The road back to Neverwinter would not be so as easy as had been the journey 'home' to dingy, damp West Harbour, Isaviel feared. Though it would require less persuasion for her to take it – she would be most glad to return to her rooms at The Sunken Flagon; to her mischief and escapades with Neeshka. The promise of three weeks at Daeghun's house made her stomach turn. He had not come out to greet her, though their old neighbours the Starlings had. Bevil had stared at her goggle-eyed, and she had smiled sweetly back, as if his mother Retta had not nearly once…caught them. Though she seemed to bear the Moon Elf no ill will.
Amidst the scattered homesteads of the 'town', the Starling farm was the last homestead before the swamp proper – Daeghun did not technically live within the border of West Harbour, but rather just over the deep, murky depths of the river there. The bridge had rotted and collapsed the month before, leaving just the raft across the waters. They had struggled to pull it over – Daeghun obviously had not crossed into human land in some time, preferring to hunt alone.
Her old home was large, with two full storeys along with her attic room and the basement-level pantry. Daeghun had been restringing his bow by the window when she came into the sparse living room, almost like he had meant to shoot her rather than greet her. His green eyes had been distant, his tone as severe as ever, but he had put a hand on her shoulder and startled her by directing his foster daughter to the fireside, upon the table by which rested a meal of meat, cheese and freshly made bread. And bread was soon to become a commodity.
Isaviel had spent her time reacquainting herself with the town, fishing with Bevil though the catches were fewer and smaller every day, playing pranks on Tarmas with Amie his ward – and her childhood friend. She avoided her old teacher Brother Merring utterly, and he seemed to have understood her need to do so, for he did not come to visit. Besides, she heard he was busy entreating his god Lathander and his wife the nature goddess Chauntea to give them a harvest…any harvest. They did not have enough supplies in store to last another twelve months, though the previous harvest had been a lucrative one.
The head of the militia, Georg, did not like her and told her to watch her step within the second day of her return. His wife's family the Mossfelds were even less subtle in their threats. They sent one of their three sons to dog her steps and menace her at every trip to the north of town. The day she tricked one into a hunter's trap and it nearly cut off his leg was the day that stopped. No one needed to know that she had laid it.
As the Harvest Fair grew closer, the darkness descended and failed to shift; an eerie gloom filled the lives of the West Harbourmen. Their crops died in vast swathes and no more fish were to be found in the rivers and pools. Children started to get ill from that same water – soon it had to be boiled or slow death followed. Whispers of an old doom started coming back. The stories of the King of Shadows were revived, though Daeghun refused to elaborate for Isaviel and no one else was much more forthcoming. Even by her old friends she was less trusted than before – as if the city had tainted her. Or as if she had tainted the town. Still, somehow she knew that the change must be linked to the Bladelings' return and therefore probably also to the shards. Soon Daeghun would give her his shard, she knew, and then she would be on her way. He would not like her lingering long in a dark place like this.
When the day of the Harvest Fair came, that annual commemoration for the decades' past Battle of West Harbour, the sun barely seemed to have risen, so thick were the clouds. The fog had at least abated a little, but the air was still damp and close. People were making the most of it, setting up their typical brightly coloured tents, starting to drink before midday. Children were playing with wooden sticks in the 'duelling arena' as Isaviel watched their faint shapes moving in the fog from her vantage point in her attic room. Finishing lacing her tunic, she saw Daeghun loading the raft with his archery gear and was glad they had missed each other that morning – less glad that she would have to go and help out later. This was a particularly grim day for him, the annual reminder of the death of his wife Shayla and her best friend, Isaviel's mother Esmerelle. And the reminder that Isaviel had survived, a two year old unconscious, miraculously alive and with a great gash down her chest. A scar that had never gone away. A scar that had roared with pain at the arrival of the Bladelings, as if it had a memory of the part in the battle which they had played.
Grabbing a disappointingly small apple on her way out, Isaviel was glad to see the new bridge had been completed, but as she moved to cross it she paused. There was something wrong, something worse. The odd, perpetual gloaming was almost familiar by now, but the water seemed darker, thicker. For a moment she could have sworn the water was not water at all, not running at all, but ancient, congealed black blood. And the air was too warm, with no breeze at all. She reached for her kukris to steady her nerves, glad to be wearing them openly over a tunic and leggings today rather than strapped to her legs beneath a more customary dress. She had even determined to put on her travelling boots, hoping she could be away by nightfall. This was the memorial day of the Battle of West Harbour after all, and Daeghun had only asked her to stay this long.
"What in the Hells are you wearing, Elf?" the youngest Mossfeld approached from the town side of the river, his eyes hard behind his sneer.
"Why? More interested than you'd care to admit?"
Isaviel pretended to flick her hair, at the same time as unsheathing the dagger kept behind her back. In a swift movement too fast for his Human eyes to see she shoved him back as hard as she could, pressing the small weapon to his neck, the pair concealed in the swamp gloom.
"Alright, just get away from me," the young man winced when his attempt to push her away only led to her knife drawing a few beads of blood.
"Start following me again and you'll only end up like you brother," the Elf warned, her golden eyes sparkling more than the dim light should have allowed. Seeing the red in her pupils the Mossfeld boy grew pale, visibly quivering.
"You should really learn how to use that thing before you go causing trouble, girl," a second Mossfeld, a bigger one, snarled, stepping out from behind the nearby fishing hut with his elder brother. They had clubs in their hands and eagers gleams in their eyes.
"You can't be serious," Isaviel tried not to sound as anxious as she was beginning to feel, "You mean to attack me now, in broad daylight? When the whole town is out nearby for the Fair?"
"We know about you and your dancing through the shadows. And we've the Mayor to back us, or had you forgotten?"
Isaviel started to back up, meaning to run for her house if she had to, but they advanced too quickly. A club came swinging towards her, slamming into her shoulder as someone took hold of her elbow-length plait of hair and yanked, send her to stumble in an arc to the ground, crying out when a second club hit.
"We know what you are, monster, even if you don't," one snarled, only for his eyes to widen in shock and dying pain as a strange silver-blue spearhead erupted from his chest. His brother shouted in alarm, and one had the sense to knock back the unexpected attacker only to fall to the grasping hands of another materialising Bladeling.
Isaviel took the opportunity to reach up and slit the remaining Mossfeld's throat, pushing him towards the second Bladeling while she dealt death to the first, spinning to fell the second with a single cut. When it was dead the Moon Elf stood at the centre of five corpses, gasping, dazed and sore, with red fire blazing in her eyes.
It was then that the first fires showed, the first sounds of battle rang out and Amie's shrill scream could be heard not far away – and never forgotten. Somehow Isaviel knew it was Amie – it had come from the house beyond the fishing hut. Tarmas's house. As sounds of distant battle rang more uniformly in the opposite direction, Isaviel ran along the river bank until she could see bright, blinding lights cutting through the fog. In fact the spell battle ahead seemed to be burning the mist away, revealing Tarmas first, pulses of purple light streaking from his beautifully wrought staff. His back was to Isaviel, but she could see his familiar blue, brocaded coat, and his thinning white hair standing on end. Blood was running down his neck in a swift river from a cut at his temple, and the ground around him was torn up, charred clumps of moss scattered about his feet.
The magical energy emitted by the staff pushed aside the fog as it travelled, leaving a clearer view of his house – its newly scorched window frames and smashed front door. And Amie, lying so still, face down in the mud, at the feet of a tall, wiry-limbed creature. Its skin was a sickly shade, mottled all over with dark green patches, its teeth sharp and icy white, with no lips at all and its face was permanently twisted into a snarl. It had no nose to speak of and a line of rings denoted the start of its hairline, where grey-green braids had been twisted into a topknot. Upon its belt shimmered an ethereal curved sword and in its hands was a staff of blue glass. It took the magic missiles set by Tarmas with barely a grunt, though it was dressed in a tunic of simple brown cloth and apparently no armour at all. It at once reminded Isaviel of the Bladelings and did not at all resemble them…and its pale yellow eyes, so full of malice, had settled upon her.
"There is nowhere to run, Kalach-cha," it hissed at her in a guttural, rasping voice, "You shall not last the road back to the city."
Now when Tarmas's lightning bolt would have hit it a shimmering bubble of protective energy rebounded the attack, to send the electricity arcing to the wizard's house, where flames quickly caught. The smell of smoke filled the air where it had merely hung on the wind before.
"Damn you, Gith!" the wizard snarled, "You will pay for that, and die a slow death for what you have done to that helpless girl."
The Githyanki just laughed; a grating, choking sound.
"Oh, you fool. My work is done here. You have been so predictably…distractible."
With a burst of white light a ring of smoke rose in front of the Gith and briefly, a shimmering world of blue and whites could be seen before it stepped through and the portal dissipated.
"Amie! Amie, can you hear me?" Isaviel cried, rushing to her fallen friend and turning her over, to look into vacant eyes. Anger rose like knives tearing at her throat and she looked up at Tarmas's unguarded expression of grief, "Wh-why?" she snarled.
"That is your burden to bear, not mine," the wizard sighed, leaning on his staff now, truly looking old, "Your father has left this too long. You must find him before the Giths do and take his shard back with you to Neverwinter. There is an alchemist there at the Blacklake District, by the name of Aldanon. He was a well-respected scholar of the planes when the Giths last came to this place – he may know why it is they seek you. I was about to send Amie to you, to bring you the map…this map," he walked over to where Amie lay and Isaviel knelt by her side to lift a blood-stained, muddied scroll from the dented earth, "when that wretched Gith sorcerer broke into my house and dragged her out here. But if you get away now, with that shard, her death will have been in vain but you may yet live, if you follow the route on that map back to Neverwinter. And that could save many lives. Here. Take it and go. Mourning here will bring you only your doom."
Eyes blazing once more, Isaviel stood resolutely and took the map from the wizard. She could not bring herself to speak and instead darted into the slowly clearing fog. There were no shadows to hide in here, but her silent footsteps leant her a distinct advantage. Twice she aided in slaying groups of Bladelings, and stopped a few more butchering the corpses of familiar Harbour folk. But so many houses had already been irrecoverably burned to help people's livelihoods or homes. The place was doomed to be a ruin come nightfall, she knew. They all knew it; the air was thick with smoke, choking smoke where once there had been harmless fog. Everywhere it seemed people were screaming, trapped by fire and faced with death, or stumbling blindly, coughing and gagging, only to be caught by Bladelings and killed where they stood. Neither smoke nor heat had ever much bothered Isaviel – perhaps yet another indicator of her unknown father's heritage. But fear and anger was all about, pain and suffering audible and visible and not often stoppable.
These half-seen horrors in the gloom, screams amid the noise of crackling fires, collapsing houses and, more distantly, the ring of weapons coming together, only fuelled her vengeful anger. She all but forgot her mission to try to find Daeghun – she had seen the tents, and they had all been burned or torn down. From what she could make out, his had never even been put up. Like he knew it would have been pointless. There was nowhere left that she could expect to find him, save perhaps their home. And all directions seemed to promise the same dangers. She lost herself to rage, and her tunic was soaked in Bladeling blood by the time she came upon the battle proper.
She saw Georg Redfell driving his sword into the throat of a felled Githyanki, only for his brother to be pushed into the dank water of the swamp beyond the low wattle palisade around town. Maybe twenty men, and a further five women, of the town guard faced some fifty Bladelings; most of the defenders were surrounded, huddling in a ring at the centre of the scarred rise at the north-eastern edge of town. Using the advantage of surprise, Isaviel stabbed two Bladelings in the back, ducking when those either side of them turned to respond, and hamstringing them both as she did so.
Snarling, she pivoted away from the next attack and saw that Georg did not come to her aid, but rather stood watching, staring dispassionately. Did he know about his nephews, the Mossfelds? Another Bladeling fell to her, and another…but then she was surrounded, and their eyes were so bright with hate.
"Kalach-cha," there it was again, and again. Their mantra, the term she had first heard to describe her by her second Bladeling attacker in Neverwinter. The Githyanki and the Bladelings seemed to think they knew her, but she could not comprehend how or why.
Now it took all of her strength to dodge and parry, taking cuts increasingly frequently. She dealt no more damage and knew her luck was fast running out. Until the familiar whistle of arrows flying filled the air, and she knew to duck. More than half of her attackers – and those surrounding the guards, too – fell, and the rest staggered back in alarm, only for two more to take arrows to their chests and the third to be killed by a town guard. Daring to breathe, Isaviel turned to see Daeghun and the other town archers approaching from the swamp. A cry went up, a chant of his name, and though a smile found its way to his foster-daughter's lips, she did not join in.
"The fight we have faced this morning may be done, my daughter, but West Harbour has not seen the end of conflict. Not while my shard remains here," Daeghun was warning Isaviel as she stared down at the silver shard he had handed to her, turning its magically heated surface over in her hands.
"Whatever that was, I hope it was worth wading through the marshes for," Bevil Starling put in doubtfully from where he sat on a pond-side rock, cleaning his greatsword, "You would not believe how many Bladelings those archers made me charge."
"We needed a distraction and could spare no other soldiers," Daeghun snapped, but his tone soon cooled, "Your help was greatly…necessary, and your success undoubted."
"I have to leave. I have to find the truth," Isaviel murmured, barely listening, the facets of the shard reflecting in her eyes.
"First and foremost you have to save this town, Isaviel. The Giths will be back soon if they do not sense that their quarry is moving away," Daeghun corrected curtly, and her eyes snapped up to meet his defiantly.
"I came for the shard before all of this started – I will take it for myself, not for you, not for this town," Isaviel spat, "They attacked me first, and it looks like you know more than you claim. I think you could have stopped this if you'd wanted to, so do not talk to me of selfishness and the 'right thing'."
For a moment it looked like Daeghun had been slapped, and guilt crossed his face. A great sadness was visible…and then his look became steely once more. He made no move and spoke no words when Isaviel moved past him, snatching her cleaned travelling clothes from by the fire, stalking through the huddled groups of stunned and grieving survivors and across the river. Bevil caught up to her at the shattered door of her otherwise untouched house.
"We will miss you here. The guards said you fought well today," he told her in a rush, and she looked around to smile sadly at him, seeing the fear in his eyes. He was easily over a foot taller than her, strong and broad and armed in chainmail…and yet he was afraid. Terrified where she was not.
"I am not the only one leaving, Bevil. Not this time at least. Look at the houses – how many do you see unburned? West Harbour is lost – go to Highcliff, to Waterdeep, look for work in Neverwinter…but you cannot come with me. I have to get through the marshes to the coast."
"And you have to do it alone," Bevil sighed, clearly utterly downcast.
"You're a good friend, Bevil," Isaviel tried to smile – why did those words feel so hollow now?
Unexpectedly he pulled her into a tight hug, and when he let go he leaned closer as if he might kiss her, but she put a hand against his chest and pushed him back gently. Neverwinter had definitely changed what she wanted from life.
"Fare well, Isaviel Eventyr," he said softly, uncharacteristically serious, "Come back to us when your quest is done."
"Thank you," she nodded, but knew in her heart that she would never do that.
Two hours later, dressed once again in her travelling clothes, Isaviel had shouldered her pack, wrapped herself in a weather-beaten black cloak she had found in a basement chest and disappeared into the evening mists of the marshes. Years of West Harbour hunting with Daeghun had left her an expert at travelling in the area, off the road and away from travellers. The way would not be easy, but she knew what she had to do.
