discovered that the lower jaw rested firmly atop the upper. That meant that the sword was buried within a tremendous mass of pure metal, with no way to retrieve it. Angered, Huma banged his hand against the snout of the creature; the shock brought his senses back, and he briefly wondered at his obsession with the ancient blade. Best if he—

  He kicked something with his foot. It made a metallic sound, and Huma looked down to see the very object he had been seeking. With a startled cry, he fell to his knees and practically cradled the weapon. It was to be his. This was a sign.

  From the moment his hands touched it, the blade had begun to glow again. Huma basked happily in that glow, for it soothed him and made him forget the terrible events of the past few days. Reluctantly, he sheathed the sword and crawled on top of the great beast. Wyrmfather’s sloping neck proved to be an excellent ramp from which Huma could climb to one of the upper tunnels that dotted the cavern and seek the mysterious smith. That was, he believed, his logical destination.

  Neither the endless mounds of gold nor the gleaming caches of jewelry interested him, now that he had the sword. The mirror still intrigued him, but he could not carry it with him through the cavern. He consoled himself with the thought that he could return for it if he succeeded.

  With a proper blade in his hands for once, Huma was soon feeling rested and confident as he strode up the amazingly long neck of Wyrmfather.

  The tunnels immediately above were naturally lit, though not to the degree that the lower ones had been. Gazing down one, Huma could see no difference between it and the passages he had traversed originally. Dark shadows were everywhere. Emboldened, now that he held a weapon worthy of him, Huma stepped off the neck of the petrified Wyrmfather and entered the closest tunnel.

  He became impatient as time dragged and he found only more corridors. Where were the challenges? Wyrmfather had been one, but Huma knew there must be two others. Still, he thought, they could not possibly compare to his brush with the huge beast. Perhaps having faced Wyrmfather was test enough.

  One hand stroked the pommel of the sword. Maybe there was no actual need for whatever else lay within this mountain. The sword alone was worth an army, and Huma controlled the sword.

  His impatience grew as he continued to follow what seemed like endless tunnels. All Huma wanted to do now was leave. Challenges no longer concerned him. The blade was all he needed. What could the cavern offer that would better a weapon of such power and perfection?

  The thought of a flank under his command occurred suddenly to him. After all Huma had accomplished, Lord Oswal surely would reward him. Not only had he brought back a weapon of great value, but he had exposed Rennard and saved the elder knight’s life.

  A major command position had always been Huma’s dream. From there, it could not be long before he would command an entire army.

  A smile began to spread across his face.

  “Step no further.”

  At first, Huma had not noticed the figure standing before him. Clad in a long, flowing cloak of gray, the figure blended in well with his surroundings, especially with the shadows now dominating. The figure’s face was gray, as were his teeth and tongue. The only noticeable change from the previous encounter with the gray man was that he was not smiling in the least this time.

  “You again!” Huma was happy to see the odd mage—if mage he was—because he now could boast to someone other than himself. “I have beaten your challenges, easily! I’ve come to claim my prize—not that it seems so important now.”

  “Certainly. Leave your sword where you are and walk forward.”

  “My sword?” The gray man might have asked for his arm.

  “Your sword. I always assumed the acoustics in here were fairly good. Am I wrong, then?” At the moment, the mage’s face was as unreadable as Rennard’s had always been.

  “Why?” Huma did not care for this suspicious move. The gray man was a servant of the Dragonqueen after all. It must be that the gods now feared Huma’s power—and why not?

  “That thing there is not allowed within these chambers. It should not be allowed anywhere.”

  “This?” The knight held aloft the magnificent sword, admiring the way it glowed so strongly. He had thought it well-made before, but the radiance of its fully awakened beauty was something to behold. Give it up? Huma would fight first!

  “That ‘wonderful’ blade you bear is known as the Sword of Tears. It’s a relic from the Age of Dreams. Through it, Takhisis seduced the ogre race, twisted them from beauty, until all but a handful strayed from the path. It is said to be the weapon with which the champion of darkness will challenge light on that final battle before the last day. It is pure evil, and should be banished. If there is any true choice.”

  “You’re wrong. This is the key to our victory. Look at it!”

  The gray man shaded his eyes. “I have. Many times. Its wicked travesty of illumination still irritates after all these centuries.”

  Huma lowered the blade, but only so he could point it toward the man barring his way. “Is it that? Or are you one who shuns the light in general? I think it is you who are the danger.”

  “If you could only see your face.”

  “My face?” Huma laughed arrogantly. “The Sword of Tears, you s
ay. Could it actually be called that because of the tears that the Dragonqueen will shed when at last faced with a power stronger than she?”

  The gray man’s face screwed into an expression of disgust. “I see the horrid blade has not lost any of its charm.”

  Holding his sword possessively, Huma folded his arms. “I’ve listened to your little tirade long enough. Will you let me pass now?”

  The guardian brought his staff up to eye level. “Not with the sword.”

  Huma only smiled and thrust the sword into the rocky wall to his left. The blade sank in as if the tunnel were made of curdled milk rather than stone, and the weapon flared with emerald light. With similar ease, the knight drew it out. The blade looked unscratched, while that portion of the wall had lost its natural glow.

  The gray man only curled his lip and said mockingly, “You had better strike it again. It may have some fight left in it.”

  Huma glared at him. “Your last chance. Will you yield?”

  “Not unless the sword is forfeited.”

  “Then I shall slice a path through your body.”

  “If you can.”

  The knight raised the Sword of Tears, which seemed to glow more brilliantly—as if in anticipation—and stepped forward. The gray man stepped out of his defensive position and—threw his staff on the tunnel floor. Huma stood there, arm raised, momentarily stunned.

  “Have you surrendered, then?”

  The hooded figure shook his head. “If you would continue, you must strike me down.”

  Strike him down! a voice shouted in Huma’s mind. The green glow of the Sword of Tears dominated the tunnel now. Strike him down! the voice repeated.

  “This is—” Huma struggled to complete the thought. The voice became insistent. Strike him down and gain your prize!

  “—wrong!”

  “Give up the sword, Huma. Only then will you be free.”

  “No!” The word issued from the knight’s mouth, but it was not he who had spoken. Instead, the source seemed to have been the blade itself, which now caused Huma’s arm to rise as if he were intending to smote the gray mage.