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.