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."