The Emerald Scepter

CHAPTER 15

Vambran moved down the smoky, torchlit hallway, sword in hand. The stink of sweat and fear clung to everything so many levels below the surface. The lieutenant knew he was near the dungeons of the Palace of the Seven, but his magic seemed to be leading him in a different direction. He had not encountered any guards, no one to stand in his way, though that was not a surprise. The city is in chaos, he thought. Why stay here and protect empty corridors?

The mercenary was close to the source of the malignancy, and he knew it. Malevolence radiated through the place, oozed from the walls, hung on him like a funereal shroud. It was a sense of evil so pervasive that he no longer needed divine guidance to track it. Whatever was causing the plague was in the bowels of the keep, and he was closing in on it.

He had to fight the urge to leap ahead, to charge forward and find that source. Whatever was down there was strong, and he could not afford to underestimate it. But he craved the hunt. He needed it the way he needed air. After everything he had endured over the last three days, the urge to vent his frustrations on the source of it all was like a bad taste in his mouth.

The pulsating evil led Vambran to a door at the end of the passage. The force he sought lay beyond that portal. It beckoned to him, taunting. He hesitated, listening. No sounds arose from the other side, but some presence lay beyond. Something that hated him. Adjusting his grip on his sword, he shoved the door open and peered inside.

The chamber beyond was out of a nightmare. Implements of torture filled much of the room, and the lieutenant could see a laboratory along one wall, jammed with alembics and decanters containing all sorts of vile things. Half of them turned his stomach when he recognized them and the other half-well, he didn't even want to guess at those.

A cloaked figure stood at a table in the laboratory, its back to Vambran, apparently working. Even when the door slammed open, the figure barely twitched. It wore a brown robe with a hood pulled up, completely hiding its head. It didn't stop in its work as it said in a masculine voice, "I wondered when you would get here."

Vambran paused with one foot inside the room. He stared at the figure, unsure what sort of trap he might be falling into. "How did you know I would come?" he said, hoping to draw the man out, get him to turn around. He looked around the room as he spoke, searching for other threats. He saw nothing, but there were so many items filling the chamber, so many places to hide, that it seemed ridiculous not to have allies hiding among it all. The lieutenant sensed death everywhere, and not all of that palpable hatred emanated from his counterpart. The whole chamber was filled with it.

"I know a great many things," the figure said, moving from a small apparatus over to a flask resting atop a ring stand and heated by a candle. "For example, I know that you are here to stop me from completing my quest, and that you have brought great magic with you to do so."

Vambran swallowed, circling wide of the figure, wary of having some caustic substance hurled in his direction. "Then you must also know that I'm set on staying around until I finish the job."

"Finish the job?" the figure in the brown robes said with a hearty chuckle. "You aren't serious, are you?" And he began to turn around, spinning slowly to face Vambran. "After all," he said as his face came into view, "you couldn't finish the job twelve years ago."

Vambran stared at the man whose features remained partially hidden within the hood of the robe. The cryptic comment baffled him. But when his enemy reached up and pulled his hood back, fully revealing his face, a memory came flooding back to the mercenary. A memory of a man lying near a pond, with a crossbow bolt protruding from his chest. A dead man.

"You!" Vambran said, stunned. He reached out to grab hold of a table to keep his balance. "But you're dead! I saw your body!"

"As I said," Rodolpho Wianar replied, "you couldn't finish the job then, so how do you expect to do so now?"

Vambran reeled at the revelation. Still alive! How was it possible? Then another thought struck him. No, he realized, dismissing it. Xaphira would not have made such a mistake. He was dead, and brought back from the dead. But why?

Vambran's eyes narrowed. "Your death was a screen, a cover-up, wasn't it? Everyone was supposed to assume you had died, and I was set up for it."

"Right you are," Rodolpho Wianar said, looking pleased. "They said you were bright," he added, chuckling. "I just didn't believe them, seeing how you kept dragging your family into the middle of all this."

Vambran shook off the backhanded compliment. "But I wasn't the one who killed you before," he said. "And you know that."

"Too true."

"I bet you know who did, too."

"Yes, he does," came another voice from a corner of the room, one that Vambran recognized. He shot a glance over to confirm that Junce Roundface was standing there. "He knows very well I was the one who punctured his heart with one of your own bolts that night."

Vambran snorted in disgust. "Of course," he said sarcastically. "Speak of a devil, and he appears." The lieutenant moved slightly so he could keep both opponents in view. "Come to gloat over my shock and surprise?"

"Truthfully, no, though I'll take that as an added bonus," the assassin said, smirking. "I actually came to throttle Rodolpho here for not living up to his end of the bargain." He turned to the hooded man and asked, "Unless you'd like to reconsider giving up the cure?"

Vambran eyed the assassin with suspicion. "The cure?" he asked. "You have a cure?"

"No," Junce answered, still looking at Rodolpho. "This wretch of a man refuses to divulge it."

Rodolpho laughed. "What, and ruin everything just when I'm on the verge of marching an army to my cousin's gates and demanding his surrender? I think not. Now, why haven't you died yet? Surely you've been exposed to the plague by now." He spun and hurled a beaker of something viscous and yellow at Junce.

The assassin seemed to anticipate the attack, for he leaped out of the way, allowing the glassware to shatter against the wall behind him. But as soon as it did, a phlegm-colored cloud of vapors expanded outward, drifting to fill the room.

Junce backed away from it, stumbling as he bumped into a horrific torture rack. The cloud billowed up and outward, threatening to engulf them all.

"I'm sorry you won't be able to take that cure back to dear cousin Wianar," Rodolpho said, striding across the room to another door on the far side, "but you can let him know yourself, once you're part of my army." He opened the door as Junce and Vambran retreated from the cloud, backing into the same corner, trapped. "Just in case you manage to evade my recipe," Rodolpho added, swinging the door wide, "my seven apprentices are on hand to finish the job."

One by one, seven figures filed into the chamber, fanning out to stare at the two men pinned in the corner. Each man and woman might have been young and strong when they entered into Rodolpho's service, but no longer.

Vambran could see the beauty that might once have been part of each face, but that beauty was twisted and distorted in undeath. Pieces of flesh were missing, exposing bone beneath, and where the creatures' eyes should have been, red points of malevolent light glowed instead. Dressed in fine clothing and wearing cloaks of red and gold, the seven gruesome figures stood waiting and watching.

Rodolpho waved at the two men and disappeared through the door.

As memories of the previous night washed over Emriana, she felt her knees weaken, her hands tremble. Denrick was leaning against the wall, his hands folded across his chest, still wearing that smug grin that haunted her. She retreated a step, wanting to turn and run, fearing that she would never flee fast enough.

"Hello, Em," Denrick said, pushing away from the wall and following her, sauntering. "I was hoping you'd stop by for a visit. I enjoyed last evening so much, and I thought you might like to spend time with me again."

No! Emriana silently screamed, fighting the feelings of helplessness. Not again! "Get away from me," she said with as much cold hatred as she could muster. "I know you're not real."

"I'm not?" Denrick asked, looking wounded. "Last night sure felt real enough," he said, that smug smile returning. "And this is certainly real," he added, lunging forward and grabbing at the girl's wrist.

His grip was strong, so strong. He twisted her arm, bending her hand and elbow awkwardly out to her side. The pressure locked the joint and forced her to torque her body, to bow. She understood what he was doing, the mental edge he was gaining from making her bend to him. She wanted to fight it, but he kept twisting, forcing her down, down to one knee lest her arm pop free of her shoulder. His smile was gone, replaced by a grimace of effort. His eyes held a sparkling glint that radiated hatred.

"Ow!" she cried out as he continued to push, continued to angle her body to the floor. Her arm hurt and her mind told her she was not strong enough to fight him, to resist him. He would have what he wanted, again.

No, she thought, more firmly. Not again. Never again.

And in that one moment of clarity, Emriana remembered that she was strong, too. She could fight Denrick in ways that he could not defend. She could turn the tables, gain the upper hand. She stopped giving in to her fear and started feeding off it, garnering strength from it.

She reminded herself that it was not really Denrick. Oh, last night was real enough, she told herself. Accept it. But it was not Denrick. The thing in front of her needed to pretend to be Denrick in order to cow her. And she would not be cowed.

She would not succumb to it.

With a kick, Emriana lunged upward, flipping her body completely over in a single, fluid motion. As she spun, she rotated herself half a twist so that her opposite shoulder was nearest the shapeshifter, and the arm it gripped was draped across the front of her body. The look on its face was mild surprise, but Emriana did not wait for it to recover. Her free elbow came up hard beneath its chin, snapping its head up and back. A second strike with her elbow into its gut made it grunt. At the same time, Emriana yanked hard, thrusting her hip out and using leverage to hoist the shapeshifter off the floor. She pivoted on her foot, rotating her shoulders, and sent the Denrick lookalike tumbling away from her.

The thing landed in a heap a pace or so away, glowering at the girl. She ignored the stare, made a quick run forward, and snapped her foot out at its face, as Xaphira had taught her.

"I said," she growled, kicking again, "that you're not real!" A third kick. "You're just a pathetic forgery. And I'm done messing around." A final kick, then Emriana retreated a step, crouching. She drew one of the two daggers that Xaphira had given her, hidden at the small of her back. She was ready to finish the fight once and for all.

Denrick's face looked at her, a wounded expression on it. "I thought you loved me," the thing said.

"Drop the act," Emriana replied, raising her dagger, ready to snap her wrist and flick it right between its eyes. "I'm done being afraid of you."

"Please," it said, shifting its form. "Don't hurt me," it added, its voice changing, softening, rising in pitch.

Emriana gaped, her intention to deliver a death blow with her dagger forgotten for a moment. She stared at an exact image of herself, as though she were gazing into a mirror.

In her amazement, the girl let her guard down and that was all the shapeshifter needed. In a sudden burst of speed, it shot up from the floor and rammed its shoulder into Emriana's stomach. She felt the wind knocked from her lungs, and the feeble attempt she made to stab at the creature caught only air. She stumbled back, her balance lost, as her duplicate stepped back from her, light on its feet, grinning.

"So what do you think?" Emriana's reflection asked. "Good enough to fool your aunt?" And before the girl could catch her breath enough to answer or react, the shapeshifter was gone, sprinting off deeper into the house.

Arbeenok wished that it were day, to make it easier for him to see. You cannot force the pattern of the butterfly's flight or the pictures the stars make, he reminded himself. They simply are. Day or night didn't change the fact that he had a task ahead of him. He considered where to start the healing. The center of the city, he decided. That is where the fighting will be the worst.

Aloft, even at night, the alaghi saw the destruction, for many fires burned again. He could see that the mercenaries had done a credible job of erecting barricades, for those were what burned. An effective deterrent, he thought. If only they'd remembered the sewers.

In one neighborhood, Arbeenok witnessed a shambling horde of zombies moving down a street, while a contingent of soldiers tried to keep them at bay with crossbows. The soldiers had no burning barricades to huddle behind and the fight was not going well for them. More zombies were appearing in an alley, crawling out of the sewer. From the height at which Arbeenok observed them, they appeared as sluggish beetles.

Unlike before, when Vambran and the druid had last battled the zombies in the city, the ones below seemed more persistent, focused.

They had a purpose.

Arbeenok wondered what was stirring them, driving them to such destruction. He felt a pang of anger shoot through him. He thought of Vambran and hoped the mercenary would succeed. The city very well depended on both their efforts to overcome the virulent death.

Alighting in the midst of the skirmish below was not easy, for zombies came after him without regard for his form, and the soldiers gawked in awe and fright. One even raised his weapon, ready to fire at the enormous bird, but Arbeenok changed into his true shape quickly, before the soldier got the nerve to pull the trigger. It was not often that a dire hawk appeared in Reth, but Arbeenok doubted an alaghi had, either.

"I'm here to help," he said, letting his voice carry across the lane. "Please don't shoot at me."

The soldiers did not respond, but neither did they fire at him.

Turning his back on the mercenaries, Arbeenok hoisted the scepter in his hands and looked at the zombies. The scepter could not save them, the druid knew, but it could destroy them, wipe the taint of the plague from their undead bodies.

The were getting close, shambling forward relentlessly. Arbeenok ignored their approach and instead closed his eyes, filling his mind with the power of the scepter. The gem pulsed and began to glow, its greenish light penetrating the druid's eyelids. When he felt attuned to the device, Arbeenok opened his eyes again and held the scepter aloft.

He began to sing.

The zombies approached and Arbeenok focused the power of the scepter at the nearest one. A flash of brilliant emerald shot out from the tip of the scepter, a ray of green that disintegrated the zombie and turned it to dust. Behind him, the druid heard a gasp from one of the soldiers. Ignoring the man's reaction, Arbeenok turned on the next zombie. Like the first one, it was obliterated, vanishing in a puff of dust. The druid continued, disintegrating one and another, sending forth bolts of green energy over and over, vanquishing the undead.

When the street was cleared of the gruesome things, the alaghi turned back toward the soldiers. He could see that many were suffering the effects of the plague, that men who had been strong and healthy moments before were down on their knees, coughing and choking, their skin blistered and discolored.

I must hurry, he thought. Every moment that goes by is another victim.

Arbeenok held aloft the scepter and began to sing again, funneling his own essence into the artifact and drawing out its healing touch. A shimmering curtain of pale green sprang forth from the gem, a soothing wave of light that radiated out in all directions and cascaded over the sick soldiers. As the curtain of magic reached them, men who had been crying out in pain and terror suddenly changed their demeanor, sighing or crying in relief.

A few of the soldiers still watched the alaghi with uncertainty. He understood that to them, he would always remain the enemy, a druid against whom they fought. He could never change their perceptions. But at least on that night, as the healing power of the scepter became evident, those suspicious soldiers would acquiesce to his company, accept his magic. On that night, Arbeenok's presence would mean relief. After healing the soldiers guarding the street, Arbeenok set off to find more people to aid. He knew that he had a long night ahead of him.

"I'm sorry, Grand Trabbar," the temple guard said, looking forlorn. "We've searched the entire grounds and every level of the temple, and he's not here."

"Well, start again," Grand Trabbar Perolin snapped. "Wherever Lavant is hiding, sooner or later he'll try to move, and we'll catch him." The guard saluted and jogged off to relay the order to his superiors.

Pilos sat with the Grand Trabbar, not participating in the hunt for the renegade priest, but privy to all the high priests' efforts to bring Lavant to justice. Some of the high priests of the council gave Pilos scathing stares from time to time. They were, no doubt, part of the faction that had been loyal to Lavant, had supported his cause to ascend the high seat after Mikolos had died. Pilos's revelations about the Grand Syndar had not only deprived them of their leader, it had crippled their political power within the temple. The thought warmed the Abreeant's heart.

"They will just shift alliances, you know," Grand Trabbar Perolin said, drawing Pilos out of his thoughts. "That is the way of things here, as with every temple. Power begets power struggles."

Pilos nodded, frowning. "I find that I do not have much of a taste for politics," he told the older man. "It leaves a foul taste in my mouth. What happened to just serving the glory of Waukeen?"

Perolin laughed. "What happened, indeed? Serving the Merchant's Friend purely for the sake of devotion is an admirable quality, young Abreeant, but sooner or later, you will find that you cannot escape the machinations of those who would utilize that devotion for their own ends. The two are inextricably intertwined." When Pilos felt his frown deepen, Perolin added, "Even the gods themselves play at politics, and we mortals are simply the pawns in their game."

That thought did little to placate Pilos. "I don't think Grand Syndar Midelli was such a player of these games," he asserted. "I've never known a more pious, straightforward leader. I will miss him."

Perolin chuckled. "You saw what you wanted to see," he said. "Mikolos Midelli was a good leader, Pilos, and you were right to ally yourself with him. But he was not just the kind, generous man you believe you knew. He was also a shrewd negotiator, and ruthless in his schemes against his enemies, both within the temple and beyond. Did you know that when he was first named Grand Syndar, Lavant was his personal attendant?"

Pilos started. "Before me?" he asked, shocked. "He served Mikolos?"

Perolin nodded. "Actually, two before you," he said. "And Lavant was as devoted to Mikolos as you were."

Pilos tried to wrap his mind around the notion of Lavant being a devoted ally of the Grand Syndar. It was nearly impossible. "What happened?" he asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

"Mikolos championed a business deal that was beneficial to the temple but hurt Lavant's own House. I don't even remember what it involved," Perolin said, stroking his chin in thought. "Something to do with grain shipments from Estagund or Var the Golden, far to the south and east of here." The older man shrugged. "Whatever the case, Lavant wanted Mikolos to look at another deal, something that would hurt his own family businesses far less, but Mikolos would not. He had already promised three other high priests to set it up a particular way, because it was in their personal interests, and he needed those high priests' support for a pet project of his own. Something to do with granting land and titles to a mercenary outfit his brother was part of." He shrugged again. "Lavant never forgave him and began building his own faction within the temple to thwart everything Mikolos did after that."

Pilos sagged in his seat. "I never knew," he said. "I always disliked Lavant, but I thought it was because he seemed so manipulative. I wonder now how much of that was Mikolos's subtle manipulations?"

"It was probably a bit of both," Perolin replied. "I'm sure Mikolos recognized your pure but somewhat naive piety and took advantage of it to turn you against a conniving man like Lavant. I tell you, he was very good at it, better than Lavant, because he kept it all under the table. No one had much cause to feel slighted by Mikolos Midelli, not often, anyway."

Pilos looked up at Grand Trabbar Perolin. "And how much are you manipulating me now, telling me these things?" Perolin looked at the young priest, but there was no anger in his expression. More like appreciation, Pilos thought.

"You say you don't have a taste for politics," the older man said, "but you are shrewd to them." He paused for a moment, as if trying to find the right words to use. "There will be a new Grand Syndar," he said, "and the high priest who claims the high seat will need many allies backing him or her. I could use the hero of Lavant's ousting, and the power of House Darowdryn, on my side." When Pilos didn't answer right away, Perolin continued. "After the damage Lavant has done, the temple will need to rebuild some relationships. If I succeed to the high seat, I will need able young priests to serve as diplomats to other power groups, like the Houses of Arrabar and the Emerald Enclave. How does the thought of becoming one of my envoys sound to you, Trabbar Pilos?"

It took Pilos a moment to register the new appellation Perolin used to address him. A bribe for his loyalty. "I will think about it," he told the Grand Trabbar.

"There will be others who seek you out," Perolin warned. "Now that you have made a name for yourself, you wield power within the temple, whether you like it or not."

Pilos swallowed, nodding in understanding. Inextricably linked, he thought. Can I stomach it?