The Keep's 'armoury' turned out to be whatever Edario and Jacoby had in storage, which wasn't much. Many of the magical items and relics Linn had collected over the journey had been sold to maintain the Keep, it seemed. In the pre-dawn light, he was able to scrounge up a sturdy short bow, a serviceable collection of leather armour pieces and a cloak of elvish make.
Casavir's form loomed in the shadows under the gate, leaning against the wall next to the steps up to the parapet. He wore burnished breastplate over black clothes, with a large shield slung over his back and a menacing looking warhammer looped at his belt.
"You can carry the supplies." He grunted, heading out the gate and leaving a leather satchel in the dirt for Bishop to collect. He did so with a sigh and hurried to catch up with Casavir as his long legs carried him along the wall to the cemetery, hardly breaking stride to cast a disdainful look on the ramshackle hovel Bishop slept in.
The tracks led to the treeline and turned North into the underbrush, where Bishop took the lead, eyes scanning for any sign of the wagon's trajectory. Malin always said half of tracking was guesswork, but she wasn't much of a tracker. The rule may have applied to tracking your quarry's trail from the season prior, however.
Bishop had always preferred nature and animals to people because people lied. Nature couldn't lie, and tracking was just coaxing the truth out of your surroundings. Young saplings grew in copses of trees where a path had been cut, grass thinned where it had been trampled and frozen over in the winter months, stunted from growing. There was a trail and Bishop could follow it, but not with Casavir's eyes burning into his back as he clanked along behind the ranger. So he stopped and turned, hands out as a sign of peace.
"I can't get us where we're going if I'm worrying about having my skull caved in from behind, Casavir. Say your piece and be done with it so we can get on with this."
Bishop's companion stopped and composed himself, clearly not expecting to be confronted so directly. He looked more a fighter or mercenary than a paladin now. This lean, haggard figure was a far sight from the hulking champion he had been, wielding the Holy Avenger at Linn's right hand. Bishop clearly remembered when Casavir pulled the sword from the dragon's treasure pile, standing over the great beast's corpse. The final blow against Tholapsyx was struck by him, but Bishop knew the opportunity had only presented itself because he had made one of the finest shots of his life from behind cover, taking the dragon in the eye. Whatever the truth of it, Casavir had left the canyon with a holy relic and a burnished reputation and Bishop had privately never forgiven him for it. The man who stared at Bishop now had shed all of that glory, ice blue eyes considering the ranger, hand on his weapon. After a long moment, he finally spoke.
"If I kill you, Bishop, I will look you in the eyes when I do it."
Bishop blinked. He had half expected a rehearsed soliloquy on justice and oaths and vengeance.
"I suppose that will do." Bishop replied, taken aback at the thoroughly ambiguous assurance.
The tracks Bishop could find followed the treeline North for an hour, before cutting West parallel to the road from Highcliffe to the Keep, tending Northwest. The pair walked in frustrated silence, stopping only to break their fast near a river in the mid-morning. A wagon full of seven rotting corpses couldn't have been taken too far and when the hair rounded a hill and saw a cracked spire on the horizon, Malin's old rule came to Bishop's mind. The pair exchanged glances and shared a nod, before picking up the pace.
They followed the river to the base of the hill upon which the ruins sat, looming over a pleasant site for a campground next to the river. It was late afternoon and the pair followed a winding path up to what had once been a sturdy fortification, set with high walls and a stone courtyard where a lonely statute stood, face worn down flat by the elements. An old wagon was tucked behind the wall near the statute, turned upside down and left to rot.
"Do you recall our companions speaking of the abandoned castle at Highcliff?" Casavir asked, scowling at the upturned wagon.
"Something about finding a Shadow Priest there before they arrived in Neverwinter, no?" Bishop replied, eyes darting for signs of danger. It was, however, a quiet afternoon. It might have been a pleasant spot, next the river, bathed in sunlight, had the looming threat of necromancy not been emanating from the castle ruins.
"One of Black Garius' disciples was here, raising undead soldiers to serve the King of Shadows." Casavir confirmed. "Looks like someone has taken the work back up."
"Is it possible no one from the Keep ever came back here? Or no one from Highcliff?" Bishop asked.
"People stay away from places like this, think they're haunted or cursed. The question is why would anyone come back here?"
The pair turned to the open doorway of the old castle, a tunnel leading into deep darkness, and steadied themselves. They had tracked their quarry and the hunt was on.
"After you." Casavir inclined his head as he unslung his shield, his eerie threat from earlier still ringing in Bishop's ears.
Bishop stepped into the gloom, moving slowly, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The colonnade walls were of good stone, small sounds echoing up and down the long hall. Somewhere up ahead, someone was talking animatedly, though the sounds were muffled.
Creeping in the low light, Bishop lead Casavir up the hall, taking a right, following the sound. Up ahead, firelight was cast from an open doorway on the left wall, from where the voice came. Somewhere up ahead, a man was muttering.
"Ready?" Casavir asked, face flat and unyielding. Bishop nocked an arrow in his bow and nodded.
"Not today." He whispered as Casavir stepped forward into the firelight, shield raised and Bishop followed behind, bow drawn and ready.
The occupant of the room jerked upright from his work and turned, looking puzzled. He was bald at the crown and wore an unkempt, bushy beard and tattered dark robes. On the table before him was a dented helmet of the Shadow Priests, eye slits dancing menacing in the torchlight. The room was a hovel, a mishmash of living quarters and laboratory and the stench was unbearable. Seven corpses, even reanimated ones, still smelled and the eyeless figures were disquietly cast about the room as if slumbering, toys abandoned by a child.
"Who are you?" demanded Casavir, his voice booming off the walls.
The little man's eyes were lit up by a smile as he began to cackle menacingly.
"You fools!" he cried "Do you know who you are dealing with? I am Tarmas, the greatest wizard of the Mere of Dead Men!"
Bishop stepped to side, flanking the bedraggled wizard and glanced to Casavir.
"Who?" he asked.
The wizard's face fell a little.
"Tarmas! The great wizard of West Harbour. Tutor to the Knight-Captain of Crossroad Keep!"
"Never heard of you." Casavir grunted, shield raised just below his eyes.
"But, you are her companions, are you not?" Tarmas said, looking from one to the other "I know your faces! Surely she mentioned me on your adventures?"
Bishop's arm began to shudder, holding the bowstring taut.
"It matters not!" the wizard went on "I have surpassed my student, I am a master of the undead now, and I will turn my failed protégé's servants against – argh!"
The speech was cut off when Bishop loosed the arrow and it took the frail older man in the chest. He cried out in pain, a swirl of arcane light glowing in his hand. Casavir stepped forward and swung at the wizards head, cleaving his skull open with an unpleasant, squishy crunch. Tarmas collapsed dead at his feet and lay still, blood and brain matter oozing on to the stone floor. The corpses never even stirred.
Bishop approached the table the Tarmas had been standing at, poring over what looked like a journal dated two years piror, fortelling the coming of the King of Shadows. Notes in a new hand, presumably Tarmas', were scribbled in the margins and between paragraphs, neat cursive setting out notes and commentary on the priest's entries.
"Not that I'm complaining, but did that seem a little easy to you?" Bishop, asked as he turned to face Casavir, who glared at the ranger with death in his eyes.
"Much too easy." Casavir nodded, stepping around Tarmas and readying his weapon, knees bent in his fighting stance. "I had hoped whoever we found here would do the work for me, but you were right about one thing - I couldn't get my vengeance if I didn't get up."
Bishop took himself by surprise as a smile crossed his lips and he set his bow down on the table, hands falling to the knife and hatchet at his belt.
"So you break your oath to Tyr, kill me and tell Sand it was old Tomas here who did me in? That's your grand plan?" Bishoped growled as he drew his weapons and rolled his shoulders in preparation.
"You must die for what you did, Bishop. Whatever the cost."
Casavir meant it, Bishop could see it in his eyes. He would die here. Even diminished, Casavir was one of the finest warriors up and down the Sword Coast. He had the height, the reach and he was blocking the only exit. One last fight.
Bishop sighed and felt his grip on his weapons loosen. Heard the metal clang as they clattered to the stone floor. Felt the pool of Tarmas' blood seep into his trousers as he knelt.
"Kill me if you must." He said, closing his eyes, letting his hands fall to his side. "I do not know what awaits me, but Kelemvor sees all. If you strike me down here and I now, you seal your destiny. Enjoy these moments, Casvavir, memories are all the company you'll have in the Wall of the Faithless."
Blind to Casavir's actions, Bishop's world shrunk down to just his breaths. His last breaths.
Then, from the silence, a foot scraped and a warcry was bellowed followed by a sickening, rumbling crunch.