Borth reached past his companion and grabbed the bars of the gate, rattling them furiously. "Laithe," the bigger man said, a different edge to his voice. "Laithe, please unlock this gate. Whatever game you're playing, it's time to stop and let us through."
Pilos felt the water rising against him where he was still sprawled out on the steps. He felt a twinge of guilt at the thought of leaving the men locked behind that gate, but he banished it. They were ready to leave us there, he reminded himself.
Laithe moved to help Pilos and Quill to their feet, removing their gags as she did so.
As soon as the wad of cloth was out of his mouth, Quill began demanding an explanation. "What's going on? Why are you helping us? Unlock these manacles!"
"Hush, Maquillon!" Laithe scolded. "Be thankful I let you come along at all," the woman said, nodding her head toward the two men, who were frantically trying to yank the gate free. "After what you did to Xaphira, I had half a mind to leave you back there with them."
"Laithe!" Lak screamed, shaking the gate with his entire body. "Laithe, please!"
The wizard studiously ignored the two men and said, "I don't think they brought the keys for those manacles, I'm sorry to say. I guess they didn't expect to need to unlock them ever again. You'll have to manage as best as you can on the stairs until we find a way to get them off." Then she turned to Pilos and said, "Can you conjure up one of those magical lights Vambran and Kovrim are so fond of? Otherwise, we'll be climbing the stairs in the dark."
Pilos gaped at the woman, realizing at last. "Hetta?" he said softly, suddenly overjoyed.
The wizard smiled. "Yes, child. It's me." And she held up her hand, showing the ruby ring on her finger. "She started playing with the ring, and I took a chance. She's trapped in the stone, mad as a hornet, but she doesn't get her body back until I say so."
"Laithe or whoever you are, please!" Lak begged.
"Hetta!" Quill gasped. "It's actually you?"
The woman turned and glared at Quill. "Yes. Now hush. I don't want to speak to you for a good long time. Now," she said, turning back to Pilos, "how about that light? Time's wasting."
"I need my coin," Pilos said, relief flooding through him and making his voice waver. "It should be in the bag with the rest of Em's and Xaphira's things."
Hetta, in Laithe's body, fetched the holy symbol from within the bag and quickly enough, Pilos enchanted it to glow with soft, pearlescent light. She hung it around his neck and they turned to climb the stairs by its illumination, leaving Lak and Borth pleading in terror not to be left behind.
Their voices echoed up the spiral stairwell for a long time after Pilos, Quill, and Hetta left them, then without warning, the echoes were gone.
The climb was awkward and painful with the chains locked about their ankles, but the threesome made steady progress to the top. The route back to the prison was not far, and the trio returned to the chamber where Pilos and Emriana had first been captured.
The mirror was gone.
"There are too many of them!" Vambran yelled, yanking his sword free from yet another twitching, quivering zombie. The undead thing dropped in a heap at his feet, but two more shuffled closer to take its place, pressing the mercenary officer back. Even more of them, visible in the glare of the magical flare he had launched to help his tiny group see and fight, swarmed around the periphery of the battle. He slashed at the nearest one and lopped its arm off, but with every swing of his sword, the blade felt heavier. "We can't keep this up!"
"We should fall back," Arbeenok said, fighting on Vambran's left. "But the path is cut off in both directions."
Behind him and to the other side, the lieutenant heard Elenthia gasp, and he risked a quick glance in her direction to see what had upset her. Though she continued to swing the light mace they had found for her to use, pounding with both hands on anything that got close, her eyes were wide with unsuppressed horror, staring at something in the gloom. He shoved his blade out, skewering the nearest zombie, and stole another quick glance away from his fight, in the direction she had been staring.
Four more of the creatures were ambling out of a building on the far side of the street, distinct enough in the glow of the flare that Vambran recognized the identical cut and color of their clothing.
The Order of the Sapphire Crescent.
By the Bitch Queen, Vambran silently swore, recognizing them, naming their names in his head automatically: Hort Blogermun, Blangarl and Tholis, and the lad Velati. He wanted to retch.
Vambran stared for only a moment, but it was long enough for one of the nearest zombies to swing a fist near his head. He barely ducked in time, then anger and grief made his next swing vehement. The two halves of the zombie tumbled apart as they flopped to a street already slick with blood.
I kept hoping, the mercenary realized, that maybe they were still alive, imprisoned but safe. Damn! Damn them!
The lieutenant tightened his grip on his sword and slashed at the next zombie to stray near, and the next, and the next. His swings were vicious, driven by fury and grief. Chunks of bruised and decaying flesh flew in all directions, accompanied by spatters of cold, congealed blood. Undead bodies fell to the street, shorn apart by the mercenary's bitter rage. He waded in among the nightmare creatures, relentless. With every one he destroyed, he prayed to Waukeen, and to every other god he could think of who might care.
He prayed for the spirits of the people he was freeing from their already-dead bodies. Prayed for their families and loved ones.
He tried not to see their faces, not to see them as actual people. Some of them, sadly, were short and slight, after all. He kept cutting and slashing, trying to destroy the taint of the plague, driving forward, clearing a swath through the undead as tears rolled down his cheeks.
He didn't even let up when his blade sliced through the white and blue of a soldier he once knew.
What seemed like a long time later, exhausted, Vambran Matrell could find no more zombies to destroy. All around him, the tattered and broken remains of undead lay sprawled on the blood-slick cobblestones. None moved. Somewhere along the way, the magical light of his flare had vanished, and he had continued to battle by the light of Selune's sliver. The night was unnaturally still.
The mercenary let his blade drop then felt the overwhelming weariness in his arms, his legs, and his broken heart. He almost sat down right there, in the middle of the street. He didn't want to look at the bodies. If he looked at the bodies, he would see people-merchants, midwives, and children who were both horrific and all-too-human and fragile at the same time. So he stared at nothing for a while. Stared and panted and felt nothing but numbness.
Finally, Vambran remembered that he was not alone. Two people, alive, had been with him. He looked around.
Arbeenok was near the garden wall where they had started fighting. He watched the mercenary-a grim look was fixed on the alaghi's face. Elenthia was beside the druid, kneeling, her arms folded and resting across her raised knee. She also watched him, her eyes wide, staring. She seemed aghast.
The lieutenant began to walk toward the pair, and he thought Elenthia recoiled the tiniest bit. He held up his hand to show her that he was all right, and what he saw nearly made him stumble. He halted in mid step.
The mercenary's entire arm was sheathed in thick, black blood.
Vambran stared down and saw that he was drenched in gore from head to foot. The realization chilled him despite the warm, humid evening. Blood clung to him and ran in rivulets down his arms. It was matted in his hair. Somewhere, he knew, the blood of his soldiers was mingled in that mess.