Emerald Sceptre (5 page)

Then all the horrible memories came rushing back to her, and she sat bolt upright on the bed.

It was Mirolyn Skolotti, and she had brought a tray of food. “Lady Marga, are you hungry?” she asked as she moved to set the meal on a side table. She carried a taper candle she had brought with her and began to light the various lanterns hanging from hooks on the walls and ceilings. The entire chamber was soon bathed in warm amber light.

“No, not really,” Marga heard herself say. “Just leave the tray and I’ll try it a bit later. I really want to rest.” Don’t listen to my words! she thought, silently struggling to say something else. Help me!

Mirolyn looked at her, hands on her hips. “Lady Marga, I know it’s been a hard few tendays for you, with all that’s gone on around here, and today was particularly difficult, with the passing of Lady Hetta and all. But wouldn’t you feel better if you came out into the sitting room to be with everyone else? Don’t you think that would make you feel a little better?”

“No,” Marga lied. “I just want to rest, by myself, in here.” No, I don’t! she silently screamed, unable even to contort her face to make her frantic feelings obvious to the other woman. Damn you, Bartimus, what did you do to me?

Mirolyn started to shake her head and say something else, but then she seemed to think better of it and snapped her mouth shut again. She took one last glance around the room and her frown deepened. “Where are the children? I just realized I haven’t seen them all day.”

Marga wanted to sob. My babies, she thought. Please help me save my precious babies. Instead, she simply said, “They went to stay at House Talricci for a couple of days. I thought it better for them, with the gloom that has settled here.”

Mirolyn scowled at the mention of Marga’s brother, but she was too polite to voice her dislike. “Very well,” she said at last. “I’ll leave you alone, then.” And she turned to depart. Then she turned back at the door and said, “If you need anything, you come find me, all right?”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine, but thank you, Mirolyn.” Don’t leave! I don’t want to be alone! Please come back! Please figure it out!

But Mirolyn did leave, pulling the door shut behind her, never noticing the single tear that ran down the woman’s face.

After she was gone, Marga couldn’t even force herself to walk across the floor and pull the door open again. She wanted to—with all of her will she wanted to dash out into the sitting room and beg them all to help her. But the enchantment that Bartimus had laid upon her—at Grozier’s direction, of course—prevented her from acting on her wishes. Being imprisoned in her chamber was even worse than the time Bartimus had turned her into a living statue so she couldn’t move.

The wizard’s instructions had been simple, direct. “You are to remain in this room at all times, and

you may not tell anyone that anything is wrong, or that you have been magically hindered, or that your children are in any way threatened or in danger. If anyone asks about you, you are to claim that you are simply tired and wish to rest.”

And it had worked.

After Grozier and those two fiendish changelings had departed, Marga had spent the better part of the afternoon trying to leave her chambers, but Bartimus’s spell was quite effective. She could no more approach the door than she could walk on the ceiling. She spent the next part of the day crying herself to sleep, until Mirolyn had appeared.

But the young woman was gone again, and Marga was alone once more to uselessly fight against the magic that restrained her.

Then it hit her. Why am I such a fool? she thought, so angry with herself. I cannot fight the enchantment, but perhaps I can find a way around it, a loophole. Something that slipped that worm’s mind when he set the conditions. What could it be?

Marga spent a few moments wracking her brain, trying to remember the wizard’s words exactly. On impulse, she moved to her writing desk and took up a piece of parchment. She grabbed a quill and tried to write the truth of the matter.

The ink, and the words, flowed freely.

For the first time in several days, Marga Matrell smiled.

Vambran reached for his holy coin, ready to charge into the fray and aid the soldiers. His sword and crossbow were still inside the burning building, but more importantly, so was Elenthia.

The mercenary took two steps before Arbeenok grabbed him by the arm. “Wait,” the druid said, clutching a strange urnlike object made of pottery decorated with colorful beads and etched with complicated mosaics. Arbeenok held the object over the lieutenant’s head, and with an indecipherable chant, the alaghi smacked his hands together, shattering the tiny urn and showering Vambran with a fine white dust. “Something to protect you from the plague,” he added, nodding in the direction of the fighting.

Vambran gave his companion an answering nod of thanks and turned back to the battle.

The four soldiers had formed a defensive line across the side of the building, guarding the stairs leading up to Elenthia’s abode. Their training and equipment should have been more than enough to keep the half-dozen or so shambling undead at bay, Vambran thought, but the Reth watchmen seemed sluggish to him. Even as he ran across the street to drive away the nearest zombie, he saw one of the soldiers crumple to the paving stones, clutching at his belly. The zombie staggered toward the man and kicked at him, causing the watchman to cry out in pain and alarm. The soldier next to the wounded man shifted slightly to try to keep the zombies away from his downed companion, but that only served to open a hole in the line, and the zombies, slow as they were, pressed the attack.

Vambran wanted to wallop one of the stumbling, staggering horrors with his sword or perhaps a mace, but without weapons, he dared not get too close. That left him with the tools of his faith, but he knew he would have to get in with the soldiers, on the other side of the zombies, to be effective.

Perhaps I should just jump past them, the mercenary thought, looking for a way to slip through the conflict.

Beside Vambran, Arbeenok approached one of the zombies and, locking both fists together like a huge cudgel, swung his arms fiercely, slamming them into the shoulder of the undead thing. The druid’s blow crushed bone, sending the zombie tumbling to the side fully three paces away. Without hesitating to see if the living corpse rose again, the alaghi moved to the next one on the line, swinging

his thick bulging arms and clamped fists a second time.

The lieutenant watched Arbeenok in awe. What incredible strength, he thought. Shaking himself out of his amazement, Vambran came in behind the druid, weaving his way through the gap that Arbeenok had created. He reached the closest of the soldiers, who was down on one knee, coughing and clutching at his chest.

“Can’t breathe,” the man said. “Help me,” he pleaded. Vambran gave the soldier a reassuring pat on the shoulder and turned to face a pair of zombies that were coming toward the two of them. Grasping his holy coin tightly, the mercenary thrust the symbol forward in defiance and called on Waukeen’s favor to drive them back. “Begone, you stinking things!” he shouted as he poured his own holy energy through the coin.

The zombies hesitated and flinched, groaning. Vambran shoved the coin farther in their direction. “You must get away! Waukeen will not permit you to foul this place any longer! Begone!”

The two zombies turned and lurched down the, street, groaning and shielding their eyes from the’ coin Vambran presented. Once he was certain they were truly fleeing, he turned back to the soldier, ready to draw upon his healing magic to aid the man.

The watchman lay unmoving on the paving stones, his eyes glassy and staring up at the night sky. His skin was strangely hued, with blotches and blisters forming right before Vambran’s eyes.

Swearing softly, Vambran resisted the urge to back away from the sick man and instead knelt down, placing his hand upon the ill soldier’s forehead. He

closed his eyes in prayer, but even as he felt the healing energy pour through his arm and into the man, he heard the death rattle of a last breath escaping. He opened his eyes to see those eyes, lifeless, staring at nothing.

Shuddering, Vambran rose up and turned away, horrified and afraid of the swiftness of the disease. He took several quick steps to put some distance between himself and the new corpse, desperate to wipe his hand on something, to bathe, to run.

A scream from overhead made the lieutenant pause in his retreat. Craning his neck, Vambran peered up, seeing that the flames from the first-floor fire had spread to encompass the second story, too. Smoke billowed thick in the air, and the mercenary could just make out a silhouetted image in one of the upper windows. He turned to dash up the stairs, but Arbeenok was in the way, still battling two of the walking undead. The druid was holding his own, pummeling the zombies with gusto, but outnumbered, he would not last too long in the fight.

No time, Vambran decided, spinning away and trying to find another route up to the second floor. The conflagration had spread to the roof. There was another scream, and he could see a frantic hand waving from one of the windows.

Remembering his other magic, Vambran wished suddenly for a live spider, but there was no way he would be able to locate one before the entire building was an inferno. He started to curse his ill luck when the urge hit him to try to activate the magic without the spider. Frowning at such preposterous notions but sensing something genuine about it, he darted toward the wall, muttering the arcane phrases to grant him the magical climbing skill.

Vambran began scampering up the wall with no trouble at all.

Not wasting time trying to figure out why he no longer needed the spider, Vambran reached the window, shielding his face from the heat with one arm as he tried to peer inside. “Elenthia!” he shouted, coughing from the hot smoke that poured out of the room. “Elenthia, come to the window!”

“Vambran!” the woman screamed, and she was there, her face black with soot, coughing and crying. “Help me!” she pleaded. “Get me out!”

Vambran scrambled in through the window. “Stay low,” he instructed the woman as he dropped to all fours, his eyes watering as he looked about. He could feel the heat rising up through the floor of Elenthia’s apartment, could sense that it would erupt in flame soon. But he had to reach his belongings, had to recover his weapons and breastplate.

“What are you doing?” Elenthia screamed, grabbing at Vambran as he tried to crawl deeper into the apartment. “We can’t go back in!”

Vambran ignored her and scrambled across the floor, searing hot and beginning to smolder, toward, the place he had left his satchel. He coughed and gasped as he maneuvered through the room, having to fight the urge to stop and wipe the soot from his burning eyes. He spied the bulky, elongated bundle still leaning against a wall where he had left it, though the cloth was beginning to smoke because of its proximity to the spreading flames. Grabbing the satchel, Vambran slung it across his back and turned to navigate back the way he had come.

Flames blocked his path.

Vambran considered rising up and making a run for it, but at that moment, the majority of the floor

fell away with a thunderous crash, and more flames roared up from below. Elenthia screamed from beside the window, already half outside, trying to escape a fiery death.

It appeared that the mercenary was trapped.

Undaunted, Vambran scampered to the closest wall and began to crawl up it, still feeling the effects of the spell. The maneuver took him higher into the smoke and heat of the fire, but he squinted and held his breath as he hurried up the wall, almost to the ceiling, and darted past the licking flames to the other side. He kept moving at that point, feeling his skin blistering on the scorching walls of the structure. He reached the end of the wall and turned the corner, scrambling as fast as he could toward the window, where Elenthia was preparing to jump.

“Wait!” Vambran called, reaching the opening just as Elenthia swung herself fully out to hang by her hands. Vambran darted through the window and out onto the wall, maneuvering past Elenthia, who watched him wide-eyed with fear and amazement. “Let me get below you,” Vambran said, pressing his mouth close to her ear to make certain she could hear him, “and you can use me like a ladder. Do you understand?”

Elenthia nodded, and Vambran wasted no time positioning himself below the woman. As soon as she saw him below her, she began to scramble down the wall, stepping on Vambran’s fingers and ear. The mercenary officer grimaced in pain as he felt her boots scraping his backside. She half-climbed, half-slid down him until she could drop the remaining distance to the street below.

Once Elenthia was away, Vambran made a mad

dash down the wall himself. As soon as he reached the cobblestones, he sprinted as fast as he could from the building.

Even before he got to the other side of the avenue, Vambran heard the structure collapse, felt the vibration of tons of material striking the ground and the rush of heated air that burst out from the conflagration. He winced as that searing heat washed over him and he turned his ankle and stumbled to the pavement at Arbeenok’s feet. Elenthia stood a little distance away, trembling and gazing back and forth between the alaghi and her ruined home.

“I did not think you would make it back out,” Arbeenok said, helping Vambran to his feet. “You are either very brave or very foolish,” he added.

Vambran gave the druid a wry grin and held up his satchel, wincing as he did so because of his painful ankle and the various patches of blistered skin on his body. “I couldn’t let these burn,” he said, unrolling the cloth from his sword and armor. “They’re family heirlooms.”

“I don’t think your friend knows quite what to think of me,” Arbeenok said, gesturing toward Elenthia, who eyed the druid, a wary look on her soot-smudged face.

Vambran limped over to the woman and pulled her to himself to give her a hug. “Are you all right?” he asked, looking into her red-rimmed eyes.

Elenthia sagged into the man, grasping him and weeping for a long moment. When she pulled back to look at him again, tears glistened on her cheeks, making tracks through the smudges of black soot. Her slap to Vambran’s face was unexpected and stung. “What in the hells do you think you were doing, going back in there for your things?” she demanded