"You there," the sergeant called, looking at Mardicon. "Come help us. We need wood, things that will burn." Mardicon shook his head, too frightened to think straight. "Now, citizen!" the sergeant ordered. "We have to stop them from spreading!"

Stop what? Mardicon wondered.

"Sir?" one of the soldiers standing watch in front of the entrance said, his voice tremulous as he pointed down the street. The sergeant stopped glaring at the glassblower and glanced in the direction the watchman indicated.

Mardicon couldn't help but look. He saw a limping, shuffling figure at the end of the street. It was a man, though Mardicon could not judge much else about him because he was silhouetted against the flickering of the brightening fire. His gait was awkward, unnatural.

At a gruff order from the sergeant, two of the soldiers arrayed themselves in the middle of the lane to confront the fellow, pulling crossbows off their backs and cocking the weapons. The rest of the watchmen resumed their construction efforts, hurrying to get some sort of barrier spanning the entire width of the lane. Many gaps still yawned in the hasty construction.

Two more figures appeared from around the bend, one a woman in a peasant dress and the other armed like a guardsman. Each was moving slowly, with no spring in their steps at all. The two soldiers sighted down their weapons and fired at the lead figure.

"By Gond," the glassblower mumbled, rooted to the spot, watching in horrified disbelief. They're just killing them right there in the street! No warning? No attempt to heal them?

The first strikes didn't slow the shuffling man even slightly. As the two soldiers struggled to reload, he continued to advance on them, bolts protruding from his chest.

Horrible realization flooded Mardicon's mind.

The walking dead.

The soldiers, realizing they would not be able to fire again in time, retreated, turning and running toward the rest of their companions, who still rushed to finish building the blockade. The sergeant held a torch and screamed at his soldiers to hurry. Two of his men splashed the contents of the barrel onto the partially finished barricade.

They would not complete it fast enough.

The first zombies reached the barrier and began pushing through it, clambering through the gaps. The other two undead lumbered close behind.

Out of time, the sergeant put torch to tinder and the barricade blazed into a conflagration, immolating the first walking corpse. The whole street instantly glowed orange and the heat that blasted Mardicon's face was almost as hot as his own furnace. The lead undead kept trying to move forward, heedless of the licking flames, though it staggered and fell to one knee. The sergeant ordered his men to fire at will, and the watchmen began to pincushion it with their bolts. Finally it collapsed, but the gap was large enough that the next two creatures could get past the flames and at the watchmen.

Far up the lane, half a dozen more zombies moved down the street toward the soldiers' defensive position.

"Gods preserve us," the glassblower breathed, turning to run, his traveling bundle forgotten.

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.