Emerald Sceptre by Thomas M. Reid

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.
    “Water,” Vambran said, filled with the urge to wash it away. “I need water,” he repeated. He came closer, his arms spread out, unable to abide touching the slick wetness all over himself.
    Elenthia said nothing, merely stared. But Arbeenok nodded. “On the other side of this wall,” the alaghi said, “1 can hear water running. Let’s find a way inside.”
    Vambran nodded and stumbled after the druid. Elenthia rose and followed the