Richard Knaak: The Legend of Huma

The goblins, knowing they were lost, fought with a rare determination. Only three horsemen blocked their path to freedom. Huma barely blocked a savage swing. An arrow flew past his head.

Suddenly, a howl shivered through the air.

Something leaped at Huma’s steed. The knight caught a brief vision of something akin to a wolf in form—but the resemblance ended with the thing’s corpse-white pallor, as though it had been skinned. The yellow, dripping fangs seemed as long as his fingers and as sharp as needles. Then Huma’s warhorse screamed and turned, despite the knight’s protests. Straining every muscle, the animal raced from the skirmish, mindless of the frantic rider clinging to it. Somewhere close behind, the thing howled again. Huma could only clutch the reins and hang on for the wild ride. The sounds of fighting faded as the maddened horse rushed deeper and deeper into the charred forest.

What could so terrorize a trained warhorse? Certainly no earthly beast.

Then, even that thought vanished from Huma’s mind as his mount broke through the blackened limbs of a knot of trees and found the earth was suddenly far, far below.

It was dark when Huma returned to consciousness.

Lunitari, in wane, glittered weakly, casting a slight crimson tinge. Like blood, Huma thought, and then he forced that thought quickly away. If Lunitari were in wane, which of the other moons would be waxing? Solinari was nowhere to be seen. If it was indeed Nuitari that waxed, Huma would never know it. No one saw the dark moon—no one save the Black Robes, those mages who worshipped the dark god of magic. The dark moon was invisible to common folk and perhaps even to those who followed the paths of white and red magic as well.

As his senses cleared, he became more aware of his surroundings. The horse lay beneath him, its neck broken by the fall. The heavy padding in Huma’s armor, combined with the mass of the horse, had prevented the knight’s death.

He tried to rise and nearly blacked out. All that padding had not been enough to prevent a concussion. While he waited for his head to clear again, Huma looked around.

This might once have been a river in a time when the rains had fallen more often. Its depth, at least four times Huma’s height, was more than enough to kill a crazed steed, even one as strong as the warhorse.

The other side of the river bed lay some distance away. Judging by the sickly growths that barely could be called plants, he suspected this river had dried up many, many years before, possibly in the early days of the war, when the Dragonqueen had sought a quick, decisive victory over the followers of Paladine.

Huma dared once more to attempt to stand. He found that the pounding in his head subsided to mere annoyance if he did not bend his neck abruptly or look down too swiftly. With this in mind, he succeeded in staying on his feet.

“Gods.” The word came unbidden, for Huma was only just now realizing that he was alone in hostile territory. The others must think him dead. Dead—or perhaps a coward who had run.

A mist was developing, sending cold, feathery fingers wisping through the ravine. He could wait out the night and begin his trek at first light—which might mean walking into another goblin patrol—or he could travel by night and pray that whatever lurked out there would be just as blind in the dark mist as he. Neither prospect pleased him, but he could think of no other choice.

He found that the pain in his head had lessened a bit so that now he was able to search the ground for his sword. It lay near, undamaged. His pack was another problem. Part of it was buried beneath his mount and, while Huma was strong, the animal’s position made it virtually impossible for him either to lift the horse or roll it over. He had to satisfy himself with a few rations, a tinderbox and flint, and a few personal items, pried from the unhindered portion of the pack.

Huma did not like the thought of traveling by night, but he liked the idea of traveling alone in plain sight by daylight even less. He picked up his things and, sword in hand, started up the sides of the river bed. The mist would be thinner above, and the high ground was always more advantageous, strategically. At least, Huma hoped so.

The mist never got worse, but neither did it get any better. Huma could make out most of the stars, but his ground-level vision extended only ten feet or so, and he was hard-pressed to make out details in the red moon’s weak attempt at illuminating the shroud-covered land. The sword stayed at the ready in Huma’s left hand. He had no shield; it must have been lost in the horse’s mad flight.

Thinking of that, Huma could not help remembering the demonic visage he had glimpsed. If that thing were out there somewhere . . . His grip on the hilt tightened.

He had traveled an hour when he heard the harsh, mocking voices. Goblins! Huma ducked behind a rotting tree trunk. No more than ten yards separated him from them. Only the mist had saved him. At least three, maybe four, goblins seemed to be joking over the fate of someone. A prisoner, perhaps. Although one part of Huma urged him to slip away safely, another demanded that he lend whatever aid he could. Carefully, he slipped closer and listened.

A rusty, grating voice jarred his aching head. “I thinks the warlord himself will reward us fer this one.”

A deeper voice joined the first, “Maybe he’ll give us the bull. I’d like to be the one to skin him fer a rug. He killed Guiver.”

“You never liked Guiver!”

“He owed me money! Now I’ll never get it!”

A third voice cut in. “How do ya think the ogres will kill ’im?”

Huma strained his ears and caught the sound of a knife being sharpened on stone. “Real slow. They got sneaky minds fer that kinda stuff.”

Something rattled chains, and Huma tried to place the location. Somewhere far to the right, he thought.

“He’s awake.”

“Let’s have some fun.”

Chains rattled again, and a voice, resonant and spanning the distance with no trouble, responded. “Give me a weapon and let me fight.”

“Ha!” The goblins snickered. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Cowface? We ain’t fools, ya know.”

“You’ll do until some come along.” Suddenly the voice grunted, as if exerting great effort. The goblin voices—four, Huma estimated—quieted until the grunting became a gasp for breath. The chains rattled.

“I thought he was gonna do it for a minute!”

“Two coppers’ll get ya that he can!”

“What? You fool! You’d bet on something like that?”

“Guiver would’ve.”

Huma, so engrossed in the goblins, almost missed the soft tread behind him. When he did, he was sure that he had been seen. The newcomer, though, continued walking and Huma soon realized that the creature, a goblin guard, could not see well in the mist. Still, a few steps more would bring the goblin close enough that not even a dense fog would save the knight. Summoning his courage, Huma quietly circled behind the guard. He matched the goblin step for step, save that his own stride was half again as long. Each step brought him that much closer. Only a few more . . .

A roar bellowed angrily from the camp. Knight and goblin turned without thinking, then stared at one another as realization sank in. Huma was the first to react, leaping at the goblin in a desperate attempt to silence him. Sword and body caught the creature and it fell to the ground—but not before the goblin let out a muffled shout.

“Pigsticker?”

Huma cursed his luck and scrambled away from the body. The goblins had abandoned tormenting their captive—who was evidently the source of the bellowing—and were now cautiously making their way in the direction they believed their companion had called out from.