The last of the spirits got him good and drunk when he returned to shack. He hurled the ceramic jug at the Keep's wall, wrathful at the looming reminder of Kelemvor's prison. Afterwards, before he slept, he prayed for forgiveness, drunken mumbles in moonlight creeping through the cracks in the shack's walls.
He awoke with the special kind of headache that only dwarven spirits can inflict but noted that the angry cut on his hand from the day before had healed over.
"Heal my hand but not my hangover, eh Kelemvor?" he asked the empty shed, staring at the ceiling.
"There's quite a lot of work to be done, are you sure you should sleep so late?" came Sand's voice from outside. The elf was leaning against the shack on one of Bishop's makeshift chairs, smoking his pipe with a rarely seen merry smile.
"Casavir is up." He announced as Bishop stumbled out, shielding his eyes from the bright morning sun. "Though he still refuses to pray and will not heed Ivarr's council to do so. None have seen him use his divine powers, and Ivarr fears he has abandoned his faith. I suppose Candlekeep wasn't built in a day, but…"
"You're welcome." Bishop growled.
"The Knight-Captain's return will give him a measure of peace. We just need to keep his mind occupied until then. Something will come up, it always does around here."
"You're sure she's coming back, if she is alive?" Bishop asked, taking the seat opposite the elf.
"I do not believe she saved Neverwinter only to abandon it." Sand replied, puffing contemplatively on his long pipe, looking more wizard than keep administrator for the first time.
"You can take the girl out of the mere…" Bishop sighed, nodding. He believed it too.
"Fear not, we'll see you hanged from the gate yet." Sand replied, chirpily.
"Well until then, I could use some sturdy gloves and a bucket of vinegar to clean these tools. These graves won't keep themselves, you know."
Sand chuckled and stood.
"A fair request, I'll see it done. Might as well make use of your talents before we kill you and throw a party."
The wizard was as good as his word. A bucket of vinegar and a pair of worn blacksmiths gloves were carried down by Katriona later in the morning. She stared at him a moment, mouth open to speak, then remembered herself and trudged off, blue cloak fluttering in the wind.
While the light held, Bishop set to work on the graves, pulling the ivy and piling it up by the handful. The top layer of creepers concealed the culprit of the prior day's attack. Thick, thorny vines had grown and died over the five graves closet to the wall, fibres firm and stale as dry firewood, though the plant's hooked thorns were still sharp. The plant had sucked the moisture out of the ground against the wall, the foundations crumbling where the vine had crept.
It was no plant Bishop recognised and he had lived his entire life – lives – between Luskan and Neverwinter and never seen anything like it, which meant it had been introduced to the graveyard in this spot. While the natural world was full of strange coincidences, foreign vines did not appear from nowhere.
Scowling at the mystery, Bishop turned his attention to the tools. He would need the hatchet to get through the dead undergrowth on the wall side graves and a shovel to dig out the roots. It was the work of a full afternoon in the sun, scrubbing the tools with an old horse brush and the smelly vinegar. When Bevil appeared with his food as evening set in, Bishop was glad for the reprieve, his shoulders and forearms aching from the labour. He sent the harbourman back to the Keep with a request for a compendium of plants from the Keep's library before inspecting the broth for telltale gobs of spit. Sated afterwards, the retired early, excited by the work of the morning. Lying on the empty sacks, the shack reeking of vinegar, he said aloud the only words he could think to say to the god of death.
"Not today."
Maybe tomorrow, but not today.
It was a prayer, of sorts. Thanks for another day in Toril and another opportunity to avoid his fate.
Up with the sun, Bishop pulled on his gloves and set to work with the hatchet on the dead vines. Even dead, the plant was stubbourn, hooked thorns clinging desperately to the stone of the graves, growing outward from a central bulb planted near the third grave back. As he worked, he revealed the names of the fallen five who had been buried there, names he hadn't known or cared to learn. Faceless soldiers cut down in a battle he helped them try to lose, names almost forgotten to time and neglect. Fathers, sisters and friends of someone. The invading plant had taken the quiet dignity of the small cemetery, and he was glad to be somewhat rid of it. But the vines had churned up the soil where the graves lay and Bishop feared the coffins beneath might have been disturbed by the introduced species.
A copy of the alchemists almanac was brought down by Aldandon himself that evening, accompanied by Kana. The doddering old sage made clear that he expected it to be returned unsoiled and listed of the array of foul arcane torments Bishop would suffer if any of the pages were damaged. Kana glared threateningly over his shoulder as the tirade was delivered. The ranger assured him that he would rather tempt the range of Sand's geas than damage the book and was left with a stubby candle to look over the parchment pages as the light dwindled.
Around the twelfth bell, he passed over the entry for Lakeleaf in the almanac and his eyes fell on the author's watercoloured sketch of a Lichbriar, pink flowers and white veined green leaves under which was scrawled the word alive. Beneath it was a sketch of the plant dead, angry hooked thorns sprouting from withered vines. It bore a remarkable resemblance to the pile of plant waste he had collected that day. Despite the late hour, he read the grim history of the plant's creation by the Lich King Amryn Sul, noting that it fed on living flesh. Without living flesh, the plant consumed tremendous amounts of water to sustain itself, before dying and hardening.
Closing the book and blowing out the candle he whispered "Not today."
The morning brought an appropriate fog, which lingered over the graveyard while Bishop dug in the pale light. It was hard labour, levering the thick vines from the dry soil then hacking them to manageable pieces with the hatchet. The briar had delved deep into the earth and by mid-morning Bishop felt a deep unease as he followed the vines down, digging a hole almost as deep as he was tall. About as deep as one digs a grave. His unease reached a crescendo when he lopped off a thick vine and tugged, dragging up splinters of the lid of the coffin buried at his feet.
Bishop gulped and considered what to do next. If the vines had got into the grave, the occupant would need to be re-buried. He imagined Kelemvor's gaze on him as he disturbed the gravesite, but felt there was no alternative as the lid of the coffin had been breached by the vine. With a great crack, the top half of the lid broke off and Bishop recoiled, expecting the musty smell of the rotten dead.
There was no smell because there was no body. The simple battlefield coffin was empty but for straggling dead vines.
"Huh." Bishop said aloud, before clambering out of the hole and casting his eyes around for clues. Unfortunately, most of the evidence was piled up in a heap against the wall, waiting to be carted off. There was, he recalled, a faintly visible old wagon track at the back of the cemetery, at least a season old. Bishop had previously paid it no mind, but now his eyes were drawn to the two lines of straggling regrowth that trailed off towards the treeline. He followed the trail for a moment before he halted, gripped by fear of the geas and scrambled back towards the Keep's walls.
Katriona gasped and reflexively reached for her sword when he showed her the empty coffin. She had left his breakfast on his little table and followed him to the open grave, eyeing him suspiciously before turning pale at the macabre situation the ranger had uncovered. She listened intently to Bishop as he described the Lichbriar and, after glancing at open page of the almanac he showed her, she turned heel and briskly walked back to the Keep.
No sooner had Bishop finished his breakfast when a harried looking Sand and a grim-faced Ivarr appeared around the curve of the Southeast tower. The old priest fell to his knees and began recanting an urgent prayer when he saw the contents of the open grave while Sand dutifully considered the situation, a copy of the almanac in hand. After a few moments of contemplative silence, Sand asked the priest to check how many of the graves were empty. The cadence of the priest's prayer changed and a dread silence fell over the small cemetery as Ivarr sought to divine what lay beneath them.
"Seven are empty. Four along the wall, three more at the back." He said, stoically.
"Bishop?" Sand turned on the ranger "Your thoughts?"
Bishop shrugged. He had been chewing over the conundrum while he ate breakfast, but no strong theories had come to him.
"Best guess is that someone was playing a prank on the Keep, or trying to undermine the foundations. They planted the Lichbriar and it ate up all the bodies before dying off over the winter."
Sand shook his head dismissively.
"It only feeds on living flesh, so has to bed fed constantly. Dastardly things…." Sand trailed off, eyes wandering over the dry soil and eroded masonry at the edge of the open grave.
"Seven missing bodies and a dangerous plant that only feeds on living flesh…" he mused, pacing back and forwards.
"There's also a wagon trail, maybe a season old, at the back." Bishop noted.
"Why didn't you say so in the first place?" Sand scowled and his cape swished as he turned to the rear of the cemetery. Bishop had to point out the parallel lines of underdeveloped grass and shrub that led away to the East before Sand embarrassed himself searching for too long.
After a lengthy whispered discussion with Ivarr, Sand requisitioned Bishop's gloves to carry a sample of the Lichbriar back to the Keep before confining Bishop to his shack and departing with Ivarr and the almanac.
"You're welcome!" the ranger called out after the pair as they hurried away.
The summons came with his dinner, brought by Bevil well after sundown. The Knight-Captain's oldest friend watched the ranger eat quickly and escorted him to the War Room where Sand had set up his office. The elf sat at the war council table with the almanac, the Lichbriar and an unfolded map of the region, talking in low tones when Bishop was led in. Casavir sat to Sand's left, face cast in the shadow of the flickering torch set in the wall behind him. His beard had been trimmed and his gaunt face had filled out some, but the shadows concealed the hollows of his eyes under his still long hair.
"Thank you both for coming." Sand said, as though Bishop had some say in the matter. The ranger sat and looked from one to the other, waiting for an explanation.
"I believe Crossroad Keep has been the victim of grave robbery. We sent Katriona to follow the wagon tracks, but she lost them at the edge of the woods where they turned North. Since the bodies were taken, we can assume they were not exhumed for the trinkets they were buried with. While there is a robust market for fresh body parts in certain markets, year old corpses of fallen soldiers aren't of interest to many. I believe the Lichbriar was planted to provide cover for the theft, by someone with enough knowledge of the plant that it consumes flesh, but not enough to know that it only feeds on the living. Thus, I believe there is an aspiring necromancer to blame."
Sand looked pointedly at Casavir for a long moment before turning his gaze to Bishop.
"The trail is a year old at least. Wherever it leads, we will find our perpetrators as well as at least seven undead, or some evidence of where they went next. I do not care how far the trail goes, these soldiers gave their lives for the Keep, for Linn, and will not suffer the indignity of undeath."
Though he could not see them under Casavir's brow, Bishop felt the bright blue eyes on him.
"So," he went on, bringing his monologue to its crescendo "I need a seasoned tracker and someone with the skills and experience to deal with the undead. Can you two think of anyone who might fit that description?"
Sand smiled smugly.
"I won't do it, not with him." Casavir growled.
"The Keep's resources are spread thin as it is. I cannot spare the men to trapse through the woods."
"And you would have me travel with him? When Khelgar refuses to be in the same room with him, such is his hatred?" Casavir yelled, slamming his fist down on the table, ratting the Lichbriar.
Sand's face was immovable.
"I would. And I would have you both swear that you will not harm each other."
Casavir took sharp breaths, glaring at the elf, who met his gaze calmly.
"I swear it. In Kelemvor's name." Bishop offered aloud. The words came easily to his lips. He meant no harm to Casavir and, in his heart, felt the urgent need to be part of this quest. Had he not betrayed the Keep, the soldiers would not have died. If they had not died, they could not have been dug up. It was simple as that. Whatever the fate of these soldiers, it was his to own.
"It is not you he is worried about." Casavir said, not sparing the ranger a glance.
"Will you invoke Tyr's name and swear not to harm him, Casavir?"
Breaths passed, then moments, as Caravir and Sand stared each other down.
"I swear it." Casavir whispered, head falling to his chest.
"Very good." Sand said, standing abruptly and clapping his hands together. "Equip yourselves from the armoury, you leave at first light."
The elf was halfway to the door before Bishop wheeled to stop him.
"What about the geas?"
"Geas?" Sand said, looking puzzled for a moment "Oh, that. I made that up. Cast a cantrip on you. Quite convincing, don't you agree?"
Sand's smugness lingered in the room for a moment after he left and the two men were left to stare at each other.
"I'll meet you at the gate at first light then?" Bishop asked. Without responding, Casavir stood and walked past him, following Sand, leaving Bishop alone in the War Room to stare at the gnarled lump of Lichbriar casting shadows across the table.