The Emerald Scepter

CHAPTER 1

12 Mirtul, 1373 DR

The holy coin, perhaps the most enduring symbol of Vambran Matrell's unwavering faith, tumbled free of his hand. It dropped against his chest, hanging limply from the leather cord around the mercenary's neck. His intention to call upon that faith, to drive back the advancing zombie visible before him, was forgotten. The lieutenant nearly stumbled and fell as he quavered, stunned by the scene illuminated in the flickering light of several burning fires.

It can't be.

"Uncle Kovrim?" Vambran called, his voice soft. He was almost pleading. His mind refused to accept that the man who had been his family, his mentor, had been reduced to a shuffling undead thing, a mere husk of its former self. But the evidence came on, closer, damning proof that Kovrim Lazelle was no longer a man. "No," Vambran mumbled, feeling devastation wash over him. "No!" he shouted, dropping to one knee, the strength gone from his legs.

The zombie advanced, its gait unnatural, closing the distance between them.

"Vambran, beware!" Arbeenok called from behind the lieutenant. The alaghi's deep voice resonated down the alley, snapping Vambran from his horrified abeyance.

The mercenary officer shuddered, finally tearing his gaze away from the lifeless orbs that had once been his uncle's kind, smiling eyes. He risked a quick glance back at the strange creature who had accompanied him from the Nunwood to Reth earlier that day. The face and upper torso of the druid, something of a cross between a man and an ape, glowed in the light of a small flame held in the palm of his outstretched hand, a magical conjuration. Though outfitted in rough, natural clothing and a hooded cloak, the alaghi's furred arms were thick and muscular, and its expressive face wore a worried frown.

Arbeenok advanced, wary, motioning with his other hand for Vambran to shift to the side.

Vambran turned back to the thing that had once been his uncle, understanding Arbeenok's intentions but unwilling to surrender hope, unable to step aside and allow the alaghi to do what needed to be done. No, he pleaded. Not this. Not Uncle Kovrim.

"Vambran! Back away!" Arbeenok insisted. "It is almost upon you!"

Squeezing his eyes shut as tears began to well up in them, Vambran gave in to the inevitable and dived to the side with a single howl of anguish. He felt cold despair wash through the depths of his gut as he landed on his hands and knees, out of the druid's line of sight and away from the outstretched hands of the shuffling, mottled zombie.

Vambran could only watch as the druid flung the ball of flame, striking the zombie squarely in the chest. The burst from the hit spread across the thing's torso in a matter of seconds, engulfing Uncle Kovrim's remains in an orange blaze. The zombie faltered and twitched, spinning about in apparent confusion as the fire spread, immolating clothing and hair.

The sickening smell of disease and scorched flesh wafted over Vambran, who turned away from the sight of the burning undead form, panting.

Waukeen, I'm sorry! Vambran thought, crawling away from the alley. He turned and slumped to the cobblestones, his back to a wall. I was too slow! I should have been here! I couldn't reach you in time! If only I had-

Arbeenok advanced into the alley, out of sight, leaving the lieutenant in the near-darkness of twilight. Around the corner, Vambran could hear the soft roar of numerous small fiery missiles arcing through the air and colliding with targets. Nothing screamed or cried out in pain. The only victims of the druid's magic were already dead, though they still walked.

The lieutenant drew his knees up to himself and hugged them, silently begging forgiveness from his uncle's spirit for failing the man. For failing all of the members of the Sapphire Crescents.

I should have been here sooner. I'm so sorry.

As his grief washed over him, Vambran dropped his face to his knees and let the torrent of emotion course through him. He remembered his uncle's visage, the last time he had seen the man, in the dim light of a single lantern aboard Lady's Favor only a day previous. To Vambran, it felt like a hundred days, a thousand. So much had happened since that last moment together, right before the corsairs had attacked them. Corsairs, and a kraken, and soldiers of the Silver Ravens. The list of woes, of troubles, tumbled through Vambran's mind, reminding him of each and every obstacle he had endured, had attempted to overcome, to try to reunite his command. The realization burned the sorrow away and replaced it with anger.

Lavant.

The name, the face of the fat priest, burned in the lieutenant's consciousness, searing itself in his mind's eye.

Vambran rose to his feet then, his back scraping against the stones of the wall, his fury giving him the strength to ignore the pain. As he attained his full six feet, three inches of height, the mercenary tightened his jaw in determination.

I will see you dead, he vowed to that image. You will feel the bite of steel in your gut! he swore at Lavant's leering face, reaching for his sword.

The blade wasn't there.

As Vambran stared down at his hip, remembering that he was still dressed as a common laborer and not a mercenary officer, a voice began to whisper in his head, flooding his thoughts.

Vambran Matrell?

Stunned, unsure he should trust his own senses, Vambran did not answer.

You do not know me, but I am a friend, the voice continued. My name is Schuynir Droloti, employed by House Darrowdryn and charged by Lady Ariskrit to find and contact you. I am scrying you right now. Though you cannot see me, I can see you. Your sister Emriana came to us earlier this evening. Lady Ariskrit wanted you to know that Emriana is safe. You can answer by whispering back, if you are able.

"Em?" Vambran replied, his gaze turning upward to the night sky, trying to discern some sign of the magical connection. The effort was futile. "She is with you?"

No, she and the rest of the Darrowdryns have left for the Generon, to attend Sammardach tonight. But she was here earlier.

"How do I know you speak the truth?" the lieutenant asked. "I have many enemies and few allies these days."

There was a pause then, Emriana said you might not trust us. She said to tell you that you're being a … a meazel-face, and to stop it, the voice concluded, projecting a mild sense of embarrassment.

Vambran nearly laughed in relief. Then he remembered where Emriana was headed. "It's not safe for her at the Generon!" he said, nearly shouting. "She must stay away!"

They have already departed, the voice replied, but I will try to send a message forward. Is there anything else?

"I have sent others to aid her, also," Vambran said. "Soldiers from my company. She knows them-Adyan, Horial, and Grolo the dwarf, among others. I don't know when they will arrive, but tell her to let them protect her."

When she returns I will pass along the message.

"And the plague," Vambran added, "You must get the word out that the magical plague has returned. Reth is in danger." Then Vambran's throat grew thick. "Tell Em that Uncle Kovrim died."

There was another pause. The plague? Are you sure?

Vambran only nodded, his head bowed. "Yes," he said. "Tell her I'm sorry." There was no answer, and Vambran could sense that Schuynir Droloti's magical scrying had come to an end.

Tell them all I'm so sorry, Vambran thought, wondering if his family would find it in their hearts to forgive him for letting Kovrim die.

Arbeenok appeared from the alley, his stride rapid. "More come," the druid said, no longer holding the flickering flame in his hand. "Too many to keep at bay," he added, giving Vambran a pointed look. Arbeenok's body was silhouetted from behind by dim, flickering light in the alley. Upon seeing Vambran's countenance in that weird light, the alaghi paused. "You knew him," Arbeenok said, sympathy in his tone. "I am sorry."

Vambran nodded, swallowing. His throat felt thick. "My uncle," he replied, his voice wavering a bit. "I didn't get here in time. I should have-" he swallowed again, unable to finish the thought. He turned and glanced back down the alley and spied the still-smoldering remains of the zombie. Several other shambling undead also lay strewn about, burning, but numerous more still approached, shuffling aberrantly in their direction. Still more struggled out of the open sewer beyond.

"Your uncle, all of your companions, would have been proud of your effort," Arbeenok said, grabbing Vambran's arm and pulling him away from the grisly scene. The druid broke into a trot, veering away from the approaching menace. "You never stopped trying, for even a moment. That is all anyone can ask of another." Together, they hurried away from the alley, back down the street in the direction they had first come. "Grieve for your uncle, but do not lose sight of the present dangers. Others still need us. Perhaps, even, your other companions."

"But I failed!" the lieutenant lamented, even as he matched the alaghi's pace, uncaring where they were going. No other people ventured down the avenue. Those who had not already fled had succumbed to the undead horrors walking the streets of Reth. The air was thick with the smell of smoke, though, and Vambran could see the glow of several fires within the neighborhood, perhaps only a street or two over. The incessant clanging of the alarms still rang, unnerving him. "My men counted on me as their leader, and I led them only to death," he said. Then the anger welled up again. "Not even death," he spat. "To die in battle would have been one thing, but undeath… that's-" his voice was a whisper by then, and again he couldn't finish the thought.

"It is a blight upon all that lives," Arbeenok finished for the mercenary, "and we must find a way to stop it. Remember that, above all else. For the sake of your uncle, remember everyone else's needs."

The pair turned a corner, destined for Elenthia's home, the woman whom Vambran had come to see upon arriving in the city. As the daughter of one of the seven senators of Reth, he had hoped to meet with her father, find some news on the whereabouts of his men and his uncle. After what he had learned, the visit no longer mattered.

Vambran shuddered once at the image of Uncle Kovrim's bloated, discolored face with its dead, milky-white eyes. Then he shook his head, banishing the horrible visage and refocusing his thoughts on the present. "The plague," he breathed, realizing with horror what he and the druid were up against. "How can it be? And with everything else that has already transpired? Does Tymora hate me so that she would turn my luck so foul for so long? Did I offend her in some way?" He swallowed hard, feeling despair begin to overwhelm him once more. "And how could it have spread so quickly? How could it have gotten to the Crescents? They only arrived-"

Vambran skidded to a stop on the cobblestoned street, realization overtaking him. "Not bad luck at all," he said to no one in particular. "This plague was no coincidence."

Arbeenok stopped and faced the lieutenant. "I do not understand," the druid said, his frown deep and troubled. "What do you see?"

Vambran gave the alaghi a meaningful stare. "Doesn't it strike you as a bit odd that my men were brought here on the very same day a plague breaks out? And that my uncle was apparently one of the very first to be infected? Once my company and I left Arrabar, it seemed as though someone had been trying to kill us. All of us."

As the sequence of thoughts flashed through Vambran's mind, he felt fury grow all over again. "The corsairs and the kraken had but one purpose-to sink our ship and drown us all. And when the Silver Ravens found us so easily on the beach, I thought they were a part of it, too, sent to run us down to a man. But then they simply took prisoners, and it didn't make sense. Now it does." Vambran realized he was clenching his fists, digging his nails hard into his palms. He forced his hands open again. "Now it does."

"What are you saying?"

"The plague is no accident," Vambran explained, turning and taking Arbeenok by the alaghi's stout shoulders, needing the druid to understand. "Someone wants it here, wants it to spread. And whoever is behind it is working with those same murderous bastards who have been trying to kill me and my men. That's why the Silver Ravens brought them here."

"To spread the plague?"

"Perhaps," Vambran replied. "But definitely to die from it."

"You say it was no accident. Who would knowingly release such devastation?" Arbeenok asked as Vambran turned and began to lead the two of them through the streets of Reth once more. "Why?"

Vambran took a deep breath to steady himself before replying. "Cruel, cruel men, full of ambition and without a shred of compassion within them. Men who would profit from death."

"Such men do not deserve to live," Arbeenok said. Those were the most savage, vehement words Vambran had heard the alaghi utter since he had met the druid.

"Then let's get my armor and weapons," Vambran said just as savagely, "and let's go kill them."

As the two companions turned the final corner before reaching Elenthia's abode, they pulled up short. A great battle raged in the street before the building where she lived. Flames licked out of the windows of the lower story. In the glowing light of the spreading fire, Vambran could see that soldiers battled zombies, and the zombies were winning.

Pilos watched, horrified, as Emriana vanished before his eyes. Only a moment before, she had been standing there, watching her dagger sail across the room and into deeper shadows. An instant later, there was a rustle of cloth, a flash of new torchlight from within those shadows, and she was gone. The Abreeant priest felt a cold sensation grow in his belly as the brash girl simply disappeared, leaving all her clothes and jewelry to form her missing shape for the briefest of heartbeats before crumpling to the floor with a bell-like tinkle of filigreed metal.

From the shadows, a male voice chuckled. "Too easy," he said, and Pilos had to fight the urge to shudder, for he was certain that voice belonged to Junce Roundface, the assassin he and Emriana had followed into the room.

Pilos shrank back, trying to settle into deeper shadows of his own, hoping against hope that Junce had not spotted him. The scroll in his hand, which contained a spell he had intended to use to subdue any guards, was all but forgotten for the moment.

"Don't be shy," Junce said, his voice full of merry cheer. He stepped into better light, looking right at Pilos. "Come out where I can see you." It was indeed the same man, as evidenced by his black doublet and matching trousers, which were tucked into stout boots that flared just below his knees. The man held Emriana's dagger in one hand, and he was smiling, but the intensity of his steel-blue eyes showed no mirth.

Seeing no reason to continue his failed attempt to hide, Pilos took a single, tentative step out into the open. He subtly slipped his free hand into the pocket of his own crimson doublet, fishing for a potion he knew to be there. "What did you do to her?" Pilos demanded, fear giving him false bravado. "Where is Emriana?" The thought of her simply ceasing to exist terrified him.

The assassin laughed. "She's perfectly safe. Come over here and see," he suggested, gesturing with the dagger back toward the spot where Emriana had been standing. "And I'd suggest you quit reaching for whatever you've got in your pocket there," the assassin added, giving the young priest a rather intense look.

Pilos froze, his hand half inside the doublet. "Thank you, no. I think I'll stay well clear of your tricks."

Junce shrugged, glancing away as if disappointed. Or exasperated, Pilos realized, just as the assassin cocked his arm and flung the dagger forward. The blade came hurtling toward the priest, the aim true.

For the rest of his days, Pilos would offer thanks to Tymora for the sudden urge to lunge for cover, even before he saw the impending attack begin. He spun and darted toward a large wooden table just as Junce sent the dagger flying toward him. It was the same table where Xaphira Matrell's belongings had been haphazardly scattered, but Pilos only sought it for its shelter. He crashed to the hard floor of the prison with a grunt just as the spinning blade clattered against the stone wall where he had been standing. The priest struggled to his knees as Junce swore an oath from beyond view.

"You little whelp," the man said, his voice growing louder as he seemed to move closer.

In a panic, Pilos considered his options. Terror made him want to flee, to swallow the potion that would transform him into mere mist and allow him to escape, but he could not abandon Emriana so easily. He had to find a way to stop the assassin and rescue his companion.

The priest realized he still clutched a scroll. Without hesitation, he began to utter the prayer that had been so carefully inscribed upon the parchment, knowing he had only one chance. "The Five Observances of Frugal Spending have many subparts, all of which must be memorized by anyone wishing to gain admittance into the temple clergy," he began in a loud, clear voice, hoping the enchantment was sufficient to enthrall Junce and stop him from attacking. "I will now recite each one, in order, including the various historical footnotes, for completeness's sake," the Abreeant continued, knowing it didn't matter of what he spoke, only that he preach unabated.

As he continued to quote the first-year lessons by rote, Pilos listened for the imminent approach of the assassin, certain that his magic was not powerful enough to stop the man. But he heard no footsteps. Almost not daring to believe, the priest risked a glance over the top of the table and spied Junce merely standing, listening to his words. Amazed, Pilos nearly faltered in his recitations, but he caught himself before the enchantment could dissipate and rose to his feet, still orating.

Cautiously, Pilos walked around the table, observing Junce. He approached the assassin, ready to spring away at the slightest hint of aggression, trying to determine if it was a trick. But Junce's rapture seemed genuine.

Breaking into a slight smile in his relief, the priest skirted past his adversary, toward Emriana's last location, continuing to proselytize. He spied her clothing tumbled into a pile but did not approach it.

He angled in from the side, peering into the shadows, looking for signs of danger. He saw a mirror, large and square, propped against the wall of the cell where Junce had been hiding. From his vantage point, the priest could not see himself in the glass. It was angled to face Emriana's last position.

With mental alarms ringing, Pilos backed away, careful not to look at the glass. He turned back to Junce, who had spun to watch him, though the assassin still stood rooted to the same spot since Pilos had begun his spell. Feeling his mouth going dry, Pilos wished for a cool drink of water, but he ignored his craving and continued orating, lecturing in detail about the meaning behind each of the enormous and elaborate stained-glass windows in the great hall of the Temple of Waukeen. He hoped his voice would hold out long enough.

I need something large and heavy, the Abreeant decided. Something to shatter that mirror.

He scanned the room for something-anything-that would suit his purposes, but everything was either firmly anchored to the floor or walls or was much too large. Somewhere in the middle of his description of the third of twenty windows, he remembered the dagger.

Feeling his tongue growing thick and dry, Pilos hurried to where the dagger lay, intending to scoop it up and hurl it at the mirror, hoping that it would be enough to free Emriana. He considered plunging the weapon into Junce's chest, but he feared that he would not deliver a killing blow before the act ruined the spell, and he didn't want to risk such a chance.

No, he insisted. You've got your plan. Go with it.

He bent down to pick up the dagger and at that instant noticed the figures standing in the doorway, not three paces from him. In his shock, he nearly yelped in surprise, barely managing to continue his discourse. None of the three men were Generon guards, unalike in every way.

The first was a short, sinewy fellow with long, stringy hair, while the second was large and burly and wore a full beard. Both were filthy. The third was much cleaner, with brown curly hair, and skin weathered as though he had spent many days in the sun. While the first two glared at the priest, the third appeared more pensive than angry.

For a moment, Pilos trembled, expecting the trio to jump at him as soon as they realized he was aware of their presence. None of the three advanced into the chamber, though, instead content to stand in the doorway and listen to the priest's rambling. It took the young Abreeant a moment to remember that his divine magic would affect newcomers as easily as his initial victim. Shaking with relief, he gathered his wits, refocusing his concentration on his spell and trying to steady his breathing. He reached down for the dagger once more.

"That's not going to do you much good," a feminine voice said from the corridor.

As Pilos jerked upright once more, he saw a flash of movement, then three glowing points of light swarmed through a gap between the three men, darting directly toward him. He recognized the dangerous magic, but no lucky evasion could save him a second time. The three glowing points smacked into his chest in rapid succession, sending jolts of fiery pain through his entire body.

Gasping in anguish, Pilos tumbled to the floor, doubled over in abject agony. As he writhed about, trying to soothe the molten wounds he sported across his torso, a shadow darkened above him. When the priest looked up, Junce Roundface was glaring. Pilos's spell was broken and the assassin looked furious. Pilos flinched and tried to roll away, but one quick punch to his midsection took his breath away.

It was all too easy for the newcomers to subdue the Waukeenar. In moments, Pilos sat against a wall, sullen, with his arms and legs locked tightly in shackles taken from the supplies within the prison. The two grubby men had done the heavy work, the big one sitting on him while the other snapped the restraints in place. The female arrival, with short blond hair and a scantily-cut magenta and purple outfit, shoved a wad of sour cloth into his mouth and tied it in place with a strip of fabric that kept him from speaking. He reckoned her for the wizard from Emriana's story earlier that day, which meant the others-or at least two of them-were the thugs aiding her.

I guess she didn't like my speech so much, the priest lamented.

As the trio finished their work binding the prisoner, the other man, the pensive one with the brown curly hair, argued with Junce.

"You said it wouldn't be much longer," the fellow pleaded. "Once their House was wiped out, you said I could see her, take her away. How much longer is this going to take?"

"As long as it takes," Junce snapped, glaring at Pilos. "Now I've got this one to contend with, too," he added, pointing at his prisoner. "There's no telling what his family is likely to do. And Vambran is still out there, and he may come hunting for them. Until I know he's dead, it's not over."

"Look," the man continued, "I'll take her far away. North to Cormyr, or south, to the coast. Somewhere that she won't be a problem for you. But let me take her now. Please."

"I said no!" Junce spat. "Now stop asking." He turned to paw through Emriana's personal belongings, which he had gathered onto the table next to Xaphira's, ignoring the man and signaling that the discussion was at an end.

But the man wouldn't accept such an answer and crossed the distance between them, grabbing at Junce's shoulder, spinning the assassin around. "That's not what we agreed on," he said, his voice insistent. Junce's glare was ice, but the other man didn't back down. "I willingly worked with you, remember? I came to you when I found out Xaphira was trying to sniff you out. I gave her to you, on the condition that I would get her back, unharmed, when you got what you wanted. I held up my end of the bargain, now you-"

The man, whom Pilos just then recognized from Emriana's description to be Xaphira's old companion Quill, crumpled in a heap as the larger of the two thugs smacked him hard in the back of the head with a sap. As Quill sagged into unconsciousness, Junce sighed.

"Thank you, Borth. His whining was detestable, wasn't it?" the assassin said, clapping the large man on the shoulder. "I've really heard enough out of him," Junce finished. He turned back to rummaging through Emriana's belongings, but then he stopped again, turning back to the wizard and her two grimy companions.

"I almost forgot to ask," he said, looking amused. "What are you three doing down here, anyway?"

The woman laughed, her voice clear and rather pleasant. "With all of this nonsense going on," and she gestured casually toward Pilos, "I almost forgot, too. Lavant wants to see you," she explained, rolling her eyes. " 'Immediately,' " she intoned, trying to sound like the fat priest.

Despite the gag shoved in his mouth, Pilos gasped, drawing a curious stare from everyone except Junce, who sighed in exasperation.

"You know," the assassin said, clearly disgruntled, "if you keep talking about things where our enemies can hear us, they'll know too much."

The woman smirked. "Who, him?" she replied, gesturing toward Pilos. "What's he going to do about it?"

"Nothing," Junce answered, turning to depart from the chamber. "Because you're going to take care of him for me." He paused and glanced down at the still form of Quill. "Both of them. And get it right this time," he finished, jabbing a finger in the air toward the woman. "No more mistakes."

"Whatever you say," the woman replied. "Lak, Borth-I guess we're making another trip down to the docks tonight."