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. If I had let him go, he
might have tried to spread the curse to those poor souls in
the camp."
"You . . . you have my gratitude for saving me."
"Huma saved you, not I," Rennard remarked, thinking of
the song. Sheathing his blade, he moved to Erik's side and
tried to take one of the young knight's daggers in order to
cut the ropes. His hand passed through it. Dornay managed
to free himself.
Rising, Erik stared at the body of the cleric, then back
in the direction of the refugee camp. "You were right. These
fiends were trailing them."
"Yes, Morgion's toadies were sacrificing them one at a
time in the hope of calling the Faceless One back. Come
now, there is something I want to show you."
"What?"
"Your friend's murderers."
On foot, it took several minutes to reach the outskirts
of the encampment. Someone evidently had heard the short,
fierce struggle, for the party had gathered close around the
fire. Four of the more fit were keeping watch. Women
clutched whimpering children. Men held sticks of wood for
weapons. All looked terrified.
"There they are," Rennard said. "What will you do?"
"They look . . ." Erik hesitated.
"Hopeless? Desperate? In the Dragon Wars, I saw
many who looked that way."
Erik eyed him. "You're asking me to go to them, aid
them? But the danger is past!"
"If the cultists do not get them, then bandits or
starvation will. Look at them, Erik Dornay. They need your
pity, not your hatred. Huma would have tried to help them.
He would have understood that a moment of despair turned
them into an inhuman mob
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