Thomas Reid: The Ruby Guardian

She pointed to it, and Pilos nodded. He still held his scroll in his hands, unfurled, ready to be used in an instant.

Summoning all of her courage, Emriana took another step into the room, then another. She made her way to the table, her dagger still held high, drawn back for throwing. When she reached the wooden slab, she tentatively reached out, feeling the items, wanting to make sure they were real.

A groan, soft and muffled, issued from a cell to the girl's right.

Emriana spun, staring in that direction. "Aunt Xaphira?" she called out before she could stop herself. She froze, listening. Beside her, Pilos craned his neck forward, trying to see into the corner cell.

"You might as well come in and join us, Em," Junce said, his voice carrying from the shadows in the deepest part of the cell. "That's what your aunt calls you, isn't it?"

Emriana froze, her heart sinking. She half turned to flee again then stopped, rage filling her.

No.

"Show yourself, you worm," she said aloud. She stormed forward, trying to spot the assassin where he hid. "Or are you really scared of one helpless girl?" Do something, Pilos, she thought desperately as she moved toward the cell, before he thinks to pay any attention to you.

Junce laughed, and she saw him, reclining against the corner, inside the cell. Another form lay at his feet, pale and naked in the dim light of the torches.

Aunt Xaphira.

The dagger was sailing forward, passing between the bars of the cell, before Emriana even realized what she had done. Her aim was true. The blade was spinning directly toward Junce's chest.

He reached up and snagged the blade out of the air.

"Actually, you have proven to be the most resourceful in your family, Em," Junce said, his voice filled with mirth. "I've had more trouble dealing with you than the rest of them combined."

Using the very dagger that Em had unwittingly provided him, Junce reached up and sliced through a thin cord that ran through the cell. As it snapped, the girl saw motion out of the corner of her eye. A black cloth was rising, itself being pulled by a cord attached to counterweights. Behind the cloth, she caught a flash of light, though it was not magical.

A reflection.

In the heartbeat of time it took Emriana to realize she was looking into a mirror, she found herself in the grip of its magic. There was the briefest of tugs, and suddenly she was in a small, lightless space. Four walls, a floor, and a ceiling, all surrounded her, all within arm's reach. She was trapped in a box.

She huddled, naked, alone, imprisoned.

Everything-the Generon, Pilos, her clothing, the ruby ring with Grandmother Hetta inside-was gone.

There was the faint sound of Emriana's name being called then a window appeared, at first very far away, overhead. It seemed to enlarge, to zoom close to her, becoming one wall of her tiny prison. She could see Junce through that clear, solid barrier, still standing in the cell of the jail room in the Generon, looking at her.

Emriana tried to push against the window, but it was still as solid a barrier as the darkness before it had been.

Junce laughed. "It's quite a mirror, isn't it? I hope you like it, because you're going to spend a long, long time in there."

And the window was receding, growing ever so tiny, until it winked out completely, leaving Emriana alone in the darkness once more.

The sound of her scream echoed in her own ears.

Vambran and Arbeenok dashed out into the street to find people running in panic. As one man went sprinting by, a look of horror on his face, Vambran grabbed him by the arm and spun him around.

"What is it?" the lieutenant demanded. "What's wrong?"

"The plague!" the man cried, yanking his arm free and running off again. "The Rotting Plague has returned!"

Arbeenok, who had remained in dog form until that moment, transformed back into his natural shape. "The great death," he said.

"What?" Vambran said, spinning to look at his companion. "What do you mean?"

"My vision. Remember? I foresaw a great death, and in my divinations, I saw that it began in a great city. It seemed that I might find a way to prevent it, but I did not know what it would be, so that is why I have come here with you. Now I know. We must find a way to stop this plague before it spreads."

Vambran was shaking. "My uncle," he said. "The Crescents. We have to find them, free them, before the plague can get to them."

Arbeenok nodded, and together they ran down the street, moving opposite of all the fleeing citizens.

As they rounded the next corner, Vambran skidded to a stop, not sure he was seeing clearly. In the half light of evening, shambling forms appeared out of the deepest shadows, chasing after running, screaming people. The figures' gaits were slow, unnatural, and Vambran understood with horror that they were not alive.

"Zombies!" he cried. "They might be what's spreading the plague! We must turn them back!" Fishing his medallion out of his pocket, Vambran stepped forward, preparing to turn the undead away with the might of his holy courage and faith. He extended his hand, displaying the coin, and began to pray.

Beside him, Arbeenok began to chant, pulling a small totem free from his belt as he did so. When his chanting reached a crescendo, a small ball of flame appeared in the palm of his hand. He hurled the tiny conflagration at the closest zombie, scoring a direct hit. Another handful of flame instantly appeared in its place in his palm. He flung again, striking the same zombie, and it went down, becoming a roaring bonfire that lit the street.

Bolstered by his companion's skill, Vambran proceeded to advance down the road, calling on the power of Waukeen to aid him in driving back the shambling undead. Suddenly, to his right, another shuffling, limping creature stepped out of the shadows of an alley. Vambran spun, ready to drive it back. Then he faltered, the prayer dying on his lips.

The zombie shuffled closer, reaching for him, plainly visible in the light of the fire behind Vambran. Its eyes were lifeless, its skin pale and tinged, and it came closer, a low growl issuing from its throat.

It was Uncle Kovrim.